Home		Deborah Schwartz Orrin in Exile
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		Orrin Zweig molded wet lumps of coarse sand until he felt them to be a house. He poked intrusions with his fingers, and they were windows, pressed broken coquina to the house’s soft front for a door. There was itchy sand in his swimming trunks. Sweat slid into his eyes and made them burn. Up the beach, on a blue and white towel, his parents fought. The wind caught their voices and brought them to him in small broken pieces. The first Our own Before she died The wind dried some of the sweat before it hit his eyes. Orrin scanned the ocean for his sister, who had been wading slowly out. Back on the beach, his mother waved her arms, pumping them up and down. She might leave him and take flight. While he watched her, the sea inched up the beach, slow frothy tongues bubbling as they fell, collapsing on themselves. And there was the top half of his sister, Efrat, rising from the sea. Orrin patted the sides of his house. She cut her way through the water, back towards the beach. She met Orrin at his house, where the water now curled by the sand, and she grabbed him by the hand, pulled him up, walked him up the beach, away from their parents, whose arms and voices rose and fell in swells. Efrat and Orrin waited in the hot sticky sun by the car, their feet burning on the asphalt, the needle of the parking meter slipping slowly back. Their mother had not flown away. But their father might have. He did not come back to the car. When their mother arrived, she was not carrying their beach bag. “Let’s go, kids,” she said, her nose red, her eyes red, curly dark hair out of sorts. She placed the metal of the key into the hot metal of the car door’s lock. Orrin thought of his plastic shovel set, of his rubber King Kong, his favorite sunset beach towel. “Beach Bag,” he cried. But his mother didn’t listen. Efrat grabbed his arm, but he broke away and ran back to the beach, to the beach bag, to his father, whom he imaged sitting, silent and contented, by their brown beach bag. Efrat called after him, and on the sand he realized that every stretch of beach looked the same. He ran one way, then turned, ran the other, feet scooping up hot clods of sand with each step. No brown beach bag. No father. He ran to the shore line–could his father be wading waist-deep into the water? Along the shore line, he ran, and he tripped over a piled lump of wet sand. His toe hit the sharp edge of a broken shell. His house was being consumed by the sea. His father, his sunset towel and shovel set and King Kong. All pulled out to sea, tumbling in a green salty emptiness, silent and contented, together. Orrin fell to the sand and whimpered, but not because he was sad. His toe hurt and stung. His father and the beach bag had disappeared. He was confused. And Efrat pulled him up once more, once more in that same spot by his now-destroyed house, and she carried him as if he had no bones, holding him awkwardly up under his arms, dragging him up the beach and into the hot oppressive car, pulling the door closed behind her. They drove home in silence, both children in the back seat, Orrin watching the blood on his toe curdle with sand. He was quiet too; he wasn’t going to tell of his wound until they were safely in the house. Efrat drew a bath for her mother, and while she was soaking, Efrat made Orrin a peanut butter and honey sandwich for dinner. He ate it in his itchy swimming trunks, and once he’d finished, he showed his sister the caked purple blood around his toe. “That’s disgusting,” she said. “That’s filthy. You’ll get an infection.” In their bathroom, she sat him on the toilet and held his foot in her hands. She cleaned off the blood with a wad of toilet paper, and Orrin could see now that the wound was only a thin arc of a slice, a pink half moon. She poured alcohol over it, right from the bottle, and he cried. It stung. She slapped his cheek. “I’m warning you,” she said. She screwed the cap back on the bottle, standing on tip-toes to place it back in the medicine cabinet. She pulled toilet paper off the roll so it unwound like streamers, balled it up and pushed it into Orrin’s hands. “Clean up this mess, now.” She pointed to the puddle of alcohol spilled over the beige tile. Orrin twisted his mouth and scrunched his eyes, but before he could begin crying, Efrat said, “Mommy is sick. I’m putting her to bed now, and then I’ll come back for you. If you cry and wake her up, I’ll beat you black and blue.” Her eyes were hard marbles. The cry disappeared in his throat before it could be born, and he turned as his sister left the bathroom, turned and knelt and swabbed up the alcohol with the wad of toilet paper, flushed it down the toilet, retreated to his room, and climbed into bed in those same itchy swimming trunks. He watched the shapes on the ceiling shift, dark blue to black, and when Efrat came back for him, she leaned over and kissed him on the head as their father had often done when putting them to bed. She kissed him and told him, “Sleep tight, mamalah,” and then turned and left, closing the door lightly behind her. He followed her footfalls back to her room, and then lost them in her pink plush carpet. But he could still hear her moving around, opening drawers, shifting things. Was their father there, sitting in his office clothes on her bed, watching her straighten? Pointing out when she missed a spot? After she was done and he approved, she folded him into her bottom dresser drawer. Orrin heard the click of the light switch, and the orange light from hallway died off. With light, entered Efrat. “Okay, stupid head,” she called. “Get up out of bed or we’ll be late for school.” She pulled a polo shirt over his frame, pulled his arms through the holes, told him to get some shoes on. They walked together to the bus stop, and the dry sand in his swimming trunk made his whole middle feel rashy. He scratched and scratched until Efrat slapped his hands. “Do you want an infection?” On the bus, they sat together, and with each bump in the road, Orrin felt air being tossed about in the emptiness of his stomach. “I didn’t get any breakfast.” “Orrin, this is what I want you to do. At lunch, tell the cafeteria ladies you forgot your money and you’d like to charge it today. Do you hear me? You forgot your money and want you charge your lunch.” “Charge it.” “And don’t call home if you feel sick. If you feel sick, just stay in class and put your head down. I’ll buy you an ice cream at the Kwik Stop after school. As long as you do what I say.” Of course, Orrin agreed. When Efrat demanded things of him, all other options fell away. He was itchy the whole day. He tried to avoid talking with anyone, even his teacher. When the kindergartners were led to lunch, Orrin asked the lady at the register if he might charge his lunch. The lady, pursed lips, looked at him sharply. Then smiled, taking up a pencil. “Last name?” “Orrin Zweig.” “Last name,” she repeated. “Zweig. Z as in Zebra, W-E-I-G as in Goat.” This is how he had heard his mother spell their last name when she placed orders over the phone. The lady scribbled his name and handed him a tray, and he took it, hoping no one would mistake him for a poor kid. For three weeks their father did not return, for three weeks their mother did not get out of bed, and for three weeks, Orrin wore his swimming trunks, did not bathe, and continued charging his lunch, always: Z as in Zebra, W-E-I-G as in goat. In the middle of the forth week, Orrin heard a crack and tumble as he climbed into bed. The air conditioner had broken. The house heated slowly, sagged heavy and damp. While the room was still bathed in the mystery of night, Efrat pushed open, tip-toed in. He was awake. She took his hand, lead him from the bed, to the bathroom. “We’ll take a cold bath.” Efrat leaned over and stopped up the tub with towels, then turned on the cold water. “Shorts off,” she said, and he obeyed. She helped pull his polo shirt over his head, then removed her own socks, shorts, blouse. When the tub was half full, they climbed in together. Water poured from the faucet, and Efrat worked green, clean-smelling shampoo through his hair, then lathered her own, until they both had dollops of Cool Whip for crowns. They made suds balls and threw them across the tub at each other, and when Orrin hit Efrat on the nose so it stuck, he jumped up in the over-full tub, water sloshing over the sides. “O as in Orrin R-R-I-N wins the round!” Efrat pulled his ankles, and he slipped quick, hitting his head against the tub’s back. But her hand was in his mouth to keep him from screaming. “Mom’s sleeping,” she whispered. “Black and blue.” And she pushed her karate chop farther into his mouth. Orrin held his tears. When he had caught his breath again, she removed her hand and turned off the water. She waded to his side and pulled up a soggy towel from the tub’s bottom. She put it under her head and held Orrin close to her, his head resting on her thin slick chest. Orrin sometimes forgot he even had a mother. He wasn’t sure he still had a father. He looked up the wall tiles to the high white ceiling. Yes, it was cooler in the tub, even chilly. Efrat patted his wet tangled hair and kissed his forehead. “Sleep tight, mamalah,” she said. And they both closed their eyes and dreamed they were fish. Efrat had been taking money from their mother’s purse to buy food at the Kwik Stop, but when they came home from school and found their mother gone too, Efrat came up with a new plan. That evening, she pushed forward three boxes of macaroni and cheese, a candy bar, and two cans of soda, then pulled her chin up on the counter, saying to the man at the register, “Put this on our tab.” Orrin added, “Zweig. Z as in Zebra, W-E-I-G as in Goat.” “My father’s a business man,” Efrat said. “He wears a suit,” Orrin added, and Efrat turned and nudged him. “He’s out of town right now, but he’ll pay you when he gets back.” The man looked sharply, squinting an eye, but then curled one side of his lip. “This time,” he said, and bagged the groceries. Efrat made several friends at school, and she managed it so they would invite her over for dinner. Orrin came along, and his sister had told him several choice phrases to use during meals so the parents might think him a child prodigy. Orrin would be propped up on a phone book so he could see over the table (he was small, even for his age), and Efrat would give him the signal. “Mrs. Nusbaum,” he’d say, “This spaghetti and meat balls are so tender and al dente.” And Mrs. Nusbaum might smile and say, “Would such a smart little boy like seconds?” When it was chicken for dinner, Efrat would blow her nose into her napkin, and Orrin would say, “What a moist savory foul.” Efrat had read the words off boxes in the store, stole them from recipe books. And they worked, coming from so small an aficionado. May opened, and the absence of air-conditioning meant the Zweig children conducted most of their activities in the bathtub. Efrat made sure to drain the tub and fill it anew each time, so as not to promote infection. They found if they ran through the house, still wet and naked, their bodies might collect a cool breeze. But they had to be careful not to slip on tile, in the hall, through kitchen, to living room. In the middle of June, just as the school year was closing, their grandmother came for a visit. When she entered the house, she frowned and fanned her face with her hand. “So hot!” Efrat and Orrin ran to her, each grabbing a leg to hug. Her smell was sweet dead flowers and cough drops. “What’s going on here?” She patted their heads. “Did a hurricane blow through your house?” There was a layer of grime on the living room tiles, the sofa and chairs slumped shoulders, limp and soggy. She took them to a health food restaurant and made them order their grilled cheeses with brown rice instead of french fries. “So tell me,” she said, once their sandwiches were in front of them, “Where’s your mother these days.” The two shrugged, trying to look blank. Should they tell Grandma about the fight, about how their mother wouldn’t get out of bed? And when she did, how she left and didn’t come back? “Where’s your mother?” she repeated. “Your father gone too?” The Zweig children concentrated on their grilled cheese and brown rice. But their grandmother was persistent. “We’re not leaving this restaurant until you tell me where your parents are.” She smiled, but looked almost mean. Orrin was the first to crack. “They flew away.” “Is that so?” Their grandmother crossed her arms, and Efrat kicked Orrin under the table. When their grandmother dropped them at the house, she said, “We’ll see if your mother doesn’t fly back sometime soon.” Then she kissed them both on the heads and made them close and lock the door behind her. Their mother did fly back later that week. Or drive back. And she arrived home with another man, whom she called Edgar. “But I want you to call him Daddy.” She leaned in, her face tanner and tight around the mouth and eyes, a pair up sunglasses propped up on her head, pulling back her wild dark hair. Edgar was tall and boxy, and he often threw his arm around their mother’s waist, pulling her close to him, sucking and licking her cheek as she pulled away, laughing, always laughing. “Stop it, Edgar.” “That’s enough, Edgar.” “Edgar, not in front of the kids.” Orrin did not like Edgar. He didn’t need Efrat to tell him this. He knew it in the place where the rib cage met the stomach that Edgar was not good, and he would not call him Daddy. The air conditioner was fixed, and a woman came twice a week to clean the house. Their mother and Edgar would order in large pretty meals, which, once unpacked, would stretch in bowls and platters across the dining room table. Sometimes they invited other adults, and sometimes those adults would bring children. The adults would drink wine and laugh and laugh, and as Orrin and Efrat slid from their seats, sneaking away, their mother would call after them, wave a limp, happy arm and say, “Kids, go be nice and make friends with the other children.” They had new clothes every month, and were no longer allowed to sleep in the bathtub. When they had asked if they could, Edger had opened his mouth so they thought his jaw might come unhinged. He laughed. “Clarissa, do you hear this? Your children want to take baths together. Clarissa, you better call the shrink right away.” Hot rolling laughter knocked against them, smelling of pickles, chicken salad. They did not dare run through the house naked. They were now conscious of their bodies, of their bodies’ awkwardness, of their small size. Orrin saw Efrat was worse. Even when she changed for bed, she did so like a spy, pulling on her nightgown while still wearing a tee shirt, exchanging one pair of underwear for another beneath the tent of her nightgown. She took showers in her underwear. Her chin dropped and her shoulders caved in. Their house had never been in such good order, the two of them never so well clothed and well fed. Their mother and Edgar laughed, sang and kissed and laughed almost constantly, but Orrin had never been so miserable. But Efrat was even worse. That next school year, Efrat rode a different bus. She left Orrin for middle school; he knew she couldn’t help it. She made him get up extra early in the morning so she could walk him to his bus stop, then she would walk up one more block, turn right and walk another, until she was out of sight. He finished school before her, and would sometimes walk to her bus stop and wait for her. The first time he did this, Efrat looked pleased to see him. She hugged him, thanked him for coming, and they walked home together. After two weeks, though, she slapped him on the ear and called him a snoop and a leech. If he waited on a hot day, she’d pinch his side hard, tell him, did he want to get cancers from so much sun. If it was drizzling, she’d kick him in the rump and ask, did he want pneumonia. But this was still better than going home alone to his mother and Edgar. Orrin began waiting on the corner, behind the silver buttonwood tree, watching as his sister got off the bus. After the bus left, she’d form a circle with two boys and one other girl who got off at the stop as well. They would talk for a little, and sometimes they would push each other. Then they would move up the driveway and into the house on the other corner. For her birthday, Edgar bought Efrat a fish tank full of fluorescent orange gravel, a swarm of shimmery fish darting back and forth. Efrat smiled at him, thanked him, stepping up on a chair as if she were gazing inside. When he turned to leave, Orrin saw his sister spit into the tank. Edgar and their mother soon left for the evening, and Efrat scooped up a fish with a zip-lock bag, closed it, brought it to the back yard. Orrin followed. She laid the turgid baggy on the chatahoochee by the pool and disappeared around the side of the house. She returned with a large rock, which she placed in Orrin’s hands. “Get on your knees,” she said, and he did. She crouched next to him. “Hit the fish with the rock.” The idea was repulsive. He looked up at her, waiting for a laugh, maybe, something to say she was joking. But her eyes were cool glassy slits, her face, empty. “Hit it. Smash the fish with the rock.” “Why?” “Because it’s sick. This is a mercy killing.” Orrin had no idea what she was talking about. She was grave. If he did not hit the fish, she would hit him. He wound up his arm, shut his eyes and held his breath. He brought down the rock, but his wrist twitched just before he made contact. Splooosh. The bag burst, water leaped up, smacked him on the forearms, in the mouth. He saw the fish’s tail crushed, it wriggling pale and crippled, small soft gills, like ears, visible in gasping fish breaths. What was it saying? You’ve killed me. You monster. Could it be bleeding? The frayed gills fluttered convulsively. “Now you’ve really got to kill it.” Efrat stood up and walked behind her brother. She lifted his arm, the arm with the rock. “Finish it off. Crush it. You’ve got to kill it now. You’ll be a bad person for making it suffer.” She pushed his arm hard. Down it went. Again, Orrin was off. The fish was still alive, its large glassy eyes rolling. Again. Again. “Kill it!” his sister screamed. “You’ve got to kill it.” The rock came down again, and his hand went soft. Heat shot through his nose, behind his eyes, and he fell over what remained of the fish, weeping, praying for forgiveness. “You did good.” Efrat knelt down behind him and held her arms under his arms, pulled him to her. “That was good. You did good. Now we have to bury it before Edgar and Mommy get home.” They dug a small hole by the melaleuca tree, and Orrin felt nothing as he swept the bits of soft silvery fish into palm, carried them across the yard, dropped them in the hole. Efrat wanted to say a prayer. “God.” She grabbed Orrin’s hand tightly, the one that had held the dead fish. “We give you this as an offering. Please bring our father home. Amen.” And Orrin saw again his father drifting off in that green murky water, floating on his back, flanked by the shovel set, the towel, the rubber King Kong. It was too lonely. Orrin cried again, even though he knew by now a boy shouldn’t cry. He was too big for Efrat to carry, but he curled up as best he could into the soft thin lines of her body, and she walked with him back into the house, locking the sliding glass door behind them. She took him into the bathroom and plugged the tub, this time by pushing down the metal stopper, and when the water was high enough, she helped him to undress. One leg, then the other, he was in the warm clear water, and sat, lay down. He looked up at Efrat, but she nodded her head. “I can’t get in with you anymore. I’m too old for that.” She folded his clothes and placed them on the closed toilet seat. Then she left, switching out the light and lightly closing the door. “Good night, mamalah.” It was magic. They had asked for their father, for him to come back from the sea. And not a month later, there he was. When Orrin walked in from school, barely a minute ahead of his sister, there was his father, sitting on the couch in the living room, chatting and grinning. Had he ever really left? He was wearing a light gray suit and red tie, and when Orrin ran to him, feverish to hug him, know he was real, his father lifted him up under the arms and brought him to him. “At a boy,” he said. “Whoa. You’ve gotten big.” Orrin pressed his nose against his father’s clean starched suit. It smelled comfortable. His father hoisted him again, turning him so he sat in the crook of his arm. Orrin saw lines near his father’s eyes he had not remembered, hair maybe grayer, the arm beneath Orrin trembled with strain. “Look, Cassie. I want you to meet my son.” A woman was sitting on the love seat opposite them. She was thin and nervous, short-cropped hair and pointed features. His father pinched his side. “Orrin, say hello to Cassie.” “Hello, Cassie.” The door slammed. It was Efrat. She shrieked and ran to their father, held his waist tight and hugged and hugged, saying, “I knew you’d come back for us. I knew it, knew it, knew it.” So warm and good. The two children sat close to their father. They weren’t going to let him leave again. “Kids,” he rose, and they happy-panicked, but he patted their hands, letting them know it was all right. He walked to the corner of the room, where his briefcase leaned against the wall. “I got presents.” His hand moved unsteadily in the bag. The first thing he removed was a snow globe. “This, kiddo, is for you.” He handed it to his son, and Orrin saw the palm tree and sunset with snow falling around, wondered how it might account for his father’s long absence. Their father handed Efrat a small white box. She opened it, looked confused. “They’re earring,” he said, “made of pink coral.” “But Daddy, my ears aren’t pierce.” Their father came back to the couch and sat between them. “Not yet. But you’re getting to be quite a pretty young lady.” There was a lull, and the worst thing that could have happened, did. Their mother and Edgar came home. Orrin’s stomach plunged. His father stood up as they walked through the door. “Clarissa.” “Aaron. What a surprise.” Both children held their breath. They waited for an explosion that didn’t come. Their mother introduced Edgar, and their father, Cassie. Their mother proposed they order in. “Something fancy, maybe. To celebrate.” Their father and Cassie agreed. Orrin head spun in on itself. This felt wrong, unnatural. He could not remember his parents being so civil, even before, when everything was normal. But his mother walked, shoulders back, head up, to the kitchen phone. After she placed the order, she told the person on the phone, “Zweig. Z as in Zebra, W-E-I-G as in Goat.” After dinner, their mother cleaned out the guest bedroom to make room for their father and Cassie. “Sorry if there isn’t too much room.” She brought in linens while their father and Cassie pulled out the sleeper sofa. “I always said we should get the bigger sofa, and you always said no.” “This’ll be fine, Clarissa. Really. Thank you.” In bed, Orrin realized his sister had not said good night to him. His father was back, and he hadn’t wished him good night either. Orrin’s chest was tight. He had to watch the ceiling carefully, had to concentrate on breathing, thinking about the ocean to fall asleep. They lived like this week after week. Four parents to only two children. Each time Orrin breathed in, he felt he was breathing through a wet towel. He thought his lungs might have a hole in them, why he couldn’t get enough air. He told Efrat this, and she asked him if he’d heard a pop. “No.” “Then you probably didn’t blown out a lung. I bet you’re just fine.” Orrin couldn’t concentrate at school. But he no longer wanted to go home. When all four parents were around, especially at dinner, his stomach twisted and cramped until even looking at food made him feel queasy. But if he asked to be excused to go to the bathroom, Edgar would laugh. His father would wink and smile goofily. His mother might roll her eyes. Cassie rarely looked up from her plate. There was no right answer anymore. When he held his stomach and scooted around in his chair, Efrat would nudge him. “Don’t be a baby,” she’d say. The parents could talk pleasantly for hours, during dinner and after. But it seemed they said nothing really at all. They spoke of business and news and television shows. They didn’t much bring up Efrat and Orrin. Orrin had not gone directly home from his bus stop, nor had he waited behind the silver buttonwood for his sister. He had walked to a playground several blocks from his house, and there he kicked up dirt into small beige clouds. There was a boy on the swings, one smaller than he. “Get up,” Orrin said crossing his arms at his chest. “I was here first.” “Get up.” “There two other swings.” “I want this one.” Did Orrin really want the swing? He was sure he did. He grit his teeth. Even more than the swing, he wanted to get into a fight, the sweet rush of energy as he swung, his muscles tense and straining. The kid continued swinging, so Orrin grabbed the chain and stopped it. “Get up, or I’ll punch you.” The kid was getting nervous, began to dismount, but something felt empty in Orrin’s heart. He lifted his arm above his head and brought it down. “Mom!” The kid crouched and cried, and Orrin decided he better get out of here. With nowhere else to go, he went home. If coming home from school could bring back his father, than coming home might also take him away. He opened the door and was struck with a wail. Efrat. In the kitchen, his mother was holding out her hands like she’d just had a manicure. Efrat was kneeling, face twisted and snotty. “What did you do with Daddy?” “I told you.” Their mother, daintily, carefully poured herself a class of wine. “He was diving into the pool just after he’d eaten, and he slipped and hit his head on the side. Now he’s dead.” “Liar.” “Why would I lie about that?” “Show me the blood. Where is the blood?” “I cleaned it up.” Orrin couldn’t understand them. “Where’s his body?” “The ambulance took it away.” She sat down and tapped her fingers against the table. Her face was clean and cool, her hair pulled back by sunglasses. “And Cassie?” She cocked her head for a moment and sucked on her bottom lip. “She went to the hospital in the ambulance. But I burned her things, so she won’t be coming back.” Then she smiled. Efrat rose to her feet, advanced towards their mother. “I hate you. You’re a fucking bitch.” Efrat punched her mother in the arm, twice, three times. She paused, and her mother slapped her. “Go to your room. Don’t leave until I tell you to. Not even to use the bathroom.” Efrat ran out and slammed her door. Orrin was still. He watched his mother, who sipped slowly at her wine. He walked into the living room, to the window that looked out on the pool. Everything was still. Nothing there looked like it could kill. He knocked at his sister’s door. “Go away.” “Let me in. It’s me, Orrin.” “Go away.” He stood at her door though dinner, as his mother and Edgar watched their evening television shows, after they had gone to bed. When everything in the house was dark, Efrat opened the door, then slunk back to her bed. “I have a headache.” She curled up around her pillow. Orrin stood on tip-toe and kissed her head. “I hate her. I hate that fucking fucking bitch.” Orrin touched his sister’s thin shoulder, tried to work things out in his head. What had happened to their father, to their mother? But all he could see was the bulging glassy eye of Efrat’s fish against the chatahoochee. Kill it, she had said. Kill it. “Everything’s going to be okay.” “I hate that fucking fucking bitch. That stupid asshole fucking bitch.” Efrat broke into tears again, her shoulder spasming. He stood and kissed her head and touched her shoulder and told her everything would be all right, even though he was sure it wouldn’t. The sky through the blinds lightened, and Orrin saw Efrat was asleep, so he left her, lightly closing the door behind him. The night was a cool slippery blue. He opened the sliding glass door and walked around the pool. Was he looking for blood? He sat at the side of the pool and put his feet in, shoes and all. The water made tiny whirlpools when he swirled his legs around. Could his father be out to sea again? He thought of his father, now in cool blue waters, floating on his back with the shovel set, the towel, the King Kong. He thought of the melaleuca tree and how the fish must look now, paper-thin, pale and rotting. Or maybe it was green now. Or brown, the color of soil. Those eyes. The frayed sickly gills fluttering. Was it still alive? Was there blood? His hand came down. Again. On the fish. On the boy at the park. On his mother’s head. Again. She might cry out. She might tumble into the pool like she was made of rubber. He would watch her sink low, lower, until her shape was distorted by a thick layer of the pool’s cool blue ripples. But once she’d hit the bottom, she’d come float back up, her wild dark hair rising to the surface first. And then the red would swirl in whirlpool curls. Until the water was red. Until the water was red.
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