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Authors: Amy Grace Loyd
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particle of the air we took in. I breathed through my mouth and saw that already one of the flowers had begun to curl into itself, turning dingy so quickly.
“That’s Sam Cooke singing,” said Leo, but neither that fact nor the cheer of the song’s arrangement could quite strip the blues from the song; we heard “trouble” over and over; it snapped at us, and in a room so suffocated with so insistent and yet so fragile a fragrance there was nowhere to hide.
Danielle started weeping before Sam Cooke had finished; her posture crumbled and she said, “Oh, Mother, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Leo stood up from his hips, without leaning forward, as if he’d grown straight up from the chair, and then held himself there, frozen. I stood too. The boy hung his eyes on mine, didn’t blink. If I was invisible to the girl, I was not to him: I did not know whether I was meant to bolster him in some way, or act, if he was imploring me— do something . I watched as Hope scooped Danielle into her, and for a moment I was gone, seeing that embrace on the Promenade, Mitchell and that woman, how skin can and can’t give way, how you wish it could finally, give way. Hope spoke into her daughter’s neck and hair, “It’s okay, baby. It’s a hard time, but it’s okay. I’m here. Mumma’s here.”
At that, I walked to the gardenia directly, picked it up with both arms. Its foliage pressed into my mouth and nose as I carried it to the door—a green so dense. I put it outside, in a far dark corner of the hall. When I came back, I reported, “It’s too strong.” I did not say this loudly or wait for a reply. I reached and squeezed the solid width of Leo’s forearm once fast so as not to know his skin or temperature too well. I placed my hand on Hope’s shoulder as George might, gently, and whispered a thank-you. Then I left Hope to her children.
A MAN VANISHES
T WO SETS OF FEET STEPPING with care, as if afraid to agitate too much, over my head. Slippered or socked, padded anyway. March, as it turned into April, kept its bite at night and mother and daughter folded into one another. Two days and nights like this, the two alone, from what I could tell, growing quieter and quieter, as if the absence of noise might mean the absence of pain. The gardenia remained in the hall. I waited for it to die. Perhaps they did, too.
I reconnected my phone. I dialed in for my messages. Marina’s voice—heavy in English, revealing little, a flat hello and will you call. Thank you . Mr. Coughlan’s daughter, her voice as tight as a rusted screw. Two calls from her. The second screechy— please let me hear from you . False graciousness. The roofer wondering if I accepted his estimate: a businessman who knew to speak to me with friendly reserve, to keep his message short but lively, as if each word was a firm handshake. I look forward to hearing back .
Finally a message from Mitchell’s wife, Angie: I could hear her face opening and closing as she asked if we could discuss the building’s recycling policy again. She believed the definitions were expanding. She hesitated. “More plastics … Containers.” She rarely hesitated.
I tended to the building. I sorted the recycling as I always did, I tied the garbage bags, avoiding expanding definitions for now. I looked to do some weeding in the garden but was not sure which were the weeds and which weren’t.
One afternoon, having slept well, I volunteered as I sometimes did, several times a month, at Helping Hands, sifting the donated clothes, shoes, housewares. Then I walked Cobble Hill—away from Atlantic Avenue. I bought berries, pasta, tuna fish. I picked up a bottle of whiskey. Jameson. My husband’s brand when he had a taste for whiskey. Before it got too late, I returned the calls made to me the day before, relieved to get voice mails all around. No one answered their phone anymore.
I sat and listened for mother and daughter, for a third night of their sort of quiet. I
“That’s Sam Cooke singing,” said Leo, but neither that fact nor the cheer of the song’s arrangement could quite strip the blues from the song; we heard “trouble” over and over; it snapped at us, and in a room so suffocated with so insistent and yet so fragile a fragrance there was nowhere to hide.
Danielle started weeping before Sam Cooke had finished; her posture crumbled and she said, “Oh, Mother, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Leo stood up from his hips, without leaning forward, as if he’d grown straight up from the chair, and then held himself there, frozen. I stood too. The boy hung his eyes on mine, didn’t blink. If I was invisible to the girl, I was not to him: I did not know whether I was meant to bolster him in some way, or act, if he was imploring me— do something . I watched as Hope scooped Danielle into her, and for a moment I was gone, seeing that embrace on the Promenade, Mitchell and that woman, how skin can and can’t give way, how you wish it could finally, give way. Hope spoke into her daughter’s neck and hair, “It’s okay, baby. It’s a hard time, but it’s okay. I’m here. Mumma’s here.”
At that, I walked to the gardenia directly, picked it up with both arms. Its foliage pressed into my mouth and nose as I carried it to the door—a green so dense. I put it outside, in a far dark corner of the hall. When I came back, I reported, “It’s too strong.” I did not say this loudly or wait for a reply. I reached and squeezed the solid width of Leo’s forearm once fast so as not to know his skin or temperature too well. I placed my hand on Hope’s shoulder as George might, gently, and whispered a thank-you. Then I left Hope to her children.
A MAN VANISHES
T WO SETS OF FEET STEPPING with care, as if afraid to agitate too much, over my head. Slippered or socked, padded anyway. March, as it turned into April, kept its bite at night and mother and daughter folded into one another. Two days and nights like this, the two alone, from what I could tell, growing quieter and quieter, as if the absence of noise might mean the absence of pain. The gardenia remained in the hall. I waited for it to die. Perhaps they did, too.
I reconnected my phone. I dialed in for my messages. Marina’s voice—heavy in English, revealing little, a flat hello and will you call. Thank you . Mr. Coughlan’s daughter, her voice as tight as a rusted screw. Two calls from her. The second screechy— please let me hear from you . False graciousness. The roofer wondering if I accepted his estimate: a businessman who knew to speak to me with friendly reserve, to keep his message short but lively, as if each word was a firm handshake. I look forward to hearing back .
Finally a message from Mitchell’s wife, Angie: I could hear her face opening and closing as she asked if we could discuss the building’s recycling policy again. She believed the definitions were expanding. She hesitated. “More plastics … Containers.” She rarely hesitated.
I tended to the building. I sorted the recycling as I always did, I tied the garbage bags, avoiding expanding definitions for now. I looked to do some weeding in the garden but was not sure which were the weeds and which weren’t.
One afternoon, having slept well, I volunteered as I sometimes did, several times a month, at Helping Hands, sifting the donated clothes, shoes, housewares. Then I walked Cobble Hill—away from Atlantic Avenue. I bought berries, pasta, tuna fish. I picked up a bottle of whiskey. Jameson. My husband’s brand when he had a taste for whiskey. Before it got too late, I returned the calls made to me the day before, relieved to get voice mails all around. No one answered their phone anymore.
I sat and listened for mother and daughter, for a third night of their sort of quiet. I
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