“I’m sorry,” Izzy said immediately. “I’m sorry, but I had to tell him.”
Mary’s jaw was set so tightly that it seemed like her head might explode from the pressure. “I lose my temper one fucking time, and you just have to tell the world about it.” She stared at Izzy with such anger that Izzy knew there was nothing to do but shut her mouth and take whatever was coming.
“I’ve known people like you my whole goddamned life,” Mary continued. “I know you’re a piece of white trash just like me. I can hear it in your voice, how hard you try to cover up what kind of a hick you are. I hated girls like you, who thought they were better than me even though they were just as poor as me, sometimes even worse off. Thought they were going to leave me behind and become something better, somebody important.”
“That’s not true,” Izzy said, instantly regretting it, but Mary stepped closer to Izzy. “We don’t have to like each other,” Mary said. “I know how it works. We have to love each other, for the good of the family, but we don’t have to like each other. And I just want you to know that I don’t like you. I won’t ever like you. I’m here, same as you, trying to do right for my kid. So don’t you judge me or think that you’re better than me. We’ll have to work together and live together and all of that, and I’ll be good to you, but you better know that I do not like you one bit.”
Mary walked out of the room, and Izzy finally took a breath. Her head was buzzing from the adrenaline, and she looked at the letter in her hand, a d that now seemed so tainted by the interaction with Mary that Izzy tossed it into the trash and started over with a new piece of wood. Even then, she found that her hands were shaking so hard that she couldn’t continue. She swept up the room, dumped the sawdust into the trash, and turned off the lights. The entire walk back to her house, she felt the creeping dread that Mary was waiting for her, hammer in hand, ready to send her forever out of the family.
The next day, though, Mary was talking to Carlos and Jeremy when Izzy happened to walk by. Mary smiled and waved to Izzy. “Hey, Izzy,” she said. “I made coffee if you want some.” Izzy couldn’t speak, only frowned at this kindness, and she watched as Mary’s smile never wavered. She also noticed that Jeremy and Carlos seemed puzzled by Izzy’s silence, and, as she walked past all of them, she could feel the group staring at her. She wondered, startled by how deeply she wanted to know the answer, how many people hated her. Or worse, she wondered how many people, under any other circumstances, would think nothing of her.
One night, unable to sleep, Izzy walked barefoot to the studio to continue the never-ending work on the letters. As she reached the door, she could hear the buzzing of the saw in use and was temporarily confused, wondering if she was somehow dreaming this. When she pushed open the door, she saw Jeremy working on the band saw and Ellen sorting the fresh letters on the ground, a black Magic Marker sticking out of the pocket of her work apron. When Jeremy looked up from his work, he instantly held up his hands as if he was being robbed. Ellen was occupied with a single letter, worrying it with a piece of sandpaper, but soon she, too, saw Izzy and her face became red with embarrassment.
“Hey, Izzy,” Jeremy finally said, and Izzy took a few tentative steps toward them. She looked up at the pages of the story on the wall and noticed that almost an entire paragraph was newly blacked out.
“What are you guys doing?” Izzy asked.
Ellen handed the wooden letter to Izzy, a perfect g, and replied, “We wanted to help.”
“We figured, with you working by yourself, you might never finish the piece in time. We thought we’d help. I know we should have asked, but I thought you might worry that you had to do it all by yourself or it wouldn’t count.”
“Warhol had all kinds of assistants help him make his art,” Ellen offered, her face still bright red.
Izzy placed the wooden letter on the floor and then gave Jeremy a hug. She did the same to Ellen. “Thanks so much, guys,” she said. The truth was that, yes, she wanted to do this project entirely on her own. It had been her idea, her strange vision, and it was meant to be something separate from the rest of the family. But as she noted the worried but slightly manic looks on the faces of Jeremy and Ellen, she realized the futility, within the complex, of keeping anything entirely to yourself. If someone placed their hands on your child as if it was their own, what in the world would stop them from touching a wooden letter?