23 - in fluttering light

It started on the way home from school when the phrase, “April is the cruelest girl” popped into his mind. That made no sense. Walking in front of him with her head up, looking neither to the right or left, April appeared proud, sad, maybe lonely – but not cruel.

Maybe it had been the poem. He muttered under his breath, “April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land.” But that made no sense either, even as the metaphor Mrs. Thompson had tried to explain. December or January might be cruel. Walking in a cold rain down Warren street, hunched inside the old oversize bombardier jacket that once belonged to his father, the sky as gray as what, death? That was cruel. July or August could also be cruel. Lying awake at night in a pool of sweat (because his mother turned the air conditioning back after the sun went down), trying to sleep, waiting for the air from the circulating fan to pass over his body, knowing it would only cool the exposed skin - that was cruel.

But what could be cruel about April?

The sun broke through the thick oak leaves that shadowed this part of Marion Street. Caught in the fluttering light, April seemed ethereal, on fire. He heard himself yell, “April!”

She stopped and turned, seeming to smile. “Yes.”

He found himself running to her. This was the first time he had talked to her away from school. Now she was standing in front of him, solid and real. She wore a sleeveless black blouse. Her skin was creamy tan. He could, if he dared, touch her heart-shaped face, her curving body.

He said, speaking in someone else’s voice “Ah, you know that poem, The Wasteland, in English today?”

“Yes, I remember it.” Her voice was throaty, low.

“Well, I was wondering what you thought, I mean, did it make any sense to you?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it. Why?”

They were walking side-by-side now. April's house, a large Spanish-style bungalow with cactus growing wild in the front yard and curved iron bars over the deep recessed windows was just ahead. “It bothers me. What does it mean, April is the cruelest month? How can a month be cruel? People can be cruel. It would make more sense to say April is the cruelest girl, although I know that you are not cruel.”

She frowned, “You’ve been thinking about that? Anyway, I could be cruel. I could be anything. You don’t know me. Nobody does.”

A car pull up just behind them and stopped. A door slammed. A male voice yelled, “April!”

It was Brad Lail, football player, baseball player, and renown fighter - not a bully, more a fearless defender of strongly held opinions. Brad had claimed April in their sophomore year and now, two years later, would have been shocked if anyone tried to take his place. They had probably disagreed about something after school, which was why she was walking.

Easily, like a large graceful animal, Brad trotted over. He stepped into place beside April. Abby fell behind. April walked faster, her long smooth arms held tense, not swinging to match her pace. Ignoring Abby, Brad said, “I want to talk with you.”

Her face set into a frown, staring straight ahead, April said, “I don’t want to talk with you.”

Abby wanted to leave. Their fight seemed as intimate as lovemaking. However, this was his usual route home and it didn’t seem right to turn around or stop.

Suddenly, Brad took notice of him. “What the hell are you doing here?”

April hissed, “Brad!”

Abby said, “I am walking home from school.” Although resentful, he was about to leave when he found himself adding, “Why do you want to know?” Something was happening.

Brad seemed surprised. “Because we’re having a fight and I don’t want anybody around.” A stern look now on his face, he added, “So, get out of here.”

Abby watched himself with other’s eyes. Everything was bright and sharp, like a print with too much contrast. He said, “No.”

Brad said, “What the…?”

Abby swung at him.

Brad blocked the punch and countered with a hard right. The universe exploded. Dreamlike, Abby was aware of reeling backward, of sitting down hard, of catching himself with his outstretched hands. Tears ran down his cheeks and an exquisite pain radiated from his nose, which seemed stopped up and twice as big.

His first clear impression was Ida asking, “What’s wrong with you?”

Then Brad, hand still balled in a fist said, “Are you through?”

The moment had passed. Abby answered with a nasal, stopped-up voice, “Yeah, I’m through. I am sorry. ”

Brad relaxed his fist and continued, seriously, as if this sort of thing happened to him every day, “Yeah, well I’m sorry too. That was partly my fault; I should not have said that to you and I should not have hit you so hard. But you threw a good punch. If you had come in straighter, a little faster, you would have nailed me.”

Except for the pain, Abby felt unaccountably good. “Well, I’ll try to remember that the next time.”

"Boys will be boys, won't they?" April looked down at them, a mixture of irritation and amusement replacing the fear on her face.

Abby squinted up. April's head was halloed by the afternoon sun. He was pleased that she seemed to regard both he and Brad with equal disfavor. Then his attention was caught by a grunt followed by a flap-flap-flapping sound. It was Ida stepping down from the low wall that bordered her yard and walking over to them in her pink bedroom slippers with the red, heart shaped bows. She said to her daughter, "April don't be that way."

A mask fell over April’s face. She looked at her mother, turned away, and walked quickly to the house.

April's mother was a round woman with champagne hair that lay flat on the back of her head and stuck out in front. Her pink housecoat had a stain over one large breast. Looking down at Brad and Abby, an odd smile on her face, she said, "Abby Burns, what has happened to you?"

"Ah, I …"

She interrupted, "Well, you'll have to come in the house and let me fix you up."

Turning to Brad, she said in mock-harsh tones. "And you, you bad boy, you had better get on home."

Brad stood up. He started, "Ida, I…" then shrugged, turned and walked back to his car.

Watching Brad leave, Ida suddenly shifted her attention, smiled and threw up her hand. She yelled, her voice sweet and southern, "Hello T.G.."

Abby followed her bleary gaze. It was T.G. Hamrick, a 72-year old retired newspaper man who lived in a rooming house around the corner. He was wearing shorts and a ratty old tee shirt. He had a intense face and wild gray hair, which made him look like a demented Albert Einstein. Sometimes Abby’s father invited him into the house, taking him down to his lab, once or twice while Abby was there.

T.G. stopped. Ignoring Ida, he stared at Abby for a long moment. Then he turned around and trotted back down the street toward the edge of town, where Abby lived.