One day they lucked out because her mother was late.
Maggie was walking in a circle, fuming, kicking up leaves. It was cold, clammy, wet outside. She didn’t like it. Tyler came by and said in a nice voice, You okay? He was that much older she didn’t recognize him.
No, said Maggie. My mom’s late.
We live over there. He pointed at the garage where they hung out. Me and my bros. You wanna come hang out until your mom gets here? You can see from the side window.
I dunno, Maggie said.
My mom’s there.
Okay.
She followed him to the garage and they went inside. There were Tyler’s friends. They stood around awkwardly, then Tyler said, Wanna sit on the couch? As soon as Maggie sat down, she knew this was bad. They jammed in beside her, pinning her, and Tyler said, You tried to kill Dougie. Then he and the other boys started putting their hands all over her. Their fingers went straight to her non-breasts and poked into her Tuesday panties. They dog-piled her, their grubby paws pinching, prodding, prying her apart. She had a fainting feeling, like she was weak and drained of all her strength. A floating grief came over her like a soft veil. Her head buzzed. But the fingers moved still harder and a hot burn hit her gut. She shrieked. When Tyler tried to cover her mouth, she bit down on his finger until she tasted blood. Buggy pushed her back in the cushions and she screamed louder, slammed her knees into his crotch so hard he yipped and howled like a puppy. Curtains tried to keep a hold but her thumbs went out and jabbed his eyeballs. He fell back, yelling he was blinded, and she jumped toward a guitar, swung it up against Brad’s face. She knocked him against the wall. He curled his arms around his head.
Buggy was curled in a corner, bawling. Brad was wheezing. They were all in trauma.
Boys? Boys? You hungry? The mother out the back door.
Naaah! called Tyler.
The boys, except for Buggy, still curled on the floor, stood panting, staring at one another, in a circle.
Finally Tyler said, Fuck, that was amazing. Hey, Maggie, we need a front man. We need a girl. Wanna join our band?
Join? Maggie tossed her hair, inching backward. Straightened her clothes. Adrenaline was wearing off and common fright was telling her to find the door.
We’ll tell if you don’t join, said Tyler.
She stepped to the door, opened it. Rage whirled around her like a burning hula hoop.
Tell? Tell? Go ahead. You know Landreaux who killed my brother? Well, he’s my stepfather now. He’ll hunt every one of you down. He’ll shoot your heads off. Bye.
Maggie ran back to the corner where she was supposed to meet her mother. The car was pulling up.
Sorry I was late, honey. Did you get bored?
Shut up, said Maggie.
Shut up? Shut up? Is that any way. .
Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Maggie shrieked.
She ran straight into the house, into her room. Slammed the door. After a while she sneaked out to go to the bathroom. Then in the hallway LaRose came up behind her.
Quit following me around, brat, Maggie said.
Her head felt funny, like what those boys did sucked her brains out. Their touching hands were gross and left germs of stupidness. She wanted to wash and wash.
Little asshole. She nearly slapped LaRose.
But she couldn’t hold on to the bitchiness. LaRose was so frustrating, melting her with nothing particular except he never hurt anything. It got dark early, so Maggie and LaRose went downstairs to see if there was food. They ate some ice cream.
Maggie poured a can of Dad’s beer into the dog’s water bowl. He walked over and sniffed it suspiciously, but the smell was good. He lapped it up. She poured him another. He liked that one too. Then he got a smashed look on his face, walked head-on into the closed glass doors, and fell over. LaRose slid open the doors and helped the dog outside.
Poor stupid dog, said Maggie.
The dog walked in circles and fell off the deck. LaRose sat down in the cold grass with him and cradled its head in his lap. The dog was panting, his eyes were glassy, but his snarl could have been a smile. Maggie sat shivering on a deck chair looking down at them.
The dog whimpered, a drunk dog whimper.
You need coffee, said LaRose. The dog didn’t move; slobber dripped until the dog’s breath bubbled all over LaRose’s hands and legs.
Maggie watched, admiring LaRose because of the way he let the dog slobber on him. And he was always like that. There was the way he always captured spiders, never squashed them, calmed hens before they had to be killed, saved bats, observed but never drowned hills of ants, brought stunned birds to life.
Nola said her Catholic grace before dinner. A thought nagged at Maggie. She looked at LaRose, who was studying his food. He was like that monk in the brown robe, Francis. The animals came to LaRose and laid themselves down at his feet. They were drawn to him, knowing they would be saved.
This thought was erased by the way her mother chewed. Actually, it was everything about the way her mother ate. She was already furious with her mother for being late. For putting her life in danger from those maggots. Maggie tried to turn away, to pretend her mother did not exist. But she couldn’t help watch. Nola poked her fork into one green bean, then raised it to her mouth. Sometimes Nola would look around the table to see if anyone else in the family was eating a green bean at the exact same time. At this moment, she was alone with her bean. Nola caught her daughter’s look of contempt. Surprised, she opened her mouth, bared her lips, and snatched the green bean off the fork with her teeth.
Maggie whipped her head back. How could she? How on this fucking earth? The teeth, the teeth, scraping the fork. The metal-on-enamel click. Maggie felt a sodden roar rising. She stared down at her plate, at the green beans, and tried to counsel her hatred to get behind her, like Satan, as hunky old Father Travis had suggested when Nola dragged her to confession that one time.
She took a deep breath. She picked up one green bean with her fingers. Nobody noticed. It took six hand-plucked green beans, a casual, Hey, hey Mom! Then a provocative mad flare of her eyes as she chomped green beans off her fingers, then the freakish grin that always got a rise.
Nola sat back, her fork half raised. She emitted a blistering wave of force.
This is how you eat a bean, Maggie, she said. Then she lifted the fork, bared her lips, scraped the bean off the fork with her teeth.
Maggie looked straight at her and mouthed words that only Nola, only her mother, could see: You are disgusting.
What’s happening? cried Peter, feeling the soundless screech, missing the lip sync.
The dog dry-heaved in the corner.
LaRose took the bowl and scooped the last of the green beans onto his plate. He ate them fast. He glanced over, worried, but the dog had quietly passed out.
Nola’s face darkened. She was panting hard now, with the shut ups adding to the you are disgusting. Maggie leaned her chair back, satisfied. She excused herself and sauntered up the stairs. Nola’s eyes followed her daughter, sour death rays. She had raised a monster whom she hated with all the black oils of her heart but whom she also loved with a deadly confused despair. Quietly, sinking back into her chair, she experimentally ate a green bean off the end of her fork. Neither Peter nor LaRose seemed to notice. So it wasn’t her? She was not disgusting? A tear dropped on her plate.
Peter saw another tear plunk. Are you okay?
Somebody told me today? said LaRose.
Peter put his arm around Nola, just held her. He was getting good at that.
Told you what?