Читать книгу The Magnetic Girl - Jessica Handler - Страница 8

CHAPTER ONE

Cedartown, Georgia: October 1883

OBJECTS HAD ALWAYS JUMPED INTO MY POCKETS, which is why I didn’t think of what I did as stealing. Whatever I took from one place to another was merely my attempt to help a lost thing find the right home. A button on the schoolroom floor by the wood stove, the pearly white shine so different from the chapped, dry floor beneath it that the only right thing to do was to rescue that smooth disc. A button the size of my fingertip, escaped from the tight row of its companions along Ada Shoals’s faultless back.

Mine now, and safe, you little button. This treasure joined my collection inside a wooden box that had at one time held spools of thread. I lined the box with a scrap of brown velvet I’d lifted from beside the scissors at the dry goods store. I kept three different glass-topped hairpins in the box, too, along with a playing card that showed a drawing of a mischievous fellow sitting Indian-style, waving a heart over his head. I also kept a glass medicine dropper. The rubber bulb was empty now, but it still squeaked when I pinched it. Once in a while, when I held the tip of the medicine dropper to my nose and inhaled, I could smell the bitter ghost of my brother’s medicine. My mouth watered when I did, a feeling that could nearly transport me back to a time before everyone forgot me.

I helped other things besides the button. An earthworm writhing in the hot dirt, practically calling out to the cool grass that it couldn’t reach. The worm was silent, of course, but I understood how solitary it felt. I crouched down and used a twig to lift the anguished creature. The worm lay crosswise over the twig, brownish-red flesh struggling in the air for something solid to cling to. Quick, before it fell to the ground and perhaps bruised itself—could an earthworm bruise?—I delivered the thing to the soft green strands, a wet place where it could burrow into the dark earth and find comfort.

I hadn’t meant to hurt my brother.

The year I turned six was Leo’s first, and I hardly ever let him be. I pestered Momma enough that she taught me to hold him without her being right there behind me. I listened like she was talking Gospel truth.

“His little neck is like a green branch, Lulu,” she said. “But his head is heavy, so we have to help him hold it up.”

She handed my doll brother to me, and he was warm and solid, and I was so very careful. One hand stayed cupped behind his head, the other under his bottom. Leo’s eyes were gray like a winter sky. He looked right at me. That was the first time a gaze punctured my soul. When Momma said, “Very good, Lulu,” and took him back to her breast, I held his fingers, unwilling and unable to fully let him go.

Momma rarely let me watch Leo alone. When she went to the woodpile or got the water boiling in the yard for the wash, I held him close, fussing with his dress or jiggling him in my lap. I told him intricate, imagined stories about how school would be when he went for the first time.

“Someday, Leo,” I said, “you’ll go, too, and the teacher will be proud that you’re my brother. You’ll already know how to read, like I do, and she’ll clap her hands for you being so smart. ‘Smart as Lulu,’ she’ll say, and you’ll be a boy who won’t play rough or bring home dirt on your clothes.”

Fascinated, Leo reached for my hair. Besotted, I let him.

On a beautiful, bright warm day when I was alone with him for the few minutes Momma stepped away, the urge to show off a bit of the world overtook me. A swarm of birds had landed like a glittering black cape on the field, their bickering as good as laughter.

Want to see. My brother, five months old, spoke inside my ears.

“See the birds?” I asked.

Leo grinned, clutching at the motes of dust in the sunlight as he tried to seize something he couldn’t hold.

I picked him up as easily as snapping a pea from a pod and lay him over my shoulder, so he could look out the window. His chin rested perfectly against my collar. I stroked his warm back and schooled him about how birds ate worms and insects.

When they’ve had their fill, I said, they fly away.

I lifted him then, my hands around his middle. I held my brother high above my head so he could thrill, like I did, at the sheath of wings rising past the window. My baby brother quivered, a movement so new to my hands that I pulled them away.

Leo fell, alone, untended. He hit the kitchen floor with the sound a mattress makes falling from a wagon, a padded, simple, singular thud.

I screamed and swallowed the sound at the same time, silencing my terror for my brother and the fear that Momma would come running before I could undo whatever harm I had done.

Leo screamed, too, panicked from his fall, my childish arms no consolation. When I scooped him up, his face was wet with my tears and his own. I tried to look in his eyes and hold his gaze, but he looked away, furious and broken. I held him to my chest and rocked him. I rocked us both, six year old me and baby Leo, a single being seeking solace.

And ever since that time, objects found their way into my palms, my pockets, and of them I made neat rows inside my wooden box that had once held the thread that stitched our clothing. With the very sharpest things, the hairpins with tops like jewels, the lone sliver of glass slim as a sewing needle, I pierced myself before I set them aside. I never felt pain when I slid a sharp tip slowly and carefully into the meat of my thumb. What I felt was satisfaction, a question answered before it had been asked.

My father collected things, too. He kept stones in a pile on our parlor mantel. Before I was tall enough to reach them on my own, he would lift me and let me move the stones, reshaping the pyramid to a square and back again, or placing a black stone—hematite, he said, iron ore—at the top, then a milky-white one—quartz—in its place.

The stones were cool to the touch in summer, so much so that I would drag a chair to the deadened fireplace to reach them. I held the flat ones to my face, closing my eyes against the bright sun flaring at the edges of the drawn drapes. Small round ones I placed in the V-shape between my fingers, spreading the skin and letting air into the humid spaces. The stones stilled my mind and gave me rest. When I heard Momma calling me, I arranged the stones back into formation before dismounting the chair and pushing it back into place, my heartbeat thudding in my ears. The stones weren’t to be touched unless Daddy was there. The stones and the furniture went back exactly where’d they’d been without my thinking about it. I always had a map in my mind.

On a day when I was fourteen and loading kindling onto a cart, a fox ran toward me like a black-footed bullet. I didn’t shout. A fox will avoid people if he happens on them, but this one, hurtling toward me, had to be diseased. Leo lay in the shade on a blanket beside the cart. In a single motion I set the kindling down and pulled Leo onto my back, all the while holding the fox in my gaze. When I crouched, the animal was at my eye level. The fox froze, a front paw in the air as if he were about to speak.

Which was what I wanted.

I lowered my eyelids halfway. The sounds of birds and the rustle of leaves faded. The sunlight paled. The world closed in around me, Leo, and the fox. I felt my brother’s heartbeat against my own, and I patted his hand while I willed him to stay still.

I counted my breaths, feeling my own bumping heartbeat. Not until it slowed and steadied did I stand, my gaze still linked to the fox’s. With Leo’s weight against me, I backed away from the motionless animal, stepping carefully until my heels touched the bottom step of the porch. Then I turned, my heart racing, and shut the door behind us.

When I looked out the window, the fox was gone. Nothing out there but our mother’s purple irises, and past them, the half-filled cart of kindling.

Back then I believed that I was magic. My power appeared as a bodily urge, like needing to use the privy or sucking in my stomach to button up a dress that no longer fit. I loved my secret talent so much that I gave it a name: captivation. I sensed more than most people, too, without using words. I was the only person in my family who understood my brother when he spoke, although Momma tried her best.

Leo was my center. In his eyes, my most secret faults were forgiven. And I wanted to change his life.

Not long before the incident with the fox, my body had turned into something I couldn’t control. My feet tangled when I walked. My bones ached in my sleep, thickening inside my flesh. Sometimes they scalded like steam, other times they cramped with ice. The easiest place to be was home, where I didn’t hunch my shoulders or bend my knees to keep boys’ faces from looking straight at my collar buttons or the dress seams at my bosom.

Momma had quit seeing anything truly special in me by then. She went out of her way to remake me in her image. She’d wet her hands and make a hailstorm of little hits on the top of my head, trying to get my thick hair to lie flat and smooth. She tugged at my sleeves and my skirt, covering what my dresses could no longer hide. She wanted me to be someone I wasn’t. I had been big as long as I could remember. At fourteen, I could look my father in the eye, and he was six feet tall. Momma told me I was done growing, but I didn’t know how she could be so sure.

“Be gentle, Lulu,” Momma said every day like a reflex, so often that I’d stopped considering the meaning. Collecting eggs from the chickens meant holding the warm shells in my open hand, my fingers curled up to make a shallow bowl of my palm before I lay the delicate eggs in a bucket. That was gentle. Cleaning house, I shoved the table to the wall under the windows, so I could sweep under it easily. I dragged it back into place with one hand. When Momma came in, she eyed me funny and fussed with the chair cushions like she was looking for something to do. And she scolded me to be gentle.

When I started school, girls’ hands in mine felt insubstantial when we played Ring-Around-the-Rosie in the schoolyard, and I never was sure how tightly to grasp. One girl would wince and draw away from me, another kept her hands at her sides. Eventually that ring of girls no longer opened to include me.

“Go with the fellows, you tall tree,” a town girl hissed. “There’s where you belong.”

Across the schoolyard, the boys ignored us. That very minute, two boys were brawling in the swept dirt, dust swirling around their flailing arms. The other fellows circled them, shouting encouragement.

I could win that fight without trying, but who’d ever want to sit with me in the schoolroom after I’d pushed one fellow onto his rear and pulled the other one to his feet?

I had been a town girl once, when Daddy clerked at the hardware store. Momma and Daddy and I lived upstairs. Leo hadn’t been born. What I remember is that inside our home, the curtains fluttered in a breeze that I tried to catch in my hand, and when I walked on the sidewalk with Momma, the sun made the world too bright at the edges and hard to see. The fresh-cut pine smell from the boards in the sidewalk made me want to inhale all the air all at once.

I taught myself to read before I turned four, pronouncing words from the sides of grain sacks and the labels on medicine bottles at the store. Saying the black and gold lettering’s alchemy aloud, I practiced my words. “Hoofland’s Bitters for the Liver,” I said. “We sell everything from horse shoes to hats.” For the longest time I believed the store only sold objects that started with the letter “H.”

A few months before God brought Leo, we packed up and moved to a big white house and acreage outside town, where Daddy said a man could be himself and not feel like other people and their avarice—he spit the word in a way that frightened me—shadowed him at every turn.

Not long after my terrible mistake with Leo, my brother was one day speckled with an angry red rash. For two days and a night between he cried so hard I thought he would explode. The doctor came with a Vapo-Cresolene lamp that Daddy kept lit day and night. The lamp didn’t do anything but tear our throats with the smell and make everyone’s eyes sting. Poor Leo must have hardly been able to breathe right under it.

Although he’d made attempts at talking and could almost sit up on his own, when his fever broke, he made only sad little squawks of dismay, a sound like a bird trapped in the eaves. He spooked me. If I could hold him like I had before, I would have gladly shared some of my already oversized height and heft, but Momma banned me from getting near him.

Even from my station at the doorway I could see how he kept his neck bent like he had a crick in it. I couldn’t tell anyone what I knew about the reason for his sickness. I tried once, twice, but the words gagged me until I nearly blacked out from regret.

The doused lamp went into the barn, where it hung blindly from a nail. The light was gone from Leo’s eyes. His arms and legs flopped, and I cursed myself for ever having let myself think of him as a doll. Momma said that because of his fever, Leo’s mind would never grow up.

My love had done this to him. Sick and silent with guilt, I held Leo’s head up with my arm when Momma left the room, and I begged his forgiveness. He and I both knew that if he were ever going to be a regular child again, the responsibility would be mine. I leaned over him and brought my face close to his. His gray eyes didn’t fix on anything.

“Leo,” I whispered.

My voice sounded like a branch scraping rusted metal. No nursery songs came to mind, so I tried hymns. They were all about death and leaving this world, so I quit, with him so close to having done that very thing.

“Look in my eyes,” I said.

Leo smacked his lips but didn’t look at anything.

“Leo,” I said, low and slow in a voice that didn’t sound like mine, or our mother’s, or our father’s.

His body jerked. I jumped back, then eased myself close again. I waved a hand over his eyes. He followed it. Maybe he could only see close up. I held my breath and half-lidded my eyes. His gaze drifted away as my hand made a full transit across his face, my palm like a full moon.

“Leo,” I said. “Help me fix you. We’ve got to finish before Momma or someone comes in.”

He opened his mouth like he was about to squawk. Now or never. Leo watching and seeing, Leo talking, that was my due to him, a payment that would make everything right again.

“Look at my hand, little boy,” I said, my palm inches from his nose. Leo’s eyes wandered. Nothing would come of this. My brother would be broken forever. He stiffened and tried to push himself over with the little strength he had. I didn’t want him to roll over, not yet, and he knew it. He gave up trying to change position and returned his sight to my palm. I drew my hand back slowly, thrilled to see him follow my motion. When my hand was before my face, I drew my hand away, and let his gaze settle on mine.

I saw my brother. My brother saw me. And he smiled.

Our parents wept when I showed them what he could do.

“He can watch me move, Momma,” I said, after I’d called her in to show how he watched my hand. He and I did our trick a half-dozen times, and instead of tiring, he made a sound that I knew was a laugh.

Momma wiped her eyes on her sleeve and reached for Leo. His laughter had become a whistle in his throat.

“Next time you handle him, watch that he doesn’t choke,” she said.

She spanked him between the shoulders, and when he’d quit whistling, she lay her hand, gentle, on my cheek.

When she told Daddy, his smile was crooked, a broken window shade.

Leo and I grew into opposites. He was delicate, I was ungainly. At fourteen, I walked like a dray horse, according to my mother. Leo was eight. We could look each other straight in the eye and know right away what the other was thinking. His walk was tentative. He supported himself with his hands against a wall. His legs gave in more often than not. To an observer, Leo would be the weak one and me the strong, but they would have it backward. I was weak inside.

Without Leo whole, I would never be enough. Our parents looked at him and saw an empty space shaped like the man he could never be.