Read Online In This Light by Melanie Rae Thon - Free Book Online
Authors: Melanie Rae Thon
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the smoke on her breath. I remembered her kissing me one night before I knew any words—that smell: lipstick and gin. I heard Clare sobbing in the bunk above mine, her face shoved into her pillow, and then our mother was gone—we were alone in the dark, and if I’d had any words I would have said,
Not again.
Who is it?
Sharper now, my mother, right in my hand. A weird warm day, so the Haitian man was playing his guitar by the Out of Town News stand. He’d been dancing for hours, brittle legs, bobbing head. You never saw a grown man that thin. Sometimes he sang in French, and that’s when I understood him best, when his voice passed through me, hands through water, when the words stopped making sense.
I wanted to hold out the phone, let my mother hear what I heard. I wanted to say,
Find me if you can.
It’s me, Nadine
, I said.
I heard the match scrape, the hiss of flame burning air. I heard my mother suck in her breath.
Your daughter
, I almost said.
Where are you?
I thought she was afraid I might be down the road, already on my way, needing money, her soft bed. I saw her there on the edge of the bunk, yellow spread wrapped around her shoulders, cigarette dangling from her lips. I saw the faded outlines of spilled coffee, dark stains on pale cloth, my mother’s jittery hand.
Not that close
, I said.
Muffled words. I thought she said,
I’m glad.
The Haitian man kept jumping, dreadlocks twisting, pants flapping— those legs, no flesh, another scarecrow man. Dollar bills fluttered in his guitar case, wings in wind.
Un coeur d’oiseaux brisés
, he sang, and I almost knew what he meant. A crowd had gathered to listen, two dozen, maybe more, all those people between us, but he was watching me; I was watching him.
I’m glad you called
, my mother said again.
And I swear, I knew then.
Je ne pleure pas
, the Haitian man said.
For a moment both his feet were off the ground at once. For a moment his mouth stayed open, stunned. He was a dark angel hanging in blue air. I saw his heart break against his ribs. For a moment there were no cars and no breath.
Then every sound that ever was rushed in. Horns blaring, exploding glass; ice cracking on the river;
On the ground, motherfucker—
all this again.
I said,
Clare’s dead.
Tell me where you are, Nadine.
Fuck you
, Clare said.
The Haitian man fell to earth. I heard the bones of his legs snap. He wouldn’t look at me now. He was bent over his case, stuffing bills in his pockets.
The voice came over the phone, the one that says you have thirty seconds left. I said,
I’m out of quarters.
I said,
Maybe I’ll call you back.
That night I found a lover.
I mean, I found a man who didn’t pay, who let me sleep in his car instead. He told me his name and I forget. Fat man with a snake coiled in the hair of his chest. I kept thinking, All this flesh. When he was in me, I thought I could be him.
Clare said,
I tried to come home once, but the birds had eaten all the crumbs. There was no path.
The next night, another lover, another man with gifts. Two vials of crack we smoked, then heroin to cut the high.
Got to chase the dragon
, he said. No needles. Clean white smack so pure we only had to breathe it in.
Safe this way
, he said. He held a wet cloth, told me,
Lean back
, made me snort the water too,
got to get the last bit.
When he moved on top of me, I didn’t have a body: I was all head.
Then it was day and I was drifting, knowing that by dark I’d have to look again.
Emile appeared on Newbury Street, shop window, second floor: he was a beautiful mannequin in a red dress.
Listen, you think it’s easy the way we live? Clare told me this:
I never had a day off. I had to keep walking. I could never stay in bed.
So she was glad when they put her in a cell, glad to give them all she had: clothes, cash, fingerprints. She said,
I knew enough not to drink the water, but nobody told me not to breathe the air.
No lover that night. I found a cardboard box instead.
Not again.
Who is it?
Sharper now, my mother, right in my hand. A weird warm day, so the Haitian man was playing his guitar by the Out of Town News stand. He’d been dancing for hours, brittle legs, bobbing head. You never saw a grown man that thin. Sometimes he sang in French, and that’s when I understood him best, when his voice passed through me, hands through water, when the words stopped making sense.
I wanted to hold out the phone, let my mother hear what I heard. I wanted to say,
Find me if you can.
It’s me, Nadine
, I said.
I heard the match scrape, the hiss of flame burning air. I heard my mother suck in her breath.
Your daughter
, I almost said.
Where are you?
I thought she was afraid I might be down the road, already on my way, needing money, her soft bed. I saw her there on the edge of the bunk, yellow spread wrapped around her shoulders, cigarette dangling from her lips. I saw the faded outlines of spilled coffee, dark stains on pale cloth, my mother’s jittery hand.
Not that close
, I said.
Muffled words. I thought she said,
I’m glad.
The Haitian man kept jumping, dreadlocks twisting, pants flapping— those legs, no flesh, another scarecrow man. Dollar bills fluttered in his guitar case, wings in wind.
Un coeur d’oiseaux brisés
, he sang, and I almost knew what he meant. A crowd had gathered to listen, two dozen, maybe more, all those people between us, but he was watching me; I was watching him.
I’m glad you called
, my mother said again.
And I swear, I knew then.
Je ne pleure pas
, the Haitian man said.
For a moment both his feet were off the ground at once. For a moment his mouth stayed open, stunned. He was a dark angel hanging in blue air. I saw his heart break against his ribs. For a moment there were no cars and no breath.
Then every sound that ever was rushed in. Horns blaring, exploding glass; ice cracking on the river;
On the ground, motherfucker—
all this again.
I said,
Clare’s dead.
Tell me where you are, Nadine.
Fuck you
, Clare said.
The Haitian man fell to earth. I heard the bones of his legs snap. He wouldn’t look at me now. He was bent over his case, stuffing bills in his pockets.
The voice came over the phone, the one that says you have thirty seconds left. I said,
I’m out of quarters.
I said,
Maybe I’ll call you back.
That night I found a lover.
I mean, I found a man who didn’t pay, who let me sleep in his car instead. He told me his name and I forget. Fat man with a snake coiled in the hair of his chest. I kept thinking, All this flesh. When he was in me, I thought I could be him.
Clare said,
I tried to come home once, but the birds had eaten all the crumbs. There was no path.
The next night, another lover, another man with gifts. Two vials of crack we smoked, then heroin to cut the high.
Got to chase the dragon
, he said. No needles. Clean white smack so pure we only had to breathe it in.
Safe this way
, he said. He held a wet cloth, told me,
Lean back
, made me snort the water too,
got to get the last bit.
When he moved on top of me, I didn’t have a body: I was all head.
Then it was day and I was drifting, knowing that by dark I’d have to look again.
Emile appeared on Newbury Street, shop window, second floor: he was a beautiful mannequin in a red dress.
Listen, you think it’s easy the way we live? Clare told me this:
I never had a day off. I had to keep walking. I could never stay in bed.
So she was glad when they put her in a cell, glad to give them all she had: clothes, cash, fingerprints. She said,
I knew enough not to drink the water, but nobody told me not to breathe the air.
No lover that night. I found a cardboard box instead.
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