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When the Ocean Boils
by Zoe Burness

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Mama always said that Papa built the entire town with his own strong hands. When she tucked me in at night, she painted all the pictures for me. He had built our farmhouse with his papa before he and Mama got married, and every day I watched him tumble outside and work on it. The house was old and creaking, wind sweeping under the door, but heavy in place and never caused us any harm. My room was in the attic, piled away up a rickety staircase. Papa painted it white, to let the sun reflect off of the walls and built me a bed with my name engraved at the foot. He turned mystery to beauty. Papa grew corn like a maze, all constructed precisely to keep teenagers and bandits from coming in (or getting out). The grass was tall, the corn taller. Papa was proud of this, and the city was too. He had designed some machines for graining, others for computing, some for sewing. None of them were ever the same, but Papa had some god given talent. Sometimes he had meetings with people in the city to discuss his creations and brought Mama and me along to keep us entertained for the day. As we whizzed down the streets, I pictured Papa painting the clouds in the sky, stacking brick on top of brick while balancing on a ladder as he built the looming skyscrapers. Paving the sidewalks and laying down the grass. Papa owned all of this country. I was never surprised that important men wanted to hear about his craft. But Mama always said she fell in love with his softness. She used to tell me I was born wailing, but when Papa held me in the palms of his hands, everything was quiet. He picked flowers from the garden behind the farmhouse and set them in a vase on our dining table every morning. At midnight, he would dump the water and place the flowers delicately in the garbage, replacing the empty vase for the morning. Papa loved to love.

My eighth year, everything felt lopsided. Like if you were to place a cup of water on the edge of a table, it would slowly slip off, bit by bit until it smashed into pieces and flooded the floor. Papa’s footsteps came later in the night, and heavier. He still smiled at me, kissed Mama on the cheek in the morning, and always put flowers in the vase. But his eyes were heavy, and Mama flinched when he touched her. Shingles fell off the roof of the house in a rainstorm in April. Papa went up to fix it, balancing himself on the uneven ground. As he was finishing, his foot slipped from under him and, hammer in hand, he grasped onto the chimney. He saved himself but knocked a chunk off of the chimney, and it tumbled to the ground. Papa left the piece of cement next to our back door, and eventually, it was buried under the mud. Papa never fixed the chimney.

It was hard to hear in the attic, but nights were still filled with thumps and loud voices. Mama started talking about moving to the city. She said she was tired of the darkness that the farm had. Every time she mentioned it, Papa just stayed quiet and looked out to his farmhouse. I didn’t want to leave either. That year, I was assigned as an angel for our Christmas church play. Papa had whittled little birds and toys for me, and when I asked him to make me some wings, he was more excited than I had seen him in a long time. Mama said she would sew an angelic outfit for me. Something with lace and droopy arms. I thought Christmas would bring us all back together. We had spent years surrounding our fireplace, me on Papa’s lap, Mama serving hot cocoa and all of us singing carols. It was glory. And I thought glory would return.

Mama’s angel outfit was pretty, just like Mama. She had sewn elastics into the sleeves so they tightened around my wrists, and decorated the hems with gold. The dress fell past my knees, and she had brought out my church shoes to wear. A special occasion. Mama had spent three days meticulously weaving and creating for me, but it was Papa’s wings that astounded me. He had made the frame out of balsa, light enough for my small body to carry, and painted it white and gold. Feathers were attached with wax, carefully placed in long, winding lines down either side. He attached them on my arms like a harness, and spread his arms, beckoning me to do the same. I was a magnificent creature. He spoke to me softly.

“My boy, fly steady.”

I was the only one with wings not made of cardboard, and the only one without a pipe cleaner halo atop my head. I was convinced. Mama had made me a beautiful dress, Papa had adorned me with incredible wings. I was certain that our skewed world would be put back on kilter. I rode in the car that night singing Christmas carols to myself, as Mama and Papa sat stoically in the front. I thought they were both too impressed by my angel to say anything at all. I had skipped back into the house, lifting my arms high as I scooted through the front door, prancing over our doormat and into the living room. There were mutters in the kitchen when they stayed back, and I hadn’t minded until Papa yelled. Soon, their voices echoed and lifted in the air. Screams of words I wasn’t allowed to say, and accusations that I had never heard before. Even in the attic, their fury swarmed up the walls and under my covers. In my angelic nightgown, I ran out the back door and into the cold night. Church shoes weren’t made for crunching through snow, but it didn’t stop me.

The farmhouse was quite a sight in person. Standing next to it as a small boy, it swooped above me and lingered far in the sky. Papa had always told me about the day he and his father had started building it. He told me that it took 6 days and 6 nights of them spending every minute sawing and sanding and nailing and painting. Papa used to take me out into the fields, past his corn maze, and into the tall grass, hold me on his shoulders and sigh. From there you could see it all. The red and white of the farmhouse stood against the green grass and the grey of the house. In those moments, Papa always told me “it’ll all be yours”. One of Mama’s favourite nighttime stories was the one when Papa had invited her to the farmhouse for the first time. They had climbed up to the rafters, and Papa had managed to loosen some planks on the roof. They had climbed out and laid there, quietly watching the stars.

The night of the concert, I had made my way inside, shivering in the cold and hoping that the dry interior of the farmhouse would be better than the sheet of snow I had been soaking in. The weight of my wings was heavy after a night of showing them off and I thought about Mama and Papa and how happy they could be if they went stargazing again. I had pushed my tiny body to climb to the rafters and scoot around, pushing on the planks until one finally shifted. Snow fell through the opened hole. The view of the farm on the roof was better than Papa’s shoulders. From there, you could see the whole world. The house was so quiet in the night. At the top of the world, I couldn’t hear Mama and Papa’s screams, I couldn’t feel the fury. I had finally found the perfect spot to see the roof of our house, and the chunk of cement chipped off of the chimney when I had remembered Papa’s words.

“Fly steady.”

My mind raced. How nice it would be to fly away from here. Angels were known for their lightness and the joy they brought. Why my angel couldn’t do that, I didn’t know. Tears stained my cheeks and the feathers in my wings ruffled in the slight wind and before I knew it, I had jumped.

Mama was the one who heard me scream. Mama was the one who came running, scooped me in her arms, and drove me to the nearest hospital. And finally, after they had wrapped my legs in a cast, Mama was the one to throw away my wings and run. It was only a week later that we were in a cab, going into the city. The colours swirled around me as we sped down the highway. But as I sat, leg propped on the seat next to me, I realized that the buildings were only buildings. The skyline was just grey clouds. And the city was just a city and Papa was just a visitor.

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© 2018 Zoe Burness. The content of this article, except for quoted or linked source materials, is protected by copyright. Please contact the author for usage.

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