The Silhouettes We Were

I arrived home to find Gram making dinner and my sisters watching TV. The house was filled with the aroma of bacon and onions frying and tomato soup. She was making us “Polish Spaghetti,” a recipe she claimed to have gotten from the old Polish woman at the butcher, the same one who had given her the prayer that cleared restless spirits from dwellings. It was simply spaghetti with tomato soup, bacon, and sautéed onions. There was no sign of my mother.

“Jane!” Sophie yelled when she saw me and came running, jumping on me, wrapping her legs and arms with a clinging hug. I staggered back and braced myself with one hand on the wall while hugging her back with the other.

“Hi, Jane!” squeaked Raelyn’s little voice. “Look at!” she squealed, holding up a colorful scribbling she had just drawn with crayons on the back of a paper plate.

“Wow, Rae, it’s beautiful!” I yelled, feeling tears well with a deep gratitude for my sisters, for their simple joy. Sophie dropped down and looked at me, then frowned, leaned close, and inspected my forehead.

“What happened?” she asked loudly, concern and shock in her voice. I opened my mouth before realizing I didn’t know how to tell her exactly what had happened.

“Jane fell,” Gram said, coming in to give me a hug, “tripped over the kitchen chair and went straight down, right, Honey?” she said, gently probing the welt, winking at me.

“Gram came and picked us up from Aunt Gracie’s,” Sophie said. “She put mom in the hospital for drunks.”

My eyes popped open wide; I looked to Gram for confirmation.

“That’s right; she’s gonna get better now. I took her to a treatment center. She’ll be there six months or so, but we can go visit her,” Gram said, walking back toward the kitchen. I followed her, wanting to ask more questions but not knowing what to ask.

“I do have to tell you a bit of bad news, though, girls. We’re gonna have to move. Your mom hasn’t paid rent here too long, got an eviction notice. We have a week to move out, so we need to work together.”

She scowled as she said it, pulling on a big pink oven mitt, lifting the lid, and stirring the big pot of steaming pasta.

“Where will we go?” My stomach sank; all the hunger that had been awakened by the aroma of Gram’s cooking was dashed away at the thought of moving.

“Will we still get to go to the Acadamy?” I asked.

“No, I’m afraid not, Baby,” Gram said. “We’ll have to go stay with Grace and Ron for awhile till we find another place and yer mom gets out and can pay for it. That ol’ ex-husband a hers won’t pay no more, an’ he won’t help out with you goin’ to that big expensive school no more neither,” she said, her brow wrinkled, her hair frizzing in the humid, unmoving air of the kitchen.

Although sad, I was surprised at my near indifference to the news. Not going to that school meant not seeing Stacy every day. But it also meant not having to serve the detention and write the letters of apology, surely the most humiliating act I would have ever had to perform. I did feel something die away inside, however, contemplating the loss of Stacy, the starting over at a new school mid-year, the feeling of walking into a room of strangers where everybody knows everybody and all eyes are on me.
The doorbell rang. It was Jamie. I hadn’t seen him since the day he tried to kiss me and I told him I was gay, the day his dad, who wasn’t his dad, raped his little sister. He looked tired and thin, his jeans too loose and his sweatshirt too big. His eyes revealed what I needed to know. They were the usual crystal sun; the light of him shooting out jagged and beautiful, like loose shards of colored glass constantly dividing and shuffling, reflecting bits of myself brilliantly in an endless variety of patterns. I saw my reflection in them, smiling, having missed him without knowing it. Together, we were matchless in function, like a painting of a pastoral scene suggesting a mood of peace and contentment, the canvas scribbled over with a narrative poem treating an epic, romantic, and tragic theme, all together depicting a lighthearted, carefree episode of comic drama. And his wildly sober eyes always danced.

“Hi,” I said, opening the door and hugging him fiercely.

“Are you OK?” he asked, knocked back a few steps by my fervent embrace.

“You wouldn’t believe my day,” I said, tears stinging my eyes.

“Jamie!” Sophie yelled and came running. I stepped back and let her hug him, watching his face transform into a toothy smile.

“Where’s Heather?” she asked, taking his hand and pulling him into the house.

“She’s at home, but you should go see her,” he said, dropping his lanky
frame onto the couch. “Smells good; what’s cookin’, Polish spaghetti?”

“Gram, Jane’s boyfriend is here; can he stay for dinner?” Sophie shouted into the kitchen.

“Shut up, Sohie, he’s not my boyfriend, you know that!” I said. It came out much harsher than I intended and both of them looked a bit hurt. I forced a laugh to turn it around, rustled her hair and said, “Sick, he’s like our brother; how gross would that be?” That made her laugh; she playfully hopped on the couch next to him.

“Jamie, hi! We’re just about to have dinner; can you join us?” Gram said, walking in from the kitchen, patting his shoulder and leaning down to kiss his cheek.

“Thanks. I’ll stay but I’m really not hungry,” he said.

“Like hell!” Gram said. “You’re a growing young man and you’re too damn skinny. Get in here an’ eat!” she demanded, walking back into the kitchen. I picked up Raelyn from her chair; she had fallen asleep watching the Smurfs. She draped against me with her head on my shoulder and her limbs hanging dead weight. I bounced her gently to wake her and she opened her eyes. Seeing Jamie, she became shy, clinging closer and burying her face in my neck. She started whimpering.

“Hey, now, none of that, Rae, it’s me, Jamie, your big brother. What’s this?” He grabbed her foot playfully and shook it. She looked at him and smiled, then buried her face again giggling.

“Come on, baby girl, let’s eat!” he said, tickling her side, throwing an arm around my neck, and walking with me into the kitchen. I put Raelyn in her booster chair and pulled out some place settings. Jamie sat down across from Gram, waiting to be served.

“So, how’s your family doin?” Gram asked Jamie. He gave the detached,

“They’re fine” answer and attempted to change the subject. “How’s everyone in Lodi?”

“Well, everyone’s ’, that’s how, ‘bout your family and what that sick man did to your sister, how you went in and saved ‘er.” I dropped a helping of spaghetti on her plate and handed her a fork. “Thank you, Honey,” she said. I did the same for Jamie.

“Thanks, Jane,” he said. I winked at him and patted his shoulder, served Sophie some food, then sat down to feed Raelyn.

“I don’t want to talk about it, really,” Jamie said, forking steaming red noodles into his mouth.

“All right, don’t. Go take a walk with Jane after y’eat and talk to her. She’s got some ’ to do herself.” She winked at me, then shoveled a forkful into her mouth. Sauce dripped on her chin; ends of noodles drooped out of her closed mouth. She leaned her face over her plate and sucked them in, wiping her chin with her sleeve. I handed her a small stack of napkins.

“Oh, my. Thank you, Honey,” she said, spreading a napkin across her lap and taking another big bite. She had a tendency to breathe loudly through her nose while she chewed.

“Gram, is it ok if you finish feeding her and we go out for a walk now? I can eat later, if you don’t mind,” I said, already getting up and moving Raelyn to sit next to her.

“Well, let the boy finish first, won’t you?” she said, mouth half full.

“No, no, I’m full, really. Thanks so much.” He stood up and put his plate, which was already close to clean, in the sink. We walked out without waiting for an answer.

“Don’t be too long,” Gram called from the kitchen.

“I won’t,” I called back, letting the door slam closed behind me.
Random voices and passing cars seemed to crescendo as we descended from the porch to the street, the coming and going of public space, the artful purpose of sidewalks. There were times when our dialogue demonstrated the recesses of our guts, like blood spewing over a black enamel sink to then be sucked down the drain, like the sweet suction of time taking the pain away. This was one of those times. The sun was wandering down, an impressive performance, the majesty of the sky hovering and gathering to a horizon painted in pinks and blues.

“What happened to him?” I asked, crunching leaves under my shoes with each step.

“He’s back in jail. Been skipping parole violations left and right for the past 17 years. He’ll serve a pile a time just for that, even more for Heather,” he said, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, casting his gaze toward his footsteps. “My mom and Heather are going to a counselor. They want me to go, too, but I’m not interested.”

“You should go,” I said, slightly breathless from our brisk pace. The air felt clean and cold, odorless.

“Don’t want to.” He shook his head, hunched his shoulders forward.

“Can’t hurt.”
He kicked a rock and scowled. The smell of urine and garbage hit us as we turned down an alley.

“What happened to your head?” he asked, looking toward the horizon. We were walking east, toward the lake, into the sunset.

“‘Bout time. I thought you didn’t notice,” I said, punching his arm gently. “I’ll tell you later; don’t change the subject.” His closed lips curved down into a deep frown.

“I feel so mad, like I hate her.” His hands balled up in fists.

“She said she didn’t know, but how could she not know?”
The alley dumped us out into a busy intersection. We waited for the light to turn then crossed to the open fields of the park. Vendor carts dotted the perimeter selling snow cones, ice cream, and elotes, a Mexican delicacy of corn on the cob smothered in butter, mayonnaise, salt, and paprika.

“Did you know?” I asked, leaning down to pick up a big maple leaf the color of old blood edged in gold lying in the grass.

“No, I didn’t know!” he exploded, jolting me into an awkward, bent hop forward, nearly falling over before I made it upright.
“Don’t you think I would’ve done something about it? Don’t you think I would’ve killed him?” he shrieked. Tears sprang to his eyes. I reached out for him, mumbling a “sorry.” He jerked away and broke into a run. I darted after him across the field and into a baseball diamond, the maple leaf trailing kite-like in the air behind us. I closed in and jumped for a tackle, we both went down, tumbling and flailing over each other in a cloud of fine dirt like powder. I pinned him down and saw his tears making mud streaks down his dusty face. I laid my cheek on his chest and squeezed him tight. I felt his arms close around me, heard him softly weeping. We lay there that way for some time in stormy silence until the tears subsided. Slowly I got to my feet, brushed the dirt from my pants. I held my hand out to help him up. He clasped it and was hoisted up.
Standing in the middle of the empty field covered in dust with crumpled clothes and disarranged hair, we broke into spontaneous laughter.

“I’m sorry,” I said, still giggling.

“Forget it.” He started walking, still laughing in short bursts, holding his side. I trotted to catch up, threw an arm around his waist.
“What was your big day?” he asked.

“I skipped school with Stacy and got in trouble,” I said. I looked at him, wanting to gauge his reaction before continuing. He smiled and laughed. Leaves floated past his face, stirring down from the trees.

“You did not!” he said in a shocked high pitch.

“I did. She took me to this old junk yard on the north side. I kissed her.”
He looked astounded and favorably impressed.

“Whoa! That’s huge! Tell me everything.” He seemed genuinely excited for me.

“All I can say is I’ve never felt anything like that before. It was like everything else disappeared; I just let it happen.” I could sense him tensing up as I spoke.

“Is this OK to tell you?” I asked.

“Yeah, it’s fine. I’m a little jealous, of course. Partly of her and partly of you, ‘cause I’ve never had that. It was never like that with Jessie.”

“Don’t worry, you will. Give it time,” I said, patting his back.

“Where’s your mom? What happened with her?” he asked.

“She flipped out. I came home; she got rough. I told her what I did, that I was with Stacy making out. Told her I’m gay.” I looked at Jamie; he was staring back at me, his jaw slack, dumbfounded.

“She hit you?” he asked, appalled.

“No, no, she didn’t. More the other way around,” I said. He turned in front of me, stopping me.

“What?” He placed his hand on my shoulder and looked at me, his eyes showing both concern and amusement.

“I leapt at her, knocked her down, my forehead cracked her in the face, right between her eyes,” I said, feeling queasy again recalling it.

“Oh my God, what’d she say to you?”
I shook my head and pushed past him; he grabbed my arm and turned me around.

“Talk to me,” he pleaded.

“Jamie, I can’t. Let me go,” I said, wrenching my arm away. He backed off, raised his hands in the air palms out, a gesture of surrender.

“Hey, hey, it’s OK. You don’t have to tell me,” he said gently. I felt the familiar sting behind my eyes then the warm, salty drops breaking and spilling again.

“She said my dad would’ve never approved,” I told him.
He wrapped his arms around me; I pulled away.

“Let’s walk,” I said, pulling him along. I laced my arm through his and we walked for a while in silence.

The darkening horizon, now less bright, now like a loom loaded with threads of light that glow and spark or blaze like sunflowers in Wisconsin fields, like symbols of the devotion shown by God, or whatever has made so much sky, whatever has made the silhouettes we were against it, the ones each of us had come to need the most, our solid forms having long been towers that stand out dark and strong against that sky, whose magnificence is observable only by way of contrast, shadowy dim form blurry-edged and glowing against clear brilliant bright.