The Sleeping Wall

Jane M. Downs
Part Four
—
The child wakes. The mobile over her crib. Little white lambs circle with nowhere
to go. Round and round. Hypnotic. The door creaks open. She’s figured
this out—door opens and she will be touched. Right now, she knows only the
hands of her mother, her father. Gentle hands. Right now it is magic opening.
All of it.
1
—
James is late for his class. Mai is without an umbrella. He holds the door. She brushes
against him. Rain beads on blue-black hair.
Medina at the edge of his vision. Spinning woman. Spinning world. Bracelets clatter.
Scented lipstick. His sons run across the meadow, shirts flapping like flags in wind.
Mai in the front row. He hands out the syllabus. Her feet are wet. He starts with Hegel.
She takes notes in a small black notebook.
Her back toward the house, Medina sits for hours at the dock end. Lost in a book. Lost in
a dream. Lost to them all. The boys in an attic room devising codes. Whittling with their
new knives. She calls their names; her voice melts into the lake.
Yes, I was in Saigon. We lived on rue des Lille. They destroyed me then they saved me.
Empty wine bottles. Medina’s mark on everything. Hair like ravens. He catches her arm.
She spins away. They paddle the Old Town to the far shore. She takes him into her. Open
me. Make me feel. Make me feel.
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