Talking about it made me want to dig a hole in the earth so I could bury myself. I dropped the weed remnants and grabbed a rotten sliver of oak. I picked at the wood, the bits turning to dust in my hands, lodging up under my fingernails and turning my skin chalky.
What should we do with these? Throw them at passing cars?
There’s not really anyone around, I said, dusting off my hands.
Brynn picked one up. She tossed it up, one foot, two, then almost three feet over her head, catching it each time. Pausing, she held it by the tied tip, staring into the microcosm of water and lubricant.
So oily in there. She tossed it again, lightly. Catch!
It hit me before I could put up my hands. Instead of breaking, the condom bounced off my face, smacking with enough force to turn my head. Stunned, I sat there with my hands pressed over my nose, which hurt so bad I could barely breathe without yelling.
What came out was a bullfroggy croak. Brynn laughed hysterically, running over to pick up the balloon from where it had rolled. It sat in a patch of weeds, lightly dusted with sand.
She threw it up and caught it again, bits of leaves flying off. The dirt coated her hands and she made a disgusted face. Dropping it, she wiped her fingers on the seat of her tiny shorts.
That hurt, you asshole.
Oh, get over it.
My nose felt swollen to three times its normal size. Carefully touching my nostrils, I searched for the blood that I was sure must be streaming down my face. There was only a bunch of clear snot.
You could have broken it. It’s maybe broken.
No, it’s not. It’d look way worse.
Brynn picked up a fresh balloon from the Easter basket and tossed it, higher and higher. I watched its trajectory as a plane flew overhead, the droning buzz loud as it lowered for landing. My nose throbbed. I wanted it to hurt anywhere else on my body, even for a second, just to give my face some relief.
It really, really hurts.
You’re such a baby about everything. She rolled her eyes and squatted down. Thrusting up with a grunt, she threw it the highest yet. It wriggled into crazy, jiggling shapes in the air. Brynn ran for it, knocking into my legs and sprawling on the ground. It hit beside her and popped with terrific force, spraying water on her legs and top, drenching my jeans.
Ugh, what the hell. She kicked at me with her flip-flopped foot, digging her toes into my leg. I was going to wear these tomorrow!
When she kicked again, the muscles in my calf tensed, half cramping, and I snapped. I kicked her back, hard. It wasn’t something I’d ever done to Brynn before. It was the kind of physical fight I’d have with my brother—the two of us reaching out and smacking, pinching, slapping. Brynn had never been on the receiving end. I was wearing sneakers and my heel jammed directly into her kneecap.
Oh! she exclaimed, eyes wide with shock. Then she kicked me again and I kicked her back, this time connecting solidly with the meat of her thigh.
We were a blur of tangled legs. Brynn’s flip-flops had flown off and her bare feet struck me over and over again, gaining traction off my sweaty jeans. We struggled and grunted until my last kick went wild, connecting with the soft dough of her belly.
Then we both scrambled away from each other. My hair was tangled, half fallen out of its braid. Brynn looked demented. Lip gloss smeared red across her cheek and down her chin.
You dumb fucking cunt. She rubbed her face with shaky hands.
I’d heard kids say that word before, but I’d never heard it from Brynn. I sat there in the dirt and stared at her while she breathed heavily and collected her flip-flops, five feet away from each other.
Sorry, I said, scrubbing the dirt from my hands onto my jeans. It stung. There were tiny cuts and scrapes all over my palms. I hadn’t even realized that I’d hurt myself. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.
Fuck you! You are sorry.
I was crying and that hurt too. My nose was so swollen that it didn’t want to let out any of the snot that was building in my sinuses. Sweat dripped from my hairline and mixed with my tears. I scrubbed at them with my palms and felt grit and dirt slide over my lids.
Stop crying! Shut up!
It was hard to hear her over the blood rushing in my ears and the whistling of my nose. I kept repeating the word sorry, wondering how many times I needed to say it before she calmed down. But then she was running away from me, stumbling over sticks and clumps of moss. When she got to the edge of the lot, she bent over and picked something up. She yelled again and threw it at me. It was a turtle shell.
Have another dead thing, you fucking freak!
Turning, she ran to the trailer. Her mother’s boyfriend opened the door—leaning out in his white T-shirt and boxer shorts. She reared back a little and he leaned down into her face. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I saw her respond to him. It looked like she was still yelling. He grabbed her by the arm, high up near the shoulder, and yanked her behind him into the trailer. She didn’t look back.
12
My mother helped me pull the specimen boxes into the living room. They weren’t heavy, but they were awkwardly shaped and some required both of us taking an end. After a couple of trips, her head drooped forward and she leaned against the wall to catch her breath. I sat her on the couch, put on a pot of coffee, and finished unloading the truck. It had stayed clear outside all night, but I wasn’t sure how long that would last, or if the encroaching dew would harm any of the pieces we’d worked so hard to dry.
Mug in hand, she looked more human. She’d put on her reading glasses, and with every sip, they fogged over, little half-moons of opacity that she let dissolve on their own.
“Oh wow,” she said, head rolling back on her neck, sinking into the overstuffed couch cushion. “Yes. Wow. This is very good.”
“When’s the last time you had any?”
“I don’t know.”
It was odd to think of my mother without coffee, a woman who got migraines if she went even six hours without a cup. She massaged the back of her neck. Clean, she gave off a soapy, comfortable odor. Her bathrobe smelled like too much laundry detergent.
Pointing out each item, I showed her the parts that I’d been able to gather. Bat wings, an armadillo shell, bird torsos, a salmon-pink flamingo neck with part of the beak still attached. We had pieces of coat and antler. There were legs from disparate animals—two hog hooves, a portion of elk femur. I’d conserved bones, bleaching what I could. It was hard to see any of my father in the remnants. It wasn’t something he’d have appreciated or understood. I still didn’t quite get what she’d been trying to do, but I thought I was willing to find out more. To be the kind of daughter who’d listen. Versus the kind of daughter who’d go out of her way to ruin something, who’d secretly call in threats because she was too much of a coward to deal with anything directly.
When she asked about the sex toys, I produced a solitary pair of handcuffs. All the fur trim had burned off, but the steel was pristine. She took them from me with trembling fingers and put them inside her robe pocket.
“Your father really loved those.”
“Okay,” I replied, trying to hide my grimace. “Great.”
“He acted like a prude in front of everyone, but we actually had a very healthy sex life.” She smiled. “We had some very good times with these.”
“I’m going to get more coffee,” I announced, taking our full cups back to the kitchen.