My Life as a Mermaid, and Other Stories by Jen Grow

Author:Jen Grow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: My Life as a Mermaid
ISBN: My_Life_as_a_Mermaid
Publisher: Dzanc Books
Published: 2015-10-14T16:00:00+00:00

Lawrence Loves Somebody on Pratt Street

When I come to the door, Aunt Gloria’s got her rosary in one hand, thumbing through it like she’s shelling beans. She says she saw it on the TV about Lawrence’s unit. “They been hit over there in that big sand pit,” she says. She wipes at her eyes with a tissue. Then she rocks forward in her chair for momentum and leans all her weight on her cane to lift herself up. She hobbles over to the TV.

“Aunt Gloria, don’t you get up. Make JJ switch the channel for you. He’s sitting right there.”

Aunt Gloria don’t say nothing. She changes the channel and waits for the next news to say something different. She wants the first news to be a mistake. I stand there in the doorway and watch the news with her. We don’t speculate much out loud but inside I know we’re both wondering about Lawrence and if he’s still alive. But we’re quiet with JJ in the room. JJ sits in the corner on the floor looking at his car magazines and telling stories to hisself. He can’t read except a few words and his mind’s not right on account of huffing shoe polish when he was little. Now he’s thirty-six but that don’t mean nothing.

“Maybe Lawrence is OK,” I say to Aunt Gloria. “We don’t know. Maybe he’ll call.”

“Maybe he will,” she says. “God help us if there’s two soldiers come knock on our door. That’s when we know there’s bad news for certain. In the meantime we pray.”

Then she starts to hum her favorite hymn under her breath, “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” and gently rocks herself in her chair even though it don’t move. It’s like that song is her oxygen.

“That’s right,” I say and reach out to hold her hand with the bent fingers that’re curled up like a bird’s claw.

When my two kids come running inside from playing on the porch, Aunt Gloria don’t say nothing more about Lawrence. She tells me, “Wanda, go down to Ditto’s Lounge and get us a pizza for dinner. We need something.” She reaches for her pocketbook, which she keeps on the floor right next to her chair. She gets out her change purse and hands me a couple of dollars. “And, a course,” she whispers, “get us a order of onion rings,” and she nods her head toward you know who.

JJ looks up. “Rings!” he says. “I want rings!” He suddenly stirs away from his car magazine.

“Onion rings!” my two boys join in. They’re young, four and five, and they jump on JJ and try to tickle him. “Onion rings!” they laugh.

But JJ don’t like when they bother his things. He says, “Stop!” and gets a look because they wrinkled his magazine. “Stop!” he says again. My kids get in fights with JJ all the time. They play with the same toys, the robots and the plastic soldiers because they’re mentally about the same age, except JJ could throw them against the wall if he wanted to.

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