Vivian says.
He stood there last night
with the snow falling on his head,
just staring.
He’s always alone,
never see any friends.
His name is Clay is all I say,
as if that explains everything.
Clay, I say again,
imagining the snow falling
on both our heads.
At first I think I am dreaming—
but there it is—
a paper snowflake
in an upstairs window—
Clay’s room.
My hands touch my face
like they’ve never felt tears before.
Mom’s Lawyer
Mom’s lawyer says
if there’s a trial
he will need a video of Jonah,
if Jonah can’t be there.
He looks uncomfortable
in our kitchen.
No place on the messy table
for his brown leather briefcase.
My hands don’t move
to make room.
HERE, I scroll through my phone.
I HAVE VIDEOS.
I show him the one
I took
of Jonah in bed—
his face half hidden
under the sheet,
making a humming noise
in his sleep.
He hands me back the phone
I don’t think we can use this, Liv.
We’ll need to present what is called
a day in the life of Jonah,
done by a professional videographer.
He raises his voice a little
when he says the word
professional.
Later Mom makes excuses,
He does care.
See, he remembered your name.
I don’t answer
but I clap slowly—
one two three—
having the last word.
The reminder is always there—
a dent
on the right side
of Jonah’s forehead.
The spot you’d press
when you felt a headache
coming on.
The bullet tore away bone
the way dynamite blasts rock—
leaving a soft
crater.
Mom turns away
when the nurses
put cream on
Jonah’s boo-boo.
Tray Art
Next time, I fill my cafeteria tray
with mayonnaise, ketchup, mustard.
My hands invent Tray Art.
Squeezing the ketchup packets
in a big circle.
Making wavy lines with the mayonnaise.
Adding dabs
of mustard.
Kids from other tables
stop by
to watch.
Other kids toss over
more art supplies.
I’m opening a new pack
of mustard
when the lunch monitor
comes behind me
and picks up the tray.
Follow me, please, Liv,
she says.
Inside the principal’s office
the school counselor
has a lot
of questions.
What do we have here, Liv?
What were you thinking?
Wasting all this food?
Encouraging other students
to do the same?
You realize someone has to
clean this tray?
How respectful is that
of the cafeteria staff?
The lunch monitor
carried the tray carefully—
there’s only a few flecks
of ketchup
dotting the mayo.
I smooth them out
with my thumb.
I don’t say it’s
a red sun
streaked with yellow,
melting a river of ice.
No one asks
whose heart needs melting.
My punishment—
suspension of cafeteria privileges
(I can eat lunch
at an extra desk
in the main office)
and four afternoons
helping at the soup kitchen in town.
Maybe that will teach you
the value of food,
he says.
Maybe, I say,
I know the value of food,
just not of condiments.
That gives me
four more afternoons.
Trap
Mom doesn’t call Jonah
by his name anymore.
Jonah is
He
Your brother.
FYI, I tell her,
your son’s name is Jonah.
Watch your mouth,
Mom warns me.
She turns off Suck-It-Up,
and starts up Food Truck,
paying more attention
to Jonah’s machines
than to Jonah.
Sometimes the moans don’t stop.
Ah-rah Ah-rah Ah-rah
Something hurts
but Jonah can’t say what.
Ah-rah Ah-rah Ah-rah
Vivian tries
everything.
It sounds
like an animal
caught in a trap.
Not that I’ve heard one,
but I can imagine.
That’s when she gets me
and my good hands.
I smooth Jonah’s hair,
pat his cheek,
sing.
Help him find a way
out of the trap.
Once,
Jonah’s nurse Johnny
called Mom at Tractor Barn
where she works
when Jonah would not stop.
A-GAH A-GAH A-GAH
Mom came home
and stood by Jonah’s bed,
watching.
The sounds Mom made
were worse than Jonah’s.
So now the nurses
call me.
Bumper Stickers
When Clay’s father’s car
is parked in their driveway,
I can read his bumper stickers
from our kitchen window.
“Guns don’t kill people.
People kill people.”
“If you outlaw guns,
only outlaws will have guns.”
There’s one more bumper sticker
I try not to look at.
“Gun control means using
both hands.”
Clay’s father’s work van
doesn’t have bumper stickers,
just a sign on each side
with a cartoon drawing
of a big bug running away
and the words
Bugz Away
Pest Management.
Clay dropped out of school.
I don’t blame him.
Who would want to be there
mind reading
what everyone is thinking?
What happened in the attic, Clay?
Did you dare Jonah
to pull the trigger, Clay?
I thought you two were
best friends.
Did you know the gun
was loaded?
Why were you guys
up in the attic, anyway?
How much blood
was there?
Did Jonah have any
last words?
I’ll never work for my Dad,
Clay used to say.
Work must be better
than school—
because he does now.
What kinds of bugs
does he manage?
I once asked Clay.
All kinds—whatever people
don’t want.
How does he “manage” them?
I made air quotes.
You’re not serious, are you, Liv?
Clay said softly then.
He had more patience
for me
than Mom.
I have a theory about
friendship.
One friend is always nicer.
Jonah made everyone laugh.
He could talk to anyone
about anything,
but Clay was nicer.
Soup Kitchen
Elinor is the boss