The Sky is Everywhere
The Sky is Everywhere(19)
Author: Jandy Nelson
shave her legs
apply her lipstick
but that’s what happened all the same.
I helped Gram pick out the casket, the plot at the cemetery.
I changed a few lines in the obituary that Big composed.
I wrote on a piece of paper what I thought
should go on the headstone.
Not one word, for days,
until I saw Bailey before the funeral
and lost my mind.
I hadn’t realized that when people say so-and-so
snapped
that’s actually what happens—
I thought I could wake her up
and get her the hell out of that box.
When she didn’t wake,
I screamed: TALK TO ME.
Big swooped me up into his arms.
carried me out of the room, the church,
and down to the creek
where we sobbed together
under the black coat he held over our heads
to protect us from the weather.
(Found on a piece of music paper crumpled up by the trailhead)
I wish I had my clarinet, I think as I walk home from the deli. If I did, I’d head straight into the woods where no one could hear me and fall on my face like I did on the porch this morning. Play the music, not the instrument, Marguerite always said. And Mr James: Let the instrument play you. I never got either instruction until today. I always imagined music trapped inside my clarinet, not trapped inside of me. But what if music is what escapes when a heart breaks?
I turn onto our street and see Uncle Big road-reading, tripping over his massive feet, greeting his favorite trees as he passes them. Nothing too unusual, but for the flying fruit. There are a few weeks every year when if circumstances permit, like the winds are just so and the plums particularly heavy, the plum trees around our house become hostile to humans and begin using us for target practice.
Big waves his arm east to west in enthusiastic greeting, narrowly escaping a plum to the head.
I salute him, then when he’s close enough, I give a hello twirl to his mustache, which is waxed and styled to the hilt, the fanciest (i.e. freakiest) I’ve seen it in some time.
“Your friend is over,” he says, winking at me. Then he puts his nose back into his book and resumes his promenade. I know he means Joe, but I think of Sarah and my stomach twists a little. She sent me a text today: Sending out a search party for our friendship. I haven’t responded. I don’t know where it is either.
A moment later, I hear Big say, “Oh, Len, Toby called for you, wants you to ring him right away.”
He called me on my cell again too while I was at work. I didn’t listen to the voicemail. I reiterate the oath I’ve been swearing all day, that I will never see Toby Shaw again, then I beg my sister for a sign of forgiveness – no need for subtlety either, Bails, an earthquake will do.
As I get closer, I see that the house is inside out – in the front yard are stacks of books, furniture, masks, pots and pans, boxes, antiques, paintings, dishes, knickknacks – then I see Joe and someone who looks just like him but broader and even taller coming out of the house with our sofa.
“Where do you want this, Gram?” Joe says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to be moving the couch outside. This must be Gram’s surprise. We’re moving into the yard. Great.
“Anywhere’s fine, boys,” Gram says, then sees me. “Lennie.” She glides over. “I’m going to figure out what’s causing the terrible luck,” she says. “This is what came to me in the middle of the night. We’ll move anything suspicious out of the house, do a ritual, burn sage, then make sure not to put anything unlucky back inside. Joe was nice enough to go get his brother to help.”
“Hmmm,” I say, not knowing what else to say, wishing I could’ve seen Joe’s face as Gram very sanely explained this INSANE idea to him. When I break away from her, Joe practically gallops over. He’s such a downer.
“Just another day at the psych ward, huh?” I say.
“What’s quite perplexing…” he says, pointing a finger professorially at his brow, “is just how Gram is making the lucky or unlucky determination. I’ve yet to crack the code.” I’m impressed at how quickly he’s caught on that there is nothing to do but grab a wing when Gram’s aflight with fancy.
His brother comes up then, rests his hand carelessly on Joe’s shoulder, and it instantly transforms Joe into a little brother – the slice into my heart is sharp and sudden – I’m no longer a little sister. No longer a sister, period.
Joe can barely mask his adulation and it topples me. I was just the same – when I introduced Bailey I felt like I was presenting the world’s most badass work of art.
“Marcus is here for the summer, goes to UCLA. He and my oldest brother are in a band down there.” Brothers and brothers and brothers.
“Hi,” I say to another beaming guy. Definitely no need for lightbulbs Chez Fontaine.
“I heard you play a mean clarinet,” Marcus says. This makes me blush, which makes Joe blush, which makes Marcus laugh and punch his brother’s arm. I hear him whisper, “Oh Joe, you’ve got it so bad.” Then Joe blushes even more, if that’s possible, and heads into the house for a lamp.
I wonder why though if Joe’s got it so bad he doesn’t make a move, even a suggestion of one. I know, I know, I’m a feminist, I could make a move, but a) I’ve never made a move on anyone in my life and therefore have no moves to make, b) I’ve been a wee bit preoccupied with the bat in my belfry who doesn’t belong there, and c) Rachel – I mean, I know he spends mornings at our house, but how do I know he doesn’t spend evenings at hers?
Gram’s taken a shine to the Fontaine boys. She’s flitting around the yard, telling them over and over again how handsome they are, asking if their parents ever thought about selling them. “Bet they’d make a bundle on you boys. Shame to give boys eyelashes like yours. Don’t you think so, Lennie? Wouldn’t you kill for eyelashes like that?” God, I’m embarrassed, though she’s right about the eyelashes. Marcus doesn’t blink either, they both bat.
She sends Joe and Marcus home to get their third brother, convinced that all Fontaine brothers have to be here for the ritual. It’s clear both Marcus and Joe have fallen under her spell. She probably could get them to rob a bank for her.
“Bring your instruments,” she yells after them. “You too, Lennie.”
I do as I’m told and get my clarinet from the tree it’s resting in with an assortment of my worldly possessions. Then Gram and I take some of the pots and pans she has deemed lucky back into the kitchen to cook dinner. She prepares the chicken while I quarter the potatoes and spice them with garlic and rosemary. When everything is roasting in the oven, we go outside to gather some strewn plums to make a tart. She is rolling out the dough for the crust while I slice tomatoes and avocados for the salad. Every time she passes me, she pats my head or squeezes my arm.