She hears the murmurs, the heavy footsteps of Grandma and Mama behind her, muffled, shuffling, a low sound no one else can hear but Zoe. A whisper of sound that says, Run Zoe, don’t look back, Zoe. She picks up her pace and smiles as she steps onto the patch of concrete that will hold them all for the next thirty minutes.
Zoe holds out her arms to Uncle Clint and then greets Evan and Odell, and then teases with Wain, and the movement is all so carefully orchestrated, so full and busy, that no one notices the gulf between her and Grandma and Mama. It is amazing, she thinks, how simple appearances can be created—a rush, a smile, a new coat of paint, a slow, calm voice, a hug, a new dress—a resolve to keep out questions and cling to secrets.
The boys crowd at the picnic table; the adults scatter in rickety lawn chairs around them. Zoe stands, leaning against the awning pole, holding her distance from both. Uncle Clint warns them that the barbecue will be ready in twenty minutes, and Aunt Patsy clucks that the barbecue will wait for gifts.
“Zoe, sit here,” Norma offers, patting the arm of the chair next to her. “There’s plenty of room.” But there is an empty chair next to Mama, too. Why didn’t Mama pat her chair? Why does someone she barely knows notice she is standing, but Mama does not?
She wants to look at Mama. Glare straight into her hazy, indifferent eyes and spit words into her face, but instead she smiles at Norma and says, “Thanks, but I think I’ll stand for a while.” And the smoothing over, her forced smile and the appearance of contentment, simmers so hotly inside her she doesn’t even see the first few gifts that Kyle opens.
And then a card is opened and a twenty-dollar bill falls to the ground. “It’s from Aunt Nadine!” he announces as he snatches it up. Mama smiles. Grandma grunts. Aunt Nadine, the only one smart enough to escape this misery, Zoe thinks. So far away, but still remembering Kyle and her on their birthdays. Letting go, but maybe not completely.
Paper flies, and then another box. “This one’s from Mama,” he says, and Zoe shifts feet, stands up straighter, wondering at the large box, the very large box wrapped so carefully. Mama’s shaking hands could never have creased the corners so sharply. Not Mama’s shaking, fumbling, never-there hands. The details reach out at her, the ribbon, the card, the little squares of tape that hold it all together so nicely. But Kyle is beyond details and rips away paper, barely reading the card, and beams as he throws stuffing away and lifts a skate-board from the box.
“Yes!” he yells. “This is it! This is the one!” He runs to Mama and throws his arms around her neck. He kisses her cheek, and she nods. Her eyes blink. She pats his back.
And Grandma smiles.
Grandma, watching what she has created, smiles and takes a satisfied drag of her cigarette and blows the smoke over her shoulder. “And don’t forget the paperwork in the box, Kyle. Them wheels come with a guarantee. Your mama got you the best.”
Kyle spins the wheels and ignores the guarantee. The wheels whir a smooth, buttery buzz that saw right into Zoe’s bones. “Can I go try it on the front drive?” he asks.
But there is still one present. Zoe’s present.
“One more gift,” Aunt Patsy says. “Then you can go.”
Kyle gives the wheels one more spi
n and then sets it aside. Buzz. The wheels spin. He rips open the awkwardly shaped package. Buzz. Zoe sees the details, the crumpled corners, the gaps, and the ribbon that doesn’t match. Buzz…run, Zoe…hide, Zoe…you are nothing, Zoe.
But it is the Dragonslayer. The Dragonslayer 1000. For her Kiteman. She stands her ground and forces a faint smile to cover her needy expectation. She works this leg, that arm, to hold them just right to show she is confident because she knows. More than anyone, she knows.
The kite is revealed. It shimmers, its green more brilliant than a hummingbird’s throat. Its carefully sewn flaps begging the wind. Its reel made to whir more loudly than a thousand spinning wheels. Norma oohs. Uncle Clint and Evan reach out to touch. Quentin nods approval.
But Kyle. It is a glance shorter than a breath—a sideways glance to Wain and a smile that comes a blink too late—that tells Zoe.
She doesn’t know.
And even as she hugs Kyle and says “you’re welcome,” she knows he is not her Kiteman. He is not four years old anymore, he is eleven, for God’s sake. Eleven, and he has moved on to skateboards. He moved on. And you didn’t know, you stupid shit, you didn’t know.
But Grandma did.
Twenty-Three
Wind blows warm.
Good-byes circle around on a dust cloud and come back again.
“Good-bye.”
“Night.”
Iridescent wings bat the porch light. Chirps jump across quiet. The sky splits wide with black and silver. Kyle’s day. Kyle’s evening. All Kyle’s. As it should be.
Car doors slam. Quentin gone. Evan and Norma. Gone. An evening. Gone.
Uncle Clint in the doorway. Aunt Patsy on the bottom step. Kyle kissing Grandma’s cheek. The wind swirling. The chirps gathering. And Mama still inside. In the bathroom. Zoe knows. Not to pee. A pill-popping break. You can drink less if you chase it with a pill. It doesn’t matter what kind. A pain pill. A Valium. Mama has them all. All prescription so it’s okay. Okay. Everything is fucking okay. The whole day has been fucking okay. And no one has asked. Not Mama. Four days she has been alone. But it is not about Zoe. It never has been. Four. But Mama leaves for the rest room to take care of her needs, but never pauses to check on Zoe’s. Not a single pause to see if Zoe has eaten, if she has slept, if she has breathed.
And now Kyle is kissing Zoe’s cheek. Holding her. And the day that wasn’t swells inside her. It swells with its nothingness, and Kyle is running back up the porch steps.