{"id":283,"date":"2025-11-06T23:42:10","date_gmt":"2025-11-06T23:42:10","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/?page_id=283"},"modified":"2025-11-06T23:58:17","modified_gmt":"2025-11-06T23:58:17","slug":"shadow","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/fiction\/shadow\/","title":{"rendered":"Shadow"},"content":{"rendered":"

Chris Britt<\/span><\/p>\n

Mary Burgess moved to Clifftown, Missouri, during the hottest summer that anyone could remember, with highs reaching 99 degrees or higher every day for a week, a heat that renders air conditioning useless and wakes Mary at 2 a.m. while a fan pushes warm air over her body as she flips her pillow again. The fitted sheet beneath her is damp, the other sheet long since kicked away. The wispy hairs beneath her ponytail feel infested with lice. She paws at the imaginary lice and when she pulls her hand away it is damp and she sniffs her finger, a mixture of sweat and fabric softener filling her nose.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 This is the smell of Missouri, she thinks.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 She flops her head to the left and finds their dog, Lance, awake and panting. Born in Maine and plucked from a blueberry farm down the road, Lance enjoyed two summers of open windows and cool nighttime breezes. He closes his mouth and rests his head between his paws, an accusing glare trained on Mary.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Beyond Lance lies Jacob, Mary\u2019s husband, inexplicably and peacefully sleeping, droning like a tiny outboard motor. He is the reason Mary bastes in her sweat, his crimes consisting of being born in Missouri\u2013about an hour away\u2013and thus accustomed to the humidity, and being employed by a manufacturer that recently transferred Jacob to the factory just outside Clifftown.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cHow\u2019d you sleep?\u201d Jacob asks at breakfast.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Mary limits her response to a raised middle finger, playfully wagged.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI swear, it\u2019s historically hot.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Mary lowers the finger. \u201cHistorical context doesn\u2019t cool my body.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou\u2019ll get used to it,\u201d says Jacob as he pats her forearm. Mary opens her mouth then swallows her reply.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Mary spends their first couple weeks in Clifftown making soap. With Jacob occupied at work and the house littered with half-emptied packing boxes, she toys with lavender and coconut oil. Before the move from Maine, she\u2019d sold a few bars at a cozy summertime farmers\u2019 market near Lewiston, after lugging a rickety card table and affixing a sign that was too small to read until you\u2019d nearly passed her table. Mary didn\u2019t care how much she sold, enjoying the fresh air and smiling broadly at everyone who passed, calling, \u201cHomemade soap here. Made fresh weekly!\u201d She knew that most customers purchased out of pity.<\/span><\/p>\n

Surely, she thinks, a town like Clifftown, which has actual farmers within the city limits, would have a farmers\u2019 market. On their second Saturday morning, Mary and Jacob stroll two blocks to Clifftown\u2019s diminutive shopping district, pass the bridal shop and the Christian bookstore, and arrive at the Methodist Church parking lot. Standing at the market entrance, Mary counts ten forlorn booths, a couple shaded by flimsy Cardinals canopies from Wal-Mart, the rest roasting in the sun.<\/span><\/p>\n

Only one booth, selling local beef and pork, rightly belongs at a farmers\u2019 market. Another booth features handmade bibs. The Baptists sell crosses made of salvaged wood and quickly correct Mary when she asks how much their crucifixes cost. A family of five sells spicy jerky and a white-haired gentleman offers samples of \u201cCaptain Pete\u2019s Num Num Sauce.\u201d A teenager with an acoustic guitar and an amp performs \u201cAmerican Pie\u201d as heat glimmers from the asphalt.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The remaining five booths, to Mary\u2019s mounting dismay, sell homemade soap. The women stand stoically, fingertips resting on tables, refusing eye contact with one another.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI\u2019m about to cry in public,\u201d Mary whispers to Jacob.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 As they depart the market they pass a small table, shaded by an oak and staffed by a tiny bespectacled woman. The table holds one bowl containing chalky mints served at wedding receptions, along with a pile of brochures. The woman hands a brochure to Mary and says, softly, \u201cIf you\u2019re in need or would like to help.\u201d The brochure reads, \u201cUnited Methodist Food Pantry\u201d and \u201cOpen to All.\u201d Mary turns the brochure and on the back finds a plea: \u201cWe are in need of volunteers to deliver to our homebound friends.\u201d She smiles and waves the brochure at the woman as Jacob tugs her elbow.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 #<\/span><\/p>\n

A blast of Pine-Sol-scented air conditioning shocks Mary as she enters the church before lunch on Monday, sending a shiver to her toes. She startles a woman working behind the desk in the otherwise deserted church office, with a limp sweater draped over her bare arms, and the woman directs Mary to the basement.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Down a darkened corridor, past Sunday School classrooms with child-sized chairs tucked neatly under shrunken tables, Mary discovers the food pantry near the rear church entrance. A faint mildew smell mixes with the Pine-Sol scent, reminding Mary of dank Maine cellars. She gazes into a windowless room lit by fluorescents, filled with gun-metal shelving. The shelves are half full, mostly with canned goods and boxes of mac and cheese. A few cardboard boxes containing potatoes and apples sit on an island in the middle of the room.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 A voice behind Mary creeps like fog. \u201cWe\u2019re closed on Mondays, dear.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Mary yelps and turns, then lowers her gaze a foot to find the woman with the brochures, standing no more than five feet, with stern lips unmoving. The thick lenses in her glasses have the appearance of sliced ice.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Mary\u2019s heart beats behind her eyes as she exhales and pulls the brochure from her purse. \u201cYou gave this to me on Saturday,\u201d she says in a squeaky voice, her throat suddenly dry. \u201cI don\u2019t need food, I just thought I could help.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The woman\u2019s face relaxes as she pats Mary on the shoulder and steps forward, making clear that Mary should vacate the doorway. \u201cForgive me, I\u2019ve had problems with folks sneaking in while I\u2019m at the commode.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Mary follows in half-steps as the woman hobbles to her desk, which is littered with penciled lists on scraps of paper. \u201cI\u2019m Edna,\u201d she says as she lowers herself into an office chair with duct-taped arms. \u201cI\u2019m only the assistant director. Carol is the director, but she\u2019s in Branson for Shoji Tabuchi.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cSorry, who is that?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cCarol, I said she\u2019s the director.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cRight, I mean she\u2019s seeing who in Branson?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Edna pauses and peers over her glasses as she considers Mary\u2019s face for the first time. \u201cI take it you\u2019re not from here.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Mary raises her eyebrows and gives a half-wave as she says, \u201cGuilty as charged. Just moved here a couple weeks ago.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cHe plays the fiddle.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cSorry?\u201d<\/span>
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cShoji Tabuchi plays the fiddle.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 A bubble of regret rises in Mary. \u201cAh, good to know,\u201d she nods. \u201cUm, so about volunteering.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou have a car?\u201d asks Edna.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI do.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cOkay, our biggest need is our delivery program. We\u2019ve got some older folks who don\u2019t get around so good anymore. Can you help out tomorrow?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI can definitely do that.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cIt\u2019s just one delivery tomorrow, to Mrs. Armstrong.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cOkay.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cThis is an outreach program, so we ask that you spend ten minutes visiting.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cGot it. I\u2019m happy to spend the time.\u201d Mary hesitates. \u201cWhen you say visiting, do you mean proselytizing?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Edna chuckles. \u201cDear, if you want to spread the good word, the Baptists are across the street. We\u2019re trying to keep meat on bone here, with a little friendly conversation.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Mary nods, her shoulders relaxing. \u201cGood, I can do that.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cMrs. Armstrong can be challenging, but I\u2019m sure you\u2019ll manage.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

#<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 It occurs to Mary, as her Subaru idles in the Armstrong driveway, that she\u2019s woefully unprepared for a conversation that veers into faith. She presumes that Mrs. Armstrong is a church member and may ask Mary how long she\u2019s attended the church or whether she sings in the choir or if she approves of the new pastor from Kentucky. Mary dredges her memory for Jeopardy episodes that included a biblical category, but all she recalls with any certainty is that David v. Goliath occurred in the Old Testament. Perhaps that will suffice.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Mary\u2019s is the only car in the driveway and the carport is empty, without even a trash can or broom propped against the wall. The Armstrong house is situated in a neighborhood of single-story houses, modest and quiet. Mature oaks shade the tidy lawns. American flags hang motionless from most homes, but Mrs. Armstrong\u2019s house displays no flags or hanging potted plants or zinnias. Mary glances at a piece of paper to confirm she\u2019s at the right address.<\/span><\/p>\n

Balancing on her hip a cardboard box containing the weekly goods, Mary reaches for Mrs. Armstrong\u2019s doorbell and jolts back when the door immediately opens. Mrs. Armstrong pushes the screen door and says, \u201cI\u2019m so sorry to startle you. I heard your car in the driveway.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Despite the heat, she wears a red cardigan over a creaseless white button-down, a black skirt, and nylons, her feet snuggled in tan house slippers. Mary guesses that Mrs. Armstrong is in her 80s, with alert turquoise eyes and rosy cheeks and fire-engine lipstick. Her silvery hair is pulled back into a ponytail. Mary blushes as she glances at her Provincetown tank top and flip flops.<\/span><\/p>\n

Mary smiles and waves with her free hand. \u201cNo worries, I\u2019m Mary.\u201d She grips the box with both hands and raises it in salute. \u201cI\u2019m from the food pantry.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

A shadow passes over Mrs. Armstrong\u2019s face. \u201cOh dear, did they change the delivery person again?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Mary hesitates and says, \u201cI\u2019m not sure. I\u2019m new in town and just volunteered this week.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cHmm. I see.\u201d Mrs. Armstrong\u2019s hands, which were clasped at her waist, fall to her sides, her shoulders deflating. \u201cI seem to run people off.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cOh, I\u2019m sure that\u2019s not the case. I think they just need more volunteers.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cHmm.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Sweat trickles down the small of Mary\u2019s back as she readjusts the box. Mrs. Armstrong seems unsure of how to proceed.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cSo, maybe I can put these away for you in the kitchen?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Mrs. Armstrong recovers from her trance and nods, smiling. \u201cOf course, yes. Please come.\u201d She holds open the screen door as Mary crosses the threshold.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Mary enters a living room with no radio, no record player, no television, no dog or cat, no sound save for the ticking of a grandfather clock. A stern couch sits against the wall, towering bookcases on each side. Two straight-backed wooden chairs without cushions face the couch. It is difficult to discern color with the windows guarded by black-out curtains, but as Mary slips out of her flip flops and steps onto the carpet that appears as a deep blue, her feet sink into the plushness, as if Mrs. Armstrong hovers from room to room.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Mrs. Armstrong points across the room and says, \u201cThrough that doorway, please. You can place them on the counter.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 As Mary crosses the living room, she spies on one of the bookcases, among carved wooden figurines and porcelain children, a gleaming white human skull. Her eyes bulge and she looks back at Mrs. Armstrong, who shuffles toward the couch.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The kitchen is pristine. No dirty dishes, no trace of breakfast. Mary places the box on the counter and tries to think of a conversation starter.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 She re-enters the living room and Mrs. Armstrong, seated on the couch, motions to the cushionless chairs. Mary sits and the cool wood stings her legs.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou must be wondering about the skull.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Mary\u2019s eyes shift to the skull, which is about a foot away from Mrs. Armstrong\u2019s head.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cIt does catch the eye.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cIt belonged to my son.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Mary considers the possibilities contained within this statement and errs toward reasonableness. \u201cDoes your son live nearby?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cThat would be quite impossible.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cBecause his work took him elsewhere?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cHe never had the chance for work.\u201d Mrs. Armstrong\u2019s hands are clasped, resting still in her lap. A gold wedding band and matching engagement ring remain dim in the darkened room.<\/span><\/p>\n

As the ticking of the grandfather clock fills the silence, Mary wonders whether her soul would be better nourished by making soap and selling it alongside soapmakers who avoid each others\u2019 presence. \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Mary feels the tug of the skull, wills her eyes to remain fixed on Mrs. Armstrong\u2019s gaze. \u201cI\u2019m sorry, did your son pass?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 A thin smile from Mrs. Armstrong. \u201cI\u2019ve never liked that term, \u2018passed,\u2019 like it was something that merely occurred, a tumble.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Mary nods in agreement. \u201cYour son died, then.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cEven \u2018died\u2019 is rather passive, isn\u2019t it? Depending on the circumstances.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Mary thinks of her car keys, her purse. She left them on the kitchen counter. \u201cWould you like me to put the food away, rather than leave it on the counter?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo, I would not.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Mary scratches the back of her head. \u201cOkay, well, I\u2019m sure you have things to do, so \u2026\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Mrs. Armstrong covers her mouth as she chuckles. She raises her hand, as if balancing a tray of martinis, and scans the room with it, landing on Mary. \u201cI have nothing but time.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Nodding and rubbing her hands down her thighs, Mary recalls her maternal grandmother, who died, bewildered, after nine months in a nursing home. Mary and her mother visited every other day.<\/span><\/p>\n

Determined to engage in at least 10 minutes of conversation, Mary pivots. \u201cHow do you like the food from the pantry?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Mrs. Armstrong smiles and points at the skull. \u201cI know you\u2019re thinking of this and its provenance. Everyone does.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMa\u2019am, I\u2019m happy to talk with you about whatever is on your mind. If it\u2019s the skull, let\u2019s talk about the skull.\u201d Mary stands and walks to the bookcase, squinting at the skull.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt belonged to my son.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Mary knows dementia. In her family it ended in fog and silence, but always began with repetition. Better to play along. \u201cIs that so?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s the best he could do,\u201d says Mrs. Armstrong, in a voice that tails off and reaches for the past.<\/span><\/p>\n

Mary turns, concerned that Mrs. Armstrong is falling asleep. But she sits erect, eyes forward, now picking at her fingernails. \u201cIt\u2019s the best he could do,\u201d she whispers. Mrs. Armstrong sinks into the couch, resting her head on the couch\u2019s arm. \u201cPlease come back next week.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Unsure, Mary eases to the coffee table and bends forward, sees Mrs. Armstrong\u2019s closed eyes. A faint rattle sounds from her chest as it rises and falls.<\/span><\/p>\n

On tiptoes Mary steps to the kitchen. Grabbing her purse, she notices a framed picture in the middle of a breakfast table. In the photo is a young man, a teenager, with Mrs. Armstrong\u2019s turquoise eyes. He stands, beaming, before a bare tree, wearing a white doctor\u2019s coat. A stethoscope is draped around his neck. He holds an empty plastic Halloween bucket with both hands, the jack-o-lantern grinning at the camera.<\/span><\/p>\n

#<\/span><\/p>\n

Jacob leans against the sink, gnawing at an apple, wearing khakis and a roomy polo. His factory ID dangles from a lanyard. \u201cYou don\u2019t really think it\u2019s her dead son\u2019s head, do you?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell, it\u2019s a skull, not a head.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou know what I mean.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Mary peels potatoes, the stripped skins collecting in the trash can. She pauses and points the peeler at Jacob. \u201cRemember that serial killer from Lewiston? They found a bunch of bones buried in the cellar. That\u2019s what you do if you have human bones in your house. You don\u2019t display them like a tchotchke.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSo you think it\u2019s not real? Like a model?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt has to be, right? The kid in the picture was dressed like a doctor. He probably wanted to be a doctor so he had a plastic skull because he thought it was cool.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Jacob tosses the apple core at the trash can and misses by a mile. Poor Lance sniffs the core then curls into a ball by the sink, his back turned in protest. \u201cDid it look plastic?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt looked pretty damn real to me, but it was dark, so who knows.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Adopting the tone he used whenever he thinks he\u2019s landed on the definitive conclusion, however unsupported, Jacob says, \u201cIt\u2019s not real, there\u2019s no way.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s definitely real<\/em>.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou know what I mean.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cShe said it \u2018belonged to\u2019 her son,\u201d says Mary, using air quotes. \u201cLike he possessed it. You don\u2019t possess your own skull, right?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Jacob stretches toward the ceiling as he walks to the living room. \u201cPeople misuse words all the time. Especially when they\u2019re 80. I wouldn\u2019t hang my hat on the dictionary definition of \u2018possess.\u2019\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The peeled potatoes rest on a cutting board as Mary looks out the kitchen window that faces the park. A northerly breeze ripples the tree canopy, branches swaying and leaves dodging, tempering the afternoon heat. A mother rushes from bench to slide, consoling a toddler who took the slide headfirst and met the ground facefirst. The little one\u2019s cries cross the street, filtered by glass and distance, and prick Mary\u2019s ears. She places the knife on the cutting board, pausing as she watches, and rests a hand on her belly, now thirteen weeks.<\/span><\/p>\n

#<\/span><\/p>\n

Edna hums \u201cA Mighty Fortress Is Our God\u201d as she meanders, stiff-legged, around the food pantry, selecting one item at a time for Mrs. Armstrong\u2019s box. She is in no hurry.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cA little heads up about Mrs. Armstrong would have been helpful,\u201d says Mary.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI told you she was challenging.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYes, you did, but you failed to mention the skull. That seems to be a noteworthy detail.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Edna scoffs and waves off Mary\u2019s critique. \u201cOh, that. That\u2019s nothing. Decoration.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNot to her. She wouldn\u2019t stop talking about it.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYour role is to provide human connection. Does it really matter what she talks about?\u201d Edna pretends not to notice Mary\u2019s hand placed across her stomach.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI can tell she\u2019s lonely,\u201d says Mary.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAren\u2019t we all, dear.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Mary puffs her cheeks and exhales. \u201cWhat happened to her son?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHe died many years ago.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cShe wants to talk about him, so it would be helpful to have some details so that I don\u2019t completely step in it.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt is not my story to tell,\u201d says Edna as she strains for an upper shelf.<\/span><\/p>\n

Mary crosses the room and snatches the box of oatmeal, handing it to Edna, who nods and places the oatmeal in the box. Edna turns to face Mary.<\/span><\/p>\n

In a lowered voice, Edna says, \u201cI don\u2019t know many details. Timothy was his name. The family moved here when he was in high school. They would attend services but I don\u2019t think he ever came to any of the young people activities. Very shy, kind. The family would sit in the back and did not mingle after services.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cShe still wears her wedding ring. When did her husband die?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh, he\u2019s not dead. Not that I\u2019ve heard.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Mary stiffens at the thought of Mrs. Armstrong\u2019s husband lying ashen in a corner bedroom, reaching for Mary\u2019s murmurs in the living room. \u201cHe\u2019s not in that house, is he?\u201d<\/span>
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cHe left a few years after Timothy died. Just up and left.\u201d Edna counts the items on Mrs. Armstrong\u2019s list with a stub pencil and then confirms the number of items in the box.<\/span><\/p>\n

Sudden nausea strikes Mary. She can\u2019t decide if it\u2019s the pregnancy or the Pine-Sol stench of the church or the guilt she feels from so quickly dismissing Mrs. Armstrong last week. How many years had she sat vigil in that tiny, silent home, bound by grief and regret?<\/span><\/p>\n

As the color drains from Mary\u2019s face, Edna points to the door. \u201cMake a left, second door.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Mary returns after a few minutes, puffing through her mouth, her chin damp from gargling water.<\/span><\/p>\n

Sitting behind the desk, arms crossed, Edna faces the pantry shelving but does not appear to take inventory or fret over supply. Her eyes fixed on a distant spot, she seems to take stock of her efforts. Mary gently wraps on the desk as she passes and then retrieves Mrs. Armstrong\u2019s box from the island. She returns to the desk and Edna speaks quietly, saying, \u201cWe\u2019ve had problems with volunteers and Mrs. Armstrong. She says things that disturbs them and it\u2019s hard enough to find people to volunteer.\u201d Edna pauses then points her pencil at Mary. \u201cIt\u2019s important that we help everyone who needs help, even if it creates momentary discomfort for us.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Mary fights the pressure building behind her eyes, resolving that her purpose in this moment is to project confidence. The unintended force in her voice surprises her, as if she\u2019s motivating soldiers through an enemy swamp. \u201cYou will not lose me,\u201d she says. \u201cI\u2019ll deliver these boxes as long as Mrs. Armstrong needs them.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Edna offers a sympathetic smile and, glancing briefly at Mary\u2019s midsection, says, \u201cDon\u2019t make promises you can\u2019t keep.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

#<\/span><\/p>\n

Mary wears a knee-length skirt and navy polo for her second delivery to Mrs. Armstrong. A light rain begins as Mary eases into the driveway, marking the cement like brush pricks. She has no umbrella or rain jacket and resists the urge to scamper to the front door. Mrs. Armstrong, wearing the same clothing as last week, opens the door as Mary approaches.<\/span><\/p>\n

Mary has a plan. She will overwhelm Mrs. Armstrong with a flood of kindness and a torrent of minutiae from her week.<\/span><\/p>\n

Mrs. Armstrong greets Mary with a warm, hesitant smile and squeezes against the door as Mary enters. Mary commands the situation by announcing, as she crosses the living room, the contents of the pantry box, and then, after placing the box on the kitchen counter, commenting on the coolness of the raindrops, her failed search for adequate perennials at the hardware store on Linden Lane, Jacob\u2019s boneheaded attempt to make an omelette, and the alarming strike-out rate of the Cardinals\u2019 rookie center fielder (which reached Mary\u2019s consciousness through the radio on the drive over).<\/span><\/p>\n

This monologue draws from Mrs. Armstrong, now perched on the couch, a clearing of the throat.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou came last week, didn\u2019t you?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYes, ma\u2019am, I did.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCan you tell me your name again?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh, of course, I\u2019m Mary.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Mrs. Armstrong nods and then keeps nodding as she kneads her hands together. \u201cThere\u2019s something about your name. I don\u2019t know if you\u2019ll think it\u2019s funny.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Mary mirrors Mrs. Armstrong, nodding along, and her nods morph into cautious shakes as she says, \u201cIt\u2019s a pretty common name. From the Bible. Doesn\u2019t rhyme with a curse word, so . . . .\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe \u2018funny\u2019 is the wrong word. It\u2019s just, I would say, a coincidence.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAnd how\u2019s that?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Mrs. Armstrong looks up from the carpet, continues to knead her hands, and confusion mars her face, as if she\u2019s making sense of a memory she once understood as truth. \u201cJust a coincidence, I suppose, but my husband used to call our son that name.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Mary\u2019s eyes dart to the skull and, like her last visit, her mind teases out possible meanings of this new information, seeking a conversational path that Mary hopes will end in something short of horrific.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSo,\u201d offers Mary, \u201chis name wasn\u2019t Mary, I assume?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo, it was Timothy. But sometimes my husband called him Mary.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Mary reaches for a plausible explanation. \u201cIt was a kind of funny term of endearment?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo, I wouldn\u2019t say that.\u201d Mrs. Armstrong flashes a regretful smile. \u201cHe was such a tender soul. Once he came home with some dirt near the cuff of his new blue jeans and he was just beside himself. My husband felt very strongly that Timothy needed to be tougher to survive in this world.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSo he ridiculed Timothy?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNot all the time,\u201d says Mrs. Armstrong defensively. \u201cI\u2019ll give you an example. If my husband needed Timothy to mow the lawn, he would say something like, \u2018Do you need help pushing the mower, Mary?\u2019 He would usually laugh when he said it.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Mary\u2019s hand reflexively caresses her belly. Her mind retreats to a childhood memory of children taunting her as \u201cScary Mary.\u201d Her older brother had thrown an elbow that caught Mary in the face, blackening her eye like a prizefighter. The children chased her around the playground, screaming in a pitch that teachers mistook for play. She came home crushed, refusing to eat, her fawn legs tucked underneath her at the dinner table. Her father picked her up like a laundry bundle, cradling her while whispering encouragement and advice, then carried her to the basement for a demonstration. The next day, as the recess chasing resumed, Mary feigned fear and took flight. At the chain-link fence she halted and swiftly turned, leading with a left hook that found Tommy Silver\u2019s navel. He hunched and moaned before vomiting all over his shoes.<\/span><\/p>\n

Mrs. Armstrong notices the hand on the bump and her eyes narrow. \u201cYou\u2019re expecting.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI am, yes.\u201d<\/span>
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cAnd you\u2019re judging me, aren\u2019t you?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo, not at all.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYes, you most certainly are. You think I stood by while my husband ridiculed my son. You used that word. Ridicule.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t mean to offend. It\u2019s just that, my thought was that if your son was so gentle, it must have been hard for you to see your husband speak to him in that way.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Mrs. Armstrong stands, slowly, and balances herself on the arm of the couch as she takes half steps to the bookcase. She slips her hands under the skull and turns to face Mary, the skull resting at her breast. \u201cI\u2019ll tell you what was hard for me. Receiving a call from the police on Halloween night, telling me that they\u2019ve found my boy. Bloodied after being beaten with a bottle. Naked below the waist. Left in a field by boys who wore masks. They gave him pants worn by prisoners because that\u2019s all they had.\u201d She glares, as if challenging Mary to counter with her own inconsolable grief.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m so sorry you went through that,\u201d Mary whispers, her eyes downcast.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLook at me,\u201d growls Mrs. Armstrong. \u201cThey did this to my son. Not my husband. He didn\u2019t know how to deal with a son who was so different. Timothy wouldn\u2019t play any sports, would barely play at all with other boys. He wanted to be left alone.\u201d Mrs. Armstrong\u2019s grip on the skull tightens, her bottom lip trembling. \u201cHe read encyclopedias, the pages on the human body and biology. He bought models of different body structures and built them and played with them.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIs that where the skull came from?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAfter the boys attacked him we couldn\u2019t stay in that town so we moved here.\u201d<\/span>
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Mary nods. \u201cI probably would\u2019ve done the same thing.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Mrs. Armstrong\u2019s energy sags and she shuffles to the couch, placing the skull at her side so that it stares at Mary. She reaches for a tissue and dabs her cheeks, wipes her nostrils. Mary fears that Mrs. Armstrong will fall asleep again on the couch. But she places a steady hand atop the skull and continues. \u201cThings got worse in Clifftown. Timothy made one friend. His name was Jeremy. He was quiet, like Timothy. Jeremy would invite Timothy to his house. One day Jeremy was here, they said they needed to study for a test. My husband went to Timothy\u2019s room to tell them that dinner was ready.\u201d Mrs. Armstrong falls silent as she strokes the skull with her fingertips.<\/span><\/p>\n

The grandfather clock ticks as rain strikes the roof like specters tapping in the attic.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI heard my husband shouting in a sound that I hadn\u2019t heard before, like he was wounded. He kept repeating \u2018Get out!\u2019 And then Jeremy ran out the house and we never saw him again.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Mrs. Armstrong fumbles with the tissue wrapped around her fingers and looks over her shoulder toward the hallway, as if expecting Timothy to appear and explain everything.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMy husband said they were laying together on the bed, touching each other.\u201d She looks Mary in the eyes. \u201cTimothy stayed in his room all night. He didn\u2019t eat a bit of food. Wouldn\u2019t come out of his room.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The tears gently flow and Mary stands and pulls a tissue from the side table before sitting next to Mrs. Armstrong on the couch. She shudders when Mrs. Armstrong inhales, sending forth a frightening rattle.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCan I make you some tea?\u201d asks Mary.<\/span><\/p>\n

Looking straight ahead, Mrs. Armstrong nods and says, \u201cThere is a kettle and some bags near the sink. I don\u2019t remember where, exactly.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

In the kitchen Mary uses her palms to dry her eyes, bent over at the waist. She straightens and feels her belly again, knowing it is too early to detect any movement. She finds the kettle, adds water, and begins heating it on the gas stove. Mary takes a couple steps back and looks into the living room. Mrs. Armstrong is no longer on the couch.<\/span><\/p>\n

After a few minutes the water boils and Mary prepares a mug of tea. She carries it to the darkened living room, where she discovers that Mrs. Armstrong has not returned. She places the mug on a wooden coaster on the coffee table.<\/span><\/p>\n

Mary steps tentatively into the hallway. There are three doors; two on the left and one on the right. All three doors are open. Mary hears no movement, only the sound of rain striking the roof. There are no pictures on the walls, though a few nails remain from where pictures once hung.<\/span><\/p>\n

The first door, on the left, is the bathroom, with fixtures and tiles at least thirty years old. A toothbrush sits parallel to a tube of toothpaste on the sink. Mary pushes the door fully open to confirm that Mrs. Armstrong is not there.<\/span><\/p>\n

The next door, on the right, is two short steps down the hallway. Dim light seeps through the door and Mary sees that, unlike the rest of the house, the curtains are parted, just enough for daylight to tease a twin-sized bed, tightly made, wedged in the far corner. This is Timothy\u2019s room, she thinks. The door creaks as Mary presses, revealing two bookcases aside a small desk. There are no toys or trinkets, just books arrayed in height order. As rain drips down the window, Mary squints but cannot identify the books.<\/span><\/p>\n

She steps into the room, still pressing the door, and screams when she sees a figure standing in the darkened corner. Mary scrambles in reverse, the middle of her back striking the bathroom door frame, sending spasms down her legs. She hunches in the hall, alert and panting, thinking of her purse with the keys and pepper spray. After a beat, her eyes scanning the hallway for movement, Mary realizes there is no new sound, no new movement, no indication of someone coming to batter or rescue her.<\/span><\/p>\n

She musters courage and, while slowly raising to full height, eyes trained on Timothy\u2019s room, says, \u201cMrs. Armstrong?\u201d There is no response.<\/span><\/p>\n

Mary holds her belly, her breath as she steps toward Timothy\u2019s room. She expects to find a disoriented Mrs. Armstrong grieving in her dead son\u2019s bedroom. But as she pushes the door fully open she finds, in the heavy grayness, a human skeleton displayed on a stand, keeping watch over Timothy\u2019s room.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cJesus fuck,\u201d she whispers.<\/span><\/p>\n

Mary curls her head around the door to ensure Mrs. Armstrong isn\u2019t hiding behind. Finding nothing, she inches toward the final door, across the hallway, which must be Mrs. Armstrong\u2019s bedroom.<\/span><\/p>\n

Crumpled on the bedroom floor, just inside the door, lies Mrs. Armstrong\u2019s red sweater and black skirt, mingled among other garments. The rain has stopped, but from the hallway Mary detects the faint beat of water dripping against metal. The steady drum continues as Mary creeps into the room, opening the door and finding Mrs. Armstrong in bed, under a gray comforter, her back turned to Mary, a ghostly white shoulder peeking from between the comforter and the mass of Mrs. Armstrong\u2019s hair, set free from its ponytail.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMrs. Armstrong,\u201d she whispers.<\/span><\/p>\n

Mary steps closer after hearing no response. She steps again and, holding her breath, sees the faint movement of Mrs. Armstrong\u2019s shoulder, rising and falling with her ragged breathing.<\/span><\/p>\n

Mary\u2019s eyes are drawn to a glimmer in the bed just past Mrs. Armstrong, mostly obscured by her shoulder. She rises on her tiptoes, squinting, and finds the skull, resting upon a pillow, with its eye sockets directed at the ceiling, tucked under the comforter like a dreaming infant.<\/span><\/p>\n

Mary\u2019s mouth falls open as she steps away from the bed, her head swiveling around the room. No one lurks in the corner. The drip-drip of water against metal continues at a slowing pace. The carpet is thin under Mary\u2019s bare feet, the floorboards groaning with each step.<\/span><\/p>\n

Mrs. Armstrong mumbles and rolls onto her back, eyes closed. She gulps air and Mary hears the lung rattle. She ends her retreat and steps closer, wondering whether an ambulance is necessary. The floorboard snaps.<\/span><\/p>\n

Her eyes flying open, Mrs. Armstrong pivots her head to Mary. \u201cWhy are you here?\u201d she asks, her voice chapped and weary.<\/span><\/p>\n

Lifting her palms in a surrender motion, Mary steps closer. \u201cMrs. Armstrong, I brought your delivery from the food pantry.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s not what I meant.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

With another step, Mary says, \u201cShould I bring you the tea? Would you like that?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCome here.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Mary inches forward and rests one hand\u2019s fingertips on the comforter, near Mrs. Armstrong\u2019s knees.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSit down.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

As Mary sinks onto the bed, Mrs. Armstrong, staring intently at Mary\u2019s stomach, slides an arm from under the comforter and wraps her clammy hand around Mary\u2019s arm, her grip as strong as a vice.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou must not have this child,\u201d she implores through gritted teeth.<\/span><\/p>\n

Mary, aghast, pulls back but Mrs. Armstrong holds fast. \u201cHow dare you say that to me.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou must not have this child.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The End<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\nChris Britt Mary Burgess moved to Clifftown, Missouri, during the hottest summer that anyone could remember, with highs reaching 99…\n<\/div>\n
Continue reading “Shadow”<\/span>…<\/a><\/div>\n","protected":false},"author":81,"featured_media":0,"parent":14,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-283","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry","entry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/283","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/81"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=283"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/283\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":289,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/283\/revisions\/289"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/14"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/21-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=283"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}