They don’t know it yet, but tomorrow these two cousins will be
separated forever. The younger one’s mother will storm into the
scantily furnished apartment she shares with her brother and his
woman. She will pack a bag. And she will gather up her little one and
run away from her man who has started up with the Meth again.
But, before this happens, the older one teaches her young cousin to
read her first word. She points at the letters. “W-h-a-l-e. Whale. Say
it.” The younger one says “whale.”
Tomorrow, with all of the hubbub of running away, the little one will
forget this. She will go to California in the back of a van. And, her
mother will get a job in a cafe. The little one will lose her only
just developed Southern drawl. She will un-platt her hair and let it
grow long and natural. She will go to college.
In six month’s time, the older one will only barely remember her
little cousin. In a year, all trace of memory will be gone. And, much
later, as she saunters down St. Claude Avenue, she will be caught in a
cross fire. In her last breath, she will remember everything. “Whale,”
she will say.
At that very moment, a great Leviathan will surface in the Pacific
Ocean. Water will rush from his spout and spray onto a boat headed for
Catalina Island. And the little one, all grown up now, will whisper
“W-h-a-l-e” and not know why.
