Ziggy, Stardust and Me

by James Brandon

  To be continued,

  Starla xx

  * * *

  —

  I lift the postcard to my nose. It still smells like her: faded vanilla and incense. There’s no other Polaroid. Guess she forgot.

  I dig through my satchel. Can’t find them anywhere. They’re gone. Her cross pieces. Gone for good, I guess.

  Perfect.

  51.

  Friday, July 13, 1973

  ANOTHER DAY IN BED.

  I scream into my pillow again.

  Guess this is what my life is now. Some life. I think I’m losing my mind. One minute I want to cry, the next minute I want to yell. So I do both. Into my pillow. Sometimes I want to punch the wall. Not because I’m angry; so I can feel something. Anything. Maybe that’s what Web was trying to do all along . . .

  Guess they won. The ones out there Web talked about. The ones who want me to think I’m crazy, to keep me broken. Fine. I surrender. Hoist the white flag, because I can’t do it anymore.

  I shriek into my pillow.

  See, I’m losing my mind.

  I stay in bed staring at the ceiling. And thinking about him. It’s the one thing that makes me feel sane. My Web Astronaut, floating somewhere. I wonder where. Hal says they killed him, but I don’t believe him. No. I can still feel him . . .

  My stomach wrenches. Thinking about what Hal did to us . . . how he gets to keep smirking, dancing by a bonfire, while we lie here, torn apart . . .

  I close my eyes to see Web’s face again. The other one. The one I want to always remember. There. Looking down on me: eyes full of wild desperation and worry . . . and maybe love. I don’t know . . .

  I can’t hold it that long because then his face contorts into that mangled mess from when he was whipped into darkness, and I have to stare at the ceiling again. To forget. God, it hurts. I screech into my pillow so loud, so hard, I think I rip my vocal cords.

  I wish I could touch him and smell him and see him and taste him.

  One more time.

  I need to know. Somehow I need to find out if he’s okay. Wherever he is . . .

  52.

  I CRAWL INTO MY closet, clutching my satchel.

  Haven’t been here in a while. It smells stale. Dry almost. I don’t know. Words.

  I click on the lamp.

  Did we have an earthquake? Things look different. Shifted. I know there’s some fault line in Missouri . . . Ziggy’s eyes blink back at me: glam-glittery, smiling, and waving, but some of his eyes paper the floor now, and Mom’s portrait is tilted. Because of my screams? My National Geographics are strewn about, and—

  The Interview magazine peeks out.

  The one.

  The one I stashed here that day Starla first told me she was leaving; the one she was dying to give me . . . I flip it open to the article. Huge muscles and toothy grins look back at me. And that headline punches me in the gut again: “GAY IS GOOD!”

  A tear shoots from my eye before I can stop it. NO. I slam the magazine closed. Something’s in it. I shake the pages; it drops in my lap: Web’s pin. The one from his jacket, when he was last here. Oh man.

  I flip it through my fingers. Let the sharp needle prick my thumb a few times. I wish I were this pin. Then I could stick myself to his jacket and still be next to his heart . . .

  Like when we danced in his room, when he called me his Ziggy, when I felt me for the first time. Me. The real me. What life could really be—not on the moon or in some parallel universe. No. It was right here all along. On this broken little planet, in broken little Missouri, in the broken little city of Creve Coeur. Here.

  I twist my Ziggy T-shirt. My face flushes, stings. Like when Web slapped his palms on my cheeks that night he told me he was done hiding, when he looked me square in the eyes and cried and said—

  I hurl the pin against the wall and scream.

  “What is it, honey? What’s wrong?” Mom. She tilts her head toward me, her ocean eyes unblinking.

  “They won’t win—I won’t let them win. I won’t—” I thunder through a sludge of snot and sobs.

  “Let who win, honey?”

  “THEM. Out there. All of them. Dr. Evelyn and Dad and HAL and—I won’t—do it anymore, I can’t live—like this—” Her face blurs, a river of oil paints. “The treatments—lies—hiding—I won’t pretend—I can’t act like they work—because they don’t. They don’t work, Mom. They never worked. They never will work—”

  “Then don’t pretend anymore, sweetpea. You don’t have to.” She tries to reach through the painting, tries to embrace me—

  But she can’t. And she never will.

  “That’s the whole point—I don’t have a choice—Dr. Evelyn told Dad she’s wrong. Probably still thinks I’m the confused crazy one, the high-voltage freak—but no, she is wrong, because I’m not crazy. I’m not—I’m not gonna be strapped down or thrown into some stupid tiny closet never to be seen again—GOD. Maybe I am crazy—”

  “I don’t think you’re crazy, sweetheart, or a—”

  “You’re a picture! You’re a picture that talks and moves and tells me I’m not crazy, that’s crazy!”

  She laughs. “Oh, you know better. You’re just imagining me. But you also know you don’t need to anymore. Because you do have a choice, honey. Remember the game?”

  “What—”

  “Every step you take is a choice. And as long as you get to choose, you always win.”

  “Some choice—I’m stuck here—and Web’s—Hal says he— No. I don’t believe him and I hate him for what he did— No. I think Web’s still out there—somewhere—”

  “You have to go find him, then,” she says. “It’s the only thing worth fighting for . . .”

  I inhale a few shuddered breaths.

  “And you have to do it now.”

  I picture Web and me floating, tangled together. Not out there. Here. Where I can choose to lie in bed, and rip my vocal cords screaming into a pillow, and stare at nothing, and let them win. Or here. Where I can—

  “It’s all a choice, honey,” she whispers. “And it’s—”

  “Up to me,” I say.

  I stare at Mom . . .

  “Go to him,” she says. “Time’s running out.”

  “How can I? I can’t leave.”

  “I’ll help you. We’ll figure out a way. But you have to go back to the lake. To see Web. To stop Hal from ever hurting anyone again. You’ll know when; you’ll know what to do. Trust me—”

  “JONATHAN.” Dad. Downstairs.

  “How will I—?”

  But she’s already gone. No, she was never there.

  It was me.

  It was me . . . all along.

  53.

  “WHAT IS IT?”

  Dad’s head pops through a huddled mess of afghan, rivers of sweat rush down his sunken cheeks.

  “Git me a supper, willya.” He coughs.

  I throw a TV dinner in the oven and wait. Still adjusting to my newly stretched legs and arms: Everything’s farther away from me now. Even the oven shrunk to an Easy-Bake. Jesus. I stare and I bounce and I wait. Can’t stop buzzing. My mind’s been electrocuted. Alive again. I have to figure out a way to get out of here.

  The Watergate thing blares through the TV. Dad flutters between sleep and wake, still coughing. I bring him his dinner.

  “Who were you talkin’ to?” he asks.

  “What? No one.”

  “I heard you. Talking.”

  Damn, should’ve closed the bedroom door.

  “Nope. No one,” I say.

  He looks at me. “Why you always carry that satchel around with you?”

  “Because.”

  He nestles his head on Grandma’s favorite butterfly pillow. I look up, but Grandma hasn’t danced or laughed since we’ve returned. I kn
ow it was all in my head, but still. Can’t blame her. No more joy left in this house to come alive to.

  “Caught him. Bet that bastard’s goin’ to prison,” Dad grunts through more coughs. Back to Watergate. Some news guy says it’s possible they had a recording system in his office, so everything Nixon said has been taped all along. Whoa.

  “I’m going outside,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “To the backyard. Get some fresh air.” The room’s so full of my floating thoughtstrings, I’m surprised he’s not swatting through them to see the TV.

  I fly down the hallway, flap the screen door open.

  Our grass hasn’t been mowed since 1922. It’s overgrown and weedy and covered with curvy strings of seedless dandelions that look like a world Dr. Seuss lives in. Without the wishes. My old swing set sits rusting in the corner. One plastic seat sways in the breeze; the other dangles off the chain. Even the swing set looks dead.

  I flop down in the grass until it consumes me, ruffling my palms through the long blades and crushing dandelion strings. It’s scratchy and smells like the earth above the crying waterfall, and I suddenly want to pull up every weed until there’s nothing left but worthless dirt that can never grow anything again.

  I gaze at the ring around an almost full moon. It’s going to rain soon.

  My thoughtstrings: Watergate tapes and secret recordings, Dad always coughing, Mom always helping, Web always floating, Dr. Evelyn always electrifying, Starla always smiling, Hal always smirking, me always lying, me . . . me . . . Web . . . me . . . Web . . . me . . . Web.

  Until my mind’s all clear and I can figure out a way to see Web. And to stop Hal from— My tape recorder. Maybe I could sneak over to Hal’s and secretly tape him— No. It’s too dangerous. How would that even work? He’d probably kill me before I could push Record— First, I need to find Web to make sure he’s okay, to see him again one more time. But how? Mom said she’d help, but Jesus, Collins, she’s not even real. Get it together. Okay, when Dad’s asleep I’ll sneak away. But he’s always on the couch now. I’ll drag him upstairs. Yeah. Tell him he needs a good night’s sleep in bed. Okay. Then I’ll sneak away and— Will that even work? I don’t know. But it’s the only way.

  A CRASH from inside the house. What was that?

  THUDCRASHBANG. Jesus, did Dad fall off the couch?

  CLANGBAMPOW. What the hell is he doing?

  I run back inside. TV’s still blaring. Dad’s no longer there.

  Weird.

  I look up the stairs: Dad’s bedroom door is open; mine’s closed.

  Weird again. Don’t remember closing it.

  I creep up, try to listen for any movement, any noise. Nothing.

  I creak my door open.

  Dad: leaning over the edge of my bed, trying to catch his breath. He lifts his head. His eyes are red, wild, vibrating.

  I look around the room. Closet door’s open. No.

  Heart pulsates. Breaths. Tight, fast, fiery breaths.

  Ziggy pictures. Ripped off the walls. Eyes sprinkling the floor.

  NONONO.

  I gather the shreds in piles, stuff them in my satchel, try to—

  Tears falling, snot dripping. “You—you—you shouldn’t have—why did you—these are my—he’s my—” I’m muttering like a madman to myself, to the pieces, to the—

  “Jesus Christ, son.” And he starts laughing, no, howling, no, demonic wailing.

  I wipe my face and look up at him, heaving. Mad like a rabid dog. Everything’s ablaze. “Stop . . . laughing . . .”

  It only makes him laughhowlwail louder. “I’m not—laughing, son—”

  “STOP IT, GODDAMMIT!” It explodes out of me. I can’t see.

  “You’ve—lost your mind,” he spits out between laughs or coughs or demon cries, I don’t know. “I have a—crazy person—living in my house.”

  “Your SON, you mean?! Your crazy SON? Your freak of a SON? Is that what you mean? SAY IT. YOU CAN’T. You can’t even say it—” Tears and words spill out of me so fast I can’t reel them back in, until—

  His laugh, his cough, his wheezing stop. He slowly lifts the picture of Mom. “Where. Did you get this?”

  “Give it back!”

  He snatches it away. “TELL ME.”

  “I grabbed her from the pile before you burned her to death!”

  “It wasn’t yours to—”

  “Why’d you have to kill her? If you loved her so much, why’d you have to kill everything about her?”

  “Me? ME?!”

  “Yes. YOU—”

  “I’m done with this.” And inch by inch he rips the portrait, slashing her face in half.

  The world hopscotches. My body ignites.

  “How—could you—”

  “I’m trying to help you, Jonathan.”

  Rip-slash-rip-slash-rip, then POOF: Mom pieces twinkletwinkle down in silence.

  I can’t move. Can’t breathe.

  “I hate you,” I say.

  “What’d you say to me?”

  “I HATE YOU.”

  “How could you—”

  “I’M NOT SICK—”

  Each word punches his face.

  “Jonathan—”

  “YOU ARE.”

  I pounce up, push him off the bed.

  “Jesus Ch—”

  “FOR MAKING ME THINK I’M BROKEN!”

  I scream and pummel his chest, punch his face for real. My fist sinks into his body. He tucks in a ball, coughing, holding himself tight.

  “I HATE YOU!” It’s all I can say, all I can think.

  He clutches his throat, gasping for air through violent coughs, barely scraping my name out. “Jon—a—”

  But that’s all I hear.

  I blaze downstairs, through the screen door. Jump on Stingraymobile, start pedaling. So fast, my legs and lungs cramp in seconds. I don’t care. I pedal faster.

  Lightning rips through the clouds, tattering the sky. Thunder booms. Rain pelts my body. I’m crying. Stingraymobile pulls me into an empty bus stop to wait it out.

  Every sound high-kicks my spine.

  Headlights swerve around the corner. Is Dad coming after me?

  I leap back on Stingraymobile and GO. I dive into the open fields, follow the trail off the main road, the path I’ve taken so many times before. To him.

  I can’t see behind me. Can’t see in front of me. Can’t pedal fast enough.

  I stop at the edge of the clearing. Through the trees, I see the shadow of his house waving in the rain. I strain my eyes. Everything around me disappears; his house zooms into focus. A spark: the teeniest ember of orange flickering through the boards on the corner window.

  Stingraymobile flies, soaring through the slapping rain—until I’m at the bottom of his stairs, looking up.

  The windows and door are triple-boarded; glass shards still glitter the ground. Faint mumbles drift through the walls. I climb. Now more worried than ever of what I’ll find on the other side of that door.

  54.

  I POUND THE DOOR, wipe the hair out of my eyes.

  Rain gushes down the white-flecked aluminum awning like I’m standing under a waterfall. Perfect.

  A chair scrapes the floor.

  Jesus. Could be anyone. Didn’t think about that. Could be Hal. Could be—

  The door flies open.

  “Jonathan.” It’s his grandfather.

  “Oh, I’m so glad—” He’s more worn, more lined with worry, but still shimmering. Stitches crisscross his forehead, a deep purple half-moon under his eye. But he’s okay.

  “Come in, come in,” he says. “You’re shivering.”

  “I’m so glad . . . you’re okay.”

  Burnt herbs and peace fill the room. Water sprinkles down from every corner of the ceili
ng, pinging in metal pans that dot the floor.

  “Your voice,” he says. “So deep now . . .”

  “Yeah. It’s like Thor.”

  “You’re becoming a man. Already more of a man than they will ever be,” he says, waving across the lake.

  I lift my shirt, try to wipe my face of rain and tears and hurt. “I’m sorry for everything, which seems so futile to even say. Words, you know, they seem so—”

  “My Ziggy.”

  I open my mouth, try to say Web’s name. Can’t. He stands in the doorway, still dimple-smiling. Somehow. The left side of his face is splotched in blue and purple and green and yellow, like an unfinished watercolor. And his hair’s torn to bits, ragged and cut just above his shoulders. Shredded like my dead Ziggys.

  “Oh—no, Web—”

  “You should see that ugly white guy.”

  “I’ll be in the other room,” his grandfather says, dropping the sheet-curtain behind him.

  “I’m sorry, Web . . . I’m so sorry . . . I’m—” And without a second thought, I kiss him.

  And kiss him.

  And

  kiss

  him.

  A charge flickers on my lips. Just barely.

  “Hey,” he says. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay—”

  “No, it’s not. It’s my fault. I should’ve never—”

  “Come here.” He pulls me into his room.

  “I’m going to fix this,” I say. “He won’t get away with it. I promise you he won’t—”

  “Hey, no. Stop. Look at me.” He lifts my head. “Don’t you go back over there, you hear me? We took care of them. Trust me. They’re never gonna bother us again, okay? Don’t do anything stupid.”