his jeans.
“Whoa,” Sam said, jumping back, peeling my hand away.
I turned, startled, as he stared, his temple pulsing. Please don’t look at me , I wanted to cry. Did I disgust him? I wanted to say I didn’t mean to, that my touching him was an accident, that I knew it was wrong, please don’t tell, please don’t … I covered my mouth, squeezed my eyes shut.
“It’s okay, Sar. Look.” He nudged me. “Really, it’s okay. Come on. I’ll show you.”
He pointed at the scarecrow’s dark region. “This is a penis.”
I hung my head.
“Sarah, hey. You need to know this.” He put his hand on my back. “During sex it gets stiff, and semen from the testicles,” he pointed again, “moves into the woman to fertilize her egg. Presto,” he patted my head, “one more bratty kid for a brother to have to look after.” He shoved me, knocking me off-balance.
I shoved him back, relieved, laughing. “You mean somebody for brothers to push around.”
“Ungrateful,” he sang, hanging his thumbs in his front pockets.
On the wall at the end of the shelf, I spotted the jar with the brain inside. “Look over there, Sam,” I said, pointing.
“What about it?”
“What’s that remind you of?”
“Huh?” He looked from the jar, to me, then back to the jar and its contents.
“Broccoli.”
“That’s good,” he laughed. “Okay, now that one.” I followed his eyes toward something round, puffy, faintly pink: intestines. “This, broccoli-brain, is one you’ll never guess.” He pointed at the guts. “Take a good look at the man in the moon, in a jar.”
As our giggles rumbled around the room, I leaned back, catching the view through the skylight. Nighttime now, the sky an immense shadow. The moon’s sullen beam had kept us from noticing the change. Two stars pinned the vast backdrop. Across the room, that half bust of a man perched in silhouette, staring ahead through the glass. Otis, I thought—more than flesh, limbs, body. Otis, the storyteller; Otis, the scarecrow; Otises everywhere, like lights lifting.
C HAPTER 5
A S THE H ENRY R . F INEMAN Endowed Chair of Mesoamerican Studies in the university’s anthropology department, I teach a light course load each semester and never have to teach freshmen. That’s fortunate because they make me jumpy (short attention span, practically illiterate), and they don’t like me. It’s not their fault. I’m not patient enough; the basics bore me. They wouldn’t sign up, anyway. Word is out: cranky. Am I proud of this? No. Even my colleagues close their doors when I walk by (I get the hint). Can I change? I wish. But give me smart graduate students, and I’ll turn myself inside out and enjoy every minute.
So when a baby freshman appears at my office door with purple eyes and a graceless stance, for a single slugging heartbeat I imagine Sam lurking nearby. I remember meeting Cornelia, Terezie’s daughter, on the church steps after my mother’s funeral. Her painted acrylic nails and pierced nose are perfect additions to her inherited allure.
“I hope I’m not bothering you,” she says, though she’s come during my office hours. She slides into the chair I’ve chosen for its discomfort; guests don’t stay long when their seat wobbles and feels like pavement.
“How’s your mother,” I ask, afraid Cornelia’s expecting special treatment. I can’t help with financial aid or enrollment in a sophomore course without its completed prerequisite. Still, it’ll be hard to tell Terezie Jr. no.
“As Grandma says, we’re ‘made from the same dough.’ Which reminds me,” she pulls a box out of her book bag, “Grandma wanted me to give you this.”
A shoebox tied with grosgrain ribbon, from Albina. I haven’t seen her in twenty years. Josef died a while back, but I can’t remember when. “Does Albina live here?”
“Uncle Cyril set her up in one of those country clubs for old people. As she’d say, ‘It is going on good so far.’ I
“Whoa,” Sam said, jumping back, peeling my hand away.
I turned, startled, as he stared, his temple pulsing. Please don’t look at me , I wanted to cry. Did I disgust him? I wanted to say I didn’t mean to, that my touching him was an accident, that I knew it was wrong, please don’t tell, please don’t … I covered my mouth, squeezed my eyes shut.
“It’s okay, Sar. Look.” He nudged me. “Really, it’s okay. Come on. I’ll show you.”
He pointed at the scarecrow’s dark region. “This is a penis.”
I hung my head.
“Sarah, hey. You need to know this.” He put his hand on my back. “During sex it gets stiff, and semen from the testicles,” he pointed again, “moves into the woman to fertilize her egg. Presto,” he patted my head, “one more bratty kid for a brother to have to look after.” He shoved me, knocking me off-balance.
I shoved him back, relieved, laughing. “You mean somebody for brothers to push around.”
“Ungrateful,” he sang, hanging his thumbs in his front pockets.
On the wall at the end of the shelf, I spotted the jar with the brain inside. “Look over there, Sam,” I said, pointing.
“What about it?”
“What’s that remind you of?”
“Huh?” He looked from the jar, to me, then back to the jar and its contents.
“Broccoli.”
“That’s good,” he laughed. “Okay, now that one.” I followed his eyes toward something round, puffy, faintly pink: intestines. “This, broccoli-brain, is one you’ll never guess.” He pointed at the guts. “Take a good look at the man in the moon, in a jar.”
As our giggles rumbled around the room, I leaned back, catching the view through the skylight. Nighttime now, the sky an immense shadow. The moon’s sullen beam had kept us from noticing the change. Two stars pinned the vast backdrop. Across the room, that half bust of a man perched in silhouette, staring ahead through the glass. Otis, I thought—more than flesh, limbs, body. Otis, the storyteller; Otis, the scarecrow; Otises everywhere, like lights lifting.
C HAPTER 5
A S THE H ENRY R . F INEMAN Endowed Chair of Mesoamerican Studies in the university’s anthropology department, I teach a light course load each semester and never have to teach freshmen. That’s fortunate because they make me jumpy (short attention span, practically illiterate), and they don’t like me. It’s not their fault. I’m not patient enough; the basics bore me. They wouldn’t sign up, anyway. Word is out: cranky. Am I proud of this? No. Even my colleagues close their doors when I walk by (I get the hint). Can I change? I wish. But give me smart graduate students, and I’ll turn myself inside out and enjoy every minute.
So when a baby freshman appears at my office door with purple eyes and a graceless stance, for a single slugging heartbeat I imagine Sam lurking nearby. I remember meeting Cornelia, Terezie’s daughter, on the church steps after my mother’s funeral. Her painted acrylic nails and pierced nose are perfect additions to her inherited allure.
“I hope I’m not bothering you,” she says, though she’s come during my office hours. She slides into the chair I’ve chosen for its discomfort; guests don’t stay long when their seat wobbles and feels like pavement.
“How’s your mother,” I ask, afraid Cornelia’s expecting special treatment. I can’t help with financial aid or enrollment in a sophomore course without its completed prerequisite. Still, it’ll be hard to tell Terezie Jr. no.
“As Grandma says, we’re ‘made from the same dough.’ Which reminds me,” she pulls a box out of her book bag, “Grandma wanted me to give you this.”
A shoebox tied with grosgrain ribbon, from Albina. I haven’t seen her in twenty years. Josef died a while back, but I can’t remember when. “Does Albina live here?”
“Uncle Cyril set her up in one of those country clubs for old people. As she’d say, ‘It is going on good so far.’ I
Similar Books
