Still watching 414 Revere Avenue. Watching
it through synthetic bangs from a lime-green Pinto,
Tennessee plates, not too expired, nothing suspicious
on the seats. All her things are in the trunk. Even
my notepad, tucked above the visor, looks pretty innocent
up there, everything in code, to look for all the wide
world like a shopping list.
I washed her new clothes five times.
Most moms wouldn't even know about new clothes, the
formaldehyde on them. They'll fit just fine. I have
a good eye for that kind of thing. If the skirt is too
loose I can take it in. I can teach her how, she can
watch and ask as many questions as she wants.
I never park the car, don't even slow
down. I eat every detail about that house through the
corner of my eye, and if a longer look is needed, a
twist of the side mirror after passing the house will
do the trick. It's ten heartbeats or so before the maple
tree on the corner blocks my view.
The house is a pale peach, same color
skin gets when an arm is squeezed too hard. I can't
see any toys through the windows. No books on the bookshelves,
only videos. In the back yard a new satellite dish squats
where a swing set should be.
THE KINGSTONS it says on the mailbox.
Sounds all complete, but since when is a man and a little
girl a whole family.
There are visitors to the house. A woman
delivers the mail, young and too thin, long blond hair
bound with a black elastic doubled over twice. Every
day but Sunday she shows up between 10:35 and 10:50
wearing too much lipstick. Then there's this bald guy
in a blue car, same age as Mr. Kingston, stops by some
evenings after dinner and leaves past midnight, way
too loud, coming out laughing at jokes the beer makes
inside his head. There's a friend of hers with bobbed
red hair and a brown cardigan sweater, leather buttons,
who might come over any day after school except Wednesday.
She always wears jeans, never a proper dress.
I can tell you about the dog, how long
its droppings are left in the yard. I can tell you about
the grass so high it could hide broken glass. Or how
often Mr. Kingston brings home White Castle burgers
for her dinner. How far into the night she is stained
with blue sit-com light before going to bed. How seldom
Mr. Kingston reads to her. Her ratty hair.
I'm not stealing. I'm liberating. Making
things right, like one country who's had enough of another
country. I will pull into the driveway at 414 Revere
at 3:45 on Wednesday, wait for the school bus to round
the corner, and take off this ridiculous wig. She can
run to me, kissing and crying happy tears, and sit right
next to me, right here, until the two of us are out
of Tennessee. And if she doesn't, if Mr. Kingston has
fooled her mind into being afraid, we'll just have to
stay on the small roads until she calms down.
Then I'll tell her to reach under her
seat and unwrap the tissue paper, be careful so we can
use it for other presents later, and she will see how
clean I got the doll that she left outside all night.
How I smoothed and washed its ratty hair.
"I'll French braid your hair the
same way," I will say to her.
Then I'll ask her name. I think it must
be Carol, that seems right.
Matthew Myers is a writer living
in New Orleans, LA, we think.
