Dumb Enough

Dumb enough to agree. Dumb enough to do it. Dumb enough to feel the guilt as something hard, as something swallowed but indigestible: warm lead in her stomach, heavy, unforgiving. It had not been her idea, really, not at all. She had thought of protesting, well she had—internally, anyway, she really had—but almost none of it had made its way out as words, and in the end she went along. And did it. And now the familiar burning was back. The knowing she had done it. The cold knowing they would find out, they always did. Shifting and burning in her stomach.

            She was in her room, on her bed, her comfortable and neatly made bed. She shifted to tuck her left leg in under her and the springs creaked softly at the movement. Like a welcome, it was such a comfortable noise. A home noise. A her room noise. She leaned a little to the side to hear the springs creak again, and they cooperated. She sat in warm semi darkness. The yellow light from her bed side lamp sifted through the shade and draped the room and its familiar things with muted light, softly locating pictures, desk, chair, wallpaper patterns, plants, window, rug, quilt, pillow, hands, one in the other, hands anxiously alive, kneading, restless, one in the other, as if desperate for each other’s company, finding each other’s fingers a confirmation of sorts, she’s here, in her room, as yet not discovered. She shifted again and the bed responded with its welcome.

            Things had been just fine, so fine this morning. Not this lead, this all too familiar gut pain as she made her way down the road for the bus stop and noticed the snow crackle under her feet. Fresh snow, and sparkling, arrived overnight. Fresh on top of older, harder snow beneath. And so white. The color of grandmother’s angels’ wings, which were pure, pure white. Across the fields the snow glistered in the sunlight, making a path of light almost. On the evergreens to her right it lingered then soughed sometimes as it fell to soft, white earth below, as if the branches stretched and shook themselves free of their coats, but of course they did not, it was only a breath of wind. She arrived at the bus stop, she was well in time, it would not come for a little while yet. She turned to look at the sun, the winter sun: low and almost red in the cold air, but sharp enough to make everything sparkle.

            Across the road, a little ways off, were other trees, birches, naked and proud and strong, not minding the cold at all, but honestly, dreaming of spring nonetheless, she could tell. Also, closer to the road there was huddled brush, keeping itself warm. She heard the bus in the distance, shifting gears down to make the hill, straining up it, then making it and rising into view.

            Yes, things had been just fine. She had been quite happy, walking on the fresh snow, through the cold air, watching her breath escape upwards as smoke, but smoke only for a blink then gone, smoke no more. Quite happy to have her lungs filling over and over with sharp air, so cold it almost burned her, the happy, clean, guiltless air.

            But that was this morning. Things were no longer fine. If only.

            She turned her head toward the window and looked out for the black beyond, but all she saw was her own face, a part shadow, part form. Dark and not so dark hair sliding forward from her shoulders as she leaned, then dangling slowly, swinging in small delays as she moved, coming to rest again as she held her head absolutely still, shivering again as she moved, then dangled to standstill. The twin head lights of a car outside bored a path through the night and she wondered where they were going, who they were in that car. Wondered what it would be like to be them, to be in that car, to be going somewhere other than here, anywhere but here.

            In the warm car. It is all dark inside but for the green and yellow glow of instruments. Soft voices in a car like this. Lights tunneling through the ahead, finding the road and following it, finding more road ahead. Spots would be icy, treacherous, they were not driving fast. She would be in the back seat, looking out from between a pair of shoulders. Daddy, no, not daddy, someone else, driving and not saying much. Someone not mommy to his right speaking now and then, just small nothings like be careful, it looks like ice here, nothings like remember we didn’t put the winter tires on yet. Someone not daddy, although he’s heard, doesn’t answer but is only driving. Someone, she, is in the back seat, no longer in her room, going somewhere, away, away from that hot and shifting moaning in her stomach.

            And they would keep driving, to some far away, now entering a town she has never seen, now stopping in front of a house she does not recognize, no, it is an apartment building. A three story apartment building that they stop outside of. They live on the third floor.

            They park just outside their door, on the street. Plenty of places to park. Snow and ice here too. There is no elevator, so they climb four sets of stairs (nine steps each) to reach their landing. And he, not daddy, is a little out of breath as he opens the door and they all walk into the warm and dark apartment. Her room is down the short hallway, in the back and to the right. She enters and turns on the light, then turns it off immediately. She’d rather lie down on her bed and continue to watch the headlights search for road. She hears them rustle outside her door, putting things away, mumbling to each other. She lies down on her bed and closes her eyes. She is free as the yellow search for road goes on.

            She shifted again and her bed creaked a reminder. She’s still here, not free. She looked out into the black car-less evening a while longer, all black, the headlights long gone. The warm lead shifted again to get her attention. She finally looked away from the window and down at her hands, still clutching each other. Small hands. With chubby fingers. With short, chubby, dumb fingers. Her knuckles were not knuckles but almost dimples where knuckles should be, like a fat little baby’s, almost. Chubby, ringless fingers. She had had a ring once. Beth had given it to her. Once when Beth was shorter. Almost as short as her. A friendship ring, Beth said. She still had it somewhere, silver, real silver—she could see the stamp—with three tiny red stones. Rubies, Beth said. Plastic, dad said. She didn’t know which, for sure. Not that it mattered now, for Beth no longer was her friend, no more friendship, no need for friendship rings. It had not wanted to come off, her fat finger had not wanted to let go, but in the end, with the help of soap and a little canola oil she was rid of Beth  forever. Well not quite.

            That was a while ago. No rings now, just cubby fingers. Dumb, chubby fingers on dumb, pink, chubby hands. Short stupid arms from dumb shoulders. She looked back at her image in the black glass. Stupid shoulders. Stupid hair. Stupid elbows. She moved again and again the springs creaked and then her mother’s voice reached her. It was coming from the living room. Muffled, though she thought she heard her name. Her dad answered, but only after a while. It was low, his voice, a rumble, too low to make out words, just his timbre. But not high, not angry. Which meant they did not know yet. Which meant that no one had called yet. And then she pictured the telephone, silent and gray by the hallway mirror. All ready to tell. Silent now, but only for now. And her dad said something else, in a higher voice, and again she thought she heard her name, but then he lowered his voice, and she thought maybe not, maybe it was not about her. They have not called. But they will. They always do. And this was worse, worse, worse.

            She turns her head and looks out the rear window, she can barely make out the road, there is only a hint of it where the rear lights touch, then it’s gone, away, away. She looks ahead again, into the illuminated night. So they’re back on the road. It’s another time, another trip. Someone, not mommy, says to slow down, take a right here. No, says the other, the driver, not daddy, this isn’t it. It’s on the other side of this village. No, she says, not mommy, we went through the village last time, but we were coming from Rusty’s then, remember, from the other direction, and we turned left. No, not daddy says, you’re confused, honey, we haven’t been at Rusty’s since last midsummer, and not mommy says, that’s the trip I’m talking about. We haven’t been here since midsummer? says not daddy, surprised. No, says not mommy. You sure? says not daddy. Yes, she answers. And he thinks about it for a little while then agrees, for he stops the car and turns around, and after a little ways they take a left onto the smaller road and she can’t imagine where they’re going, but it’s anywhere but her room and that is fine by her.

            The knock on the door startled her. “Donna. Donna.”

            Her mother’s voice found her gut and stabbed once, twice, and kept stabbing. She had to answer. She made her voice sound surprised, a little put out, a little angry at being disturbed by the interruption. But it didn’t come out that way. At all. More like a croak.

            “Yes.”

            “Dinner’s ready.”

            Her mother’s voice kept stabbing and all she could do was wait for her heart to slow, and for her short, dumb fingers to find each other again. She looked back out the window.

            At the end of the small, newly plowed road lies a farm. It is the very same farm you can buy for twenty-five cents as postcard. Only the postcard one is painted. This one is real. The light in the windows is real. The snow on the roofs is real. The smoke rising straight up into the starry sky from the chimney is real. The moon is real. The wide skis leaned up against the side of the house are real, all four pairs of them. The poles are too. Not daddy stops the car and turns the engine off. See, I told you, says not mommy, but not superior or anything, really nothing but teasing. Not daddy doesn’t answer, but he is not angry either. This is his how he concedes defeat. A kind of happy defeat she imagines because it was his idea to come here in the first place, he had brought it up the day before and not mommy had thought it was a good idea too and she herself had thought it was a great idea for she loved her postcard now that she saw where they were going. They step out onto the snow, and here it creaks too. Cold and dry under the dark and starry sky. Not mommy leads the way. They have brought presents. She knocks and the door opens almost at once. “Lola,” says a surprised woman she has not found a role for yet. “And Herb,” she adds when she sees not daddy. “And Donna,” seeing her. She is old and gray and wonderful. It is grandma, she decides.

            “Donna,” annoyed now. “Dinner is ready. It’s on the table.”

            Her mother’s voice, still muffled by the closed door, rushed her, wrestled her to the floor, found her ears, found her chest, found her stomach where it found the heat and churned it, and churned it.

            “Coming, mom,” she said.

            She rose from her bed—which creaked softly again, a sort of goodbye—stood up and walked to the door but stopped there. She could not open it. She felt as if the air on the other side would know once it touched her, and soon her parents would breathe her and know too. She stood, hand on the handle, hesitating, wishing for that car, for that ride into the night with not mommy and not daddy. Then she pushed the handle down and pulled the door toward her. The outside air rushed in to find out what she was hiding.

            It was filled with meat loaf, the air. Pungent and warm, salty, peppery, mashed potatoes, milk and cheese and daddy already at the table, already half way through his first serving, or second, he loved meat loaf. She walked up to the table and sat down.

            “Are you all right?” her mom wanted to know.

            “Sure.”

            “You look pale.”

            “No, I’m fine.”

            “How much?” asked her mom, and placed the carving knife an inch from the loaf’s edge.

            “That’s fine,” she said.

            Her mom carved off the next inch of meat and placed it on a plate which she handed to her. She helped herself to mash, gravy, and the berry preserves. All as if she were hungry. She picked up knife and fork, looked at the steam rising from the potatoes for a little while, added a dash of butter and placed it on top of the mash, watched it melt. Set out to eat, as if she were hungry.

            They step into the vestibule from the cold night and grandma pulls the door shut behind them. Not mommy and not daddy both stomp the snow off their shows on the thick hallway carpet and she does the same. “Donna,” says grandma. “Have you grown again? Yes you have, you must be an inch taller. And I see they’re feeding you well.” (No, not here, not dumb and chubby here, we’ll do that again): “Donna,” says grandma. “Have you grown again? Taller, and thinner too. Just like a willow.” (That’s better). And grandma smiles at her as if she were the only child in the whole world, as if she had never done anything wrong. Nothing, ever, to feel guilty about. Then she opens the door to the bright kitchen and they quickly step into the warm, sugary air of baking underway, before grandma shuts the door on the cooler hallway. “Coffee?” she wonders then. Both not mommy and not daddy say “Yes, please” and grandma asks her what she wants, “Juice?” Sure, she says. And grandma smiles that wonderful, white-haired, many-chinned, forgiving smile again.

            She saw her mom watch her from across the table and saw her lips move and made herself hear her say:

             “. . . tonight as you did last night?”

            “Sorry, mom. What did you say?”

            Her mom didn’t answer right away but looked at her as though concerned. “I asked if you had as much homework tonight as you did last night.”

            “No. Not really. Only a bit of history.”

            “You done already?”

            “No, but it’s only half a chapter. Won’t take long.”

            The warm, sugary air rises from the counter and up into her nostrils and into her eyes and grandma smiles again and asks if perhaps she wants a taste. Oh, yes, she answers and takes the warm cinnamon roll from her old, liver spotted hands that know everything. She bites into the melty interior and feels the tiny rivers of sugar and cinnamon and soft white bread stream for her and into her and throughout her and she’s filled with her grandmother’s baking. And she is clear and free and simply eating the loveliest roll ever. And tells grandma as much, “This is just the loveliest roll ever,” and grandma winks in return. Not daddy looks up and sees the exchange and winks too. And everything that is cold is outside and will never be allowed here.

            The phone rang and everything shattered. Before she could find her arms and legs again mommy had already stood up and was walking towards the ringing. She jumped up and ran past her.

            “I’ll get it.”

            “Donna! Watch where you’re going.”

            “Sorry, mom.”

            She got there first and lifted the receiver to her ear. Two four two eight eight two, she said. Donna, said her teacher. I need to speak to your father. I’m sorry, there’s no Arthur here, she said, you must have the wrong number, and hung up.

            “Who was that?” said her mom.

            “No idea,” she said.

            Her dad looked up from his meal as if he knew who had called but of course he didn’t know, but he looked like he knew. Then the phone rang again. Now, listen Donna, said the voice, I must speak to your parents. What number are you dialing, she said. There is no Arthur John here, you must have the wrong number. And hung up. She stayed by the phone. It would ring again. Her mother looked at her, then at the phone, puzzled.

            It rang again. I’ve told you there’s no Arthur here, she said. What? said Liz. Ah, it’s you, she said.

            “Has he called?” asked Liz.

            “What do you mean?” she said, signaling to her mom that it was for her, Liz she mouthed mutely. Her mom nodded in understanding and went back to her meal.

            “Has Mr. Gray called about this afternoon?”

            “Tried to,” she said cryptically.

            “What do you mean?” said Liz.

            “Just that,” she said. She wished she had a phone of her own, or at least her own extension, but then again, how often did anyone call. Not enough for a phone, that’s what dad would say. “A couple of times.”

            “I see,” said Liz. “But you got there first?”

            “Yes.”

            “Listen, Donna. He just called here and mom got it. You’ve got to back me up on this. I was not there. I was not with you, okay? Beth will back me on this, she’ll say she and I were both outside speaking to Jim and Andy. And Beth has already called Jim and Andy. They’ll say the same.”

            “But, . . . what do you mean? That means . . .?”

            “I’m sorry Donna, you’ve got to be a pal. You’ve got to leave us out of it. If you say we were there we’ll say you’re lying. Besides, it was your idea.”

            “No, it was not, it was Beth’s.”

            “That’s not what Beth says.”

            She no longer saw herself in the mirror. She no longer felt the receiver in her hand. She was sinking. They had left her to sink, to die. Until now, at least she had had accomplices. Now that tiny light was gone too. It was only her, only her to meet the bullets when they came. Not that Liz and Beth were friends, not real friends, she didn’t have real friends. She had girls that sometimes liked to hang out with the freak. The fat and dumb freak. The daring freak. The stupid freak. And now it was only her left, to take it. They would expel her for this.

            She heard herself saying, protesting, “I can’t do that. You can’t do that.”

            Liz answered, “You have to. You really have no choice.”

            “I do.”

            “You don’t. We’re four, you’re one. It’s our word against yours. And whose got the reputation?”

            “You can’t do this,” she almost yelled. “I’ll get expelled.” And she heard the word leave her mouth and saw it travel across the hall and into the dining room and into their ears and they both looked up in unison, right at her, knives and forks forgotten, dad suddenly white, and mom bewildered.

            “I’m Sorry, Donna. That’s the way it goes. Has to.”

            Then Liz hung up. She stood there, receiver still in hand, still to her ear. Then she lowered it slowly, watching her parents watching her and then each other and then her again, asking her and not asking her what that was all about. She put the receiver back into the cradle and the phone rang immediately again. She didn’t answer, there was no point answering now; the blow might as well fall. Instead she turned and walked into her room and closed the door behind her. She heard the ringing stop and then her mother’s voice.

            Her mom didn’t say much, listening mainly. Then, Oh, I see. Then she hung up. She heard her walk back to the table and sit down, the chair scraped the floor which protested with a little squeak. Then there was just silence. Mommy working up courage to tell him. Then she found it and began. Quiet voices now, back and forth, more shocked than angry, at least for now, and the pain in her stomach had changed hue from fear of discovery to fear of punishment. She tried to tell herself that it had not been that bad, but no, that did not work, it had been that bad. No one’s ever done that before, not at this school anyway. It had not been her idea, she had not thought of it, she had not, and that was the truth. But she had done it, and now they made it look like she’d thought of it too. All her doing. No one else’s. She sat down on her bed to wait for the blow. The bed said “creak” but this time she didn’t hear it. The voices by the dining room table moved back and forth, mumbles now, she could make out her name now and then.

            “Are you sure you don’t want another roll, honey?” The many-chinned face smiles and she holds a steaming roll on a little plate, for her. “Oh, thanks. Yes,” she says, “Yes, please.” She takes the roll, almost too hot to hold. The smell enters like a feeling, the brown of cinnamon, the dripping white of sugar, the darker brown of cardamom, sweetnesses all. Fills her. Not mommy looks up at her but surely she must be mommy now. She smiles too, but her eyes are different. They know now. There is a faint glow in them, as if from tears that will not come out. Yes, she smiles, but it’s to keep from crying, she sees that, she knows that. And not daddy too, who must be daddy now, for he too knows now. But he is not angry, no, he’s smiling too, but for the same reason, for the same glow is in his eyes. He’s still eating rolls that grandma keeps putting out in front of him. And grandma knows too, something has changed. She looks at their eyes, mom’s, dad’s, grandma’s, all a little distant now, sad, and then she cannot help it, her own eyes turn luminous too though only for a little while, for she lets her tears out and now they all swim.

            In the dining room they had stopped talking. At least as far as she could hear. Perhaps they went down into the basement den where they can talk privately. No, they had not. She heard the telltale sound of her mother clearing the table. Clatter of cutlery. The cling of plates. Her rose and his heavier steps left the dining room and passed her door but did not stop. So they had nothing more to say about it. It would happen soon. Daddy closed the door to his and mom’s bedroom. To prepare himself.

            And for sure grandma knows now. How she does, she’s not sure, for no one’s saying anything. She wipes her hands on her white and red apron, then sits down by her. She takes one of her hands into her old pair and holds them. They are warm and a little calloused, she grew up a farmer’s daughter. But they hold hers softly and the calluses feel soft too so full of caring. “Why did you do it, honey?” she asks, and both mommy for sure now and daddy too look up at her, mommy’s eyes wet with the first pair of tears. How can she tell? How can she not tell? “It was . . . . It was . . . .” and now she has no idea why. Mr. Gray was a nice enough teacher. She had nothing against him. Nothing at all. Beth didn’t like him, but then she didn’t like any of them. And Liz, of course, though what Beth thought. And they had come to her, the fat, daring one, with the plan. The gag. To end all gags. The most disgusting thing she’d ever heard—has ever done, now. She can find no real reason. None at all. Other than she’s dumb, incredibly dumb, but that’s not a reason. Not even an excuse.

            Grandma still looks at her, waiting for an answer. “I don’t know,” she says in the end. “I’m sorry grandma, I just don’t know.” She still holds her hand in hers. “Oh, but you do,” she says. “You do.” “I do?” she answers, but not really surprised, for she does. Of course she does. Mom and dad still look at her, waiting for her answer, her real reason.

            “He’s such a bag of shit,” said Beth. “Such a bag of shit.”

            “Yeah,” said Liz. “Such a bag of shit.”

            “Such a bag of shit,” said Beth again. “We ought to give him one.”

            Liz giggled. Beth smiled, but told Liz to stop it.

            “Yeah,” said Liz. “We ought to give him one.”

            “Give him one what?” she asked.

            Liz giggled again, and Beth too. “A bag of shit,” said Beth.

            She didn’t get it. “A bag of shit?”

            “Yeah, a bag of shit. A bag of real shit.”

            “What do you mean? You mean a bag of real shit. Like dog shit in a bag?”

            “No, Donna, not dog shit. Dog shit isn’t real. A bag of real shit.”

            “What’s a bag of real shit?”

            “Yours, Donna.” Beth smiled. Liz wasn’t giggling, but wanted to.

            “Oh, hell, no. You’re nuts.”

            “See, I told you,” Beth turned to Liz.

            “Yeah, you’re right,” said Liz.

            “She won’t do it,” said Beth.

            “No, you were right,” said Liz.

            Beth turned to her again. “A hundred bucks says you don’t have the guts.”

            And that was that. That was all there was to real reasons. As simple as that: just that no one could tell her what could not do. She couldn’t stand that.

            Liz was giggling again, Beth almost too. It was growing quite obvious that they had rehearsed this, that she was being set up, she could see that. She knew that. But no one tells her what she can’t do. No one.

            With her record this could get her expelled, she knew that too, but at least she would go out in a bag of shit filled glory. So she left them giggling. Fuck them. And she did it. Wasn’t that hard. Plastic gloves. Zip-locked bag. In a paper bag. On Mr. Gray’s desk first thing the next morning. His expression, which should have been priceless was rather sad. He opened the brown bag, expecting cookies or something. Saw the zip lock inside but couldn’t make out the contents for he lifted it out and held it up to the light for a better look, and for all to see. Then he made it out and quickly put it back. Then he looked right at her. Right at her. As if she was the only one dumb enough to be so dumb. Then word got out from those in the front row who also made out what was in the zip-lock. Shit. Looked like real shit.

            Donna’s shit, Beth and Liz quickly added. By the end of first recess it was all over the school. Donna handed Gray a bag of shit this morning. Her shit. She was famous. There was no Geography after lunch. Instead there was a line of all in her class, interviewed one by one by security. No one knew. Then they asked to see her again. They knew it was her. No way, she said, how could they since it wasn’t her. They had been told, they said. Besides, this would be the easiest thing in the world to check. Just another specimen, if you wouldn’t mind, and they’d know for sure. So she told them.

            But as for the reason. Something grandma could understand, something mommy and daddy could understand. There was no reason, no good reason. Only that no one tells her what she can’t do. And, that’s she’s dumb enough, of course. But in explaining this to grandma she also saw, with a sickening clarity, that this is how far she will go to have friends that weren’t even friends still talk to her, still dare her, still notice her. And although they would deny any involvement and make it look that she’s lied, again, that she’s tried to put the blame on others, that was still better than having no friends at all. Better than utter loneliness.

            And grandma and mom and dad listen to all her thoughts and dad cries too. Grandma has not let go of her hand and she feels absolved in a way. As if they all understand, as if they all have done things like that themselves and understand, really, and want to tell her that it’s no big deal Donna, not really, not really, but none of them says so because words right now would make their understanding unbelievable. And so she dares believe them and can finally smile.

            The door to her room opened and her mother entered. There was no knock. Her mother’s eyes are luminous as with tears that cannot leave and she stands silently by the door looking at her daughter sitting on the bed looking up a her, and she has nothing to say, no way to protect her daughter the she can think of.

::

Copyright © 2005 by Wolfstuff

Thoughts? I'd like to hear them.
Ulf Wolf 

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