Save My Soul

Silence [1]

1.

It's tangibly thick as I push open the front door of my home.

It wraps around me, cold, cruel, and empty. My one faithful companion.

Letting my backpack fall to the floor, I glance at the living room. Empty. It's strewn with old, flannel blankets, a jacket I discarded, a stack of records. He isn't home. I turn towards the kitchen, not bothering with the thermostat as I walk past it. I won't be here long.

The refrigerator is empty, except for an old bottle of ketchup, a water jug, a half a can of soup, and a six-pack of beer. I take the soup and sniff it. Smells alright. I drink it, and then open up the pantry doors. It's empty, except for a packet of pop tarts. I slip one out and tap it experimentally on the counter. It doesn't break but it bends a little: figuring it's safe, I put it to my mouth and nibble at it.

On the top of the fridge is the can of money. I stare up at it while I gnaw on my pop tart. Can't be put off any longer, I guess. Climbing up on the counter, I grab the can and slide back to floor.

If it weren't for the sporadic deposits that he makes, I don't know how I'd get by. Working part-time at the movie theater barely feeds me. As it is, I don't know where he's getting it. I don't think he's working anymore. He can't be.

I empty the can onto the counter, and count out four twenties and a few ones. I got my paycheck yesterday, and cashed it on my way home from school. I take the $120 from my back pocket and add it to the pile.

After paying the electricity, the water, the telephone, the fuel, and gas for the car, it doesn't leave me much for groceries, let alone anything else, but somehow I've managed to scrape by. 

I used to get odds-and-ends jobs, like mowing lawns, washing cars, or walking the neighbor's dog to make ends meet. When I turned sixteen, I applied at the theater: they told me they didn't usually hire so young, but I was relentless. I just needed part-time: that way I could still attend school. They relented and I started working Mondays through Thursday, and then again on Saturday. 

Opening one of the kitchen drawers, I pull out the envelope for the electricity bill, and glance at the minimum payment amount: $72.00. 

I count out $72, and lay it aside. I check the water bill: $23.00. 

I count out $23, and lay it aside. 

I do the same for the telephone, the gas bill, and so on. When I'm finished, I'm left with about sixty dollars for groceries. That doesn't include toothpaste or toilet paper or anything else. 

Staring at the small piles of money, I frown. I've learned to live on less, but outside of lunch at school, I feel like I haven't had a real meal in weeks. 

Making a snap decision, I decide I'm not going to pay the telephone anymore. I never use it anyway. Now I have eighty-something for groceries, and while it's not much, it'll hold me over for a week or two. 

Once that's all decided, I put the money in their envelopes, and carefully scrawl out their purposes on the front. Electricity. Water. Gas. Groceries. 

With that finished, I place the envelopes on the counter. I turn back to the fridge, the gnawing in my stomach making itself known with a vengeance. I finish off the pop tarts and then stare at the ketchup, wondering if it'd be to eat it off a teaspoon. I glance at the case of beer. It's been sitting there since yesterday; he must have been here while I was in school or at work. My chest tightens with resentment.

He shouldn't get to spend money on beer while his kid is starving. 

I grab the case and dump it onto the counter. Pulling the cans from the plastic, I crack the tops open, each can giving a strangely loud pop! sound, and then turn to the sink. Methodically, I pour each one down the drain, watching as the yellow, bubbling liquid disappears.

I take the empty cans and drop them into the trash can. 

He probably won't even notice. The thought thuds into my mind without warning and now, it's disappointment that flares in my chest. What's the point anyway? 

Taking the food money, I head upstairs, going into my bedroom. The room, like the rest of the house, is cold and musty from under-use. I make my way across the cluttered floor, ignoring the unmade bed, and retrieve my car keys from the dresser and my work vest from the floor. I usually ride my bike to school, and then work, but the grocery is farther away and I couldn't carry all the bags.

I'll stop at the store after work. My shift starts in twenty minutes.

As I head towards the front door, I shove the envelope into my pocket and take the house keys from the table where I'd dropped them before. 

The ancient Camry I use for my car is parked in the garage. It was once my father's, but he never uses it anymore. I took the keys one day from his dresser top and he never asked for them back. 

With a sigh, I climb into the damp-smelling vehicle and turn it on. The car groans and sputters for a moment. I jam down on the gas pedal and the sudden rev of the engine forces life into the system. I turn on the heating. It's nearing the end of March and it should be springtime but Minnesota, as usual, clings to winter like it's an old, fuzzy blanket. It's still 35 degrees out, the air is frigid, and I can see my breath floating in the air in front of me.

Carefully backing out of the drive, I don't notice the moving van until I've turned out onto the street. It's parked next door in front of one of the only empty houses on the avenue and I put the car in neutral, staring curiously. It's been empty since Ms. Graverly moved out, three years before, and I didn't know it was up for sale.

I sit there for a few minutes, watching as workmen lift furniture down from the back of the truck and haul it into the large, two-story house. There's a couple standing on the drive, talking with what looks to be a real estate agent as two little girls run, giggling, in figure eights around their legs. I notice a boy who is carrying a box from the van up the drive towards the garage doors and I blink. He can't be much older than me; his face has a boyish quality to it. Thick locks of black hair curl around his neck and ears and when he turns to stare at the little girls, I see that he has blue eyes and red, red lips with flushed cheeks.

I can't help staring, riveted, especially when I see the way his mouth turns up into a smile as he watches the girls. Putting the box down, he heads over to them. 

"Katie, you better give Lily's scarf back," I hear him call.

One of the little girls - the older one - waves the scarf in the air above the now wailing Lily's head, her expression screaming of mischief. When the boy makes as if to run at her, she shrieks, her black ringlets flying through the air as she whirls around on her chubby, little legs. Stumbling off towards the other side of the yard, she doesn't get very far before he catches her. I smile as he grabs her under the arms and tosses her up, spinning her around in fast circles. She laughs and shrieks until her mother turns around and says, "Katie!" But she doesn't quiet and now the other little girl starts tugging at her brother's jeans and begging to be spun around too. He stops spinning, places Katie on her feet, and then sits down beside them. The littlest one's face scrunches up and he leans over and nuzzles her neck, causing her to squeal. Katie jumps atop him and they all fall back into the grass.

I stare, open-mouthed. Longing pierces through my heart, so painful I reach up and touch my chest. Turning my head, I look back at my own house with the bare, gray lawn, sparsely dotted with grass, patched with weeds and dirt; the crumbling front porch; the black bits of tar paper sticking out from the cracks in the glass windows, and the faded, paint-colored wood slabs. The inside is worse, having been left to my fumbling care for the past five years. The newly inhabited neighbor's house is still relatively new, having been painted before Ms. Graverly left, with no sagging window frames or broken boards. The lawn isn't as bad as mine, though it also has suffered beneath winter's hand; there does seem to be more green than gray anyway. And somehow, the sweetness of the older brother playing with his small sisters lends a glow to the place, a warmth that was totally absent before. 

There are tears in my eyes. Switching gears quickly, I blink fast to dispel the blurriness and press down on the gas pedal. As I drive away, I look back once, because I can't stand not to, and I see the mother has been watching me drive away, a look of curious pity on her face.