etched stone, smoothing chalky dust in syncopation with his heartbeat.
A wing flap.
Puffs of dust went away with his breath, revealing an arrow’s point. The letters read THIS WAY. On the opposite bank grew a patch of spindle trees.
In blue underwear, Paper Boy cut across the bubbling cold river. Beyond the glimmer of wet pebbles and stones, a single dirt path wound up the slope. Tall grass and bulrushes lined the way.
Paper Boy’s cheeks brushed against the trees. Robin red. On the tallest spindle tree of all, on a bold and sturdy branch, hung a jacket – well-tailored, in navy blue.
§
Breathing Is Good for You.
In Room 32, Miss Lamp’s finger is a clean, cold beet. The lights in the bathroom, off. The faucet doesn’t turn all the way to the right, so it hisses to her close ear. Warm porcelain. It’s best to let her finger breathe. This technique is a favourite of Abby’s. Mother knows best.
Miss Lamp recalls leaving the Florida snow in that rust-brown Ford Pinto, her mother at the wheel and Grandma smelling up the back seat, heading north along the grooved white concrete of Interstate 75.
A large orange bug with dragon wings popped on the windshield. A smear of red and yellow. Young Young Miss Lamp dabbed her dented finger on her purple Toughskin jeans. She had scooped up some Florida beach into her pocket before they left. A convenient band-aid.
Abby pressed knuckles to the wheel. ‘Let it breathe, dear, let the finger breathe for a while – at least until we get home. And don’t touch!’
‘Why, Mom?’
‘The air allows your finger to heal more quickly, dear. You want your finger to heal, don’t you?’
Young Young Miss Lamp wasn’t sure her finger could breathe. The breeze coming from the air vents was as cold as snow and her finger breathed goosebumps all up her arms.
Grandma snored to the squeak of windshield wipers.
In and out. In and out.
So Miss Lamp lets her wound breathe. Same finger.
As the sun flattens to orange, she waits for her tomato soup and grilled cheese, waits for a bold, crisp dill pickle wet in her mouth. It isn’t Saturday, and she doesn’t have her guitar, so she can indulge.
Miss Lamp doesn’t care for grilled cheese without a dill pickle.
§
The Dog’s Breakfast.
Young Young Miss Lamp’s finger pressed Abby to tears. Band-aids filled up with iron, too soaked to swallow. When the ugly words were packed and zipped away for the drive back home from Florida, the nail on her index finger turned purple and fell off. It itched.
Abby cried after the nail fell off. They sat together on the squeaky porch swing while it decided to peel free. ‘It’s not itchy anymore, Mom.’ The purple nail curved upward. A tiny dried-up leaf of a jade plant.
‘Your grandma cares about you, dear.’ Abby placed the nail gently in her pocket. ‘I’m sorry I dented your finger. Does it hurt still?’
‘No.’ Young Young Miss Lamp was an exceptional liar and gave it a rub. ‘But it feels funny on top, and I bet I’ll have a scar.’
The porch swing kicked back as Abby went inside. Her daughter jumped at the smack of the wooden screen door. High up in the willow tree, finches chirped amongst themselves and warmed the sun to pink.
Young Young Miss Lamp touched her finger once, twice, slowly, at home below a busy cloud of gnats. She didn’t have a dog, so she swung in her seat waiting for the chocolate Lab behind the whiteboard fence to chase that garbage-eating magpie through a hole large enough to fit a magpie but not a chocolate Lab. The Lab pawed and pushed its nose just above the breeze line of the fence, only to snort, sniff, howl and scratch back down the fence. The smell of magpie. A lean Christmas turkey.
‘Poor stupid dog.’ Young Young Miss Lamp gave him a whistle. ‘I’m going to have a scar for certain.’
She glimpsed the dog through the slats of the well-flaked fence, shy a coat of white paint. The dog whimpered to a standstill with a cloud of busy gnats gathering around his chocolate Lab head. His jaw clacked in a snap.
‘It’s simple, dog,’ she continued with a squint. ‘Your masters will never let you catch that squawky magpie. That’s what the hole in the fence is for. Who wants to clean up a dead bird in their backyard? Stupid dog.’ The gnats parted for Young Young Miss Lamp as she rose to her feet.
The breeze was unseasonably warm.
§
Berrylicious.
‘I’m so sad,’ Paper Boy said to the tallest spindle tree. Rick and Serge’s lipstick letters left knuckle-sized bruises on his chest. After he slung the silk-lined suit coat on his bony shoulders, his bluish fingers picked buttons shut. Bits of dirt stuck to the fuzz on the back of his neck. Damp. His angry stomach told his hands to pick as many pink and red spindle berries as the pockets of his new jacket would hold. ‘I should wash these little berries,’ he said.
The river gobbled many little berries. He watched them bob along the silver edge of current and held on to as many of the pink and red berries as he could. Trickles of purple ran down his walking muscles as silk-lined pockets strained with their dripping cargo. Returning to his drinking tin, sharp enough to catch a lip on, Paper Boy spilled the spindle berries on the table. He picked at them like Robin Redbreast. With each berry he chewed and rolled in his mouth from sweet to sour, his tongue grew numb. So did his throat. So did his angry stomach. He missed his good straight tooth.
§
Lost and Flowered.
The phone in Delano’s office never rang. He had ripped the bells out of it years ago. On the elevator outside his office, down the hall, past two doors to the right, hung a sign that read OUT OF SERVICE. Abby read a sign in the lobby that said USE THE STAIRS.
Holding tight to the banister, she began her ascent. Rounding the second floor, she stooped to tie her shoe and then blew on her sweaty palms. Abby had wanted her mom to come inside and up the stairs with her. But her mom chose to scrape her heels on the sidewalk, pointing up to the busy-looking placard and clutching a note from Mr. Tall about Abby’s barn-like behaviour.
‘Your teacher says you’ve been complaining about your teeth all week, Abby. He isn’t sure why. He suggests I take you to the dentist. So get up there and see what’s wrong with your goddamn teeth. Third door on the left, Abby. See the sign? Hurry up.’ Her mom counted on her fingers. ‘One. Two. Three. Do you know which way left is, Abby dear? Get going! Someone has to pay for your teeth.’ She mustered up some spittle. ‘At least you managed to clean up your shoes, but they still smell like piss and vinegar. I want you to scrub them as soon as you get home. The poor dentist is going to have to plug his nose ’cause of
