In the Wilderness - Kim Barnes [59]
Maria was my neighbor, and I watched from my porch as she and Sam disappeared into the old white house across the street. Sam emerged later, tucking in his shirt and smoothing his hair before loping on toward his own home. The light that shone from the second-floor window I decided was hers, and I watched each night for some movement to reveal to me more of her life.
She waited for me one day after school. Sam, a good foot-and-a-half taller, rested his arm across her shoulders. They both smoked Marlboros, and the cloud they exhaled filled the air around them so that they squinted to see.
“Kim?”
I clutched my books to my chest, fearing what she wanted from me or meant to do. She had never teased me about my dress or religion as the others had, but I couldn’t imagine why else she would call to me.
“Want to walk home with us?”
I looked from her up to Sam, whose expression had not changed. He seemed focused on some point just above my head.
“You live by me, right?”
I nodded.
“Come on, then.”
She turned and Sam pivoted with her. I followed several steps behind, still not sure what to make of this sudden and unexpected interest. Maria was not a cheerleader or drill team captain, and I seldom saw her with other girls. She often wore the same red skirt bunched at her waist to bring the hem higher, and her shoes were scuffed, the leather cracked.
We walked for several blocks, and then Maria stopped. “What are you, weird? Come on.” She grabbed my wrist and pulled me to her side. “Want a smoke?” I looked at the red-and-white pack she snapped between us. A single cigarette jutted out past the rest, perfect.
“No.” I kept my eyes down, afraid to see how ridiculous she must think me.
She shrugged and slid the pack back into Sam’s shirt pocket. We walked the rest of the way home in silence, but when we got to my house, she smiled and said, “See ya,” before guiding Sam like a Siamese twin through her own narrow door. That night in my bedroom I listened to the radio. I missed the Langs, Luke, the hollow. Nothing but the music seemed to fill the emptiness.
The next afternoon, while my father slept and my mother was at the store, I rifled the ashtrays for smokeable butts. I opened the window in the bathroom and broke each ground-out cigarette at its base, rolling the blackened tobacco from the other end. Fitted together, the inch-long segments produced a manageable whole.
It was as though I had practiced the movements all my life. I hardly felt dizzy, and as I sucked on the filter flattened by my fathers teeth, I took in what I saw in the mirror: no stranger, but a girl defined by familiar movements, in visible control of the air that she breathed. The next afternoon, I took the cigarette Maria offered. I knew its smell, knew the motions. It was easy.
The next week, I asked if I could stay all night with Maria, lying to my parents for the first time: her father worked at the mill; her mother stayed home with the baby; she got good grades and didn’t cuss. Nothing was true.
Once in her house I was stunned by the wreckage. Soiled diapers and cereal boxes were scattered across the floor. The dishes filling the sink and overflowing onto the counters were crusted with egg and ketchup. Flies rose and buzzed with our movement, then settled again onto the garbage swept to the room’s corners. There was no furniture. Maria dipped her finger into a jar of commodity peanut butter and sucked at it noisily.
“Mom and the kids will be back soon. Let’s go up.”
I followed her past the bathroom, holding my breath against the smell. I had never seen anything so unkempt, so completely used and ignored. I thought my incredulous silence might embarrass Maria, so I hummed a little as we ascended the narrow stairs.
I was right. The light had come from her room. It must have been a grand house once, with second-floor balconies and gingerbread trim, but now the floors were buckled, the wallpaper stained and peeling. Her window was a set of French doors that led out into air. Nothing hung in her closet except a few tangled hangers.