"GET HER NAME OUT OF YOUR MOUTH, YOU DON'T DESERVE TO MOURN." - The Crawlers (Come Over Again)
Chaos comes in many shapes and sizes, I've learned over the past few weeks. I've also learned that the role of an older sister is never finished - only prolonged when her siblings disappear for the day. I was tired and still half-asleep when I stumbled out of my bedroom, just in time to grab the last piece of toast off the stove before Darry could start scrubbing the plates. That was the deal we'd always had. If someone woke up first, they'd have to make breakfast. The last two to wake up would have to do the dishes. And despite being the oldest, Darry and I were not exempt from the rule. I plunge my hands into the warm, sudsy water of the sink once I've finished eating and begin to scrub the dishes Pony'd promised he would've done last night. While I do that, Darry forces our brothers to the door, slapping a dollar bill in each of their hands before sending them on their way to school.
The door slams shut and for a minute, I'm able to watch Sodapop and Ponyboy walk down the road to meet the rest of the gang. They've been busy the past few days, my brothers. Soda and Pony spend most of their time after dinner stuck at the kitchen table going over their homework while Darry searches through the paper for a job, and I try to manage all the chores Momma could seemingly do with her eyes closed. It doesn't help that our machine's broken, so I spent my night kneeling over the bathtub, scrubbing our clothes with dish soap and a sponge. But, I'm able to push it to the back of my mind as my eyelids slip closed and my hands run over the plates and cutlery being passed my way. Music is playing from the radio, but my mind is too muddled to make out any of the words. I like the beat though, so I tap my foot against the linoleum until Darry drops his hands to my shoulders. "Morning, Miss Marley," he says to me.
I move back into his arm and tip my head back to look up at him. He's getting better at shaving - even if he's already been doing it for a while - but this is the first time I've seen him without any small scars or nicks. I'm kinda proud of him, as stupid as it sounds. I'm proud that he's able to pull himself together for the world and look the part of an adult, ready to raise his siblings, even if he crumbles the second the door is closed. "Mornin', Darry," I mumble before pulling my hands from the water and drying them on a nearby towel. Darry's dressed pretty nice when I turn around to face him. His jeans seem fairly nice, with no noticeable tears or stains, and his shirt is in the same fashion. And for the first time in a while, I'm proud of myself, too. It really ain't easy to wake up every morning and look at them - Darry and Sodapop - when they're each spitting images of our parents. I know the subtle ache in my heart will never vanish completely, but it's getting easier to look at 'em without tears stinging my eyes.
"What's the special occasion?" I ask, gesturing with my somewhat dry hands. He smiles a bit before tucking his hands in his pockets and chuckling sheepishly. I'm holding my breath before I can even think to stop myself. I really did doubt that he'd gone alone and done something irreversibly asinine, but then again, we had just spent our evenings scrubbing laundry in the bathtub, and crushing our dead mother's pills with tiny spoons so we could sell them to teenagers. So, I guess something irreversibly asinine wasn't that far outta our ballpark. When I turn my eyes back to my brother, he's got that stoic look to him, all child-like innocence swapped out for a blue button-down. "I got a job interview at eleven," he finally answers. "It's- it's with Dad's company. They need some more roofers, now that..." he's gone. Darry doesn't need to finish his sentence. The uneasy bob of the adam's apple in his throat speaks for him.
I let out my breath and twist the rag around in my fingers while the breath I'd been holding finally sneaks past my lips. Instead of keeping calm and remaining indifferent, my demeanour fails as I begin to laugh. They can come for Darry now that Daddy ain't here to talk him out of it. The company that killed Uncle Jim is coming for my brother, all 'cause he's strong. It's gross and exhausting, it's disturbing, and wrong. But it ain't like anyone's about to listen to us, not when the people in power are the ones hiring Darry to fix the roof. "An' you're thinking about it?" The answer is as obvious as the time of day, but I ask it anyway. Like I was five again, with Darry's hand wrapped around my own, still believing he had the answer to every question I could possibly imagine.
"We don't have a ton of choices left, honey," my brother says soothingly. I really feel like I'm losing my mind sometimes, especially when Darry's able to drag his hand across my cheek and wipe away the tears I didn't even know had escaped from my eyelids. Darry's always been a bit overwhelming as he pulls me into his arms and runs his fingers through my hair while my hands strain to reach around his body. He's so much stronger than me, taller, too. He's always been popular at school, even at home, He was the firstborn son, and I was just Momma and Daddy's daughter. They still love me - loved me, but you can't help but wonder how different things could've been, y'know?
"You worry too much," Darry mumbles into my hair. I mutter into his shirt, but it's too muffled for him to understand anything. The real problem is that no one in this godforsaken house worries enough. I live with teenage boys, who - if not already - are convinced they're indestructible. Darry can call me all the names he wants, but it won't change the fact that I've lost enough in the past few months, and I am not willing to add my brother to the list.
"Fine," I spit before using myself out of his grasp. My hip collides with the counter as I wipe my eyes, but the pressure building in the back of my throat manages to distract me for the time being. "B-but don't come cryin' to me when you break your neck." And I have to identify another body. Darry doesn't say anything more. Doesn't try to comfort me, or try to touch me at all. I guess I should be glad that he leaves me alone, but I just feel cold. Really, really cold when the door swings shut.
I really don't know how I ended up in this situation. I wanna pretend it's the smoke churning out of his mouth that's choking me and not my own overwhelming fear, but even he isn't that oblivious. He's a spitting image of his son, too, which only adds to my apprehension. They've got the same shaggy black hair that curls every which way, those his is streaked with white and grey. The worst part of it is his eyes. I knew all the Shepards have their Daddy's eyes - since Momma and Daddy had been talking about it when they found out Ang and Soda were in the same class. They remind me of cobalt. Like cobalt against marble, against tanned skin, flickering around every inch of me as the doorknob clutched in my fist glistens with sweat. The next puff of smoke burns my nose as it lands on the screen door. To think some fragile mesh was the only thing keeping Frank Shepard and I apart was horrifying, even in the silence. I can't tear my eyes from his large, scarred hands as they pull back the front of his tanned leather jacket and dive down into one of its pockets. "Is Darrel home?"
It really is like salt in the wound. Just when I'd built myself back up, three words is all it takes for my sanity to crumble. At least the air stuck in the back of my throat stops me from crying. For now, at least. I can't help but think it's kinda ironic, the guy who seemed to know everything in Tulsa - including about Darry's side-gig - was the last to learn of my parents' death. My saliva burns like Momma's cheap sherry as I force it back down and tighten my grip on the doorknob. At the moment, it's the only thing keeping me standing. "My Dad died, Momma, too. There was a car wreck back at the end of November."
Those words aren't mine, that's why they're so easy to say. I don't know who they belong to - perhaps a younger version of the girl I'd been back in sixty-three. Yeah, I like that. That Marley was left to rot, just like all those damned photos, in a shoebox under her bed. Everything happened to that Marley. Her parents' death, Donna, Paul... I can say their names so easily because they meant nothing to me. Not anymore.
Mr. Shepard's dry hacking turns into a short and bitter laugh. I can feel the cool, icy dread curling down my limbs like rainwater, leeching into the very crevices of my heavy-beating heart. "Oh, darlin'," he says. When he raises a hand to his face, I can't tell if the tear he wipes away is genuine, or just mocking my stupidity. The cold dread is momentarily replaced with burning fury, pain singes my palms as my nails dig into the flesh. How was I supposed to know which Darrel he was talking about? Not when they're basically identical, and- oh. The slow smile spreading around Mr. Shepard's cigarette only confirms the fear I didn't realize I had developed until now. "-I ain't talkin' about your daddy."
"He ain't here either," I snap. I've been doing that a lot lately, snapping over little things. I can't even tell you why I do it. I'd feel pretty awful about it usually like I had with Darry, but this seemed like an appropriate scenario. "So if you're here, lookin' for some of my momma's southern hospitality, you're gonna be waiting a long damn time."
I've never been scared of being home alone, I kinda liked it, actually. It was supposed to be a safe place - even when we never locked our door and had guys walking in and out, no one ever took advantage of that. Not until today. I can't stop myself from taking a step back when Mr. Shepard pulls his hand away from his pocket and brings out a large, yellowed envelope with it. "Stop lookin' at me like that, Marlene. It's just something I owed your father." He shakes the envelope in front of the door again, barely tapping it against the fabric separating us. Still, I stand there stiff as a board. He sighs, dragging his free hand through his hair in a way identical to that of his eldest son. The simplicity of his movement is enough to make me feel sick. My throat's run dry again, the pressure is trapping the air in my lungs. All the while, Frank Shepard rolls his dark blue eyes and raises his hand to the doorknob.
"Listen to me, Marley, I know a helluva lot more about your folks than you think I do." My grip is faltering, the sweat allows my hand to slip right off it with the smallest jostle. Just like that, he's standing in my doorway, towering over me like the shadows I used to hide from under my covers. "An' I know your momma would want you to take the money, darlin'."
Once again, the words tumbling out of my mouth don't belong to me. They're thick and muddled as I push my back flat against the wall opposite the door, just like I has the last time I watched my father breathe. I shoulda stopped him. I shoulda let him grab my hand and pull me into one of his hugs, but I didn't. I shoulda begged him to stay. if not for me, then for his sons. If not for us, then for his wife. But I didn't. I let my pride and rage swallow me whole, and now he was dead. Momma, too. "You don't know a damn thing 'bout my folks," I manage before tears can pierce my eyes. All the while, Mr. Shepard looks down at me with something damn close to sympathy in his. He doesn't dare to take a step over the threshold, but he doesn't move off the porch, either.
It isn't until I push the heels of my hands far enough into my eyes to see stars, that his voice finally cuts through the air again. It's brittle and cold, like a twig snapping. "Your momma ever tell you about the pictures under her bed?"
He leaves the cigarette on the front step to smoulder down to ashes before stepping inside.
I hadn't touched that box since that day with Sylvia. The dust had settled right back over every minuscule crack, still managing to coat each and every memory in a thin layer of grime. The photos were filthy, but they were still my parents'. I wasn't even that scared of what I'd find if I went searching, but I couldn't pull the lid off the box, even if it was practically weightless. That's how Mr. Shepard pulls it off, weightlessly, as I drop into the chair across the table from him. He looks up at me when I raise the cup to my lips tenderly, blowing the steam in his general direction. "Your brother know you drink coffee now?" No.
"Does your son know you're in my house?" I challenge instead. I catch sight of Daddy's long, messy letters as Mr. Shepard pulls out a photograph. The smile that tugs at his lips doesn't seem cynical or teasing, it's the humanity of it all that makes me cringe. "Tim knows I'm runnin' errands." I fill in the blanks and add "just not here," in my head. After another minute of watching him flip through Momma's memories, I finally lean forward and wrap my fingers around the first photo I grab.
It's dated June of forty-six. Momma's hair is long and curly, weaving down her back and hugging her shoulders. I can't grasp where she is, at the moment, but I know it ain't at home. There's a faded bundle in her arms; Darry. At only six months old, his smile takes up nearly half his face. The outskirts of the photo are blurry with dark silhouettes, but I can make out a small face in the bottom right corner. The colours are a bit hard to make out in black and white, but the kid's wearing plaid, with - what I'm guessing - is blonde hair hanging down in front of his eyes as he stares at my Momma, mouth just as wide as his eyes. "Mr. Merril was nice enough to let us crash with him when we first rolled into town, long as Annie kept an eye on his kid and the bar."
I can see it now, rows upon rows of bottles, the ones that looked dusty and forgotten just days before. The further I look, the clearer the image becomes. It's hidden away under my mother's unruly, wild curls - that I never knew she had, by the way - but the silver barrel of Mr. Merril Senior'sshotgun shines menacingly Her smile takes up half of her face, much like my brother in her arms and little Buck Merril pulling on the edge of her jean skirt, cinched around her waist. The coffee I'd made out of spite turns cold, the slow rising steam falling disappearing into the frosty air that's filled my home since November. I trace their smiles with my fingernail as if even the smallest amount of pressure would shatter the last piece of them I had to myself. My throat burns worse than the coffee as I press my nails into my palm; a last-ditch effort to keep my dignity as the tears form on my eyelids. Across from me, Mr. Shepard eyes me wearily before dropping his gaze and sighing. Sure, I didn't think he was the smartest man alive, but he was certainly smarter than I'd pegged him for.
"You're momma loved you a lot," he tells me. "Darrel'd been workin' like a dog to buy this house, that was an hour before we showed Annie." He doesn't say anything when I reach up and wipe my hand across my face, careful not to ruin the ancient photograph. It isn't until I drop the picture against the table and lean towards the box for a second time when Mr. Shepard's words finally make sense. My tongue is ready, poised like a snake in the grass and ready to strike. It falters, however, when the cold gleam in his eyes vanish. The back of his hands are wrinkled and scarred, the torn and pink skin sticks out against his tanned flesh, but his fingers brush over the frayed edges before settling at his side. I really can't stop myself from asking, as my brain becomes foggier than the very memories I was uncovering. "Do you know who Ellie is? M-Momma used to get confused," I mumble, "...when she was sick."
He rising from his chair in an instant, the sound of wood grinding against wood is enough for my eyes to clamp shut as I shrink further into my seat. At the same time, the painfully sweet stink of cologne washes over me. Heat rolls off his jacket in waves so strong, it's overwhelming. My eyelids squeeze together tighter, forcing the few tears that didn't escape the first time to roll down my cheeks. I think fear's the thing that finally makes my eyes open - that, and the fact that he was being very very quiet. There's another picture dropped in front of me now, right on top of Momma's. It's of a girl, standing out in front of a house. She's smiling, right next to another girl a bit taller than her. When I turn my neck to the side, I see Mr. Shepard staring down at the image just as I am, his lips slightly parted. "I don't get why you're showin' me this," I scoff after a minute.
"That's Ellie. Elizabeth, actually, but she hated it," Mr. Shepard answers after another deep sigh. I lean in a little closer, still on the furthest edge away from the strange man talking about my parents as if they were old friends. Ellie's hair is a few shades darker than Momma's, she's got it cut short, too. Just past her shoulders. Momma has her arm wrapped around her shoulders and is resting her cheek on her head, they're both leaning against a worn-down fence marking out the front yard. When I raise the picture closer to my face, it's easy to see Ellie's eyes are a lot lighter than Momma's brown ones, too. I flip it over and am met with Momma's writing. "Annie and Ellie's first day of school. September, 1940"
"Mr. Shepard?" I ask. He clears his throat and shakes his head, swatting my words away with a wave of his hand before pinching the bridge of his nose. "No need for formalities, Marley. Just call me Frank."
I brush off his request as easily as he ignored my question. My throat's still dry, my lips are cracked and bleeding, and I know my mind will only hurt that much more if I have to go one more day without the answers I need. "How much do you know about my parents?"
I really didn't know a damn thing about my parents. I didn't know my mother had a sister - that I had an aunt - or that they'd grown up in Green River, Utah. I didn't know the candy shop she'd talk about so adamantly was run by my grandparents on Daddy's side, the ones he never talked about. I didn't know the first friend my father ever made was named Frank, or that he was standing beside me now. I didn't interrupt as he went on, telling me all about the people I'd grown up thinking I knew. "We'd talked about getting out," he told me, "your daddy and me. I was ready to go, he was still stuck on your momma waiting to kiss him."
It was comforting in a way, comforting but wrong. He shouldn't be the one to tell me these things, but he's the only one left. Across from me, Frank settles back down into his chair, fiddling with his fingers before staring back at the picture in my grasp. "I'd done something real bad, Marley. Came to your daddy in the middle of night an' told him that we had to leave, so we did. Swung by and picked Annie up on the way, got outta Green River an' never turned back around."
He went on to tell me about my grandparents. None of them were great if I'm being honest. Daddy's didn't care if he came home at all, they just kept the fridge stocked and money hidden under the floorboards. It was Momma's parents that were the worst of 'em all. "Her daddy was a lunatic," he told me. He told me about all the nights she and Ellie would climb out their bedroom window to avoid their father's wrath, all the times they were dressed in long-sleeves under the July sun. He even told me about the last time he ever saw Ellie. Her hair was an awkward colour to describe, red in some light, but brown in others. She had different eyes than her parents', too. They were a peculiar mix of green and grey. He scoffs again after telling me about the first day they rolled into Tulsa, how Momma popped the tires to his truck and made him walk the three miles into town for help in mid-June since she was pregnant with Darry. "We'd been in town a whole fucking week 'fore the news is goin' on about some nutcase in Utah who killed his wife and daughter-" he twists his head to the side then, just enough that I can't see his eyes while he drags a hand across his face. "Don't think Annie ever forgave herself for leaving her there."
It turns out they'd met Uncle Jim around that time one year later when he and his newly-wed wife were looking for a fresh start. Just as he'd said before, Mr. Merril didn't seem to have a problem with three teenagers, as long as they were quiet and distracted the police. By the time Momma announced she was pregnant for a second time, they'd already established roots in Tulsa, as well as gotten married in the middle of a bar.
It wasn't until all the memories had been dropped back into the box still decorated with Momma's gentle letters that Mr. Shepard finally focused on me, rather than my table or his hands. His eyes are dripping with something I can't describe when he looks at me, slowly running his tongue over his teeth. "Now I guess Darry's filling in your old man's footsteps, huh?"
My blood runs colder than the abandoned coffee sitting to my left. He scoffs again, all the sympathy he once had forgotten. "Don't look at me like that, Marley. You really think we got this far without playing a little dirty?" His chair screeches against the floor for a second time, only this time, I stand with him, instead of waiting for his hand to clamp down on the back of my chair. "You really think all of this came from a roofer's salary? That your momma wasn't giving her clients a little something extra at the bar?" Frank chuckles. It's dry and sarcastic, worse than nails on a chalkboard if you ask me. "An' now here you are, Miss Marley. Letting your brother trade those pills for another dime, while you're actin' just like your momma down in that joint, too."
Ever so slowly, the pieces are falling into place. "That's just more dirty money," I whisper pathetically. "You were at the funeral, you asked Daddy to drive that truck-" He killed them. There was nothing innocent about this visit, it was to repay the bloody debt my father had left in Pawnee. He can't use the money when he's six feet under, but maybe his four children could. This was a warning that Darry could find himself looking too much like our father if we weren't careful. "THey're dead 'cause fo you," I say before stumbling back. "You killed 'em! Y-you probably offed Uncle Jim too, right?"
I don't know what's worse. The fact that he doesn't deny what I'd said about Uncle Jim, the fact that I feel like Momma during one of her fits - when everything slipped away and left her behind, reaching blindly for anything to hold close. or maybe it's his voice as he straightens his jacket before slapping the thick envelope on the table. |They're dead 'cause Annie was poppin' those pills like fucking candy," he snarls. "Bet it was easier than knowin' her sister died, all 'cause she felt like skippin' town."
I really did feel like Momma after he left. Like I was being pulled in a million different directions, all set on tearing me apart. I don't know how long I sat there, never daring to glance at the envelope on the table, or the haunted memories sitting in front of me. I didn't know it would be years until I'd finally forget about Frank's words, either.
"Maybe she got what she deserved. An eye for an eye, ain't that right, Annie?
I didn't know I'd spend years wondering if he was right.