By Light We Knew Our Names Read online

  BY LIGHT WE KNEW OUR NAMES

  BY LIGHT WE KNEW OUR NAMES

  ANNE VALENTE

  5220 Dexter Ann Arbor Rd.

  Ann Arbor, MI 48103

  www.dzancbooks.org

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  BY LIGHT WE KNEW OUR NAMES. Copyright © 2014, text by Anne Valente. All rights reserved, except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher: Dzanc Books, 5220 Dexter Ann Arbor Rd., Ann Arbor, MI 48103.

  Some of these stories appeared in the following places in slightly different forms:

  “Latchkey,” Berkeley Fiction Review, 2011; “Dear Amelia,” Copper Nickel, 2012; “To a Place Where We Take Flight,” Storyglossia, 2009; Dzanc Books Best of the Web 2010; “Terrible Angels,” Surreal South Anthology, 2011; “A Taste of Tea,” Midwestern Gothic, 2012; “Everything that Was Ours,” Freight Stories, 2011; “By Light We Knew Our Names,” Hayden’s Ferry Review, 2011; “If Everything Fell Silent, Even Sirens,” Sou’wester, 2012; “A Very Compassionate Baby,” Annalemma, 2010; Notable Story, Best American Non-Required Reading 2011; “Minivan,” Bellevue Literary Review, 2011; “Not for Ghosts or Daffodils,” The Journal, 2013; “Until Our Shadows Claim Us,” CutBank, 2012; “Mollusk, Membrane, Human Heart,” Memorious, 2012.

  Designed by Steven Seighman

  Library ofCongress Cataloging-In-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN: 978-1-941531-97-6

  First edition: September 2014

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For my parents with gratitude and love

  CONTENTS

  Latchkey

  Dear Amelia

  To a Place Where We Take Flight

  Terrible Angels

  A Taste of Tea

  Everything That Was Ours

  By Light We Knew Our Names

  If Everything Fell Silent, Even Sirens

  A Very Compassionate Baby

  Minivan

  Not for Ghosts or Daffodils

  Until Our Shadows Claim Us

  Mollusk, Membrane, Human Heart

  Acknowledgments

  LATCHKEY

  Sasha’s birthday fell on a Wednesday, and though her parents gave her a present, its string and paper meant to be torn away at once, almost ten days have passed and still she has not opened it. They wrapped it in paisley paper, tied a bright purple string around its corners, and hoped she would pull all the casings away, just after she blew out the seven candles on her frosted yellow cake. But when Sasha blew hard across the sugared flowers, her cheeks puffed like globes, her mother made her close her eyes, placed the gift in her hands; and when Sasha opened them and looked down, she only said I love it, her voice a low whistle, and set it aside on the carpet fully wrapped.

  Don’t you want to open it? her mother asked.

  But Sasha said no, and her mother looked at her father over Sasha’s small head, then Sasha said it again, that she loved it as it was, and her father cut the cake and gave his daughter the corner piece, the one with the most frosting, as she always liked.

  They might have thought something was wrong, that maybe she anticipated what it was and knew she wouldn’t like it, and refused to expose her disappointment there in the kitchen, in front of her parents and the candle smoke drifting in curls toward the ceiling. But after Sasha ate her cake, she bent down and picked up the present and clutched it tight against her chest as her parents led her to the car to take her to the movies. She brought it with her into the theater, an animated feature she’d wanted to see for weeks, and after the credits rolled and they drove their daughter home, Sasha carried the present into her bedroom and pulled it under the covers with her, gripped it like a stuffed animal as she fell asleep.

  And now, almost two weeks later, Sasha still will not open her gift, even though she carries it everywhere like a lucky charm. Her parents have asked her, delicately at times, if maybe she wants to open it, maybe see what’s inside. But she shakes her head no each time, grips the paisley edges tighter, and the whites of her knuckles have made her parents stop, have told them there is no more need to ask.

  Sasha sits on the playground at recess, one arm holding the present, the other gripping a wood chip that she digs into the soft dirt until a pill bug rolls out. It lies curled up, playing dead, and Sasha puts down the wood chip and pokes it, prodding gently. The bug unfurls and crawls away and she watches it go, hard back glistening in the afternoon sunlight. A shadow passes overhead and Sasha squints up to see who is standing over her.

  What are you doing? Ben asks. He sits next to her in class, builds soda-bottle terrariums alongside her, condensation beading like raindrops inside the bottles’ plastic walls. Looking up, Sasha can’t see his halo, always hidden when other people are around.

  I don’t know, she says.

  He looks at her wood chip, then at the present clutched under her arm.

  Why don’t you just open that?

  It’s fine as it is, she says, and pulls it tighter against her side.

  Ben sits down next to her, picks up a wood chip of his own.

  Well, what do you think it is? he asks, and when he looks at her she sees Saturn glinting in his eye, so small no one else can see it.

  Maybe it’s an army, Sasha sighs, and pierces the dirt with her wood chip. A tiny army of lop-eared rabbits.

  Ben doesn’t laugh, as maybe her parents would have. Instead Ben’s eyebrows arch and his mouth bends into a smile.

  Travis and Jane are both going today, he says. Maybe you can open it then.

  Sasha smiles, holds her mouth in a curve as Ben walks away. But when he’s gone she looks down and digs, and wonders if there will ever be a right time to open it, if it will ever be as perfect as it is now.

  After school Sasha rides the bus to Ms. Carraway’s house, the woman in her neighborhood who watches her until her parents come home from work, who watches lots of other children in the neighborhood too, including Ben, Travis, and Jane. Travis and Jane are a year older, and it’s only at Ms. Carraway’s that she sees them, and even then only some days, the days no parent can pick them up from school. Though Ms. Carraway sometimes watches up to ten children at once, they always seem to go home before Sasha and Ben and Travis and Jane. When just the four of them are left, Ms. Carraway puts on a movie for them and naps, slinks back into her bedroom like a cat until the doorbell rings and it’s time for them to start going home. It was during a movie that Sasha first discovered it, that she was the only one not like them.

  They were watching Beauty and the Beast, Sasha curled up on the floor while Ben and Travis sat on the couch, Jane in a beanbag chair nearby. Sasha leaned back for a handful of Chex Mix and noticed a halo of planets orbiting Ben’s head, spinning like children on a merry-go-round. Sasha gasped, dropped the Chex Mix on the carpet, and Ben glanced at her, unconcerned. Jane and Travis also looked unfazed, kept watching the movie, and that’s when Sasha discovered they all had secrets, and she was the only one without something special, some small mystery to call her own.

  Today there are three other children, seven in total, and Ms. Carraway feeds them cookies and lets them play board games—Battleship for Sasha, her favorite since kindergarten, and Ms. Carraway is kind enough not to ask about the present, which rests unopened in Sasha’s lap. But once the others go home, parents arriving in the doorway and escorting their children to the car, Ms. Carraway corrals the remaining four into the living room and puts on a movie. Back to the Future thi
s time, since they say they are tired of cartoons.

  Ms. Carraway escapes to her bedroom, and when the door shuts, the planets appear around Ben’s head like a crown. Travis’s round belly becomes a fishbowl, full of puffers, jellyfish, a hermit crab perched on a rock. And Jane laughs and whispers into her pocket, where a small librarian tickles her with his wiggling movements, his voice so small it sounds like a squeak, but a squeak that can recount encyclopedia entries on request.

  Sasha sinks into the couch cushions, sloping into their safety, and clutches the present against her shirtfront, hoping the others won’t notice her. But Ben remembers, climbs across the couch toward her, and sits on the middle cushion on his knees, looking at her. Sasha watches Mars spin on its tiny axis above him, small between Earth and Jupiter, the latter the size of a grapefruit.

  Hey, now you can open it, Ben says, eyes moving to the package.

  Yeah, why not? Jane says. The librarian pokes his head out of her pocket and nods too.

  Sasha looks at Jane and Ben, then Travis, who isn’t watching them, eyes cast down upon a seahorse, fins whirring, small body propelling itself around his fishbowl.

  I don’t know, Sasha says, and looks down at the present, at its paisley print and bright purple ribbon. She hugs it tighter, holding it close like a newborn.

  Don’t you want to know what’s inside? Travis says absently, eyes still on the seahorse, which has whirred its way to the front of his glass belly and looks out at them.

  I want to know, the librarian squeaks from Jane’s pocket, so softly Sasha can barely hear him.

  But as Sasha looks down at the gift, the wrapping paper stretched like thick skin across its edges, a shudder pulses through her at the thought of the paper being ripped away, as if skin itself would be torn and split.

  Well, I don’t, she says. It’s fine the way it is.

  The fabric of Jane’s pocket moves, small stabbing darts, as if the librarian is punching the material from inside.

  I want to know! he shouts, but the movie is loud enough to drown out his tiny screams.

  Ben sits back on his heels, the planets ambling across his forehead like a parade.

  Well, what do you think it is? Ben asks again. What do you think, really?

  Sasha sighs. It must be a carrier pigeon, she says, a diving bird that will take my wishes to the bottom of the sea and bury them safe in the ocean floor.

  Ben drops into the couch cushions and smiles. But looking down at the package, Sasha doesn’t believe what she’s said. She doesn’t know if it is anything more than paisley paper and string, but, she thinks, she wouldn’t be unhappy if that was all it was.

  After dinner, Sasha watches television in the living room with her parents. Her mother works on a crossword puzzle at one end of the couch, and Sasha sits on her father’s lap at the other end. He reads a book over her head while she watches the screen, the present lying across her belly.

  Sasha, sweetheart, her mother sighs, it’s been two weeks. She bites her lower lip and doesn’t look up as she speaks, pen scribbling against the newspaper. Sasha turns back to the television, slumps lower on her father’s lap.

  Don’t you want to open it? her mother says. Aren’t you tired of carrying that around?

  What she is tired of is people asking. The weight of the present, it feels like nothing more than the weight of butterfly wings. It is a weight she could carry indefinitely.

  Well, we never did throw you a birthday party, her father says. He peers over his book at Sasha, who is already looking up at him, her eyes big. Why don’t some of those friends of yours come over? The ones that are always at Ms. Carraway’s with you.

  Sasha tenses, her muscles retreating like turtles into shells, so solidly she thinks her father must feel her twitches through his shirtsleeves. But he just peers down at her and smiles, asks, What do you think?

  Sasha looks down at her present, nods so softly it could almost be a no, then slides off her father’s lap and climbs the stairs to her room, crawling into the covers with her package clutched tight, as though it might disappear.

  After school the next day, Ms. Carraway puts on Flight of the Navigator and retreats to her bedroom for a nap. Sasha sits with the others on the couch and keeps her eyes on the television. The paisley gift sits like a lapdog on her knees. She pretends not to watch the others, their acrobatic magic.

  My parents are throwing me a birthday party, Sasha says, so casually it hurts. They want all of you to come.

  Jane leans forward, the librarian perched on her shoulder.

  Will there be cake? she asks. The librarian smiles, tells the room some cakes include cream of tartar.

  I think so, Sasha says. Soda and chips too.

  When is the party? Travis asks. She can’t see his face, since he’s on the other end of the couch, but his glass belly protrudes almost to the edge of the cushions. Today a tiny octopus keeps squeezing itself in and out of a ring-shaped rock.

  Saturday afternoon at my house, Sasha says. We’ll play pin the tail on the donkey. Maybe more board games. I have Battleship too.

  It sounds like fun, Jane says. The librarian nods and claps, peeps in his small voice that parties are often accompanied by balloons and streamers.

  So is Saturday when you’re finally going to open that? Ben asks. He leans forward, points at the gift. His planets aren’t rotating today; Saturn sits like a Frisbee disc at the back of his head.

  I don’t know, Sasha sighs. She looks down at the gift, instinctively pulls it close, though even she, she too, is beginning to wonder if just opening it would be easier.

  Well, I want to know what it is, Ben says, and when he speaks, Sasha realizes that she does too, almost as badly as everyone else in the room. But when she looks down at the package, at its paisley edges and purple string, she wonders if what lies beneath could possibly be better than those colors, that pattern, if what’s known is ever better than what isn’t.

  Ben sits back, and Sasha worries for a moment that his head might crush Saturn against the couch cushions.

  Well, maybe Saturday is perfect, Ben says. Your parents will be there, and so will we.

  Sasha isn’t entirely sure what he means, since the three of them have only met her parents a few times. And she doesn’t know why it matters whether these three are present either. They’re not really even friends.

  Sasha settles back into the couch, pretends to watch the movie, but what she’s really watching is the octopus, compressing itself through the small ring. She thinks of her party, how strange and new it will be to have friends in her house.

  At dinner that night, Sasha pours honey onto a butter knife and dips it into her pile of peas. The peas stick, clinging to the knife’s flat sides, and Sasha bites the peas off one by one, the gift nearby, on the fourth chair around their kitchen table.

  My friends said they’re coming, Sasha says. Her mother clasps her hands together, and her father smiles, his cheeks full of mashed potatoes.

  Oh, honey, how wonderful! her mother says. I’m so glad we’re having a party for you.

  I can get started on the pin-the-tail board, her father says. Do you want a donkey, or something else? Maybe a brontosaurus?

  Sasha looks at her dad. That’d be a pretty big tail, she says.

  All the more fun! her father says, and because he’s so excited, Sasha nods and eats her peas.

  You know, sweetheart, you don’t have to, her mother says. But maybe, if you wanted to, your present—

  You could open it then, her father finishes. Her parents look at each other across the table. Sasha looks down at her plate and keeps eating her peas.

  What do you think it is? her dad asks.

  A sweater, Sasha says, though it’s almost May, no snow for nearly two months.

  Oh, surely you know we’d do better than that! her mother says.

  Maybe it’s a doll, Sasha says, and when she looks up, her parents seem hurt, as if she’s said something wrong.

  That night,
as she climbs into bed, she brings the package with her. But instead of clutching it against her chest, as she’s done for the past two weeks, she sets it on the pillow beside her and watches it, wishing she could see through the paper to the inside, wishing and watching until she fades to sleep.

  On Saturday, after Sasha’s mother has baked a new cake topped with yellow frosted daisies, and after her father has built a large poster out of cardboard, a huge brontosaurus missing the length of its tail, Sasha stands looking out the front window until at last a car pulls up. Ben arrives first, hopping out of a red Honda with a small gift, and Jane and Travis follow soon after, holding presents in their soft hands.

  Sasha is surprised at first not to see the orbiting planets, the rotund fishbowl, the little librarian standing atop Jane’s shoulder. But then she remembers, her parents are here, and she has never seen their tricks outside the confines of Ms. Carraway’s secluded living room, or within sight of adults.

  Pretty dress, Jane says, and touches the hem of Sasha’s purple polka-dot skirt. Sasha blushes, and before she can say thank you, Jane steps into the family room and places her gift on the table, alongside the others Ben and Travis have brought. The paisley package is also there, stacked beneath the smaller ones, and though Sasha has kept it at a distance all morning, she eyes it as her mother greets Jane in the family room, offers her a soda, and places it in both of Jane’s hands, her small fingers encircling the plastic cup.

  Who wants to play pin the tail on the brontosaurus? Sasha’s father asks, once they’re all sitting on couches, jackets discarded, sodas fizzing and bubbling.

  Ben raises his hand, alongside Travis and Jane. Sasha looks at all three of them and raises her hand too, sure now after a morning of worry that her father’s idea will be a success.

  He pulls four enormous cardboard tails from behind his armchair and hands one to each of them. Ben asks Sasha if she’d like to go first, since it’s her birthday. But she shakes her head no, and shrinks to the back of the line, and Ben shrugs and Sasha’s dad places a red bandanna across his eyes as a blindfold. He spins Ben by the shoulders, and lets the other three children help, and Ben wobbles toward the wall and pins the tail near the brontosaurus’s front foot, so low that the tail looks like a tree branch the dinosaur will step over.