Merry has already colored the streets green with a crayon worn down to a nub smaller than the tip of her thumb. The buildings are brick red and sea blue, and they crowd the page, elbowing and wrestling each other for the precious space. She flips to a page with a cartoon New York City. Marjorie closes her eyes and opens the book randomly.
Still, it is enough light for the sisters.
Candles on the fireplace mantel flicker and dutifully melt away. The vibrant colors of Marjorie’s book cover are muted in the darkened living room. She’ll continue to watch her father, who digs through the winter closet, throwing out jackets, itchy sweaters, and snow pants. “All right,” Merry says, but she won’t really listen. Her brown hair is black with grease, and her fair skin is a map of freckles and acne. “It’s a short one, I promise.” Marjorie is dressed in the same cutoff shorts and football shirt she’s been wearing for a week. Seeing him act squirrelly reinforces one of the few memories she has of her mother. Merry imagines him with a bushy tail and a twitchy face full of acorns. Merry says, “I don’t want to listen to a story right now.” She wants to watch her father. Those stories, the ones Merry doesn’t remember hearing, were about everyone and everything. She says, “Story time.” Marjorie has repeatedly told Merry that their mother used to tell stories, and that some of her stories were funny while others were sad or scary. Marjorie is fourteen years old but only a shade taller than her eight-year-old sister. There is no running water with which to wash her hands.
Yesterday, Merry drew a happy face in the dust, but Marjorie quickly erased it, turning her palm black. Spooked by his current erratic behavior, and feeling guilty, as if they were the cause of his suffering, the daughters agreed to keep quiet and keep away, huddled in a living room corner, sitting in a nest of blankets and pillows, playing cards between the couch and the silent TV with its dust-covered screen. However, the lack of food has made him squirrelly, a word their mother-who ran away more than four years ago-used liberally when describing their father. Recently, he stopped eating and gave his share of the rations to his daughters, Marjorie and Merry. Their father has always been distant and serious to the point of being sullen, but they do love him for reasons more than his being their sole lifeline. Muttering to himself, he shares his secrets with the weather-beaten door. Now he paces in the mudroom, and he pauses only to pick at the splintering doorjamb with a black fingernail. Their father stayed in his bedroom, door locked, for almost two full days. Swim Wants to Know If It’s as Bad as Swim ThinksĪ Haunted House Is a Wheel upon Which Some Are Broken Pierre Snake Invasion, “Sex Dungeons & Dragons”
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