the [ocean] jar

thought i’d share a bit of the first chapter of my novel, since i haven’t had time for a real update. enjoy! comments appreciated. : )

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In this summer heat, it absolutely stinks to the high skies. Anybody with a carriage just lets their horses dump anywhere in the street, and then the wheels of the carriages spreads it out. Then it’ll rain for a day or so, and you think it’s washed it away, but really it just made it damp and worse. The next day, it’ll be dried up and crusted with dust, but stinking up the entire street. And then there’s the rich people with the horseless carriages. They don’t really come to this part of town too often, but we live a street or two from the park, and they love that place. It makes them feel good to take bread and feed the pigeons, like they’re doing something for humanity and the world. Anyway, their horseless carriages let out this unbearable thick fog of steam, which just makes everything in the street damp and smelling like horse dung all over the place. How pleasant, right?
So I’m enjoying the smell of the dust covered radio parts. This one’s got mahogany wood as its cover, it’s pretty nice. I had to unscrew it, though, and take it apart. I felt bad; I was scared I’d strip a screw or something, and then the mahogany would get to be scratched and awful. It’s these nice ones you wanna preserve and be the most careful with, and the government wants them back in a day. I tell you, it’s ridiculous. They don’t know how fragile these electric devices are.
“Where’s Mum?” I hear Emma’s voice, but I can’t see her without wiping some dust off the left goggle. Dog’s panting right next to her.

I dunno what to do. I can’t tell her what really happened, God only knows what she’d feel. She’d probably feel betrayed and horrible and unwanted, and that’s not…damn. I can’t say that’s not what Mum wants, because Mum’s just really selfish. She’s always used Emma to make herself feel like a good mother. Maybe Emma should feel betrayed. She’d see Mum in a more realistic light. But she’s so young, and-
“Where’s Mum?” Emma’s a little louder this time. She thinks I can’t hear her above the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves and the whirring of the telegraph lines. She’s tugging at a loose string on her skirt. What am I supposed to tell her? What can I make up that might keep her little mind occupied for a while? She’s only eleven…turns out that string wasn’t part of her skirt, it was part of her stockings. She’s pulled at it so much the white fabric is tearing.

“Stop it!” I say, setting down the mahogany, my fingers brushing the soft wood just before they push grubby little fingers away from rough wool. Such a difference in feeling, I think briefly, but I’m still thinking about how to tell my little sister that my mother’s a selfish woman who never cared about her. How come this falls to me? How come I’ve gotta be the man in the family?  “Don’t do that,” I say, “It’s your only pair.” Emma stops to look at Dog, who’s laid down on the hot brick driveway.
“It’s okay.” Says the little girl, brushing hair from her face with the same grubby fingers. “Mum’ll sew it, she’s good at that.”
“She can’t.” I say. “She’s not here.”
“Well where is she?” Emma’s becoming more demanding every time she asks. And well she should, I guess, Mum’s really the only one she stays around.
“Eli can sew it.” I say. “He got that patch onto his flying jacket, didn’t he?”
“Yeah,” Emma presses a finger to the right eyeglass on my goggles. “Take those off.” She says. “I can’t see your eyes.”
“I can see yours just fine.” I say.
“You can’t. You can’t see my eyes unless I can see yours.”
“Oh yeah? What about in bed, when your eyes are only mostly closed?” How am I going to tell her? I’ve got to eventually. She’ll figure out pretty quick that Mum’s not coming home anytime today. “And then you can see Mum’s eyes, but she can’t see yours.”
Emma thinks for a second. Dog’s eyelids have fluttered lazily over his eyes, and he’s unmoving except for the occasional shiver of skin. That’s to get rid of the flies. Flies on me, too, I think, and brush them off my sweaty shoulders. “True.” Says Emma. “I guess you’re right there. Is she napping?”
“No.” I say, “Mum’s not in the house.”
“At the grocery?” Emma’s made it a game. Does she know?
“No.” I have to tell her, I keep thinking. I just don’t know how. “We don’t have any money for grocery visits right now.”
“Oh.” Emma looks straight into my eyes. I can see hers, but she can’t see mine. She can’t read the sadness, the fear, the truth in my eyeballs. How can I break it to an eleven year old girl that her mum isn’t here, and won’t be? “Well.” She says, and I know for the thousandth time what she’s going to ask. “Where’s Mum?”
“Well.” I say, beginning like she did. “I know it sounds funny, but her papa is very sick, and she took a train this morning to go to his house and help him.”
“Why didn’t she say goodbye?” Asks Emma, oblivious to the lie.
“She had to leave in a hurry, and you weren’t here. She got a telegram.”
“A telegram! On the wire!” Emma’s excitement outweighed her disappointment.
“Yes,” I say.
“Can I see?”
“No, she took it with her.”
“Oh,” says Emma. “Well, then…” A steamboat’s horn interrupts her through the stuffy, dry air. A bit of sweat drips off my nose.
“Well, then?” I say.
“Well then.” Says Emma. “Let’s go, Dog.”
“Emma, where are you going?” But she’s already gone.
I turn back to the comforting mahogany radio, fidgeting uncomfortably as I watch my little sister dash past other children and leave grubby dirt on ladies’ dresses as she shifts through the skirts to get somewhere. Why couldn’t I have told her? I asked myself. What’s the matter with giving her the truth? Will I tell her what really happened? I guess I’ll have to. She bought the lie so easily. She thinks Mum’s off doing a good deed.
And the worst part is, in truth, Mum got drug off by the police this morning for using opium. As I watched Emma fade into the crowd, my screwdriver slipped on the radio. I looked down and there was a scratch on the smooth mahogany, exposing the lighter wood underneath the coating. Frustrated, I raised my arm and threw the screwdriver across the brick driveway. It smacked against the porch and rolled down the steps onto the sidewalk.
Damn.

//any thoughts? feel free to comment with them!