MARCH 1997
Some Fly
by Barbara Earl Thomas
It
was mornings. Whenever the girl thought of fishing it was always mornings
and very early ones wrapped in the sounds of people rising before the sunbefore
the day had a chance to warm and dry itself. These were dark mornings filled
with the hushed tones of parents' voices drifting in from the kitchen along
with the smell of coffee cooked in tin percolators. It was her ritual on
these mornings to raise one eyelid cautiously to spy the light filtering
in from the kitchen outlining her closed bedroom door. Lying quietly and
perfectly still she could glimpse a shadowy movement. This was further evidence
that it was happening. And no matter how many times it had happened before,
this moment always caught her off guard, coming like some unexpected fluttering
wave of excitement raising up from somewhere deep in her stomach to wash
over her anew.
There was something about
these mornings that made her bed seem warmer and more precious, like some
dark safe cave warmed by the heat she had generated and stored all night.
She held onto each moment in an effort to make time stop so she might possess
it foreverthat place and the comfort of those voices whose words
she could not quite make out through the space and mysterious light between
them. Perhaps it was because she knew they would soon find her that she
made no move to make her presence known. She imagined that somewhere between
the loading of the boxes of food, fishing poles and the distant muffled
whooshing of the opening and closing of the heavy car doors on that `55
Buickthat it occurred to one of them that she wasn't there. And
it was this that triggered the moment of their beckoning. And then these
voices that she had only seconds before imagined to be from some distant
other world would call out, addressing her personally. With this thought
she was already imagining the first loss of the morningit was
her feet slipping down from between the sheets losing heat as they went.
It was her swift entry into morning accompanied by the gentle brutality
of waking, focusing eyes, feet hitting cool floors, taking her down away
from the bed and toward the bathroom to wash away what little comfort was
left from only moments before.
When the call came it was always the same. It was her name spoken from the
hushed quiet of morning in tones of gentle urgency. "Bobby, Bobbyget
up girlget yourself ready. Ain't no time for draggin' now."
And carried along with the sounds of their voices were the scenes from the
prior evening's preparation. Her anticipation made real. She always stayed
up late the night before a fishing trip while her parents prepared; for
the smells, the sounds, the excitement of schedules suspended which signaled
the possibility that something really special was about to happen. On these
evenings the house was filled with a sense of gaiety, friends dropping by
and sometimes music, especially if one of the several roomers who lived
in their big old house was around. If it was Clarence he would put "Kansas
City" on the record player and they would dance. He'd say, "Com'
on Mickey let's dance." He always called her Mickey, this was his
special name for her. He'd swing her in and out with his Tennessee bopping
style, all the while rhythmically keeping time with the metronome of his
snapping fingers to the chant of "I'm goin' to Kansas City, Kansas
City here I come. They got some crazy little women there and I'm gonna get
me one." As she danced her body gave way to the urgent desire in
the singer's voice, the wanting to go with no way to really imagine a place
other than the one she was in. Sometimes her mother would come out of the
kitchen from where she had been frying chicken or making one of her many
tons of potato salad she always fixed for the trip, to join in. If she did
Bobby would dance with them both. Slipping easily back and forth between
them, reading their movements she followed their leads on the swings and
the turns. Even at eight she knew that this was the danger and the art of
the dance, what it was all about. It was having your body keep rhythm and
time in memory when you were swung out, or risk losing your step, or worse
be lost until the end of the dance.
It was this anticipation
of going that she loved and that carried with it the prospect of having
some unimaginable adventure. It was her Kansas City. There might be kids
at the lake and maybe they would talk, play and make up rules for the universe
in which they found themselves briefly without parents. This was anticipation
that rose up in her like faith offering a promise which always existed just
out of reach but for which there were always enough signs on which to hang
any hope.
© The Raven Chronicles 1997