They Is Us

by Tama Janowitz

  Julie picks up a wallet, virtually intact: it contains a driver’s license, credit cards, four ten-thousand dollar bills. “Look,” she says to her sister.

  In the distance the sound of sirens can be heard.

  “Gimme,” says Tahnee, taking the wallet. She snatches the money, which she pockets.

  A few people have gathered at the far end of the field. “Are you kids all right? Get out of there!”

  “Yeah, yeah, we’re coming.”

  “Maybe it’s, you know, biochemical! Hurry up! You don’t know if there’s going to be more stuff exploding. Even the Homeland Housekeeping Mission won’t touch this!”

  “No kidding,” says Tahnee. She starts running across the field, but somehow her shoes are gone and she is now unable to walk on the grass that is not only flaming in spots but contains extremely sharp stickers.

  The neighborhood is known for these – a renegade from elsewhere. Can pierce clothing, even shoes, boring its way into flesh; caused the death of a local child, who, on autopsy, was found to have burr seeds rooted in liver and lungs. “I can’t walk. De prickers!” Tahnee yells. Now that the steet has worn off, the thorns really hurt.

  “Where are your shoes?” Cliffort has come up behind her.

  “I don’t know.” Tahnee retraces her steps. A pair of blue jeans droops from a busted suitcase and she yanks out a couple of pairs of men’s underwear, which she wraps around her feet.

  More of the neighborhood – whoever is home at the time – has begun to gather at the edge of the field. “What are you kids doing in there!” yells Mr Patel, the father of Locu. “Didn’t anybody tell you, that area is contaminated? I have the word of The Authorities it’s on fire below ground, it’s going to go up any minute.”

  It’s true, the air is filling with dense smoke and the thick stench from the disturbed swamp water. But Julie can’t help herself and goes on rummaging through the suitcase; a man’s shaving kit, a camera, she is oblivious to how smoky the air has become. “That’s that… nuthin’ we can do at the moment,” Cliffort says as he drags her from the suitcase and across the field. The whole place begins to burn. “I’m so fafa hungry. That darn steet wore off already, the guy told me it was the new one-hour version. Oh, hang on – it has been an hour, heh-hee. Got anything to eat with you?”

  The two girls look at each other. “No,” say Julie slowly. “But… we’ve probably got something at home, why don’t you come in with us?”

  The back door is unlocked. In the heat the dog is too lethargic to get up.

  “So is anybody home?” says Cliffort. “Mother or dad?” “

  No,” says Julie. “Mom should be home soon, though.” “

  And is she going to be upset? At finding me here?”

  “I dunno,” says Julie. “I don’t see why. We can have friends over. Besides, you teach at the school, right?”

  “At the moment, temporary substitute. Not to stand on ceremony but I’m starving. Ravenous. Mind if I have a look?” Cliffort opens the door of the refrigerator. A large bowl, stored on top, suddenly leaps into the air and falls to the floor where it smashes.

  “Oh, Shi’ite,” Cliffort says. “Sorry about that. Got a mop?” He stands in front of the open refrigerator door.

  “Just forget it, I’ll clean up,” says Julie. “

  Will you? You’re very kind.” Cliffort stares at her in a way that makes her uncomfortable.

  Tahnee has been in a daze but now she steps forward. “Don’t just stand there wid’ da door – the door open,” she snaps, in a voice that sounds like Murielle. “I’ll tell you what’s in there, because I already know!” She pushes past him. An American cockroach ambles out of the drawer marked “MEAT” and walks toward Cliffort.

  “It can’t be easy being a cockroach!” Cliffort says, as he steps on it. “One minute just walking around, the next wham! You’re squished.” With one finger he swipes up the fatty white, studying it pensively.

  “We have peanut butter,” says Julie.

  “Ugh, peanut butter flavor. Can’t stand the stuff.”

  “There’s, um, some leftover macaroni and cheese. And eggs. And, um some leftover cartons of Chinese food.”

  “Hmm, Chinese food. That might be interesting. Mind if I have a look?” His hand writhes around Tahnee and into the refrigerator where, seemingly unconnected to his body, as if it has its own eyes, the hand picks up a carton of Chinese food and takes it from the fridge. Then he opens it, and, looking inside, sniffs. “Mmm,” he says. “I think I’ll try. Nice patina. How old is it?”

  “It has some age. Do you want it heated?”

  The young people are still woozy from the drug, the high makes everything slow, thick treacle, except when it is ice-cold and bitsy. “Nah, this way is fine. Got any ketchup?” He peers into the carton and, looking inside, sniffs. “Is it supposed to be moving around?”

  “I don’t think so,” says Tahnee. “Maybe you shouldn’t.”

  “That’s okay. I’m interested in trying out this new live-food diet everybody is talking about.”

  “So am I!” says Julie.

  “Oh, Julie, you are not,” says her sister. “You wouldn’t hurt anything that crawls, walks or flies.”

  “Speaking of flying…” Cliffort says, opening cabinets and drawers. “Why don’t we just not mention that Julie brought down the plane?”

  Julie doesn’t know what to say. Was she the one who made it crash? She knows she must come forward and tell the authorities what occurred; no doubt her punishment will be life in prison, which she definitely deserves. “Sure,” says Tahnee. “You want a plate or something?”

  “Just a fork. Anything to drink?”

  “There’s soda. Or, um, want me to see if there’s a 24-Projectiler?”

  “No, the soda should do nicely.” He takes the fork and begins to stab in the box.

  There is a sound – it’s Murielle, unlocking the front door. Cliffort tenses, fork poised, ready to flee. He resembles a secondary scavenger at carrion where the original killer is about to return.

  “Mom!” Tahnee calls.

  “Hi, I’m home!” From the other room they hear her putting down her things, bags and keys, breathing heavily in the heat.

  “We, um, have a friend with us.”

  “Oh? They are saying that the big plane crash at the marsh might create some kind of big explosion. I was worried you kids might be playing over there.” Murielle is flushed, she has spent the day trying to stop a massive escape at the Senior Mall. Some of the folks decided they were going to break out, and head for Nature’s Caul. Don’t they realize that even if they did make it that far, Nature’s Caul is only for the rich? They would never be allowed in.

  “Mom, this is Cliffort. Cliffort, this is our mother.”

  “Hello, Mother!” Cliffort lunges, his chair topples over and one of the legs falls off. On his fork is a cockroach, skewered on a tine.

  “Sorry,” says Murielle, “I’m afraid we really should get new chairs, these are on their last legs.”

  “Perhaps I could have a look at them, when I’m done, and see if I can fix that one. Excuse me for raiding your kitchen. I’m Cliffort Manwaring-Troutwig, old baseball family.”

  “Take another chair, finish your food, I can’t believe you can eat that stuff cold.”

  “Very tasty. I was totally starving, but your girls were kind enough to offer me a snack.”

  Julie can’t stop staring at him. Even though she is in pain – both physical and mental – and feels wretched, it is swirled together with something else. She has never had this feeling before, except when she watches Humphrey Bogart in his latest film with Zahara Jolie, even though people say these days Bogart is kind of limited. Cliffort has such pasty skin, it is fascinating, and his ears stick out, but why this is so sexy to her, she doesn’t know. His eyes are huge, merciless and erotic; a dark algae smudge above his lip can scarcely be called a mustache. A rare creature has come to their home.

  “You
are… where are you from?” Murielle says. She guesses he is in his mid-twenties, harmless enough in a too-handsome way: emerald eyes, pale skin, intense.

  “I’m from West Islap, near the United Laboratory tragedy? Born and grew up there before they made everybody move out.”

  “I thought so!” Murielle says. “So how do you – what are you –”

  “We met him in the park, Ma,” says Julie.

  “We were just having a little chat. When that plane went down, a little while ago. My car conked out. Van, actually. I was trying to see if I could maybe repair it myself – I hope you don’t mind, that the girls took me in –”

  “You look to be quite a bit older than them, you must be –”

  “I’m twenty-three.”

  “No, I was only asking because I’m going to fix myself a drink, I don’t want to offer you one if you’re not old enough, or you’re going to be driving –”

  He seems relieved. “No, thank you very much, unless you have some mescal… you know, the type with the worm… Perhaps I could fix one for you?”

  “Sorry… no mescal… I can do us my version of a Bloody Mary. Here, I’ll show you. I take Spicy W-3 juice, and then…” She gets a gallon container of vodka out from a cabinet.

  “It’s the most disgusting thing you’ve ever seen, Cliffort, you won’t believe it,” Tahnee says as Cliffort abruptly licks the table.

  “…I measure the vodka…” Murielle begins to rummage in a pile of dishes stacked beside the sink. “Where’s my measuring thingy?”

  “I don’t know, Ma, nobody touched it!”

  “Anyway, so tell me, Cliffort, what are you doing in New Jersey?”

  “I was on my way to apply for a position at – believe it or not – the girls’ school, in the styling production department. My van started to break down so I stopped at the park here to see if I could fix it. And that’s where I met the girls and ended up here, with what appears to be a fucked transmission, Mom, excuse my language.”

  “Yes,” Murielle is feeling daring. “I really would prefer you not call me Mom. It makes me feel like I’ll never get laid. Oh, here’s my jigger.” She fills and refills the jigger, until each glass is half-full of vodka.

  “But I’ve always had the hots for my mother, and I can’t help it, you remind me of her except more attractive, and with that stunning strawberry hair and zaftig figure. I hope you don’t think I’m being too personal, but do you color it yourself?”

  “Oh, no, I don’t color it. It’s the way it is.”

  “I don’t believe it!” Cliffort licks the fork before he puts it down and touches Murielle’s head. “It’s absolutely ravishing. Never change it.”

  “Oh, please, my hair’s a mess! In this weather it always gets so frizzy, and it’s thinning so much, on the top.”

  “No, no, you mustn’t think that. The only thing I would say, speaking as a professional, is –” He fluffs her hair on both sides and cocks his head.

  “Mmm –?”

  “If you’d let me… I could marcel it for you.” He begins to play with her hair, pushing it in different directions until it sticks up.

  “That feels heavenly.”

  “Oh Mom, that looks so pretty!”

  “And that must be where your darling little daughter got her coloring from, too.”

  Murielle looks at Tahnee. “But hers is almost white. Platinum.” Cliffort, though, is looking at Julie. “Oh, you mean Julie! Haha! Yes, I guess her hair is the same color as mine – funny, I never really observed that.” Murielle admires Cliffort, he really has a touch.

  A stench wafts into the kitchen. The wind has changed. Cliffort wrinkles his nose but the others are used to sour odors coming in off the swamp, now mixed with the odor of burning rubber and hair and barbecuing meats. Murielle notices tears are streaming down Julie’s face. “What the feces is wrong with you?” she says.

  “Oh God, all those people! It was terrible! And it’s all my fault.”

  “What?”

  Beneath the table Cliffort pinches Julie on the leg. “What do you think, Mom, a marcel and what about… frosted highlights?”

  “You always think everything is your fault; what did you have to do with a plane crashing?” Murielle is irritated. “You, you, you.”

  Tahnee nudges Cliffort. “Julie’s got the skeeves.”

  “No whispering in front of other people,” Murielle says. “It’s rude. If you have something to say, say it to everyone. My God, Julie, what’s happened to your hands?”

  Julie’s fingers have bloated, blistering without any sign of a fire or boiling oil.

  “Ow.”

  “Tahnee, do we have anything to put on her hands? I don’t know what that is, I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

  Julie’s hands roast, white marshmallows turning gold, very slowly, although there is no visible fire beneath them. Cliffort jumps up. “I always keep first-aid supplies in the van in case of a hair disaster. I’ll go back and get my salve and unguents before it gets dark,” he says. “Then I can get the marcelling equipment and the hair-frosting kit at the same time. Julie, come with me, before you gets worse.”

  For the first time in two weeks Murielle begins to wash the dishes that are stacked haphazardly beside the sink. “He seems like a nice boy,” she says. “Do you think I should let him do my hair?”

  “I think it would be fabulous.”

  “He can stay here, if he needs somewhere to sleep. I think he’s real cute, kind of. A little wet behind the ears, but cute.”

  “Mom! Keep your hands off him, I think Julie likes him.”

  “Julie? Has it come to this, then, that I have to compete with my own daughter? I still have my reproductive organs intact!”

  “Please, you gotta promise you’ll keep it in your pants.”

  “Oh, all right. You can be such a party pooper sometimes, Tahnee. So – Dyllis told me the CEO of Bermese Pythion stopped in to see you girls! Tahnee, I didn’t realize you were helping Sis, that is so lovely! I love to learn that you girls are so close to one another. Why can’t you share these things with me?”

  “That CEO guy? He’s a creepy shrimper.”

  “Don’t talk that way! Dyllis says it was really exciting that the CEO was in the lab. He could help your girls, you know. He’s one of the richest men on the planet.”

  “I guess.” Tahnee fingers the ring that fell on Julie’s head at the plane crash site. It’s still in her pocket. She had forgotten about it. In her hand the ring feels greasy and when she looks down she sees someone else’s hairs are wound around the ring and the stem of the hardened blue finger, in which rigor mortis has long since set.

  10

  Nobody in the area is exactly healthy. Certain houses, the kids all have terrible cases: of warts, wens, wheals, pustules and pimples. Dewlaps, scabies, nevis and nervous tics, boils, bunions, bad breath and bursitis, as well as low self-esteem.

  And their mothers, too.

  The worst thing going around is neo-epileprosy. People twitch and convulse and body parts fall off. But there are plenty of other things, so graphic they must remain unmentioned.

  Around here, jobs are few: junior administration, personal assistant to the comptroller, machine setup supervisor. Forklift operator; sheet metalworker; marketing; customer service department – entry-level position. Minimum-wage employment can be found in the food processing plants – although most products end up getting shipped to Asia – growing cookies, grape capsules, great sheets of flesh and vats of milk, twelve generations removed from any cow! Then there is Bermese Pythion Technologies, but there are so rarely any Opportunity Positions advertised as available, apart from Publicist, Quality Control Associate, and Groundskeeper. Who knows what really goes on in that place, anyway?

  The options are limitless, but the opportunities are all the same.

  President Wesley is on HGMTV. Of course he’s always on HGMTV, Murielle thinks, but when does he have time to tape it, or sleep, when h
e is in everyone’s homes (on the PRESIDENTIAL Network Channel) twenty-four hours a day? “Folks, I wonder how many of you believe in the Power of Prayer,” he is saying. “Look at how I was able to get the Intelligent Interior Designer Bill passed in our schools – it was thanks to you, the American people, and the marvelous Power of Prayer. And what a difference it has made, praying to the Intelligent Designer’s Modality! Today, for a limited time only, in four easy payments of –”

  She goes for the remote control but the President knows. “Hang on, Murielle!” he says. “Just a minute, I’m not finished!” Fuck you, she thinks, and switches the channel anyway. Probably her credit rating will go down a notch because of this, but she simply can’t stand his voice any more and turns instead to a floor-to-ceiling three-dimensional scene of snow-covered mountains. In the distance an elk, or maybe a reindeer, lifts his head from where he has been grazing on grass beneath the snow. Apart from the gentle rush of the wind in the mountains, the house is quiet. It’s bliss, for Murielle, that Slawa is gone. The guy was so low-class, she thinks, he was the only one in it.

  Then the realization: she has no clue as to what may come next. How will she survive?

  Was he really that bad, Murielle wonders, but it was a question of getting him out, killing him, or being killed. There have been times when she thought he was going to kill her: one look in his eyes was all it took to see that nobody was home! He was elsewhere. What was left was a curdled tub of rage. Now, looking through the mail, she realizes Slawa hasn’t paid the mortgage in ages, this latest bill is for the past three months, the enclosed letter mentions foreclosure. How could she have simply relied on him and trusted him when she handed him the bills each month?

  He hadn’t wanted her to work, but she hadn’t listened and kept her job at the nursing home even though initially she didn’t even make enough for what she had to pay in after-school child care and a newer car, let alone the monthly installments on the automatic equipment updates; but somehow over the years she had worked her way up and even without his salary they would be fine. Marginally fine. Kind of.