Mosquitoland

by David Arnold

  The good doctor removed his glasses and spoke quietly. “Symptoms of psychosis, Mr. Malone, are not themselves psychoses. As I’m sure Schneider himself would agree, were he here today. Alas, he is not. Most of his work, as I’m sure you know, was published in the twenties.” He winked at me, looked back at my dad. “The day and age of new discoveries in the world of medicine, was it not?”

  Two weeks later, I walked into a new doctor’s office, one whose methods better fell in line with those of my father. One whose life had no fiction, no bow ties, no Elvis.

  He didn’t even have a bear.

  (If I were writing a book, Iz, this would be my chapter break. I mean, right? He didn’t even have a bear. Boom, muthafuckas.)

  So . . . I’m sick. Supposedly. And Dad is worried. Obviously. I think he’s afraid of history repeating itself in the worst way.

  The reason I’m bringing all this up now is because I just spent the better part of the morning staring down the business end of a foot-long hunting knife, which in and of itself is terrifying. Only here’s the thing—if I’m honest with myself, the knife wasn’t what I was afraid of. I was afraid of the person holding the knife. Shadow Kid.

  I don’t know if you read comics, but if you do, you’ll notice there usually isn’t much that separates the villain from the hero. Lonely outcasts, masked identities, troubled childhoods, misunderstood by all—very often, there’s a pivotal scene toward the end (usually during a massive thunderstorm) wherein the villain tries to convince the hero that they’re the same.

  This morning, Shadow Kid had me cornered, and all I could see were the great glassy eyes of a grizzly bear. Before long, the bear’s eyes were my own, and I was convinced we were the same. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, but it sure felt like those thunderstorms from the comics.

  But then something happened—standing there on that roof, I remembered once, years ago, when Dad took me mini-golfing. During a few of the earlier holes, I’d noticed a last-second flick of the wrist, or a fleeting smirk, which led me to believe he was putting forth less than his best effort. We were on the back half of the miniature course: the token “giant windmill” green. I don’t remember who was winning at the time, but it was close. Closer than it should have been.

  “Dad,” I said. “Try this time.”

  Picking up his quarter, he raised an eyebrow. “This time? I’ve been trying every time, Mim. You’re a pro.”

  I was standing behind him when he teed off. His ball rolled down the turf aisle, a straight shot through the tiny tunnel, narrowly missing a windmill blade, and through to the other side. From where we were standing, the six-foot windmill blocked our view of the hole, making it impossible to see where Dad’s ball had landed.

  “Pretty sure I shanked it,” said Dad. “I’ll go check.”

  He rested his putter on his shoulder and strolled around the windmill, out of sight. While he was gone, I noticed the green ahead of us had one of those fold-out circus mirrors. Its position made it look as though there were six or seven holes, effectively camouflaging the true hole. A young couple kept hitting their golf balls into the mirror, cursing, then smiling like they didn’t care. For a second, I tried to figure out which of the holes was the real one. And then I saw it. One side of the mirror was angled toward the hole on our green. In its reflection, I saw Dad pull his ball out of our hole, then set it down by the edge of the walkway, a good ten feet away. He threw on a smile, then rounded the windmill back on my side.

  “Yup,” he said, shrugging. “Shanked it.”

  Dad, for all his faults, was still Dad. He didn’t just will himself to lose that game so that I might win—he rigged it so that there was no other way.

  I had people. Who loved me. People who cheated to lose. There’s really something to this, Iz, something that separates me from Shadow Kid. And I think this is what makes the storm pass.

  People say I’m sick. Dad sure believes it. At his insistence, I’ve been on meds for the past year or so.

  Shit.

  Constable Randy returns.

  Long story short, I’m not going to take the medication anymore, because I don’t need it. Mom never thought so, and neither did Makundi.

  Abilitol is its name.

  And it is Reason #7.

  Signing off,

  Mary Iris Malone,

  Grizzly Whoa-man!

  “ARE YOU DONE?”

  I nod, stuff my journal away, and give the officer my sarcastic-undivided-attention look. (It’s a good one.) We aren’t suspects—a fact I pointed out twice before he dropped us in this room—but this hasn’t kept Independence’s Finest from treating Walt and me like bottom-feeders.

  “Okay, then,” says Officer Randy, plopping his awkward frame across the table. “What do you think a man in my position should do?”

  I want to ask him what position he thinks he’s in. Survey says: bowling ball on a straw. Seriously, in all my years I’ve never seen a noodle like his, like someone grabbed him by both feet and blew air into his toes. This man is one hard sneeze away from scoliosis.

  “I don’t understand the problem,” I say. “We already told you what happened on the roof. You can’t keep us here, we’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Randy shuffles his papers around. Blimey, looking at his giant head almost makes me wish I’d stared at that dumb eclipse with both eyes wide open.

  “You know what I did yesterday?” he asks. “Arrested an accused child molester. So you’ll have to excuse me if I’m less than cordial.”

  The words of Officer Randy take me there. (I’d like to be friends, Mim. You want to be friends, don’t you?) The clicking of Walt’s cube brings me back.

  It’s quiet for a moment; Officer Randy sighs, says, “Okay, look. Bottom line. I’ve got two minors involved in a possible murder attempt.”

  “Dude. We were the murderees, not the murderers.”

  “I know that. And under normal circumstances, I’d call your parents, explain the situation, tell you to expect calls from an attorney, and send you on your merry way. But these aren’t normal circumstances, it would seem. These are very odd circumstances.”

  Constable, you have no idea . . .

  “Because when I ask you a simple question—what’s your name, where’re you from, where’re your folks—you clam up. Ahab vouches for both of you, says you’re heading to Iowa, or something, but he’s a moron. Either way, that’s not enough to—”

  “Cleveland,” says Walt.

  Randy frowns at him. “What?”

  “Cleveland, not Iowa.” Walt has his head down, completely enthralled with his cube.

  Think fast, Malone. I lean in across the desk and lower my voice. “Okay, fine. Officer, my name is Betty, and this is my brother, Rufus, and we’re from Cleveland. A few years back, I was self-diagnosed with abandonment issues and—”

  “Self-diagnosed?” Randy interrupts.

  “What did I say?”

  “You said self-diagnosed.”

  “That’s right.”

  Next to me, Walt is nodding emphatically.

  “So anyway,” I continue, “after our parents died, my brother here was put under my guardianship.”

  “How old are you, Betty?” Officer Randy asks, scribbling away in a notebook.

  “Eighteen,” I answer, barely able to keep a straight face. “So I took Rufus here under my wing. Well, I’ve had a few abandonment episodes recently, real ugly shit, you understand? So we’re headed to Boise to live with our Aunt Gerty. I’ve got a job lined up with Pringles, and Auntie Gee has agreed to let us live in her bonus room above the garage.”

  Randy’s pen stops abruptly. “Boise’s in Idaho,” he whispers, a gotcha smile spreading across his huge face. “Ahab said Iowa.”

  I clear my throat and cross my arms. “Yeah, well, like you said, Officer. Ahab’s a moron.”

/>   Officer Randy furrows his bulging brow. Dear God, please let him buy this story. There’s no telling what sort of chain reaction a curious cop in northern Kentucky might set off. I could kiss my Objective good-bye, that’s for sure.

  “You guys wait here,” he says. “I’m gonna get on the horn with the captain and see what I can do about getting you to Boise.”

  The human bobblehead wobbles from the room. I hop up, poke my head out the door, and watch him disappear around the corner.

  “Okay, Walt, listen up.” I turn, expecting him to be in la-la land with his cube. Instead, he’s standing right behind me, smiling, suitcase in hand. God bless him. “We’re not arrested, but it looks like we’re gonna have to break out of jail. You with me?”

  “Hey, hey, yeah,” he says, bouncing on his heels.

  Closing my good eye, I will every ounce of stealth, speed, and moxie into the toes of my Goodwill shoes. Mom—the flame of my fuse, the wind in my sail, the tick-tick-ticking clock in my ear—is sick. Labor Day is two days away. Forty-eight hours. I breathe in, out, in, in, out. I am energized. I am galvanized. I am mobilized, oxidized, and fully realized.

  I am Mary Iris Malone, the Mistress of Moxie.

  Stepping lightly into the hallway, my trusty high-tops lead us onward (ever onward!) through the small-town bustlings of the Independence police station. We fly past the bulletproof window protecting the captured dregs of society; past the closet-sized kitchen, with its engine-oil coffee and floppy box of day-old donuts. With buoyed spirits, surging stealth, and the white-water rapids of adrenaline, we follow my Velcro-laden friends into the foyer of the station: past the old lady in hysterics over her lost cat; past the debauched he-she in cowboy (cowgirl?) chaps; past the gorgeous guy with a black eye—

  I stop on a dime. Walt runs into my back, giggling.

  The guy with the black eye. It’s him—17C, from the Greyhound.

  “Come on,” says Walt, still chuckling under his breath. “We’re breaking out of jail.” He grabs my sleeve, and pulls every part of me—save my heart—out the front door.

  23

  The Many Perfections of Beck Van Buren

  “SORRY, LITTLE LADY. C’aint sell it to you without you got a valid driver’s license.”

  The guy pulls an apple out of I-don’t-know-where, then plants it in his Moses beard. I can only assume there’s a mouth in there somewhere.

  After our prison break, I was all set to hitchhike, when Walt spotted a FOR SALE sign in the window of a blue pickup in this guy’s yard. The problem is this: for certain, shall we say, cycloptic reasons, I’ve avoided taking the driver’s test like the plague.

  I pull my permit—which the great state of Ohio only requires a written exam to obtain—from my backpack, and flash the card in Moses’s face. “I have this. Same thing, basically.”

  He cracks a bite of his apple (damn thing is crisp), chews, says nothing.

  Walt unlatches his old suitcase, pulls out his Rubik’s Cube, and gets to work. Moses raises his eyebrows; I can actually see his patience waning.

  “Okay, fine,” I say, pulling out a wad of cash. “How about three hundred dollars? That’s fifty bucks more than you’re asking, cash in hand.”

  Walt clicks the red squares into place, claps me on the shoulder, and does a little jig right there on the front porch.

  “What’s wrong with him?” asks Moses, still eyeballing Walt.

  “He’s Walt, man. What’s your excuse?”

  Moses stops chewing momentarily, then backs up to shut the door.

  “Okay-no-wait-wait-look, I’m sorry. My friend and I just walked from the police station, so we’re—”

  “You see Randy down there?” he asks, cracking another bite.

  “I . . . what?”

  “Officer Randy. You see him?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “How is that ole sonuvabitch? Still a rat bastard?”

  I am Mary Iris Malone, a baffled bag of bones. “Are you gonna sell me your truck or not?”

  “Not,” he says with a mouthful.

  I twist my mom’s lipstick in my pocket. “Okay, I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

  “Kid, I got stuff to do. Without a license, I c’aint sell her to you. Now you and your . . . friend, here, need to clear off my porch.”

  “I have a license,” says a voice behind us.

  I turn to find 17C scrolling through pictures on his camera, standing in the front yard like a deep-rooted tree, like he’s been there for years. Somehow, that black eye only makes him more desirable.

  “And you are . . . ?” asks Moses.

  A) Perfect

  B) The god of Devastating Attractiveness

  C) A flawless specimen, created in a lab by mad scientists in an effort to toy with the heart of Mary Iris Malone

  D) All of the above

  I circle D. Final effing answer.

  He sticks his camera in a duffel bag and straps it around his chest. “I’m Beck,” he says, stepping up onto the porch and throwing an arm around my shoulder. “Her disapproving big brother.” He turns sideways, mere inches from my face. “I thought I told you to wait for me in the parking lot, sis.”

  Pushing my bangs out of my eyes, I’d pay literally, probably, I don’t know, maybe four hundred dollars for five minutes of prep time in a mirror right now.

  “Oh, right,” I say. “Sorry . . . bro. Forgot.” My usual witty vocabulary seems to have regressed into mushy, fragmented infant-speak.

  Beck sighs, leans in toward Moses. “She’d lose her arm if it wasn’t attached.”

  “Head,” I mutter.

  “What?”

  “I’d lose my head if it wasn’t attached.” I roll my eyes, praying it looks sisterly.

  “What did I say?” asks Beck.

  “You said arm.”

  He gives a psshh. “I don’t think so.”

  “Walt?” I say.

  Without looking up from his cube, Walt corroborates. “The new boy said ‘arm.’”

  Beck shrugs and turns back toward a bewildered Moses. I can almost hear the rusty wheels churning in his head, processing our little production. From somewhere behind him, he pulls out another apple and cracks a bite.

  “You said cash, right?”

  WALT TOSSES HIS old suitcase in the bed of the truck; we pile in and pull out of Moses the Apple Eater’s front yard. Beck mentions food, to which Walt and I hastily agree. On top of being insanely hungry, I’m not relishing the idea of exchanging stories with Beck. I’d love to know who he is and where he’s going (not to mention how he got from the Greyhound bus yesterday to the Independence police station today), but I’m sure he’s wondering the same about me. We’ll catch up, but we’ll do so with full stomachs.

  At Walt’s prodding, Beck pulls into a line of cars at a fast-food place called Medieval Burger. When this trip is over, I’m going to have to look into one of those trendy full-body cleanses, something to detox all this processed meat out of my system.

  “Did they even have burgers in the Middle Ages?” I wonder aloud.

  “Oh, sure,” says Beck. “Nothing more refreshing after a long day of crusading and pillaging and walking through the mud and what have you.”

  Oh God, he’s witty. “The Middle Ages were quite damp, weren’t they?”

  “And dreary.”

  Walt flips on the vintage turn-dial radio of the old truck and scans the waves. Landing on a Reds versus Cubs baseball game, he claps his hands and leans in to listen.

  The line inches forward, stops.

  “So?” says Beck.

  I turn to find him looking at me, arms crossed.

  “So what?”

  “How about a name, for starters?”

  “How about your name?”

  “I already told you. It’s B
eck.”

  “I just figured that was, you know, an alias or something.”

  Before he can respond, his cell phone rings. Pulling it from his jacket, he checks the caller ID and answers. “Yeah, hey.” Pause. “No.” Longer pause. “Claire, listen . . .”

  I become inexplicably interested in the analogue clock in the dashboard. It appears to be broken, as neither hand is moving. Interesting. Inexplicably so.

  “It’ll just take a few minutes,” he says. “I know.” Pause. “Okay, Claire.” Short pause. “Thanks.” He hangs up.

  Color me intrigued.

  “So.” He glances sideways. “What about that name?”

  I’m ready this time. “What, you mean—for the truck? Fabulous idea.” I twist around, look through the cab window, and tap my chin. “I’d say he looks like a Phil.”

  Beck smiles. “I have an uncle named Phil.”

  “No shit.” I pat the dashboard. “Uncle Phil it is.”

  We pull up to the speaker, and I wonder if Beck is as grateful for the interruption as I am. One of us is gonna have to break eventually.

  We give our orders and drive up to the window.

  “Here,” I say, taking a twenty from Kathy’s can. “I got this.”

  Beck doesn’t even put up a fight, which is both mildly curious and annoying. We pull into an empty parking spot while he divvies out Walt’s burger and fries, then his own. “So,” he says, folding up the bag.

  “Umm, my food is still in there.”

  “Oh, I know. And you’ll get it—but it’s gonna cost you.”

  “You mean more than the twenty bucks I already dished out?”

  Beck unwraps his burger, takes a bite, and nods. “S’good, too,” he says, his mouth full. “Real . . . medievally.”