This flowering God's land where I was born is only a pit stop
on a Yankee's way to Disney World, but before I met Helen, it was where I
planned to marry, bear kids, and hold foreheads when my children spit up
the bad barbecue, the sneaked extra slices of birthday cake, and spit out
the soap that would be their reward for repeating the trash that somehow
makes it past my v-chip. I'd do what all the mamas have done, and I'd do
it as part of the Seeled Junction tradition.
To tell the truth, I was thirteen years, eleven months, and
two weeks of awkwardness when Helen introduced herself to me with a flourish
matched only by the pain that was to mark her sudden departure. My arms seemed
as long as my legs, and the summer's humidity made my nose a slide for my
thick, horn-rimmed glasses. My clothes revealed every sharp angle of my body,
and the neighborhood boys couldn't savor anything more than snapping my idle
training bra and laughing at the absence of anything extra on my chest. I
never let my reaction reveal the sharp emotional pain, and I never stopped
hoping for a cleavage like Jane Russell's, my idol in this
regard.
I was eating mozzarella sticks at the Suburban Diner down the
steep hill from my house. Seeled Junction seemed asleep that week, most of
the town's daytime noise and energy attending Vacation Bible School. In the
orange and tan no-star restaurant only the waitress Sue Ann, the day cook
Al, and I were to be found sweating under the greasy, slow-turning ceiling
fans. My mama was out of town, converting her sinful brother from the bright
lights of the city to the brighter lights of an itinerant revival; sneaky
me had snuck away from the gossiping, the snacking, and the Bible reading
that was going on six blocks and one hill away. Hearing about Jezebel and
her wicked ways never did appeal to me much. I was more interested in spending my week in the Suburban reading trashy romances
and radishing each time the word "breast"
appeared on the page.
Just as Rhinehold was unlacing Ingrid's silk shift, my attention was
drawn from the page to the arrival of the expected rainstorm. Then through
the yellow-stained window I saw her walking slowly in spite of the storm's
chasing away the swimmingly blue sky and quickly filling the potholes. As
she crossed the street, she let the wetness smooth her eyes like tears and
sop her shoes like marsh.
I can't remember exactly what she wore, but
a burnt-brown paisley scarf was entwined in her wet hair. She entered the
Suburban and noted with a smirk the picture of the dogs' playing poker over
the single restroom door. Then, as I watched, her slow-motion walk directed
itself towards my table. It was shivery and delightful. I began to ache.
Why, I'm still not quite sure.
She cradled her left arm in her right as she
scuffed to a stop next to my booth. She paused, I thought, to ask
directions.
"Do you like mimes?" She asked the unexpectedly
strange question to no one in particular.
The lump welling in my throat wouldn't let me
answer.
"Do you like mimes?" she repeated; this time
her eyes piercing through my horn-rims.
Weakly I answered, "I can't say I've ever seen
one."
"Never seen one!" she joked. "Oh, you have.
I bet you've even been one."
I asked with all-too-obvious uncertainty, "A
mime is one of those guys who wear black leotards and white make-up,
right?"
Her words waltzed, "I suppose some do."
"Well, no. I don't think that I like them
much."
"Oh," she sighed as she sat down directly across from me. The booth, adjusting to her weight, puffed out some extra air.
"Then we'll just have to talk, won't we?"
There were a few moments of silence as I breathed her glance, and as strange as her sitting there was, I never felt awkward. I saw her fingernails were all bitten down and jagged looking. I started to chew on mine when she offered, "I am Helen."
I sat dumbly, not remembering my name. I could only stare at her.
Oh, my God! I remember thinking; she
was rustling through the pages of my book, my interest in Rhinehold's advance
having been arrested by Helen's arrival. I giggled, embarrassed by her discovery.
She didn't laugh, but reached with her wrist and caressed the creases of
my hand with her thumb. It didn't seem strange, although I did pull away.
I then found my voice, "You're new here. Aren't you?"
"Yes, I'm new, but I've visited before."
"Where are you from?"
"Canada."
"Canada? Wow! Have you ever seen a polar bear?"
"Yes." She laughed. "In my head, of course. Have you seen one?"
"No."
"Have you imagined one?"
"I have a wax one in my room." I squinted, my head full of polar
bears swimming in melted Arctic wax.
She interrupted, "Is it a candle?"
"Yeah."
"I have an animal candle too." She lifted her arm, and I could
see a red trench scar running across the arm's underside.
"What happened?"
"With what?"
"What happened to your arm?"
"Oh, this. I really don't remember how I got this."
"Come on. You can tell me." Pausing, I urged, "What happened?"
"Always asking questions. That's good."
I didn't know if she was evading the question, and I didn't know
what to say, so I babbled, "A boy in my class pushed me last week 'cause
I said my Uncle Jack was an actor in New York. He said that my uncle had
to be queer and that I should be ashamed of my family. He pushed me hard,
and I fell on the ground. I got a cut, but I didn't break any bones or anything
serious. I would have hit him if it had been worth it."
"Why wasn't it?"
"It just wasn't."
I started fidgeting with the book, and it fell into the middle
of the aisle. Helen bent down to get it, and I noticed a black-yellow bruise
on the side of her leg.
"How did you get that?"
"I was telling a boy about my uncle in New York, and he--"
"Aw, come on," I interrupted. "That was my story. What were you
really doing?"
"I was thinking--"
I was confused. "Quit kidding. You didn't get that bruise
thinking."
"Never mind the bruise." She paused a long time. "Is it okay if
I sit here?"
"Yeah, sure."
"I'm going to have to go soon, though."
"Where do you have to go? Are you going up to the church?"
There was a comfortable silence.
"Why didn't you hit him?" she repeated.
"I told you it wasn't important. I don't know why." I started to
feel all sad inside. "Maybe 'cause no one would've taken my side." I wasn't
sure that I said the right thing. This time the silence was uncomfortable.
"You know, you haven't answered any of my questions, Helen. Will you tell
me how you got that scar?"
"You should've hit him."
"You don't have to tell if you don't want."
"You're pretty smart. Do you like it here?"
"Oh . . . yeah. It's good."
"Really? You always like it?"
"Well, of course, sometimes I do feel sort of, well, you know, different," I whispered. "But mama says it's okay 'cause I'm going through a difficult stage."
She must not have had heard the last part: "When? When do you feel
different?"
"Well, like at school when I say something right out loud in class
and the kids always laugh and the teacher always asks what put that idea
into my head. I just laugh too, and I pretend I was aware of my foolishness,
but I never really feel like laughing."
"You're not foolish. I don't want you to think you are."
"Thank you."
"And it's always worth it if--"
My eyes flinched open when the thunder crashed, and I realized
that I felt better than I had ever felt in a long, long time.
Al was having his cigarette break in the booth next to me. "What
ya doin', heh?" he smirked.
"Just thinking."
He gave me the strangest look. "Should I tell your mother you've
taken to talking to yourself?" he asked, "Or do you have an imaginary
friend?"
I looked straight ahead at the faded orange and tan booth, and nothing blocked my view. I felt more painfully alone than I had ever felt in my life.
I was walking up the steep hill to my house. Bible School must
have let out because a boy from my class was running towards me.
"Hey, why wasn't you at the church?"
"I had a stomach ache," I lied.
"Ooh, you got the period," he chanted. After he tired of repeating
that a few times, he asked, "How's your uncle, the queer man?" Then he
ceremoniously snapped the elastic encircling my chest.
"Damn you."
I hit him so hard I knocked him down. I hoped that I had bruised
him. Then I unclasped my bra, wriggled out of it and, to the astonishment
of the crowd that had gathered, flung it right at his head, then resumed
my climb up the long, steep hill to my house.
Helen had been right; it's always worth it.