Elephant
JACOB SPICKELMIRE
It’s not cold, yet I shiver.
I’m not used to nights being as dark as this. Kim’s face appears black to me.
She’s got her back to the porch lamp and sits on the step above the one I’m sitting on. It’s just the two of us. We do this sometimes; just sit together outside and talk. Sometimes we do it inside the house, too, but she doesn’t much care for it in there. The further we are away from the house the better. But being alone with her like this always makes me feel self-conscious and anxious for some reason. I don’t like to feel people’s eyes on me. Especially when I can’t see them. They’re like bugs.
The shade spilled all over the front of her fades in and out whenever she takes a drag— that’s what the older kids call them: drags—and the tip of the cigarette glows for a second or two.
“Y-you’re not gonna ask me if I want one of those, are you?” I plead. I’ve tried them in the past because she or one of her friends wanted me to, and I hated it every time. Our mom must have known but never said anything unless she actually caught me doing it, and I always wondered if that was for my sake or hers. I guess it’s just how moms are.
“No,” Kim says. The orange from her cigarette invites me to see her smile in that way that makes me feel like she can read my mind. And then it’s gone. I never much liked being looked at that way—being seen by somebody else. And it’s not because I feel like when my sister or anyone else looks at me they’re thinking wrong or embarrassing things. I know that I’m easy to understand. But I wish I wasn’t, to be honest. I wish I could have something to keep for myself. Some secret, some thought. Then I’d grow up and prove everybody wrong. Or something.
“Mom said you looked ‘shluppy’ again tonight,” I say. Kim wears her makeup thickest around her eyes. And her hair is clean but it looks dirty and messy the way girls’ hair does sometimes. Like she washed it too much.
“I know, I heard her.” Kim says, like she’s been waiting for me to bring it up. “Oh, you did?”
“Yeah, she did that thing where she pretends to be talking to you but she wants the person she’s talking about to hear her.”
“I always wonder why sh-she talks to me about that stuff. Because I don’t care. But I guess if she wanted you to hear her th-then that makes sense.” I stutter sometimes when I’m anxious or excited. Usually she’ll say something about it, make a joke, but she doesn’t tonight for whatever reason.
“Even if I didn’t hear her, though, I’d know she thinks I’m a slut.” “She didn’t say that.”
“It’s what she wants to say, dude, trust me. She just doesn’t like the word so she made up a new one.”
“Oh.” I fidget with a fold in my pant leg. I slide my finger nail along the inside of the stitching. “Luke—do you remember him? From my birthday party? He tipped over the flower pot. Remember?”
“Sure.” She exhales smoke.
“He said ‘shluppy’ is a Jewish word.”
“Well, Luke is an idiot.” She laughs.
“Yeah,” I sigh. “I know.”
“So what else did she say?” She quickly lifts the cigarette to her mouth again. Pulls it away and flicks at it. Her leg is shaking. “I only heard ‘shluppy.’ Do you remember?”
I remember, but I don’t think it matters. “I dunno. Sh-she was just stressing about school and about money—”
“Me ‘school,’ or you ‘school?’”
“You.” Kim smirks at this. “She’s mad that you quit working at the store.”
“Yeah, well, I quit before I could get fired. That looks better on a resume, so she should thank me.”
“It does?”
“I’m pretty sure it does, yeah.”
We haven’t been talking for long but it’s been long enough for me to take a break, I think. I let there be silence between us and I can’t get what she said out of my head. It’s not easy for people to find steady work here, or that’s what I’m told. Our mom just wants her to settle on something and make a living until she marries somebody, but the thing is that people think she gets around a lot and is with a lot of different boys, though I don’t like to think about that.
The guys in town mostly end up working for the steel mill down the hill from us. I probably will, too. I can see it now from where I’m sitting. We can always see it. It used to scare me when I was little but I’ve gotten used to it. The smell of it never seems to go away though.
If you want to find somebody’s dad that’s where you go. There, or the bar, depending on the time of day. It’s called O’Neil’s but the sign is all burnt out. Kim used to make a bad joke when we were younger about finding our dad there one day, like he’d been there this whole time. I didn’t think it was funny and neither did she, but she told it anyway. The men seem to enjoy that bar. I’ve never been inside, obviously, but if you’re nearby you can always hear some kind of cheering or shouting. The good kind of shouting. Sometimes it’s the bad kind, like the kind you hear after a bottle breaks or one of those awful car alarms goes off. But not all the time. Usually only on weekends.
In the grey clouds from the mill’s smokestacks I can make out the shape of Saxton Bresley’s house. It’s one of those that looks too thin, like it’s bigger inside than outside. And you can tell which room was his brother’s because it’s the only window that’s never lit up like the others. People think he’s crazy because of what his brother did. His parents, too. And to be honest, I’ve been kinda nervous about high school ever since then. I’ve even heard people talk about putting in metal detectors at the entrance to the school because of him, if they can afford it.
But nobody wants to talk about exactly what happened. It’s like Charlee. She lives off to the right of us, a ways away. Layers and layers of black trees get greener as they get closer to her porch. The lamp’s on even though nobody’s outside. She’s a nice girl—she used to have a crush on me I think—but all she talks about now is her dad. He died overseas, and she keeps telling everybody about things he’s said or things he’s done. Always good things, but she doesn’t mention what happened. And we’re not supposed to either. I once heard someone call it the ‘Elephant in the room.’ I imagine every room in this town has one. I don’t know why they chose an elephant—it doesn’t seem as deadly as it should be. Maybe it means that it’s so big people can’t overlook it. But the people around here do a pretty good job.
Nobody ever comes to this town from anywhere else, but people always leave. Or disappear. Or go to jail. Or die. The boys at school joke about it. One of them will always ask who’s gonna go next and the others will reply, “Not me.”
***
“Y-you’re not gonna ask me if I want one of those, are you?” Alex asks me with a stutter, pointing to the Camel Light between my fingers. What a way to solicit a cigarette. Is that how kids are doing it nowadays? By pretending not to want one? If so, it’s clever.
I find myself sitting alone with him on occasion, as if I’ve got things to say that I can only say to him or he has some sort of insight that I need. Tonight we’re out on the porch. I came out first and sat on the top step and then he came out after me, taking the next step down so he wouldn’t have to sit next to me. But nothing ever comes of these little brother-sister powwows except awkwardness and a lot of silence. I’m hoping tonight will be different. I’ll try to be nicer to him, I think to myself.
“No,” I say, testing him. He looks believably relieved as I take a drag. It wasn’t a lie, though. I wish I had one to share with him tonight—especially tonight. But this is my last one and I told myself that I would finish off the pack and then leave to go meet Jason and Deidre— call her Dee or Rey. She hates the mid part of her name but is cool with the rest. This smoke break was my little excuse for procrastination. We would have a beer in town together, one last hurrah before we say goodbye to this place. The kind of ‘goodbye’ where you don’t say ‘goodbye’ to anybody, not even to your little brother.
“Mom said you looked ‘shluppy’ again tonight,” Alex says, as if on cue. And he says it in that way that little brothers do where you can’t tell if they’re genuine or trying to fuck with you. But everything he says sounds genuine thanks to the awkward way our mother makes him wear his hair. Like he’s going to a job interview. But he doesn’t maintain it so it eventually just flattens like a pancake draped over his head.
“I know, I heard her.” I say.
“Oh, you did?” Yeah, he’s genuine. Nobody is this good at acting uncomfortable. Our mother used to mess with my hair, too. And my clothes. Until I didn’t let her anymore. It’s funny how when you’re little you always assume that when you reach a certain age people will stop treating you like a kid, but that’s not what happens. You have to stop them.
“Yeah, she did that thing where she pretends to be talking to you but she wants the person she’s talking about to hear her.” Our mother shared this tendency with every other passive-aggressive old woman I know. Totalitarian pushovers, that’s what this place produces more than steel. But I can’t really blame them. Their husbands are either drunk or gone, so it makes sense that they’d be a load of cunts.
“I always wonder why sh-she talks to me about that stuff. Because I don’t care. But I guess if she wanted you to hear her th-then that makes sense.” God, you really are a neurotic little mess, aren’t you, I think.
“Even if I didn’t hear her, though, I’d know she thinks I’m a slut,” I say. But I could barely get it out, which is strange because I say it so often to everyone else. And they echo it back to me.
“She didn’t say that.”
“It’s what she wants to say, dude, trust me. She just doesn’t like the word so she made up a new one.”
“Oh.” He looks down, away from me, pityingly. I don’t take my eyes off him. I can feel my heart racing so I take another drag. But I need to slow down, take my time. There’s no use in being so nervous. I think about the drive I’ll be taking in a matter of hours. Dee’s car can get us as far as the state’s border before we need gas, and we agreed that we would figure out later where we’re going. “Luke—do you remember him? From my birthday party? He tipped over the flower pot. Remember?”
“Sure.” I don’t.
“He said ‘shluppy’ is a Jewish word.”
“Well, Luke is an idiot.” I laugh like he’s our mother.
“Yeah,” Alex sighs. “I know.”
“So what else did she say? I only heard ‘shluppy.’” I know I sound nervous but I doubt he can tell. “Do you remember?”
“I dunno,” he sighs, with that pathetic little shrug that usually pisses me off. “She was just stressing about school and about money—”
“Me ‘school,’ or you ‘school?’”
“You.” Of course. “She’s mad that you quit working at the store.” I’m somewhat relieved she was only bitching about the same old shit. Money’s about the only thing people complain about here, seeing’s how nobody’s got any.
“Yeah, well, I quit before I could get fired,” I retort. Having a short fuse makes it hard to deal with people the way you have to at a place like that, especially in this cancer of a town. Her impatient ass should understand that more than anyone. “That looks better on a resume, so she should thank me.” And it looks better on a resume than your boss forcing himself on you. That’s how she lost her job and then she calls me a slut. Whatever. The thought makes me feel guilty but I can’t help it when I get mad.
“It does?” He asks, and it takes me a moment to remember the context.
“I’m pretty sure it does, yeah.” He purses his lips like he’s mildly impressed and then goes silent again and steers his gaze toward the scenery. He chews on his lip like our mother does when she’s daydreaming. It annoys me, but he doesn’t.
First, he’s watching something down the hill. I try to look for it but everything’s asleep out there. I wanna know what it is and what he thinks of it, more than I ever would have on any other night. He looks to his right. I can’t see his eyes but I imagine they see something far off; something I can’t. I’d forgotten about his fidgeting hands until they suddenly froze in his lap.
And like that, he was still.
During my last semester, a world history teacher I had—Glenn was his name. Last, not first. I’m not one of those girls that calls their teacher by their first name. He told us about this old piece of Indian folklore, and I mean India-Indian, not the ones we have here. The story was about a group of men who’d never seen an elephant before. So they’re all standing in the dark and they can’t see it, but they touch it—each man touches a different part of the elephant and then they all describe what they think the rest of it looks like based on the part they touched. But they all describe it differently.
Alex looks so apathetic to me right now, the way he surveys this place like it’s not going to eat him. I can remember being a kid. It’s when you play along. I saw more than people thought I did, and I would look up at my mother and my teachers wondering how they weren’t as scared as I was. But that’s not what I see when I look at him. I guess that should make me happy.
Maybe without me he’ll be better off. He isn’t as much of a weakling as I was.
I don’t have enough time left to learn how to talk to him. And I can’t tell if I want to cry or if I’m trying my best not to. I can feel my ears get warm and my face get cold. I swallow. My palms are sweating. I’ve got two or three drags left of my cigarette, and I take one to slow my heart down. Then I put it out on the wood of the porch, earlier than I thought I would.
In the distance, I can see that damned mill and all its smog. What a remote dystopia it is.