Scarves

Floating around the room, I'm wrapped in scarves - in red, yellow and green - in scarves, filmy and light.  I dance in circles, throwing wide the heavy brown curtains, and letting the sun crawl into my arms like a child.  I dance and cradle my bundle of light, capturing its warmth, nursing it, gathering it up in scarves.  I laugh long and hard, spinning and gliding across the floor.  Tousled hair and big white teeth, I'm laughing.  Waiting for him to put his keys in the lock, waiting for him to come and dance with me.  Wanting so much to pull him into my sunlight.

And when he comes home, when he walks through the door, I call to him.  Come, come, my love, and dance.  Dance with me, I say, pushing out my bottom lip, twirling my hair, giving him the look he likes.  And he smiles, slips out of his suit jacket, and says, Silly Girl, what are you doing?  What?  He chuckles, and walks to me.  Chuckles, and pulls a scarf, the red one, from around my neck.  Red is passion, and he pulls it, pulls it, and passion grips my throat for just a second before it floats to the floor.  Where did you get these funny scarves?

My pulse slows, my smile fades, my love, he doesn't want to dance.  He only asks about the scarves.  He asks, and I remember my heart beating, my hands stuffing yellow, red and green to fill my pockets, pushing them down, down, and quickly.  Waiting, just waiting for the hands to fall upon me, for the hot heavy voice to stun me.  I remember my body as it quivered, my heart dancing hard and fast in my chest, the pockets bulging under my palms, as I left the store.  Waiting.  Wanting.  Walking slowly.  And looking straight ahead.  No one sees.  My love doesn't take me in his arms.  I look straight ahead.

My mother, I tell him.  They were my mother's.  And I don't chase the sun, as it turns to climb out the window.  I only stand still, allowing Robert to kiss my forehead and pat my backside, as he reaches for the paper.  He's had a long day.  His feet hurt too much to dance right now, this minute, and I look at the scarves, lying heavy on the floor.  Not moving, not clinging to my arms, my hair, my neck.  Not floating in the sunlight, gone now, or in the swift spring breeze that still blows through the room.  The hair stands up on my arms, right now, this minute, while hearing of his tired feet.  I've caught a chill.  Robert props his argyle socks on the coffee table and sighs.  I'm going to fix dinner, I say, folding my arms around my body.  I am starving.  He nods and turns the page.

Those little green monsters have got you again, my mother said.  Better watch out for them, Marie.  Envy isn't very becoming.  I see myself at sixteen, standing over the sink, doing dishes, the hot water running painfully over my hands.  My mother said I couldn't always have everything I wanted.  Sometimes I would have to settle for things a family like ours could afford.  But I hadn't asked for any things.  Had only said that one day, I would live in a big house with fresh air and sunlight, and I would marry a man who drove fast down the roads, the wind whipping through his hair.  I wanted a man who opened his mouth wide, and wasn't afraid to laugh.

At sixteen, the water scalded my hands, and the sun beat down on the window.  I stood on my toes, up over the sink, and reached to let it in.  I unlatched the window, aching to breath deeply.  No, my mother said, the pollen.  One sneezing fit, and your father will be up all night complaining about his allergies.  Go out on the porch if you want some air, but let the pollen stay outside, for your father's sake - and for mine.  She turned and left the room, her legs wriggling and scraping in the confines of her long, starched skirt.  I stared at the sun, rubbed my nose with a soapy hand, and welcomed the little green monsters.

In a kitchen of my own now, I stand at the sink and the water runs cold.  Numb hands, soaping pots and glasses.  Cold, wet, hands reaching for the window, welcoming the beating sun.  I feel the light on my face, and the breeze blowing through, making ripples on the water.  My mother's voice, an echo - You can't have everything you want, Marie.  Envy is unbecoming.  The stove heats to red, passion red.  I slosh the water around the pot, and move toward the burner.  I feel the heat, so close to my cold hands.  I hear Robert, snoring in the living room.  I picture his mouth hanging open, but where is the laughter?  He sleeps.

Noodles boiling in a pot, wriggling, twisting, dancing like scarves in the hot bubbles.  I walk quietly to the living room, red toenails sinking in the baby blue carpet.  I walk to retrieve my scarves.  There is no pounding now, no fear.  I pick the red one off the floor, then the yellow, then the green.  No one is watching.  My heart doesn't dance.  There's only Robert snoring, resting his aching, argyle feet.  I carry the scarves to the kitchen, and slide the pot of boiling noodles to the back burner.  The bubbles settle.  I let them sleep.

Go out on the porch if you want some air, my mother said, but finish the dishes first.  Sixteen, and unable to breathe in our house.  Sixteen, with wild hair and bright blue eyes and lungs that never seemed to fill.  The screen door slammed behind me.  The air cool, the sky clear, I sat on the step, and stared hard at the road that split our many acres of land in two.  So much land, and so quiet.  Stared hard at that road.  Waiting.  Wanting.  Looking straight ahead.

Robert sleeping still, I put the food away.  My big house around me, and so quiet.  I smack my feet on the linoleum, push in my chair, slam the refrigerator hard.  Too quiet.  The house is barely breathing, but my heart jumps in my chest.  My hands shake, as I carry my dishes to the sink.  The glass rattles, and I turn on the water.  Hot, so hot, and it burns.  I recoil, the glass crumbling in my clenched fist. Scalded hand.  Bright red warmth.  I scream silently, while Robert sleeps.  His mouth hangs open.  Where is the laughter?

Sixteen and waiting.  Listening for the screech of tires, the sound of his laugh.  Straining to catch a glimpse of dark hair lashing at his face in the wind.  Waiting.  Knowing.  I sat on the porch, until Robert's car came racing around the bend.  I knew he would come, and I ran, ran from the porch to the roadside, bare feet slapping at the walkway.  Nails and fingers raking through my wild hair.  White teeth and laughter, his and mine.  Like he knew I would be there waiting.

Get in, he said, and at sixteen, I didn't look back.  I scrambled in beside him, bare feet and short shorts, my legs sticking to the vinyl seats.  We drove fast, fast around the roads, so fast we swallowed air in gulps, so fast my lungs were filled.  I laid my head back and stared at him, wide eyed, until he looked at me.  He turned his square face, and he looked.  He saw me, sixteen and knowing.  Sixteen, and sticking to his seats, and he opened his mouth, and he laughed.  He laughed long and hard, and Robert was mine.  It was music, his laugh, and my heart was dancing in my chest.  My body shook.  He laughed.  Robert and me.

We pulled over to the side of the road, and Robert said, What's your name, Little Wild Girl? And what were you doing running out in the road like that?  His eyes were smiling, and his mouth was pouring silent laughter, and I said Marie, and I was waiting for you.  He smiled, and he knew it was true.  Dance with me, Marie, he said.  Come, come, my Little Wild Girl, and dance.

I stand at the window now, pulling splinters of glass from my hand.  I bleed into the drain, the sun gone, the night air numbing the pain.  The water runs cold, but the bleeding doesn't stop.  I pull the red scarf from my pocket, wrapping it round and round my palm.  The blood seeps through, and the red grows deeper, darker, lovelier.  I step onto the porch, letting the screen door slam behind me.  I stare at the road that splits our land in two.  I am no longer sixteen, but I am still waiting.  Wanting.

Come, come, and dance, he said.  Dance with me, Little Wild Girl.  I pushed my lip out, and twirled my hair.  He opened his mouth and laughed, hopping out and rounding the car to my side.  I stuck to the seat, wide-eyed, but not afraid, and Robert took my hand.  He pulled me onto the hood of his bright red, passion red, car.  Come up here, Bright Eyes, where you won't hurt those pretty bare feet.  I belonged to him instantly, and he opened his mouth, a window, and he laughed, the sun pouring into my heart.  We danced slow and close, and then Robert asked me if I knew why he'd chosen red.  I stared at the car beneath my feet and I shook my head, hoping.  Red for passion, Little Wild Girl.

Red for passion.  I stared at the scarf, wrapped around my bleeding hand.  My palm ached from the pressure, and stung from the slivers of glass it had taken under the skin.  The screen door slammed again,  and Robert wrapped his arms around my waist.  Hello, Sleepyhead, I said.  I've been waiting for you.  What are you doing out here, he asked?  It's getting chilly.  We'll have to shut the windows tonight.  I turned toward him, looking at him wide-eyed and afraid, no longer knowing.  What's wrong, Marie?  He was smoothing my hair.  Wild hair.  What happened to your hand?  You're bleeding.  Yes, I know, I said.  Yes, yes, I know.

Sixteen and lying in the grass, next to Robert's red convertible.  Bright sunlight and strong hands, holding me down.  Struggling, but not afraid.  Lying between the happy daisies, bobbing in the breeze.  Taking Robert's open mouth on mine, breathing in his laughter, filling my lungs.  Sixteen and fighting.  Wanting.  Bright blue eyes and wild hair.  Fighting, and needing.  My heart jumping in my chest, my lungs filled with  laughter, my eyes staring straight into the sun.

Sixteen and lying in the grass, my body quivering.  Robert's mouth had moved, from my neck to my shoulder, down my arm, becoming still.  Spread naked in the grass, the sun beating on our bodies.  Knowing.  Basking in the glory of surrender.  Robert's mouth fell open, breathing silent laughter with serious eyes.  My lungs full, I stared at our reflection in his shiny red car.  Two glowing bodies, lying naked in the sunlight.  Do you know why I chose red?  Robert whispered.  Yes, I know, I said.  Red for passion, and I pulled him down to me again.

I'm okay, I tell Robert.  I broke a glass, that's all.  He takes my hand.  Why not use a bandage?  He asks, his square face staring into mine.  I had the scarf in my pocket, I say.  It was the first thing I grabbed.  I follow him inside, the screen door slamming behind us.  Are you hungry?  I ask.  I can heat your dinner.  I think I'll take a shower, he says.  You sure your hand's okay?  Yes, I say.  Yes, it's okay.  He leans down to kiss my forehead.  Be back soon, he says, smiling.  Yes, I say.  I hope so.

Sixteen and lying in the grass, Robert asks me - Do you know the true color of the sun, Bright Eyes?  Of course I do, Silly.  It's yellow, I say.  No, he says, holding me down.  It's the color of hope.  He brushes my hair away from my eyes, and he laughs - opens his mouth and laughs.  How do you like that, Little Wild One?  And I smile, squirming beneath him.  I like that a lot, I say.  Hope.  Yellow hope, beating on my kitchen window, yellow hope, shining down on Robert and me.  Hope for what?  I asked him, staring innocently into his face.  There was nothing more to hope for.

Alone in the kitchen, I pull out the yellow scarf.  I spread hope on the table in front of me.  Spread yellow hope with my passion red hand.  It was a beautiful hope color, like the sun setting, just for me.  My mother's voice still hovers in the air.  No, Marie, keep the windows closed.  Don't let in that yellow hope.  Go outside, if you want to breathe.  Go now.  Sixteen and a speedy red convertible.  Sixteen, and never looking back.  I lift my heavy red hand to my face, and I sob.  Shoulders heaving, but no tears.  Only my mouth gulping for air, struggling to fill my lungs.

Robert steps out of the bedroom, wrapped in a towel, while a yellow ball of hope is wrapped tightly in my fist.  Let's go for a drive, I say.  He gives me a strange look.  Right now?  This minute?  Yes, I say.  Right now.  This minute, please.  I smile bravely, my heart jumping in my chest, squeezing the yellow ball in my aching hand.  I look straight ahead.  Waiting.  No longer sixteen, but wanting.  All right, he says.  I'll get dressed.  And I thrust the yellow scarf down deep in my pocket.

Sixteen, and I'm in love with Robert, Mother.  Sixteen, and the kitchen window blew cool, fresh air on my scalding hands.  She stood in the doorway, lips pursed, legs trapped under her long starched skirt.  Close the window, Marie.  Allergies.  Your father.  No hope.  The water rippled in the breeze.  She moved toward me.  Hot, so hot.  And it burned.  Scalding hands.  The glass crumbled, and she reached for the window.  Don't, I said.  We're leaving tonight - Robert and I.  We're leaving, Mother.  And her hands froze in the cool, fresh air.  She was icy, numb, stretching her stiff , bony hands toward the open window.  She looked at my hand, stuck with slivers of glass, passion red blood running down the drain.  Leaving?  she said.  Her eyes filled, the wind blew ripples in her tears.  But Robert beeped his horn, and I left her there, thawing in front of the window.

Ready?  Robert asks, stepping out of the bedroom.  Yes, I say.  Let's go.  He takes me by the hand, and leads me to the car.  The screen door slams behind us.  Marie, where are your shoes?  Aren't you wearing any shoes?  he asks.  Bright red toenails, sinking in the grass.  I shake my head, no.  Well, I suppose we'll only be in the car.  But it's getting chilly, you know.  He looks at me, imploringly.  I'll be all right, I say.  My love, he doesn't want to dance.  Sixteen, and stopping on the side of the road.  Come up here, Bright Eyes, where you won't hurt your bare feet.  Dance with me, Little Wild One.  Dance with me.

Robert opens the door for me.  Put the top down, I say.  And before he has a chance to say anything, anything at all, 'Please' tumbles from my bottom lip.  I twirl my hair and smile, thrusting my bright red hand deep in my pocket, fingering the yellow ball of crumpled up hope.  It's not too cold, I say.  Remember, Robert?  Remember?

Sixteen, and Mother left thawing at the kitchen sink.  Screen door slamming, and bare feet slapping on the walkway.  I ran for the road, at the first sound of the horn.  White teeth and open mouth.  Robert waited in his bright red, passion red car.  Leaving.  Sixteen, and never looking back.  I scrambled in the door, and clung to Robert's side.  We flew over the road that split my family's land in two.  I stuck to the seats, top down, wind whipping through my hair.  Wild hair.  Bright eyes.  Laughter.  Oh, Robert.

I lean my head back against the seat, and stare at him wide-eyed, as we move cautiously over the road that splits our land in two.  The cool wind tickles my face.  Faster, Robert.  Drive faster, I say.  What's the rush?  He asks.  We have nowhere to be.  I sink down in the seat, eyes lowered, thighs sticking, my hand thrust deeply in my pocket.  Please, I breathe.  But Robert turns his square face to mine.  Did you say something?  he asks.  Marie?  But I keep my eyes down.

Sixteen and shooting out over the roads, looking for our place to be.  Robert and me.  He stops the car, drags me out, and pulls me down in a field full of daisies.  I gasp for breath, but my lungs are full.  The sun down now, and Robert's bright red, passion red convertible, sheds light on our bodies.  Robert opens his mouth, and he fills me with laughter.  My heart dances in my chest, as he wrestles me down, down in the daisies.

Pull over, I say.  Pull over, Robert.  Now.  I slide my foot to the driver's side, and slam on the breaks, yanking the wheel to the right.  The car swerves, and skids into the field stretched out beside us.  It rocks to a stop, Robert's eyes wide.  His mouth is open, yelling something, but the words are lost in the space between us.  He's flailing his arms around, shouting at me, but I open the door and run.  I run, red toenails curling in the grass, red bandaged hand pulling bright yellow hope from my pocket, trailing the scarf behind me.  I run, run fast across the field, like a shooting star.  My heart jumps in my chest, my lungs gasp for air.  Catch me, Robert.  Catch me, please.

I hear his feet behind me, thumping hard on the ground.  I twist my head around to catch a look, and see him running, the wind in his hair.  His mouth is open, he's breathing hard, but the laughter is caught, stuck somewhere deep inside.  Marie!  Marie, wait.  Stop!  But I keep running until I step on the yellow scarf, until I step on it hard, and my body jerks to a stop, my chin thrusts upward toward the moon, my ankle twists, and my body falls hard to the ground, landing in a patch of trampled daisies and swallowed up hope.

Marie, are you all right, Marie?  Are you all right?  he keeps asking.  Are you all right, all right, all right?  Yes, I say.  Yes, I'm all right.  And he's down beside me, smoothing my hair.  Wild hair.  I lie there, just lie there quivering, feeling his hands travel over my face.  Are you sure?  Yes, I'm sure, I say.  And he runs one flat palm down my arm, to my hand.  He takes it carefully, in his own.  The red scarf is now brown with dried blood and dirt, and he peels it slowly from my hand.  Does it hurt?  he asks.  But I just lie there, quivering, staring at the night sky, and searching for the sun.

Robert picks me up, and carries me to the car.  I see the scarves behind us, lying heavy in the grass.  Not dancing with the daisies, not bobbing in the breeze.  I gaze at them lying there, caked with blood, soiled and dampened by the moisture in the air.  They settle there, in the grass, and I can't bring them back.  My legs are slung over Robert's arm, and my ankle pains badly.  I'll let them sleep, but still, I'll remember - sixteen and lying between the daisies, dry and happy in the sunshine.  Sixteen, Robert and me.  Oh, Robert, Robert and me.

He props me up against the car.  Here, lean on me, he says.  I'll open the door for you.  I slump against him, exhausted.  What's gotten into you, Marie?  He grabs me, thumb and forefinger squeezing my chin.  You could have killed us.  But staring into my face, his eyes soften and start to ripple.  Why did you run off like that?  Sixteen, and what's your name, little wild girl?  And what were you doing running out in the road like that?  My name is Marie, and I was waiting for you.  My name is Marie, I say, and I was waiting for you.  Waiting.

Funny girl.  Let's go home now, he says.  Let's go home.  His square face searches for my eyes.  I pull his head down, pressing my mouth to his, twisting my hands in his hair.  He stiffens.  Marie?  I start unbuttoning his shirt.  Quickly, quickly - afraid if I slow down, he'll make me stop.  Here, Marie?  Here, I whisper.  Please, Robert.  And I reach for his head again, feeling his hair sliding through the cuts on my hand.  But your ankle, Marie.  You're hurt.  Marie, Marie, what's wrong?  Down, down in the grass.  Shhh, I say.  No words, Robert.  Not now.  I lay down, next to the passion red car, and I fumble with his clothes.  He's breathing hard, but I struggle to fill my lungs.  Yes, Marie, yes.  His mouth is open.  Where is the laughter?  He sighs and collapses.  The ground is cold, and Robert is heavy.  His body stretches over me like a blanket, soaked in the night air.  My own body lies, caked with blood and dirt, and crumpled in a pile beneath him.

No longer sixteen, and our reflection is lost in his bright red, passion red car.  Nothing light remains.  I see only the daisies, crushed beneath the tire beside my head.  Marie, Robert says, breathing hard.  Marie, and he touches my face, his eyes pained.  Marie?  Are you all right, all right, all right?  I close my eyes.  I'm sorry, he says.  I shouldn't have.  Marie?  I lay there, motionless.  Robert pulls himself together, and wraps me in the old heavy blanket we keep folded in the back seat.  He scoops me into his arms.  Why did you choose red, Robert?  I whisper into his hair.  Why?  And the tears turn on.  My eyes become spigots, scalding my cheeks.  He shakes his head in confusion.  Marie?

I tumble into the front seat, cheeks burning.  Those little green monsters have got you again, Marie, my mother calls.  I press my hands over my ears.  My pants still unzipped, I feel the green scarf, lumpy in my pocket.  I had forgotten it.  Hot tears.  So hot.  And they burn.  Envy is unbecoming, my mother says.  Robert reaches to put the top up.  No, I say.  Leave it down.  He is lost in my words.  He leaves it, and starts the car.  I only want some air, Mother, just some air.  Some sunshine.  Close the window, Marie.  A big house, Mother, but only to breathe, only to dance.  You can't have everything you want, Marie.  I wrap the green scarf around my head, pulling it over my ears, knotting it under my chin.  I look straight ahead.  Wanting.

Robert pulls out onto the road.  He is quiet.  My mind is wrapped up in green monsters, my wild hair, in a bright green, envy green scarf - secured unbecomingly, at my throat.  The wind is cool.  It dries my scalding tears.  My heart is still.  My eyes are rippling pools.  Knowing.  My mother's voice is trailing along behind us, like a scarf in the wind.  Go outside, if you have to breathe, Marie.  Oh, I wanted a man to laugh, to be strong.  You have to settle, Marie.  Scalding water.  Shut the window now.  No, Mother, no.  Broken glass and passion red blood, down the drain.  I don't want to be like you.  I'm so cold.