Your Pen, My God

“Momma,” Petiera said, cradling her wooden giraffe, “Momma, when we will have to go inside?” Lupe looked at the sky, at the ground, and only lastly at her daughter. “When it rains again,” Lupe sighed, and made sure to re-tuck in her jeans. “Petie, it’s time to go.” “But Momma—” The first drops that fall are the quiestest. The dust that rises gives rise to the sudden noise. “Up,” Lupe commanded, and swung her daughter onto her hip. “Wait, Momma, wait—” “There isn’t any gas left until Daddy comes home,” Lupe said, quickly, as she strode swiftly across the field. The drops fell upon her head, splat splat spalt. “Where’s Gabriel?” Lupe asked, as Petie buried her face in Lupe’s shoulder. “At home. But Momma—” “There’s no warmth for wet clothes, my love,” Lupe said gently. She adjusted the little girl and upped her pace slightly. Tiny puddles were forming. Petie shifted her head so she could watch the fading field. “Can’t we—” A crack of thunder lit the sky, and Lupe swung Petie back onto the ground. “Run, run!” she called, grabbing her daughter’s hand as they ran together. Lupe used her hand to shield Petie’s head from the rain. “A little more, a little more,” she said as the two ran together, water slashing around them. They only made it to the little house on stilts just in time, the clouds’ bottoms dropped out and the ground gave up on soaking the water. As Lupe opened the door, there was a loud knock on the back one. She lifted Petie up, past the ladder and onto the makeshift porch. “Go find Gabriel, love,” Lupe said. “I’ll get it.” She crossed through the little kitchen and swung open the door, and there stood Rietta, shivering and soaking wet, carrying a wet oilskin. “These haven’t worked in years, since we stopped oiling them,” Rietta said, stepping over the threshold. “I know,” Lupe said. “Come on in.” “I’m sorry to impose,” Rietta told her, shaking out the oilcloth and collapsing in a rickety kitchen chair. “I came from town.” Her face changed, morphing into the shop she usually only wore into the grocery store, and her feet shifted rapidly under the table. “Carrot soup?” Lupe asked, beginning to remove the ingredients from the cabinets. “It won’t be hot—we don’t have any gas—or cold—we don’t have any ice—”

“Lupe,” Rietta said, but her face stayed hard, “I’m in your cabinets. Carrot soup sounds delicious.” Lupe smiled. “Gabe? Petie?” she called. “Rietta’s here, come say hello.” The two children tore out of the bedroom, and smiled shyly. “Hi Rietta,” Gabe said. He was older. “Good morning, children,” Rietta told them stiffly. “Lupe, you’ve got to listen to me. Can we talk on the porch?” “It’s loud,” Lupe said, braiding Petie’s hair swiftly. “Gabe, watch that knife. Rietta, are you sure—” “Lupe, we need to talk.” Lupe snagged the knife and replaced in its wooden slot, and then, directing her children to be good, she followed her friend outside. “Lupe, your husband.” Her face whitened, her whole body tensed, and she closed her eyes. “Oh God in merciful Heaven,” she said, hands clasped, “oh please God, I beg of you—” “He’s dead, Lupe,” Rietta whispered. The rain came down on the tin lean-roof overhead. Bang bang bang. Lupe slumped to the wooden slats, as she watched the waters rise and rise over the farmland. Oh God in merciful Heaven, oh please “Lupe, it was true an hour ago, when you didn’t know.” Rietta sternly wrapped her fingers around the woman’s forearm. “Get up, your children are crying, you’re going to get wet. There’s no gas, remember? There’s no warmth in this godforsaken place,” Rietta muttered to herself. She dragged Lupe inside and sat her on the chair, and then busied herself to chopping the withered carrots. “You knew, Lupe,” she could not help but say. “It’s been days. No, it’s been weeks. You knew all along Lupe. There was a package, a letter for you.” Rietta laid the letter on the table; some of the ink had smeared. Lupe jumped on it like a cat, tearing open the seal and reading: My dearest Lupe, I love you. I would say more, but that would pain you, and I want no pain for your heart. I love Petiera and Gabriel, too, and tell them that I love them frequently—for they shall need that love as well. I am sorry I am not there to tell you this myself. But I love you. At the bottom, he had signed James with a flourish. This was his pen, Lupe could tell, and she clutched her heart and closed her eyes. “Gabriel? Petie?” she called, her voice high and stringy. “Not now, Lupe, for God’s sake!” hissed Rietta, but the children came, as children do.

“Daddy has died,” Lupe moaned, and cradled the children to her. “He loves you, and he loves all of us, but he is not here now, do you understand?” Wailing erupted, and Rietta used the worn towel to cover her ears. The tin roof echoed, and the wooden slats rocked as Petie fell, as Gabriel collapsed, as Lupe disintegrated. The family lay upon the floor, in ruins, and Rietta sighed. “I left the package in the front,” she said. “I took a bag of dried fruit—you know that Lian loves it. And—” her face broke down for a second, and Lupe glimpsed her friend’s love. “I’m sorry, Lupe, I really am.” Then she was gone, and Lupe just saw her, through the window, slogging through the water now almost to her knee. The house on stilts creaked in the rain. When the wailing had stopped, Lupe fetched the package from outside, and placed Gabriel and Petiera in their beds, petting their smooth hair until they breathed evenly. She went to the window and stood, gazing at the ruined field, until she knelt before a small statue. The statue was nondescript, and unassuming. It was there, and had been there for years. Later on, when the house on stilts was left to fend for itself, it would still be there, resolute and unchanging. Oh God in merciful Heaven, Lupe chanted, please I am asking for our safety, for us to get through this. I am asking that James is all right, and with You, and that I may confide in you— There was a great wrenching, and Lupe ran to the window, the cross hitting the floor with a muted thump. The rowboat, loosely tied to the stilt had drifted forlornly away on the head-height water. Lupe turned back to her praying, wiping tears from her eyes. Oh God in merciful Heaven, Lupe claimed, let no one forsake us, let the water go down, let my children continue to breathe. There was a great thump from the bedroom, and Lupe ran there, and threw aside the curtain. “He fell!” cried Petie, clasping a hand to her chest. “Momma, he fell!” And Gabriel lay upon the floor, his eyes shut and his breathing labored. “Gabriel, Gabriel,” Lupe fell upon his chest and cried, clutching his shirt and crying. “Please, stay here, for James,” she called. The boy had vanished. When the body had been sunk, Lupe turned back to her praying, wiping the hair from her face. Oh God in merciful Heaven, Lupe asked, I am begging you to leave me. Forsake me, so that I may not forsake others, for I need this more than anything else…let us survive this, and all else… There was a great shattering, and the kitchen disappeared, sinking slowly, into the mud.

Petiera ran from the bedroom, clutching her nightgown, as the wind whistled in. She picked up the cross as she stood, staring breathlessly, at the brewing sky. “Momma, am I dreaming?” she said. The rain washed over the dirty wooden floors, cleaning them for the first time in years. “Momma, this is yours,” she declared, and pressed the cross into her mother’s hand. There was a great earthquake, and the girl lost her footing, and tumbled over the kitchen. She had never learned to swim, for by knowing how to swim, would one not be inviting the inevitable? Would it not be better to allow the sinking but prevent the event? When the body had sunk out of sight, Lupe turned back, throwing the tears from her face. “Oh God in merciful Heaven,” she shouted, staring at the windswept and cloud-burdened sky. “Why would you do this to me? My life, in ruins, and you wait alone. Why do you abandon us in our time of need, when we rely on you, cannot you rely on us? Oh God in merciful Heaven, let me through your pearly gates for you have wrecked my own down here on Earth, and I want nothing more than to live again! Oh God in merciful Heaven, why cannot— Why cannot you aid me? Take up your pen, and cross them out. Take up your pen, and cross them out what changed my story, what led to my begging— It is not Him but you, you that have the power of voice and ink, and you who have the ability to move your hand— Move your hand, then, across the paper and change the course of my tale. Fix the withered carrots, the creaking floors, the sunken bodies, the rising floods— For do I not deserve this? Oh God in merciful Heaven, allow me this—do not look to him to allow this but to yourself. I tell you this because—lift the pen and understand, be the change you wish to see in my words—” And there was a great roar, and there was no more words. *** “Momma,” the girl called, cradling the little ivory cross, “Momma, when will we go inside?” “Whenever you want, my love,” the woman said back. “What do you have there, love?” “Momma, this is yours,” the girl declared, and pressed the cross into her mother’s hand. “A present, Momma, for you.” “Thank you, my love,” the woman said, and reached down to take her daughter’s hand. The giraffe looked on through all, lying quietly on the crooked soil.

“Let’s go home, my love,” said the mother. “But wait—there’s one more!” the girl cried, tugging to get away. “One more, Momma, a wooden giraffe in the soil, Momma, please?” The woman sighed and looked at the sky. She fiddled with the pen in her hand quietly, and began to write. The sun shone down strongly, and the little girl hugged the giraffe to her neck, and smiled up at her mother’s cross. “Let’s go home, Momma,” the girl said. “Let’s go home.”