Читать книгу Fear Itself - Candida Lawrence - Страница 6

I’m sitting high up in a eucalyptus tree with a yo-yo in my left hand. There’s a breeze and the leaves are squeaking. The smell is my favorite, better even than horses or kittens. The tree is in a sloped vacant lot next to my house, and the grass below me is flat where I’ve been sliding down on a piece of cardboard. My mother is probably in the kitchen I can see from my perch, and she’s no doubt washing my baby brother on a canvas table set up next to the sink. He’s okay, but he cries a lot and gets me thinking about things. He must be breakable because my mother never takes her eyes or hands off him. You’d think no baby had ever been born that lived on to walk and talk. Since his arrival she spends less time wondering where I am and what I’m doing, and that’s fine by me. I guess you might say I’m hiding, something I do a lot these days. My sister is with my mother, helping with a diaper or cooing or powdering. She’s two years older than I am, which makes her ten and me eight. It’s Saturday, which is why we aren’t in school.

Lately I’ve been asking myself where things come from. I don’t mean my brother. I know what they say—sperm, egg, womb, getting born—and I’ve seen the male cat get on top of our Kit-Kat and later the kittens come out in their sacs and I suppose it was like that with Daddy and Molly (my mother changed her name from Violette to Molly in college and has always preferred our saying Molly instead of Mommy). All that sperm and egg stuff just seems natural, like grass growing and tulips pushing up in the front garden, birds nesting, laying eggs, feeding the open beaks. What puzzles me is the yo-yo in my hand—and other things, like my skates at the base of the tree and the skate key around my neck. Marbles. My jacks and the red ball.

Here’s how I get to the puzzlement. I’m sitting in this tree and I think to myself, I’m a little girl sitting in a tree with a yo-yo in my hand and I’m feeling alone and happy, and then I start wondering if I’m the only little girl in the world sitting in a tree and I’m sure I’m not. I start trying to figure how many of us there are at this moment in the world and I travel in my mind to China, Australia, everywhere I can think of and imagine just oodles of girls in trees. Then I think of all the fathers and mothers and sisters and baby brothers and the houses and kitchens and skates and yo-yos. The world is just crawling with boys and girls and parents and for a moment I’m above the world looking down at all these busy ant-people going in and out of houses, fixing food, washing babies, making babies. I tell you it’s quite a thought to have up a tree and the only place all this occurs to me is right there.

What I can’t stop thinking about is not the numbers—I know I can’t really imagine how many—it’s what all these people are making, like yo-yos. Skates. I start with the yo-yo because it seems simple and I carry mine everywhere I go. I’m a great yo-yo player. Mine’s made of wood and has a crack where the string goes and is attached with a staple. The wood is half-yellow, half-red on both sides, and when it spins it looks orange. Some of this is easy. The wood comes from a tree and the crack is carved with a knife. Here’s where it gets hard. The knife, the staple, the string, the turning orange. Knives are made of steel, but where does the steel come from? The string? Cotton is a plant, but how does it become string? The staple is probably steel too, but how does it turn into a staple? Who thought up string? Who invented a yo-yo?

My mind doesn’t spend much time snagged on these silly questions. I know I can climb down from the tree and go ask my smart parents for answers. We have the Book of Knowledge and Daddy is a jittery encyclopedia. They just love for their children to ask questions. They glow when they answer. It’s the next stage that I keep a secret, the part where I’m wondering if human beings just can’t help making things—automobiles, can openers, telephones, refrigerators, books, eyeglasses (which I wear), batteries—oh, I could go on and on. And why is it that animals don’t, and did it just happen that way or is it a big Plan put in motion somehow by Somebody? I don’t let anyone know I’m having these thoughts. I don’t want to be interrupted. It’s delicious to wonder. If they knew, my parents would worry. The truth is that the Somebody idea is like eating a whole tablespoon of hard sauce. (Who invented hard sauce?) It tastes so good but seems to scald the inside of my head, and afterwards I wish I’d eaten an apple instead.