Where The Snow Falls Upside Down

1988

Patrick ran around and round the coffee table with a paper bag over his head. He kept crashing into the corners and banging his shins. He would yelp, stagger a bit and then continue with his running. The dog stood barking in the corner of the room. Patrick’s mother, Shelly, was on the kitchen phone, the cord wrapped around her wrist several times over. In her other hand, she lifted a cigarette to her mouth - fingers trembling - and inhaled deeply. A bottle of Southern Comfort liqueur stood next to the coffee pot.

            “I can’t do this no more, Birdie,” she said. “I’m not a fit mother. Or he ain’t a fit son. I can’t tell the difference. But my head, my head…I think it’s gonna explode.” She took another deep pull from her cigarette and let the smoke seep slowly from her lungs. She watched as the cloud of blue smoke spiraled toward the ceiling. Her eyes were stark and blood-shot, denuded. A vein twitched in the delicate skin below her eye.

            “No, Birdie, no,” she continued. “I can’t. I just can’t.” Shelly noticed that the dog had stopped its barking. She peered around the corner into the living room. Patrick was now standing by the front door, peeing into the umbrella stand. He had pushed the paper bag onto his forehead and was giggling as he emptied his bladder onto his mother’s favorite red umbrella with the wooden handle. The dog had slumped down onto the floor and was watching with his head on his paws, eyebrows arching in turns.

            “Aw, man, Christ Almighty! Patrick, no! Patrick, stop that!” Patrick turned around at the sound of his mother, dribbling pee all over the carpet. “Aw, for fuck’s sake, Patrick!”

            “For fuck’s sake, for fuck’s sake,” Patrick parroted. He pulled the bag back down over his head and continued his laps around the coffee table, his willy still sticking out over the waist band of his pj’s and dribbling little pee spots on the carpet.

            “Jesus Christ, Birdie!” Shelly shrieked into the phone. “Now will you believe me? The little cretin just pissed in my umbrella stand.” She slammed the receiver down and swiped the dish towel that hung from the fridge handle. Cigarette dangling from her bottom lip, she ran into the living room and grabbed Patrick’s arm, yanking him.

            “Look at that mess you made! You can’t behave this way. You’re a monster, you’re a fiend!” With her one free hand she pulled the paper bag from Patrick’s head and threw it to the floor.  Patrick grinned at his mother, eyes lit and pupils dilated. He ran his tongue round his lips and started snapping his teeth. She put both hands on his shoulders in an attempt to still him but, in a flash, he dipped his head and bit her hard on the wrist.

            “Ouch!” she yelped, jumping backwards. Released from his mother’s hold, Patrick bolted and ran laughing from the room. Shelly crumpled onto the sofa, rubbing her wrist. His bite had broken her skin and left little grey tooth marks. 

“Fuck!” she suddenly yelled. In the confusion, her cigarette had dropped from her lip and fallen to the rug. A small hole was burning, crimson red at the edges. It stank of burnt wool. She stamped at it with her shoe and then, satisfied that it was out, fell back into the sofa.

“Lord help me!” she cried out, pulling at her hair.

“Lord help me, lord help me,” Patrick mimicked from down the hall in his bedroom. She listened as he pulled out dresser drawers, and then heard the shattering sound of a bucket of Legos turned upside down onto the wooden floor. Shaking, Shelly stood up and staggered into the kitchen. She fumbled with the soft pack of cigarettes she had left on the window sill and, clutching one between her lips, struck a match.  Cigarette lit, she stood at the kitchen sink and stared out at the backyard.

Like her eyes, the garden was also denuded.  No hedges or flowers, no garden bench or birdbath. No grass, even. Just a patch of mud enclosed in a chain link fence with a lone tricycle lying on its side and a long-forgotten Hibachi grill full of rust and cobwebs in the corner. She inhaled deeply and flicked the ashes from her cigarette down the disposal. Then, when she had smoked the cigarette down to its very end, she smashed the butt into the bowl of soggy Raisin Bran that Patrick had left on the counter.

Nerves calmed, at least somewhat, she walked back across the kitchen, picked up the phone and dialed her best friend.

“Please, “she said when Birdie picked up after the fourth ring. “Please help me. I gotta get Patrick into a home. Foster care, maybe, I dunno. But I can’t do this no more, I just can’t.”

 

***

1984

            Shelly was finally eighteen and had just been voted the prettiest girl in Blowing Rock, North Carolina. She was, at long last, finally done with Watauga High and working as a performer at The Tweetsie Railroad – a Wild West theme park featuring a 3 -mile historic steam locomotive, live entertainment, amusement rides and gold panning. All her life, Shelly had been dancing at the local studio and wanted nothing more than to be a dancer. And, now that she was out from beneath the clutches of her parents, she had the freedom to do as she pleased. The day after graduating, she auditioned to be a part of The Tweetsie Railroad Country Clogging Jamboree and, to her utter astonishment, was cast as the lead. She was front and center in all the dance numbers. Every single one of them.

The other employees and performers at The Tweetsie Railroad became like family to Shelly that first summer. There was a staff cafeteria where they gathered two hours before showtime and gorged on corn dogs, French fries, soda and milkshakes. After their meal, they would head backstage for hair and makeup. Shelly, who had never been allowed to wear makeup while under her parents’ rule, became accustomed to seeing herself all dolled up with fake eye lashes, foundation, blush, deep red lipstick and blue eye shadow.

Lord have mercy, Shelly’s mother said the first night she came home still in makeup. Don’t you look tacky as shit in all that paint.

No, I don’t, Mom, Shelly retorted. I look glamorous. You should try and wear some ‘paint’ yourself every once in a while.

Shelly also loved the costumes – dungarees and cowgirl shirts for the hootenanny numbers, and ruffled thigh-high skirts and rhinestone cowboy boots for those meant to be a little glitzier. During intermission, most of the dancers ducked outside to smoke cigarettes and swap gossip. They assisted each other with dance steps, errant bobby pins and various costume malfunctions while dishing about boys, overdrawn bank accounts and, for those girls taking night classes, course loads. Most of the girls going to the community college were studying to be nurses, school teachers or insurance billers. Shelly thought about following suit and enrolling in some classes, too, but she was having too much fun. Next year, she thought. Next year.

The girls all trusted each other and leaned on one another. By the end of that first summer, Shelly and another dancer, Birdie, had taken a small apartment together above a hardware store, right on Main Street. It had two small bedrooms, a galley kitchen and a living room. It even had a small backyard – a dirt patch, really – where the girls set up a Hibachi grill and two plastic lawn chairs.

            Life was good. Shelly and Birdie furnished the apartment with castaways they found at the local thrift shops and spent all their extra money on make-up and house parties. Boys came and went, most of them actors from The Tweetsie Railroad dinner train. Sometimes the boys would arrive still in costume – chaps, cowboy hats and neckerchiefs during the summer when the show was “Butch Cassidy & The Train Robbers;” ghoulish makeup come October when the running theme was “Ghost Train;” Dickensian attire come Christmas when the train was decked out for “A Christmas Carol.”  

Occasionally a boy or two would spend the night, and the next morning Shelly and Birdie would find each other at the coffee pot in the galley kitchen. Half-dressed, makeup smeared and hair askew, they would take their coffee and cigarettes and, stepping over beer cans and overflowing ashtrays, make their way down to the lawn chairs in the back yard.

“Ok, you first,” was how Shelly would start the tell-all. Birdie would smirk and then launch into a fully-detailed description of her encounter with the boy who was still sleeping upstairs. They laughed hysterically while swapping stories of deep kissers, sloppy kissers, gentle kissers. Boys who bungled and fumbled with bra clasps. Boys who snored and others who talked in their sleep. Then, when their stories were spent and they were at the bottom of their coffee cups, Shelly and Birdie would make their way back upstairs to shower and clean-up in time for another shift at The Tweetsie.

It was a time of harmless, youthful fun.  Shelly and Birdie looked after one another and found that their most meaningful relationship was not with the boys that tended to come and go, but in the cultivation of their friendship. And they preferred it that way. They were sewn at the hip, as Shelly’s mother used to say – their very own care-free, adventure-seeking would-be gypsy-spirits.

Mind yourself, Shelly’s mother warned. All those boys and that face paint can only lead to trouble. Shelly ignored her mother entirely. Rolled her eyes, even. She had never been happier. How can you doubt such an experience, she wondered? Shelly felt as though she were blossoming, as though her life was an unrolling red carpet that ran down long corridors of endless possibility.

***

That Christmas, Shelly and Birdie were confronted with the reality that The Tweetsie was about to close for the winter and would not re-open until mid-April. The other dancers had all started talking about their off-season plans as early as Halloween, but Birdie and Shelly didn’t pay too much mind to the imminent closure. Something would work itself out, they figured. They could get jobs waiting tables at one of the restaurants downtown, or work at a café. Shelly had even noticed a Help Wanted sign for a cashier in the hardware store below their apartment – not a glamorous job, but a great commute. She could stomach ringing up nails and screws and toilet parts for a winter; after all, it was temporary only. So, Shelly applied for the cashier gig at the hardware store and Birdie got a job as a waitress at the diner just a couple streets over.

Winter settled, and with it so did the doldrums. The skies were often overcast and the temperature dropped below freezing most nights. Snow squalls came and went. Gritty slush accumulated in the streets and on the sidewalks and made the whole world feel drab and grey, like pigeon feathers. The girls tried to lighten the mood and improve their spirits with winter-themed parties promising Swedish meatballs and hot, spiced wine, but there were very few people to invite as most of the Tweetsie staff had taken winter jobs elsewhere, or had decided to go to college full-time. There were a couple local kids that Shelly could call from her high school days, but something about looking backwards to those old, tired friendships felt like a recognition of failure, and she was reluctant to include her old friends too much into the new life she hoped to build for herself.

So, Birdie tried to make friends with her co-workers at the diner and Shelly attempted friendships with the staff at the hardware store, but most of those folks were older than them – some of them supporting families or already divorced and embittered. The glamor of dancing at the The Tweetsie and carousing with actors from the dinner train had evaporated quick as kettle steam and the girls discovered that they were suddenly bored and despondent.

“How many more days ‘till opening day?” Shelly would call out to Birdie from the galley kitchen.

“74 more days,” would come Birdie’s response from inside her bedroom. “74 more shitty, life-sucking days.”

***

One Tuesday shortly after her mid-morning coffee break, the front door to the hardware store jangled open. Shelly looked up from the newly opened roll of credit card paper she was struggling to replace. A boy who looked just a couple years older than she strode up to her cash register and smiled brightly. He had shaggy blond hair, hazel eyes and the straightest teeth she had ever seen. He was tall and broad across the shoulders and Shelly could tell right away from how his t-shirt hung that he was fit and athletic.

“Bit cold and wet to go without a jacket, don’t you think?” she asked, motioning with her head to the storefront windows. Outside, wet snow fell in thick, hushed plops. A small rivulet of water ran along the curb.

“I know,” he said, laughing easily. “But I just popped in to grab something quickly. My boss’s got the car running out front.” Shelly looked around his shoulder to see a blue truck parked directly in front of the store, smoke puffing gently from the exhaust pipe. A man was sitting at the wheel, fiddling with the radio dial.

“Hate to leave the car running,” he continued. “I just need some sandpaper – coarse-grit, if you have it. Could you please direct me to the correct aisle?” Shelly could tell from his accent and formal way of speaking that he was likely a Yankee – from Boston or New York or someplace up north.

“Aisle 3,” she replied, “but I don’t know if we have coarse-grit. I just run the cash register. Want me to get the manager? He’ll probably know.”

“Oh, don’t bother, I’ll find it,” he said. He smiled again and then turned away. Shelly watched his back as he walked toward Aisle 3, admiring his confident stride and muscular form. He was a looker, and she liked that he wasn’t a local.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” she asked when he came back up to the register, sandpaper in hand.

“What’s that? Oh, no – I’m from Greenwich.” Shelly had never heard of it so she looked at him quizzically.

“Small town in Connecticut,” he said. “Sorry, I should have led with that. No reason you’d know it – just a bedroom community, really.”

“Oh?” she said.

“Yes, not too far from New York City. Lots of commuters.”

“Well, welcome to Blowing Rock,” she said, smiling. “Usually it’s prettier than this. Come height of summer, the Blue Ridge Mountains are really something to see.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” he said. “I look forward to seeing it firsthand.”

“You’ll be here ‘till summer?” she asked.

“Yes, I’m here through the end of August. I got a seasonal job and will be a river guide for the summer right here in Blowing Rock.”

“No kidding,” she said, smiling a little brighter. “Well, I think you have your seasons confused. Don’t suspect that you can take people out on the rivers right about now.”

“Oh, god no,” he replied. “I’m here to prep the boats and gear. I’ll also be doing some tour planning and administrative work. Booking trips, stuff like that.” Shelly leaned in slightly, smiling. “But, listen,” he continued. “I have to run. My boss is waiting for me. See you around?”

“You know where to find me,” Shelly replied.

“I guess I do. I’m Liam, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you Liam, I’m Shelly.” They smiled at one another, a bit awkwardly now. Liam hesitated for a moment and then, smiling again, turned to walk out the front door. She watched as he got into the passenger seat of the blue truck, and then blushed with hot embarrassment when he glanced over his shoulder to look back at her through the store window. She attempted a nonchalant wave and then tried to look busy by burying her nose in the roll of replacement credit card paper. Her heart was beating like a race horse and she had pitted out the underarms of her plaid shirt.

What in hell? she asked no one in particular, fanning herself. She had always felt cool as a summer cucumber with all the Tweetsie guys, but this Liam boy had her turned inside out, like jelly.

When she got home that evening, she cracked open two beers and, handing one to Birdie, snuggled up next to her on the couch.

“Guess what?” she asked, batting her eyelashes for affect.

“What is it now?” Birdie said, teasing. Birdie recognized the lilt in Shelly’s voice and knew that her tone intimated something about a boy.

“I met someone,” Shelly crooned. “A really cute someone. A Yankee from somewhere near New York City.”

“A Yankee?” Birdie asked, incredulously.

“A handsome Yankee,” Shelly stressed. “A real looker. Think I might get me some of that.”

“I bet you will,” Birdie agreed. “You’re so good at getting what you want.”

“Who knows?” Shelly said. “Maybe he’ll whisk me up to that great big shiny city of his, and I’ll be the newest Appalachian clogging sensation. People will line up to watch me dance. I’ll be heading straight to Broadway!”

“Don’t get too far out in front of your skies there, Shelly,” Birdie said. “Maybe get to know the boy a little first.” 

“What skis?” Shelly asked. “Do you see any skis strapped to my feet?”

“It’s a metaphor, dumb ass,” Birdie said, but she was laughing when she said it.

Shelly giggled in return, tucked her feet underneath her and rested her head on Birdie’s shoulder.

“Movie?” Birdie asked.
“Yep,” Shelly replied. Birdie pointed the remote at the TV and, in perfect obedience, the

screen jumped to life. Their nightly routine of relaxing on the couch was a deep comfort for both the girls - as dependable and comforting as a mother smoothing her daughter’s hair.

 

***

            True to her word, it didn’t take long for Shelly to grab hold of Liam. He came into the hardware store two or three days after their first encounter to buy some wood glue, and then came in again the following day to buy a drain plug and a gasket.

            “It would be simpler, you know, if you wrote a shopping list,” Shelly teased. “Then you wouldn’t have to come in here every couple of days.” She winked at Liam, and he smiled sheepishly. “Or,” she continued, “you could just cut to the chase and ask me out for coffee.”

            “Well, you’re not shy now, are you?” he asked, laughing. “I thought southern girls liked to be courted.”

            “Courting?” she asked. “Come on, this isn’t the nineteenth century. Who’s got time for courting?”

            “Well, alright then,” Liam countered. “When are you off work?” Shelly glanced up at the clock hanging on the wall above the cash register.

            “Come back in three hours?” she asked.

            “See you then,” Liam said. He smiled broadly as Shelly handed him his change.

            “See you soon, Yank,” she said. Liam stalled for a moment.

            “So, I’m a Yankee now, am I?”

            “Well, what else would you be?” she asked. “Didn’t you just call me a southerner?”

            “Fair enough,” he said. “I can tell I’m going to have my hands full with you.”

            “Oh,” she said, laughing, “you can count on it!”

 

***

            From there on out, Liam and Shelly spent all their free time together. Since Liam could make his own hours until guiding season, he met her whenever she clocked out of work and then again during her days off. Sometimes they wandered over to Birdie’s diner for biscuits and gravy, ventured out to the guiding shop just outside of town to work for a spell on the canoes or up to her apartment above the hardware store for homemade dinners and movies. She taught him how to make shrimp and grits and sweet tea, and he taught her to make Irish boiled dinner and Indian pudding. When the weather was bad, they cozied up in sweats, played Checkers and spent long hours in bed. Sometimes Liam would suggest reading a book aloud to each other, but Shelly scoffed at the idea and would suggest a movie rental instead. When the weather was good, they headed out for drives along the Blue Ridge Parkway up north to Boone or down south to Asheville.

            It was during one of these drives that they stopped at her town’s namesake, The Blowing Rock. The Blowing Rock was a famous rock formation – a craggy cliff, really -  turned tourist attraction that Shelly’s family made a point to avoid because of the crowds. In fact, Shelly had only been once before during a 5th grade fieldtrip; her parents had never once brought her.
            “Don’t you want to see it again?” Liam asked when he learned that she had only been once before. “I mean, honestly, you live right next to it.”

            “Well, how many times have you been to visit The Statue of Liberty?” Shelly replied, a bit defensively.

            “Touché,” Liam said.

            “Tooshay?” Shelly asked. “What the hell does that mean?”

            “You’ve never heard that expression before?” he asked, somewhat amazed.

            “No, Mister Smart-Ass, I’ve never heard of tooshay.”

            “It’s a French word,” Liam explained. “It means, ‘point taken.’”

            “Damn-straight,” she retorted.

            “Well, shall we stop and see it? It’s really quite beautiful.” Shelly yawned and shrugged her shoulders but Liam decided to pull off the highway anyway.

            After they purchased their tickets and entered the park, Liam led her first to the gardens, the overlook and the nature trail. He was saving the best part, The Blowing Rock, for last. Since it was only early spring, the park was quiet and there was hardly anyone there. Patches of snow were scattered about and the ground was soft and muddy. Water squished up around Shelly’s shoes when she stepped off the packed paths and onto the natural ground. But the views, she had to agree, were pretty – endless mountain ranges, still purplish in their winter hibernation; ribbons of rivers and streams cutting like silver dorsal fins through the gulleys and valleys of Johns River Gorge; the old growth trees of the Pisgah National Forest and China Creek.

            “God’s country,” Liam said while taking in the view from the Observation Tower. He whistled through his bottom teeth and held his arms open to the panorama. “I always feel so restored in nature,” he commented, “as if I am coming back to myself.” Shelly didn’t reply – she was too busy scraping mud from the bottom of her shoe with a stick she had snapped off a tree.

            “Ugh, lots of muck,” she grunted. “We should have saved this field trip for summer.” Shelly reached into her pocket for a cigarette.

            “Oh, a little mud won’t hurt you. It’s not like those are your clogging shoes. And do you have to smoke right now? Don’t you want to smell the fresh pine of the forest? I’ll never understand why a dancer smokes.”

            “All dancers smoke, “Shelly said. “I told you. It’s part of the culture.” Liam bit his tongue and looked away. “Seen enough yet?” she asked. “Now I’m cold and I have mud in my shoes.”

            “You just need to see The Blowing Rock,” Liam said. “Then we’ll go.”

            Liam grabbed her hand and led her back up toward the northeast side of the park. When they got to the signpost that read “The Legend of the Blowing Rock,” he steered her left off the trail and out onto a massive rock that perched 3,000 feet above the forest floor. The outcropping looked almost like a hooked bird’s beak and they inched their way right to the very edge of it. Then they carefully sat down and dangled their legs over the side despite the sign warning them not to. It was windy and exposed and gusts of freezing air seemed to blast up from the gorge below. Despite the sun, there had been flurries off and on throughout the day – a gentle, soft kind of snow – and the snow began to fall again now that they were perched atop Blowing Rock.  Shelly clutched at her coat collar and then blew into her bare hands. She inched closer to Liam.

            “Why are we doing this again?” she asked, looking at him warily.

            “You know the legend of The Blowing Rock, don’t you?” he asked. “They must have told you about it in school.”

            “Probably,” she said, examining her fingernails. “But I bet I wasn’t paying attention.”

            “Oh, well, I’m sure you’ll like it. It’s a love story about a Chickasaw maiden…”

“Jeez, you’re a nerd,” Shelly interrupted. “Chickasaw maidens? Really?!”

“Stop interrupting and listen to me,” Liam said. Shelly sighed but consented with a quiet smirk. “Feel how the wind is blowing up at us, as if from the bottom of the gorge?” he asked. “And see how the snow looks like it’s falling upwards? Well, that’s because it is. The wind does blow up. It’s really a strange phenomenon. The rocky walls of Johns River Gorge create a flume and the winds from the northeast travel through with so much force that they push anything light – like snow or falling leaves or a feather – upwards. They say Blowing Rock is the only place where the snow falls upside down.”

“I can tell you’re going to be a good river guide,” Shelly commented. “But why do you care about all these random facts? I feel like I’m in science class.”

“Because it’s interesting, Shelly. Well, it is to me anyway. Don’t you like learning about why things happen?”

Shelly shrugged. “Not as much as you do, apparently,” she said. “So, what’s the love story? I’m betting that’s more interesting than science.”

Liam sighed. “You’re a tough audience,” he said. “Ok, so the love story. Legend has it that the young daughter of a Chickasaw chieftain had caught the eye of a white man. That wouldn’t do, so the Chieftain travelled with his daughter from the plains where they were from, here to The Blowing Rock where he left her in the care of a wise woman.

One day, while the young girl was sitting right where we are now, she spied a handsome Cherokee brave down in the gorge below. Wanting to get his attention, she shot a playful arrow in his direction. Sure enough, he found his way up through the forests and the rocky walls to the maiden here on Blowing Rock and the two fell in love. They spent their days wandering among the trees and playing in the rivers. But, one day, a red and menacing sky brought them back to Blowing Rock, where the Cherokee Brave feared that the red sky was an omen of bad things to come for his tribal people. He wanted to return to them and fight for them, but the young maiden cried and pleaded with him not to leaver her. Torn between his love for the girl and his loyalty to his people, the brave leaped from Blowing Rock down into the depths below.”

“He killed himself?” Shelly asked. “How stupid. What’s the sense in that?”

“Well, the story is not over yet,” Liam said. “The Chickasaw maiden grieved and wept and came to The Blowing Rock every single day to pray to the Great Spirit to return her beloved. And one day, with a reddening sky similar to the one they saw the day the Cherokee Brave made his fateful leap, a gust of wind blew her lover back onto the rock and delivered him straight into her arms. And ever since that day, so they say, a perpetual wind has blown upwards onto Blowing Rock. And that is why this is the only place you will ever discover where the snow falls upside down.”

Shelly hesitated for a moment and then burst out laughing. “That is the biggest load of horse shit I have ever heard,” she cried. “Oh my god, give me a break! How stupid can people be?”

“It’s a legend, Shelly - a myth. The kind of stories people tell when they cannot explain unusual phenomenon. It’s their way of making sense of the things they don’t understand. I mean, consider the whacky stories in the Bible. Noah’s Ark? The Immaculate Conception? They are no less absurd, yet we accept them because they are part of our cultural heritage. Not much different for the Chickasaw Nation really, is it?”

Shelly looked nonplussed and entirely unconvinced. But she relented for the moment and studied the snow. It was, indeed, falling upside down. Blowing straight up, and then dancing around in eddies of air directly above their heads. She held her face upward toward the sky – mesmerized, at least for the moment. And then she noticed the cold.

“Alright, smart-ass,” she said. “This Chickasaw maiden is cold as shit. Can we go now?”

“Yes,” Liam sighed, seeing that his story had mostly fallen on deaf ears. “We can go now.” Liam stood up and then extended a hand to help Shelly.

“Now we’re talking,” she said. “Let’s go home and warm up with some Southern Comfort!” Liam smiled weakly and, after helping her up to her feet, dug into his pocket for his keys. Once in the car, Shelly leaned abruptly across him and turned on the radio. She fiddled with the dial until she landed on one of her favorite Violent Femme songs, Add it Up.

“Yes!” she shrieked, cranking up the volume and crooning along to the punk lyrics. She lit a cigarette, put her feet up on the dashboard and tapped her feet in time to the music. “Oh, I love this part! C’mon Liam, sing with me! ‘Going down the kitchen at the top of the stairs, can I mix in with your affairs…’”  Liam didn’t sing along, instead he made a face and cracked his window to let out her cigarette smoke. “Share a smoke, make a joke, grasp and reach for a leg of hope!” Shelly carried along singing at the top of her voice as Liam pulled out silently onto the Blue Ridge Highway.

Once they were in her apartment, Liam dropped into himself. At first, he just sat quietly at the kitchen table and looked absently out the window toward the measly patch of backyard; then he finally turned his attention to one of the fashion magazines that was lying around and leafed purposelessly through the pages. Shelly still didn’t notice his distraction, though. She was too busy flitting about the apartment lighting her smokes, topping off their shot glasses and trying on her new pair of clogging shoes.

 

***

 

With the advent of spring, Liam’s preparations for the summer rafting season became more and more time consuming and, come mid-April, The Tweetsie re-opened. Shelly and Birdie were each ecstatic to be done with their dull winter jobs and spent much of their free time practicing new techniques of make-up application and hair-styling. Within a couple weeks, the house parties started up again and the smoking and drinking ratcheted-up several notches. Liam came to a few of the parties, but found that conversations would inevitably stall between himself and the other Tweetsie dancers and actors. Even with Shelly and Birdie. He was studious and outdoorsy, they were loud and dramatic. He thrived on the water and the sound of the woods, they came alive in spotlights and costumes and dance numbers.

By the end of May, Shelly and Liam’s love affair had dwindled to the point where she didn’t know if he was out on a guided tour for several days, or back at the shop patching boats and replenishing supplies. And, to be honest, she didn’t care much. She and Birdie drove out to the guide shop a couple times to invite him to bar-b-ques and after-parties, but both times the place was dark and locked-up, the canoes and transporting trucks gone. Shelly would look at Birdie and shrug her shoulders. Oh well, her shrug seemed to say, no harm, no foul.

In fact, no harm, no foul became a sort of mantra for Shelly and Birdie that summer. All they wanted to do was dance at The Tweetsie and then party and socialize afterwards, Shelly especially. She seemed bent on it, even willful about it – night after night after night. Most nights, she would get so drunk that she would pass out on one of the plastic fold-up chairs in the backyard, or sprawled on the living room couch. Once, she fell over in the hallway on the way to her bedroom and simply slept right there on the hallway carpet. Whatever Tweetsie actor had had his eye on Shelly that evening would leave empty-handed and only mildly disappointed, abandoning Birdie to an apartment turned upside down with empty beer cans, stubbed out cigarettes and a comatose roommate.

Shelly had an amazing constitution, however, and the next day she would be back up on the dance floor in near-perfect form. Hair coiffed, make-up applied, costume in pristine shape. She kept up the paces like some sort of tireless, self-generating machine and danced and drank and danced and drank until mid-summer when, all of a sudden, she realized that something was different. Something was somehow off. She took quick offense to smells now and felt slightly nauseated almost all the time. The sight of the fried food at the Tweetsie cafeteria made her gag and she all but stopped eating, and yet she had a hard time fitting into her costumes. They felt tight, like the zippers were pulling. And, worst of all, she felt a fatigue that was so overpowering that sometimes it was all she could do to drag a brush through her hair.

“Something’s up,” she finally said to Birdie one afternoon in between numbers during an afternoon performance. They were backstage in one of the dressing rooms, both in thick stage makeup and matching rhinestone denim shirts. “I don’t feel right. I don’t feel myself.”

“Maybe you need to lay off all the drinking and partying,” Birdie said, looking warily in Shelly’s direction. “Take a little break. I could sure use a rest.”

“Take a break from fun?” Shelly asked. “Why would you want to do that?”

“Well, I for one gotta say that it’s gettin’ kinda old cleanin’ up after you night after night.” Shelly was caught off guard by Birdie’s comment. It had never occurred to her that Birdie hadn’t been having as much fun as Shelly.

“What are you talkin’ about?” Shelly retorted. “You’re the one laughing about our shenanigans every morning over coffee and cigarettes.”

“I think you mean your shenanigans, “ Birdie said with emphasis. “Haven’t you noticed that not as many people come around anymore? Like maybe you’re gettin’ a reputation?”

Shelly felt a fierce stab of betrayal and was about to respond with a smart-ass remark when the sudden urge to vomit overwhelmed her. She turned and ran in the direction of a nearby trash can, but missed the mark and threw up on the floor instead.  

“Better yet,” Birdie said, once Shelly’s retching had subsided. “Maybe you otta get yourself a pregnancy test. Maybe what’s got you ain’t partying woes, but baby woes.” Shelly didn’t respond. She was still bent over her puddle of vomit, a string of spit dangling from her bottom lip. After a moment, she stood up straight and dragged the back of her hand across her mouth, smearing her lipstick.

“Here Birdie, I gotta little birdie just for you,” she said.  Shelly placed her left hand on her hip in an attitude of stark defiance while, with her right hand, she slowly raised her middle finger.

“Nice one, Shelly,” Birdie said, shaking her head. “Real original. Enjoy cleanin’ that stinkin’ pile of throw-up.” Birdie turned and walked out the door and Shelly, exhausted and weak, moved slowly to a chair and sat down, bending over to rest her hands on her knees.

 

***

 

A few days later with nothing but an increase in symptoms, Shelly finally relented and picked up a pregnancy test on her way home from The Tweetsie. The mood between the two girls had been prickly since their stand-off in the dressing room and they tended to avoid eye contact, let alone one another. But, in a rare moment of vulnerability, Shelly asked Birdie if she would stick around until after she had taken the test, just in case. Birdie nodded and, rather than retreating immediately into her bedroom as had been her habit these last couple of days, sat instead on the edge of the living room couch and waited expectantly.

“God speed,” she called as Shelly took a deep breath and ducked into the bathroom. Birdie suspected that Shelly would triumphantly throw open the bathroom door if her test was negative, or come out lashing if it was positive, but nothing happened. Ten minutes passed without a sound or any detectable motion whatsoever. After a moment’s hesitation, Birdie knocked on the door.

“You okay?” she asked. No response. “Hey, Shelly, you pregnant or what?” Still no answer. Birdie turned the door knob and was relieved to see that Shelly had left the door unlocked. She opened it cautiously and peered around to discover Shelly sitting in the empty bath tub, the shower curtain partially drawn, her knees pulled up protectively to her chest. Shelly was soundlessly weeping. Black mascara ran down her cheeks and into the well of her neck.

“Oh, honey,” Birdie said. “Oh, honey. It’s okay.” Birdie stepped into the bathtub and crouched down so that the two girls’ knees were knocking. She pulled Shelly toward her and held her in an embrace. Shelly rested her head on Birdie’s shoulder and cried and cried.

“What am I gonna do?” Shelly wailed. “Oh my god, what am I gonna do?”

 

***

 

“You’re gonna pull yourself together and drive out to Liam’s place and tell him your knocked up,” Birdie said for the umpteenth time a couple days later. The girls were sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee. Shelly closed her eyes in bleary exhaustion and absently pulled at her hair.

“You ‘spect that his family has means, right?” Birdie continued. “You said he lives in a rich town, right? And he’s educated? Taking a year’s break from some preppy college or somethin’? He can probably take care of you and the baby, you know, or at least help you pay for an abortion.”

“I told you, Birdie. I ain’t gettin’ an abortion. I deal with my mistakes.”

“Well, an abortion is one way of dealing with your mistake,” Birdie said. But Shelly said nothing, only shook her head. “Well, abortion or not,” Birdie finally said, “this is Liam’s problem, too. Makes no sense to me that you wouldn’t tell him.” 

“I haven’t even talked to him for weeks now, let alone laid eyes on him! There’s no relationship anymore. It just fizzled, remember?”

“So, what does that matter? It’s still half his problem!” Birdie said.

“It’s late into the season now. Where are we? End of July? He might have packed up already and headed north.”

“He told you he’d be here through the end of August, Shelly. Honestly, I don’t get it. What’s your problem?”

“My problem, Birdie, my big fuckin’ problem is that I’m not even sure the baby is his!” she suddenly shouted. As soon as the words came out, Shelly made an expression of utter astonishment, as though she had caught herself off guard.  She snapped her mouth shut and looked down at the floor. “I messed up, Birdie,” she finally said. “I really messed up.”

Birdie sighed and fell silent. She rubbed the space between her eyebrows as if she had a headache, and then shuffled her chair a couple inches closer to Shelly’s. Everything about Shelly seemed to sag, like a dirty towel weighted down with salt and sand. Birdie reached out a hand and rested it lightly on Shelly’s shoulder. Shelly looked up and the girls studied one another for a silent moment, neither of them saying anything at all.

After a moment, Birdie leaned back in her chair and whistled softly through her bottom teeth. “Alright, Shelly,” she said. “Whatever you wanna do. I’ll follow your lead.”

“I wanna go it alone,” she said finally, “with no guy to help me. It’s my problem. I created this mess. So I’ll deal with it.” Birdie said nothing. “ But, Birdie,” Shelly said, reaching for Birdie’s hand, “I’d really appreciate your friendship. I’d really be grateful if you’d stick by me.” Shelly fell quiet then and looked up at Birdie with eyes full of fear. Birdie hesitated, then smiled quickly and stood up.

“Well, it’s about time you quit drinkin’, then” she said, smiling grimly. “And you should prob’lly quit those cigarettes, too.” Shelly nodded and looked at the cigarette she was currently smoking. She snuffed it out in the ashtray and then stood up wearily.

“Thanks, Birdie,” she said. “Means a lot.” Then she wandered over to the couch in the living room and, tossing the decorative pillows onto the floor, stretched out with her head laying on the armrest. “Well, one thing at a time,” she finally said, having reconsidered. “I’m not the cold turkey type. I’ll stop the drinkin’ first.”

“Well, I guess that’s something,” Birdie conceded. “One step forward is one step forward.”

Shelly grunted and then turned her head toward the wall, falling swiftly and deeply asleep. Birdie went into her bedroom and returned with a blanket, gently covering Shelly’s shoulders. Then she went back into the kitchen, turned on the radio and stood quietly for a moment in front of the sink. She mumbled something inaudible beneath her breath and slowly shook her head. Then she gathered herself, poured some dish soap on a sponge and picked up the first of several dirty plates.

 

***

1988

            “You can still do this,” Birdie insisted from the other end of the line. “Shelly, Patrick is three years old now. He’s bonded with you. YOU are his mother.”

            “You think I don’t know that?!” Shelly retorted. “Of course I’m his mother! I gave birth to him, for Christ’s sake, not you!” Birdie was silent and Shelly felt an instant sting of remorse. “I’m sorry, Birdie. I’m being rude. You’ve been nothin’ but a godsend. I’m sorry.”

            “Listen, Shelly. I know it’s hard and I know you’ve been goin’ it alone ever since I moved out to go to school, but I can’t stand by and watch you give Patrick away. I just can’t. I’ll help you find support. I’ll help you find a therapist or someone who can help with his weird behaviors. I’ll continue babysittin’ for you once in a while so that you can go out and have some fun. But you can’t just abandon him. You decided to keep him when you found out you were pregnant. You made a commitment to that. You can’t just jump ship now.”

            Shelly didn’t say anything, just sat breathlessly with both hands clutched around the phone. She shivered slightly when a cold wind blew in through the open kitchen window. She eyed the bottle of Southern Comfort up on the counter but drank from her coffee mug instead. “Listen, I gotta go,” Shelly finally said. “I gotta mess to clean up and I’ve gotta be to work in less than an hour. We’ll talk later.”

            “Alright, hang in there,” Birdie replied. Shelly placed the phone on the receiver and walked swiftly down the hall into Patrick’s room. Patrick didn’t hear her approach so she stood in the doorframe for a moment, quietly watching him. Patrick was crouched against the wall, dropping tiny pieces of Legos down the heating vent. He was working hard and grunting as he jammed his fingers in between the slats. He had thick blonde hair and hazel eyes and, even though she didn’t have a picture of Liam, Shelly knew that Patrick looked just like him. She knew, deep in her gut, that Liam had to be his dad. But Patrick sure wasn’t calm and even-keeled like Liam. No, no…he was volatile and unpredictable. His moods swung with a violence that unnerved her. One moment he was soft and giggling, the next he was spastic and destructive. Right now, busy with his task of jamming up the apartment heating vents, he was gentle and calm.

            “Patrick, what do you think you’re doin’?” Shelly asked. He turned and looked at his mother, then reached for another Lego piece and dropped it inside the vent.

 “Listen, Mumma,” he said laughing. “It goes ‘PING! PING!’” Patrick reached for another Lego.

“Nope!” Shelly blurted. “Stop that. You’re gonna break the heater and then I’ll be totally screwed. I’ll get stuck with the bill and we won’t have any heat.” Shelly hurried over to Patrick and was relieved when he didn’t shriek as she took his hand and led him away from the vent. “Get out of your pajamas,” she said. “Time to get dressed and go to daycare now.”

“Go to daycare now, go to daycare now,” Patrick parroted. He grabbed his pj’s by the waistband and pulled them down to his knees, then stepped in turns on each pant leg and wriggled, like a worm on a hook, until he was at last free of his pajama bottoms. Then he took off running, bare-bummed, down the hall. Shelly caught up with him in the living room, running laps around the coffee table, the paper bag once again pulled over his head.

 

***

Despite her speeding, Shelly pulled into the staff parking lot at the Tweetsie fifteen minutes late. Her supervisor had warned her just a couple days prior that she was at risk for termination if she was late just one more time; she was on probation, and had already received both a verbal and a written write-up. And here she was, late again. But not because she was hung-over, she thought to herself, not because she was careless. She was late because she was a single, working mother and because she had a toddler whom everyone, daycare providers included, suspected of a behavior disorder.

“Fuck!” Shelly hollered, banging her fist on the dashboard. She swerved into a parking spot, threw the car into park, yanked the key out of the ignition and took off running toward administration.

Four years ago, when Shelly had learned that she was pregnant, she had gone to her supervisor and asked for a re-assignment. It was the bitterest pill she had ever swallowed and Shelly had cried all the way up until the moment that she had knocked on his door. But, she had reasoned, she had no choice: it was only the end of July and the Tweetsie would remain open until the New Year. Her costumes were already tight. How in hell was she going to fit into a Christmas costume and clog in the spotlight at seven months pregnant? She would look ridiculous. She would look like a whale. Besides, it wouldn’t even be allowed.

Why do you want to quit dancing? her supervisor had asked, both stunned and incredulous. You’re our best dancer. Shelly had only shrugged, saying merely that she thought she would be happier with an admin job, and could they get her something that was year-long, so that she could work during the off-season, too?

Three months after her re-assignment, when she could no longer hide her growing belly despite the baggy sweaters and men’s shirts she had found at the thrift shop, her supervisor had come up behind her one day while she was sitting at the computer. He laid his hands on her shoulders and bent at the waist to whisper in her ear.

I see now why you quit dancing, he said, and I think you made the right decision. Dancers aren’t considered fulltime, so they aren’t eligible for benefits. Why don’t you come to my office so that we can discuss your maternity options? Shelly stiffened and said nothing, her eyes immediately flooding with hot tears. She remained seated, rooted to her chair with her hands frozen over her keyboard.  After a moment, her supervisor had simply said, Well, my door is always open, and then stepped away.

In that precise moment, Shelly had heard laughter and looked out the office window. A group of dancers was passing out front, Birdie among them. They had just finished their meal at the staff cafeteria and were on their way to the dressing rooms. Shelly knew that in a matter of minutes they would be seated in front of brightly lit mirrors, applying makeup and styling their hair, slipping into costumes and lacing up their clogging shoes. In two hours’ time, once the curtains had raised, they would stand center stage in a line-up, arms linked and chins raised. They would smile broadly into the spotlights and be washed over with a warm wave of applause from an audience eager to be entertained. Shelly would not be among them. Instead, a gal named Rita would stand in her place - front and center – with Birdie right beside her. 

These past four years had been so hard for Shelly. She wanted to lash out at everyone, hate everyone -  the other dancers and dinner train actors, the staff at the cafeteria, her supervisor, even the pimply faced kid who took tickets at the park entrance turn-style and smiled stupidly at the incoming guests.

Shelly had wanted to hate Birdie, too. Had wanted to hate Birdie for her freedom and kindness and cautious ways; for her imminent Associate’s degree; for her flat, tight belly; for the fact that she had never smoked too hard, drank too hard, lived too hard. But Shelly couldn’t do that. She loved Birdie, and Birdie had always been good to her. Had stood beside her even when her own mother had not. Had let Shelly blubber all over her shoulder that day when Shelly’s mother had simply said, Well, don’t say I didn’t warn ya. And don’t come lookin’ round here for a bail-out, sugar. My child rearin’ days are over.

Now here Shelly was, four years later and still the reckless fuck up - racing to beat hell two steps at a time up the stairs to the administration offices. Shelly burst through the front door and tried to slow her pace, collect herself even a little, but her noisy entrance had all heads turning in her direction. Her supervisor was standing by the copier and immediately looked at the clock on the wall when he saw her enter.

“Come to my office please, Shelly,” he said.

“Aw man, can you just hear what happened? My son….”

“Shelly,” her supervisor interrupted, “this is not the place.” Shelly sighed and looked about her. The two other office gals immediately dropped their heads and pretended to look busy. Shelly walked to her desk, dropped her purse and followed her supervisor into his private office. He closed the door behind her and gestured for her to take a seat.

“Please,” she said, “I know I have trouble getting’ here on time, but I can do better. It’s just that my son…”

“I know, your son. You’ve told me before and I feel for you, really I do. But rules are rules. I can’t turn a blind eye to your constant infractions and maintain policies with the other employees. I’ve already given you enough slack as it.”

“But can’t I just make up the time during my lunch break? I don’t care about taking a short lunch. Or I can skip my coffee breaks or something. The other staff will understand, they’ll get it. They won’t care. I can even ask Tracy in HR and…”

“Shelly, please. We’ve been round and round this one hundred times. You knew it was a likelihood - yet here you are, late again.”

“But I have to work. I can’t not have a job. I got a kid to support!” Shelly started trembling and felt tears welling. She wiped furiously at her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Shelly. I’m really sorry, but I have to give you your walking papers. Don’t you have someone who can help you? A relative or a neighbor or something?” Her supervisor hesitated a moment and then finally ventured, “Patrick’s father, maybe?”

“There is no father, okay? No father at all. It’s just me, and Birdie when I’m lucky.” Shelly and her supervisor regarded each other for a stalling moment, neither of them saying a word.

“Look,” Shelly finally said. “If you’ve made up your mind then there’s nothin’ I can do otherwise. But are you going to give me my final paycheck or what?  I can’t just stand around here talkin’ to you and payin’ for daycare when I’ve got no income.”

“Of course,” her supervisor said, “I have it all prepped.” He unlocked a cabinet behind his desk and took out a book of checks. Shelly could see from a piece of nearby scratch paper that he had already calculated the hours and tax deductions for her final paycheck. He wrote out the check details quickly, tore the check from its carbon copy, and handed it to Shelly. “And here,” he said, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing his wallet. He began to pull out several twenties. “This should cover daycare until you find another job. But understand that this is from me, not The Tweetsie. Corporate wouldn’t approve, so let’s just keep this between us…”

“I don’t need your charity,” Shelly snapped. “That’s just adding salt to the wound.” Pay check in hand, Shelly turned and marched out of her supervisor’s office. She stopped at her desk long enough to grab her purse and coffee mug. Then she reached down and opened one of the desk drawers and took out a soft pack of cigarettes.

“See this, girls?” she blurted, waving the coffee mug and the pack of cigarettes above her head. The two other office ladies looked up expectantly, eyes wide and mouths slightly open. “See these here cigarettes and this coffee mug? Well, this is all I got now…this and a messed up kid and some Southern Comfort back at home. So fuck all y’alls.” Eyes straight ahead, head held high, Shelly walked with purpose out the front door and down the steps from the administration building.

Behind her, the two office gals and the supervisor regarded one another in the churning wake Shelly had left behind and then each, in turn, shrugged their shoulders. To each their own, their shrugs seemed to say. Meanwhile, as soon as Shelly was back in her car, she threw her mug and cigarettes into the well of the passenger seat, punched her steering wheel several times and then fell to weeping.

 

***

 

Shelly wept in the parking lot for a good five minutes and then, having grown disgusted with her own slobbering, decided to make the most of her sudden day off. It was early yet, only 8:45 am. The day stretched long and thin ahead of her, like the crisp edges of a morning shadow, and Shelly began to consider her options. I can afford to keep Patrick in day care this one last day, she thought to herself. Pick him up at the usual time. I can go home and enjoy the place all to myself, figure out my next steps tomorrow.

And so, as soon as Shelly was back in her apartment, she changed out of her work clothes into a pair of sweats and then went into the kitchen and poured herself a cup of hot coffee. She paused for a moment, as if in careful consideration, and then topped off her coffee mug with two splashes of Southern Comfort. She lit a cigarette and stood by the cracked kitchen window, drinking her coffee and looking out at the backyard.

A murder of crows were perched in the leafless tree across the yard, one of them cawing out loudly – the others just turning their heads silently. A car turned up the alleyway that ran behind the Main St. storefronts and parked by the dumpsters two buildings over. Patrick’s tricycle still lay on its side in the dirt patch and Shelly could see, even from the second floor window, that the chain had come off the track and was dangling in the mud. She shrugged, dropped what remained of her cigarette into the last few sips of her coffee and then moved into the living room.

She looked around for a bit and then suddenly pushed the coffee table and couch against the far walls, leaving an open space. The dog, whom Shelly had forgotten about entirely, cocked his head at the unusual activity and then retreated to an open corner. Shelly then rolled back the area rug and looked with satisfaction at the wooden floorboards beneath. She tapped the boards softly with her socked foot and then took off swiftly down the hallway toward her bedroom. She returned a few minutes later in tightly laced clogging shoes and bright red lipstick.

Kneeling by the record player, she dropped the needle on a Pete Seeger album and then took her place in the center of the living room. She held her arms crooked firmly at the waist, tapped a few times with her right foot and then started into kicking. She fell into an old clogging standard that she could have sworn she had forgotten by now. But the dance steps were right there, accessible with as much ease as if she had practiced them just that morning.

As the music increased in vigor, so did Shelly’s dancing. She worried for a moment that she might get yelled at by the manager from the hardware store beneath her, but then decided she didn’t care. To hell with him, she thought, I’ll dance however I want to. The dog began to bark when the record needle started to jump in time with her clogging, but Shelly ignored it – she was free, she was in motion. Shelly was looking forward and feeling her feet move beneath her as if they had a mind of their own. For the first time in months, if not years, Shelly felt small wisps of possibility, little tendrils of chance and opportunity - even glory - beginning to wind about her, wrapping her in the promise of something grand, something beautiful, something golden and bright and shimmering. Shelly lifted her head, expanded her chest and picked up her rhythm. The euphoric high of her dancing washed over her like the applause at The Tweetsie and Shelly nearly burst with the abandoned, gleeful smile of a young, unadulterated girl.

Rrriiinnnggg! The ringing of the phone pierced through the clomping and the clogging with a shrill jab, like a sewing needle forcing its way through coarse cloth. “Mother fucker!” Shelly yelled. She stomped over to the record player and lifted the needle, letting the record continue with its spinning. Then she walked into the kitchen and picked up the phone. “Hello?” she snarled into the receiver.

“Hi, Shelly – it’s Veronica from the daycare center. I tried calling you at work but they said you had gone home. Anyway, I hope you’re not sick and I’m real sorry to tell you this, but Patrick bit another student again today and this time he drew blood. I’m so sorry, but you gotta come get him. Parents are understandably upset and, even though we know Patrick’s a good kid, we just can’t risk having him here no more.”

 

***

 

            Three days passed and Shelly and Patrick had done little but hole up in the apartment. They didn’t go to the park because it was February and the weather was lousy, but occasionally they would traipse down to the backyard and stand around in the dirt patch shivering in their coats.  Patrick would distract himself by poking sticks through the hanging chain of his tricycle while Shelly would stare off into middle space. Back in the warmth of their apartment, she ignored incoming calls and let the answering machine pick up instead. Birdie had left her three messages, and the HR rep at The Tweestie had left one regarding the eventual need to terminate her health insurance policy. No calls came from her mother, but what would her mother know? Her mother rarely checked on her anyway.

Shelly and Patrick got by on oatmeal and frozen tv dinners. He continued running laps around the coffee table and peeing in the umbrella stand like a dog renewing his scent on the corner fire hydrant. Once, blinded by the bag over his head, he had stumbled and chipped his front tooth on the corner of the coffee table. He started in screaming and Shelly handed him a bag of frozen peas to suck on. She then lit a cigarette and watched resignedly as he made mincemeat of the plastic bag. When she couldn’t distract him with cartoons, she would carry him into his room and shut the door behind him, leaving him to drop Legos down the heating vent or whack his collection of stuffed animals with a piece of wooden track from his train set.  

Then, on the third day while she was struggling to get him out of his clothes and into the bath, Patrick bit her on her shoulder. “Jesus Christ!” she yelled, pushing him away. She pushed him hard enough that he fell against the bathroom wall and slumped down to the floor. Unhurt and entirely unphased, he laughed joyously at his mother - not understanding that he had hurt her, not understanding that her shove wasn’t meant as a further invitation to carouse. Shelly pulled back the sleeve of her t-shirt over the top of her shoulder. Sure enough, little pinpricks of blood were swelling in the teeth marks he had left behind. “That’s it!” she hollered. “I’m done with you! Game over!”

Patrick giggled, little bubbles of saliva popping on his lips. “Game over! Game over!” he mimicked. Then he leaned forward in an attempt to bite her once more on her thigh, but Shelly caught him in time and shoved his head backward. This time, he hit the back of his head on the wall hard enough to register pain. Shelly watched as his expression moved from surprise to a crumpled pucker. He let out a howl. 

“See?” Shelly hollered, leaning into his face. “What the hell do you think is going to happen? I’ll show you what’s going to happen!” Shelly made a sudden movement with her arm, as though she were going to slap him, and Patrick intuitively shrank back into the wall. His startled look, his eyes held wide, made Shelly catch herself. “God-damnit!” she yelled. She reached to grab a washcloth that hung from the bath faucet. Pressing it down over her shoulder, she pulled herself up by the sink and stood panting for a few moments, collecting her wits, pulling in her temper.  Then she looked down at her son. In his remarkable capacity to shift moods from second to second, Patrick seemed to have forgotten entirely about their tussle and was now occupying himself by pulling individual threads from the bath mat. Shelly decided to close the door and leave him to it.

She walked into the kitchen and yanked a cumbersome phone book out of the bottom cabinet, then sat at the table and thumbed through the pages until she found the one listing for an adoption agency, three hours east in Raleigh. She paused for a flash and then, shaking her head and muttering beneath her breath, dialed the number. Within two rings, her call was picked up.  Shelly scheduled a consultation for two days hence, and then phoned Birdie asking if she could babysit. “I have a doctor appointment,” she explained. “Sorry I haven’t returned your calls. I haven’t been feelin’ good. Some kind of stomach bug or somethin.’ Goin’ all the way to Raleigh to see a specialist.”

 

***

 

Two days later, Shelly left Patrick in Birdie’s care and made the three hour drive east to Raleigh. The agent she consulted with was a middle-aged lady who wore a pink pant suit with brass buttons and thick shoulder pads. To Shelly’s eye, she looked like a ballerina that had morphed into a soldier or some agent of government and her first instinct was to turn and leave. But the agent was kind and soft spoken. She offered Shelly some tea and then took her time reviewing the application process. When she asked Shelly why she was considering adoption, Shelly responded that she simply didn’t have the financial means or resources as a single mother to care for a child. Shelly said nothing about Patrick’s unusual behavior, but chewed her lip in nervous apprehension as the agent explained that the agency would be checking references from childcare centers and/or childcare providers.

“What if I’m the only person who has ever taken care of him?” Shelly asked.

“Well, that’s okay. But we’ll still need to chat with relatives or family friends. A neighbor, even. Just someone beside yourself who can speak to his better nature.” Shelly nodded but kept her eyes averted. The agent handed her the application, which was perhaps half an inch thick, and smiled brightly.

“Remember,” she said. “This is a hard decision to make. But I promise you that we will find Patrick a safe and loving home. We will work hard to match him with parents who are good people. We always ensure that our adopting families have the means and the psychological profiles to care for these children in the manner they so richly deserve.”

Shelly nodded again, her eyes now staring unseeingly at a spot on the carpet. The words safe and loving and the term good people left her feeling abashed, embarrassed - even outraged. Wasn’t she a good person, too? Hadn’t she done her best? Didn’t she love Patrick as much as these new parents would? Maybe, perhaps, she would continue to love him even a bit more than they ever could. Not because she was a better person, but because she was his mother, and he was her son. Tied to him forever by their shared blood, their common history. But she was a kid herself. A hard-up kid. A hard-up, lonely, angry, broken kid. Shelly knew who she was. She pulled no punches, not even with herself.

The hand in which Shelly held the application hung heavily at her side. A tear slipped from her eye and ran down the side of her nose. “Oh, sweetie,” the agent said, handing Shelly a tissue. “I know, I get it, I really do. I feel for you, honey. I do. Hardest decision you’ll ever make. But it might also be the best decision you’ll ever make.”

Shelly nodded, took a tissue and, eyes still averted, walked out the door.

 

***

 

Ten miles west of Raleigh, Shelly pulled over at a one-pump gas station to fill her tank and get some coffee. She felt inexplicably tired now and looked forward to the comfort of coffee, to the small confidence of knowing she had a full tank of gas. At least I can get that right, she thought to herself. As she stood there at the pump watching the numbers roll on the dial, she thought back to the last time she had seen Liam – at a gas station exactly like this one, just outside of Blowing Rock.

It was late August and she was perhaps three months pregnant at that point. She had assumed that Liam must have already returned to Connecticut by then so she was stunned when she saw a transporting truck loaded with canoes, water still running off the hulls, turn into the gas station. She had just filled her tank and was backing away from the pumps when the truck turned in, so she reversed quickly into the rear of the parking lot and into the shadow of a nearby tree.

Liam pulled up to the pump that she had just vacated and got out of the truck. He had not seen her and so she watched as he made his way around the front of his truck. He looked the height of health -  sun-kissed, happy, woodsy. His hair had grown longer and sun-bleached and he sported a short beard. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow revealing strong forearms; his jeans had holes in the knees. Lips pursed, he looked to be whistling a tune as he unscrewed the lid to his gas tank and then reached for the hose. God, he looks good, Shelly thought. Like he ain’t got a care in the world. Just then, Liam looked up and saw her there parked in the shadows, engine idling. Shelly’s heart beat wildly and she felt her blood surge, a spasm of tingles rushing to the tips of her fingers. Liam smiled broadly and waved, and then moved toward her as if he were coming to say hello. In a panic, Shelly shifted into first gear and swerved out into the road, not even pausing long enough to consider traffic. As she sped off, she glanced in her rearview mirror and saw Liam standing there, a look of shock on his face. He pushed the hair back from his eyes and, frowning, watched her retreating tailgate. Shelly turned the corner then and he fell from view. That was the last glimpse she’d ever seen of him.

But that was coming up on four years ago now and he could be anywhere in the world at this point, Shelly thought. Graduated from college, most likely. Working a fancy job in New York City or Chicago. Maybe even over in Europe checking out Berlin, a city she remembered him mentioning once as a place he’d eventually like to see. And here she was, still in North Carolina, still living in the same, sorry apartment where they had played beer pong and watched movies and cooked meals. Only she wasn’t carefree, and she wasn’t young and full of hopes and dreams for her future. She was saddled and burdened. Faded and worn, like the holes she had seen in Liam’s jeans.

Shelly continued driving east toward home. She drank her coffee, fiddled with the radio dial, sung along when she landed upon a song she liked, groaned in frustration when the dial yielded nothing but static. The miles passed and, with each passing mile, the Blue Ridge Mountains loomed larger and larger, taking up more and more space in her windshield. They were still purple-blue, leafless in their winter hibernation. In just a couple months, they would burst with green buds, the mountain streams rushing with snowmelt.

As Shelly got closer to town, road signs started popping up for the park entrance to The Blowing Rock – the tourist attraction where people could come perch on the famous rock where the snow fell upside down and where the Chickasaw maiden had been so ridiculously reunited with her long lost love. Shelly hadn’t been back to the park since Liam had taken her there all those years ago and, on an impulse, she swerved into the park entrance seconds before she was about to pass it. She paid the entrance fee at the ticket booth, parked her car and grabbed her coat. Without even so much as a conscious choice, Shelly walked directly to the Blowing Rock, by-passing the gazebo and the gardens where, four years ago, she had stopped to scrape mud from the soles of her shoes.

Just like the time she had come with Liam, she had the entire park to herself. Hers had been the only car in the parking lot and now she was the only soul carefully edging its way to the top of the rock. Once she felt balanced, she inched down to a sitting position and carefully dangled her feet over the edge.

Shelly studied the view and sniffed. The air was cold and sharp and stung her nostrils. She crinkled her nose and shoved her hands deep into her coat pockets. What in hell am I doing here, she thought to herself. It’s as cold as a witches tit, cold as a well-digger’s ass. Shelly laughed aloud, but remained seated. She swung her legs and shrunk her head deeper inside her hood.

A gentle snow started to fall and Shelly dimly remembered Liam’s explanation as to why it was only here, at the Blowing Rock, that the snow falls upside down. Something about gorges and wind chutes and air being forced upwards rather than across. She studied the snow to see how it was moving and, sure enough, it was dancing about. Swirling in an eddy and then shooting up, like Mexican jumping beans. Like corn kernels leaping in hot oil. The snow seemed to make no progress. It jumped and then eddied, began to fall tentatively back to earth but then eddied again. Around and around and around. Damn, Shelly thought, does that snow ever find its way home? Does it ever gain any momentum in the direction it intended? Or does it just swirl around, stuck here in space until it evaporates back into nothing?

Shelly felt a shock of loneliness, a violent plunge toward despair, but she steeled herself. She forced the void back and remained seated. She studied the snow again. It swirled, it sashayed, it do-si-do’d and performed a toe brush, a double tap. Like dancing, like clogging. Just movement - purposeless movement that swelled and slowed and swelled again.

My dances never went in any one direction, Shelly thought. They had no purpose, really. They were just movement – eddies, pivots, roundabouts. But I was happy, I was filled to spilling. I was floating - lifted back up to the surface again and again like this here snow.

She considered the unpredictable nature of life, the hazards of living. She thought about how her life was like this snow  - caught in an eddy where the wind pushed her backward even when she meant to go forward. A life where, just four feet to the left, people she knew – people like Liam, like Birdie – had momentum and moved in the direction they intended. She was stubborn and hard-edged, sharp like the top lines of a flume. She had contributed to her own funnel, her own wind chute. She knew it, she saw it plain as day. But maybe, she wondered, a life in an eddy is as valuable as a life with a set course, a set direction.

I could open a dance studio, she suddenly thought. I could get a loan, maybe borrow money from my folks. I can just be the eddy, and then my life will have the same purpose, the same momentum as all those folks four feet to my left – even if that momentum just leaves me spinning.

Shelly stayed there at the rock’s edge considering, feet dangling, until the cold forced her back to her car. She turned the engine and cranked the heat full blast. She searched with the radio dial until she found a song she liked and then pointed the car left out of the parking lot and back onto the road toward town. She fumbled with her pack of Marlboros, lit a cigarette and cracked the window. The incoming wind blew some of the cigarette ash onto the adoption papers that lay on the passenger seat beside her. The corners of the papers lifted slightly with the wind. Shelly extended her thumb to wipe off the ash but the ash smudged, leaving a sooty mark.

“Fuck it,” Shelly muttered. Cigarette dangling from her lip, she reached down and unrolled the window half way. Then she picked up the application papers and tossed them out the car window. They scattered across the highway and blew on down the road.

 

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