“Mama’s checked out, y’all. I don’t know where her mind’s at. She’s just sittin’ there, staring out the window,” door slams.
“Did you shake her? You try and talk to her?”
“Of course I did. But she just sits. She won’t say nothin’.”
“Let me go see,” sock feet shuffle down the hall. “Mama? Mama? You feel okay? Can you hear me? Say something, Mama!” sighs. “You’re right, she ain’t all there. She’s never done this before.”
“No she hadn’t. Maybe when we were at school? But I’ve never seen her like this.”
“Has somebody called Daddy?” fledgling yowls.
“Didn’t want to aggravate him, in case she snaps out of it. Then, he’d have come home for nothing.”
“But she ain’t snappin’ out,” * snap * snap * “Mama! Wake up! Hey Mama.”
* * *
The debris throughout the house was ankle deep. Dishes were piled in the kitchen sink with aimless abandon and crested over the counters in concentric circles of plates, forks, knives. Cupboard contents had been heaved onto the counter; vitamin and Bayer bottles strewn across the linoleum. Robitussin oozed down the cabinet facing, collecting in a bloodish pool that had thickened to a cloudy sheen. Red, sticky footprints trailed out of the kitchen and toward the bathroom, where a medicine box and first aid kit had met the same riotous marauding.
They’d found her in the bedroom, her body set down tenuously on the edge of the bare mattress. Its covers had snarled around her and pulled off the corner, as if she’d stripped them, then lost her nerve. Two hundred fifty thread count coiled up from her knees, spiraled around her ribs and across her shoulders. Her throat lay open to the chill from the lifted window, while the sheets menaced like a brooding python.
“Does she even have clothes on, or just pajamas?” from the receiver.
“Just her holey t-shirt and underwear. Her hair is all scraggly too, like she never put it in a hair band when she got out of bed,” reports bantam. “We didn’t wanna call you, but…”
“Never mind!” panting. “How long has she been like this?”
“I don’t know. But I’ve been home since 2:30, so before that.”
She stared out at the feeder. Birds darting into her line of sight, pinching what they needed, dashing back to their babies. Mission focused, as tethered by obligation and demands as any, yet graceful in their illusion of freedom. Even they, winged ones, can’t escape; creatures with means of whisking to the margins of existence. They can’t get there, really. Always striving, always working.
“Then find the bottles, Conrad. And count how many!” receiver yawps .
She blinked, registering voices through the tunnel that spanned the distance from there to here. His muffled pleading and someone’s counting banked against her consciousness. An abstracted whine of hunger, and muted staccatos of others echoed through corridors of time. She blinked at the jangling timbre of voices calling her name; not her real name, but the one they used. They didn’t know her, or any of the winged creatures. They couldn’t know how bound such ones are, really. How unfair. Sad. Appearing self-possessed, and yet fiercely yoked to the unrelenting roost. Their wings would never ripen without her tending, hunting, feeding, yearning.
Exhausted. Nestling drops to the ground. The whoop of the Miller kid funnels from the street; the pop of a new bb gun. Another pop. Another fallen, must not yet have its wings. Her lids flutter a last time, then the descent.
The python tempered its pace, waiting for her to light within reach. Its serpentine fibers move at last, first in slow ripples, then tightening their spiral, gauging her slim resistance. The circular muscles clinch a smooth, quiet grip around her throat. Another pop; another fallen. Her slender bulk surrenders into the restraint of its greedy embrace. Breeze trembles through the curtains, carrying visions of loftiness like tinkling icicles falling from the roofline. She used to perch there, dreaming, waiting for life to unfurl. . .
Screeching. Echoes of yelping. The name-not-hers siphoning through the tunnel, choking in the space between there and here. Decrescendo now; futile and self-deceiving flight blurred, now obscured. Yellow haze. Quieting. Passages closing. Voices no longer pleading, just softly, softly. Light as a feather.
“Did you shake her? You try and talk to her?”
“Of course I did. But she just sits. She won’t say nothin’.”
“Let me go see,” sock feet shuffle down the hall. “Mama? Mama? You feel okay? Can you hear me? Say something, Mama!” sighs. “You’re right, she ain’t all there. She’s never done this before.”
“No she hadn’t. Maybe when we were at school? But I’ve never seen her like this.”
“Has somebody called Daddy?” fledgling yowls.
“Didn’t want to aggravate him, in case she snaps out of it. Then, he’d have come home for nothing.”
“But she ain’t snappin’ out,” * snap * snap * “Mama! Wake up! Hey Mama.”
* * *
The debris throughout the house was ankle deep. Dishes were piled in the kitchen sink with aimless abandon and crested over the counters in concentric circles of plates, forks, knives. Cupboard contents had been heaved onto the counter; vitamin and Bayer bottles strewn across the linoleum. Robitussin oozed down the cabinet facing, collecting in a bloodish pool that had thickened to a cloudy sheen. Red, sticky footprints trailed out of the kitchen and toward the bathroom, where a medicine box and first aid kit had met the same riotous marauding.
They’d found her in the bedroom, her body set down tenuously on the edge of the bare mattress. Its covers had snarled around her and pulled off the corner, as if she’d stripped them, then lost her nerve. Two hundred fifty thread count coiled up from her knees, spiraled around her ribs and across her shoulders. Her throat lay open to the chill from the lifted window, while the sheets menaced like a brooding python.
“Does she even have clothes on, or just pajamas?” from the receiver.
“Just her holey t-shirt and underwear. Her hair is all scraggly too, like she never put it in a hair band when she got out of bed,” reports bantam. “We didn’t wanna call you, but…”
“Never mind!” panting. “How long has she been like this?”
“I don’t know. But I’ve been home since 2:30, so before that.”
She stared out at the feeder. Birds darting into her line of sight, pinching what they needed, dashing back to their babies. Mission focused, as tethered by obligation and demands as any, yet graceful in their illusion of freedom. Even they, winged ones, can’t escape; creatures with means of whisking to the margins of existence. They can’t get there, really. Always striving, always working.
“Then find the bottles, Conrad. And count how many!” receiver yawps .
She blinked, registering voices through the tunnel that spanned the distance from there to here. His muffled pleading and someone’s counting banked against her consciousness. An abstracted whine of hunger, and muted staccatos of others echoed through corridors of time. She blinked at the jangling timbre of voices calling her name; not her real name, but the one they used. They didn’t know her, or any of the winged creatures. They couldn’t know how bound such ones are, really. How unfair. Sad. Appearing self-possessed, and yet fiercely yoked to the unrelenting roost. Their wings would never ripen without her tending, hunting, feeding, yearning.
Exhausted. Nestling drops to the ground. The whoop of the Miller kid funnels from the street; the pop of a new bb gun. Another pop. Another fallen, must not yet have its wings. Her lids flutter a last time, then the descent.
The python tempered its pace, waiting for her to light within reach. Its serpentine fibers move at last, first in slow ripples, then tightening their spiral, gauging her slim resistance. The circular muscles clinch a smooth, quiet grip around her throat. Another pop; another fallen. Her slender bulk surrenders into the restraint of its greedy embrace. Breeze trembles through the curtains, carrying visions of loftiness like tinkling icicles falling from the roofline. She used to perch there, dreaming, waiting for life to unfurl. . .
Screeching. Echoes of yelping. The name-not-hers siphoning through the tunnel, choking in the space between there and here. Decrescendo now; futile and self-deceiving flight blurred, now obscured. Yellow haze. Quieting. Passages closing. Voices no longer pleading, just softly, softly. Light as a feather.
