Salvage the Bones - Jesmyn Ward [16]
“Esch!” Junior screams as he tries the doorknob, slaps the door, and then bangs out of the back door to pee off the steps.
“Esch?” Randall calls.
“I’m shaving my legs!” I told this to the tile, hoarse.
“Shaving? I’m too old to pull a Junior.”
“I’m almost done.” I bend over the sink and drink until I don’t feel like throwing up anymore. Even after I turn the water off, I still keep swallowing. My tongue feels rolled in uncooked grits, but I still swallow. Repeat I will not throw up, I will not throw up, I won’t. When I walk out of the door, I follow the baseboards.
“You okay?” Randall stands in my way.
“I rinsed the hair out the tub,” I say. “Don’t worry.”
The sound of Daddy chugging the working tractor through the yard, I ignore. In bed, I pull the thin sheet over my head, mouth my knees, and breathe so hot it feels like two people up under the sheet.
When I wake up for the second time, the air is hot, and the ceiling is so low, the heat can’t rise. It doesn’t have anyplace to go. I’m surprised Daddy hasn’t sent Junior in here to get me up by now, to work around the house and prepare for hurricane. Late last night, he and Junior carried some of the jugs in, lined them up against the wall while I made tuna fish. Daddy kept counting the bottles over and over again as if he couldn’t remember, glanced at me and Randall as if we were plotting to steal some. If Randall’s told him that I’m sick, he won’t care. Maybe they’ve scattered: Junior under the house, Randall to play ball, Skeet in the shed with China and her puppies. My stomach sizzles sickly, so I pull my book from the corner of my bed where it’s smashed between the wall and my mattress. In Mythology, I am still reading about Medea and the quest for the Golden Fleece. Here is someone that I recognize. When Medea falls in love with Jason, it grabs me by my throat. I can see her. Medea sneaks Jason things to help him: ointments to make him invincible, secrets in rocks. She has magic, could bend the natural to the unnatural. But even with all her power, Jason bends her like a young pine in a hard wind; he makes her double in two. I know her. When I look up, Skeet’s standing in the door looking like he’s going to cry.
“What’s wrong?”
Skeetah shakes his head, and I follow him.
Inside the shed, the puppies are swimming in the dirt. They lay on their bellies, their feet sticking out like small twigs, bobbing on the dusty current. They twitch and roll. They are silent. They are pink yawning tongues. All but one paddles toward China, grabs her abdomen like we do sunken trees at the river. They have trouble grabbing her tits, knead her belly with their paws like we do with our feet when we balance on the slimy trunks. All but one swims and sucks.
He is the white and brown. He is the cartoon swimmer, the puppy who dove like Big Henry when he was being born. He lays face down. His mouth opens and closes like he is eating the shed floor. Skeetah’s face is so close to the puppy that when he talks, the brown and white fur flutters, and it almost looks like the puppy’s moving.
“He was okay early this morning. Ate once and everything.”
“When you noticed him like this?” I ask. The puppy turns his head to the side, and it looks like his neck is broken. Skeetah rocks back. The swimmer gasps.
“About an hour ago.”
“Maybe it’s China. Maybe her milk’s bad for him or something.”
“I think he got parvo. I think he picked it up out the dirt.”
My morning nap on the tile comes back strong.
“Maybe he just