Free Shelter (1994) by Jayne Anne Philips Page B

they could never see him, and the sound washed into them from air. Alma moaned. Where was he? Every morning he stood in a different spot, trying to make it interesting for himself, or because it wasn't serious. Alma dug in, stubbed her dark toes on rocks; her long oval face was intent. She searched with her eyes, considering.
    Alma was silent. The game was not a game. Where was Frank, really, where? Alma had to find him; Delia said she loved Frank but Alma wondered. She thought Delia wanted to be Frank, wanted to be a son with all her might, so she could have her father inside her and never look for him. Alma squared her body, felt her pelvis find the bowl of the ground. Beside her Delia rustled in vines. Alma tightened arms around her. She felt Delia's weedy presence; she felt the A-line wasp of Delia curling in the brushy cover. Her own stone thighs pressed dark in the rotating dirt. She thought of words she liked to pronounce, words in Nickel Campbell's books, long words with smudged letters. She heard, close to her ears, the whine of bloodsuckers in the grass.
    "Alma Swenson, Delia Campbell," Alma said over and over, to counter the mosquitoes, to drift the whisper of their names across the quad. She pulled the grass and crawled up closer; her cocoa irises fixed on a point and held. She wanted to see Frank, study him; she thought she saw a shadow before it lengthened and became the top of the flagpole, knobbed in gold, the long cord snaking down. The flag began to ripple, the rope cord swaying gently in a breeze only the early morning allowed. Frank had to let go to blow reveille again; he held the bugle with one hand and saluted with the other, racing through the shrill assault three times in rapid succession. He was all alone out there; secretly, Alma knew how he looked, exactly how he stood.
    Yesterday morning McAdams had taken Alma to the infirmary with Delia before anyone was up; the nurse had to clean Delia's swollen lips with hydrogen peroxide and tape gauze on the cut. Nurse said Delia should give her mouth a rest, don't talk too much today, and keep the bandage moist with salve. Just then, reveille had begun, so near everyone was startled, and Alma ran to stand just beside the door. The infirmary was a tool shed attached to the dining hall; Alma could see Frank from behind. His arms looked skinny. He was scruffy, ramrod straight, held taut by the bleating of the bugle; he was at least fifteen. Beyond him, the open quad, the line of the woods, the paths that led to the cabins lost in trees, looked dewy, already warm, as though steam would rise when the sun hit.
    Now Alma's eyes watered. Her face was too near the grass.
    "I hate camp," Delia whimpered, twisting a knee into Alma's solid flesh. "Hate it, hate it, but I don't ever want to go home."
    "Do your lips hurt much?"
    "Frank will go home. At the end of camp, everyone will have to go home."
    Alma touched the smear of hard scab at the edge of Delia's mouth. "Did they make you call your mom?"
    "Yeah, but I just told her I tripped and got a little cut on my mouth."
    "You did?" Alma was amazed, not that Delia lied, but that Mina accepted the lie so easily. If Alma had admitted to any accident at camp, her own mother would have gotten into the car and driven the fifteen miles to see the damage for herself. Audrey believed that scars on a girl's face were serious. Delia already had some scars, little ones, from chickenpox. Audrey had remarked on Delia's scars more than once.
Nothing but negligence on Mina's part. You were four when you had chickenpox. I made you wear gloves. At
night I used stringed mittens and knotted them close together. Oh, you hated them, but your complexion is perfect.
Alma knew better than to mention she liked the scars; they were like pretty starbursts at Delia's temple.
    "It's all stiff," Delia said, "but at least I won't have to talk to anyone today."
    "We don't talk to anyone but each other anyway. Right?"
    Delia nodded. "Today is hobby