Victoria Zalewski “The Day We Visited Father”

THE DAY WE VISITED FATHER ____________________________________________________________ by Victoria Zalewski, Grade 10

“Think it’ll rain today?” Liam shuffles the dirt as he walks. I doubt he’s particularly interested in the state of the weather, but I think on my answer. It’s funny. I’d wondered the same thing this morning. My red sweater was suitable for everyday late winter but would do nothing to shield me from pelting raindrops. Then again, if I picked my green rain jacket and it didn’t rain, I’d be left with a flattened sense of self-esteem and sweaty underarms. It was a complicated situation. Pressured by Mama’s impatience, I’d chosen the red sweater, though I still didn’t know if I’d made the right decision. So far I am doubtful—the sky not having darkened for the theatrics, and the air smelling thick, earthy. “I dunno,” I say, and Liam’s shuffling takes up our quiet. We’re stalling behind Mama, which I’m glad for. She would have a fit if she saw the dust covering Liam’s sneakers—barely a week old! It’s strange, she hasn’t scolded us for dawdling, and strange for us to be so slow. Perhaps it’s the accumulating smell of ozone clouding our minds. Perhaps it’s because we’re visiting Father. Until I find whether I’ve made the correct wardrobe decision, both are equal competitors in the running. This dirt path behind the house runs long, long, long. It seems to run even longer today, if that’s possible. Last time we’d gone to visit Father, the corn stalks grew to the left of the path—tall, swaying, packed in tight. I’d trailed my hand along their lined leaves, growing generously in return for my murmurs of encouragement. Now the ground is barren, still halffrozen with the memory of last winter. It’s fun to hop on the spots of ice. They crack sharp, spider webs running through the frozen water and wetting the bottoms of my dress shoes. I take the opportunity now to do so, but Liam doesn’t. I offered to drag the wagon behind us, me being stronger and older and all. But he’d taken offense to this. Oh well. I’d rather have my hands free anyway. When we visit Father, the ants are especially restless. They’ve lived inside my chest for some time now, and when they wake, they crawl over my insides, hugging my lungs until I can’t breathe. I pull my hair band around my fingers tight, tight, tight. I learned that if I distract the hurt to other places, it stills their marching. My toes bump into Mama’s heels, and I turn my face down to dodge her scowl. We’ve stopped near a brown patch of field, much the same as every other brown patch of field, and Mama bends over, searching. For one. For two. For three. She looks up and gives a curt nod. “Will it be long?” The words slip out. Mama says nothing. Her back stays turned to me, her shoulders broad and broader—with every gust of wind she manages to puff up even more. She waits, a scouting bird, as I help Liam take the cloth bundle out of the wagon and lay it upon the half-frozen ground. Our trowel is first to be unravelled. Then the baby wipes, the clothespins, and the small container. Our simple toolkit. Our unsuspecting toolkit. “We are testing the soil!” we’ll say to passersby, with our dirt-covered hands and our sweat-covered foreheads, “Harvest wasn’t what we hoped for last fall.” The whole walk here, my shoes have touched the ground heel first. Heel-toe. Heel-

THE DAY WE VISITED FATHER ____________________________________________________________ by Victoria Zalewski, Grade 10

toe. Heel-toe. As I sit, I’m deliberate not to let a speck of dirt ruin their shine. This very quality was why I’d noticed them two days ago. They were on display in the nice section of the store, away from where Mama was searching through the clearance bins. The afternoon sunshine bounced off them like diamonds. Of course, I was dying to have them! It didn’t even take much to convince Mama. I think she feels bad for the ants, for the nightmares Father visits me in and how he twists up my memories. She told Mr. Anderson to put the shoes on our tab and I’d walked all the way home in my flats. Heel-toe. Heel-toe. Heel-toe. “Liam, go sit with your sister.” “But Mama, can’t I help? Please!” I hear a pause, silent save for the wind, before the trowel clatters soft onto the dirt. Liam slumps beside me. He’s pouting. What a baby. I hand him a clothespin, which he clamps onto his nose. We probably don’t need them. When we buried Father, nothing could block out the smell. His rotten scent seeped into our clothes until Mama gave in and burned them. After a half year, the smell must have escaped somewhere deep in the earth, deep as the roots of the corn stalks. But we clamp our noses anyway. My ears are straining so hard that when Mama starts digging, I jump fifty feet in the air. Shcchh. Whispers the dirt as it is pushed out of the way. Shcchh. I try to be a good look-out, fixing my eyes on the stretch of road across from the corn field until it tangles with the horizon. But my mind drifts off without permission, and I see Father’s watch deep down in the dirt. Shcchh. I imagine his unmoving face, pale skin, still fists. The golden watch waits for us, expensive and encrusted in soil. We need the money, Mama had explained. But the ants say we’re stealing. I twist the band tight, tight, tight. Slam. In the distance a car door shuts behind a man in an officer’s uniform. I just make out his face, his furrowed brow, tight lips, before he starts approaching. The hair band breaks against my skin.