They Is Us

by Tama Janowitz

  Now she has Jesse! It’s kind of like having a teen obsession. All the little presents he might like – a new sweater, or fancy golf balls, yes, she will buy him little presents; it is a drugged state of bliss. Scrotonins?

  There’s only a day or so before the sinkhole will reach Grandpa’s house. It’s probably a good thing, Tahnee departing: the police call and tell Murielle it’s time to come to get him, his house is condemned.

  When she arrives, Dad is being held back by a cop, apparently he tried to jump into the pit that is now perilously close to the house. “Your father keeps saying he’ll only go if he can go to the nursing home,” the officer says apologetically. “I had to cuff him.”

  “Oh dear,” Murielle says. “I’m sorry. He’s just a bit confused. Dad! Dad! It’s me, Murielle! Don’t worry, I’m not going to put you in a nursing home! You’ll come and live with me!”

  Dad is writhing, his arms behind his back. “I’ll be goddamned if I have to live in that house. I spent my whole life saving money to get inta that Young At Heart Retirement Center and I’ll be goddamned if SHE keeps me at home so she can drain my funds.” He spits into the depths.

  What’s down there at the bottom of the sinkhole, anyway? A crowd has gathered, watching the widening maw. It seems to be a slurry of broken ceramic, cups and plates, roiling and on the move, and each bit containing part of a man’s face, broken or whole. At first Murielle thinks it’s a repository for Gentleman’s Relish, piccalilli, and anchovy paste, then, staring more closely, is it the Quaker Oats Man? No. The porcelain is printed with pictures of Chairman Mao, at various stages of his life!

  The police push Dad into her car, his hands in plastic cuffs Murielle can snap off when she gets home. Cliffort has agreed to stay in the house, room and board free, in return for looking after Dad. That’s a relief, he can’t be left alone even for a minute. Doors and windows have to be covered with stronger metal gates and bolted on both sides.

  Cliffort has promised he will wash Grandpa and bathe his feet and massage them, and clip his nails and promiscuous hairs. Grandpa moves into Tahnee’s bedroom. He calms down right away, thanks to some pills that Cliffort has.

  She’s so relieved he’s not angry, she doesn’t mind when Dad reads another bunch of letters to her. “Listen to this!”

  Dear Good One,

  I am Lady Juan Aishat Ummah, the Proprietress of J.A.UMMAH DAY CARE ORGANISATION based here Hoek Van in Netherlands.

  I was contacted few days ago by the lawyer to my In-law, who told me in confidence that my In-law Lodged some funds as consignment with a Security Vault there in England.

  Moreso, he says that, for the past years, he has been keeping the (SAFE) Where my In-law keeps his Valuables, and now since he has not heard from anyone till this date, he then decided to force the Safe open and while going through the files, he got my contact.

  Besides, we have all forgotten about my Late In-law and families, hence they all died in the Plane Crash years back, but the Lawyer Convienced me, thereby assuring me that if I can be able to get a “TRUSTED & HONEST ONE”, who can be capable to Recieve and Handle the whole funds, that he will forward Prooves like (THE CERTIFICATE OF DEPOSIT AND THE VIDEO CLIPS OF THE SAID FUNDS, when they were Packaging it into the Trunk Boxes.

  As soon as I recieve your acceptance letter, I shall Also forward to you:-

  (B) The website of the plane crash, where my late In-law and family involved.

  (C) The total amount that was disclosed to me by the Lawyer.

  (D) The Percentage that will be for you.

  (E) My photograph

  I will be very glad to recieve your most urgent reply.

  Thanks

  Lady Juan A.Ummah (Proprietress)

  J.A.UMMAH DAY CARE ORGANISATION

  REPLY TO: ladyaishat33@yahoo.ie

  Dear Lady Ummah,

  I was very upset to hear about the plane crash in which all your family members were lost. That is so so terrible! I can’t believe you had forgotten all about them until your lawyer broke open a safe!! With the Money! Do you know how much money is involved? I think it is wonderful that you are running a day care center in the Netherlands. I feel quite strongly that there must be a way for the lawyer to send the money to you, directly. You are perhaps the most deserving, although were your son-in-law’s parents also involved in the tragic accident? ANd your daughter, who I presume was married to your son in law, did she also go down? Did they have any kids? If they all died it is really terrible you forgot about all of them until now when the safe was opened. If it was just your son-in-law, well, I can understand that more readily – but in that case, mightn’t you be better off trying to get the money to your daughter? Even if you forgot all about that miserable son-in-law (and I am going to have to make the assumption he was pretty miserable character, else surely there would be more mourning on your part, and besides, as we both know, Men are Usually Pretty Useless!) i think you should have gotten money from the insurance company that is running the airline. I have a lawyer in mind for you to handle it if you did not. Seems to me like a couple hundred grand at least, for the son-in-law, should be coming your way; and more if there were others! If you could let me know a little more about the whole event. My lawyer will not charge but receives payment only when he wins.

  Best

  Mr A. Antrobus

  Dearest Mr Antrobus,

  Thanks for your urgent reply to me and your concern about my in-law and family members. I mean it was a tragedy that I never expected.

  Sir, one thing I want you to know is that you can never can tell what will happen, so I did not just forget and wait till the company gets in touch with me or destroys the safe.

  If I may ask you, how do I would have known that my late in-law has such deposit if he did not tell me?

  Now, the question is not only that they contacted me for the claims, but can I be able to make the claim, when I cannot afford to travel to UK.

  Yes, I am running a dare care, which needs funding, but now if I cannot go to Auk or send someone that I will trust to represent me, I am sure that the company will not attend to me.

  Besides, his lawyer has assured me that if I cannot come, that I can send anyone that will represent me and on trust, so if your lawyer can do it, I mean travel to Uk to represent me, I will appreciate it also, so kindly reply and let me know so that I can get back to his lawyer.

  Thanks

  Lady Aishat

  SIR,

  I AM STILL WAITING TO HEAR FROM YOU. PLEASE REPLY TO THIS MAIL.

  THANKS

  LADY AISHAT

  “Anyway, this was the correspondence until I got here. I wasn’t able to get back to her right away.” He keeps reading, Murielle thinks she is going to strangle him or herself!

  Dear lady aishat,

  You are right and I am sorry not to have responded to your last hdg-mail. Since our last communication I have fallen on hard times. I have been feeling depressed – why, I am not certain, it is nothing so terrible as what you must have endured, losing your family in such a tragedy as a plane crash! Nevertheless my home was destroyed in a sinkhole and my daughter has dragged me to her miserable house instead of allowing me to enter a really fun Nursing Home. My doctors advise me to get away, take a trip, to distract myself. I have spent time in Amsterdam and I also have a dear friend in Antwerp (in Belgium). Do you think if I were to take a trip to the Netherlands I might be able to visit you in van Hoek, and see the wonderful things you are doing with the children of the poor in your day care center? At this time of year I should be able to get a fairly cheap ticket, and I would be delighted if you would join me for lunch or dinner. This may seem a little forward of me, but maybe you have an extra room in which I could stay for a night or two? Or, if not, is there a local inn or hotel, charming but not too expensive, that you could recommend?

  I hope to see you very soon –

  Yours truly

  Almuncle

  At least he’s keeping himself e
ntertained, though really it seems kind of dangerous.

  Cliffort sleeps on the couch, even though he would prefer to stay in his van at night; he finds he prefers the vehicle’s humidity. But after only a few days, “I need a break,” Cliffort tells Murielle.

  “You want the day off? That’s okay, I’m not going in today.”

  “Mind if I take young Julie here out to a park?”

  “Which park?” says Murielle. “The Bermese Pythion one where the plane crashed is still closed.”

  “Dunno,” says Cliffort. “Maybe the Wilfredo Rosado Memorial Fun Park and Paterson Silk Factory Outlets? Julie’s looking a bit peaky, isn’t she?”

  “All right,” says Murielle, “But don’t be long, Julie, you really should be studying for your eighth grade test.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she’ll be fine,” says Cliffort, giving Julie a wink.

  “Yeah?” says Murielle, “Here’s a practice test booklet, you take a look.”

  Cliffort picks it up and reads a sample question. “‘The Ottoman Empire’ refers to:

  a.) a tuffet; a style or type of furniture

  b.) the period of history during which Atahualpa ruled the Inca peoples

  c.) a kosher brand of chicken breast

  d.) a young Turk.’

  “Right,” says Cliffort, “That’s simple enough. I can easily help her prepare. It just involves simply thinking it through.”

  “Ooo, can I go, Ma? Please? Let me change into sneakers,” Julie says, “My feet are sore.”

  Aw, come on,” Cliffort says. “My van’s only a block away.”

  “Fine, I’ll wear my flip flops.”

  Cliffort grabs them before she can get them on. “Whose shoes are these?” Still holding Julie’s flip-flops, he picks up a pair of Tahnee’s sequined green platform sandals that she had left by the door. “Here, put these on, if you can’t walk, I’ll carry you.”

  “But those are Tahnee’s shoes, she’ll kill me.” Julie is frightened, frightened of everything but at the moment she is afraid of being alone with Cliffort. Must her life continue this way forever, simply because she was born in the month of Phobias under the rising sign of the Closet of Left Shoes?

  “Right, but your sister’s not here is she?”

  It’s true, Tahnee is gone, without even saying goodbye, only leaving that ring with the finger still in it on Julie’s bed. If she had wanted the shoes, she would have taken them along, wouldn’t she? If only Julie could be more like her sister, who was born, according to the New Revised Zodiac, in the month of Indifference and with a rising sign of Burnt Edges.

  “And by the time Tahnee comes back, I’m sure the shoes will be out of style and she won’t care. Go on, put them on. Do it for your Cliffort.”

  But… they’re men’s shoes, Julie thinks uncomfortably. Still, Julie’s had a crush on Cliffort for ages, or so it seems, there is something about him that is so… sexy, dirty and dangerous at the same time. She is scared though; she doesn’t want to come across as a little girl. If only her sister were here to give advice! She and her sister wear the same size shoes, though she would never have bought men’s; it’s too kinky, but she puts them on. Upstairs, Grandfather is moaning in what is now his room; he’s barricaded the door and keeps yelling that he’s trapped.

  The street is tarry, she sticks with each step, and her feet are still sore from walking on the prickers, the sharp tips are still embedded in her soles. The last time she walked on the prickers it had taken her mother hours to prize them out. She doesn’t want to whine, though. Cliffort might lose interest in her; at least she hopes he is interested.

  He walks about a block ahead, a jumpy erratic gait, and doesn’t seem to notice that she can’t keep up, surely if he had been interested he would have walked alongside her? She is only thirteen, but her breasts began to develop when she was eight; still she hasn’t gotten her period, so maybe she doesn’t really count as a woman. She keeps stumbling and it seems to her that night has come on very quickly. Everything is so gray and dark, she can hardly see. Except, she realizes, Cliffort is now green. He is a kind of glowing orb of green, emerald-green with yellow edging; beyond this a funny kind of orange. And in the middle of the green, in the middle of his legs there are fuzzy pink spots. Does Cliffort know what has happened to him? Or is it something that is happening to her? She hurries to catch up. “Cliffort? Can’t you please walk slower?”

  He turns. For a moment it seems as if he had forgotten who she is. “What?” he says. “Walk slower, yeah. Sorry about that, nackets!”

  She winces. If her sister thought something wasn’t cool, so did she. On the other hand, Tahnee had seemed to be impressed by Cliffort. She had made none of her usual jeering, sniping comments about him or his clothes or his taste in music. If Cliffort really does like her, it would be the first time someone had ever preferred her to Tahnee, but perhaps it is simply that Tahnee isn’t here.

  Down the block there are still crews of men looking in the marsh for bodies. Or body parts. They wear tall boots and are wandering around up to their waists in the muck with scoops and dredging hooks and nets.

  She looks at Cliffort. She deserves to die. All this is her fault and if she confesses she will go to jail forever; but isn’t it Cliffort’s fault, too? “Cliffort, should I say something?”

  “Like what?”

  “That I shot the plane?”

  “Nonsense.” For a moment he crumbles into cubist blocks, the bits don’t fit, either with panic or… Julie doesn’t know. “Listen, nacks, you don’t… uh… you don’t think the Kamikaze launcher had actual bombs in it, do you? That’s ridiculous, I’d never let a little kid shoot real missiles; everybody knows the Kamikaze is pretty feeble and out of date, nobody pays any attention to it in the world of weaponry, that’s how I was able to obtain one.”

  Though she only half-believes him she is relieved. His van is just across the street. He unlocks it and she climbs in. From the passenger seat she turns to look around. A not unpleasant fecundity: of gym shoes, skunky feet, yeasty beer. A bogginess. Still, it is beautiful. There’s a chandelier hanging from the ceiling made of glittering crystal butterflies, a mattress covered with pink satin, a mini fridge, an HGMTV set and stereo system. The windows are smoky gray-green.

  “Wow,” she says.

  “Nice, huh? Come on, I’ll take you for an ice cream.”

  He turns on the holograph; the President is talking about the latest terrorist attack, the downed plane – he will not say what airline, until the families of the passengers are told. All on board are presumed dead. Retaliation would be sought against the remaining Israelian Mishpucha, if there are any left.

  “I urge the American people, in the name of the Congressional Institute of Creative Security, to turn to the home shopping station, either on radio, hologram or Internet, to purchase items to support our great nation and its endeavors. With each purchase is an opportunity to cast your vote, for an additional eighty-dollar charge, for who you’d like to see bombed. Coming up next, The President’s Choice Tea Party”

  The show returns to the two announcers. “Rich, do you think the President had prior knowledge of the attack?” asks Swootie Charles.

  “No, I don’t, Swootie, but we’re going to take a break now for the updated traffic and weather report, and we’ll be right back with more on this story after this important message: folks, do you suffer from Dwitney Scrubbs? Do you know this can easily become Derwent Chumbles?”

  “Um, Cliffort?” says Julie. She wants to tell him that she can no longer see him, only this massive green blob, with darker green dots where his nostrils would have been. And a blobby translucent jellyfish-like image over his crotch. What the heck could it mean?

  “Let me just hear the traffic and weather,” says Cliffort. “Do you mind?”

  “Hi, I’m Brettny-Amber Boyle bringing you the 24/7 Traffic Report. The twenty-lane highway from the Holland Tunnel continues to remain closed after seven years. Traffic on the G.W.
Bridge, you’re looking at a ten to twelve hour wait on the lower level, seven to nine on top. An accident on the BQLIE has slowed things down there to a possible two to three day wait. Heading out to Connecticut, traffic appears to be at a standstill, due to road construction…”

  “Aw, never mind,” says Cliffort. He flicks off the radio.

  They park at Dream-Queen Castle, with a pick-up window in the middle of two mound-shaped heaps that are supposed to resemble soft serves, topped with gigantic pink plastic cherries, visible from miles away. Cliffort walks up to the glass. “Two large vanilla cones,” he says, “Oh, and um, golly, let me have some Yabba bits, extra crispy.”

  “Schlee-sssuslh?” says the girl behind the counter, which means either, “Do you want the sauce on the side?” or, “What kind of sauce do you want with it?”

  “Ne shuggh kig,” says Cliffort.

  “That will be thirty-eight dollars,” says the voice. He reaches into his pocket. “Damn,” he says. “Do me a favor, look in my pocket book, it’s on the back seat, and see if I have enough money to pay for these?”

  “That’s okay,” says Julie, “I have forty bucks.”

  She passes over the money. “Is that all you’ve got?” he says, grubbing around in his pockets some more. “Looks like we’re totally wiped out for cash!” he says. “Hope we make it back before we run out of gas!”

  The hand that emerges from the window with their cones has a strange blue band around each knuckle. Julie doesn’t know if anyone else can see it, but she realizes this person is going to get, or has… “Cliffort… What does it mean that I can’t see?” Julie tries again.