The Wall That Isn't
Rita hangs kitchen tools on her wall. Outside wall. The one facing the empty lot.
She's sixty-two. Lives in Tucson. Divorced. Kids are gone.
Started with one wooden spoon. Just hung it there with a nail. Then added a ladle. Then measuring cups. Then yellow dish gloves clothespinned to a line.
Now the wall is covered.
Her neighbor Paulo asks: "Why you doing that?"
"Don't know."
"But why?"
"Just am."
The tools hang there. Sun bleached. Heat warped. She doesn't use them anymore. Just hangs them.
Her daughter visits. Says: "Mom, your wall looks weird."
"Yeah."
"Why'd you do that?"
"Felt like it."
"That's not a reason."
"It's my reason."
Her daughter leaves. Rita hangs more things. A whisk. A spatula. A potato masher. All the tools she used to cook for a family that doesn't live here anymore.
All hanging on an outside wall. Facing nothing.
The wall separates her yard from the empty lot. Used to be her neighbor's house. Got torn down. Now it's dirt. Nothing.
The wall faces nothing. So she decorated it.
Her therapist asks about it. Rita shows a photo.
"What does it mean?"
"Nothing. It's just stuff."
"Why hang it outside?"
"Had the wall. Had the stuff."
The therapist writes something. Rita doesn't ask what.
Just hangs more things when she gets home. A cheese grater. A meat tenderizer. A rolling pin.
Her mother's things. Things she inherited. Can't use. Can't throw away. Hangs them instead.
Paulo says: "People can see from the street."
"So?"
"So it looks weird."
"Okay."
Doesn't take them down though. Just adds more.
A colander. A pizza cutter. A garlic press. All the tools that touched food that fed people who don't eat her food anymore.
All hanging. All visible. All taking up space on a wall that separates her from nothing.
Her son calls. Heard about the wall. Asks if she's okay.
"I'm fine."
"You're hanging kitchen tools on your house."
"So?"
"So it's weird, Mom."
"Maybe."
He says he'll visit. Doesn't visit. Rita doesn't mind.
Just hangs more things. A can opener. A bottle opener. A corkscrew.
Her landlord stops by. Sees the wall.
"You can't do that."
"Already did."
"It looks bad."
"To who?"
"To everyone."
"I'm everyone. I think it looks good."
He leaves. Says he'll be back.
Rita hangs more things. Yellow gloves on a clothesline. They wave in the wind. Like hands.
Good.
Her daughter visits again. Brings her son. He's nine. Looks at the wall.
"Why is your wall weird, Grandma?"
"Because I made it weird."
"Why?"
"Because the wall was boring."
He nods. Accepts this. Kids are good at accepting things.
Her daughter is not a kid. Doesn't accept it. Says Rita should take it down. Rita says maybe.
Doesn't though.
Just hangs more things after they leave. A timer. A thermometer. A basting brush.
The wall is full now. Every tool she owns. All hanging. All visible. All facing the empty lot.
Paulo brings her coffee. They sit on her porch looking at the wall.
"You done?" he asks.
"Maybe."
"What are you going to do when you run out of things?"
"Don't know. Buy more things."
He laughs. First time she's heard him laugh.
Good.
Her landlord comes back. Brings someone. City code. Something about aesthetic standards.
Rita says: "It's art."
"It's kitchen tools."
"Same thing."
They argue. Rita loses. Has to take it down.
She starts the next day. Takes down one spoon. Stops. Can't do it.
Hangs it back up.
Sits there looking at the wall. All her tools. All her history. All the labor of feeding people who are gone now.
All of it hanging. All of it mattering.
Even if nobody else gets it.
Paulo comes over. Sees she didn't take anything down.
"You going to get in trouble."
"I know."
"Want help taking it down?"
"No."
He sits with her. They look at the wall together.
"It's actually pretty good," he says.
"Yeah. It is."
---
In Albuquerque, Diane builds a wall. Just one. In her backyard. Cinder blocks. No mortar. Just stacked.
She's fifty-seven. Nurse. Works nights.
Her boyfriend asks why she's building a wall.
"Don't know."
"But where's it going?"
"Nowhere. It's just a wall."
She stacks blocks. Three feet high now. Four feet long. Just sitting in her yard. Not attached to anything. Not separating anything. Just there.
Her boyfriend says it's pointless. She says okay.
Keeps stacking.
Gets it to five feet. Has to climb a ladder now. Balances on the top. Sets another block.
Her neighbor asks: "What's that for?"
"Nothing."
"Then why build it?"
"Just felt like it."
The neighbor shakes his head. Goes inside.
Diane keeps stacking. Six feet now. Taller than her.
Her sister visits. Sees the wall.
"Diane, what is that?"
"A wall."
"I can see that. What's it for?"
"Nothing."
"So why build it?"
"Don't know. Just am."
Her sister doesn't understand. Diane doesn't explain.
Just stacks more blocks. Seven feet now.
Her boyfriend says it's going to fall. She says maybe.
Doesn't fall though. Just stands there. A wall. Going nowhere. Separating nothing.
Her therapist asks about it. Diane says it's just a project.
"What kind of project?"
"Building a wall."
"For what purpose?"
"No purpose."
The therapist looks concerned. Diane doesn't explain.
Just goes home. Stacks more blocks.
Her daughter calls. Heard about the wall. Asks what it's for.
"Nothing. It's just there."
"That doesn't make sense."
"I know."
They talk about other things. Daughter's job. The kids. Normal stuff.
Diane hangs up. Stacks more blocks. Eight feet now. Casts a shadow across her yard.
Good.
Her boyfriend moves out. Says the wall is weird. Says she's getting weird. Diane says okay.
He leaves. She stacks more blocks. Nine feet now. Needs a taller ladder.
Buys one. Keeps stacking.
Her neighbor calls the city. Says it's unsafe. Someone comes out. Checks the wall.
"It's not structurally sound."
"So?"
"So it could fall."
"Then it falls."
"Could hurt someone."
"No one's near it except me."
They make her sign something. Liability waiver. She signs.
Keeps stacking.
Ten feet now. Tallest thing in her yard. Taller than her fence. Visible from the street.
People slow down. Look. Point. Keep driving.
Diane doesn't care. Just keeps stacking.
Her sister visits again. Sees how tall it is.
"Diane, this is too much."
"Maybe."
"So stop."
"Can't."
"Why not?"
"Don't know. Just can't."
She stacks more blocks. Eleven feet now. Has to stack carefully. The wall sways a little in wind.
Her boyfriend texts. Asks if she's okay. She says fine.
"You still building that wall?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"Don't know."
He doesn't text back.
Diane stacks more blocks. Twelve feet now. Runs out of blocks.
Orders more. They deliver. She stacks them.
Thirteen feet. Fourteen feet. Fifteen feet.
The wall towers over her yard. Over her house. Casts shadow all day.
Her sister says it's blocking her view. Diane says she doesn't have a view. Just houses. The wall is better.
Her sister stops visiting.
Diane keeps stacking. Sixteen feet. Seventeen feet. Eighteen feet.
The blocks are heavy. Her back hurts. Doesn't stop though.
Just keeps stacking.
Rita's wall stays up. Landlord gave up. Says she can keep it if she maintains it.
She maintains it. Replaces broken things. Adds new things. A garlic press. A nutcracker. A pastry cutter.
All hanging. All visible.
Paulo says: "Glad you kept it."
"Me too."
They sit looking at it. All the tools. All the labor. All the history.
All of it hanging on a wall that separates her from nothing.
Good.
Diane's wall is twenty feet now. Tallest thing on the block. Visible from everywhere.
People take photos. Post them online. Ask what it's for.
Diane doesn't answer. Just keeps stacking.
Twenty-one feet. Twenty-two feet. Twenty-three feet.
She's running out of yard. The wall takes up half of it now.
Doesn't matter. Just keeps going.
Rita hangs.
Diane stacks.
They don't know each other. Never will.
Just keep doing what they're doing.
Wall getting more tools.
Wall getting taller.
Both separating nothing from nothing.
Both meaning nothing.
Both mattering anyway.
That's about it.
That's what's happening.
