A Certain Slant of Light (21 page)

  
"You're going to bed early tonight," said Cathy.

  
I was too fascinated to be afraid now. Everything was astound
ing. Being touched. Smelling people, their sweat, and perfume,
and even the soap they used to wash their clothes as they gave me
hugs goodbye. The power of all those eyes, shining right into
mine. The weight of things, like the punch in my cup. The weight
of me as I stood and moved. I was lightheaded with curiosity. I
wanted to run and sing and walk down a street where people
would turn a shoulder to pass without colliding with me.

  
Unlike the woman at the mirror, I saw no flashes of Jenny's past, no glimpse of the trauma that had caused her to flee. Like
Billy's body, Jenny's came with no memories at all. I remembered
then that James said it wasn't until he was inside Billy that he
started to remember his own life as one of the Quick. I felt
Jenny's heart start to race at the idea. I was a little afraid of what
I might recall about myself. But nothing came to me at first.

  
"Dan," Cathy whispered loudly. "Let's go."

  
After he exchanged a few quiet words with Pastor Bob, Dan
came and took my hand. "Want to ride with me or with your
mother?"

  
"I have no preference," I said.
" Cathy took the blanket from my lap and folded it. "You ride
with me."

  
"See you at home." Dan headed for a white van, and Cathy
put her arm around my waist.

  
"I can walk," I said, for although I found the warmth of her
arm against my body comforting, I wanted to walk free. I
stretched and even tried a little hop in my step. I marveled at
how strong my legs felt. The way my strides made my hair swing
delighted me. I laughed out loud.

  
"Well, I guess we're feeling better," said Cathy, uncertainly. It
wasn't until we were sitting in the car that she asked, "Jen, you
didn't
..."
She hesitated. "Have a vision or anything, did you?"

  
I just looked at her for a moment. "Not that I remember," I
said.

  
Once at home, I hurried to Jenny's room, closed the door, and
looked in the mirror. I could still hardly believe it was true, but I
was indeed this hazel-eyed girl with blonde hair and slender tan
fingers. I sat on the bed and took off my shoes. I wiggled my toes,
staring at them as if I'd grown wings. I hopped up and made a
few turning jumps, landing on graceful bending legs. Quickly, I
took off all my clothes, even the matching underwear, hypnotized
by my naked form in the closet door mirror. I felt the soft smooth
breasts and the tiny hollow of my belly button. I came close to
the glass and held up my hair to examine the shape of my ears.
What a gift, to be suddenly young.

  
For a moment, while I studied the maze of Jenny's ear and the line of her neck, I saw another throat, like a ghost image an artist
has painted over. This throat was paler, the ear a little rounder, the hair behind it curled instead of straight. I'm remembering, I
thought. But I was startled out of my vision by a rap on the door.

  
"Are you decent?" Cathy called from the hall.

  
"Just a moment." I looked in the closet, then opened the
dresser drawers. I took the top pair of neatly folded pajamas and
stepped into the bottoms. "I'm coming," I called, buttoning the
top.

  
I opened the door and Cathy went immediately to the top
desk drawer, pulling out a small date book. "Let's see," she said.
"No, you shouldn't start for another week and a half." She re
placed the book. "Tell me when you've washed up, and I'll come
read with you." Then Cathy looked at the room and frowned. "It
looks like a tornado hit."

  
"I'm sorry," I told her.

  
She shrugged and went down the hall. I grabbed the clothes
and put them into the hamper, except for the shoes, which I put
back in the box that I had seen Jenny take them from. Then I went into the bathroom where I had watched Jenny brush her
teeth. This was a strange and wonderful task, scrubbing my teeth
with a brush, tasting peppermint. And what a peculiar thing, the
need to urinate and the sensation of doing so. Everything was
new, as if I had never even been in my own body when I was
Quick. I came back to my room and sat at the dressing table,
brushing my hair over and over again, I was so taken with the
feeling. Not only was I Quick again, I was young. It was unbeliev
able.

  
"All ready?" Cathy asked, standing in the doorway with a
small magazine in her hands.

  
"Yes." I moved to the bed when she sat on the edge of it. She pulled open the covers, so I slid in, delighted by the cool smooth
ness of the sheets. Cathy put the magazine down for a moment
and with the sides of her hands thumped the covers on either
side of my legs to hug me in like a cocoon.

  
"Nice and snug," she said. "Should I choose first?"

  
"Very well."

  
She gave me an odd glance. I tried to think of how Mr.
Brown's students would reply. "Okay," I said.

  
Cathy opened the small periodical and flipped through a cou
ple of pages. "Here's one called 'The Miracle of the Missing
Key.'" She cleared her throat and began to read. "'By Amy
Christopher. My father tells me that I am alive today because an
elf once stole his magic key.'" Cathy spoke with the inflection of
a nanny reading to her infant charge. "I know it wasn't an elf,
and I know in his heart he knows it too. It was an angel of God
that saved me when I was only ten months old.'"

  
It was a pedestrian piece, but I would've forgiven the writer anything. Someone was reading
to me.
Cathy smiled when she
finished. "Your turn."

  
I took the magazine. It was called
In His Time.
I turned the
pages with pleasure. I stopped on a short poem.

  
"'Narrow the Way' By Prentice Dorey," I read aloud.

Always my grandfather stood at the gate,

A sweat stained hat in his powerful hand.

Always he pointed the stranger the way

To the bridge he had built on his ancestors' land.

He'd run his long fingers through gray thinning hair,

When the river was high or the storms had rushed in,

And pointed the way to each wagon or cart,

Never barring the path, never seeing their skin.

One farmer asked him if the trek would be safe.

He told him, "Stay to the path's what you do.

Don't look down. Don't turn back. It's narrow, that's true.

But if you keep going then God gets you through.'

  
I teetered on the verge of tears but laughed instead. Cathy
gave me an odd look as she took the magazine.

  
"Don't forget to say your prayers." She kissed me on the
cheek, and I could smell rose-scented lotion and something like
lemon in her hair. "I'll send your father in."

  
I was so intrigued by reading even a trite poem that I jumped
out of bed as soon as she had left the room and looked for Jenny's
books. To my amazement, there was no bookcase in the room. There were only a handful of books standing between two thin
metal bookends on top of her dresser: four schoolbooks (science,
history, government, algebra),
Be a Better Baby Sitter,
and a Bible
dictionary. I felt a pang, as if the universe had played a trick
on me.

  
I jumped back under the covers as I heard footsteps in the
hall. Dan came into the room and smiled at me. "Feeling better?"

  
I nodded. He crossed to the bed and kissed the top of my head.
His skin smelled of soap, but his shirt, for some reason, smelled of gardenias.

Nine

I STAYED IN MY ROOM, far too excited for sleep. I wanted to wait
until the others had gone to bed before exploring, so I sat down
and read Jenny's American history book. I had read history books
with my hosts over the years but had still never gotten used to
certain terms, such as
antebellum
—the time before the War
Between the States. It did not seem so very long ago to me. I my
self predated the war. Like the use of the term
antediluvian,
which divided time into two parts, before the great flood and af
jr,
antebellum
implied a separation of time. I had been left be
hind in the former pages of history. But Jenny's body was my
escape into the present world.

  
Finally the house had quieted into the tiny clicks and creaks
audible only when humans are at rest. I made a furtive path
through the silent dining room and into the night kitchen. I was afraid to turn on the overhead light, so I lit only the small bulb
over the top of the stove. A bowl of green pears sat like an offer
ing on the altar of the huge counter. I took one and bit into it, so
instantly intoxicated that I had to sit down to finish it. I cast
about in the cupboards and found a plastic jar of Country Fair
peanut butter. I opened and smelled it, laughing out loud. I found
a spoon in one of the drawers and tasted the paste. Even more
glorious than grape punch.

  
Next I explored the icebox. After sniffing a piece of bread
wrapped in foil, I crushed a corner of the odd wrapping. So thin,
the silver skin was almost weightless. The whole kitchen had a
peculiar cleanliness about it. Except for the pears, every morsel of
food was sealed away from the world. Cans of vegetables, jars of sauce, rice trapped in a rubber box. I missed the way Mrs. Brown
let onions and avocados swing in chain baskets in the pantry. And
then I remembered the kitchen of my childhood, where every
thing seemed to be part of the food. The flour and the table were
one. The pot that hung in the dark fireplace always smelled of
soup. The cotton bags of beans and potatoes were free to breathe the same air. Cathy's kitchen seemed to treat food with suspicion.
I preferred even Billy's untidy kitchen to this strange room. At
least at Billy's house, a mouse could survive for a night or two.