Free Flesh and Blood by Michael Cunningham Page B

started in Momma and advanced into Susan had crashed against her small black eyes, her jutting chin.
    She was somebody else. She couldn't carry the family manners.
    “Mmm,” Momma moaned, forcing the brush through. From down the hall, from the bathroom, Poppa whistled. When he whisded, Momma pulled the bristles harder through the thick black snarls. Zoe bit down on the pain.
    “It'll be over in a second,” Momma said. “If you'd done this an hour ago, when you were supposed to, we wouldn't have to rush.”
    Susan's voice came in from the hall. “Momma, have you seen my sharmbreslet?”
    “Your what?”
    Susan stood in the door. Her face came into the mirror.
    “My charm bracelet” she said. Her face moved next to Momma's face. They were all three in the mirror together. Zoe's eyes cupped their silence.
    “It's in your jewelry box, isn't it?”
    “I guess I would have checked there, wouldn't I?”
    “How about the pocket of your coat? Remember, the last time you thought you'd lost it—”
    “I looked there, too. I've looked everywhere.”
    “Do you have to wear it?”
    “I want to wear it.”
    Momma made the exhausted noise, the little growl that lived at the back of her throat. “All right,” she said. “You finish Zoe's hair, I'll go find the charm bracelet.”
    She gave the brush to Susan. She left the mirror and made impatient high-heel sounds in the hallway.
    “Yikes, Zo, look at this hair,” Susan said. She brought her skimming, soaped smell. She brought the optimism and the swift, confident clicking of herself.
    “I don't want to have my picture taken,” Zoe told her.
    “Well, there's no escape. The Christmas picture is going to get you whether you like it or not. Now brace yourself, this might hurt a little.”
    “Ow,” Zoe cried, although Susan's strokes hurt less than Momma's had.
    “Just be brave.”
    “I hate having my picture taken,” Zoe said. “I hate the dress she got me.”
    “I know, I know. Things are terrible. Criminy, look at this knot.”
    Poppa came into the mirror. He brought his size. He brought his eager, turbulent face.
    “Hello, ladies,” he said. “How goes it?”
    “I'm just wrestling with Zoe's hair,” Susan said. “It's the most amazing thing. It looks like hair, but then you try to get a brush through it and you see it's really something else. Wire, or something.”
    Poppa laid a hand on Susan's shoulder. “We got to hurry,” he said softly. “The photo guy's gonna be here any minute now. Your mother's going out of her head.”
    “I guess there'll still be Christmas if he has to wait five minutes,” Susan said.
    Poppa nodded, and smiled. That had been the right answer.
    “Found it,” Momma called. “It was in the clothes hamper, for heaven's sake. I might have put it through the washing machine.”
    She came into the room but didn't enter the mirror. Poppa took his hand off Susan's shoulder.
    “Zoe's almost ready,” Susan said.
    Momma came into the mirror. The air took on noisy possibilities, an electric impatience.
    “Let me finish,” Momma said. She took the brush from Susan and forced it through Zoe's hair so hard that buried thoughts were pulled to the surface of her brain. Zoe let her eyes water, let the thoughts boil. She didn't make a sound.

    Later, they all sat in the afternoon dusk of the living room while Mr. Fleming made his adjustments. Mr. Fleming was a small, busy man with heavy glasses and an astonished aspect. Something invisible, known only to him, seemed always to be happening a foot in front of his thin, serious face. His camera stood on three stork legs, aiming its blind eye at the room.
    “Just relax, everybody,” he said, lowering a lamp. “This 'll only take a few minutes. Right? A few minutes.”
    Zoe sat on the sofa with Billy. He wore his blue blazer, with a red handkerchief peeking out of the breast pocket like a proud secret. Billy sat to make himself bigger, with his legs wide and his skinny arms splayed on the