she reaches across the line
with both arms
to hug me.
Mom doesn’t know
where the fudge comes from.
She thinks a shy fudge fanatic
in Maddigan
is being neighborly.
Also, there are more
letters to the editor
in the paper.
Mom is getting frustrated
by so many
“stolen newspapers.”
The next time
I meet Clay at the river,
it is still warm out.
His hair is in a ponytail.
Is that your new look
for the trial?
I ask Clay.
This is the first time I’ve said trial.
So many words that are hard to say—
Jonah, nurses, birthday, Hunter,
mother, father, brother,
and trial.
But we both realize
it can be harder
not to say them.
Yes,
Clay answers.
His knees are bent
up to his chest
and his long arms
are wrapped tightly
around them.
He looks like an astronaut
in a space capsule
on a launchpad,
a ball of anticipation
and dread,
ready for takeoff.
Did you know,
Clay asks me,
that the word
trial has the words
liar, rat, rail, tail, ail, tar, and lair in it?
I guess we both
have trial on our minds.
I trace the word trial
in the dirt next to the dock,
and scratch new words
with my finger
into the ground,
until I find ones
for Clay.
True,
I say,
but also art and air and trail.
You’re right.
Clay sounds relieved,
as if I’ve reminded him
of some basic science fact
like gravity.
Good luck, I say.
I’ll be there, too.
And so will Jonah.
I can tell no one told him
the part about Jonah
being there.
Ah,
he answers.
What I learn
from watching Clay
by the river today—
things can feel like your fault
even when they’re not.
When the trial is over,
Clay says,
it will be your birthday.
What do you want
for your birthday?
I have no idea
when Clay’s birthday is,
but he remembers mine.
The little animal inside me
hops around
waiting for my answer.
I don’t have a clear membrane
that closes over my eyes,
or a way to seal off my nose
and ears,
but still, I want to go down the
middle of the river
like a beaver.
Clay nods his head,
as if he understands perfectly,
and maybe he does.
Toothache
Mom is making
little hurt whimpers.
Not like Jonah’s
big moans.
She pushes her fingers
into the side of her cheek,
as if she can push away
the pain.
What’s the matter?
I ask her.
Mom is dressed for work
in her red Tractor Barn shirt.
This tooth.
It was only hurting
once in a while.
Now it’s
all the time.
The nurses say
I have good hands.
I wish my hands
could heal,
like it happens
with miracles.
I would put my hand
on Mom’s cheek
and watch the pain
go away.
If my hands could heal,
people would come to me,
and I would never turn anyone
away.
Over and over
I would watch the pain
leave their body.
Let me see,
I say,
and surprisingly,
Mom opens her mouth.
Here,
she says,
putting her finger
where it hurts.
I don’t need her finger there
to see the problem.
One tooth has a hole
that is black.
Yeah, that looks bad.
What are you going to do?
Mom whimpers again,
a quiet
ooh.
It’s almost worse
that she’s trying
not to make noise.
I guess it’s got to get pulled.
Then I’ll have a space there.
We don’t say
what we both know.
It would cost more than a day’s pay
to pull the tooth
if we had a dentist.
There’s no money for
new teeth
to fill the space.
Can I see it again?
I ask Mom.
Maybe it’s loose?
Mom opens her mouth,
and one of my hands
gently holds her chin,
and the other reaches—
GRABS THAT BLACK HOLE
OF A TOOTH
AND YANKS IT OUT
AAAARGGHHH
Mom screams once,
and the pain is gone.
She holds my good hands
in hers,
and cries with happiness.
I give Mom a dish towel
for her mouth,
and I throw the
rotten little stone
of a tooth
in the trash.
I want to tell Hunter’s mom
she was right.
I trusted my hands,
and they showed me where to go.
Bangs
With the trial coming,
Maddigan is divided—
like our DEAD END
invisible line.
The line starts
in our town
and keeps going.
It’s not a straight line.
It curves back and forth,
in and out,
crossing right through
houses and apartments,
over the river,
through the woods,
and down the interstate.
I stop hiding the newspaper
from Mom,
because now Jonah
is on the front page
of the paper
that’s for sale
at Tractor Barn.
It’s a photo of Jonah
pole-vaulting
at a high school track meet
where he placed first.
It’s taken at the moment
in the air
when his legs are on one side
of the bar
and the rest of his body
is on the other side.
There’s a photo
from Facebook
of Clay’s father
in an orange vest
with a hunting rifle.
Mom irons her
court outfits—
navy-blue skirt/
pale-pink shirt,
brown skirt/
pale-yellow shirt,
gray dress/
black sweater.
If the trial
goes more than
three days,
she’ll start over with
navy-blue skirt/
pale-pink shirt.
Elinor painted Mom’s fingernails
pale pink
to match her day-one outfit.
Her boss is letting her
take the days off
without pay.
In a way,
it’s a good thing
Mom’s so busy thinking
about the clothes.
It’s less time thinking
about what might happen
in the courtroom.
Mom’s lawyer
has a talk
with me about
Fashion Week
“courtroom etiquette.”
No shorts, no hat
No flip-flops, no sunglasses
No ripped jeans
No gum chewing