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  • Bedridden
  • Jill McCorkle (bio)

There was light beyondthe heavy drapesbut my father couldn't see it;and sometimesthe only soundwas canned laughter,brilliant creationof Lucy and Desi,just two of my many professorsat the University of Television.To change the channelI had to get up and twistthe foil-covered metal polesthe way volunteers bent the legsof a sad girl in town—doomed to a crib no matter how old,to a disease with a difficult nameor worse, what people calledthe will of God.

I set the channel changerand it clicked and clicked,the antennae on top of our houserotating in search of connectionwhile I waited to glimpsethe clarity of another place.All my true loves lived there:Rowdy and Roy and Bret,Sugarfoot, Sky King, Matt Dillon.Lassie, Flipper and Flicka.I loved Passwordand To Tell the Truth.Will the real Mr. Jones please stand up? [End Page 156]

And shouldn't a grown-up's feetbe on the floor? Encased in hard-soledworking shoes?Not terry slippers.A grown up should not lie alonein bed, wrinkled sheets heapedand tangled. Gray. Forlorned.The eyes might closebut even a child knowsit doesn't make anythinggo awayand that occasional flicker,like a pilot light,that made him say I mightor I hopewas deep within—where a child's armis not long enoughto reach.

When I went with my motherto volunteer, I stoodin a dark corner and watchedthe women move and rotatethe fragile girl's limbs,waging war against atrophyand bed sores.They talked about food:custard pops and strawberry pizza,quick and easy freezer treatsfor a family on the run.They talked about their shows:The Secret Storm and The Edge of Night.Lisa is a mess. Why does Bob stay?What will happen next?

The girl was twice my agebut half my size,her family's small living roomfilled by her chrome criband the women tending her.Her mouth formed a small "o" [End Page 157] and her eyes were cloudy graylike the drowned squirrel I scoopedfrom my grandmother's birdbathand buried deep in a bedof canna lilies. May God bless,I said, just like Red Skeltonat the end of his show.

In the cemetery a playhousebuilt over a child's grave:her headstone like the head of her bed,flowers regularly strewnlike a rumpled sheet,the curtains a faded pinkwith pictures of horses,their names scripted below:Mojave, Freckles, Stormy.I imagined the dead girlchose the fabric herself.Exactly what Iwould have chosen.Fragile glass figurinesfilled a shelf by the bed,dogs, horses and kittens,birthday cake ballerinas,toes pointed, legs lifted.I was relieved for the coldheavy padlock that heldme out, kept me upright,face pressed to the glass.

Sometimes I imagined myselfinto that crib, legs turned,twisted and cycled,cheeks lovingly strokedunder a saddened gaze.Or I imagined slipping intothe dead child'ssequined play slippers,sitting in her rocker,stretching out on her cool hard bed.I was afraid it might feel good there, [End Page 158] sunlight shining on the glass animals,and the framed picture from Sunday School—Jesus with outstretched arms.Suffer the children to come unto me.Only no one explained what that meant.They thought it was okaymaybe even good—for us to confuse pain with permission,to fall silent to suffering.I found her frozen worldsad but beautiful.

The women cycledthe girl's legsas she would never doherself,out in the streetpedaling a bike, a pie pancut and clothespinnedto the spoke to soundfast and then faster.My twice-handed-down bikelooked mighty goodin that late afternoon lightin that roomin that house,and I could not wait to raceto the only hill in town—and for just a secondfly.But first,I wanted to runinto his darkened room,to press in close...

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