The Wilds Read Online Free Page B

while sea winds tousled his hair, he reminded us of Meemaw, his grin crooked, his facelit up like a jack-o’-lantern. He, too, seemed to float in his chair for a minute as visions of paradise spewed from him—the swarming stars, the crashing waves, the tan men in white shorts who smelled of cocoa butter. A boy whisked by on a glittering ten-speed. A bodybuilder the color of roasted liver flexed his rippling pecs. An escaped pet parrot swooped down from a coffee-shop awning, landed on Uncle Mike’s shoulder, and said, “I love you.”
    As Uncle Mike imitated the mechanical croak of the parrot, a light beam bounced off the refrigerator and shot directly into his forehead, where it left a small, red welt. A great twitch shook him. His pale skin glowed like the moon.
    And Brunell’s mother shrieked.

    Meemaw sat scrunched on the sofa, dead, her eyes jacked open wide, her hands crimped up like bird claws. Her skin looked dark and moist, vaguely congealed like canned ham. Just as Brunell splashed a glass of water in her mama’s face to rouse her from her fainting fit, just as Uncle Mike came to from the sudden seizure that had sent him collapsing into a La-Z-Boy recliner, Bonnie and I caught sight of our mothers cruising up the driveway in a white convertible LeBaron. As they climbed outof the car, they looked two-dimensional, light and unencumbered, like magazine women. Bonnie’s mother wore tight Calvin Kleins with a cotton sweater draped over her back like a cape. Her hair was honey blond, colored by Tina at Cut-Ups and styled to look wind-blown and free. My own mother wore hers in a sleek wedge, not a speck of lipstick on her mouth, though she did accessorize her linen tunic with a string of wooden beads. They traipsed up the stepping-stones that led to Brunell’s front door with its BLESS THIS HOME knocker. Through the window we could see them—laughing like heathens, reveling in harlotries as they prepared themselves for the sight of Brunell’s poor mama in her sad polyester dress.
    Brunell’s mother sat up and picked at her ruined hairdo. Her jaw muscles jerked her mouth into a snarling grin. She stood erect, smoothed her Sunday frock, and answered the door.
    “Hi,” said my mom chirpily, perhaps sarcastically, and I wanted to slap her in the face.
    “I hope the girls behaved themselves,” said Bonnie’s mother, winking wryly, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of the living room.
    “Like little angels,” said Brunell’s mother. “Do come in. You’ll have to excuse my mama, she just . . .”
    And then the taut musculature of her smile went slack. Her lips writhed as she unleashed a primal howl.
    “No need to make excuses.” Uncle Mike pulled himself up from his chair and wiped a tear from his cheek. “Our mother just passed away.”
    “My God,” said my mom, who now looked terrified. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say.”
    Mike smiled darkly. “I know. Sympathetic platitudes never cut it, do they?”
    “I hope the girls weren’t in your way,” said Bonnie’s mother.
    “They’re fine.” Mike took hold of my shoulder and pushed me toward the door. “Wonderful girls.”
    “Yes,” Mom piped. “Let’s be going.”
    As we stumbled out into the sunny day, I felt a tug in my gut, a visceral longing for the magical dusk of Brunell’s living room, which smelled of strawberry air freshener and the dark, turbulent vapors of the Holy Ghost. Just before the door closed on its own like a haunted house prop, I caught sight of Brunell, hunched and sniveling, falling into her uncle’s manly embrace. Uncle Mike’s hair, popped free of its ponytail, cascaded over his shoulders.

    To take our minds off death, Bonnie’s mother suggested a shopping trip to Columbia. As we drove out to DixieCity Fashion Mall, our mothers kept glancing back at us, scoping our faces for signs of trauma. Bonnie and I exchanged looks but said nothing. We kept the rich darkness fermenting inside us, like wine to