Michelle Reale is an academic librarian in the suburbs of Philadelphia. Her work has been published in a
variety of venues such as Verbsap, Apt, Pequin, JMWW, Dogzplot, Freight Train, elimae, Diddledog, Laura Hird and
others.
variety of venues such as Verbsap, Apt, Pequin, JMWW, Dogzplot, Freight Train, elimae, Diddledog, Laura Hird and
others.
Walk in Fire
When her latest man had left, she and the boys roused themselves again, because the memories would have been too much.
At their new place, boys were everywhere but the roof. Alternately hanging out of the windows, jumping over the rickety rail of
the front porch, and sitting in the driver's seat of the beat up old maverick that sat in the driveway like a monument, pretending
to be in control behind the driver's seat. She listened to them from inside of the house, her windows open, pricking her ears
only when the sound of their voices moved away from her. They weren't used to this place yet.
It was a tough neighborhood to move into. Old Italian women wore black no matter the season, and sat deaf and dumb,
watching with gaping, clouded eyes. Short, stocky, men smoked cigarettes down to the filter, promenading up and down the
street in the evenings with the particular waddle of the well-muscled, proud of the fact that they had no formal education, but
instead, brute strength and common sense. Their wives smoked long, brown cigarettes outside in order to keep things
antiseptic and fastidious on the inside. They fiddled with their geometric necklaces and the large cubic zirconias they wore on
their fingers caught the glint of the sun, all splinters and sparkle, a blaze of fire and smoke. Their daughters received, but did
not deserve, their undivided attention and protection. They acted as if they knew what was good for everyone. She watched
the theater of love and protection and puzzled that everyone knew their place.
The women would point their long, curled appliqued fingernails at her and mouth slut, putana, then laugh, their hard faces grim.
They'd watch from their front steps in their cheap sandals and bright matching shorts and tops as she emerged from the house
on any given day, stretching like a leopard in the sun. A full display of wavy red mane, milky white, freckled arms and large
eggplant sized breasts that were actually her biggest burdens, but were perceived to be her best assets. Bitch, they'd mutter,
blowing cigarette smoke that would waft in her direction. Sometimes she'd give those breasts a good hard scratch, distractedly,
while looking around for the boys. She'd hear their laughter and the curse words they loved to practice like mantras damn
damn damn fuck SHIT! Come here, she'd call to them, softly. They'd crash into her, entwine themselves in her legs, climb her
like a tree they wanted to take refuge in. Stop that she'd say occasionally as she yawned. And they'd twist there sticky fists
into her hair, but she loved the feel of it, the pain and the sweetness of being touched. She'd place her hands on the heads,
their hair like coarse wool, their skin the creamy color of coffee and milk, and close her eyes: safe in the moment.
She ignored the stares, the snide sounding comments she'd hear in a language she couldn't decipher, marveled that gestures,
like the flick of a chin skyward which meant something that could not be good. Sometimes the tone would sting, hit her ear like
a small, sharp stone. Then, she'd send up a silent prayer. They needed somewhere to live, after all. The stooped, dark-skinned
man who'd rented to her, reluctantly warned, it would not be easy. They like their own he'd said. Six months, tops, he'd said
to her, if not before. They'll bring a woman like you to your knees, he said, eyeing her up and down. Then, in a kindness she'd
be unlikely to forget, waived her security deposit. I must be off my ass crazy, he'd said, right to her face, and then walked away
ignoring her whispered thank you as if it were just dust at his feet, something he encountered before, but never trusted all the
same.
The other mothers kept their precious sons and mean faced daughters away from her boys. She became angry when they
couldn't stay away, tempted by the exoticism, like beggars at a feast. She was so good at being self-contained, a stance
she'd cultivated way back when it brought men out of the woodwork, falling at her feet. Each of the boys a token of the men
she had loved, if only for a short while, because motherhood wasn't for everyone, but it was for her.
When she woke one morning, she knew it was time to leave. The soles of her feet felt scorched and sweat had pooled between
her breasts. She ran outside onto the porch. She smelled the smoke and leaned over the railing and saw the boys watching
the old maverick burn. She smelled the sickening stench of rust and synthetic fibers burn. The fire was at the middle stage, but
would reach its potential if left alone to flourish. The air shimmered around the boys like a protective aura and the mother saw
the reflection of small licks of flame in their eyes. She might have seen something else, too, but she would never be sure.
She'd left everything behind. Flanked by two boys on her left and one on her right, they walked straight backed and deliberate
up the street and away from the house. Past neighbors who might have been speaking in tongues for all that mattered at that
point. She had one long arm draped protectively across her breasts. She heard the burst and shatter of glass, but she forbid
the boys a backward glance. She left her key under the mat, and felt she owed the landlord the kindness of a phone call at
some point. It had been three months, give or take a few days. Tops.
When her latest man had left, she and the boys roused themselves again, because the memories would have been too much.
At their new place, boys were everywhere but the roof. Alternately hanging out of the windows, jumping over the rickety rail of
the front porch, and sitting in the driver's seat of the beat up old maverick that sat in the driveway like a monument, pretending
to be in control behind the driver's seat. She listened to them from inside of the house, her windows open, pricking her ears
only when the sound of their voices moved away from her. They weren't used to this place yet.
It was a tough neighborhood to move into. Old Italian women wore black no matter the season, and sat deaf and dumb,
watching with gaping, clouded eyes. Short, stocky, men smoked cigarettes down to the filter, promenading up and down the
street in the evenings with the particular waddle of the well-muscled, proud of the fact that they had no formal education, but
instead, brute strength and common sense. Their wives smoked long, brown cigarettes outside in order to keep things
antiseptic and fastidious on the inside. They fiddled with their geometric necklaces and the large cubic zirconias they wore on
their fingers caught the glint of the sun, all splinters and sparkle, a blaze of fire and smoke. Their daughters received, but did
not deserve, their undivided attention and protection. They acted as if they knew what was good for everyone. She watched
the theater of love and protection and puzzled that everyone knew their place.
The women would point their long, curled appliqued fingernails at her and mouth slut, putana, then laugh, their hard faces grim.
They'd watch from their front steps in their cheap sandals and bright matching shorts and tops as she emerged from the house
on any given day, stretching like a leopard in the sun. A full display of wavy red mane, milky white, freckled arms and large
eggplant sized breasts that were actually her biggest burdens, but were perceived to be her best assets. Bitch, they'd mutter,
blowing cigarette smoke that would waft in her direction. Sometimes she'd give those breasts a good hard scratch, distractedly,
while looking around for the boys. She'd hear their laughter and the curse words they loved to practice like mantras damn
damn damn fuck SHIT! Come here, she'd call to them, softly. They'd crash into her, entwine themselves in her legs, climb her
like a tree they wanted to take refuge in. Stop that she'd say occasionally as she yawned. And they'd twist there sticky fists
into her hair, but she loved the feel of it, the pain and the sweetness of being touched. She'd place her hands on the heads,
their hair like coarse wool, their skin the creamy color of coffee and milk, and close her eyes: safe in the moment.
She ignored the stares, the snide sounding comments she'd hear in a language she couldn't decipher, marveled that gestures,
like the flick of a chin skyward which meant something that could not be good. Sometimes the tone would sting, hit her ear like
a small, sharp stone. Then, she'd send up a silent prayer. They needed somewhere to live, after all. The stooped, dark-skinned
man who'd rented to her, reluctantly warned, it would not be easy. They like their own he'd said. Six months, tops, he'd said
to her, if not before. They'll bring a woman like you to your knees, he said, eyeing her up and down. Then, in a kindness she'd
be unlikely to forget, waived her security deposit. I must be off my ass crazy, he'd said, right to her face, and then walked away
ignoring her whispered thank you as if it were just dust at his feet, something he encountered before, but never trusted all the
same.
The other mothers kept their precious sons and mean faced daughters away from her boys. She became angry when they
couldn't stay away, tempted by the exoticism, like beggars at a feast. She was so good at being self-contained, a stance
she'd cultivated way back when it brought men out of the woodwork, falling at her feet. Each of the boys a token of the men
she had loved, if only for a short while, because motherhood wasn't for everyone, but it was for her.
When she woke one morning, she knew it was time to leave. The soles of her feet felt scorched and sweat had pooled between
her breasts. She ran outside onto the porch. She smelled the smoke and leaned over the railing and saw the boys watching
the old maverick burn. She smelled the sickening stench of rust and synthetic fibers burn. The fire was at the middle stage, but
would reach its potential if left alone to flourish. The air shimmered around the boys like a protective aura and the mother saw
the reflection of small licks of flame in their eyes. She might have seen something else, too, but she would never be sure.
She'd left everything behind. Flanked by two boys on her left and one on her right, they walked straight backed and deliberate
up the street and away from the house. Past neighbors who might have been speaking in tongues for all that mattered at that
point. She had one long arm draped protectively across her breasts. She heard the burst and shatter of glass, but she forbid
the boys a backward glance. She left her key under the mat, and felt she owed the landlord the kindness of a phone call at
some point. It had been three months, give or take a few days. Tops.
Michelle Reale
