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Authors: Jennifer McMahon
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“Tell me, Ma, how did you burn your hands?”
She thought for a minute. “In a fire?”
“That’s right. Tell me about the fire. The fire in the tepee.”
“It was the fire that gave me the stroke. Now I have a problem with my memory.”
“You didn’t have a stroke, Ma.” But it’s quite possible that I might have one before all this is over.
“Fire stroke.” She nodded vigorously.
“How did the fire start, Ma?”
“Stroke took away my memory.”
“Ma, you didn’t have a stroke in the fire. You burned your hands.” I got up and began putting away the gauze and tape, locking the ointment back in the box.
“She was there,” my mother said while my back was to her, the firm tone of her voice startling me.
“Who?” I turned and stared at my mother. She didn’t respond. “There was no one with you, Ma. Raven and Opal weren’t home. Gabriel pulled you out. Remember?” You bit him. Broke the skin with your teeth.
My mother looked at me, then back down to her freshly bandaged hands. She smiled.
“She was there. She knows who you are.”
W HERE ARE WE GOING ?” my mother asked as we walked out to the car.
“To town to get eggs.”
She seemed satisfied enough by this answer and got into the passenger side of my little blue rental.
“Seatbelt, Ma,” I said. She made no move to fasten it. I leaned across her, reached for the strap, and buckled her in.
“Where are we going?” she asked again. I repeated my answer.
“The Griswolds have eggs,” she said. “Lazy Elk says they’re no good because sometimes they’ve got a speck of blood in them, but that just means they’re fertile.”
On the way to town, we passed the Griswolds’ old place. I slowed when I saw two green state police cars in the driveway along with a Channel 3 news van. Behind the house, way back in the field, near the edge of the woods, I could see more cars and a white van. It was all eerily reminiscent of how things looked the day Del was killed. My mother stared straight ahead, a contented smile on her face, apparently oblivious to all the commotion.
I stopped at the corner where Bullrush Hill Road met Railroad Street. They’d put up a stop sign just before I went away to school.
I studied the front of the Griswolds’ house, long abandoned, reminding myself that it was thirty-one years ago that Del was killed, not just yesterday.
So what the hell was going on?
I’ve never been a believer in the afterlife, but if I had to invent a hell for myself, it would look something like this: I’d be forced to relive my worst moments again and again, powerless to change their outcome.
“The Griswolds have eggs,” my mother reminded me eagerly.
The house itself was listing to one side, and the last of the chipped white paint had finally peeled away. A piece of plywood with a NO TRESPASSING sign had replaced the front door.
The three-sided stand in the front yard had collapsed, matching the barn behind it. The mailbox had been knocked over, by a snowplow maybe, or some kids out playing mailbox baseball with a Louisville Slugger. Beside the ruined mailbox, the old sign still swayed from its post on a rusted chain, the red letters faded: EGGS HAY PIGS POTATOS .
A state trooper came around the side of the house and looked over at our car, idling at the stop sign. I turned away, focusing my eyes on the road ahead, signaled left, and stepped on the gas a little too hard and fast. The tires gave a slight squeal as we drove off, down Railroad Street toward the center of town. An homage to Stevie, Joe, and their GTO.
I found a parking place right in front of Haskie’s General Store. Next to the store was the old brick New Canaan depot from the days when the L&S Railroad carted timber and passengers between Wells River and Barre. The old station was now an antique shop that had a neatly hand-lettered sign on the door that said CLOSED FOR THE SEASON — SEE YOU IN THE SPRING ! It had been owned, since I was a little
“Tell me, Ma, how did you burn your hands?”
She thought for a minute. “In a fire?”
“That’s right. Tell me about the fire. The fire in the tepee.”
“It was the fire that gave me the stroke. Now I have a problem with my memory.”
“You didn’t have a stroke, Ma.” But it’s quite possible that I might have one before all this is over.
“Fire stroke.” She nodded vigorously.
“How did the fire start, Ma?”
“Stroke took away my memory.”
“Ma, you didn’t have a stroke in the fire. You burned your hands.” I got up and began putting away the gauze and tape, locking the ointment back in the box.
“She was there,” my mother said while my back was to her, the firm tone of her voice startling me.
“Who?” I turned and stared at my mother. She didn’t respond. “There was no one with you, Ma. Raven and Opal weren’t home. Gabriel pulled you out. Remember?” You bit him. Broke the skin with your teeth.
My mother looked at me, then back down to her freshly bandaged hands. She smiled.
“She was there. She knows who you are.”
W HERE ARE WE GOING ?” my mother asked as we walked out to the car.
“To town to get eggs.”
She seemed satisfied enough by this answer and got into the passenger side of my little blue rental.
“Seatbelt, Ma,” I said. She made no move to fasten it. I leaned across her, reached for the strap, and buckled her in.
“Where are we going?” she asked again. I repeated my answer.
“The Griswolds have eggs,” she said. “Lazy Elk says they’re no good because sometimes they’ve got a speck of blood in them, but that just means they’re fertile.”
On the way to town, we passed the Griswolds’ old place. I slowed when I saw two green state police cars in the driveway along with a Channel 3 news van. Behind the house, way back in the field, near the edge of the woods, I could see more cars and a white van. It was all eerily reminiscent of how things looked the day Del was killed. My mother stared straight ahead, a contented smile on her face, apparently oblivious to all the commotion.
I stopped at the corner where Bullrush Hill Road met Railroad Street. They’d put up a stop sign just before I went away to school.
I studied the front of the Griswolds’ house, long abandoned, reminding myself that it was thirty-one years ago that Del was killed, not just yesterday.
So what the hell was going on?
I’ve never been a believer in the afterlife, but if I had to invent a hell for myself, it would look something like this: I’d be forced to relive my worst moments again and again, powerless to change their outcome.
“The Griswolds have eggs,” my mother reminded me eagerly.
The house itself was listing to one side, and the last of the chipped white paint had finally peeled away. A piece of plywood with a NO TRESPASSING sign had replaced the front door.
The three-sided stand in the front yard had collapsed, matching the barn behind it. The mailbox had been knocked over, by a snowplow maybe, or some kids out playing mailbox baseball with a Louisville Slugger. Beside the ruined mailbox, the old sign still swayed from its post on a rusted chain, the red letters faded: EGGS HAY PIGS POTATOS .
A state trooper came around the side of the house and looked over at our car, idling at the stop sign. I turned away, focusing my eyes on the road ahead, signaled left, and stepped on the gas a little too hard and fast. The tires gave a slight squeal as we drove off, down Railroad Street toward the center of town. An homage to Stevie, Joe, and their GTO.
I found a parking place right in front of Haskie’s General Store. Next to the store was the old brick New Canaan depot from the days when the L&S Railroad carted timber and passengers between Wells River and Barre. The old station was now an antique shop that had a neatly hand-lettered sign on the door that said CLOSED FOR THE SEASON — SEE YOU IN THE SPRING ! It had been owned, since I was a little
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