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Authors: Sheri Reynolds
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long time since Marcus quit crying.”
“I know.”
“Maybe he died hungry, Finch. Maybe he just needed to be nurtured, and if William Blott is the one who can do that, then more power to him. Maybe now Marcus’ll begin to lighten. He can’t tell his story when he’s screaming.”
“Well, he sure can’t tell it with his mouth full of ninny. Styrofoam ninny, too!”
“Finch,” she calls. “You’re judging him.”
“I might be, but I can’t believe what I saw,” and I shiver.
Then Lucy lays the blow: “You’re judging him the same way people have judged you all your life.”
And what she tells me makes me mad, because it’s not the same thing. Not even close. “I’m surprised , that’s all,” I fuss. “You got to give me a minute to get over being surprised . I thought he was a man .”
“He is a man,” Lucy says, then adds, “It’s okay. You’ve had a shock. I’ve known other cross-dressers, so it doesn’t upset me.”
“Hmmph,” I snort. I hate it when she acts high-and-mighty with me, like she’s been all around the world and knows all that there is to know. I almost remind her that all the knowing she did landed her in a grave before her time, but I catch myself and unclench. I reckon she does have a point. Sometimes when the Dead piss me off, I have to keep myself from bragging that I’m alive and they’re not. But it’s not anything to feel superior about. Not really.
I roll over to my back and let the rain beat at my face. I can’t feel it on the thickest scars, but I feel it on my eyelids. Rain washes the smells down off the leaves, out of the clouds. I breathe that smell, sweetly woody, and thin as a lung. In the dark, on cloudy nights, there’s not much more than smells and textures. I pull a stick from beneath my back and toss it to the side.
“Your mama tried to have me thrown in jail today,” I tell Lucy, readjusting with my mouth on soil so she’ll hear me clearly. “I spent half the day at the police station.”
“What?”
“Accused me of ha rass ment.”
“That’s insane,” she says. It’s what I want her to say.
“That’s what I told Leonard Livingston, but he took me to town anyway. Put me in handcuffs and threw me around …”
“That son of a—”
“Nah. I’m kidding. Leonard’s all right.” I slide my lips against each other, feeling the dirt gritty there; the dirt so damp and rich and buried like a treasure in the grass; the grass tickling against my good cheek, like Ma used to tickle me with her eyelashes. “Butterfly kisses,” she called them. I blink into the grass, wishing Lucy could feel those tickles. And I give her the story of what happened with her mother, without much minding anymore that I’ve been to jail.
“Tell me everything,” Lucy begs.
“Not much to tell. Your ma was serving refreshments to the Bible school children, and she was in her front yard, welcoming them one at a time.”
“She’s such a hypocrite,” Lucy bitches. “Won’t even go to the church. If she really had the faith she claims, she’d know that church would be the best possible place to have a seizure. Like she’s really going to have one.”
“I stood right at the end of the line with the Bible school class. I reckon it’s a good thing my spine grew crooked, ’cause I didn’t look much bigger than them sixth graders. And when Lois had reached the last child, she looked up at me, and I mouthed, Suicide , and then I left.”
“Did she cry?”
“I don’t know. Last time I saw her, she was just standing there with her mouth open. Stricken. She looked stricken, I guess.”
“Did she turn pale?”
“I reckon she did. A little bit.”
“What was she wearing?”
“I don’t know, Lucy. What difference does it make?”
“Just wondered,” and she paused. “How’d you say it? Suicide . How’d you pronounce it?”
“Regular. Suicide .”
“Slow or fast?”
“Slow,” I tell her impatiently. “And without a
“I know.”
“Maybe he died hungry, Finch. Maybe he just needed to be nurtured, and if William Blott is the one who can do that, then more power to him. Maybe now Marcus’ll begin to lighten. He can’t tell his story when he’s screaming.”
“Well, he sure can’t tell it with his mouth full of ninny. Styrofoam ninny, too!”
“Finch,” she calls. “You’re judging him.”
“I might be, but I can’t believe what I saw,” and I shiver.
Then Lucy lays the blow: “You’re judging him the same way people have judged you all your life.”
And what she tells me makes me mad, because it’s not the same thing. Not even close. “I’m surprised , that’s all,” I fuss. “You got to give me a minute to get over being surprised . I thought he was a man .”
“He is a man,” Lucy says, then adds, “It’s okay. You’ve had a shock. I’ve known other cross-dressers, so it doesn’t upset me.”
“Hmmph,” I snort. I hate it when she acts high-and-mighty with me, like she’s been all around the world and knows all that there is to know. I almost remind her that all the knowing she did landed her in a grave before her time, but I catch myself and unclench. I reckon she does have a point. Sometimes when the Dead piss me off, I have to keep myself from bragging that I’m alive and they’re not. But it’s not anything to feel superior about. Not really.
I roll over to my back and let the rain beat at my face. I can’t feel it on the thickest scars, but I feel it on my eyelids. Rain washes the smells down off the leaves, out of the clouds. I breathe that smell, sweetly woody, and thin as a lung. In the dark, on cloudy nights, there’s not much more than smells and textures. I pull a stick from beneath my back and toss it to the side.
“Your mama tried to have me thrown in jail today,” I tell Lucy, readjusting with my mouth on soil so she’ll hear me clearly. “I spent half the day at the police station.”
“What?”
“Accused me of ha rass ment.”
“That’s insane,” she says. It’s what I want her to say.
“That’s what I told Leonard Livingston, but he took me to town anyway. Put me in handcuffs and threw me around …”
“That son of a—”
“Nah. I’m kidding. Leonard’s all right.” I slide my lips against each other, feeling the dirt gritty there; the dirt so damp and rich and buried like a treasure in the grass; the grass tickling against my good cheek, like Ma used to tickle me with her eyelashes. “Butterfly kisses,” she called them. I blink into the grass, wishing Lucy could feel those tickles. And I give her the story of what happened with her mother, without much minding anymore that I’ve been to jail.
“Tell me everything,” Lucy begs.
“Not much to tell. Your ma was serving refreshments to the Bible school children, and she was in her front yard, welcoming them one at a time.”
“She’s such a hypocrite,” Lucy bitches. “Won’t even go to the church. If she really had the faith she claims, she’d know that church would be the best possible place to have a seizure. Like she’s really going to have one.”
“I stood right at the end of the line with the Bible school class. I reckon it’s a good thing my spine grew crooked, ’cause I didn’t look much bigger than them sixth graders. And when Lois had reached the last child, she looked up at me, and I mouthed, Suicide , and then I left.”
“Did she cry?”
“I don’t know. Last time I saw her, she was just standing there with her mouth open. Stricken. She looked stricken, I guess.”
“Did she turn pale?”
“I reckon she did. A little bit.”
“What was she wearing?”
“I don’t know, Lucy. What difference does it make?”
“Just wondered,” and she paused. “How’d you say it? Suicide . How’d you pronounce it?”
“Regular. Suicide .”
“Slow or fast?”
“Slow,” I tell her impatiently. “And without a
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