through the night. He tried to sell them for $ 20 , 000 , but nobody wanted nails. If I had the money, Iâd buy them in a flash. Nails are like magic. Roll someoneâs nail between your fingers, it brings back a slice of somewhere youâve been. A whisper, the smell of oranges, fridge noises. Somewhere forgotten, but itâs out there somewhere.
* * *
We move around a lot. Harmony gets restless. For her, a new place has a three-month expiry date, same as fruit bars. Harmony loves moving day. She skips between rooms, pink cheeked, eyes glowing with the thought of waking in a place where she has to hunt for the light switch. She collects her candles, crystals, incense sticks, her bear claws and peacock feathers, creates a pile on top of the Indian sari we use for a tablecloth, and folds it like a diaper.
We roll foamies and quilts. Stuff our clothes into green garbage bags. Fill cardboard boxes with our garage sale dishes and mismatched cutlery, half-empty jars of mayo and peanut butter. Harmony laughs as we struggle onto the street with the giant blue pillows, the folding wooden table and old chairs, the ghetto blaster and the rest. Everything we own fits in the white van.
My stuff goes into a bag I keep at my feet. My toothbrush and Walkman, jalapeno chips and Sour Pusses, my sparkly mirror and my nail clipping box.
We arrange ourselves on the front seat. Be a doll, Rebee, quit smacking your gum. She places her sugared coffee in its holder beside mine. I pull out my Walkman and plug myself in. Shake it down ladies. Make this your night. Be free, uh-uh, be free. Are you ready?
I flick the tip of my bad finger against my zipper pull and watch it flop like a fish. I stare at my fingertips. At least I wonât be like the Oklahoma nurses. The nurses cuddled the sickly babies, changed their diapers, fed them warm milk, loved âem to death. All that bacteria festering under their long, shiny nails. When I have babies, Iâll nurse on their curled fists and hold their slivers in my mouth â tiny white slivers. One at a time.
We rumble along the highway under a watery sky, past wheat rolled into giant soup cans, cows frozen in muck. I think about where we just came from. I canât remember the colour of the walls or feel of the curtains or shape of the bathroom sink. Blank as water, like on a test day in a new school and I end up at the fountain, gulping, drowning.
I slip off my runners and slide my toe across my bag until it touches my nail box.
Weâll get to wherever weâre going tonight. Unload the white van. Light an incense stick. Find the little hidey spots.
Harmony will crash, a smile on her lips.
Iâll wait awhile. Sprinkle the brittle bits on my blanket. Sift them like seashells.
JAKE
I CAME TO, GULPING, CLUTCHING MY RIBS, opened the eye not nailed to the table, and stared blearily through the empty Jack Danielâs bottle. I tried to think, to find one quiet body part. I rolled my ankles in circles, right, then left.
After several minutes I unfolded and stood, wobbled painfully to the trailer door, opened it, and pissed into the gravel. I took in Mattâs view. I liked coming here. Matt lived in squalor but our visits were clean. He never asked questions. It didnât matter if it was six months or a year in-between, he always acted like Iâd never left.
Itâs been nine months this time. Except that Mattâs missing, nothing else has changed. Rockies to the west. A pumpjack pawing the ground to the east. Close by, the well house and dripping tap, rotting outhouse, cobwebbed shed for rusted tools. Out further, the vomit-green swamp that glows in the twilight and Mattâs quarter section of scrub brush.
I stumbled into the sticky July heat, squinted into the naked sky and wished for a baseball cap. I thought I could hear the oil-sucking sounds of the pumpjack, the thump, grind, hum, but it was all in my head. It was Farleyâs truck I heard. He
* * *
We move around a lot. Harmony gets restless. For her, a new place has a three-month expiry date, same as fruit bars. Harmony loves moving day. She skips between rooms, pink cheeked, eyes glowing with the thought of waking in a place where she has to hunt for the light switch. She collects her candles, crystals, incense sticks, her bear claws and peacock feathers, creates a pile on top of the Indian sari we use for a tablecloth, and folds it like a diaper.
We roll foamies and quilts. Stuff our clothes into green garbage bags. Fill cardboard boxes with our garage sale dishes and mismatched cutlery, half-empty jars of mayo and peanut butter. Harmony laughs as we struggle onto the street with the giant blue pillows, the folding wooden table and old chairs, the ghetto blaster and the rest. Everything we own fits in the white van.
My stuff goes into a bag I keep at my feet. My toothbrush and Walkman, jalapeno chips and Sour Pusses, my sparkly mirror and my nail clipping box.
We arrange ourselves on the front seat. Be a doll, Rebee, quit smacking your gum. She places her sugared coffee in its holder beside mine. I pull out my Walkman and plug myself in. Shake it down ladies. Make this your night. Be free, uh-uh, be free. Are you ready?
I flick the tip of my bad finger against my zipper pull and watch it flop like a fish. I stare at my fingertips. At least I wonât be like the Oklahoma nurses. The nurses cuddled the sickly babies, changed their diapers, fed them warm milk, loved âem to death. All that bacteria festering under their long, shiny nails. When I have babies, Iâll nurse on their curled fists and hold their slivers in my mouth â tiny white slivers. One at a time.
We rumble along the highway under a watery sky, past wheat rolled into giant soup cans, cows frozen in muck. I think about where we just came from. I canât remember the colour of the walls or feel of the curtains or shape of the bathroom sink. Blank as water, like on a test day in a new school and I end up at the fountain, gulping, drowning.
I slip off my runners and slide my toe across my bag until it touches my nail box.
Weâll get to wherever weâre going tonight. Unload the white van. Light an incense stick. Find the little hidey spots.
Harmony will crash, a smile on her lips.
Iâll wait awhile. Sprinkle the brittle bits on my blanket. Sift them like seashells.
JAKE
I CAME TO, GULPING, CLUTCHING MY RIBS, opened the eye not nailed to the table, and stared blearily through the empty Jack Danielâs bottle. I tried to think, to find one quiet body part. I rolled my ankles in circles, right, then left.
After several minutes I unfolded and stood, wobbled painfully to the trailer door, opened it, and pissed into the gravel. I took in Mattâs view. I liked coming here. Matt lived in squalor but our visits were clean. He never asked questions. It didnât matter if it was six months or a year in-between, he always acted like Iâd never left.
Itâs been nine months this time. Except that Mattâs missing, nothing else has changed. Rockies to the west. A pumpjack pawing the ground to the east. Close by, the well house and dripping tap, rotting outhouse, cobwebbed shed for rusted tools. Out further, the vomit-green swamp that glows in the twilight and Mattâs quarter section of scrub brush.
I stumbled into the sticky July heat, squinted into the naked sky and wished for a baseball cap. I thought I could hear the oil-sucking sounds of the pumpjack, the thump, grind, hum, but it was all in my head. It was Farleyâs truck I heard. He
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