Summer Hammond

Violets

I'd spent too long in the shower, daydreaming, and I knew it. 

It had been a wild day at McStop, the truck-stop McDonald's where I worked. Three busloads of kids coming back from a zoo trip on the last day of school. Three! The worst had happened. We'd run out of Happy Meal toys. While Janet, my manager, neared the brink of meltdown, I'd gone scavenging in the back and found the box of children's books I'd bought from the Hopeton Library used book sale. I'd been meaning to bring them out to the play area, for the kids like me who needed a comfort book. Lugging that box up front, Janet looked at me like I'd grown two heads. Well. I was used to that.

And at first, it was true, the kids who got a book instead of a Disney princess pitched a fit. Then, I started talking with them about the books as I rang up their order. I told them that Ramona was my best friend, and Matilda, my hero. Paddington had taught me the gift of the "hard stare," which I demonstrated, and won some laughter. The kids with books ended up reading, with fries and shakes, all smushed together in a booth. And eventually, some other kids wandered up to the counter, plunking their Disney princesses down and asking, "Can I get a book?" 

Janet actually smiled at me. 

It was wonderful to come home, peel off my grease-and-sweat-stained uniform, unleash myself from every inch of clothing. The shower on my skin, sweet relief. 

Mom was gone grocery shopping. Her mood was precarious again, filling the house with razor-sharp edges. When she was home, I stayed on high alert, closely monitoring everything from my tone and facial expression, to how I walked, and how loudly I closed my bedroom door. My sister, Rain, called this The Eggshell Walk. She said it was the art form you mastered when you grew up on an island with a volcano you were afraid to wake up. But right then, Rain and I had the house to ourselves. Along with the water, I felt washed over by this exhilarating feeling of...free. 

And so, I started daydreaming. About him. The cowboy. Clint. He hadn't shown up for lunch that day, and I'd found myself looking for him, missing how he'd work his way into my line, no matter how long it was. How he'd make sure to catch my eye, smile. Oh, he was handsome. Tall, tan, and lean. Maybe I had the tiniest crush. Not enough to sin, just enough for some small, secret joy. There were no boys my age at Kingdom Hall, so I allowed myself this. Clint’s strong hand slipping round my waist, drawing me close. Closer still, til’ I couldn't breathe, and my heart beat so hard, it hurt. And so slow, so sweet, we danced...

"JUUUUUNE!!" 

My eyes popped open. I threw the shower curtain aside and scrambled out, dripping water all over the floor, toweling off in a frenzy. 

I had the fear of my sister more than God. 

I wriggled into my cut-offs and oversized Hamburglar tee, then scrambled into the kitchen, hair sopping. The house smelled yeasty and rich. Rain spun from the stove, spatula raised. "June! What the heck were you doing in there?"    

"Big lunch rush at work, third graders, whew. I stunk!" 

Her eyebrows pulled together. "All this time?" 

I shrugged, palms up, a hapless smile. 

Rain's face hardened. "You know what? That is so you. I'm freaking out, trying to get everything perfect before Mom gets home, and you're luxuriating in the shower." She twisted back to the stove. The frying pan sizzled and popped as she shook it hard. Still, I heard her. "You have no idea what I go through. You don't care either." 

I sidled up beside her. "Rain, I'm sorry. I mean it. I am. What can I do to help? Tell me." 

"Stop making puddles!" Rain knelt, sopped up the water I'd dripped onto the floor. "Mom will blame me! She'll get even more pissed." 

 I darted back to the bathroom, snatched the towel, wrapped up my hair, and ran back. "Here I am." I saluted. "At your command." 

Rain flipped her eyes. But she was scared. She needed me. "Get the table set."  

"Yes, sir!" 

"Don't call me sir." 

I flicked the lights on and caught my breath. Rain had spent the entire day cleaning, and it showed. Everything perfectly placed, and sparkling. Mom's beloved dream-catchers, washed, dried, and neatly arranged, hanging alongside the painting Mom had made, an Ozarks sunset, the mountains in shadow, and the scripture As for me and my household we shall serve Jehovah. I turned to the frosted glass cabinet where Mom kept her cherished collection of antique depression glass. I removed the key, folded it into a lace doily in the top drawer. I unlocked the cabinet and gathered four ornate, cherry blossom pink plates. One slipped from my grip, fell to the floor. 

"June!" Rain ran over. She snatched the plate, examined it, eyes huge. "You have to be careful," she said. "If she finds a chip, I'll be the one who gets it." 

"I will be oh-so careful. Delicate and nimble, like a field mouse." I eased the plate from her hands, tip-toeing to the table. I set each plate down with exaggerated grace as Rain returned to cooking. After the last one, I pushed my hand to my bosom, said to my sister, "Always resignation and acceptance. Always prudence and honuor and duty. Elinor, where is your heart?”

Rain rolled her eyes, deeply. "Your British accent sucks. Also, would you please quit using Jane Austen against me?"  

I stifled a laugh, then gazed at her. She didn't realize. I used Jane Austen to draw her closer. Marianne and Elinor Dashwood taught me about the complicatedness of sisters and gave me hope. I tried again, shy, straightening Mom's heritage lace place-mats. "Sense and Sensibility is out in theaters in a few more months. We're still going to see it together...right?" 

Silence. I looked up. Rain salted cabbage leaves, wilting them into a pool of melted butter. "I guess." A careless shrug. But I saw it, a small smile, breaking through. 

“Yes!” I shot my arm in the air. My towel unraveled and fell whoomph! onto the carpet. I knelt, gathering it up. Mom told the worst stories about her and her older sister, Rena. They hadn't spoken in years. That would not be Rain and me. If Marianne and Elinor, so different, so much to divide them, could hold onto one another through hardship, conflict, and pain, so could we. 

I stood, wrapping up my hair again. Rain eyed me as she ground pepper into the cabbage. "Did you put mousse in your hair like I told you? It looks all kinky again."

A sharp hurt as I placed the silverware. She picked on me about my looks. She and Mom were the beautiful ones. Mom, half Chippewa, with long, thick black hair sweeping past her butt. Rain, constantly likened to Brooke Shields with her lavish, dark curls, thick eyebrows, and hazel eyes. I was the odd one. My nose, too prominent. My eyes, wide and pale green. My hair was the worst: a wild mess of frizz. Mom said I had the ethereal beauty of a woodland creature. I hoped she meant something like a deer, rather than a possum. 

"My hair poofs no matter what I do," I told her. "It's an incorrigible poof. " I darted back to the cabinet, retrieved the candlesticks we only brought out on Mom and Dad's wedding anniversary, the one thing we celebrated as Jehovah's Witnesses. I set them beside the vase of fresh wild lavender, leaned in for a sniff. Mom's beloved herb garden had taken off this summer. She'd arranged luscious bouquets in every room of the house. I loved finding trails of bright, luminous petals strewn across the carpet, flower confetti. 

I scooted to the kitchen. Pulling open the junk drawer, I rooted around for matchsticks. Rain swiped her finger through the mix, tasted. She added more salt. 

I peeked around her. "Whatcha making?" 

"Piroshkis. They're Russian dumplings. I'm waiting for the dough to rise." 

I leaned in, finger outstretched. Rain smacked me. "Get your greasy, grimy Big Mac hands away from my Piroshkis." 

"Ha!" She cherished this odd belief that my hands were perpetually contaminated by my workplace. 

She peeled terry cloth away from a blue bowl. She peered in like she was checking on a sleeping baby. Then, she gently lifted a beautiful mound of risen dough. She set it on the cutting board, floured her hands, and began rolling the dough into a long snake. She focused on cutting the dough into precise parts. It warmed my heart, watching her cook. Mesmerized, I slid onto a bar stool to watch. 

After a minute, she snapped her head up. "June! Quit jiggling!" My awareness went to my knee, jogging up and down. I stilled it. Rain set the knife down. She pierced me with sister intuition. "What happened? Did Sexy Cowboy come for lunch?" 

Clint. "No!" I tugged at my shorts, suddenly too tight. 

"Aww." Rain mock-pouted. "So that's it. Your heart is broken into tiny McNuggets floating between your for-a-limited-time-only McRibs."  

"No it isn't. Stop!" I threw my hands over my face. 

She tossed her head back, laughing. Guffawing. 

When she guffawed, her nostrils did this hilarious thing she hated. "You're flapping." I pointed at her. 

"Nooooo." She pressed her hands over her nose. 

"Your nostrils are going to fly away! Like raptors." 

"Hahaha!" Rain doubled over, holding her sides. "You're stupid." 

I jumped to my feet, swung out an arm. "Fly, nostrils, fly free!" 

"Shut up, fuzz head." She chased me around the kitchen, swatting me with the dish towel. I ducked and darted, and finally, there we were, sprawled on the kitchen floor, laugh-gasping, wiping tears from our cheeks. "Oh my God." Rain sucked in air. "I'm gonna die." 

I sat up. "At least you'll die flappy." 

"And you'll die frizzy." Rain whipped her dish towel at me. It hit me square in the chest. I stiffened, keeled over. "Oof! Ya got me. Right in the elf boobs." 

"Elf boobs!" She squealed, pounding the floor. "I can't." After a minute, she flipped over on her stomach, regarded me with eerie seriousness.

"What?"  

"When are you going to tell Mom about your Secret Mcmirer?" 

My insides curled into a tight ball. The last time I'd confided in Mom about a crush, when I was twelve, the volcano had exploded. I looked down at my hands, fingers latching and unlatching. "Why would I?" It was Rain's job to start fights, and mine to avoid them. I wisely refrained from saying that.   

“What if he asks you out?" 

"Pfft. Yeah, right. He's not gonna do that. Unless—he has a thing for elves." 

"You never know. This is Arkansas. What would you tell him?"

My response was instant. "No." 

"June. Come on. You are clearly McSmitten."  

I studied her from beneath my lashes. Sometimes, Mom warned me to watch out. Beware, she said. Your sister is a bad influence. I wondered if this was one of those times. "I can't, Rain. You know that. He's a Worldly boy." 

She rolled her eyes. "You wouldn't have to marry him. Just a date. Just once. For fun."  

"I mean..." I considered. My palms sweat, just considering. But it wasn't Jehovah or the Elders that worried me most. I whispered, "What do you think she would do?" 

Rain barked a laugh. "Lock you up with her precious dishes, and throw away the key."  

That look on her face, bitter and challenging, shut me up. 

Rain and Mom were at war again. They hadn't spoken in a week. The impeccable house, the dinner, it was Rain's white flag. My sister was trying, and for all our sake, I wanted it to work. "Come on," I said, rising to my feet. "Let's finish before she gets home." 

While Rain crafted her dumplings, I lit the candles, dimmed the lights. Candlelight danced on the mural Mom had painted on the dining room wall, graceful feathery Sweet Annie, their tiny yellow flowers, glowing like stars. 

The slam of a car door. I jerked my head up. Rain scampered to the window, stood on tip-toe. She wrung her hands, and my heart flew to her. 

A couple of minutes later, Mom stepped into the kitchen, holding grocery bags. Her face was tired, lipstick gone. Still, she was striking. Plump and shapely. Her hair loose, thick and pitch-black, so long she could sit on it. Her bangs, which she now flicked from her eyes, showed a new streak of silver. She set the bags down, straightened. Her dark eyes drifted, taking in the kitchen, the dining room, the flickering candles. "What are you girls up to?" 

On cue, Rain stepped forward with her tray of Russian Piroshkis, bunched together like darling little dumpling babies. “Mom." She held out the tray. "I made these for you." 

I held my breath, glanced between them.  

Mom's eyes lowered to the dumplings. Her face turned to stone. Lifting her chin, she brushed past Rain. 

To me. 

“Juney." Her voice soft and sweet. "I got you something.” She dug in the depths of her wrinkly, black purse. "I want to thank you for always being so helpful and kind." She withdrew a delicate white box. "Proverbs says, a good heart is better than beauty." 

My eyes slid to Rain. Still holding the tray. Her face shattered.   

Mom touched my hand. "Go on. Open it." 

Heart pounding, I took the box, nudged off the lid. Nestled in cotton, a tiny pair of amethyst earrings glistened. Violets. I met Mom's eyes.  

"Our flower," she said. 

With a harsh scrape and clatter, Rain dropped her tray onto the stovetop.  

After dinner, I struggled with geometry at my desk. Erase, crumple, repeat. Over and over.  

I gave up, shoving my textbook away. And then the acid, rising, searing. I was too young for heartburn. I rubbed my chest. I hadn't known when I dropped out to homeschool how hard it would be, teaching myself alone at my desk. 

With a dark glance at Geometry, I pulled my English homework toward me. I didn't need help with English. The teacher in Chicago had written instructions. Write a poem, any length or style, about your most cherished memory. 

At once, my hand went to my ear, found my new earring. I spread open my notebook, leaned in, and the words spilled out.    

I am two years old. Mom dresses me in a lacy pink sundress and matching bonnet. She takes my hand, and we go outside for a walk. We sit in her garden in the sunshine. She picks two violets. One for her, one for me. She lifts her violet to her nose, closes her eyes, and breathes deep. I do the same. She brings her violet to her mouth, nibbles the petals. She is eating the violet! And I awaken. It is the first time I am alive to my own heartbeat, my own life. This woman, my mother, is a goddess, long hair aglow, black fire in the morning light. I nibble my violet, and giggle. We are laughing together. This goddess has given me life. She has awakened me to the world

 in the most astonishing 

and beautiful 

way.

My door pushed open. Rain peered in. I moved my hand over my poem.

"Hey. You studying? Wanna take a break, play tetherball?" She rubbed her hands together. 

I checked her face. "Really?" I hardly believed she was done being mad. I was sure I was due for at least a week of the silent treatment. 

"Yeah. Come on." She stepped backward, waving for me to follow. “Let's play." 

I jumped up. We tore outside, raced each other through the silky green grass. The sunset was bright peach feathered with pink. As kids, Rain and I had bickered endlessly. One evening, Dad put up a tetherball for us. We tattooed our names and ages on the wet concrete with a stick. Rain, 12. June, 9. 

It was some kind of magic, the way that tetherball bonded us. We played for hours. As Jehovah's Witnesses, we weren't allowed to join school sports teams. So Rain and I made our very own tetherball team. We met faithfully after school in our tees and cut-offs. We named ourselves Tetherball Warriors. We played against each other, but really, with. 

Now, ages sixteen and nineteen, facing off on the circle of cement that still held our names, weathered but timeless, Rain scooped her long, thick curls into a ponytail. She rolled her sleeves over her shoulders and grabbed the yellow nylon ball, fingers digging in. "Ready?" 

"Ready!" I clapped my hands. 

Her smile, like an animal baring its teeth.  

My blood turned to icicles.  

RAWWWWRRRRR! Rain smashed the ball. 

I ducked just in time. The ball grazed the top of my hair. Whoosh! 

Boom! Bash! Smack! She moved like lightning. I grit my teeth, fighting back, fists flailing in a cartoon blur. The ball zoomed at my face. I smacked it away with the fleshy inside of my wrist. I cried out, staggered backward, doubled over. The most riveting pain. 

Rain took advantage. She grabbed the ball and rushed me. I looked up. 

Our eyes touched, held.  

"Why...?" Was all I could get out. 

She mashed her lips together and flung the ball at my face. Smack! 

I fell to my knees. Dirt rose in a puff around me. I held my burning, throbbing cheek. 

Standing over me, Rain laughed. She laughed. 

Adrenaline drove me to my feet. I screamed in her face. "You bitch!" The first time in my entire life I'd cussed. I cringed like I'd done it wrong.  

My sister's face went still. She balled her fists. The hairs on the back of my neck rose. 

She lunged, and we crashed to the ground. 

We rolled like animals on the grass, twisting, pinching, pulling hair. She went for my ears. She slapped them, relentless. The posts of my new earrings stabbed me, again and again, in the tender bone right behind the ear. I shrieked, tried to wriggle free.  

"NO!" She straddled me, pinned my shoulders to the ground. "You're the bitch!" She pushed her face into mine. Her eyes twitched. Her hot breath smelled like the cooked cabbage in her Piroshki's. She drove the words down, a fiery stake into the center of my heart. "You're ugly. You know that? That boy doesn't want you. No boy will ever want you." 

I started to cry. 

"Wah! Wah! Run to Mommy!" She shook my shoulders, so hard my teeth knocked. "Mommy's little girl." She shoved me away, looked up at the sky. Screwed her eyes shut. "Nothing. No matter what I do. Nothing makes her love me." Her face split in two. 

One of my sister's tears dropped onto my cheek.

That single tear was sharper, more exquisitely painful than any punch could ever be.  

I held very still. 

I let her tears drop onto my face. Like punishment. Like shame.

Summer Hammond grew up in rural Iowa one of Jehovah’s Witnesses. She earned her MFA in Fiction from the University of North Carolina-Wilmington. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Broad River Review, Sonora Review, Texas Review, and StoryQuarterly. She is a 2021 Missouri Review Audio Miller Prize Finalist and a 2022 semi-finalist for Nimrod International Journal’s Katherine Anne Porter Prize. "Violets" is an excerpt from her novel The Impossible Why. Visit her at http://summer-hammond.squarespace.com/