Emma Jean Listens

Emma Jean Listens to Mama Stephanie Lawyer

"Emma Jean, you keep away from that road, hear?" Mama's words echoed through her head as she sat in the grass by the gnarled plum tree. From there she could see the grey asphalt slab beyond the lawn's edge. Beyond that she saw the golden waves of Daddy's wheat field and beyond that the crisp blue of the autumn sky. But it was the road that held her attention, dragging her eyes from the single cloud high above, from the hypnotic dance of the field crop. She loved the way she could hear the trucks lumbering in the distance, hear the quiet roar - feel it - before they barreled past the white farmhouse, leaving a wake of wind that raised gravel dust into the air and tore away the leaves of the nearby maple. "Them trucks'll squash you." She stood, the small picnic with its tiny plastic cups and dishes forgotten on the old baby blanket, and the rag dolls fell backwards, still smiling, their blank doll-eye stare gazing heavenward. The back screen door slammed shut in its wooden frame, and Emma Jean flinched, watching for signs of her mother. Only the white housecat appeared beyond the bushes.

"Pitty, pitty. 'Mere, pitty." The cat cocked an ear at the sound but continued through the grass, and the girl ran towards it. As she neared, the cat froze, hunching back on its hindquarters as if to pull its feet from cement hardened around them. "That's a good pitty." The girl let her fingers comb its thick fur before she scooped the cat into her arms. Its legs dangled down the front of her dress - one that Mama had told her was too worn for good but just fine for play. The cat struggled for a moment then fell still, and Emma Jean carried it back to the plum tree's shade. The cat closed its eyes. She stared at the road. The low growl sounded in the distance, and she smiled, carefully walking forward. She stopped at the edge of the road, dimly hearing the gravel crunch beneath her small tennis shoes as the hum of hot rubber throbbed through the asphalt before her. Emma Jean could see the truck now, the dust-covered windshield rising above the snarling silver grill. She knew that the truck's dingy orange paint would be broken on the sides, giving way for the white words of "Petersen's Gravel". Her daddy had read them to her. As the truck neared, Emma Jean felt the air change, growing thick and heavy, and the cat squirmed against her body, its claws digging into soft flesh and bringing blood. She threw her arms open, frowning at the wide-eyed face of the driver as he saw her - a young girl standing by the road, her arms outstretched, perhaps innocently waiting to retrieve a ball from the ditch beyond. The cat's head disappeared into the truck's maw. Thin rivulets of blood feathered the rust-pitted fenders and speckled Emma Jean's face and dress-front. She saw the cat's body cling to the bumper, momentarily glued fast by its own gummy innards, then fall to the pavement, oozing pink guts and twitching. The truck flashed past. It continued down the road, the gated bed's log chain clanging as the asphalt dipped then rose. The wind brought dirt to Emma Jean's eyes, and her hair and dress whipped around her face and slight body. She stared after the truck, feeling the excitement fade as it vanished behind the hill. She turned away and slowly skipped back to the patient guests who'd come for tea. They smiled at her as she propped them up once more, spoke to them and poured out, her words sing-songing yet soft: "Should have stayed out of the ro-oad."