by David Arnold
I cross the roof, joining them in the partial shade of a fake palm tree, doing my best not to throw up on the Pale Whale’s third circle of blubber. “Walt, we gotta get off this roof, man. We’re sitting ducks up here.”
“Who the hell are you?” asks the Pale Whale.
An image, from the most vivid quarters of my imagination: a car changing this man’s oil. “Mim,” I say. All I can muster.
“Ma’am?!” he blurts. “What kind of name is that?”
I find it hard to believe this man could criticize anybody’s anything. “You find the bottom of that daiquiri yet? What is it, eight a.m.?” I turn to Walt. “Listen. We don’t have time for this. Caleb’s insane. It’s only a matter of time—”
“That’s just bad manners, see.”
Spinning, I see Caleb round the circular tank, holding a sizeable hunting knife. A trickle of blood drips from his hands onto the gravel roof. He coughs, then pulls a cigarette from his back pocket and lights it. “Sorry, Al—had to bust a double-paned window to get in.” Inhaling, his eyes dart around. “Where’s your boyfriend?”
Gas station plus boyfriend.
“Karate class in Union,” says the Pale Whale, smacking his lips around the straw.
An odd smile spreads across Caleb’s face. He steps closer, the sharp end of the hunting blade shimmering in the light of the morning sun. “Like a fuckin’ six-year-old,” he mumbles.
Al pinches one nostril, blows snot out the other—just like a whale’s blowhole. Sliding his meaty hands behind his head, he sighs, and for a moment it’s quiet, as if none of us are entirely sure whose turn it is to talk. Then, with the subtlety befitting a man of his stature, Albert breaks the silence. “You’re a freak show, you know that, Caleb?” The folding chair squeaks under his weight. “Seriously, you should sell tickets. People would come from miles around to see you talk to yourself. Speaking of which—when you do that, is it a natural, everyday sort of thing, like putting on socks?”
Caleb’s eyes twitch, but he doesn’t answer.
“I shouldn’t make fun,” continues Albert, rubbing his aviators on the bottom of his shorts. “I suppose that’s a brand of bat-shit crazy you just can’t help.”
Caleb stands frozen, blood still dripping from the cut on his hand.
Al raises his daiquiri to his lips. A stubborn slice of strawberry gets stuck in the straw. He sucks harder, squeezing it like Augustus through the glass tube in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. He swallows it down, tilts his head at Caleb. Like an old-fashioned pistol duel, it’s not about who draws first, but who draws quickest.
“Get the hell off my roof,” says Albert, each of his stomachs rising, falling.
Caleb pulls back his shoulders, and once again, I notice his red hoodie. The same as my own. I picture my Abilitol in the bottom of my bag, shrouded in the darkness of its canvas tomb, screaming a promise of normalcy.
“I’m not crazy,” whispers Caleb, twirling the knife in his hands.
And suddenly, from months ago, my father’s voice: “Here, Mim.” I take the bottle and roll my eyes. “Don’t look at me like that,” says Dad. “I’m trying to help. Just get in the habit of taking one with breakfast every day. Habit is king.” I glance at the label on the bottle, wondering how it got this far. “Dad. I don’t need them.” He pulls orange juice out of the refrigerator, pours a glass. “I need you to trust me on this, Mim. You don’t want to end up like Aunt Isabel, do you?” That’s when I know he’s scraping the bottom of the barrel, searching for anything to get me to cooperate. Taking the glass from his hand, I pop a pill in my mouth and drown it down with the rest of his juice. Every last drop. I wipe my lips with the back of my hand, stare him dead in the face. “I’m not crazy.”
“Sure you’re not crazy, Caleb,” says the Pale Whale. “You just keep living your little fantasy life, son. Lord knows, I’ve been there.” He slaps his belly. “But damn it all, I wouldn’t trade these rolls for your level of crazy, not for all the rotisserie chickens in Kentucky. You know why? ’Cause at the end of the day, when my fat ass tumbles into its king-sized waterbed, I sleep like a baby. I know who I am.”
“Oh yeah?” Caleb twirls the knife again, arching one eyebrow unnaturally high. “And who are you?”
Albert the Pale Whale sips his daiquiri, smacks his lips together, then leans back and sighs. “I’m Albert, motherfucker. Who are you?”
As Caleb steps toward Albert, I grip the war paint in my pocket and picture the long blade piercing those layers of blubber. Gallons of fluid would gush from the wound like a fire hydrant; hidden arteries, having spent the last two decades being stretched and filled to their fullest capacity, would now be exposed, severed, freed from the heaviest of loads. The wailing, whaling mess would pool around his bloated ankles, gather under the folding chair, then rise up and up, lifting the leviathan carcass off the roof, spinning him like a top, and tossing him off the edge of his own broke-ass, off-white gas station. We’d be swept up in the Blood Flood, too, Walt and I, carried away like Noah’s Ark, or rather, like the animals of afterthought, left to fend for themselves in the apocalyptic precursor to the rainbow.
This is what I imagine.
But it never happens.
Just as Caleb reaches Albert’s chair, a blurred figure plummets on top of him, knocking him to the ground. Within seconds, Caleb is back on his feet, wielding the hunting knife at this new adversary. At first glance, the man seems too ridiculous to be real. He’s wearing a black strip of cloth around his forehead like a ninja, goggles, a long gold chain around his neck, a flowery wife-beater, and a pair of shockingly familiar cutoff jeans. Dripping wet from head to toe, he’s smiling like he’s having a ball.
Next to me, Walt claps, while Albert chuckles and sips his drink. “Fuck him up, Ahab.”
Never mind my epiglottis—my entire body flutters at this.
It’s him.
It’s them.
The fight doesn’t last more than a minute. In a roundhouse kick that would have made Jet Li proud, Arlene’s legendary nephew sends Caleb’s hunting knife sailing over the edge of the roof. With him disarmed, it’s hardly a fight at all. A couple of hook-kick combos and graceful strikes to the chest, arms, and head, and Ahab has a whimpering Caleb trapped in a half nelson on the gravel roof.
“Walt,” says Ahab, dripping wet, smiling from ear to ear. “Go downstairs, call the Independence police station. Ask for Randy, tell him to get his ass over here.”
Walt giggles, runs around to the trapdoor.
“You okay, honey?” Ahab looks up at Albert, leaving me to wonder at the sheer physics of their relationship.
“I’m all right,” grunts the Pale Whale. “Thanks to my knight in shimmering armor.”
“Shining,” I whisper, still gripping my war paint and trying to piece together the sequence of the last few minutes.
Ahab notices me, seemingly for the first time. “Who’re you?”
“That’s Ma’am,” says Albert, slurping the last of his daiquiri, then pulling a brand-new one out from under his chair.
I clear my throat. “It’s Mim,” I say, rapping my knuckles against the side of the tank. “What’s this?”
“We call it the Pequod,” says Ahab. “Perfect place for a little sun and relaxation.”
I raise my eyebrows. “What—inside?”
The Pale Whale chuckles and sips.
Ahab tightens his grip on Caleb. “It’s a pool, kid.”
Looking from Ahab to the tank, I can’t help but wonder what kind of people drink daiquiris and go swimming on top of a gas stations at eight a.m. on chilly fall mornings. But I’ll thank the gods of, you know, whatever, that they do. Because I’d be dead right now without these two.
Walt comes running around the tank. Pool. Whatever.
“Randy’s on his way,” he says.
“Good.” Ahab
hoists Caleb to his feet. “You guys can hang downstairs till he gets here. He’s a dick of a dick, so he’ll probably wanna take you down to the station for questioning out of sheer boredom. Don’t say anything about the pool, okay? He’d find some city bylaw and have it removed.”
Walt gives him a thumbs-up, scurries down the rungs. I stand still for a moment, wondering if this is the right time. Certainly, it’s not how I pictured it happening.
“What’s up, Ma’am?”
I take a knee, unzip my JanSport, and produce Arlene’s wooden box.
For a second, no one says anything. Finally, Ahab says, “Where did you get that?”
His question is quiet, not accusatory.
“Arlene,” I whisper. “Your aunt—I was on the bus with her. The one that crashed.”
Albert sits up in his chair and takes off his aviators. There’s something in his eyes, some deep well of empathy.
“What’s wrong with everybody?” grunts Caleb, still in Ahab’s clenches. “It’s just a box.”
Without thinking twice, Ahab lifts Caleb up by his hoodie, and punches him once, twice, three times in the face. Blood splatters across the gravel roof, as well as a single tooth. The look in Ahab’s eyes isn’t murderous. It’s the look of a man who did what had to be done. Caleb drops to the ground unconscious. Considering the solemnity of the moment he interrupted, I’m thinking he got off pretty easy.
Ahab is in front of me now, looking at the box, then at me, and I suddenly can’t stop crying. It’s crazy, because Arlene was his aunt, not mine. I didn’t know her all that well, not really. I didn’t know her favorite color or movie, or what kind of music she liked, or if she preferred lakes to oceans. I didn’t even know her last name. But maybe those aren’t the things that channel love. Maybe the true conduit is more elusive than that. Maybe. And I think Ahab understands, because now his hand is on my shoulder, and he’s crying, too, and he doesn’t ask any questions, which I’m beyond grateful for. Handing the box over, I search for something memorable and eloquent to mark the occasion. Arlene was one of a kind, a true friend when I needed one, a grande dame from the old school. She was the sweetest of old ladies, and I will miss her dearly. All of these things are true, but the words I choose are far more profound.
“She smelled like cookies,” I whisper through tears.
Ahab laughs and so do I, and it occurs to me again how often laughter accompanies tears. Now Albert has joined us, and when I look up at him, the sun hits me squarely in the face. He slides his aviators into my hands, then pats me on the back.
“Finder’s fee,” he says.
Ahab lifts the gold chain off his neck. Dangling from the end, an old-fashioned skeleton key fits the lock perfectly. He turns his wrist, opening the box with a click.
This is his, not mine.
I pick up my backpack and walk halfway around the tank when his voice stops me. “You wanna know what’s inside?”
Maybe it’s the sun, or the emotion of reuniting Ahab with some piece of his dear dead aunt, but whatever the reason—in this moment, on the rooftop of this gas station—I miss my mother terribly.
I turn, take one last look at Ahab, dripping wet in his ridiculous clothes, holding his precious wooden box; behind him, his whale of a boyfriend is back in his chair, lounging in the shade, sipping a daiquiri like he’s on the beaches of Aruba.
“You could tell me,” I say, rounding the tank. Then, slipping on Albert’s aviators, I throw open the trapdoor. “But I probably wouldn’t believe you.”
22
The Mistress of Moxie
September 3—midmorning
Dear Isabel,
Dim the lights.
Raise the curtains.
Cue the amped-up, percussive spy music. (Film noir, not Bond.)
Standing in the shadows of trees, rooftop pools, and fat, drunken slobs, Our Heroine comes face-to-face with a different kind of shadow: her arch nemesis, Shadow Kid (duhn-duhn-duuuuh!!!!). Shadow Kid tests Our Heroine’s theory that heroes are not without blemish, villains not without virtue. If Shadow Kid holds a single ounce of virtue in his heart, thinks Our Heroine, it is kept well hidden. It isn’t the first time her theory has been put to test, and it won’t be the last.
With more than a little help from her sidekicks, Our Heroine escapes the clutches of Shadow Kid unscathed, unfettered, and unmurdered. Much to her chagrin, however, she now must deal with the inept Constable Randy, and though Our Heroine has done nothing wrong . . .
Okay, cut, cut, cut.
Sorry, Iz—I had every intention of keeping up the cloak-and-dagger-Bogart-forties-black-and-white bullshit, but honestly, I just don’t have it in me. I’m too hungry. And pissed. I’m hungry and pissed, and I’m sure you understand.
So.
Northern Kentucky seems to be experiencing a substance and despair monsoon.
How do I know this?
Well, right now I’m sitting in an interrogation room at the Independence police station. I’m not under arrest or anything, but apparently little things like constitutional rights don’t matter here in Independence. (I know. The irony. I just . . . I can’t.)
Anyway, it appears I have some time on my hands, so let’s talk Reasons.
Reason #7 ends with a pill, and begins with a grizzly bear.
GRIZZLY BEAR
(Feared, Murdered, Stuffed, Admired)
Ferocious? Yep.
Out of place? Bingo.
Key ingredient to the world’s most awesome doctor’s office waiting room? You bet your sweet ass.
I still remember my first visit to Dr. Makundi’s office like it was yesterday. The waiting room had toys for the kids and magazines for the parents, but it also had that life-sized, stuffed grizzly. For everyone.
On the first of what would turn out to be just under a hundred visits to Dr. Makundi’s office, I walked right up to that giant brown grizzly and touched its claw. I was eleven at the time, and it was a bear, so really, I had no choice. (I mean. It was a bear. A bear.) So I stood there, cowering in its ever-still shadow, staring into those great glassy eyes, positive the thing would come alive at any moment and swallow me whole. I recalled one of my favorite childhood stories, Pierre by Maurice Sendak, about a lion who swallowed a naughty boy named Pierre. (Have you read this book? My God, it is deliciously macabre!) Anyway, as I was quite a naughty child, I was sure the bear would turn out to be just like that lion, which is to say, I was sure he would swallow me whole.
But he did not.
“Mim,” said my father, waving me over.
Clearly, Dad had no respect for murdered/stuffed bears. Reluctantly, I pulled myself away from the terrifying taxidermy and sat in the chair between Mom and Dad.
“You’re okay with being here, right?” said Dad.
I nodded. There was, after all, a bear.
Mom put her arm around me. “If you’re uncomfortable with any of Dr. Makundi’s questions, just say the word, okay? We can leave whenever you want.”
Dad, thinking I couldn’t see him, rolled his eyes. (This eye roll, combined with a textbook nostril flare, would become his trademark, a look that would haunt me well into my teen years.) “It might be tough sometimes,” he said. “But you’re tough, right? My tough girl. You’ll answer whatever the doctor asks, won’t you tough girl?”
I nodded, because whatever, there was a fucking bear right there.
Anyway, I’ll cut to the chase here, Iz, as a slew of doctor visits doesn’t exactly make for stimulating reading. Dr. Makundi, as it turned out, was more than a decent doctor. He was a decent man. He was short and round and always wore a bow tie. He was the only East Indian I’ve ever encountered who had red hair. Like, Weasley red. In fact, he used to joke that he was Irish-in-hiding. (“My name is even camouflaged . . . MAC-oondi,” he’d say. And then laugh, effing heartily.) He let me talk when I neede
d to talk, and he talked when I needed to listen. He even played Elvis in the background without my having to ask. Over the next four years, Makundi and I took our time “getting to the root,” as he called it. His methods went like this: wait, talk, think, watch, listen. Sitting with him required patience and a certain bold individuality. I had plenty of both, so it worked. Makundi had his own practice, which I know doesn’t really say much these days, but he really did it up old-school. He wasn’t tied down to any one notion of popular treatment, or pulled hither and thither by powerful drug companies. He played games and told stories because as he put it, “Life is more fictional than fiction.” He did things his way. And that was good enough for me. And that was good enough for Mom.
Dad was unconvinced.
It started with a smart man named Schneider who wrote a smart book, which helped a lot of people. Dad read this book and joined the ranks. Now, joining the ranks can be a good thing. (Take NATO, for example. Or cage-free eggs.) But joining the ranks can also be a not-so-good thing. (Take the Nazi Party for example. Or the rise of the McNugget.) Dad bought into the notion that there was One Right Way to solve a problem. Or rather, to solve my problem. And guess who wasn’t solving my problem correctly? (Hint: he owned a bear.)
At the beginning of what turned out to be our final session—before Dr. Makundi even had a chance to get to the branch, much less the root—Dad stepped in. “We need to talk,” he said. And just like some angsty, one-sided breakup, my father explained to affable Dr. Makundi all the ways the good doctor had let us down.
. . . Schneider this and Schneider that . . .
. . . Makundi’s methods, while commendable, simply weren’t relevant in this day and age . . .
“What day and age is that, Mr. Malone?” asked Makundi.
“The day and age of new discoveries in the world of medicine,” answered my father.
Dr. Makundi sat on the other side of his rickety wooden desk, peering over the top of his glasses, listening to my father expound secondhand thoughts. I remember watching his face as Dad talked, thinking, in a way, the man was a product of his own theories, more fictional than fiction. Countless hours of sessions we’d spent focusing on the facts, trying to reconcile reality with whatever unreality was in my own head. But if Dr. Makundi, the Irish-Indian-bow-tie-wearing-grizzly-loving doctor himself had taught me anything, it was that our world could be astoundingly unrealistic.
