Oranges

By Tamara T. Linse

 

Crouching with her bare knees up under her dress, Tamsen laid the frayed pink hand towel on the linoleum kitchen floor and smoothed out the wrinkles with her palms.  In a stained t-shirt, Parker stood in the doorway and watched her with his hands tucked into the corners of his diaper. 

 

Parker’s eyes followed Tamsen as she scooted a chair across the floor and next to the counter.  She climbed up on the chair and on tippy toes pulled two plastic plates from the bottom shelf of the upper cupboard and held them to her chest with one arm as she climbed off the chair.  She put them down on the hand towel, one on each end, and then straightened and impatiently flipped her long brown hair back over her shoulder.  She walked back over and climbed up the chair.  She reached for the second shelf for the plastic cups but couldn’t reach, so she got down, moved the chair, and pulled two plastic cups from the sink and turned on the water and rinsed them.  She got down and put them dripping wet on the towel.  Then she went to the silverware drawer and got a fork and a plastic spoon.  She placed the fork next to one plate and the plastic spoon next to the other.

 

Tamsen walked over to Parker and grasped his arm and led him over next the plate with the plastic spoon.  She walked around behind him and placed a hand on each shoulder and pressed down.  He swayed a minute before bending down with one hand and lowering himself to the floor.

 

“Cold, Tam’en,” he said and drew his legs up to his chest.  He wrapped his arms around his legs and held on to each elbow.

 

“If you’d keep your pants on,” Tamsen said. She turned and walked across the linoleum and into the living room.  The trailer’s floor complained as she crossed over the spot where she took Parker when Mama came home early or when she came home late.  Tamsen pulled the baby blanket off the couch and took it into the kitchen.  She spread it out next to Parker and the hand towel.  She walked around behind him and hooked her fingers under his armpits and lifted, grunting with the effort.  He relaxed and let himself be lifted.

 

“Hot dogs?” Parker said.  “Keek-up?”

 

“We’ll see,” Tamsen said.

 

She nudged him sideways onto the blanket and held his arm as he sat with his legs poking out in front of him. His legs pushed the hand towel sideways and the dishes and silverware gave a dull rattle as they tumbled into a pile. Tamsen gave an exaggerated sigh. She leaned over and pulled the towel out straight and rearranged the dishes.

 

Then Tamsen walked over to the olive-green refrigerator and pulled on the handle with her right hand.  It didn’t move. Tamsen grasp it with both hands and bent her knees and let her weight drop.  She hung from the handle and, first one and then the other, propped the soles of her baby blue flip-flops against the plastic grill under the door.  Then she pulled.  She arched her back and pulled her shoulders back like those pretty girls did on TV when they did cartwheels and flips.  Tamsen pulled and pulled. The strap on her left flip-flop gave and her toes turned in and her ankle twisted and her knees bent.  She arced sideways and her body slammed into the fridge door, knocking the two letter magnets onto the floor.  Then her body swayed back to center and she hung from her right arm, her knees in a puddle underneath her.

 

“Fuck,” she said.

 

“Quack, quack,” Parker said. “Quack.”

 

Tamsen lifted her right knee and placed her flip-flop sole flat on the floor.  She lifted her left knee and tried to place her left sole, but the flip-flop hung sideways from her big toe and twisted her ankle as her weight came down.  Tamsen stood for a minute and then took a step back from the fridge and turned toward the back hall.  As hard as she could, she kicked her left foot.  The flip-flop twisted as it came off her big toe and flipped up, twirling, and flew up and over.  It landed among the empty bottles that lined the counter, bottles that had been full of Mama’s juice. The bottles clinked as they jostled apart. One teetered before slowly tipping over into the sink, crashing in among the dirty dishes.

 

Tamsen breathed in deeply and then pushed the air out all at once.  She pulled her foot out of her other flip-flop and turned to Parker.  “Parkie?”  His eyes were wide and focused on the sink.  He looked over to her.  “No hot dogs,” she said.

 

“Hot dog?” Parker said. “Keek-up?”

 

“No,” Tamsen said.  Then she turned to look at the kitchen.  On top of the fridge was a plastic net of oranges. She considered them.  They weren’t supposed to eat them.  Last week, Tamsen had been trying to peel an orange when Mama jerked it from her hand and threw it against the wall with a dull thump, juice splaying wide across the wall like a drawing of sunbeams. “Keep you fuckin paws off,” Mama had said before she went back to her bedroom to take a nap.

 

Tamsen looked from the oranges to Parker and then back to the oranges.  Then she moved the chair from the sink to in front of the refrigerator.  She climbed up on the chair and reached and reached but she could not reach the top of the fridge.  Carefully, she bent her legs and then jumped.  Her hands almost reached the top of the fridge, but when she came down, her foot slipped and she landed sideways on her butt bone on the chair.  She clutched at the chair back and just managed to stay on the seat.  She sat for a moment, breathing, and then climbed off the chair.

 

Limping, Tamsen moved over to the tall cupboard and pulled it open. The shelves were bare except for a wrinkled package of ramen noodles in pink cellophane and a rusted steel can without a label.

 

“Cookie?” Parker said.

 

Tamsen kept her back to him.  She reached and fingered the cellophane and then with both hands picked up the can. She walked along the counter and set the can on the floor next to the big wide drawer.

 

“No!” Parker said.  He pointed back to the tall cupboard.

 

“No cookies, Parkie,” she said.  “We ate those last night.”

 

“Cookies,” Parker said.

 

Tamsen opened the drawer and retrieved the can opener.  She crouched down and curled forward so that her chest pressed against her knees. A hand on each handle, she opened the can opener wide and placed the little round blade on the lip of the can.  Then, hunching her shoulders, she pushed the handles back together, grunting with the effort.  When the handles were together, she grasped them with her left hand, which splayed wide in order to wrap around them, and with her right she turned the handle.

 

It was difficult at first.  She pulled and pushed so hard the can ended up sideways on the floor.  Using the handle, she picked it up again and sat it upright.  This time, it worked.  The handle turned easily.

 

Tamsen twisted and twisted, and slowly the can opener made its way around the lip.  Finally, it went clink as the cut caught up with its beginning.  Tamsen stopped and using both hands pulled open the can opener and placed it beside her on the floor.  Using her index finger, she poked at the round metal of the detached lid.  It didn’t move.  Tamsen picked up the can opener and brought it up above her head and then back down.  She aimed it at the can.  Tang!  The can opener connected with the can and sent it rolling across the floor, the round disk of the lid separating and weaving its drunken way across the floor before falling over plink! in front of the fridge.

 

Tamsen pushed herself up and trotted over to the can that had stopped in the middle of the floor.  She reached down and grabbed it and set it back upright.  Nothing had leaked out of it.  It was all in the can.

 

Something smelled though.  At first it smelled sour like day-old milk, then it smelled like the pile of Parker’s pajamas and Tamsen’s dresses and Mama’s underwear in the hall before Mama got around to washing.  The really bad pile, after Tamsen had picked out all the ones that weren’t so bad and worn them or put them back on Parker.

 

Tamsen peered into the can.  Whatever had been in there was brown.  Now it was a solid mass with cracks through it, and it was covered with a thick white film.  Just to make sure, Tamsen sniffed it again.  Yep, it was icky.

 

Then Parker was right behind her reaching around her for the can.  She slapped his hand away.  “No Parker!  Bad,” she said.

 

Parker pulled his arm back and his head bent forward.  His cheeks turned red as he screwed up his face and tears seeped from his eyes, but he didn’t make a sound. He just turned and shuffled toward the back hall.

 

Tamsen pushed up and went to him and wrapped her arms around him from behind.  “It’s okay,” she said. He pulled against her for a minute and then slumped back.

 

Just then they heard a car pull into the driveway.  They both froze and turned their heads to listen.  They did not hear the gravel scrape under the tires as the car jerked to a halt. The car door didn’t slam.  There were no voices, no singing, so low angry mumbling.  The footsteps on the treads were regular and light.

 

“Run!” Tamsen whispered and shoved Parker down the hall.  He stumbled forward, so Tamsen wrapped her left arm around his ribs and pulled him along beside her.  She pulled him through the first door they came to, the bathroom.  “Shshsh,” she said as Parker turned toward her with wide eyes.

 

There was no knock.  The door opened and then shut.  The floor creaked.  Something was set on the table with a rustle of paper, a small thump, and the rattle of keys.

 

Parker stepped closer to Tamsen, and Tamsen put her hand on his arm.  She kept her head cocked, listening.

 

“Parker, honey?  Tamsen?” came the voice down the hall.  It was Mama.

Neither Tamsen or Parker moved.  They just looked at each other.

 

“Are you hungry, kiddos?” Mama said.  “I brought Mickey Dees.”

Parker hesitated just a second longer and then pushed past Tamsen.  Tamsen grabbed at his shirt as he passed.  “No, Parkie!” she said, but he twisted out of her grasp and went down the hall without looking back.

 

Tamsen didn’t hesitate.  She pushed out into the hall and sprinted, pushing past and in front of Parker as he entered the kitchen.  She stopped.  He bumped into her and she put her arms out behind her and held him.

 

The kitchen was filled with the golden smell of French fries.  Liquid gushed from under Tamsen’s tongue and filled her mouth.  Her eyes focused on the bag, with its red and yellow logo, its top crumpled together like a present from Mama’s hand.  Tamsen wanted to go to the bag and rip it open and stuff French fries into her mouth.  She could taste the salty oil and feel the crisp pressure of the ends and the soft bland mush of the centers.

 

She looked at Mama, keeping her arms behind her on either side of Parker. She kept shifting, keeping herself between Parker and Mama as Parker tried to squirm around her.  She closed her mouth and took in a deep breath through her nose, sniffing.  She couldn’t smell any orange juice or cigarettes.  When Mama came home late, she often smelled of orange juice and cigarettes.

 

“Tamsen, honey, there you are,” Mama said.  “Parker?”  Mama craned her head, her eyes focusing down at Tamsen’s body.

 

Tamsen stood, not saying anything.

 

“Mickey,” Parker said.

 

Mama looked at them for a minute and then turned to the bag and started pulling things out of it—paper-wrapped sandwiches, mounded boxes of French fries, cups of soda.

 

“You’ll never guess what happened today,” Mama said.  “I got a job.”

Parker finally managed to push around Tamsen.  He rushed forward and then stopped an arm’s reach away from Mama and looked up at her.

 

Mama stepped forward and crouched down and put her arms around him.  He wrapped both of his around her neck, his head disappearing in her frizzy waves of red-orange hair. Then Mama looked at Tamsen. 

 

“Do you know what that means?” Mama said.

 

Tamsen pulled in her chin and let her eyes drop to the floor.

 

“Do you know what that means, sweetie?”

 

Tamsen shook her head once, twice, in small motions.

 

“It means Mama’ll be home more.  It means we get more Mickey Dees.”  She pulled Parker away from her, wincing as Parker pulled her hair in an effort to stay at her neck.  She looked at him.  “You’d like more Mickey Dees, wouldn’t you?”  Parker pushed forward again and buried his face in her hair.

 

Tamsen was quiet for a minute.  Then she said, “When you come home, are you going to talk loud?”

 

Mama hugged Parker close to her body.  “No, Tamsen.  Never again. I’m not going to talk loud, and I’m not going to throw dishes, and I’m not going to …” 

 

Mama hesitated and then stood and pulled Parker up with her.  She set him in a chair and put one of the boxes of fries in front of him.  She laid out a sandwich, opened and flattened the paper, pulled the top off the burger, and put it to one side on the paper.  She put the pickles in a pile and then moved burger off the bottom bun and put the bottom bun on the other side.  “Just the way you like it,” she said to Parker and put her hand on his head.  With both hands, Parker reached for the pile of pickles and stuffed them into his mouth and chewed.  Mama stroked the top of Parker’s head and then fished in the bag and pulled out a straw.  She bit off the end of the paper and, using her fingertips, peeled off the sleeve.  She stuck it into one of the cups with a scraping sound and set it next to Parker.  The drink was orange soda, Tamsen could see, Parker’s favorite. 

 

Mama pulled a long French fry from Parker’s pile and stepped closer to Tamsen.  She crouched down and extended her hand toward Tamsen, holding the French fry in her palm.

 

“Would you …” Mama said.

 

Tamsen looked at Mama and then slowly reached for the French fry, all the while keeping her eyes on Mama’s face.  Using just her fingertips, she plucked the fry from Mama’s palm. As she started to pull back, Mama clutched Tamsen’s hand with both of hers and brought it back toward her body.  Tamsen was jerked forward.  Tamsen turned her head and focused on Parker, who had finished the pickles and started on the French fries.

 

“Look at me,” Mama said. “Look at me?”

 

Tamsen wanted to, but she couldn’t.

 

Author’s Bio: Tamara Linse lives in Wyoming, where she writes short stories and novels.  To support her writing habit, she also edits, freelances, and occasionally teaches.  She began life accepting anything and everything the world had to offer.  Since then, she’s become more discriminating.