by SusanTriemert
We never believed the rumors, passed like sheets of toilet paper beneath lavatory walls. Stories of cigarette burns on thighs, bleach burns on arms. The Schuler’s, all six of them–or were there seven? With their dimpled chins and twig-like arms.
We heard they lived with a great aunt who’d been too busy to attend parent-teacher conferences and science fairs. Heard that one year their tuition at St. Michael’s had been an auction item. Other years, those fees were tacked onto ours, dispersed evenly like the misdoings of Adam and Eve. Happy to pitch in and pay, we’d say, the least we could do. Heard, too, that the Schuler’s showered at school with bars of soap swiped from the faculty bathrooms. And their lunches? Rows of Ritz crackers and cans of soup, supplemented with leftovers offered up by the lunch lady whenever they wiped down tables. A custodian passed along unclaimed lost and found items—the coats and hats always smelled like his yellow-stained smoker’s fingers.
The youngest Schuler, Tommy, we could never forget how he carried around a bag of aluminum cans, or how his oversized pants sagged when he played hopscotch. He loved talking to the older kids, but clammed up whenever asked about his siblings.
Mary, the oldest, would tuck in her chin when she smiled, but had the longest eyelashes we had ever seen. Smart, too. She would make something of herself, we told ourselves. When she was hired to clean the rectory, we knew the Schuler’s stood a chance–the church takes care of its own. It takes a village, we said.
Once Mary had a job, the lunch ladies stopped giving them leftovers. The custodian no longer passed along clothes. Mary would save the whole family. Until, it seemed, there was no other option but to save herself. When she got a scholarship to a boarding school up North, the Schuler’s were once again ours. Hard to shake, those Schuler’s, like the Sunday morning incense that seeped into our hair, infused our woolen coats.
Protective Services were eventually called, and they found the house empty. Looked like no one had lived there for years. Before we could do anything, the Schuler’s quit attending school. One night, weeks later, when the principal stayed late, he smelt cigarette smoke coming from the boys’ locker room. After what he called an armageddon of a thud, he spotted Tommy’s sack of aluminum cans littered on the stairwell. By the time he alerted authorities, the Schuler’s were never seen again.
We did, however, find blankets and pillows in the storage closet in the church basement. Empty pouches and jars from the community food shelf. And packs and packs of emptied Marlboro Reds. Alongside the mess lay what we couldn’t see: seared Schuler skin. Flakes flicked like ashes to the ground.
Susan’s collection of essays, Guess What’s Different, was published by Malarkey Books and out in May of 2022. She holds an MA in Education and an MFA from Hamline University in St. Paul, MN. Her essays and stories have been published in places like Colorado Review, Gone Lawn, and Pithead Chapel. You can find her work at susantriemert.com or on Twitter at @SusanTriemert.
Emerge Literary Journal 