The Garden
Original:
“The first one I hid beneath a single cornstalk after the air had stopped coming outta his nose, after it changed rhythm from short and raspy to a relaxed exhale and then nothing. Before that, his eyelashes would peel off each other and web like the gummy strands of almost dried Elmer's glue, back when he got bruises from crawling outta his crib in the night to sleep in the suitcase behind the door. That summer, he became the rattler daisy keeper, minding the cornfield from underneath. The second one I’d planted just stalks away from the first. His face had nothing special to look at when he dropped down, out of my stomach and onto the floor. When I saw him there, his eyes looking up, all I noticed was the freckle placed in the dip underneath his nose and I couldn’t help, but think that that would be the perfect place for a rattler to grow out of, and it was. That was one of the prettiest we’d seen.
"Father told me once, his back always turned towards me when things like this came up, that there was never such a thing as corn. It was all rattler daisies. He used to tell me that it was my turn, that it was an honor to give sacrifice to the rattlers. I was never told what the sacrifice had to be. He told me that was mine to choose on my own.
"Anyways, their daddy never knows when I’m pregnant. Seven times I was, and not once did he suspect. His eyes are always glazed over when he comes inside the house, and he always manages to run into everything, fitful in his red-eyed stupor. I feed them with the hooch-filled sweat wrung from his overalls and chewed up sunflower seeds that I’d collect off the cabin floor in the mornings and scatter in the evenings. I can always feel them smiling up at me when I do that, with their soft mouths and pebble-replaced teeth.
"During the summers, the backyard’s always full of cow shit and rags from the sewer backing up and coming up into the house and that’s always the time when I’m homesick. I know it’s going to start coming on when the doors swell, so we take them off the hinges and then we have to tack up sheets in the doorways for some privacy. That’s when I miss everything the most, when it always happens, when I know they need to belong to the field so they can take away what they brought with them. I have to pull a stalk up, tying the roots around their backs so they don’t float away. The loneliness and judgements and the bad winds that make the daisies drop their rattlers on the grounds and make it a bad year for harvest are gone after I do that.
"But now you’re here. To help me. With this one, right?” Aiyana said, rubbing the bulge of her stomach, her index finger landing atop her protruded belly-button. Her mother traced the scars stretched across Aiyana’s belly with the end of her daughter’s black-soot braid, faint and indented, stopping a fingers width from her belt line.
“No, my love, I need you to keep these ones alive. You have twins in you. You can’t kill twins for the rattlers, you’d never have crops again.”
“I’ve never heard that. Father would’ve told me.”
“Aiyana, how would you know what your father says? He stopped talking to you after you buried his second grandchild. I understand the need to sacrifice everything you have for the ability of keeping the rattlers alive. The rattlers are our life, but the twins will do no good for the fields. You have to believe me. This time, by killing what’s inside you will kill everything outside you as well.”
...................................................................................
Early June and the doors were all on their hinges. Aiyana put her hand on the handle, finding the house unusually quiet. Opening it, she found two small faces with dirt smudged under their noses and up through their champagne hair. She laid her tawny hand on the little girl’s face, the skin only matching because of the dirt on the baby’s pale skin. The little boy on her left pulled himself to his feet, wobbling in front of Aiyana and pointed out the window. Through the dirt-caked glass, Aiyana saw the fields in sepia, rows of dirt, unwilling to let the green pierce through, and all she heard was the dust hitting against the single-hinged screen door.
Revision One:
The first one I hid beneath a single cornstalk after the air had stopped coming outta his nose, after it changed rhythm from short and raspy to a relaxed exhale and then nothing. Before that, his eyelashes would peel off each other and web like the gummy strands of almost dried Elmer's glue, back when he got bruises from crawling outta his crib in the night to sleep in the suitcase behind the door. That summer, he became the rattler daisy keeper, minding the cornfield from underneath. The second one I’d planted just stalks away from the first. When he dropped down, out of my stomach and onto the floor, his eyes looking up, all I noticed was the freckle placed in the dip underneath his nose and I couldn’t help, but think that that would be the perfect place for a rattler to grow out of, and it was. That was one of the prettiest we’d seen.
Father told me once, his back always turned towards me when things like this came up, that there was never such a thing as corn. “In the world,” he had said, pointing with his crooked finger, “the one out there, they don't know the truth.” So, it was all rattler daisies. Yellow and beaded, they hung from the stalks. Stories of the hunters in the hills used to be told how the rattlesnakes were killed in the mountains so they could be brought down and traded for the rattler daisies of the fields. He said that’s how the rattlers got their name, because they were equal, the rattler daisies and the snakes. He used to tell me that it was my turn, that it was an honor to give sacrifice to the rattler daisies, now that all the snakes had died out. I was never told what the sacrifice had to be. He told me that was mine to choose on my own.
Anyways, their daddy never knows when I’m pregnant. Seven times I was, and not once did he suspect. His eyes became glazed over after years of drinking that bath-tub gin. He comes inside the house, and always manages to run into everything, fitful in his red-eyed stupor. I feed them with the hooch-filled sweat wrung from his overalls and chewed up sunflower seeds that I’d collect off the cabin floor in the mornings and scatter in the evenings. I can always feel them smiling up at me when I do that, with their soft mouths and pebble-replaced teeth. =
During the summers, the backyard’s always full of cow shit and rags from the sewer backing up and coming up into the house and that’s always the time when I’m homesick. I know it’s going to start coming on when the doors swell, so we take them off the hinges and then we have to tack up sheets in the doorways for some privacy. That’s when I miss everything the most, when it always happens, when I know they need to belong to the field so they can take away what they brought with them. I have to pull a stalk up, tying the roots around their soft backs so they don’t float away with the rains. On the third, I began squeezing my cigarette butts inside their little fists as keepsakes because I know they must get scared out there, with winds howling above them, making them drop their rattlers on the ground.
After months of sterile visits, my mother sat with me now, her thigh touching mine as she traced the scars, faint and indented, stretched across my belly with the tip of my braid, stopping a fingers width from my belt line. We sat there, in the field, my ankle digging into the dirt, my shorts moist from the rain that morning. I brushed at the beetle crawling along the stalk that grew above my sixth child.
“You’re here, to help me… with this one, right?” I said, rubbing the bulge of my stomach, my index finger landing atop my protruded belly-button.
“No, my love, I need you to keep these ones alive. You have twins in you. You can’t kill twins for the rattlers, you’d never have crops again.”
“I’ve never heard that. Father would’ve told me.”
“Aiyana, how would you know what your father says? He stopped talking to you after you buried his second grandchild. I understand the need to sacrifice everything you have for the ability of keeping the rattlers alive. The rattlers are our life, but the twins will do no good for the fields. You have to believe me. This time, by killing what’s inside you will kill everything outside you as well.”
**********************************
Early June and the doors were all on their hinges. I put my hand on the handle, finding the house unusually quiet. Opening it, I came upon the two small faces sitting in their crib with dirt smudged under their noses and up through their champagne hair. I walked over, and laid a tawny hand on the little girl’s face, my fingers matching the dirt on the child’s pale skin. The little boy on my left pulled himself to his feet, wobbling in front of me and pointed out the window. Through the dirt-caked glass, I saw the fields in sepia, the rows of dirt unwilling to let the green pierce through and all I heard was the dust hitting against the single-hinged screen door.