Forgive Me

The Statues Under the Tree

All at once, I caught no sign of the foreign mother in me. No, that part had been crushed under the red fingernails of appeal.

-2/14/1920

A gaping hole lay where Lars had filled.

For almost a week-- a week filled with nothing but remorse-- the man below the home daycare had not shown his face. I made no effort to seek him out, but an eye or two toward his apartment door was something I found difficult to avoid. When would he appear, wearing that flickering grin like a bowtie, and guide me down the staircase? When would he bounce June on his knee or drape her hands over his fingers? When would he awaken me from this agonizing gloom?

Despair loomed behind my shoulder at the breakfast table, scanning my regret with empty sockets. It found me in a state of unexpected luxury, with my stomach brimming fuller than it ever had. Too, dressed about that same little bulge, was the glistening fur wrap eyeing my sudden flourishment. No longer were the pearls in the shop window out of my reach but gloating on my collarbone!

I would describe my newly acquired life as a blessing, had I not been dreading another paycheck.

Early morning Saturday, I soaked in the sound of children and hoisted June into my lap. She was considerably less bony than when we arrived and flushed with sunny color. The twangs of hunger no longer twisted themselves underneath her skin but hid deep beneath the three complete and delicious meals she had each day. Her hands were not latched around a plastic duck but a set of delicately painted animals.

"June," I whispered in her ear, aware she was engrossed with her figures and paying no heed to my words, "are you hungry?"

"No, mama," her bruised eyes spoke, though her mouth said nothing.

But even with no hunger to occupy her, another impairment screamed from those dim eyes. She was so young, I pondered, and so in need of an instructor or a doctor or anyone who could possibly help her see the features of my face! I wanted to be so much more than a shadow to her; I wanted a bond not even the wealth could break! I needed my daughter to see herself in the mirror and know how spellbinding she was.

Oh June, I needed so much from your young self. Perhaps it was I could not bear the thought of ending up alone. Or, for a better hypothesis, maybe I needed to forget how much you look like the man.

"I must leave," I blurted, wrapping my arms around her waist and squeezing till she giggled. "Your mama needs to go to work."

Ah, the money cannot keep itself running without Abigail's questions, can it? One must always have their lies set in place.

The streets no longer grabbed me by the throat but lagged behind me, desperate to receive my attention. I took the same road I had from the dock to the inner workings of the city, wishing to breathe in the same aromas and experience the same wonder I did the first time around. What else was I to do with so much time to spare?

Endless, bustling noise reached my tender ears and wormed its way down my throat. Hooves stamped at the soil, uplifting worms and ants onto the sidewalk. The disembodied heels were careful to step around them, as they were the droppings, but never paused in doing so. Like an assembly line, they possessed rhythm to every step; they danced to a similar tune, never tripping over their own feet. Everything was done for the purpose of the millions-- to allow the mass a constant line of business-- and fraught with regularity.

A stench wove itself through the seams of the atmosphere and wreaked havoc above the heads of the citizens. It didn't smell like the burning plaster below Pendant's Home Daycare but-- I took another whiff to be certain-- of labor. Labor consumed the air, ripping bronze talons through the patches of the city. But I seemed the only one able to detect it! The tight hats, I'm afraid, rendered Boston brains dehydrated and lapping up the smoke like oxygen.

Still, my clothes did not match those stumbling down the streets, but, this time, it was because they were so much more extravagant! A gown, peppermint pink, pinned with lace and frills galore, draped my bare shoulders and extended not even past the knee! The scandalous sight drew eyes toward me but were instantly captivated by the nineteen pearls indented on my collarbone. They were shocked to see their figure anywhere on me! I, the foreign, odd mother from Italy, should not be bearing the touch of royalty!

No longer did I hear any remarks of my salted hair or my dirty cheeks, only the jealous gasps of an entire class below me!

However, and it pained me to recognize this, my heart sunk deeper.

"Out, damned spot! Out I say!" are words I often found myself holding desperately onto. But that spot continued to grow, inch by inch, until it was dripping down the crevices of my palm and forming a puddle beneath my feet. One man's blood stained my hands-- one faceless stranger-- and drenched the cash in my pockets.

I found myself drifting down a path away from the white knuckles of the city and where dirt rode the plain like waves. So much pavement covered the city; it was difficult to find such immense amounts of nature. Here, trees scattered the upheaved dirt, creating bumps of red about the uneven terrain, and dipped over the empty construction vehicles.

The only tufts of grass untouched by the machines lied enveloped within a circle of eleven red maples and four red oaks, creating such a magnificent scarlet halo I could not resist settling myself between them. Once I did, it seemed the morning was shoved from the skyline and replaced with an irresistible ocean of color. No more of that silly blue crowded the sky; now, the brushes of gold, currant, and mulberry grazed the canvas and left dripping precision behind.

From afar, I spotted two figures encased in each other's arms. Underneath the dots of painted sky, their coverall straps were loose about the shoulders with no urgency to correct themselves. No, they wished to sit there, next to the golden buttons and underneath the shadow of the straw hats. Being proper was not their intended purpose; being rebellious, however, was.

The shorter man had his hands wrapped around the neck of the taller, staring with the face of unwatched admiration. His cheekbones were relaxed, his brow lowered, and his eyes drinking in the galaxies. There was vibrancy in his cheeks caught in a frozen, endless moment, as if his features had been ingrained with a sliver of moon across a statue's face. None of the pure affection in his expression was subtle; drama accompanied every movement of every crevice in his skin, pulling the rope further than it could go. He was tipped-- the hat, the smile, the shoulders-- and he was happy.

The one above him, however, was not bizarre but creamy, like icing. Sun-shaped glasses sat atop a fine nose, where below came a pristine Anchor. His Anchor swelled with tufts of blond and brought a definition to his face that, without the facial hair, could not have been possible. Everything on him, to the tucked tie and the polished shoes, was tidy and gloating. They looked down on the smaller man's rough apparel-- with his drooping bangs and careless collar-- with pique. However, even with the distastefulness corroding his eyes, there was something more powerful to battle it: passion.

The two men, seemingly unaware they were being watched, held intimacy in their warm bodies and loving gazes. They swayed to the tune of their own pulse, feeling the thumps against their thumbs. The backdrop of rolling dirt hills swelled into their performance, but the scarlet trees shrouded them in courage.

These were no concealed quarters-- anyone could peek into the alien exchange-- but nothing could harbor their yearning.

Purity layered their exchange like sponge cake and I could not help but imagine the scene differently. Instead of the two lovely men, David and I held each other under the angelic wings of the flora. The bloody feathers of the trees tumbled past our faces and caught in our hair, but we gave them no heed. What mattered was the warmth surrounding our skin and the begging of our red lips as they inched ever closer.

However, this scene was so idealized in my mind-- so utterly perfect-- that it quickly became dull. There was no realism in our latched hold and our pristine faces, only imagination. No, it was not as real as the two men, who laughed in the gusts of wind and stepped on each other's toes in an effort to evade them. And with such fake strips of drenched parchment in front of me, what could the pieces do but fall away?

I despaired at the loss of the perfect image and sat against the trunk once more. However, as I let the scent of the dirt and the trees to drift through my lungs, a faded scene appeared where the two men had been. There I was again, but instead of the fur and the gown dressing my rotting carcass, there was a cloth dress and a sunny cap. Underneath the starry shadow of the sky, the dress unfurled like lilies. Blue ink traveled up the underbelly of the flower, pinching the clouds' rays and tying them into a ribbon.

Here, in the arms of a faceless man, my features were not drenched sickly but warm. My face had life in it! My cheeks were stained with prolonged laughter! They had no worry of a bloody spot, nor a black lie. The weight on my shoulders were lifted, drifting back to Italy where they came from, and were free to embrace the serenity of the oaks.

I squinted to spot the face of the man beside me but could not make out the face. He towered over me, but not so much I could not reach his round cheeks. His attire was not stiff but drooping-- though, not out of grief, but of relaxation. His hands reached around my waist and hoisted me into the air, where I twirled and laughed in the hills of golden paint.

With such a start it threw me backwards against the trunk, I realized the man at my side was none other than Lars himself! There he stood, clear as the stretches of milky clouds, with his glasses down his nose and his eyes gazing only at me. His dazed smile caught my image with a gentle snap and stored it somewhere in the smooth stones of his eyes. Whenever I looked away-- to catch the leaves in the air or admire the masterpiece above me-- he gave my back a velvety grin.

Lars! Lars! How could it be him!

"Y' looked right well inna trance, dear."

I yelped and turned to my right, my hand cradling the pistol-sized outline in my jacket. A woman of fair size and skin matching the tree behind her lifted her cap to greet my wild stare. Two pigtails fought for dominance in the back of her head, stretching every thread of hair she had to create a tight, inescapable prison. Her smile was only teeth, brought to a whole only with the meat-colored lips bulging beneath it.

"No need t' get all worked up, darlin'" she smirked, swaying the side of her hips to swat at the sky.

Scrambling to my feet, I dusted off my pearls, the fur long forgotten in the dirt. "You cannot expect less of a reaction if you sneak up on someone!"

"Y'd be surprised how long I've been here."

"What is the purpose of you standing there, then? I find it unsettling you were watching me like that!"

She held up her hands, creating a defensive shield to counteract my alarm. "Hol' now, I'm jus' the messenger. No need to go off like that."

The sky in my cheeks drained, dying into flat grays in the dirt. "Messenger of what?" I fumbled.

Without saying a word, she held out her fat fingers to me. Inside, though somewhat crushed, was a red, paper poppy.