I Lived and I Was

by
Elmo Lum

The moon was blazing, a perfect circle, fat and white and glowing in the sharpened sky with a halo of light ringing around the moon.

An omen of weather, said my mother.

Omens were something my mother knew. She’d learned them from her own mother, who’d learned them from her own mother, who’d learned them from her mother before her, and so on back through time. (So my mother always told us. So this wasn’t any news about omens.)

She said, I’ve been reading omens ever since I was a girl.

My father nodded how he always nodded when she told us what we already knew. I didn’t nod (I was nine). Even though my mother was right. Cold rain or maybe hail, she said, and that night was shrouded in rain mixed with outbursts of hail. Which hammered against the furrowed tin of our roof. It hammered against the deadened snags and against the rotting pines, and also against my cheeks and eyelids when I was pushed to stand outside.

Where I was chicken. My mother told me so. Chicken. For shutting my eyes. According to my mother’s mother, it’s the hailing moon that glimmers with the truth. So my mother pushed me to step through the mud and slick to stare for the truth. It had to be my eyes staring — the moon was picky with truth. (Out of myself and my mother and father, only I could see truth in the moon, because among us three I was the only virgin.)

I couldn’t force open my eyes. The hail felt sharp on my eyelids. Plus it was cold outside and the night outside felt colder with the hail. And outside was dark, too, even with the light of the moon. Which I couldn’t tell because my eyes were still shut (because I was chicken). But it wasn’t just the hail. My eyes were also shut because the dark inside my eyelids looked safer than the dark outside of the trees.

My mother didn’t fear for my safety. At least when it came to the moon. Open your eyes, my mother said. Or are you too chicken to look at the truth?

I was chicken (I was nine). I said, I see a face, but I don’t know whose.

My mother said, Liar. Open your eyes. Open your eyes and say what you see.

I couldn’t or wouldn’t open my eyes. My eyes wouldn’t or couldn’t open. My eyes had minds of their own and together my eyes were their own tribe. They wouldn’t do what my mother told them to. Or what I told them to, either. (Although of course my eyes wouldn’t listen to me — I was just a nine-year-old boy.)

Finally (by then I was soggy down my face and my weight was drilling my feet in the mud) my mother said, Come inside if you don’t want the truth. If you’re so chicken. So I shaded my eyes from the pattering hail landing sharp in the mud to look back at my mother and father together on the stoop, and my father wasn’t nodding at my mother. Instead he was squinting (which my father always did, day or night, when he was pretending to look and think, but that night my father wasn’t pretending to think — that night he was squinting for real). So I turned and there she stood, Layla (only, of course, at the time — I was nine — she was new to me and I didn’t know her name).

She curtsied and told me, Hello (and it was to me, even though she must have known I was a nine). And then all she did was stand there, blinking in the hail. By now the hail was picked up and piling in drifts against the wall of the house and the base of the trees and also in icy shoes around my feet.

She stood and was quiet after the hello. I stood and was quiet, too. Then it occurred to me she was waiting for me to tell her something back. So I said, Hello. Which she smiled at, then kept standing there, until I said, Who are you?

Layla, she said.

Hello, I said.

We’ve said that, she said.

She was right, so I didn’t say anything.

My mother yelled: Keep going where you’re going! Keep going or we’ll feed you to the dogs!

When I turned my mother was holding our ax. She was pushing it over to my father. Who took it finally to hold it in the doorway like he was about to step out to chop wood.

You don’t have any dogs, Layla said. And you’re sopping, she said to me. And you’re shaking, too.

She was right, so I didn’t say anything.

May I come inside from the hail?

No! yelled my mother. Keep going where you’re going!

But my father carried our ax back inside. Layla took my hand to lead me up to the stoop, where my mother still stared with her mouth hooked upside-down.

Layla shut the door against the hammering hail and the glimmering truth. You have a fire here, she said. (Which was true, because we did.) She carried a bag, which she unslung off one shoulder, then took off her coat, before she hung them in that order on one peg behind the door. She led me nearer the fire. Which she held out the flat of her palms to. She held them the same way I held out mine. (I don’t know how I learned how to do that, but Layla had learned how to do that, too.)

I was still shaking. And I was still cold. And I was still chicken still. Which I was still thinking about. Even though a full minute had passed since my mother had called me chicken.

What was that? Layla said.

What?

About chicken. You said something about chicken.

How did you know what I was thinking?

Because that’s what you said. You said, Chicken.

I did?

Yes, you did.

I thought I was thinking.

You were saying.

She must have been right, so I didn’t say anything.

You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, she whispered. I was just wondering.

No one had ever told me that before: that if I didn’t want to I didn’t have to. Plus no one had ever whispered to me before.

We don’t keep any dogs, I said.

Layla said, I know. Even one dog would be obvious.

My palms were getting hot so I rubbed them against my pants. I’ve never even seen a dog, I said.

Really? said Layla.

My palms turned wet from my pants. What’s a dog like?

It depends on the dog. Some dogs are better than other dogs.

New hail came in a burst, clamoring the tin, so I didn’t ask any more about dogs. We stood by the fire and the both of us turned our backs to dry our backs. Together we faced my mother and father. Who didn’t say anything between them. They were already dry (they were never wet) so they didn’t come nearer the fire. My father stood by while my mother took her usual seat on the edge of their bed.

I was still shaking. I was still cold.

You’re still shaking, Layla called. (She had to call because of the hammering hail on our roof.)

I just nodded the way my father nodded. I didn’t want to talk because I was so cold. Layla stripped off my shirt, then stripped off my pants. She nudged me to stand nearer the fire. From our pile of inside firewood, she lifted and threw on an unburnt log.

Hey, called my mother. That’s not your firewood.

He’s sopping, Layla called. And you have enough wood for tonight. Tomorrow I can chop you more wood.

My mother’s mouth hooked upside-down. Even then (a boy of nine) I knew my mother’s mind: she would never allow a stranger to lift her own ax.

What did you say? called Layla.

I didn’t say anything, I called.

Layla looked like she didn’t believe me, but if she didn’t, she didn’t say anything. Would it be all right if I spent the night here? she called.

Only if you sleep out on the stoop, my mother called.

Layla looked the same way she looked when she didn’t believe me. But then she looked to my father, then back to my mother, then over to me. She didn’t say anything. No wait — she did say something. She asked me, What’s your name?

I said, I don’t have a name.

You don’t have a name?

I don’t have a name.

That’s very unusual.

I don’t know, I said. But I don’t have a name.

She said, All right.

I’m nine, I said.

Layla turned me back around to face the fire. That’s good to know, she said. It’s important to know your own age.

Now was when we didn’t say anything. We just dried ourselves by the fire. Layla dried out first because Layla wasn’t as wet.

My mother said, That’s enough. If you want to sleep out on the stoop, sleep now. The hour’s late.

Layla looked like she didn’t believe my mother. But she still didn’t say anything. Except, Good night. She pulled down her bag and coat, then pushed open our only door. Outside it was bright with the light of the moon shining white on the bright, new hail. Layla turned. My mother said, Shut the door, and my father shut the door. Then my mother said: Throw the bolt.

Good night, I called to the door. No one had ever called good night to me before.

I woke because my mother was yelling. She was yelling, Get up, get up! So I started to wake. What were you thinking? she yelled.

My face was covered in dew. I didn’t know how I knew it was dew and I also didn’t know why I didn’t feel cold, but I did and I didn’t. I opened my eyes to the morning and the morning was empty of hail. I was lying under Layla’s arm and I was blinking awake on the stoop.

My mother yelled, Get up! again.

Now Layla was blinking, too.

Get inside, my mother said. My mother kicked me in the small of my back.

Layla wrapped my back with her arm. She told my mother, Don’t kick him. He’s just a boy. He’s just a puppy.

It wasn’t real, said my mother. When I kick him for real, you’ll know. She went back inside and shut the door. Which was quiet when the bolt wasn’t thrown.

Are you okay? said Layla.

What’s a puppy? I said.

A puppy is what you call a little boy or a little girl dog.

I’ve never seen a dog.

I know, she said. You already told me that yesterday.

By now we were both sitting up. The morning sunlight was cold through the pines. The shadows were long and the hail wasn’t melted and it was quiet except for the trees. Which creaked in the breeze in their deadness. Which dripped from their branches with dew. And which sometimes snapped their branches to the ground where their limbs were rotted too weak.

Layla wrapped me alone inside of her coat. She reached out a palm to scoop up some hail. She pinched out the black spots of dirt and twigs, then poured the whole palmful in her mouth. She crunched the hail, then swallowed some, then crunched what hail was left over. She swallowed the last. Then she scooped up another palmful of hail.

Let me try that, I said.

Help me pick out the dirt, she said. You don’t want to eat the dirt.

Me and Layla picked out the dirty rocks and twigs. Then she poured me half in my own palm. We both poured the hail into our mouths. We crunched the hail and, from the melt that melted, drank the cold that was left. Then I ate another palmful of hail, one I picked clean by myself. I scooped up a third to crunch, except Layla told me, You don’t want to eat too much hail. It’s not good for you to eat too much cold.

My throat did feel icy but it still felt okay. But I threw the hail back, anyway. All around us were piles and piles of hail, so it didn’t matter that I didn’t save it.

Do you think I can go inside? said Layla.

I looked at Layla’s feet. (No wait — the feet I was looking at were mine.) I told her, I don’t know.

Layla took my hand. I don’t know, either, she said. But I know how we can find out. She pulled at the door handle, pushed me to lead, then followed me inside.

Breakfast was ready and mush like it always was. (Mush was what we could grow down here.) My mother and father were spooning up mush from their trenchers and into their mouths. If they spooned up lumps, they swallowed the lumps the same as they swallowed the mush. Which they swallowed the same as either of them ever swallowed anything. Which I almost never saw. Because mush was what we could grow down here.

Now that me and Layla had come inside, my father kept spooning his mush in his mouth. My mother stopped spooning her mush in her mouth to stare. Me and Layla stopped, too. My mother didn’t say anything. We didn’t say anything, too. My father was chewing a lump so he didn’t say anything, either. (Although maybe my father just didn’t have anything to say.)

May I join you? Layla said.

At first those words didn’t make any sense. I’d never heard those words spoken in that order before.

My father kept up his chewing. My mother said, Isn’t it time you started to go?

It’s not like I can’t pay, said Layla.

We have no use for money here.

What’s money? I said.

I don’t mean to pay you a price. I mean to pay you in kind. From her bag Layla lifted a basket and from her basket she unfolded a cloth. From her basket she lifted out something imaginary. My father stopped his chewing. My mother said nothing but hooked her mouth upside-down.

I tugged Layla’s hand. What’s that? I said.

Layla looked aback. It’s an egg, she said.

What’s an egg?

You know what a chicken is, right?

I’ve heard of chickens.

Well, an egg is what a chicken is before it becomes a chicken. It’s like a baby chicken, only before it’s even a baby.

I said, Okay.

Layla smiled. I guess it’s hard to understand when you don’t know that much about chickens. And it’s hard to explain even when you do.

Okay, I said.

But what you’re about to learn is that eggs can make good eating. From the wall she unhooked a pot, which she scooped into our cistern, into which she then dropped in four eggs. She hooked the pot over the fire. From the mush pot she spooned up mush which she set on a trencher she handed to me, which I ate with my fingers (how I always ate) until Layla handed me a spoon. I almost never used a spoon. But I did that time and the spoon stayed in my fist until Layla told me, There’s a trick, then threaded the spoon between my fingers and thumb. (She was right — it was easier to spoon.) From her bag she lifted a tin plate, which I’d never seen the like before (although I’d heard of it, like I’d heard of other things — like I’d heard before about chickens). She scooped some mush onto her plate, and from her bag lifted out a tin spoon, which she used to eat while she watched the water in our pot start to boil. Which wobbled the eggs. Layla was about to hook on the lid, except I told her, Wait, which she smiled at, then set the lid aside. She said, Only if you eat more mush. She spooned more mush onto my trencher. You can watch the same time as you eat. See? She watched the eggs and ate her mush, too.

Layla was right. While I ate I could watch the eggs. I watched how they tossed and jumped in the water, and how they bounced off the inside of the pot. I watched how the boiling water made them churn. I’d never seen anything like it: four eggs, bright and boiling and white as ice, bobbing together in a pot. I watched and chewed and chewed and watched, and forgot to chew again. So my mush ended up growing stiff and cold, anyway.

By then my father had stopped chewing, too. Like mine, his trencher held cold mush. He watched the four eggs dance the same way I watched them dance. The same way Layla watched them dance. At the same time my mother chewed.

The eggs were thicker on one side than the other, so when I noticed I had to ask: How come one side of an egg is thicker than the other?

Layla thought. I don’t know, she said. I never wondered that. I wonder why. Because it’s a good question. But I don’t know why. Either why one end is thicker or else why I never wondered.

My mother snorted. I didn’t say anything because that wasn’t the answer I was looking for.

Look, said Layla. See? She pointed at the eggs. See how one of the eggs has cracked open?

I said, Okay.

You see how the white is cooking into string?

What’s the white? I said.

Look there. You see that white part that looks like string? It came from inside of that egg. The one with the crack down its side. There, she said. Layla pointed.

Okay, I said.

They say if you’re patient and you watch egg whites while they boil you can see your own future. But you have to look at it askance. Which means sideways. But that’s how they say it: askance. Like this — face one side but watch the egg white with the corner of your eye. Try it.

I did try it. The egg white whipped and thinned in the seething.

What do you see? said Layla.

I don’t know, I said. I’ve never seen an egg before.

I believe you, she said.

I said, If it’s hailing and you look at the full moon, it shows you the truth.

Layla shook her head and laughed. That’s a country myth, she said. The truth is the truth is always a secret.

My mother stopped her chewing. She didn’t speak a word. My father nodded.

They should be finished, Layla said.

She meant the eggs and I knew that’s what she meant. She hooked the pot from our fire to set it on our board. She used her mush spoon to spoon out the eggs. One by one she lifted them out, then set them to rolling on our trenchers. Layla told me, Careful. They’re still hot. If you hold the eggs, they’ll burn.

I said, Okay. I stared at the eggs. To me, hot was something I understood.

The egg that was cracked in the pot Layla took for herself. My father stared at his egg in his trencher just like I stared at mine. My mother hooked her mouth upside-down. New hail started to sound on the roof. Layla said, They’re cooler now. But be careful. They’re still probably hot.

I lifted the egg and Layla was right. Mine was still hot. I couldn’t keep holding onto it. I dropped it back onto the trencher.

Here, like this, Layla said. Crack down on the fat end of the egg like this. She tapped the thick part of her egg on her plate, and the thick part of the egg caved in. I tried with mine — my egg did, too. Then I didn’t know what to do. So I watched Layla who, bit by bit, picked off her shell to reveal the white.

My father did it different. Instead he rolled the egg between our board and his palm, back and forth and pressing. As it rolled, the eggshell crackled. My mother followed my father. She rolled her egg on the flat of our board. Her and me had trouble picking off the shell. Layla helped with mine. She pressed her fingers into the white to hook at the edge of the shell to lift the eggshell off. I tried hooking the eggshell the same way and started to peel it better.

If you’re really good at peeling eggs, Layla said, you can take it off all in one piece.

Really? I said.

No, not really, said Layla. You can’t really. That was a joke.

What’s a joke? I said.

My father held his egg in his fingers. It was naked now of every scrap of shell. He bit and chewed. He closed his eyes and lifted his face back toward the rafters. This was the way he chewed while the hail on our roof drummed loud. Next to him, my mother copied, and next to her, so did I. After that first bite I forgot to chew.

Good, I mumbled through the egg.

Layla smiled and chewed. Just wait until you first bite the yolk.

What’s the yolk? I said.

You’ll see, she said. It’s yellow.

What’s yellow? I said.

You’ve never seen yellow? Layla looked aback.

When I did, she was right. The yolk was yellow and better. Although I didn’t know how it was better. Or at least at the time (I was nine) I couldn’t explain how the yolk was better. Although it was true. Although I still can’t explain why. Yolks make sense only after you taste some yolks for yourself.

Do all eggs taste this good? I said.

I haven’t tasted all eggs, Layla said. But a lot of them do.

All I want to eat anymore is eggs, I said.

Layla smiled. Sometimes I want to do that, too. But it wouldn’t be very good for you to eat only eggs. It’s like eating hail — if you eat too much, it’s not good for you.

It’s not cold.

I’m sorry?

You said not to eat too much hail because it was cold. But the egg wasn’t cold.

Very good, she said. You’re right. But it’s still true. Too many eggs still aren’t good for you. Just for different reasons than hail. Anytime you eat only the one thing, usually the one thing’s not good for you.

My father nodded. My mother hooked her mouth upside-down.

Like what? I said.

I’m sorry?

What other things aren’t good to eat? If you eat only the one thing?

Let me think. You can eat many things you don’t want to keep eating. Just let me think what they might be. Because you can eat blueberries and apples and mushrooms — at least if the mushrooms are the right kind. And you can eat bird nests and fish tails and termites and squirrels. Or you can eat fennel or beets or cauliflower. One time I once ate a hare. And you’ve already eaten hail. Although now that I think of it, maybe hail’s not actual food. But most of those things are things you don’t want to eat just by themselves. I can’t think of anything you’d ever probably want to eat for the rest of your life by itself.

I’ve never eaten food, I said.

She said, You have. You just don’t know it yet.

She was right — I didn’t know. I didn’t know most things, which I already knew. Even though I was only nine. So I didn’t say anything more.

My mother finished her egg and licked the last yolk crumbs off the tips of her fingers. Then she stood to lift Layla’s bag from its peg and push her arm down inside.

Layla stood, too. Hey, she said. That’s not your bag to root around in.

Said my mother: I do what I want in my own house.

Give it back, Layla said.

My mother didn’t say anything or give it back. Layla grabbed for her bag. My mother turned her back so Layla couldn’t reach it. To reach for her bag, Layla pulled on my mother’s hair. They fought this way, grabbing and pulling and knocking against the walls and the door until (with both her hands fisted on the bag) my mother bit Layla’s fingers. Layla screamed and slapped my mother. Who stopped and hung her mouth and stared while Layla used the stopping to snatch back her bag.

Layla grabbed down her coat and pushed open our only door. She swung her coat over her shoulders and her bag over only one. Which is how she left out into the hail and into the rotting pines. From which she looked back to tell me, Sorry. Just before she told me, Goodbye.

Something white and red fell from my mother’s mouth: one tooth. She whined and crossed one hand, then her other hand over her mouth. Which dripped blood onto her hands. Which dripped from her hands onto the floorboards. My mother watched her blood a moment before she made for the hearth. From its pegs by the fire, she grabbed down our ax. Through the door and into the hail and between the pines my mother raced.

I ran to the door, which was still swung open. Layla! I yelled. This was the first time in my life I’d yelled. No one had ever said sorry to me before.

Layla turned back around; when she saw my mother with our ax in her hands and her mouth full of blood, she started to run. My mother chased Layla through the pines. They flashed with the sunlight and clouds overhead as they both ran through the hail. Which was picked up more by then. Which it often did at that hour. During that season, at least, which was the season for rain and hail. Although I forget what season that used to be.

My father nodded. He wet down a dirty rag and gathered our trenchers together. He ragged them clean. Then he lifted the dipper from where it hung on the edge of our cistern. He dipped in the pot which had boiled the four eggs and slurped the water from the dipper. It had egg white in it. He slurped from the dipper again, then offered the dipper to me. We both drank the water warm, which I’d never tried drinking warm before. Then the pot got shallow and he flung the leftover water outdoors. Finally, he ragged the pot clean. The only thing he didn’t rag clean was our pot of mush (since our pot of mush was still only half-empty).

Our only door was still swung open. I could no longer see Layla or my mother. By now the morning had darkened and the hammering hail had thickened and grown. Which it often did at that hour. During that season, whichever it was. Although I forget what season that used to be.

Inside our house my father stoked our fire. He poked with a stick he’d found in the woods, which was straight and stout and long enough for poking. It was blackened at one end. My father turned to me and said, I named you Hail. But it’s a secret. So don’t tell your mother. Then he wet down the stick so he could poke at the coals without wicking it aflame.

My mother returned at dusk (which you almost couldn’t tell because of the clouds and hail). She was covered in twigs, and covered in dirt, and her chin was black with blood. She held a palmful of hail, which she hadn’t picked clean and which she didn’t pour into her mouth. Instead she wadded the hail against her jaw. Our ax was missing. My mother stood by the fire to dry, and when her hail had melted, my mother didn’t go outside to get more. Instead she flung her wet hand at the fire and mumbled for me to go outside to scoop her up a new palmful of hail.

My father looked up at our empty pegs. In the firelight he shook his head, then went to bed. I brought in new wood to dry by the fire, which my mother usually did. (Only my mother didn’t bring in new wood that night because she was curled up on the bed.)

Come morning it wasn’t hailing again (it almost never hailed first thing in the morning). On our stoop stood our ax, standing up on its head and leaned near our only door. My father took up our ax and tested its edge with his thumb before he lifted it back on its pegs by the fire, near the bed where my mother still lay. Light grew outside. The sun rose and with it rose the hail, and that morning (I was nine) was the first time in my life I thought a thing without speaking it, too. I thought: Fuck this hail. Fuck this hail. Fuck this hail. Hail is worthless, so fuck this worthless hail.