Finnegan James McBride

She Who Owns the Sky

Andy rolled over. The world was rolling through the deep underbelly of the night. The air outside his window was a swirl of black and gray. His soul unfurled from its lotus contortion in his ribcage and swam up behind his eyes, which opened.

He sat up in bed and gathered his stuffed animals and dolls around him. Together they prayed.

“Olivia,” he whispered, “ye who are above us, ye who own all that which lies above us, I ask but do not beg: fill today and all days with your light and warmth. Fill us with the light that is ourselves, so that we may know ourselves. So that we may serve you. Amen.”

He wished he could close the blinds without stepping out into the cold air of his room in nothing but the wisp of his pajamas. He didn’t want Her to see him through the window. He loved Her, yes, but love is often the perverse spandrel of fear, the geyser shooting up from the deep pit of trepidation. The problem was that She was more than him. The problem was that he was small and She was big.

All at once the stillness of the night was shattered by a gentle pitter-patter on the windowsill, the footsteps of some creature, maybe a rat, maybe a crow. All of Andy but his heart was still as the blackness outside the window coughed and curled into mangled faces and bodies, visions of things he had known when he was younger still, but had long since forgotten now that he was eleven and mature. The pitter-patter inched toward the clear pane. A little black oval teetered into view, eyes agleam like clay beads. It was a raven. It looked at Andy and Andy looked at it, and the night grew still again.

Around the raven pairs of tar-black eyes seemed to hover in the dark. Perhaps they were patterns in the leaves and shrubs that lay out in the yard. Perhaps they were Her.

He closed his eyes and slid back down between his ribs, into the place where dreams are made. He fell softly back into sleep.

#

“Your mom left last night,” Andy’s father said, one hand on the wheel and the other scratching his nose. “I don’t know where she is.”

A few minutes later they pulled in front of a tiny, crusted-over brick storefront that looked like an old bomb shelter. Torn-up bits of paper caked the exterior, the remnants of fliers and advertisements. One said “N  d Stor ge?” Another said “abysitter.”

Andy’s father rapped on the window. The blinds opened a tad and an old man with eyes wide as saucers looked out at them, then disappeared. A moment later the door creaked open.

“What brings ya here?” the old man asked. He was a wiry, sinewy sack of bones, his long nose and ears beginning to droop, his pupils like black rock candy. He wore faded yellow suspenders over a tomato-red shirt.

“We have an appointment,” Andy’s father said. “Used school uniforms.”

“Oh yes oh yes oh yes,” the old man said quickly. He looked surprised. “Come in.”

It was dark inside. A single yellow lightbulb let out a whine from the ceiling. The smell of the past hit Andy: leather and patina and bootdust and mothballs and rust crumbs and tobacco and a stench a little like the monkeyhouse at the zoo. Around him were an array of antiques: copper vases and dusty stained-glass lampshades and Russian doll sets with peeling paint. Directly in front of him was a miniature circus with flaming hoops and lions on beachballs..

There were curtains hanging down from the ceiling everywhere, separating areas of the shop. The old man muttered something and disappeared behind one of the pairs of curtains. Andy’s father followed.

On a table by Andy was a toy train set. The metal cars and engines were round, unpainted, and solid silver, like soup cans turned on their sides. Their metallic gleam made Andy think of retro futurism posters from the 40s, and the track they ran on looked like something from RadioShack. On another table was a soccer ball-sized armillary sphere that shone chrome like the whir of cicadas, next to it a vintage toothpaste tube that was the blue of a pool bottom.

The old man and Andy’s father returned from behind the curtain. Andy’s father was holding two faded school uniforms. “Come try these on,” he said.

Andy did. They were both too small in all the wrong places. He could hardly breathe in them.

Andy’s father tugged on the fabric of the second uniform. “Looks like it fits.” He turned to the old man. “We’ll take it.”

“Register in the back,” the old man said. Andy took off the uniform. The old man and Andy’s father disappeared behind the curtains again.

Then he saw Her.

She was four inches tall and made of cotton. She had a soft sewn body and real yellow human hair fluming around Her head like a weeping willow. Her face was so calm, her eyes the two taps of a paintbrush so many decades ago. They were the same tar-black eyes that had hung in the air around the raven.

He knew it was Her. He slipped Her into his pocket.

A few minutes later Andy’s father returned. “Let’s go,” he said.

“Come again,” the old man yelled from behind the curtains.

They stepped out onto the street. It was cloudy and the wind howled. Andy’s father zipped up his jacket. The ochre-yellow leaves of September flew past their faces.

“Why are you grinning like that?” Andy’s father asked.

#

Though it was the first day, everyone but him seemed to already have friends.

The air was very still and kids were mulling around the outside of the building in puffer coats. Andy thought he saw one of them lighting a cigarette but didn’t let himself look long enough to be sure.

The bell rang and the children filed through the gates. Andy’s uniform pinched his armpits and was scratchy against his neck. Olivia lay serene in his pocket.

English and history were fine. Boring, but fine. After third period the children flooded through the courtyard toward the cafeteria. There would be two more classes, then Andy could sit in his room and gather his animals and dolls and once again She would visit them in the flesh.

“Hey fag,” a voice came from behind him.

He wheeled around.

The Kid grinned. “You are a fag. You turned around like it was your name or something.” He was taller than Andy, and thinner. Close-cropped blond hair hung above his piercing gray eyes.

“Mind your own,” Andy said.

The Kid took a baseball from his pocket. “Here, catch.”

Andy turned away. He felt the ball hit the back of his leg.

“You’re supposed to catch it, stupid,” the Kid said.

Andy walked toward the cafeteria. He didn’t turn around. He braced for a blow, but it didn’t come. Instead the Kid walked around in front of him and smiled.

“I’m only trying to make friends, you know,” the Kid said. “Don’t take it personal.”

Andy didn’t reply.

He let the Kid stand next to him in the lunch line. The children at the front of the line grabbed at the food like animals, their small hands fighting for trays and ladles while a fat woman in an apron berated them. Today’s menu was broccoli cheddar soup and hamburgers.

“Don’t get the hamburger,” the Kid said. “My brother went here. He said they make it from rats.”

Andy scoffed.

“It’s true,” the Kid continued. “This place is worse than you think. You need a friend to get through it.”

“I’m not gonna be your friend,” Andy said.

They got to the front of the line. Andy took the hamburger. It was a gray saucer of meat oozing grease the color of his father’s engine oil. The buns were stiff as rocks. Behind him he saw the Kid pouring a ladle of hot soup into a little plastic cup, steam rising as he did it. They both grabbed cardboard trays of fries that looked like the soggy fingers of some species of yellow imp.

The cafeteria abuzz with children, Andy looked for a place to sit. He saw a girl who looked interesting halfway across the hall—her face was all scrunched together and she had a big birthmark under her eye, and her hair was blond and curly like macaroni. So he walked over and put his tray next to hers. She looked up, then quickly down. A moment later the Kid sat down across from them. Grease and fat hung in the air.

“Hi,” Andy said. “What’s your name?”

“Naomi.” She took a bite of her burger.

“They make those from rats,” the Kid said. “My brother went here.”

She kept chewing.

“I’m Andy,” Andy said. “He’s joking.” He took a bite of his burger too. “Your hair is like macaroni.”

“Thank you,” she said, although Andy hadn’t meant it as a compliment, just an observation. “My mom rolls hot things in it in the morning. It makes me pretty.”

“Wait,” Andy said.

He reached into his pocket. Olivia was there, cold to the touch. He pulled her out slowly, reverently. Her yellow hair spilled and spun as her head slid out of his pocket.

“She looks like you,” he said.

Naomi reached for Olivia. Andy tensed, then handed her the doll. Her fingers slid over it, her mouth open in a little o. He felt as though she were holding his heart.

“You’re not allowed to bring toys to school,” she said.

“She’s not a toy,” Andy said.

The Kid tore the doll from Naomi’s hands. He pulled one of Olivia’s arms taut.

Andy leaned over the table and grabbed the Kid’s arm, digging in with his fingernails. With the other hand he crushed the knuckles of The Kid’s hand against the table, hard. The Kid let go and Andy tucked Olivia quickly back into his pocket.

“Jesus fuck,” the Kid said, a tear in his eye. “It’s a doll.” Kids were looking over from other tables.

“It’s mine,” Andy said.

The Kid wiped his eye. “I have show you something. Outside.” He stood up.

Andy stood too. He knew how to punch. The Kid was taller, but Andy was tougher.

They walked past the rows of children and then the chilly air hit them as they entered the courtyard. Other than a few kids by the entrance to the cafeteria, the yard was empty.

“It’s over here,” the Kid said. “Behind the bushes.” He led Andy to the corner of the courtyard, where hedges with stiff leaves like shards of jade lined a windowless concrete wall. They ducked under the leaves. Behind the bushes there were dilapidated cigarette boxes, crushed-up soda cans, shredded newspapers covered in dirt. A long worm lay still by one of the soda cans.

The Kid put his hand on Andy’s shoulder, and Andy tightened his fists. The Kid pulled a black stick from his pocket. At first Andy thought it was a vape. Then a blade came out.

“I’m not gonna hurt you now,” the Kid said. “Because I would get in trouble. But they have these big mats in the gym. They use them for wrestling and gymnastics and stuff. At the end of the day they roll them up and pile them into the supply closet. If you come back tomorrow I’m gonna wrap you up in one of those mats. I’m gonna wrap you tight, but loose enough you can breathe. And then I’m gonna put you in the supply closet upside down. The blood will rush to your head. You’ll start screaming from the pain. Then the capillaries in your eyes will start to burst. And blood will start trickling from your eyes. And they’ll find you in the morning, and we’ll all be sad. We’ll all wonder how it happened.”

Andy looked up from the blade. “You don’t scare me.”

“Oh but I think I do.” The blade moved a little closer to Andy’s belly.

There was a rustle in the leaves. They both froze and turned.

Naomi’s head peeked through from under the bushes.

The Kid retracted the blade and put it back in his pocket. He removed his hand from Andy’s shoulder.

“Don’t fight,” Naomi said.

“We’re not fighting,” Andy said.

But the Kid was already ducking back under the bushes, going out into the courtyard.

Andy stood where he was for a while more. He looked down at the long worm next to the soda can. It still wasn’t moving. He wondered if it was dead.

Later, as he finished his food, the worm stayed in his mind. Through his pants he clutched Olivia against his thigh.

#

Andy’s mother came back that night.

He had been unable to sleep, tossing and turning and staring up at the ceiling. Around midnight he heard a knock at the front door from down the hall. His father went to see who it was. His father screamed at her. His father did not ask where she had been.

Olivia was soft between Andy’s fingers. He clutched Her to his chest. Her hair made him itchy and Her eyes burned coal-black in the purple of the night. His stuffed animals and dolls lay scattered across the sheets in various phases of REM and non-REM.

A few minutes later Andy’s mother burst into his room.

“Jesus, he’s sleeping!” his father moaned, exasperated.

She flicked on the light. Andy closed his eyes instantly, pretending what his father had said was true. He heard her—felt her—come across the room toward him. He knew she was leaning over him, inches from his face.

He opened his eyes and it was true. Her face was massive in front of his, a dinnerplate of sorrow and desperation and misprision. Her eyebrows folded up and into her forehead and the corners of her lips quivered. She looked different. Like someone had been paid to put on a rubber mask and impersonate her. She touched his face and her touch was like a pocket of cold water in a lukewarm lake. 

“Andy, my sweet,” she said. Her face begged for something. Her eyes were big.

Andy removed her hand from his face. “I’m sleeping.”

She moved her hand to his shoulder and squeezed. “I’m never going away again, I promise. I can’t be away from you anymore. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“I’m sleeping,” Andy said again. His eyes were wet. He closed them.

She took her hand from his shoulder. For a while she hovered over him, taking uneven inhales and exhales. Her breath smelled like alcohol. A while later she moved to the doorway. A while after that she flicked the light off and slowly closed the door.

#

Late, late into the night, nearly sunrise, Andy still couldn’t sleep. They were fucking in the other room, louder than they’d fucked in years.

He sat up in bed and gazed out the window, hoping to see the raven again, hoping to see pairs of eyes like ink-black cinders hanging in the dark. The wind was all ahowl and the moon was bright. The lone tree in the center of the yard leaned and spun in the gusts, flaunting its foliage, bathed in bluewhite from 238,000 miles away. Shrubs ripped back and forth in the gale.

Andy stood up. He put Olivia in his pajama pocket. One by one he found his animals and dolls in the dark and held them tight to his chest: the stuffed lion, the French doll, the stuffed elephant, Raggedy Ann. He kissed each of them on the forehead.

“Fill today and all days with your light and warmth,” he whispered.

Then he tiptoed to the window and opened it. The wind flapped the bottom of his pajama shirt against his waist. He stepped through and goosebumps broke out across his skin. The grass beneath him was moist and cold.

He headed for the ocean. The hot pain of his mother’s moans faded as he walked. Through the yard he went, then out onto the sidewalk, then into the empty streets. The asphalt blackened the bottoms of his feet and the wind kicked at his back, propelling him forward.

From a block away he could hear the ocean’s groans and keens. When he got there the expanse of the horizon brought his mind to silence. For as far as he could see there was water.

There was no one on the beach except an elderly woman doing something by the shoreline. As the ocean sang and sizzled against the dark sands she threw little shiny cards into the water, one by one. They shone neon in the moonlight: green, red, yellow, gold.

Andy got closer, the sand whispering under his feet. They were lottery tickets.

“Did you lose?” he asked.

She turned to him. She looked like the faces you see in wooden tables if you look hard enough.

“No,” she said. “Well, maybe. I didn’t scratch them.”

She continued throwing them into the ocean.

“I wager I’ve won millions of dollars,” she continued. “Maybe billions. Never checked.”

“Why not?”

“If you check you lose.”

She laughed so hard Andy could see the fillings in her teeth. Then she handed him a stack of twenty or so unscratched tickets. They glittered and gleamed as fast-moving clouds hid and revealed the moon. Together, they threw the tickets into the water. The wind blew them far out into the waves, where they bobbed like paper boats.

“What brings you out here?” she asked.

“I don’t like my parents,” Andy said.

“I don’t either,” she said. “At least when they were alive. Don’t like my husband either. Sometimes I think about killing him.”

“There’s a kid at school who wants to kill me,” Andy said.

“Kill him first,” she said.

They looked at each other, and there was a pause. Then they both started to laugh.

“I like you,” she said. “You’re the kind of kid a woman can trust.”

Andy continued to throw the tickets. It was nice. It felt like something he’d done before.

“You should leave your husband,” he said. “Tonight.”

She stopped throwing, her knobby fingers very still on the stack of tickets in her hand.

“Or, you know, soon,” he said.

“No,” she said. “No, you’re right. It has to be tonight.” They both knew it wouldn’t be tonight. But it felt good to say regardless.

Then she leaned over, sort of crumpled into herself. She stayed like that for a while, hunched over with her hands on her thighs.

When she looked up he saw that she was crying.

He pulled her into a hug. She smelled like persimmons.

They stood there for a long time, the flap of the woman’s jacket against Andy’s cheek. So long that their shadows crept westward. In time beams of orange began to crest on the horizon. The heart of the world rose, a dazzle of churning fire. Colors whirled and gyred and pulsed: deep reds like the freshest of strawberries, rich yellows like the butterfly he had seen on his first field trip. It was all here.

He took Olivia from his pocket. Her face was soft and kind in the crimson wash of the morning. He ran a thumb across her cheek, pulled his fingers through her hair. He squeezed her cotton body to his heart. Then he threw her into the ocean, as far out as he could.

In the distance, over the water, there was a pale blue bird way up in the air. It made figure eights in the burning heavens.

Andy looked out to the sky. All of it was his.

Yet he had the strange feeling that more had been lost than gained.

END

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Finnegan James McBride is a writer, musician, and student based in Vancouver, British Columbia. His love of writing started when he read the stories of Ray Bradbury as a child. You can find him on Instagram at @finneganjmcbride