Lady Bits by Kate Jonez

Author:Kate Jonez [Jonez, Kate]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: JournalStone
Published: 2019-01-22T00:00:00+00:00

A FLICKER OF LIGHT ON DEVIL’S NIGHT

I suppose I should care more, but little by little all the ordinary cares I had before got chipped away.

The girl’s teddy bear is wedged in the corner of the floral sofa that was the least ugly one at the thrift store. She’s rearranged the cotton cover that’s supposed to hide the hideous thing. A beam of October light that seems transported from a Crate and Barrel catalog makes the earth tones I’ve been trying to decorate with look like they’ve been rolled around in actual earth. I guess you have to be rich to successfully dye fabric with tea. The bear is wearing the only good pair of earrings I ever owned—will probably ever own, if I’m honest about it. They are gaudy and haven’t been in style for years. For a minute I think I can hear the Pink song that was playing the night my ex gave them to me. That night, his eyes glittered as hard as the little stones with his excitement about all his big plans, all the crazy wild things we were going to do.

Nostalgia is stupid. It makes me physically sick. I never listen to old music anymore. I should probably sell the earrings. I forgot I even had them. I’ve got more important things to care about.

The living room windows vibrate like a bomb just created a concussion. Construction paper bats I cut out with the girl as the boy watched, so the house would look festive, twirl on their fishing line. Their wings cast long shadows across the braided rag rug. I can almost hear wings flapping, announcing the arrival of the dark angel of the cold times. I imagine the whole neighborhood dropping to the pockmarked ground with hands over their bleeding ears. I guess I’m not in a festive mood. There’s no reason to look out the window. There’s not a chance the angel dropped a bomb. Nothing as definitive as that. It’s only kids fighting. Why can’t they be happy for ten consecutive minutes?

I stomp through the living room and yank open the door to the attic. “What are you doing?” I try to modulate my voice so the situation—if it is a situation, and it probably is—doesn’t escalate.

The girl’s siren howl barrels down the stairs. It’s not the worst kind of scream, the kind that evokes a pool of blood or a bone poking through skin, but it’s alarming enough.

“Shut up, you fat-ass cockhole,” the boy yells. The attic is his room now because he’s too old to share with a kid, and he doesn’t care about the spiders. That’s the least of what he doesn’t care about. “Get out of my room.”

“I don’t have to. Mommm!” the girl wails.

I march up the stairs. They are hardwood and still shiny at the edges where no one walks on them. They’d be nice if I sanded and refinished them. “What is the problem?” I demand as I squint into the gloom. The floor is rougher up here.

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