TheWordless Days
Sam met my Mama in her time ofsilence. Right after Mama divorced my father, she didn’t talk, I mean really talk, for a long time. She talkedall the time before, about senseless things, things like the way spider webswere beautiful when the sun hit them just right. After the divorce, her silence was something like a bruise;it hurt beneath the surface, every time I brushed against anything.
“Mama?”
“Hm?”
“Mama, just say my name. I want tomake sure you can still say it.” I see her sad grey eyes pleading with me.“Mama. Please.”
“Evelyn,” she whispers. “My Evie.”She cries for hours after. I hear her in her room. I cried too, in my bed, touchingthe wood paneling between us. I’d sing her a lullaby underneath my breath—hush hush hush.
We lived in an apartment rightdowntown, in what we like to think is the heart of Birmingham, Alabama. It hadsmall closets and even smaller rooms. Peter, Ada and I all shared a room, andwe had bunk beds. We played pirate ship on our bunks, dragging our peg legsacross the floor and baring our gold teeth. Peter, Ada and I all piled inMama’s bed every night and took turns scratching her back as she cried herselfto sleep, and sometimes Ada would sing to us, her bright voice floatingsomewhere high above our depths:
Edelweiss,edelweiss,
Everymorning you greet me.
Softand white, clean and bright,
Youlook happy to greet me.
We’d wake up with to Puppyscratching softly at the door. We pulled on frozen woolen socks and heavyboots, pulling Puppy through the door into a cold morning. That’s when we metSam—he walked his large basset hound St. George every morning, a cup of coffeeand a pipe in his hand. We didn’t know if it was all right if he smoked or whatto make of his lanky arms and legs. He seemed untrustworthy. I was onlythirteen, and my father had never smoked, and neither did my uncles.
Every morning, we watched Sam acrossthe park—always his coffee and his pipe and his dog, and occasionally atoboggan. Somehow during those mornings, we grew together like weeds, an almostunbearable closeness across a frozen pond. One morning, Puppy chewed his waythrough his leash. It was so sudden; we stood like statues, shocked, as Puppygalloped across the park. We were shouting, screaming, and crying, flailing ourtiny bundled arms and legs after our beloved Puppy. Sam, still silent, ran. I’dnever seen anything run that fast. He caught Puppy by the collar and trudgedacross the snow, one hand around the collar and one around St. George’s leash.He smiled and planted himself in front of us. We didn’t say anything; just sawhis smile and his big green eyes. We walked back toward our house, planting ourfeet inside his the space his feet left in the snow.
I think at first, Mama was scared.Her eyes said no but I knew her heartwas saying maybe. Only our closestfriends came to the nest, bringing bread and wine, coming to sit with Mama orplay her music. Our little nest was small, with only enough room for us and forhearts that understood us. We probably went two years without having a singleunknown visitor, so Sam felt like a comma in a long, boring sentence—notinvasive, just a pause, something different. Sam sat down slowly, pushing hiscup of coffee toward her across the table, his sad eyes meeting hers.
“Can I tell you a story?” We noddedand looked at Mama. Her mouth eased into a smile, and Sam started speaking. Hetold us about how he lived just down the street and walked St. George past ourhouse every day. He’d divorced his wife, too. They’d gotten married too young,and years of apathy had stifled them. He’d wanted kids, she hadn’t.
The next morning, Mama was upbefore we were, a cup of coffee in her hand. She kissed each of us on theforehead, her wiry hands on our soft hair.
“Good morning.” Her eyes lookedbluer, calmer. She picked up Puppy’s leash, and we skipped after her.
They started off slow, meeting inthe cemetery to smoke cigarettes after dinner, spending countless hours walkingPuppy and St. George, cooking steaks and fish and green salads. We’d spy onthem, taking down notes and times and positions with our pencils and stenopads. At first they didn’t talk much. Samis smoking his pipe. Mama is eating almonds. They worked in the garden,turning the dirt with their wrinkly hands. Samis digging while Mama plants the carrots. Sam hands Mama the shovel. Mama iscrying. Sam is too. They knew,without words, with touching, that their sadness was the same, that theirhearts carried the same things.
We bought chickens and put them inthe backyard. Sam and I built a chicken coop, gathering wood from dumpsters orfrom the trashcans in the back alley. Sam would pick up cardboard boxes andglass bottles, piling them in my hands, saying,
“Evie, will you hold this for asecond?” until my hands were full, my cheeks as red as my hair. He’d howl andsay,
“Eve, I can’t believe you just heldall of that!” I’d drop it immediately, laughing with him, but I held the junkevery time.
We found out Sam was sick the day Igot my first kiss. I’d known Connor since grade school. We used to ride ourbikes in the neighborhood, and I always beat him. We made forts in hisbackyard, hiding from the world in the cradle of those trees. Connor and Ididn’t talk much anymore besides the notes we passed in history and silentglances across the lunch table, and sometimes by our lockers right afterschool.
“Evie?” I hear Connor’s low rumble.I don’t even look.
“Yeah?”
Suddenly, without warning, withoutwords, his lips were on mine. I could feel the heat in my cheeks, melting frommy red hair to the floor.
“What was that for?” I say, stillshell-shocked. He grins wide, the scar from his cleft palette squinching upbelow his nose.
“Wanna go to the dance with me?”
The dance? The dance. I hadn’t planned to go. Then again, Ihadn’t planned to be kissed by my 10 th grade locker, either.
“Um, yeah, sure…”
“Great!” And just like that, he wasgone.
I ran all the way home. I wassupposed to go to piano lessons at Mrs. Horgason’s, but I could not containmyself. If she had offered me a Ricola, I might’ve exploded. I didn’t want torisk it. I ran past the Larkin’s house, past the Bennett’s and the Miles, pastthe Jagers and the Patricks.
“Mama! MAMA! I HAVE SOMETHING TOTELL YOU WHERE ARE YOU I…Sam. What’re you doing home?” My heart is beating,fluttering, pounding. Sam is in the rocking chair in the right corner of theliving room, tucked away, creaking back and forth. I hear my mother speak, afloating voice from the left corner.
“Sam is sick. He has pancreaticcancer. He probably has six more months to live.” Her voice sounded removedfrom her body, like a robot. I looked at him, and he smiled.
“Want to go work on that coopkiddo?” I nodded.
Mama put Sam on a special diet. Itdidn’t really matter, though, because he was just going to throw it up afterchemo. So when I brought in a big bag from McDonald’s, Mama just put the foodin the fridge. We bought him hats, but his favorite was the yarmulke that Peterbrought him as a joke.
“I’ve always wanted to be Jewish,”he’d said. Peter grinned.
“See, Evie, I told you he’d loveit!”
At first we thought he was justhumoring Peter, but he wore it everywhere. Turns out, Sam had wanted to beJewish. He also wanted to live in the house across the street that was forrent. It had a backyard for the chicken coop instead of a patio, and a hugewrap around porch that was perfect for smoking pipes. We moved quickly, notbothering to plan or to think.
“It’s the most beautiful damnedhouse you’ll ever see,” Sam said. I think he’s right. It has a huge front porchand green shutters. We sat out there every Sunday night and made homemade icecream, blackberry and peach, and even lavender sometimes. Sam’s friends wouldcome over and smoke, and Mama’s friends too, the ones that sat with her duringher wordless days. We’d talk about the chickens in the backyard, how Miss Bettywasn’t quite herself and how Chicken Little had actually turned out to be arooster instead of a chicken. The boys would smoke their pipes, concentratingon their pipe rings. We laughed a lot, we ate a lot, Mama and Sam and the boyssmoked a lot. We sat a lot too, just being with each other, knowing our dayswere dark. Mama wasn’t silent anymore, and neither was Sam.
I told Connor I couldn’t go to thedance anymore. I was navy blue, and he was yellow. I couldn’t do it. The nightof the dance, I worked on the coop alone for a while, the chickens pecking atmy feet while I repaired the damage Omelet had caused. I heard someone behindme, the crunch of the hay behind me undeniable.
“Sam, I told you, I’m just doingsome repairs, I’m fine, go…”
“Hey Evie? Mind if I sit with you awhile?”
I look behind me and Connor is there,jeans and his plaid shirt. He kneels beside me and looks me straight in theeye. He kisses me, and I kiss him back. I lay down and he’s on top of me, we’rekissing, we’re sticky, we’re skin to skin beneath the stars, chicken feathersin my hair. I cry after, not because it hurt, but because I feel like I tooksomething from him.
Whydid I think the funeral would be the hardest part? Who thinks the funeral isthe hardest part? I’ve seen his body; I watched them take it away. I held Mamain her bed so she wouldn’t have to be alone, her thick quilt burying us. Iwatched Connor from across the room, his big smile physically hurting me. I walked St. George and Puppy thismorning alone, leaving Ada and Peter to sleep, to put off their darkness for awhile. I see Mama, her journal open on the kitchen table. The pages are blank,but her pen’s left a big dark blob on the right side.
“Mama?”
“Evie?”
“Justmaking sure.”
Today’sno different. We’re all blank, like someone’s taken white out and painted overour dark inky letters. Everyone is quiet, ironing navy and black, drinking darkcoffee, concealing dark circles. Ada joins me on the porch, her eyes puffy.
“I just…I just thought…that after Sam…that things would be…different.” Shewiggles the ring on her right hand.
I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t knowwhat’s hardest, the ending or the start. How did we lose him? What happens whenyou lose someone?
Idrive to the church, lit with beautiful candles and adorned with green andwhite flowers. Sam’s pipe smoking friends are there, and Mama’s friends too,all of the people who loved Sam. It’s like we’re on the porch again, waitingfor Sam, waiting waiting waiting. I’m thinking about sitting out there with himafternoons after school. He’d have me read TheLord of the Rings out loud to him. I didn’t mind it so much. Then we’d sitand gaze across the street. We’d talk about Mama and school and boys. Sam lovedto talk about boys with me.
“Evie,you got a boyfriend yet?”
“Sam,yes, I already told you, he’s…”
“Comingover tonight? For dinner? I’ll have to pick up some beer,” he’d say, winking.
Wetalked about life too, about the way people are.
“Theway I see it, it’s something like a jar full of fireflies, hundreds of them,beating their wings, flying together, struggling to make some sense of theirsmall existence. If you peer into that jar for any amount of time, you’ll findit hard to look away. There’s something about their glow, their desperatewings, that traps you. We’re all just people, all carrying our own littleselves as best we can.” Then he’d smile and act like he’d just read a joke outof the funnies. “Promise me you’ll scatter my ashes over the park,” he says soquietly I think I made it up. I squeeze his hand. Of course I will.
Thisfeels wrong. I choke back tears when Mama said she couldn’t allow me to scatterSam across the park. I think she’s too weak to think about it, but I can’t helpfeeling like I’ve been cut open when she tells me. People pat my shoulders andoffer me Kleenexes. Connor holds my hand but he’s making me sweat. All I wantto do is walk with Sam, sit on the porch with Sam, make jokes about how baldSam is. I want my Mama to speak again and I want Ada and Peter to be happy. I want to be yellow. Everythingis quick now, moving from funeral to home. I move in a fog, slow feet and aslow heart.
We’reon the porch again, and Ada’s singing in the kitchen while she puts in thecasserole someone brought us for dinner.
“Mama?”
“Hm?Evie?”
“I’mgoing to take St. George for a walk.”
She nods her head. I don’t thinkshe heard me. Connor starts to get up, but I shake my head and smile, smile athis light and lovely face. He can’t be with me in this moment, in my darkestblue. I grab St. George’s leash and walk toward the familiar park, the smoothpavement running like a treadmill beneath my legs. I feel St. George tug on theleash, but I stand, determined to be still. I take out my Ziploc bag with someof Sam’s grey ashes and open the bag. He’s gone, carried on the wind. I close my eyes. A jar of fireflies,pipe smoke, grey eyes, a yarmulke and Sam, hands outstretched toward heaven.
Sam met my Mama in her time ofsilence. Right after Mama divorced my father, she didn’t talk, I mean really talk, for a long time. She talkedall the time before, about senseless things, things like the way spider webswere beautiful when the sun hit them just right. After the divorce, her silence was something like a bruise;it hurt beneath the surface, every time I brushed against anything.
“Mama?”
“Hm?”
“Mama, just say my name. I want tomake sure you can still say it.” I see her sad grey eyes pleading with me.“Mama. Please.”
“Evelyn,” she whispers. “My Evie.”She cries for hours after. I hear her in her room. I cried too, in my bed, touchingthe wood paneling between us. I’d sing her a lullaby underneath my breath—hush hush hush.
We lived in an apartment rightdowntown, in what we like to think is the heart of Birmingham, Alabama. It hadsmall closets and even smaller rooms. Peter, Ada and I all shared a room, andwe had bunk beds. We played pirate ship on our bunks, dragging our peg legsacross the floor and baring our gold teeth. Peter, Ada and I all piled inMama’s bed every night and took turns scratching her back as she cried herselfto sleep, and sometimes Ada would sing to us, her bright voice floatingsomewhere high above our depths:
Edelweiss,edelweiss,
Everymorning you greet me.
Softand white, clean and bright,
Youlook happy to greet me.
We’d wake up with to Puppyscratching softly at the door. We pulled on frozen woolen socks and heavyboots, pulling Puppy through the door into a cold morning. That’s when we metSam—he walked his large basset hound St. George every morning, a cup of coffeeand a pipe in his hand. We didn’t know if it was all right if he smoked or whatto make of his lanky arms and legs. He seemed untrustworthy. I was onlythirteen, and my father had never smoked, and neither did my uncles.
Every morning, we watched Sam acrossthe park—always his coffee and his pipe and his dog, and occasionally atoboggan. Somehow during those mornings, we grew together like weeds, an almostunbearable closeness across a frozen pond. One morning, Puppy chewed his waythrough his leash. It was so sudden; we stood like statues, shocked, as Puppygalloped across the park. We were shouting, screaming, and crying, flailing ourtiny bundled arms and legs after our beloved Puppy. Sam, still silent, ran. I’dnever seen anything run that fast. He caught Puppy by the collar and trudgedacross the snow, one hand around the collar and one around St. George’s leash.He smiled and planted himself in front of us. We didn’t say anything; just sawhis smile and his big green eyes. We walked back toward our house, planting ourfeet inside his the space his feet left in the snow.
I think at first, Mama was scared.Her eyes said no but I knew her heartwas saying maybe. Only our closestfriends came to the nest, bringing bread and wine, coming to sit with Mama orplay her music. Our little nest was small, with only enough room for us and forhearts that understood us. We probably went two years without having a singleunknown visitor, so Sam felt like a comma in a long, boring sentence—notinvasive, just a pause, something different. Sam sat down slowly, pushing hiscup of coffee toward her across the table, his sad eyes meeting hers.
“Can I tell you a story?” We noddedand looked at Mama. Her mouth eased into a smile, and Sam started speaking. Hetold us about how he lived just down the street and walked St. George past ourhouse every day. He’d divorced his wife, too. They’d gotten married too young,and years of apathy had stifled them. He’d wanted kids, she hadn’t.
The next morning, Mama was upbefore we were, a cup of coffee in her hand. She kissed each of us on theforehead, her wiry hands on our soft hair.
“Good morning.” Her eyes lookedbluer, calmer. She picked up Puppy’s leash, and we skipped after her.
They started off slow, meeting inthe cemetery to smoke cigarettes after dinner, spending countless hours walkingPuppy and St. George, cooking steaks and fish and green salads. We’d spy onthem, taking down notes and times and positions with our pencils and stenopads. At first they didn’t talk much. Samis smoking his pipe. Mama is eating almonds. They worked in the garden,turning the dirt with their wrinkly hands. Samis digging while Mama plants the carrots. Sam hands Mama the shovel. Mama iscrying. Sam is too. They knew,without words, with touching, that their sadness was the same, that theirhearts carried the same things.
We bought chickens and put them inthe backyard. Sam and I built a chicken coop, gathering wood from dumpsters orfrom the trashcans in the back alley. Sam would pick up cardboard boxes andglass bottles, piling them in my hands, saying,
“Evie, will you hold this for asecond?” until my hands were full, my cheeks as red as my hair. He’d howl andsay,
“Eve, I can’t believe you just heldall of that!” I’d drop it immediately, laughing with him, but I held the junkevery time.
We found out Sam was sick the day Igot my first kiss. I’d known Connor since grade school. We used to ride ourbikes in the neighborhood, and I always beat him. We made forts in hisbackyard, hiding from the world in the cradle of those trees. Connor and Ididn’t talk much anymore besides the notes we passed in history and silentglances across the lunch table, and sometimes by our lockers right afterschool.
“Evie?” I hear Connor’s low rumble.I don’t even look.
“Yeah?”
Suddenly, without warning, withoutwords, his lips were on mine. I could feel the heat in my cheeks, melting frommy red hair to the floor.
“What was that for?” I say, stillshell-shocked. He grins wide, the scar from his cleft palette squinching upbelow his nose.
“Wanna go to the dance with me?”
The dance? The dance. I hadn’t planned to go. Then again, Ihadn’t planned to be kissed by my 10 th grade locker, either.
“Um, yeah, sure…”
“Great!” And just like that, he wasgone.
I ran all the way home. I wassupposed to go to piano lessons at Mrs. Horgason’s, but I could not containmyself. If she had offered me a Ricola, I might’ve exploded. I didn’t want torisk it. I ran past the Larkin’s house, past the Bennett’s and the Miles, pastthe Jagers and the Patricks.
“Mama! MAMA! I HAVE SOMETHING TOTELL YOU WHERE ARE YOU I…Sam. What’re you doing home?” My heart is beating,fluttering, pounding. Sam is in the rocking chair in the right corner of theliving room, tucked away, creaking back and forth. I hear my mother speak, afloating voice from the left corner.
“Sam is sick. He has pancreaticcancer. He probably has six more months to live.” Her voice sounded removedfrom her body, like a robot. I looked at him, and he smiled.
“Want to go work on that coopkiddo?” I nodded.
Mama put Sam on a special diet. Itdidn’t really matter, though, because he was just going to throw it up afterchemo. So when I brought in a big bag from McDonald’s, Mama just put the foodin the fridge. We bought him hats, but his favorite was the yarmulke that Peterbrought him as a joke.
“I’ve always wanted to be Jewish,”he’d said. Peter grinned.
“See, Evie, I told you he’d loveit!”
At first we thought he was justhumoring Peter, but he wore it everywhere. Turns out, Sam had wanted to beJewish. He also wanted to live in the house across the street that was forrent. It had a backyard for the chicken coop instead of a patio, and a hugewrap around porch that was perfect for smoking pipes. We moved quickly, notbothering to plan or to think.
“It’s the most beautiful damnedhouse you’ll ever see,” Sam said. I think he’s right. It has a huge front porchand green shutters. We sat out there every Sunday night and made homemade icecream, blackberry and peach, and even lavender sometimes. Sam’s friends wouldcome over and smoke, and Mama’s friends too, the ones that sat with her duringher wordless days. We’d talk about the chickens in the backyard, how Miss Bettywasn’t quite herself and how Chicken Little had actually turned out to be arooster instead of a chicken. The boys would smoke their pipes, concentratingon their pipe rings. We laughed a lot, we ate a lot, Mama and Sam and the boyssmoked a lot. We sat a lot too, just being with each other, knowing our dayswere dark. Mama wasn’t silent anymore, and neither was Sam.
I told Connor I couldn’t go to thedance anymore. I was navy blue, and he was yellow. I couldn’t do it. The nightof the dance, I worked on the coop alone for a while, the chickens pecking atmy feet while I repaired the damage Omelet had caused. I heard someone behindme, the crunch of the hay behind me undeniable.
“Sam, I told you, I’m just doingsome repairs, I’m fine, go…”
“Hey Evie? Mind if I sit with you awhile?”
I look behind me and Connor is there,jeans and his plaid shirt. He kneels beside me and looks me straight in theeye. He kisses me, and I kiss him back. I lay down and he’s on top of me, we’rekissing, we’re sticky, we’re skin to skin beneath the stars, chicken feathersin my hair. I cry after, not because it hurt, but because I feel like I tooksomething from him.
Whydid I think the funeral would be the hardest part? Who thinks the funeral isthe hardest part? I’ve seen his body; I watched them take it away. I held Mamain her bed so she wouldn’t have to be alone, her thick quilt burying us. Iwatched Connor from across the room, his big smile physically hurting me. I walked St. George and Puppy thismorning alone, leaving Ada and Peter to sleep, to put off their darkness for awhile. I see Mama, her journal open on the kitchen table. The pages are blank,but her pen’s left a big dark blob on the right side.
“Mama?”
“Evie?”
“Justmaking sure.”
Today’sno different. We’re all blank, like someone’s taken white out and painted overour dark inky letters. Everyone is quiet, ironing navy and black, drinking darkcoffee, concealing dark circles. Ada joins me on the porch, her eyes puffy.
“I just…I just thought…that after Sam…that things would be…different.” Shewiggles the ring on her right hand.
I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t knowwhat’s hardest, the ending or the start. How did we lose him? What happens whenyou lose someone?
Idrive to the church, lit with beautiful candles and adorned with green andwhite flowers. Sam’s pipe smoking friends are there, and Mama’s friends too,all of the people who loved Sam. It’s like we’re on the porch again, waitingfor Sam, waiting waiting waiting. I’m thinking about sitting out there with himafternoons after school. He’d have me read TheLord of the Rings out loud to him. I didn’t mind it so much. Then we’d sitand gaze across the street. We’d talk about Mama and school and boys. Sam lovedto talk about boys with me.
“Evie,you got a boyfriend yet?”
“Sam,yes, I already told you, he’s…”
“Comingover tonight? For dinner? I’ll have to pick up some beer,” he’d say, winking.
Wetalked about life too, about the way people are.
“Theway I see it, it’s something like a jar full of fireflies, hundreds of them,beating their wings, flying together, struggling to make some sense of theirsmall existence. If you peer into that jar for any amount of time, you’ll findit hard to look away. There’s something about their glow, their desperatewings, that traps you. We’re all just people, all carrying our own littleselves as best we can.” Then he’d smile and act like he’d just read a joke outof the funnies. “Promise me you’ll scatter my ashes over the park,” he says soquietly I think I made it up. I squeeze his hand. Of course I will.
Thisfeels wrong. I choke back tears when Mama said she couldn’t allow me to scatterSam across the park. I think she’s too weak to think about it, but I can’t helpfeeling like I’ve been cut open when she tells me. People pat my shoulders andoffer me Kleenexes. Connor holds my hand but he’s making me sweat. All I wantto do is walk with Sam, sit on the porch with Sam, make jokes about how baldSam is. I want my Mama to speak again and I want Ada and Peter to be happy. I want to be yellow. Everythingis quick now, moving from funeral to home. I move in a fog, slow feet and aslow heart.
We’reon the porch again, and Ada’s singing in the kitchen while she puts in thecasserole someone brought us for dinner.
“Mama?”
“Hm?Evie?”
“I’mgoing to take St. George for a walk.”
She nods her head. I don’t thinkshe heard me. Connor starts to get up, but I shake my head and smile, smile athis light and lovely face. He can’t be with me in this moment, in my darkestblue. I grab St. George’s leash and walk toward the familiar park, the smoothpavement running like a treadmill beneath my legs. I feel St. George tug on theleash, but I stand, determined to be still. I take out my Ziploc bag with someof Sam’s grey ashes and open the bag. He’s gone, carried on the wind. I close my eyes. A jar of fireflies,pipe smoke, grey eyes, a yarmulke and Sam, hands outstretched toward heaven.
