SEPTEMBER 26TH
When I got home, Pam standing in doorway w/e-mail from Farmer Rich.
Farmer Rich = bastard.
Will quote in part:
Let us now speak of what you intend to do with the requested money. Will you be putting it aside for a college fund? You will not. Investing in real estate? No. Given a chance to plant some seeds, you flushed those valuable seeds (dollars) away. And for what? A display some find pretty. Well, I do not find it pretty. Since when are people on display a desirable sight? Do-gooders in our church cite conditions of poverty. Okay, that is fine. But it appears you will soon have a situation of poverty within your own walls. And physician heal thyself is a motto I have oft remembered when tempted to put my oar in relative to some social cause or another. So am going to say no. You people have walked yourselves into some deep water and must now walk yourselves out, teaching your kids (and selves) a valuable lesson from which, in the long term, you and yours will benefit.
Long silence.
Pam: Jesus. Isn’t this just like us?
Do not know what she means. Or, rather, do know but do not agree. Or, rather, agree but wish she would not say. Why say? Saying is negative, makes us feel bad about selves.
I say maybe we should just confess what Eva did, hope for mercy from Greenway.
Pam says no, no: Went online today. Releasing SGs = felony (!). Does not feel they would prosecute eight-year-old, but still. If we confess, this goes on Eva’s record? Eva required to get counseling? Eva feels: I am bad kid? Starts erring on side of bad, hanging out with rough crowd, looking askance at whole notion of achievement? Fails to live up to full potential, all because of one mistake she made when little girl?
No.
Cannot take chance.
When kids born, Pam and I dropped everything (youthful dreams of travel, adventure, etc.) to be good parents. Has not been exciting life. Has been much drudgery. Many nights, tasks undone, have stayed up late, exhausted, doing tasks. On many occasions, disheveled + tired, baby poop and/or vomit on our shirt or blouse, one of us has stood smiling wearily/angrily at camera being held by other, hair shaggy because haircuts expensive, unfashionable glasses slipping down noses because never was time to get glasses tightened.
And now, after all that, our youngest to start out life w/potential black mark on record?
That not happening.
Pam and I discuss, agree: must be like sin-eaters who, in ancient times, ate sin. Or bodies of sinners? Ate meals off bodies of sinners who had died? Cannot exactly recall what sin-eaters did. But Pam and I agree: are going to be like sin-eaters in sense of, will err on side of protecting Eva, keep cops in dark at all cost, break law as req’d (!).
Just now went down hall to check on kids. Thomas sleeping w/Ferber. This not allowed. Eva in bed w/Lilly. This not allowed. Eva, source of all mayhem, sleeping like baby.
Felt like waking Eva, giving Eva hug, telling Eva that, though we do not approve of what she did, she will always be our girl, will always be apple of our eye(s).
Did not do.
Eva needs rest.
On Lilly’s desk: poster Lilly was working on for “Favorite Things Day” at school. Poster = photo of each SG, plus map of home country, plus stories Lilly apparently got during interview (!) with each. Gwen (Moldova) = very tough, due to Moldovan youth: used bloody sheets found in trash + duct tape to make soccer ball, then, after much practice with bloody-sheet ball, nearly made Olympic team (!). Betty (Philippines) has daughter, who, when swimming, will sometimes hitch ride on shell of sea turtle. Lisa (Somalia) once saw lion on roof of her uncle’s “mini-lorry.” Tami (Laos) had pet water buffalo, water buffalo stepped on her foot, now Tami must wear special shoe. “Fun Fact”: their names (Betty, Tami, et al.) not their real names. These = SG names, given by Greenway at time of arrival. “Tami” = Januka = “happy ray of sun.” “Betty” = Nenita = “blessed-beloved.” “Gwen” = Evgenia. (Does not know what her name means.) “Lisa” = Ayan = “happy traveler.”
SGs very much on my mind tonight, future reader.
Where are they now? Why did they leave?
Just do not get.
Letter comes, family celebrates, girl sheds tears, stoically packs bag, thinks, Must go, am family’s only hope. Puts on brave face, promises she will return as soon as contract complete. Her mother feels, father feels: We cannot let her go. But they do. They must.
Whole town walks girl to train station/bus station/ferry stop? More tears, more vows. As train/bus/ferry pulls away, she takes last fond look at surrounding hills/river/quarry/shacks, whatever, i.e., all she has ever known of world, saying to self, Be not afraid, you will return, + return in victory, w/big bag of gifts, etc., etc.
And now?
No money, no papers. Who will remove microline? Who will give her job? When going for job, must fix hair so as to hide scars at Insertion Points. When will she ever see her home + family again? Why would she do this? Why would she ruin all, leave our yard? Could have had nice long run w/us. What in the world was she seeking? What could she want so much that would make her pull such desperate stunt?
Just now went to window.
Empty rack in yard, looking strange in moonlight.
Note to self: Call Greenway, have them take ugly thing away.
2014 LAUREN GROFF. At the Round Earth’s Imagined Corners from Five Points
LAUREN GROFF was born in Cooperstown, New York, in 1978. She has a BA from Amherst College and an MFA from the University of Wisconsin-Madison, and was the Axton Fellow in Fiction at the University of Louisville.
Groff is the author of The Monsters of Templeton, a finalist for the Orange Prize for New Writers; the story collection Delicate Edible Birds; Arcadia, a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize for Fiction and a New York Times Notable Book of 2012; and a forthcoming novel, Fates and Furies. Her fiction has been published in The New Yorker, The Atlantic, and Tin House and anthologized in The Pushcart Prize, PEN/O. Henry Prize Stories, and three editions of The Best American Short Stories.
Groff writes with rich, evocative language about the intersection of mythology and desire. The New York Times called her work “timeless and vast.”
She has lived in Gainesville, Florida, for nine years and has just begun to write about the state. This story is indebted to stories her father-in-law has told of his Florida childhood.
★
JUDE WAS BORN in a cracker-style house at the edge of a swamp that boiled with unnamed species of reptiles.
Few people lived in the center of Florida then. Air conditioning was for the rich, and the rest compensated with high ceilings, sleeping porches, attic fans. Jude’s father was a herpetologist at the university, and if snakes hadn’t slipped their way into their hot house, his father would have filled it with them anyway. Coils of rattlers sat in formaldehyde on the windowsills. Writhing knots of reptiles lived in the coops out back where his mother had once tried to raise chickens.
At an early age, Jude learned to keep a calm heart when touching fanged things. He was barely walking when his mother came into the kitchen to find a coral snake chasing its red and yellow tail around his wrist. His father was watching from across the room, laughing.
His mother was a Yankee, a Presbyterian. She was always weary; she battled the house’s mold and humidity and devilish reek of snakes without help. His father wouldn’t allow a black person through his doors, and they didn’t have the money to hire a white woman. Jude’s mother was afraid of scaly creatures and sang hymns in the attempt to keep them out. When she was pregnant with his sister one August night, she came into the bathroom to take a cool bath and, without her glasses, missed the three-foot albino alligator her husband had stored in the bathtub. The next morning, she was gone. She returned a week later. And after Jude’s sister was born dead, a perfect petal of a baby, his mother never stopped singing under her breath.