Lenses by Ania Payne

Mary from next-door keeps her hair grey and wears it loose. Every spring she starts a tomato garden in her front yard, but by June the garden will be forgotten, the vines bald and barren, the tomatoes hanging heavy with the weight of decay, and maggots.   

Her husband, Jack, drinks Budweiser in a bathrobe on the porch. When Jack is out of beer, he comes to our house and asks to buy the beer straight out of our refrigerator. Reluctantly, my mother hands him a beer, never takes his money, then says to me, “You and your binoculars! You saw him coming. Why didn’t you warn me?”

Mary and Jack stand on their front porch, underneath a hanging azalea. Mary rocks her baby in her arms, cooing as she swings the baby. From our living room window, I zoom in on my binoculars, until the large cross on Mary’s neck appears to dissect her breasts as she leans down to put the baby back in its stroller.

Every morning, Mary pushes the baby stroller around the neighborhood. Neighbors always stop and talk to Mary, they tell her how cute the baby is and they adjust the pink bows on the baby’s head.  Jack never walks with Mary and the baby. The baby never cries.

I adjust the binocular strap and zoom in on the mud on Jack’s cowboy boots.  The stub of his cigarette dangles in the corner of his mouth, hovering dangerously over the baby stroller.  On their porch, Mary and Jack’s mouths form O and E and P and Z shapes at each other.

Two Weimaraners pull two women down the street. They’re new to the neighborhood.  Jack sits on the porch in a rocking chair, smoking and drinking a beer. The ladies introduce themselves, and he shakes their hands. The dogs nudge their noses into the stroller and Mary pushes them away. The two women lean over and peer into the stroller, then pull back, startled.  The corners of their eyes crinkle as they exchange worried glances at each other before leaving the porch.  Mary stands up proudly and yells something at the women, but her lips move too quickly to decipher her words through the lenses. 

Jack stands up and flicks his spent cigarette and drained beer can into the stroller.  Mary slaps him across the face, hard.  His cheek reddens. His beer spills over the top of the can and splatters the baby’s translucent blonde hair. The baby’s facial expression doesn’t change.  Through the binocular lenses, it’s clear that one of her blue eyes is open but the other eye is shut, a defect in her plastic body.  Her plastic hands are frozen with palms up, forever reaching. The stub of her father’s cigarette burns a slow hole into her polyester frock, and my stomach growls as I watch Mary cry while holding her baby, and our pot roast isn’t even close to ready.

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Ania Payne has an MFA from Northern Michigan University. She has previously been published in The Rumpus, Foliate Oak, Gravel, Perspectives, Imitation Fruit, and elsewhere.

Photo Credit: Larry D. Thacker  http://www.larrydthacker.com