Read Online A Gracious Plenty by Sheri Reynolds - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sheri Reynolds
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sound.”
“That’s good,” she replies. Then, “Thanks.”
Above us, there’s thunder, and I ask Lucy who’s working this evening, making weather on this night. She tells me that the Poet rigged it up earlier in the day.
“He’s got a string tied to his belt,” she says. “If he rolls over in his sleep, another storm will come.”
After a while, I tell her I’m going to seek cover. It’s late, but I’m wanting hot tea and a shower. There’s too much grit in my mouth.
“One favor,” Lucy says as I rise. “Next time, tell Mama to visit.”
“Your grave? You want her to come here ?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Tell her to visit next time you see her.”
My bones creak and ache as I walk away. My heels hurt even though I haven’t been standing. My backside throbs on each side of my spine, the clothes on my body so wet and weighing me down. When I’m on the porch, I peel them off like skins and leave them behind.
T HOUGH I WAS a teenager when I found Ma in the graveyard and began to learn the ways of the Dead, I’d been exposed much earlier, just after the death of my face.
When my face had scabbed to a hard rusty shell, Ma had to scrape it with a piece of glass or Papa had to scrape it with his pocketknife—to help it heal better, they said. And while I don’t remember the burning so much, I remember the scrapings, the rasping as my skin scuffed off in bloody wafers.
The doctor who came to the clinic said that the scrapings were critical. He pointed at my face as he spoke to Ma and Papa: “You have to get the scabs off to stimulate the formation of scar tissue.” And he showed them how to do it, explaining that they needed to rip from different directions each time so the scars would grow evenly. That first time, it took all three of them to hold me down.
But when you are four and your ma holds a broken windowpane to your face, when you are five and your papa opens his pocketknife and rests that blade against your chin, it is almost unimaginable, that horror. I hid beneath the kitchen table, where they drug me out. I hid beneath the porch steps, where Ma chased me out with a broom.
They caught me each time and tied me down because they had to, and I screamed and twisted until the ropes burned my wrists, even before the scraping had begun. I screamed while they kissed me. I screamed while they soothed. I hardly recognized them at all. Finally, they had to shroud me in a sheet, and Ma scraped my face while Papa held my head, and I hated them for it. Though they took me out for ice cream after, or took me fishing on the river, I hated them for making that sound with my body. I didn’t have much skin left, and I didn’t want it torn away.
I found a secret place beneath a boxwood, and that’s where I hid when I wasn’t being whittled. I met the Mediator there. She came to me after the very first scraping, and she stayed with me for years.
Beneath the boxwood, the dirt was deep blue and hard, and I dug at it mercilessly, scraping into the ground to find coolness. The first time she appeared, I thought she was a queen. She crawled in on hands and knees, sat down beside me in the dirt, and offered me a stick. We dug trenches and circles and mazes in that dirt. Then she let me ring the bells on her robe until I fell asleep.
When I told my parents about my friend, they laughed and Papa said, “That’s wonderful, sugar. We all need friends.” They let me meet her on the grounds for games of tag, and they let me take my ribbons down to the river so she could braid my hair. When they asked me if my friend had a name, I explained that she didn’t need one because she was an angel. They laughed about that, too.
The Mediator stayed with me for years, consoling me when I was inconsolable, making me see the back side of every scab. “The dead skin protects the live skin. And this tiny little scab”—and she held one on her finger—“this tiny fleck of Finch will blow away to become earth.”
“That’s good,” she replies. Then, “Thanks.”
Above us, there’s thunder, and I ask Lucy who’s working this evening, making weather on this night. She tells me that the Poet rigged it up earlier in the day.
“He’s got a string tied to his belt,” she says. “If he rolls over in his sleep, another storm will come.”
After a while, I tell her I’m going to seek cover. It’s late, but I’m wanting hot tea and a shower. There’s too much grit in my mouth.
“One favor,” Lucy says as I rise. “Next time, tell Mama to visit.”
“Your grave? You want her to come here ?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Tell her to visit next time you see her.”
My bones creak and ache as I walk away. My heels hurt even though I haven’t been standing. My backside throbs on each side of my spine, the clothes on my body so wet and weighing me down. When I’m on the porch, I peel them off like skins and leave them behind.
T HOUGH I WAS a teenager when I found Ma in the graveyard and began to learn the ways of the Dead, I’d been exposed much earlier, just after the death of my face.
When my face had scabbed to a hard rusty shell, Ma had to scrape it with a piece of glass or Papa had to scrape it with his pocketknife—to help it heal better, they said. And while I don’t remember the burning so much, I remember the scrapings, the rasping as my skin scuffed off in bloody wafers.
The doctor who came to the clinic said that the scrapings were critical. He pointed at my face as he spoke to Ma and Papa: “You have to get the scabs off to stimulate the formation of scar tissue.” And he showed them how to do it, explaining that they needed to rip from different directions each time so the scars would grow evenly. That first time, it took all three of them to hold me down.
But when you are four and your ma holds a broken windowpane to your face, when you are five and your papa opens his pocketknife and rests that blade against your chin, it is almost unimaginable, that horror. I hid beneath the kitchen table, where they drug me out. I hid beneath the porch steps, where Ma chased me out with a broom.
They caught me each time and tied me down because they had to, and I screamed and twisted until the ropes burned my wrists, even before the scraping had begun. I screamed while they kissed me. I screamed while they soothed. I hardly recognized them at all. Finally, they had to shroud me in a sheet, and Ma scraped my face while Papa held my head, and I hated them for it. Though they took me out for ice cream after, or took me fishing on the river, I hated them for making that sound with my body. I didn’t have much skin left, and I didn’t want it torn away.
I found a secret place beneath a boxwood, and that’s where I hid when I wasn’t being whittled. I met the Mediator there. She came to me after the very first scraping, and she stayed with me for years.
Beneath the boxwood, the dirt was deep blue and hard, and I dug at it mercilessly, scraping into the ground to find coolness. The first time she appeared, I thought she was a queen. She crawled in on hands and knees, sat down beside me in the dirt, and offered me a stick. We dug trenches and circles and mazes in that dirt. Then she let me ring the bells on her robe until I fell asleep.
When I told my parents about my friend, they laughed and Papa said, “That’s wonderful, sugar. We all need friends.” They let me meet her on the grounds for games of tag, and they let me take my ribbons down to the river so she could braid my hair. When they asked me if my friend had a name, I explained that she didn’t need one because she was an angel. They laughed about that, too.
The Mediator stayed with me for years, consoling me when I was inconsolable, making me see the back side of every scab. “The dead skin protects the live skin. And this tiny little scab”—and she held one on her finger—“this tiny fleck of Finch will blow away to become earth.”
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