glittered against black, and Mary clapped a hat on Jane’s head. With the hat and the height of the telephone books, no one would see Jane was a child.
Mary fixed a glass of coffee the slow way and fed it to Jane with a spoon, as she had when Jane was a much younger child. From the first taste, Jane knew her mother had used the last sugar.
“Now I don’t want you to go.” Mary laughed a little.
“I don’t want to go either,” Jane said, her hands lifted, soft on her mother’s shoulders.
“But it’s the best thing, my little paw. He’ll have a house and you’ll get your own bedroom. He’ll probably buy you your own bike.”
For a moment, Jane lapsed to imagine. She’d seen a television show once where children ran around an obstacle course hammering bells, winning a prize with each ding. But in less than a minute, Jane went from being someone who’d always wanted many things to someone for whom prizes, if they rained on her now, came too late. “I won’t have a mother,” she said plainly, as they walked under the high cloudless sky.
“But you had me. And we’ve always had a better relationship than I had with my mother, ever. You can remember that I went as long as I could for you. And I always will love you, wherever I’m sitting.” They stopped at the truck. “If I had the money I’d buy you a little locket you could have around your neck.”
“I’ll get one someday.” For a long time already, Jane assumed she could do things her mother only wished for.
“And it’ll be from me. Whoever pays.”
In a tree above the truck, Jane saw an owl, stiffly lurching. She pressed closer to her mother, listened to her heart like the far sound inside a shell and felt the pull of an empty immensity, the attraction of wind, the deep anonymous happiness of sleep. “I want to stay with you.”
“No,” her mother said, separating their bodies, the way a lover might.
Through the window, her mother pulled on the truck’s lights, illuminating the invisible before them, and Jane had the sensation of being pushed, as she had been years earlier, trying to learn to ride a bike. In no time at all, she was down the road, wobbling until she caught her balance, past her mother, the cabin contracting in the small rounded mirror. She stopped the truck, leaned out the window and cried, “Mama!”
Her mother’s choked voice echoed back through trees. “Go on ahead, Jane. Go now.”
Jane drove. Her mother had taught her patiently and well, at dusk while others ate their supper. Jane saw her own leg, long for a ten-year-old, reaching the wooden block pedal, and she thought of her mother and the man who was her father marveling over her parts and understood, for the first time, this is why . The world seemed for a moment to have become clear, and remarkable uses for her brow, arms, cheekbones and widow’s peak would soon become apparent: she could use them to cross mountains, to collapse distance and to fly back in time.
She rounded a curve and felt herself flying already—sitting so high in the truck she could feel the velocity and whistling air—but her hands without her steered the wheels back into chronological time and she drove down a long simple road. Her mother’s pencil-drawn map lay on the seat next to her. She was traveling west, with an old sense of which way west was.
The envelope labeled Owens poked into her side. “I better safety-pin it on,” her mother had apologized.
Jane understood she was driving at night so shadows would conceal her childhood. Her mother had put her to bed six afternoons, waking her late and leading her on stumbling walks outside, to prepare her dreams for daylight and accustom her eyes to the dark.
There was no heat or radio in the truck, there never had been, and the sounds that entered through cracks were sounds of the world repairing itself in its sleep. Animals moved in the distance, water seeped somewhere invisible, and there was the etching work of windon
Mary fixed a glass of coffee the slow way and fed it to Jane with a spoon, as she had when Jane was a much younger child. From the first taste, Jane knew her mother had used the last sugar.
“Now I don’t want you to go.” Mary laughed a little.
“I don’t want to go either,” Jane said, her hands lifted, soft on her mother’s shoulders.
“But it’s the best thing, my little paw. He’ll have a house and you’ll get your own bedroom. He’ll probably buy you your own bike.”
For a moment, Jane lapsed to imagine. She’d seen a television show once where children ran around an obstacle course hammering bells, winning a prize with each ding. But in less than a minute, Jane went from being someone who’d always wanted many things to someone for whom prizes, if they rained on her now, came too late. “I won’t have a mother,” she said plainly, as they walked under the high cloudless sky.
“But you had me. And we’ve always had a better relationship than I had with my mother, ever. You can remember that I went as long as I could for you. And I always will love you, wherever I’m sitting.” They stopped at the truck. “If I had the money I’d buy you a little locket you could have around your neck.”
“I’ll get one someday.” For a long time already, Jane assumed she could do things her mother only wished for.
“And it’ll be from me. Whoever pays.”
In a tree above the truck, Jane saw an owl, stiffly lurching. She pressed closer to her mother, listened to her heart like the far sound inside a shell and felt the pull of an empty immensity, the attraction of wind, the deep anonymous happiness of sleep. “I want to stay with you.”
“No,” her mother said, separating their bodies, the way a lover might.
Through the window, her mother pulled on the truck’s lights, illuminating the invisible before them, and Jane had the sensation of being pushed, as she had been years earlier, trying to learn to ride a bike. In no time at all, she was down the road, wobbling until she caught her balance, past her mother, the cabin contracting in the small rounded mirror. She stopped the truck, leaned out the window and cried, “Mama!”
Her mother’s choked voice echoed back through trees. “Go on ahead, Jane. Go now.”
Jane drove. Her mother had taught her patiently and well, at dusk while others ate their supper. Jane saw her own leg, long for a ten-year-old, reaching the wooden block pedal, and she thought of her mother and the man who was her father marveling over her parts and understood, for the first time, this is why . The world seemed for a moment to have become clear, and remarkable uses for her brow, arms, cheekbones and widow’s peak would soon become apparent: she could use them to cross mountains, to collapse distance and to fly back in time.
She rounded a curve and felt herself flying already—sitting so high in the truck she could feel the velocity and whistling air—but her hands without her steered the wheels back into chronological time and she drove down a long simple road. Her mother’s pencil-drawn map lay on the seat next to her. She was traveling west, with an old sense of which way west was.
The envelope labeled Owens poked into her side. “I better safety-pin it on,” her mother had apologized.
Jane understood she was driving at night so shadows would conceal her childhood. Her mother had put her to bed six afternoons, waking her late and leading her on stumbling walks outside, to prepare her dreams for daylight and accustom her eyes to the dark.
There was no heat or radio in the truck, there never had been, and the sounds that entered through cracks were sounds of the world repairing itself in its sleep. Animals moved in the distance, water seeped somewhere invisible, and there was the etching work of windon
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