they’re mostly in my head anyway. My head is a dangerous place.
I smack the upside-down Pyrex dish against the lip of the garbagecan until the brownies fall in. It’s going to be a long time before I can stand this smell again.
Garbage day is three days off so I twist the neck of the bag and haul it outside. I go around the corner onto Ninth and into the block-long alley separating our block of houses from the ones on Cypress. Five houses down, I heave the bag into someone else’s Dumpster. On the way there my body heats itself with adrenaline but on the way back the chill sets in. I forgot to put a jacket on. I was in a hurry. Whatever black shirt I’m wearing doesn’t warm me. The cold bites into my bare arms like teeth.
Still, I stare at the front door instead of going back in. All the houses on my side of the street are nearly identical. Each with a marble portico, a flat brick front, three stories up. We are all Portico Row, built together as one block. Only the doors and the house numbers are different. Our house has soaring wooden doors that go all the way up, without a glass window above it, like some of the houses have. I stand on the marble porch and lay my hand on the cold iron scrollwork of the stair railing.
This is home, it’s the only place I want to be, but at the same time everything familiar feels strange. It’s the same as it ever was except without the people who most belong here, my parents, which makes all the difference. I’m the only one here, and I’m alone. Lonely. I’ve never been alone like this, against my will. The more I think about it the worse it gets. I get colder and colder and I still don’t go inside. Stepping across the threshold again seems somehow impossible.
I don’t know how long I stand at the top of the stairs. I’m only aware of the cold and nothing else. Unlike yogurt, yeast can live through being frozen. Maybe, today, for the first time, I know what it’s like to be yeast.
Behind me a low voice says, “Forget your keys?”
Startled, I begin to fall off the stairs, and grab wildly at the railing. I catch it and for a moment I’m back in balance but then gravity is too much and I tear free again. I grab and miss the top rail and my right hand gets caught in the lower scrollwork and the flat rusted edge of the iron scrapes clear across my palm.
Behind me there is a solid slab to rest on, and I think I’ve fallen all the way down the steps onto the sidewalk until I realize that I’m still vertical and the slab is breathing. I wrench myself so far forward I hit my chest on the rail, but at least that part of the rail isn’t sharp. Still, it strikes hard on my sternum, and it takes all my breath.
“Whoa!” yells the voice. “I am so sorry. You okay?”
I pull myself forward and sit down hard on the stairs sideways and press my forehead against the cold marble post between the iron rails. First Evangeline and now this and I’m a drop of water on a griddle. I’m completely out of control, and I can hear the beginnings of the chant, get/out/ , but now that I’m not being touched maybe I can master it and I shut the world out: separating an orange into skinless sections.
Peel it, but not with your fingers. Level off the top and bottom. Set it on the board. Remove the peel in strips with a paring knife, pushing down from top to bottom with slow, curved strokes. Nick off all the white parts. Cup the cool, wet skinless fruit in your hand. Take care. Don’t rush. Press the blade into the flesh of the orange, sink it down, a segment at a time, along the left side of the skin and then the right. Left and right. Left and right. As close as you can to the membrane. Press to the center with your knife, level and easy. If you cut right, the segment will fall out onto the board, triangular, gleaming. Left and right. Left and right. If you rush you’ll cut yourself. Take care with it. Cut right along the seam, right where the sweet fruit meets the tough membrane.
I smack the upside-down Pyrex dish against the lip of the garbagecan until the brownies fall in. It’s going to be a long time before I can stand this smell again.
Garbage day is three days off so I twist the neck of the bag and haul it outside. I go around the corner onto Ninth and into the block-long alley separating our block of houses from the ones on Cypress. Five houses down, I heave the bag into someone else’s Dumpster. On the way there my body heats itself with adrenaline but on the way back the chill sets in. I forgot to put a jacket on. I was in a hurry. Whatever black shirt I’m wearing doesn’t warm me. The cold bites into my bare arms like teeth.
Still, I stare at the front door instead of going back in. All the houses on my side of the street are nearly identical. Each with a marble portico, a flat brick front, three stories up. We are all Portico Row, built together as one block. Only the doors and the house numbers are different. Our house has soaring wooden doors that go all the way up, without a glass window above it, like some of the houses have. I stand on the marble porch and lay my hand on the cold iron scrollwork of the stair railing.
This is home, it’s the only place I want to be, but at the same time everything familiar feels strange. It’s the same as it ever was except without the people who most belong here, my parents, which makes all the difference. I’m the only one here, and I’m alone. Lonely. I’ve never been alone like this, against my will. The more I think about it the worse it gets. I get colder and colder and I still don’t go inside. Stepping across the threshold again seems somehow impossible.
I don’t know how long I stand at the top of the stairs. I’m only aware of the cold and nothing else. Unlike yogurt, yeast can live through being frozen. Maybe, today, for the first time, I know what it’s like to be yeast.
Behind me a low voice says, “Forget your keys?”
Startled, I begin to fall off the stairs, and grab wildly at the railing. I catch it and for a moment I’m back in balance but then gravity is too much and I tear free again. I grab and miss the top rail and my right hand gets caught in the lower scrollwork and the flat rusted edge of the iron scrapes clear across my palm.
Behind me there is a solid slab to rest on, and I think I’ve fallen all the way down the steps onto the sidewalk until I realize that I’m still vertical and the slab is breathing. I wrench myself so far forward I hit my chest on the rail, but at least that part of the rail isn’t sharp. Still, it strikes hard on my sternum, and it takes all my breath.
“Whoa!” yells the voice. “I am so sorry. You okay?”
I pull myself forward and sit down hard on the stairs sideways and press my forehead against the cold marble post between the iron rails. First Evangeline and now this and I’m a drop of water on a griddle. I’m completely out of control, and I can hear the beginnings of the chant, get/out/ , but now that I’m not being touched maybe I can master it and I shut the world out: separating an orange into skinless sections.
Peel it, but not with your fingers. Level off the top and bottom. Set it on the board. Remove the peel in strips with a paring knife, pushing down from top to bottom with slow, curved strokes. Nick off all the white parts. Cup the cool, wet skinless fruit in your hand. Take care. Don’t rush. Press the blade into the flesh of the orange, sink it down, a segment at a time, along the left side of the skin and then the right. Left and right. Left and right. As close as you can to the membrane. Press to the center with your knife, level and easy. If you cut right, the segment will fall out onto the board, triangular, gleaming. Left and right. Left and right. If you rush you’ll cut yourself. Take care with it. Cut right along the seam, right where the sweet fruit meets the tough membrane.
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