Another journal

Written during my month of writing.  You can find all the sections here.

Emily took a quick headcount before clapping her hands for attention.

“Hey folks, now I know you hate ice cream—” a chorus of high pitched, giggling denials rose from the kids scattered across the sun-tawny grass. “But it looks like some bowls of it magically appeared in the kitchen, so we better go take care of it.” She slid back the light screen door with her foot before adding, “toys get put away first, please.”

Half a dozen-odd sets of hands rushed to scoop up sun-faded action figures and battered metal vehicles. The smallest held a ball with great concentration, setting it on each tread as she navigated up the stairs to the porch. The other children stepped around her with ease of practise and filed past Emily, dropping their handfuls into bright buckets next to the door labelled “people” and “cars”.

Taking a quick glance at the common yard for ignored toys, Emily waved at Mrs. James in the next lot before following the toddler, who had finally surmounted the steps, into the trailer.

Designed in last quarter of the century, the double-wide had an open plan that set the kitchen directly off a set of sliding glass doors that served as the main entrance. Step stools around the center island were occupied by the smaller kids while they added bananas and sprinkles to their ice cream. Others were sitting tailor-style on the linoleum, pulling their bowls away from the inquisitive cat stalking between them.

Emily saw no bickering and sighed happily . “Bananas?” she asked the child at her feet, who was still holding the ball. Receiving a silent nod of affirmation, she added some fruit to the little bowl before handing it down. The cheerful environment persisted through the ice cream and the arcane lots drawn by the group as they picked who got stuck helping wash dishes. Emily set up a long-play tape of public television children’s shows, went through the dishes quickly with the help of an antsy dish dryer anxious to join the rest of the kids in the little raised living room on the other side of the kitchen island. With everybody occupied, she wandered through the trailer, tidying the inevitable detritus, turning on lights as slow summer twilight creeped in.

“Just until the end of this show and it’s teeth and bedtime, folks.” Distracted complaints rang from the group while somebody wearing a costume counted on the television.

Stepping outside, Emily lit a cigarette and hopped up onto the porch railing, swinging her legs. Across the way, Mrs. James was leaning against the door frame, one bare foot half-resting on the steps up to her single wide.

“Kids in bed yet?” She ashed her slim menthol into the grass with a practised tap of a red nail.

Emily shook her head. “They’ve got about ten more minutes left.”

“Okay, when they’re settled, call me over. I’ve got to talk to you about something.” Emily nodded, stubbing her cigarette out in a rough clay ashtray from one of the children’s holiday crafts.

“Sure thing Mrs. James.”

The bathroom-and-bed routine ran through with only minor hitches, visiting kids bunking down in sleeping bags on the floors of the two children’s bedrooms. With a stern word to the girls, reminding them to be nice to the littlest one, she turned on night-lights and left the doors open a crack. Setting the living room to rights, Emily idly wondered what her neighbour could want.

Soundly home-made, the porch extended over half the length of the trailer. The two women opened up camp chairs at the end opposite the bedroom windows. Mrs. James trotted back to her trailer and returned carrying a pitcher, two glasses cupped in one hand.

“Were they good for you?”

Emily nodded, “they always are, but I think the slumber party aspect always puts them on their best behaviour.” She centered an ashtray between them and took out her cigarettes. “What was it you wanted to talk about?”

Shaking her head, the older woman poured out the glasses. “It’s awful good of you to do this.” She pushed one drink, sloshing dark, towards Emily.

“Watch the kids? That’s what I do. And it’s not like I’m in school anymore or anything.” She took a sip and winced at the sugar.

“What are you going to do about that?”

“School?” Emily threw a puzzled look through the half-dark. “Well, we can’t really pay for a four-year, so I’m moving to full time at the grocery until I can figure out an associates degree or something.” Mrs. James shook her head and Emily protested, “it’s not like I know what I want to do or anything. Everybody says you have to go to college now, but my Aunt didn’t—”

“And that’s why she lives in a trailer court. Don’t you have even the smallest dreams, Emily? To live in a real house, with window sills,. Something that wasn’t shipped in halves by a truck? To have an actual yard? It’s going to be a new millennium in a couple of years, you should be meeting it guns blazing.” She extinguished her cigarette with a quick twist and lit another. “You don’t even have a car, child.”

“I have my bike, besides—downtown is like, ten minutes walk from here.” Emily shook out a cigarette of her own, confused at the track of the conversation.

“Who bikes? Do you want to live in a town of 15,000 the rest of your life?” It was quiet for a while, a snarl of cats fighting and the main road in the background.

Emily exhaled through her nose, brow set. “I guess I don’t really know, Mrs. James.”

The older woman leaned back in her chair and took a triumphant swig from her glass.

“Go check your children and then come back. Bring some snacks. Us girls need to talk.”

Mirrored from Journal of a Something or Other.