around doors and windows
to the chimney top.
The attic window was cracked and open
and from within you could hear
the sound of a flute
high
and
light
and
gentle.
Mrs. Falala lived in the house.
Fuh-LA-la is how you say her name.
Most people agreed she had a cow and a pig
but some said she also had a goat
and an alligator and a bear.
Some people said not to bother Mrs. Falala
because she was old.
Others said not to bother her
because she made
weird things
happen.
One day our father took Luke and me to Mrs. Falala’s house. Be respectful, my father said. No matter what you hear or see, be respectful to Mrs. Falala.
An enormous golden cat
fell straight down from a tree overhead
landing at our feet.
The cat reared back on its hind legs
and bared its teeth and claws
and out of its mouth came a
menacing
hisssssssssssss.
Our father ushered us up the walk.
Pay no attention, he said. It’s just a cat.
A fat black hog lurched into view
from behind the house
and raced toward the cat
squealing all the while
the most unappealing squeal.
Pay no attention, our father said, urging us toward the front door.
High above
from the open attic window
floated the delicate melody of a flute
while behind us the hog chased the cat
round and round the yard
and a bright green parrot perched
on the porch and squawked at us
as we climbed the steps
to the door trimmed in vines.
A sign on the door read
WRONG DOOR—GO TO BACK
and so
dodging the hog and the cat
under the watchful eyes
of the bright green squawking parrot
we obeyed.
A sign on the back door read WHO ARE YOU?
We looked at each other, me and my father and Luke.
Luke said, No way. Not going in there. She’ll probably chop us to pieces.
My father said, Be respectful. He knocked.
Around the corner: hog squeal and cat hiss.
A face appeared at the window beside the door:
a pale
thin
old
wrinkled
face.
The hog knocked Luke over
and the cat jumped on the hog’s back
and as my father and I battled
the hog and the cat
the door opened and
a long
pale
thin
old
wrinkled
arm
reached out and pulled my brother inside
and my father and I tumbled in after him.
INSIDE
At the end of the long, thin arm
was Mrs. Falala clutching Luke
and kicking the door shut.
You eez living? she asked.
Her voice was unexpected,
full of honey.
Eez you?
My father stepped forward.
Yes, yes, we are, erm, living, yes.
He handed her two books.
From my wife, he said.
She asked me to bring them to you.
You met her, apparently—
at the doctor’s?
Mrs. Falala closed one eye.
And where eez she, this wife?
Why she not bring?
She eez living, yes?
Yes, yes. She had an appointment today,
but living, yes, most certainly.
Mrs. Falala studied the covers of the books.
Down her back trailed a long, white braid
which she flicked like a horse’s tail.
Wrong books, she said.
Wrong?
Wrong, wrong, wrong!
She pushed the books back to my father.
She turned to me and Luke.
And you, who are you? And you?
When we told her our names
Eez peculiar, no? This name Reena?
Mrs. Falala caught me trying to peer
around her into the room beyond.
She kicked that door closed.
Eez nothing there. No going in there.
I glanced at the ceiling, straining to hear
the sound of the flute
but there was silence.
What you eez looking at?
Shoo, shoo, nothing here,
good-bye now, go home.
As we left the house of Mrs. Falala
seagulls white and gray arrived
one by one
and perched on the ridge atop
her house
not just a few
first ten, then twenty, then thirty
or more
until they were lined up
wing to wing
a row of feathered soldiers
guarding her house
and the flute music
high and light
floated from the attic window.
On Luke’s arm
where Mrs. Falala had held him
was a pale blue mark
in the shape of a leaf
and in the sky two white clouds
joined to form a flying girl
long white hair trailing behind.
The hog and the cat and parrot were gone.
I listened for them.
What I heard was the faintest
moo, mooooo.
DON’T YOU TOUCH ME
Luke was not fond of animals.
He kept his distance
much as he did with people.
His first spoken sentence was
Don’t you touch me.
He said it to a lady in the post office
who then looked offended.
I won’t hurt you, cutie pie,
the woman said.
Don’t you touch me!
My mother offered a weak apologetic smile.
Luke said it to a grocery clerk
and an elderly man on the sidewalk
and the doctor.
Don’t you touch me.
He’d point his finger in warning.
My mother reasoned that Luke just did not
like people getting in his face
pinching his cheeks
squeezing his chubby arms
telling him how cute he was.
Don’t you touch me.
Now that he was older, he rarely said
Don’t you touch me.
More often, if someone was swooping in
too close, he’d scowl or run off or
say something silly
like
Nutto head!
or
Frog brain!
Funny little kid
people would say.
When Mrs. Falala had snagged Luke’s arm
and pulled him inside
his reaction said it all:
wild, wide-opened eyes
stiff arms and legs
fingers clenched like claws.
Luke wrenched himself away from Mrs. Falala
with the practiced skill of an escape artist.
I know he wanted to say
Don’t you touch me!
but he didn’t.
That night in his yellow notebook
Luke’s drawings included a skeletal
towering figure with a snake braid
and sharp metal claws
surrounded by a posse
of enormous hogs and menacing cats.
BEAT AND ZEP
I was leaning over the fence at the farm
watching a sturdy dark-skinned girl
maneuver a rope halter over the wide head
of a wide cow that protested
Moo! Mooooo!
The girl planted her boots in the muck
and angled her hip against the cow’s neck
urging the animal toward the rope loop
Moo-ooo!
The girl wore orange canvas overalls
and tall black rubber boots
and spoke to the cow all the while:
Come on, there you go,
don’t be so stubborn, over here,
back it up, this way, you know how.
Nearby another teen
a tall, lanky redheaded boy
urged another cow out of a stall
The boy called to the girl
Hey, Beat, I’ve got this one—
and she called back
Okay, Zep, that’s good—
and it made me smile
those names
Beat and Zep
Zep and Beat
but when they looked up
and saw me watching
I turned away
embarrassed
I don’t know why
and rode off down the hill
down Twitch Street
and past Mrs. Falala’s house
where the flute music
drifted from the window
and the parrot squawked on the porch
and somewhere behind or beyond
was that soft moo, mooooo
but no hog and no cat that day.
EMPLOYMENT
Before we moved to Maine, my parents sent out piles of job applications to the coastal towns in which they most hoped to live. One of those applications resulted in a job offer for my mother, teaching English at a private school near this harbor town. Her job would start in September.
That is perfect! she said. It gives us a couple months to get settled first.
Dad was still looking for a job. He’d been to lots of interviews and was hopeful that one of them would lead to work. He said he wanted to change direction and do something completely different, maybe something outdoors, maybe something with landscaping (he was good at that) or animals (Really? I knew he liked dogs, but that was about it) or painting (houses). He said he was open to anything, though.
If I can find something even part-time, he said, we’ll be okay. We’ll have enough to pay the rent and put food in our mouths.
Luke said, But if you don’t find a job, does that mean we won’t eat?
Hmm. He turned to Mom. Honey, we can always eat the children, I guess.
Luke went white. Whaa—? Whaa—? Whaat?
Dad had to spend the next half hour reassuring Luke that he’d been kidding.
MISTY MORNING
One misty morning Luke and I rode
along a cobbled wall
past a cemetery with tilting headstones
circling around the back side
of Birchmere Farm
with its pond and grass meadows
and graying, mossy fences
and clumps of cows grazing.
What are they thinking?
Luke asked.
Are they happy?
Why do they just stand there?
Don’t their legs hurt
standing up all day like that?
Moo, mooooo.
First one, then several in unison.
Moo, mooooo.
What do you think they’re saying, Reena?
Are they talking to themselves or to us?
Maybe, I said, they’re talking about us.
Maybe they’re saying
‘Look at those two over there
staring at us like that.
What are they staring at?’
Mooooo.
In the area by the barn stalls
three cows in halters were tied
to the fence
their heads held high
their necks outstretched.
The redheaded boy named Zep
came up behind us as Luke asked me
Why are they tied funny like that?
Doesn’t it hurt their necks?
Naw, Zep said, startling us both.
It’s stretching them
getting those muscles strong.
Gonna be good show heifers:
heads held nice and high,
ayuh.
Zep held his own head high
admiring the heifers
as I stood there
wanting to say something
wanting to keep him there
a little longer
this gangly Zep boy
but no words came out of my mouth.
Zep repeated ayuh
and moved on
ducking into the feed room
as we climbed back on our bikes
and rode down the winding road.
Ahead of me, Luke’s neck was outstretched
like the heifers
and as he pedaled
he spoke to the retreating cows.
Moo, mooooo.
ROCKS
Never saw so many rocks:
boulders and stones and pebbles
tall as a bus
small as a pea
craggy and rough and speckled
smooth and lumpy
mossy and pocked
piled along
the water’s
edge
stacked
in walls
along the roads
jutting out of yards
gray and brown and silver and green
a jumble of rock stone granite
you feel the energy
beneath your feet
coming up through your toes
and your legs and your spine
and out the top of your head
into
the
BACK TO TWITCH STREET
Dad sent us back to Twitch Street
me and Luke
on our own this time
on our bikes
with more books for Mrs. Falala.
Can’t you come with us? Luke asked.
She’s too scary. She might eat us.
Don’t be silly, Dad said.
You and Reena can handle it.
And remember: be respectful.
Down along Limerock Street
zig right onto Chestnut
knowing the streets now
knowing what leads where
knowing where the big brown dog lives
and the little yappy ones
waving at the life-size bear sculpture
swooping under low branches
along the river wall
up over the hill
with the wide, wide view
fields and valley and mountains beyond
stop and turn around
look back:
OCEAN!
a wide silk of bluesilver
spotted with treegreen islands
beneath
a banner of bluewhite sky
OCEAN!
We kick off again
round the loop
skidding to a stop
by the tilting house
of Mrs. Falala
with the open attic window
and the
f l u t em u s i c
drift
ing
d
o
w
n
and then abruptly stopping.
No pig
no alligator
no parrot.
I N S T E A D: : :
fourteen seagulls white and gray
perched on the rooftop
beaks pointed
down
toward
&nbs
p; a
longgggggg
black
snake
slithering along the gutter
its head
dip
ping
over the
E
D
G
E
o v
b e
just a
the door.
We froze.
We stared.
Then the door opened inward
and the long, old thin arm
snatched Luke
then me
and yanked us
inside.
What you was staring at?
What you was spying on?
The voice full of honey
but the words . . . not.
THE BOOKS
On our second day in our new town, my mother had met Mrs. Falala in the eye doctor’s office. My mother had gone there because a sudden, angry red blotch had appeared on one eyeball.
The waiting room was crowded; the wait was long. My mother had been a reporter and could not help asking questions. She would talk with anyone about anything, and people told her things they might not even tell their family or friends. I don’t know how willing or unwilling Mrs. Falala was to talk at first, but apparently she did talk, because my mother came away with a great interest in Mrs. Falala.
She’s from Italy, Mom said, but met her husband in Africa and lived there for many years and they had no children and they came here to Maine after Mr. Falala’s brother visited here and bought the place on Twitch Street and then the brother died and—
I said, Wait. You got all that out of sitting in a doctor’s waiting room?
Yes, Mom said. I’m a good asker of questions and a good listener to answers.
The first books we had taken to Mrs. Falala’s house (wrong books, wrong, wrong, wrong!) were about drawing:
Figure Drawing for Beginners
Perspective
because Mom must have somehow learned that Mrs. Falala was interested in that and did not know how to use the library.
When we’d returned home with these wrong books, my mother said, Hmm, I’ll try again. This second batch, which she’d also borrowed from the library, included
The Art of N. C. Wyeth
Landscapes of Maine
When we offered this new batch to Mrs. Falala, she said, Put on table. Her neck and her long arm stretched toward the pile. One long, bony finger flipped open the book on top. Flip, flip, through several pages. Then she skidded that book off the top and flipped open the next. Flip, flip, through pages. She did not open the third.
Better, she said, but not . . . best. To one side and then the other, she jerked her head, swishing the long, white braid that hung down her back. She leaned forward, zeroing in on Luke, who was pressed against my side, his thumb lodged between his teeth.
You get horse teeth that way! Mrs. Falala said, and with one finger she snapped at his thumb.