Bruised Knuckles by Lindsey Stoddard

The year after my nana lost her words, the year after the right side of her body drew into itself and she began learning to use a fork in her left hand, was the year I got my 1989 Upper Deck Ken Griffey Jr. rookie card. Nine-year-old neighborhood friend Ryan Morse knocked on our door, and handed it to me, looking at his shoes. It seemed like an odd exchange. My nana lost her words, Ryan smashed my nest of blue robins eggs with a whiffle ball bat, and I got a baseball card. And punched him in the face.

I saw him swing the bat. I watched him from the window. He pushed over our three-step, wobbly, steel stepladder I had set at the base of the tree and wound up without a thought, smashing to the ground the perfect nest, and its blue eggs splattered on my front lawn. Paralyzed in that spot facing out my window, tears dripping from my chin, I watched him strut home, whiffle ball bat over his right shoulder. I didn’t wait for my tears to dry before I walked down the street, fists clenched. I didn’t wipe my salty cheeks and chin before I knocked on his door and hit him square in the jaw.

On that walk home I examined my right fist. Little, round, blue bruises were forming on the first two knuckles and I tried to stop the throbbing by holding it tight with my left hand. I sobbed. I sobbed for my pulsing red fist, I sobbed because I had never hit anyone before. I sobbed for the smashed blue shells. Later that evening, Ryan gave me his 1989 Upper Deck Ken Griffey Jr. rookie card. Below the protective plastic cover was a close up shot of Ken Griffey Jr., his bat slung over his left shoulder. I hid it in my underwear drawer, the only place I knew my brother wouldn’t search for it and I took it out only at night to sleep with it in my pillowcase.

Those bruises on my first two knuckles stayed for three weeks. The one I saw on Ryan’s left cheek when he knocked on our door looking at his shoes had faded by the time I saw him at the bus stop on Monday morning.

Years later, bird shit fell from the night sky like heavy snow. It came down in speckled black sheets of slick whiteness covering the ground. It sagged the tree branches and piled on rooftops. My hands shoved deep into my vest pockets and my nose and chin pushed into its high neck, I ran down the sidewalk from the campus house where he let me move and dance and rock, first. I ran slipping occasionally to the mucky ground and didn’t stop until my door was locked behind me.

Before my nana lost her words, before the right side of her body drew into itself, I learned her voice. I learned her laugh. I would sit in her lap and she would laugh and laugh until tears filled her eyes, and I would practice making my voice go low, pressing my chin to my chest and biting my tongue to make my eyes water like hers. I tried to make her laugh longer and more so I could learn. I practiced and practiced until my eyes filled naturally, and I grew into her low, calm voice.

Before my nana left I had learned her voice. I had learned her laugh. She waited for my uncle, she waited for my mom and dad and pop to say goodbye. She raised her arm for the last time to hold my brother closer. But she couldn’t wait for me. When she closed her eyes to rest, the pull was too strong. But she knew I had her voice, her laugh. Her words. She saw me practice when she laughed and laughed until her eyes filled with tears. She must have known then that I sat with my comforter over my head, holding my Ken Griffey Jr. rookie card in my little bruised hand, searching for her lost words, to keep them. “Never leave the house mad… before you put your feet on your bedroom floor in the morning, say three things that you are grateful for. Big or small. Say them right out loud.” She said these things in that low voice that I practiced. I knew that. But it wasn’t her low voice saying them in my memory. It was my mom’s. I reached for her words in her voice.

I examined Ken Griffey Jr.’s smile, the gold chains around his neck and wooden bat. He looked old to me then. I slid the card in and out of its plastic sleeve, searching for nicks. I blew dust off of his Seattle Mariners hat and wiped a smudge out of the corner. I touched my bruised knuckles making them hurt.

Years later, he let me dance. First. We danced together, first, and apart. Years later, I ran down the wide stairs, zipping the stubborn zipper of my green vest and wishing I had time to stop and tie my right shoe. I flung open the heavy front door of the campus house, and was paralyzed in the doorway. Bird shit crashed to the ground like heavy snow.

I pressed and pressed my little blue knuckles and searched for her words, in her voice.

We were decorating the Christmas tree when she held up a red, tacky, clip-on Cardinal ornament. “In my next life, I’ll be a bird,” she said. I remember. “So I can sing to all the people I loved.” Then she whispered to me, an ex-smoker’s whisper, raspy and full. “And I’ll shit on the heads of those who were mean.” She laughed and laughed until tears filled her eyes. And I bit my tongue and cried with her too.

Years later, he let me dance. First.

Years later, he let me dance. First. He let me move and dance and rock, first. We danced together first, and apart. We swayed and sang, first, before his knees pinned my thighs. We turned and stepped, first, before his hands held my wrists. He grinded and he groaned. He let me laugh, first, with tears in my eyes. I said stop. No. First. I saw neighborhood Ryan wind up without a thought. I saw the blue eggs shells dried and scattering on my front lawn. I saw my voice, my words being extinguished from the nest. I saw myself, holding on, with little bruised knuckles.

I ran from that place until my breathing matched his, zipping that awful zipper, wishing to tie my shoe. Breathing, and running. Down the wide staircase, flinging open the heavy front door of the campus house. Paralyzed in the doorway.

Bird shit dove to the ground like heavy snow. People watched me running. They stared at the sky searching for the phenomenon. My hands shoved deep into my vest pockets and my nose and chin pushed into its high neck, I ran down the sidewalk through the wet whiteness, slipping occasionally to the mucky ground, and didn’t stop until my door was locked behind me. I watched it from my window, breathing. It fell, and crashed and dove, covering everything. It buried cars, whited-out houses, vacated the streets, until there was nothing left. Nothing to see. I unzipped my vest. Touched my hair. Clean. My hands, my legs, my neck. I touched the untied shoelace of my right shoe that had been dragged through the whiteness. Dry. The soles of my shoes. All clean. I touched my face and only the tears remained there.