by Aidan Cox
Matthew means ‘gift of God.’ That’s what I tell my cousin at our Thanksgiving table, which, by the way, is the smaller of two, and more isolated at that. Just me, Matthew, Judith ‘praised,’ Matthew’s wife. On the other side of the table, Paul ‘humble,’ John ‘God is gracious,’ one of four Johns present today, and Angelina’s seat. I’m sure she’s Matthew and Judith’s kid, but she won’t sit on laps or look in eyes, she’s troubled, so that kind of stuff. She’s been runnin around.
“What’s Tom mean?” Matthew asks.
“Thomas is twin, but I’m just Tom, so nothin. It’s real unfortunate, actually. Really sucks.” Matthew don’t answer. He couldn’t say nothin. ‘Yeah, Tom, that does suck.’ ‘No, Tom, your name is beautiful.’ ‘Why weren’t you named Thomas? What kind of lackluster parents name you after the male turkey? Could they not even have looked up the etymology?’
The thing is, Matthew don’t know what etymology means, and besides, I would be offended by the notion that my parents had access to the internet, or a library, or really any care for me at all. I would say, ‘are you serious, Matthew? My mother, who traveled half a day just to go to work, just to get away from us? My father, who never spoke to me in his life, aside from barkin orders like I weren’t more than an animal, like I really was a male turkey, and he was ashamed I hadn’t done my job, which was to fuck, or protect, same difference he’d say.’ After
that, if I had said that, Matthew would go quiet anyways, so really it’s better that he didn’t speak in the first place.
“What does Angelina mean?” Judith asks from across the table. She’s finally got ahold of her, squirmin in her lap, lookin straight ahead like a veteran struck with a flashback.
“I mean,” I say, watchin the kid. “Messenger of God. You know, angel.”
Judith grapples with the girl, who is progressively becomin redder, openin her mouth like she means to speak. In the mornin, when I first arrived, Angelina was rollin around on the floor. I stepped over her holdin this mishmash of a casserole, my folks filterin in behind me, like two huge imposin pillars. My mama’s actually shorter than 5 feet now, her back stooped from the arthritis, but still her hands are gnarled with strength, and her voice, that thready scream that comes from her, dear God. And my old man, every time I look at him I just see his cold eyes, like he’s reachin out to grab me by the throat and twistin. That’s like, parents though. That’s just parents. Under your line of sight, like dirt in the organs, like a liver abscess in the dark cave of your poor decisions.
“She’s upset,” I say to Judith, gesturin across the table. It feels like bile.
Judith screws her face up. “She just gets like this. I deal with it, the counselors deal with it. This is just what they do.”
“Let her go,” I say, right as Angelina reaches up and slaps at Judith’s face, bitin down on her finger at the same time. Judith gasps, her face red now too, the sweat breakin out on her brow like holy water.
“Messenger of God,” I say. Matthew pushes back from the table, a force like light, never endin, necessary in so many ways, like for vision, or for shadow.
Then Angelina is finally free from her mother, who is breathin tightly, and who grabs now at her husband, as though he can clean it from her, the shame, the hurt, their child. There is no comfort they can glean from each other. Light gives you nothin, it just sits there, or breaks, but it’s not givin you nothin, it just is. He don’t know what to do. He just puts his hand on her shoulder, starin at Angelina runnin around and shakin her hands, her head, spinnin in circles to the floor. He rests on her there like a kiss on the cheek, one turned away from the recipient. It’s hard to watch. I unfocus my eyes, but I can’t stop lookin.
John leans across the table, nudgin my arm. His mouth is lined in red like those kids that lick their lips so much they start to develop sores. He smells strongly of alcohol, like a peat bog, which is the reason he’s the only John at the second table.
“Shame, huh,” he mutters to me. I don’t know whether he’s talkin about Angelina or her parents, though I strongly suspect it’s the latter. Usually, about the children, especially the girls, he would say somethin like ‘oh, she’ll be a heartbreaker,’ or ‘how’re her little boyfriends’ or ‘have her come give me a kiss, come on, just one kiss.’ He don’t say nothin about Angelina. It’s a good thing, I think, to be seen as a person rather than a woman, but to be honest I don’t think they see her as a person at all. What do I know.
We’ve just finished the first course. I’m pickin at the marshmallows baked into the top of the sweet potato casserole, lickin the slop of the green bean casserole off my fork. I’ve turned my body towards the window, its chintzy floral curtains, thick with dust. The fake wood panelin darkens the house. I can hear all this murmurin comin from the kitchen, then spouts of laughter, the loud clinkin of glass.
“How have you been?” John slurs into my side.
“Good,” I say.
He purses his lips, placin his burly hand on my shoulder. I feel it pull at a muscle and twist my neck into the pain. “You know,” he says. “I think it wasn’t fair, what they did to you. You weren’t ready to be all out here in the world. It’s too cold for you, too harsh. You’re, like, soft. You’ve always been pudgy. Anyways. We want you home.”
“Thanks John,” I say, shiftin in my child-sized chair. “I appreciate it.”
Angelina is off the ground, runnin towards my side. She grabs tightly onto my fingers. I can see some disgust in Judith’s eyes, and some envy. I can see the blood runnin out of my fingertips. It’s not the most comfortable, but it’s not the worst. Like this conversation, or this dinner, or this house. Like sleepin on a bench, somethin I’ve been doin a lot lately, and wakin up to sunlight, or cold, or someone starin down at me with unfounded confusion. ‘What do you think I’m doin here, really, do you have to ask, do you want to?’ That’s what I want to say. I just get off the bench, usually, and yeah it feels like all the blood is runnin out of all my body, and yeah it’s unbelievable, and yeah I just look for another place to sleep.
“Sorry,” I say to Judith. Angelina’s hands are still intertwined with mine, she’s so fascinated by them, twistin my fingers around in her fists.
Matthew walks away from the table, beer in his hand, while Judith nods tursly at me. “She wants you to spin her,” she says.
I stand up from the table, glancin fervently over at Judith while Angelina runs towards the living room, draggin me behind, gruntin a little. It smells like potpourri over here, the air thick with disuse. I bend down a little, hoist her up by her armpits, and begin to spin. It’s like fallin, or breathin. I try to be careful with her, try not to pinch her thin skin or pull at her clothes. Her little body is parallel with the ground, balancin mine out.
The Hebrew word for house is sometimes the same as family or temple. There’s this gospel music comin from the kitchen, a romance movie on the television. I can’t hear my parents talkin anymore. When I was little, alone in my bed, I would breathe in and out with the creakin of the house, the air rummagin through open spaces in the attic. Any deep, burnin hurt, any pain, any faith all pitted out of me. I would calm the anger with the breaths the room took. It’s like the house did the believin for me. A little temple. Sometimes I miss the anger. I look at Angelina, all giggly and full, smilin to an unbelievable degree. A little family. I miss the laughter too.
About the Author: Aidan Cox is a senior majoring in Classical Civilization at Ohio University. She studies Appalachian magic and is the head editor for the school’s undergraduate literary magazine. They have been published in Flip the Page and Ignition literary journals.