by Shannon Kirk
No switch this time to manipulative emotions from her. This time she raises her eyebrows as if saying touché, or as if swallowing a game rule and accepting it. She pops her lips.
“Well, then, just wanted you to see where I make the puzzles. Oh, and in that room at the end, that’s my painting studio. I know you like to paint too, Lucy.” She’s pointing to the far, far away end on the right side of the house. Zero light down there; I see nothing. A black hole.
“Where’s old Mr. Snoof?” Seems nothing’s down here but me and Gretchen.
“Who?”
“Your dog? The one you said you give the extra bacon to?”
Gretchen laughs. “Oh right. Old Mr. Snoof. He’s sleeping,” she says, pointing with one hand to the closed-off room in our end. She brings a finger to her lips to hold in a giggle.
That imaginary centipede is hatching poisonous eggs in my neck skin again.
“’Kay, then. Let’s go outside.” I start to walk back to the stairs. I’m fanning my face from the sudden flash of burning inside and out.
“Oh, wait!” Gretchen has jumped into a dark space and is rummaging in a cabinet I hadn’t noticed because it’s hidden in a shadow drape. She pulls out two wrapped boxes with big red ribbons. “I made you these gifts. But let’s drop them at your house on the way to the field, and you open them tonight when you’re in your room. Okay?”
After an afternoon in the out beyond of picnic and painting (I dragged my easel and paint case and a blank canvas from Peterson’s Craft Store, and Gretchen seemed dismissive and judgmental about my subpar material) while Gretchen did a puzzle (and we didn’t speak much) and two games of Scrabble (in which we bickered over timing and rules, and she won one round and I the other), I’m back in my bedroom. The window is open, the breeze is wonderful, the temperature just-right warm, with dashes of blowing cool. Crickets and bullfrogs and the owl offer their night song, and the wind! The wind is rolling pebbles in the river of leaves. I’m in the amber-lit bubble of my colorful room, green in the mermaid wall puzzles, the blue and pink of the bed and curtains, and the giant red ribbons on my unopened presents from Gretchen.
Mom is reading in her bedroom. We ate separate dinners in separate rooms.
I pull on a tail of the red bow on the top box; the ribbon unfurls and slithers to the floor. The wrapping paper is plain white, and I rip that off quick. The box is a white rectangle. I pop off the lid. Within the box, and I can’t believe she did this, is another box on which is pasted a print of an oil portrait of me scowling. Me. A homemade label says, MAD LUCY, 500 PCS. I shake the box, and sure enough, pieces rattle and slide inside. So to sum up, Gretchen oil-painted my mad face, then cut me up. One million poisonous centipedes take over my body. I throw the box on the bed, my fright-anger adrenaline driving me. I rip the red ribbon off the larger box, tear at the paper, and my mouth drops open. I can’t . . . what? Here on this box top is a print of another oil painting. In a corner, she added a sticker label with her handwriting: DEATH MARCH, 1,000 PCS, 2ND PRINT.
I drop the box on the bed. Because sure enough, here she’s made me a copy of the creepiest puzzle—that I’ve seen so far—in her house. The damn cult Death March.
“Do you like them?” I hear from the window.
I look to the open window, and here is her damn face against the screen.
Gahhhhhh.
“What the hell!” I yell, clawing my hands in instant fright.
She steps back from the window.
“I know. I know. Your first rule. No windows. But I had to watch you open.”
She could have watched me earlier. She wanted to make me flinch. Wanted to scare me with the topics of the puzzles and her creeping face in the window.
“Don’t do that again,” I say, and slam the sash. Again, I’m furious; because of her creepy lurking, I can’t listen to out-beyond noises tonight.
And what the hell with this massacre of my face and this demon cult puzzle? I can’t give her a reaction about them. Can’t ever mention them. I throw both boxes under the bed. I can’t tell Mom. I won’t tell Mom. Am I trading one evil for a new evil?
I could tell Mom. I won’t tell Mom. I could refuse to see Gretchen. But if I do, Mom will know something’s up; she’ll make us run. And who else do I really have? This isolation, this suffocation, of a life with only one, a person who won’t speak to me when she’s a middle console away from me in a car. A person who asks me if I’m capable of thinking when I ask if a diner sells cake. A person who hovers over her iPad to ensure I watch only an approved show or movie and don’t surf the web. A person who could, this very minute, barge in this bedroom and demand I pack, drag me by my arm, push me out the door, and tell me I’m foolish and reckless for wanting to keep a meaningless job at Dyson’s—never mind how happy working the register makes me feel. Hush, hurry, don’t speak, move. No lights, take everything. Leave nothing. Hush, don’t speak, before anyone sees, she’d say.
Perhaps my sin is seeking life outside our box, because now the drug of freedom, of engaging with others is, is it? Is it an addiction? To want to break away. If I can control Gretchen, if I can prove to who? Prove to myself? If I can prove I can control Gretchen and make her a comfortable friend, or at least understand her creepiness, measure the doses of her into doled-out vials of time—a constant buzz and not spikes of craze—such that her sudden appearances and taunting gifts don’t scare or anger me, maybe I’ll prove I’m capable of protecting myself. And I can be free of running.
I won’t tell Mom. I will make this work with Gretchen. No matter what.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Late July, and it is “wicked hawt,” as Sandra Dyson declares all day, every day now. Milberg is packed with tourists. “Gawd love ’em and theyah Masshole, New York, big-city money.”
She’s gone off with her husband, the chief of police, for their anniversary and left Dali and me to close up Dyson’s for the night. As soon as she left, Dali switched Sandra’s constant jazz to Ice Cube’s “Good Cop, Bad Cop,” and even Jabo the hanging octopus, made of reclaimed parts and named for jazz, is relieved about the faster beat—this is how I interpret the glint of moonlight off his big, watchful eight-ball eye. Perhaps the fat moon shoots a ray through the skylight, hitting Jabo’s literal pool-ball eye just right—but I do take it as his wink of approval, and also encouragement, which I need tonight. I’m smiling, Dali’s smiling, even though we’re so hot and sweaty. And I’ve got a secret burning fissures on my lips that I want, no, I need, to tell Dali before my mouth breaks, or my heart breaks, or my mind dissolves my resolve.
Dali and I are sweeping up the remains of the workday: literal Great Katherine Lake beach sand from the soles of tourists’ flip-flops. The front doors remain open for a stubborn breeze that won’t show, so the interior is thick with the scent of roasting turkey, which normally disperses in moving air. We dragged the outside planters, stuffed with massive, flowing red petunias, to block the doorways, and stretched a rope across as well, so all these late-night customers who keep pulling up know we aren’t selling any more fancy cheeses tonight. Plus, we already squared the register drawers with receipts, and I am not about to go do ugly math all over again—especially not when I need to say something.
I’ve never worked alone with anyone before. Especially not Dali. Sometimes, he and I have taken breaks together. Sat under the lace-sunlight-throwing tree out back and shared a pack of cheese and crackers for the fastest fifteen-minute allotments known to physics, but not talking much beyond whatever store gossip was swirling around in the given day. In other words, he hasn’t tried to get personal with me ever since that day he caught Gretchen scaring the shit out of my exploding crackers when she came back from puzzle camp.
And because he hasn’t pushed, and because he has kindness in his green pupils, and because I’ve caught him thrusting his hips while mouthing Ice Cube lyrics into the broom handle like it’s a mic because I think he thinks I’m not watching, I’m pretty sure I can trust Da
li. I’m pretty sure he’s a Jenny, which is a new concept for me, because he’s a boy.
Watching him dance and sing and sweep is like getting a hit of my current addiction: freedom. The truth is, if I’m being really, truly truthful, I’ve been emboldening myself all summer for this chance—a chance I now realize I want to take with an alarming desperation. I’m standing in the belly of an open plane about to jump, and I don’t care whether there’s a parachute or not—this is how bad I want this, this freedom, this, whatever this is. And yet, because the moment is here, a clotted, curdled feeling clogs my throat.
Do this, say it, don’t stop.
I force my feet, which feel thirty yards away from my pulsing, overactive brain, to take a physical step toward him, as though the physical step will clear the clot in my throat. I must, I want to take this step, this definite betrayal of Mom. Another in my series of betrayals. Perhaps, I justify to myself, she wants me to betray her; she is pushing me away and expects me to defy her, because she still has not talked to me much all summer. She still eats alone, ignores my efforts to cook for her.
Dali sees me approaching. Stops his dance routine and smirks.
“Whoops, you caught me,” he says.
“I need your help,” I say.
I close my eyes, shocked I would trundle ahead so fast. In my mind, my brain is skipping, as if my feet are skipping, tripping me on the floor.
He stands straight, leans his mic-broom against the shelves with mouth-blown bottles of oils. A rainbow confetti of light sprinkles the aisle’s floorboards from the moonlight shooting through the colorful glass. What is Dyson’s like at Christmas, when fluffy white snow softens outside and Sandra decorates the door with green wreaths wrapped in red ribbons? I bet it smells like cinnamon-spiked cider in here. I bet, I bet she decorates a fragrant balsam in the corner by the penny candy. Will I experience Christmas in Milberg? Will I be gone?
I can tell Dali’s unsure what to do next. So I repeat, “I need your help.” This time my voice cracks, and I can’t believe I said it twice. I can’t believe I really mean this. It’s like my intentions are sick of me stalling, unwilling to wait for me to be ready. Like some instinct is demanding that time is of the essence. And I don’t know why.
Dali pulls his iPhone from his back pocket and turns the Bluetooth volume down on the music. I look up at Jabo, and his eight-ball eye is still winking, encouraging me to take another step. This is so monumental, I am no longer in control of my secrets, and my eyes tear up, shocked that I would betray Mom so fast, scared in thinking on Christmas at Dyson’s and how I don’t think I’ll be here—I won’t have that warmth of a cozy season, a fireplace with stockings like in the movies. This is overwhelming. This act. This act of defiance.
What am I risking if I speak? What am I risking if I don’t?
It’s not specifically Milberg I want. It’s a settling I want. A free life lived in truth.
I’m crying when I acknowledge this desire so full and deep in me, it is me. I see myself.
Shivers, like ice shards, are on my inner wrists and in my veins, shake my arms. But I’m not cold, I’m crying. I’m truly crying.
“Oh my God, what’s wrong, Lucy?”
“I don’t have blue eyes,” I say, but more like a choke of words and not a fluid sentence.
What I’ve liked about Dali since I met him are his quick assessments. Like when he very first saw me and gave me a respectful wink of friendship. Like when a pregnant lady’s water broke by the artisanal breads two weeks ago and he didn’t rush to her, like everyone else did, tripping over themselves like a rash of fools. Nope, not Dali. He whipped out his phone and dialed 911 before even raising his eyes to the chaos.
“Okay. Come here. Actually, go out back. Let me lock the doors. It’s okay. Whatever is wrong, I will help,” he says. “Go. I’ll be right there.”
In this moment, I’m happy Dali is a couple of years older than I am. And now I’m recalling, he’s got years on his mind he shouldn’t have. I’m reminded of one personal conversation Dali and I did have under that lace tree out back. He was a foster kid, and his family adopted him after fostering him for a year. He hasn’t had a rough or abused life, he said, but he’s felt “displaced” in a “borrowed family.” In the boys’ home, he’d seen bad things happen to good kids. Even though he’s been with his foster-adoptive family since he was five, he still remembers, because watching a friend leave for a foster all happy and hopeful only to return a month later with greasy hair and a permanent withdrawn stare, night terrors and screaming from any amount of touching, haunts you forever, he says. So he knows, he knows, he said that once—maybe he planted the seed, actually, waiting for me to be ready—but he did say once that he knows “how important it is to respect someone’s secrets, because they own their secrets, and you own yours.”
This is how Jennys speak; this is how damaged people speak. They don’t have all the answers, and the best part is, they never pretend they do.
I scrunch my shoulders, wipe my eyes, stand up straight, and pull all of Jabo’s moonlit, cosmic strength into my core. I’m going to do this. I’m going to at least do half of this. I won’t quit. I will be strong. I walk fast to the back as I hear Dali dragging the planters outside and shutting and locking the doors.
The floorboards creak as he runs to meet me where I stand, leaning against the hall wall, across from the staff cubbyholes, where Dali now lands and leans. He’s smart enough to not touch my body or condescend to my weakness from a couple of minutes ago. I’m no longer wet in the eyes, and my face is set on my intention.
He nods.
“Go,” he says.
“Okay, then.”
He folds his arms, solid in watching my eyes and my mouth for when I’m ready to begin.
“Right. Wow. I really pulled off that Band-Aid,” I say.
He waits, still not speaking unnecessary words, nods again, like a wise confessor, ready for anything. He’s a bona-fide Jenny, all right.
“You can’t tell anyone. I mean it.”
“No shit.”
“No shit?”
“Lucy, I’m not an imbecile. Whatever it is you got to say, it’s between us.”
“All right. I’m trusting you, then.”
“Good. You should.”
I suck in my lips, scroll through the pick list in my mind of items I need help with. The biggest of all is my true identity and the location of my birth father. Another item on the list is a core angst I’m willing to acknowledge in the center of myself that I no longer believe Mom’s stories, but I ache to even consider that angst, because although I know I’m living a surface lie, I refuse to believe the lie is subdermal, that she is a lie, and thus, my whole being to my core is a lie. The idea of exploring such an option makes me physically cringe in front of Dali, and now I’m feeling a clotted throat again.
“Hey,” he says. “Look. Whatever it is you think you need help with, if it’s hard to say, maybe just start with the easiest part?”
It’s almost like he can read my mind. Is this what it means to have a real friend?
“Um—” I’m pressing my lips together. “So.” I breathe in hard. Exhale. “Right. Look. How about this. Can you help me look up someone on the internet? And um, I like your idea of the easiest part first. Maybe don’t ask why?”
Left unsaid is that I don’t have an iPhone, just a shitty flip with no internet. And left doubly unsaid is that I could go by myself to the library and do the research on a public computer. But really, I need someone to be my proxy fingers and type the words. I need help—that’s the truth. I need someone. And admitting that much was the biggest, hardest step. Last night, hives formed a necklace around my neck in thinking of this moment, knowing we’d be working together tonight. But I showered off the welts, and I keep them away now. I need help, I need someone: the toughest six words to say in the very center of myself. But I did it. I did.
“You got it. What’s the name?”
“Gretchen
Foulin. F, O, U, L, I, N.”
Before I can think further on whether this is a good idea or not, he’s jamming the name into Google. I don’t want to tell him this is the name from my birth father’s family or my birth father’s last name. I actually can’t believe I’m finally taking the step I promised I would never take to investigate my own past.
How many betrayals am I willing to allow? How far will I go to keep this? This place?
“Hmm,” he says. “Weird.”
“What?”
“I’m not finding anything. Not even a profile on Facebook. And that’s weird. How do you spell Foulin again?”
“F, O, U, L, I, N.”
“Yep. That’s what I did. Let me try just the last name.”
He’s typing and pressing, and I’ve moved to his side of the hall. We’re shoulder to shoulder, watching for mysteries to be solved by one click. He’s tall, I’m tall, but he’s enormous compared to my frame. He smells like turkey and spices, and so do I.
Ancestry sites and name-origin lists pop up. Dali scrolls, and we read the synopses together.
“Seems Foulin is a Scottish or French name. Does that help you?”
“Scotland and France don’t really have laws against women, right? Like they’re not exactly uber-patriarchal societies where women have no rights, right?”
“All of modern society is patriarchal,” he says. “Unless you’re a bee.”
“But I mean like oppressive in a bad way where women have zero rights and are trash.”
“Definitely not France. At least laws-wise. And Scotland is wicked religious, but they’re not exactly known for stoning women for driving, if that’s what you mean.”
I’m so confused right now. None of this makes sense. For years Mom has beaten into my brain that my birth father’s ancestral country treats women as chattel, third-class citizens, sometimes lower than livestock. I’m pretty sure I’ve read about women in France in open relationships. They don’t dream of getting married as the end-all, be-all happy ending like in America, is what I think I read somewhere. So. Pretty sure French women are free. I don’t know much about Scotland, but like, they’re free too, I’m pretty sure.
