Salvage the Bones - Jesmyn Ward [10]
In the bathroom, I looked at myself in the mirror. Undressed and rinsed. Dressed again. My clothes fit the same. My stomach, my hips, my arms all fell in the same straight lines; there was nothing fine or curvy about me. I was still short and skinny, my hair big and curly and black, my lips thin. I didn’t look any different. Daddy taught every one of us to swim by picking us up when we was little, around six or so, and flinging us in the water. I’d taken to it fast, hadn’t coughed up the muddy pit water, hadn’t cried or flailed; I’d bobbed back up and cut the surface of the water and splashed my way back to where Daddy was standing in the shallows. I’d pulled the water with my hands, kicked it with my feet, let it push me forward. That was sex.
The chicken eggs in my shirt are warm as stones, but light, too light to be the color of rocks. I expect them to be heavy as the clay pebbles that share their color, to pull me down in the front. They don’t. I’ve seen frog eggs that turn into tadpoles; in the springtime the ditches around the property are alive with them. When me and Skeet were little we’d lay on our stomachs over the ditches and reach into them and pull up some of the eggs, hold them close so we could see if the little wormy frogs in them had begun to shake, to squirm, to turn long and pointed to spear their way out. When they look like hundreds of little shut eyeballs still, they are lighter than light, cool as a breeze. I wonder if inside eggs, the kind that need the shelter of a body—horse eggs, pig eggs, human eggs—are so light. Would they look clear as jelly with firefly hearts, or would they look as solid and silent as stone? Would they show their mystery, or would they cover it like a secret? Would a human egg let itself be seen?
Junior is pouting because he doesn’t want scrambled eggs again. He is sitting on the floor in front of the TV that works, which is on top of a big old wooden TV that doesn’t work, and he is ignoring the plate of eggs I set in front of him because he won’t eat at the table unless Daddy whips him to it or Randall talks him into it.
“They taste like rubber bands!” he mutters.
I remember the taste of rubber bands. Sharp, like metal. Bitter. For something so soft and forgiving, its taste is awful and not right; the tongue jerks back like an earthworm from a child’s hand. And I know these eggs taste nothing like that.
“Junior, stop being orner.” It’s what Mama used to say to us when we were little, and I say it to Junior out of habit. Daddy used to say it sometimes, too, until he said it to Randall one day and Randall started giggling, and then Daddy figured out Randall was laughing because it sounded like horny. About a year ago I figured out what it was supposed to be after coming across its parent on the vocabulary list for my English class with Miss Dedeaux: ornery. It made me wonder if there were other words Mama mashed like that. They used to pop up in my head sometime when I was doing the stupidest things: tetrified when I was sweeping the kitchen and Daddy came in dripping beer and kicking chairs. Belove when Manny was curling pleasure from me with his fingers in mid-swim in the pit. Freegid when I was laying in bed in November, curled to the wall like I was going to burrow into another cover or I was making room for a body to lay behind me to make me warm. Junior doesn’t giggle. “Somebody has to eat the eggs, Junior. You can’t waste food. They got kids in Africa that’s starving.”
“Give them to China,” Junior mumbles. He is rubbing his ear. “I’m going to eat some noodles.”
“I ain’t cooking you no