Page 11 of Night Songs

“I don’t need your charity. I can take care of myself.”

Hess leaned back from me. “So you’re going to keep suffering because you’re too proud?”

I didn’t respond. She couldn’t understand what it was like to have nothing. Taking whatever was offered had put me in this situation.

Hess lifted up my chin so my eyes met hers. “Lou, you’re my friend. Friends help each other when they’re in need. I’m sure you’ll do the same thing for me one day. It’s not about charity.”

The tree on my chest rustled and sprouted little white blooms at the sound of the word “friend.”

But we both knew I’d never be able to return the favor. I had nothing to give. I pulled my chin from her grasp and said, “I should go.” I headed for the door, my face burning in shame.

“No, Lou, you don’t have to go—”

But I was already moving through the house and walking out to the street. As I made my customary loop around the block to throw off the scent, I took the wet, salty shame and boiled it to fury, so by the time I got to the shed, I was steaming. I hurled a clay pot against the wall, shattering it.

What would I do now? Where would I go?

I resolved to leave the next morning and find another shelter, wherever that might be. But as night descended, I began to shiver uncontrollably. It wasn’t a particularly chilly night, so I was a bit confused as I stuffed more and more newspaper inside my makeshift sleeping bag. My head got so hot that my eyeballs burned, and I choked up the remnants of my last Krystal burger into an old watering can.

I curled up on the ground and held myself tight until I passed into a feverish sleep.

I woke hours later with the desperate need for cold, fresh air. I wandered outside the shed and looked up at the stars. They were as bright and plentiful as they were at home.

Across the yard, shining in the starlight, was the tree like the shape of my birthmark. The same tree where my mother died.

And beneath it, like a wedge of fallen moon, was a white dog.

The dog came up and licked my hand, and I followed him to the tree, where he disappeared behind its trunk. Then another figure emerged, this one a man in a white suit as luminous as the dog’s fur. I couldn’t make out his face in the shadow cast by the light, but I could feel his gaze like a palm against my cheek.

The tree itself gave off a radiant, restorative energy, and I imagined how much better I would feel if I could just reach out and touch it—

The man caught my hand a few inches from the wood and held it there.

“Not yet, my dear.” His voice was like fork tines scraping against my teeth.

“But why—”

“It’s not your time.”

I tried to protest, but the feeling traveled down my spine, and I fell to the ground, shaking beneath the tree limbs spidering across the brilliant sky.

Then the man receded into the shadows, taking his light with him, and the darkness collapsed around me.

3lulabelle

1967

FIFTEEN YEARS LEFT

I woke to delicious softness.

The smell of soap and hot cotton. A mug of broth sat on a nightstand, still steaming.

I wondered if I was still dreaming, or if this was some kind of dirt-child heaven.

The bed was the softest I’d ever lain in, and I was wearing a clean white nightgown like a little girl from a book. A lavender housecoat I’d seen in Hess’s closet was draped over a chair next to the bed, and I slipped it on.

Downstairs, I recognized the front room of Mom’s house; it was quiet and dark except for a few lamps lit in the corners. A plate wrapped in plastic with a little card marked “Lulabelle” sat on the large oak dining table. There was no silverware and the food was cold, but I didn’t care. I hunched over the plate and stuffed handfuls of mashed potatoes and fried chicken into my mouth, hoping that no one would walk in. I packed my gut until I was almost ill. Then I found a bathroom and washed the grease from my face and the clumps of potato from my hair.