Momma Says (part 2)
Momma says the only way to move around outside is to make sure all your skin is covered and never, never let anyone see you. She says eyes are hungry things now, and if someone sees you, they might decide you belong to them. That’s why Walt and I have to wear coats, even in the summer when the heat makes sweat run down our necks and soak into our collars. Momma says the coats are like shields, like the knights in the old books Dad reads to us.
She says when they left their first home, Dad looked like a clown, wearing every scrap of clothing he could fit on and still move in. Shirts on top of shirts, pants tucked into socks, his big hands hidden in gloves that didn’t quite fit. He could barely bend his knees or move his arms. Momma says she was no better, stumbling along in too many layers, and they laughed at each other, even though their laughter had to stay quiet. It was just safer that way. If your skin got cut at all, it could let the sickness in.
“I wish I could’ve seen you,” I told them once, and Dad grinned, his teeth flashing in the firelight. “You wouldn’t have laughed,” he said. “You would’ve thought we were scary.” Momma didn’t argue, but her eyes softened in that way they do when she remembers something that hurts.
She says sneaking through the world dressed like that was like trying to walk through water, every step heavy, every breath loud in her ears, but it kept them safe. If they hadn’t been careful, the mean people would’ve found them, and the mean people, Momma says, weren’t just dangerous because of what they carried in their blood or their coughs, they were dangerous because of what they wanted. When people are starving, or lonely, or broken inside, what they want is never kind.
A couple of times, she says, those people did find them. But Dad knew how to fight. Momma did too. She tells us that when they stood back-to-back, nothing could touch them. Nothing could pull them apart.
When she says this, Dad always slips an arm around her, and she leans against him for just a second before pulling Walt and me into their laps. “We’ll always protect you,” they say together, pressing us between them until we squeal and wriggle away. Their laughter fills the room, warm and big, but sometimes, when I look at Momma’s eyes, I think I see something darker hiding behind her smile.
That’s why they don’t let Walt and me play outside alone, or fetch the eggs alone, or visit Old Maple, our cow, in the barn alone. “Together,” Dad says, his voice low and serious. “Always together. The world doesn’t forgive the ones who wander.”
He tells me every time we step past the door to hold Walt’s hand. “You’re his shield now,” he says, squeezing my shoulder. “Like we’re yours.”
I always nod, because I want to be brave, but sometimes, when I feel Walt’s small fingers clutching mine, tight and trembling, I wonder if my shield will be strong enough when the whispering world finally comes for us.
