august 1970

AUNT VELVIE’S YARD, house, kitchen, are full of wet heat that Avery isn’t used to—West Virginia heat that presses against her cheeks and forehead, anchors her to the kitchen chair. It prickles the hair on her arms, makes her sleepy—makes Grandma’s and Aunt Velvie’s shoes stick to the linoleum. She pictures reaching out to squeeze the air like a sponge, imagines drops of water falling when she does. Dog days, Grandma calls it.

The blackberries they picked this morning over on Lick Branch simmer on the stove, bite the air with their smell, bruise spoons and countertops.

Grandma lifts a canning jar from a pot of boiling water with tongs, says, Avery, go on out on the porch. I’ll call you in when the burries are done, saying berries the way Aunt Velvie does. You can help set the lids on the jars.

On the porch, less heat, but the day still heavy, still a strong current that slows Avery’s movement. She lies on the swing, hangs one leg over the side, closes her eyes. Petunias, burnt-cloth smell from the knotted rag in the coffee can on the porch rail—Uncle Cleve’s gnat smoke.

Laughter in the kitchen, Grandma saying, I thought Daddy would wring his neck! Then more laughter swirling in Avery’s ears, boring into her chest, making her furious. She wants to run back into the house and scream, Don’t laugh! Jean Ann is dead! Daddy is gone!

She sits up, braces her feet on the porch boards, pushes off. Hard. The swing wobbles, the chain creaks near the hook in the ceiling. She pushes again, lies down, sinks, lets the heat close around her.