In The Middle of Middle America Page 2

  I feel numb as I open the fridge before smelling the top of the milk carton. Then the image of the prettiest princess that’s ever lived leaves the forefront of my thoughts momentarily, just so I can take a mental note to buy a carton of milk from Ladow’s Market later today. Sometimes I remember these mental notes. But most times I don’t. It’s why I really should start learning to expect the cupboards to be bare every time I look inside them.

  “Fuck me,” I say to myself as I slouch back into the couch, a bowl of dry Oreo O’s pressed against my bony chest.

  When CNN opts for a commercial break, after their two hosts purse their lips in sorrow through the screen at me, I switch over to FOX News.

  “It is believed she had been spending time in Paris with her rumored boyfriend Dodi Fayed, son of the billionaire owner of Harrods, Mohamed Al-Fayed.”

  “This is nuts,” I say to nobody, spitting miniature shards of Oreo O’s onto my blanket.

  Then FOX News decides to take a commercial break too, and as I switch to the next channel to hear Sarah-Jane Zdanski teasing her new upcoming interviews, I think about ringing Mia, wondering if she’s yet heard the news. She loves Princess Diana. Loved Princess Diana. Holy shit. I can’t believe I’m talking about Princess Diana in the past tense. But I shouldn’t disturb Mia. Not on the weekends. She has her children to—

  Holy shit!

  Children.

  I sweep my security blanket away, tossing my bowl of dry Oreo O’s to the carpet, and sprint as fast as I can, skidding from the kitchen-living room into my tiny bathroom.

  “Please.”

  Please.

  As I reach for the stick, I hold my eyes closed; a routine I’ve adopted over the past eighteen months of peeing on sticks and then waiting two minutes for the results to show.

  “Please. Please,” I whisper.

  Okay, Lucy. On three, open your eyes.

  “One… two…”

  CAOIMHE LARKIN

  “Jesus… is that it?”

  “Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain, Caoimhe!” Mam snaps at me. Though I can tell she’s just as let down by this as I am. Her eyes are squinting and her hands are getting all fidgety. She does that when she’s uncomfortable — shuffles one hand inside, then outside the other over and over again. She did it for the entire flight over here.

  “It’s just a bloody triangular bundle of bricks,” I say. Then I tut. A really loud tut; loud enough for Dad to hear it, even though he’s on the other side of this… this… triangular bundle of bricks.

  “The geographical center of the United States of America,” Dad reads out loud, as if we didn’t already know why we were stood around the triangular bundle of bricks. He has one foot on the edge of the monument, his forearm resting on his knee, and is squinting at the fading bronze plaque screwed into the bricks. “Lebanon, Kansas.” Then he looks up at the stars and stripes flapping above us.

  “Have to say, I agree with you, Caoimhe,” he says, cocking his head around the flagpole to take in my moody face. “I thought there’d be a bit more fanfare. Y’know Americans... they normally have fanfare for anything. They even have bigger bloody St. Patrick’s Day parades than we do at home. Sure, they call the baseball final the World Series… even though America is the only country that takes part. But for some reason, to mark the actual geographical center of the land of the whole country, all’s they’ve got is… is this… this….”

  “Triangular bundle of bricks,” I say.

  And then Dad laughs. Which makes Mam laugh. Which makes Aine laugh. And I know they’re all waiting for me to join in with a laugh, just so we can be one big happy family again. But I don’t. Cause I’m not in the humor of laughing. Not today. In fact, I may never be in the humor of laughing again for the rest of my whole shitty little life.

  I’m not annoyed by the triangular bundle of bricks. I’m annoyed by everything else around it. I’m annoyed by the flapping of that bloody flag above our heads. I’m annoyed by the little prat wearing a baseball cap who hasn’t stopped cycling around the triangular bundle of bricks on his rusty mountain bike while we stare at it like the blow ins we are. I’m annoyed by the smell of the air around here. I’m annoyed by the food. Everything’s way too greasy. I’m annoyed by the fake “Have a nice days” we get everywhere we go. I’m annoyed by the fact that every road around here seems so flat. Like, really flat. It doesn’t look right. No road back home in Tipperary is this flat. It just makes everything feel and look weird.

  “Are we not even going to get a smile out of ye today?” Mam asks.

  I huff… then flash her a smile. All of my teeth. All of my gums.

  “A proper smile,” Dad says. I drop the fake smile from my face, then shove my hands into the pockets of my hoodie. “You got that psychic reading in Esbon tonight, right? You love that sort of thing. That’s something to look forward to, isn’t it? Whatsername did you say to me? Funny name she had. Madam….”

  “Madam Aspectu,” Mam says, answering for me.

  “Fuck sake,” I mouth, just past my breath; past it enough for both of my parents, and my younger sister, to snap their faces toward me.

  “Excuse me?” Dad says, raising his eyebrows.

  “We’re in the middle of nowhere,” I say, taking my hands from my pockets and slapping them against the sides of my thighs.

  “You’re not in the middle of nowhere,” Mam says. “You’re in the middle of America. The greatest country in the world.”

  “Mam, look up and down this road… go on. Take a good look about yerself. There’s nothing around here… not far as far as our eyes can see. Does this look like the greatest country in the world to you? Does it? It’s hardly the America we’ve watched on TV back home, is it? It’s not New York. It’s not LA. I’m hardly gonna bump into Jason Priestly round here, am I? I doubt he lives in Lebanon, Kansas.” I slap my hands against the sides of my thighs again, and huff. “I mean…. I never even heard of Lebanon, Kansas before. I don’t even know where in America Kansas is.”

  “It’s in the middle,” Aine says, pointing at the triangular bundle of bricks. And then Dad laughs, followed by Mam. I can’t help myself this time. I snort out a cackle that I didn’t want to come out. The little wench. She’s only eleven years of age. And already smart as a whip. And as funny as a fart at a funeral. I love her. I love them all. I’d just rather love them all back home in Ireland rather than here… wherever here is… the bloody middle of middle America.

  “Tell ye what,” Dad says, throwing his arm around me and giving my shoulder a squeeze. “When you’re going to your psychic reading tonight, why don’t you take the wheel, huh? How about that?”

  “Really?” I say, my voice all high-pitched. “What if the police see us?”

  He squeezes me tighter.

  “Dunno.…” he shrugs. “I guess you’ll just have to put your foot down.”

  I drive carefully. Really carefully. As if there are other cars on the road. Which there aren’t. Not really. It’s so bloody quiet round here, though I guess that makes it the perfect place for me to learn how to drive properly. It’s certainly easier here than it is on the narrow, cobbled streets of Tipperary.

  Dad has been holding on to the handle of the door with both hands all the way to Esbon, but he hasn’t said anything to panic me or annoy me like he usually does when I’m behind the wheel. He has promised me he’ll buy me a car as soon as I turn sixteen. Which is only eight weeks away, now. Being able to drive at sixteen was the only cool thing about moving to America. I just pictured, in my head, being able to drive into school... and well, that was that. Who wouldn’t want to drive to school? So, my mind was made up. I was finally won over.

  Esbon seems to be a smaller town than Lebanon — which I wasn’t sure was possible — so it doesn’t take long for us to find the yellow-bricked bank we were directed to the back of by Madam Aspectu over the phone this morning.

  I indicate, then pull over and stare at the little tent down the end of the back
lane way.

  “You stay in the car,” I say to Dad. He holds his hands up immediately, as if he’s being arrested. Then he offers me one of his cheesy dad smiles. I know he feels bad for me and Aine, because he knows he ripped us away from our lives. But that kinda makes me feel bad for him. I can understand why he did this. He has to live his life as much as we have to live ours. He couldn’t have turned this opportunity down. And I should never have expected him to. Even if it was heart-breaking to leave my friends behind.

  “Of course I’m staying in the car,” he says. “You’ve made your intentions on that perfectly clear… numerous times, Caoimhe. Now, in ye go. Let’s see what this Madam whatever-her-name-is thinks life has in store for you in America, huh?”

  I huff out a sigh then offer him a wink and a grin. I know he doesn’t believe in this psychic reading stuff ’cause he used to make fun of me back home when I would go and see Philomena for readings. But he’s trying to act excited for me now because he wants me to be happy. He’s desperate for me and Aine to have something to look forward to; a reason to be excited about our new lives in the middle of America.

  I get out of the car and then take look around myself as if I’m expecting to see anything other than flat roads filled with nothing. It really is so bloody quiet around here. Then I step slowly into the narrow lane way before walking toward the red curtains across the front of the tent, above which, I can now make out, is a chalkboard sign that reads: “Madam Aspectu.”

  “Hello,” I say, inching closer to the slither of a gap in the curtains.

  Nothing.

  “Hello,” I say again, a bit louder this time.

  “Is that you Kow-im-hay?” a high-pitched voice says, butchering the pronunciation of my name.

  “It’s eh… it’s actually pronounced Kwee-Va,” I say.

  “Really?” the strange voice replies, even more high-pitched this time.

  “It’s eh... it’s an Irish name,” I tell her.

  “Ah, yes. Well, my little Irish doll… why don’t you just brush those curtains aside and step right in. Ma crystal ball is already bubbling for you.”

  MERIC MILLER

  I bend over and rest my hands to my knees, just so I can take in a deep breath. Don’t think I’ve ever ridden my bike so fast. Or so far. It took me forty minutes to get here—without stopping.

  I’m still bent over and still trying to catch my breath, with my bike stood up against the yellow-brick wall at the back of the bank, when a woman sweeps open the curtains and rushes out; her eyes heavy, a tissue pressed against her nose.

  She looks at me, then jogs quicker, leaving me alone to stare at the gap in the curtains. I walk closer and poke my nose in. It’s dark inside. But she’s sitting there with her eyes closed, a deck of cards fanned out on the table in front of her, a crystal ball that she probably bought at the two-dollar store sitting behind the cards. And, there’s steam rising from a plugged-in machine in the far corner of the tent for some reason.

  “Can I help you?” she says, without opening her eyes. Her voice is funny and high-pitched, like she’s some cartoon character.

  I take a step backward, pause, and blink my eyes a few times. Then I pick up the courage to take that one step forward again, poking my nose back through the gap in the curtains.

  “I uh…” I walk through the curtains, to the sound of a bell jingling above me, and then I wave away the steam coming toward me. “I uh…”

  “You’re not here for a reading. I can tell,” she says.

  I raise an eyebrow. Maybe that crystal ball isn’t from the two-dollar store after all.

  “No. Not for a reading,” I say. “Just looking for a favor, is all.”

  Her eyes open and, as they do, I have to take another step backward. They’re black. Not just the pupils. The whole of her eyeballs are black.

  “A favor you say?” she screeches. It doesn’t sound funny this time. It sounds scary. “I don’t believe I’ve listed favors as one of my services, boy.”

  “Well it’s... it’s ah… it’s ah…”

  “Speak boy!” she says. “I can tell you are a man of few words. My crystal ball is sayin’ you practically mute.”

  I stare at the crystal ball, then back into her black eyes. How’d she know I do all my talkin’ inside ma head and not out through my mouth like everyone else does?

  “It’s ah….”

  “Stop stutterin’ boy and tell me why you here if you not here fo’ a readin’.

  “It’s ah. …” She twists her face toward me, her black eyes widening. I take off my baseball cap and hold it against my chest. “It’s about a reading. A reading you have scheduled in for later.” I feel my palms get all sweaty, so I curl and dig my fingernails into them, just to stop myself from being such a pussy for once in my life. C’mon, Meric. You biked all the way here. Spit it out already. “She’s a red-haired girl. I don’t know her name. I saw her, y’see, down by the central monument in Lebanon. She’s European judging by her accent… or maybe Canadian. Don’t some Canadians talk really funny sometimes?” I wait for an answer. But her big black eyes just continue to stare through me. “Anyway…” I shake my hair. “We never get new girls round here and well… I overheard her down by the monument saying that she was coming to you for a reading tonight and I just wondered if… if you would do me a favor?”

  She stands. Really slowly; the wooden seat she’s sat in creaking and cracking as her heavy ass lifts from it.

  “What’s your name, boy?”

  I cough. A fake cough. Then I wave more of the steam away from my face.

  “Miller. Meric Miller.”

  “And you wish for me to do you what kind of favor, young Miller?”

  “I uh… I need you to tell this girl that she needs a boyfriend. And that that boyfriend should be me. I know how girls work. If she thinks a psychic said it in a reading, then she’ll believe it and then she’ll just have to fall in love with me and she won’t have a choice, and then I’ll finally have a girlfriend and─”

  “My boy,” she says, holding her hand up. “I am a psychic. Not a matchmaker.”

  “I’ll pay you,” I say.

  She sits her heavy ass back down on to her creaking chair and then taps her long fingernail against the tiny chalkboard on her table next to the crystal ball.

  “Forty dollars? But where am I supposed to get forty dollars from?”

  Her head shakes and as she sighs, she spreads her fingers wide on the table.

  “Well how much money do you have?” she says, her voice changing; the scary high-pitchiness gone, replaced instead by a woman who sounds pretty much like my momma sounds. Normal. With a hint of irritation.

  I shovel my hand into my jeans pocket and then drop all of my coins — as well as two empty candy wrappers — onto the table in front of her.

  “That much,” I say.

  KAI CHAYTON

  The key slides into the lock just as I’m putting on momma’s lipstick and it makes me turn my head so sharply that the lipstick draws across my cheek.

  Holy Hell. Poppa’s home!

  I’m still standing in front of the mirror, my body in shock, when the first step on our stairs creaks. So, I have to shake my head back to real life and find a place to hide. Quickly.

  I move to run toward my bedroom, but he might see me racing across the landing. So I fall to my knees, lower my face to the carpet and then snake my way under Momma and Poppa’s bed.

  His leather shoes squeak as they walk across the landing toward the bedroom and when he enters, his shoes are all I can see of him. His black leather shoes, his black socks, the hem of his always too-short black pants.

  He begins to whistle. A light tune that should offer a contrasting feeling to the manic thudding in my heart. But it’s not helping me calm down. Of course it’s not helping me calm down. If he sees me like this… Holy Hell, if he sees me like this…

  I try to steady my sharp breaths as I press my cheek to the carpet, my mind raci
ng as I stare at his shoes.

  What’s he doin’ home this early? He’s supposed to be at night church.

  Then, he stops whistling, sighs deeply, and I see his knees lower to the carpet. Holy Hell. He’s bending down. He’s heard me breathing. He’s gonna see me…

  A hand creeps under the bed, patting around while I hold a deep breath in my cheeks. I twist my head in the cramped space, to see what he’s feeling around for. His tie! He forgot his tie for church. I must’ve dragged it under the bed with me when I snaked my way here to hide. I pinch it between my two fingers, then bring it closer to his patting hand.

  “Ah got ya,” Poppa says.

  I hold my eyes closed in relief and let out a slow, grateful, silent sigh through my nostrils as he stands back upright.

  He whistles again as he strolls out of the bedroom and begins to trot down the stairs. When I hear him reach the bottom, I snake out from under the bed, only for Momma’s dress to catch against one of the slats. I hear it tear a little, just before the front door slams shut and the whistling stops.

  “Damn it,” I say, dragging the seam of the dress toward my face and squinting at it. It’s nothing major. A split of two stitches inside the waistline. Momma won’t notice. So, I flatten down the dress, steady my breathing after such a fright, and then walk toward the mirror in the corner of their bedroom. I look pretty in this. Prettier than Momma does. Though a lot of folk say me and Momma look alike. I guess I can see what they’re saying sometimes. I have long black hair like she does; though a lot of native American men wear their hair long, so I’m hardly unique. But I do have high cheek bones and long eyelashes like Momma has too; a couple of feminine features on my face to match my feminine fashion tastes. It’s just a shame I don’t have the female genitalia to go along with it all, too. For something so small, my penis sure does cause me a big problem.