“Well, now, look at you,” she joshed. “Keeping busy, as usual.”
Stevick guiltily withdrew his hand from the duffel bag and stood alert to indicate his vigilance, though now, rain cleared, umbrella folded, it was hardly evident what his duties were. He’d always had to straighten his posture in Charlotte’s presence, her height and perfect carriage a kind of warning or rebuke to him, and now he found himself wishing that she’d step off the curb, down to his level. The three planks that covered the hole were too expertly flush to the asphalt to be any help to him.
“There’s a man in this hole, Charlotte.” It was the second time he’d tried to even the field by stating this absolute truth, almost as if he needed to hear it himself to believe it, though he’d been presiding there all day. He wanted acknowledgment of his effort, but first he had to establish the basic situation.
“Sure,” Charlotte said. “I’ve heard of this sort of thing.”
“I guess I’d heard of it, too, though it’s different to have it right in front of you. Still, I guess it has to be somewhere.”
“True enough,” Charlotte said. “I just hadn’t pictured you getting involved. But by your logic, I suppose, someone had to step forward.”
Stevick couldn’t really improve on this sentiment, so he let it stand.
“So, what’s in the bag?” Nothing was lost on Charlotte, he had to give her that.
“More sandwiches, I suspect,” Stevick said, surprising himself with the guess. Should they be called rations, or provisions? It depended on who was eating them, he supposed. “They’re not bad, if you like chicken salad. Take one, if you’re hungry.”
Charlotte had by this time poked inside the bag, assuming her usual privileges in regard to Stevick’s boundaries, and pulled out a plastic-wrapped jumpsuit, identical, except for its virgin state, to those worn by the operatives and by the captive below. There appeared to be four or five of these stacked within the small duffel.
“You’re hired!” Charlotte exclaimed. “You’ve been promoted from a temp position to staff.”
Stevick found himself pleasingly able to ignore her goading. In many ways, Charlotte, like much else, was receding from view. The new conditions made irony a luxury. Was he meant to hoard the jumpsuits for his own use or to recruit other operatives from the neighborhood? Or, for that matter, were they intended for future incarcerees? Stevick considered the possibility that he’d eventually be fitted for a hole himself. The beauty of the uniform was that it settled nothing.
“Do you want to see him?” he asked Charlotte, and immediately regretted a question that seemed inappropriate, even somewhat craven on his part. He knew only after he’d said it that he would never again let himself use the man in the hole as a token or a bargaining chip. He was a person!
Charlotte’s cavalier reply felt predestined. “No, thank you,” she said. “I should go, I’m running late. But it’s really good to see you doing so well, Stevick.” Her voice was like a pat on a baby’s downy skull.
The hint of tenderness cloaking Charlotte’s dismissal disgusted Stevick. Talk about your passing connections! Stevick felt closer after a single day to the man in the hole, though they’d exchanged not a word. As he watched Charlotte make her way up the street, Stevick experienced only relief that she’d refused his suggestion. To pry up the planks when he had nothing to offer was a small indignity he had spared the captive below. The last thing Stevick wished to do, after all, was annoy him with inessentials. Success in an endeavor like this one lay in the details. Stevick was certain he was going to do a good job.
Their Back Pages
Page one, panel one, the island. A dense atoll in a wide barren sea peppered with shark’s fins. Palm trees, sandy shore, pale lagoons, distant smoldering volcano, etc. Interior rain forest cloaking caves, freshwater springs, shrieking inhuman trills, a nest of ferns where bleached skeletons embrace, who can say what else.
Page one, panel two, the plane. A bolted turnip with wings, now aflame.
Page one, panel three, porthole windows of plane. In first class, the Dingbat Clan. Father Theophobe Dingbat, mother Keener Dingbat, son Spark Dingbat, daughter Lisa Dingbat. In coach, Large Silly (a clown), Poacher Junebug (a hunter), C. Phelps Northrup (a theater critic), Murkly Finger (a villain), Peter Rabbit (a rabbit), King Phnudge (King of the Phnudges), C’Krrrarn (a monster). Large Silly and C. Phelps Northrup are in black and white, all others are in color. All gaze downward, terrified, except C’Krrrarn, who plays computer solitaire.
Page one, panel four, splashdown. The plane’s wings curl inward to cover its windshield as it crashes into the lagoon. The wings have fingers, and the doomed pilot and doomed copilot peer from between the fingers like eyeballs.
*
From The Journals of C. Phelps Northrup
July 14
On this fifth day of our desolitude I fear our little compact of necessity has fractured. Mr. and Mrs. Dingbat have refused Poacher Junebug’s sagacious notion that we depart the beach for the caves of the interior, insisting that salvage is imminent and in trepidation of the rumored wolverines and bandicoots roaming the deeper groves. However, despite his intrepitude and riflery, Poacher Junebug has succeeded in bagging nothing, which circumstance neither allays our fears nor stocks our larder. The hunter also continually alludes, in snide asides, to the possible deluxe repast to be made of Peter Rabbit. Hence, much dissension, resulting in parturition of our ranks; Peter Rabbit now savors protection within the circled wagons of the Dingbat Family, on the sand where we first crawled ashore, while Poacher Junebug, Large Silly, King Phnudge, and I have undertaken to conquestify the interior. Murkly Finger has, too, stayed behind and entrenched on the beach, in a fragment of the airplane’s darkened hull, within which he hoards untold provisions. Only King Phnudge has managed penetration of Finger’s lair (King Phnudge has no arms and so perhaps represented no threat to Finger’s cache), but his vocabulary was inadequate for conveying to us any sense of the inventory he’d espied there:
“Creamy dreamy breamy—hip hurdle hoo!”
C’Krrrarn has of course from the first gone his own way. He was sighted again, by the brainy little Dingbat girl, early this morning, posed atop the volcano. Lisa summoned us all to see him there, still as sculpture, foreclaw beckoning to the new sun.
*
PRE-NOSTALGIA CLEARANCE SALE!!!
LIMITED EDITION DINGBAT SODA
REDUCED
FUTURE COLLECTOR’S ITEMS???
T. DINGBAT’S BEER COLA (nonalcoholic)
KEENER’S LITE ICE TEA
LISA DINGBAT’S CHERRY-ROOT BREW
SPARK’S FIZZUM (caffeine-reduced)
GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN???
TWENTY DOLLARS PER CASE
DINGBATS WE MISS U!!!
*
Ten-year-old Spark Dingbat wandered the beach at midday, wearing an inverted bowl of woven palm fronds, a sun hat fashioned by Keener, his mom. Spark had left his family and Peter Rabbit at the campsite they’d improvised, a ring of crappy lean-tos encircling a presumptive fire that his dad, Theophile, had serially failed to light. His sister, Lisa, having forged a twee, cooing alliance with the terrified hare, Spark was left somewhat on the outside. Now, obstinately solo, he strolled at the shell-strewn beach’s exact margin, where the wiper blade of surf just dyed the pinkish sand a wetter hue, where his eight toes were teased by a fringe of bubbles.
Rounding the top of a rocky knoll, a view unfolded below of an inlet sheltered from the harder surf of the surrounding beaches. Two fat figures splashed there. Large Silly and King Phnudge. Spark clambered past the spit of rock and eased down the sand embankment, to stare from the inlet’s grassy ridge. The clown had removed his shoes and clothing, all but his jet-black underwear. His feet were enormous, his white body both fleshy and firm, like the ripest fruit. King Phnudge remained fully dressed, or perhaps he was painted. His crown and beard seemed to flow into his collar, and his collar seemed to be one with his belt and his boots, le
ss accoutrements than fancy outcroppings of his smooth, pudgy whole. Armless, he splashed excitedly side to side in water that came to what should have been his knees, while beside him the clown beat maniacally in the water with a large forked stick, a dowser who’d discovered the sea. The two made a natural pair in Spark’s eyes. Their other strong resemblance was to his father, but Spark suspected no one among the islanders would ever remark it. His father was famous. Large Silly and King Phnudge were nobodies.
“What are you doing?”
Large Silly and King Phnudge wheeled, completely surprised.
“What’s it look like, boy? Poacher said he saw some sea bream in this pool.”
“Fishy splishy wishy hup huzzoo!”
“How are you going to catch them?”
“With nets of vapid questions and sarcasm. In our teeth. With that headgear of yours—hey, there’s a notion. Cough up the fedora, lad.”
“Use the king’s crown.”
“Crowns, if you hadn’t noticed, have a hole in the middle. Besides, I don’t think it comes off.”
“Stuckity pluckity pizzazz—hooble hoo!”
Spark sighed and passed his hat to the eager clown, then watched as it was thrashed to fragments in the hopelessly clumsy attempt at fishing. Spark never saw evidence of a fish. If there had been any, king and clown had certainly frightened them off. Keener’s meticulously woven palm fronds were borne off with the seaweed and foam in the pool’s gentle tide.
*
C’KRRRARN TEARS OFF THE TOP OF A PALM TREE AND FEEDS!!!
C’Krrrarn is staying within himself.
C’KRRRARN TEARS OFF A CORNER OF THE VOLCANO AND FEEDS!!!
C’Krrrarn is staying within himself.
C’KRRRARN TEARS OFF A CHUNK OF THE OCEAN AND DEVOURS IT!!!
C’Krrrarn sits perfectly still and tries to empty his mind.
C’KRRRARN SLURPS THE BLOOD OF THE DINGBATS!!!
Long study has demonstrated to C’Krrrarn that the other person is himself.
C’KRRRARN TEARS OFF A PORTION OF THE HORIZON AND DEVOURS IT!!!
C’Krrrarn gazes into the horizon and the horizon gazes into C’Krrrarn and each is calm and free of desire.
*
From Poacher Junebug, an Index
Island, Accursed, panel 4044
Island, Confounded, panels 3176, 3189, 3204n, 3226, 3564, 3573, 3888, 4002, 4036
Island, Consarn deviltry of, panels 3344–45, 6455, 3988n, 4012
Island, Dadburned critters on, panels 3224, 3656, 3813, 4009
Island, Dingblasted fools on, panels 3208, 3225, 3457, 3800–1, 4009
Island, Durned, panel 4129
Island, Goshforsaken, panels 3185, 3765
Island, Riddiculush, panels 3345, 3679, 4088–89
Island, Terrible, panels 3899, 4034, 4067, 4122
Island, Woeful, panels 3550, 3823, 4129
Island, Wretched be this, panels 3944, 4191
*
From The Journals of C. Phelps Northrup
July 27
Decline sets in. Tempests wreak havoc on our poor dwellings every third day. Between, corrosive sunshine. Despondent over prospects of rescue. We find little and less to eat. Eighteen days and we come to know some of our companions too well, others not at all. Murkly Finger roams the shore at night, cackling. In sunlight he retracts like a rodent to his hole, around which he has erected an array of sharpened sticks dug in pits of sand, disguised with flimsy leaf cover and more sand, and which would collapse inward at a footfall. The clown floats on his back in the spring where we would drink, moaning snatches of merry song, muttering wry punch lines without any jokes to them. He has forsaken his hygiene, enclothed in only his undergarment and a purple island hyacinth, its stem wended in his loopy tufts of hair. His feet are rotting. Poacher Junebug, I now understand, catches nothing, fulminates only. The rabbit is in no danger, except from himself. Like the derelict clown, the hare has abandoned clothing, shedding his red waistcoat and bow tie. He now goes on all fours, heeding some natural call. Lisa Dingbat, that former exemplary tot, follows him everywhere, and she too presently goes au naturel. I tried to confabulate with her one recent afternoon and she only sniffed and nibbled at the air, issuing a rabbity wheezing sigh, perhaps believing herself a sibling to Peter. The other Dingbats remain largely hidden from view. They must be hungry.
One seldom thinks of C’Krrrarn these days.
King Phnudge, unexpectedly, makes good companionship. We freqently embark on foraging walks together, gleaning nothing of consequence or edibility but nonetheless conveying if only to each other a heartening tone of decorum and kinship. King Phnudge alone, besides myself, retains the outward dressing of his former self (I should say: apart from my top hat, which was stolen and presumably devoured by a monkey). He cleaves to good cheer at all times and acts as though bounded, as we all once were, by the strict gutters and panels of decency. Despite his gormless patois, I find myself understanding his highness better and better.
*
Phnudgesong
Fear and rage it shakes my soul
I say only Poorly Moorly—deedle dole!
I want to fuck and eat and strangle you
I say only Starving Carving—hoodle hoo!
Shit hole shit hole shit hole
I’m sick of myself—hup hizzole!
*
“I’m better than this. I’m better than these people. I don’t belong here!”
“Try this on, dear.”
“I don’t want to try anything on. I don’t need another hat. I want my family, nobody’s even listening to me. Where are the children?”
“It’s not a hat. Lisa’s playing with the rabbit, and Spark is out exploring the island.”
“Quit crafting stuff out of palm fronds and frogskins and pond scum, Keener. Nobody needs that shit.”
“Just see if it fits, Theo.”
“How could they send me to a place with monsters and hunters and clowns and theater critics? The clown and the theater critic, they’re not even in color and I want to go home! They make me feel old!”
“Nobody sent you, honey. Our plane crashed.”
“It’s a setup. It’s always a setup. What were we even doing on a plane with those types? What is this, some kind of wicker hockey mask? I can’t breath through this thing.”
“Oh, that looks silly. It’s not for your face. Put it down … there.”
“You wove me a thatched codpiece?!?!?”
“I’m working on breastplates and a helmet. The samurai often wore wicker armor, you know.”
“What good is wicker armor on an island?!?!”
“I’m just trying to get you prepared for a new life, lover.”
“!@&$%#! I don’t want a new life! I want my old life!”
“You’ll eventually have to lead this island, Theo. Nobody else is going to do it. Peter Rabbit isn’t going to do it. The black-and-white characters aren’t suited for it. Poacher Junebug’s discredited himself. King Phnudge, well, he’s just not right. And Murkly is a villain.”
“That’s another thing, I don’t want to go around there anymore, I don’t like the way he looks at you!”
“He can’t help himself, Theo. I just wanted to bring him a sun hat.”
“Did he let you into his little hiding place?”
“Yes, we sat and had a very nice talk.”
“I don’t want you to have a very nice talk!!!!”
“Yes, dear. I won’t in the future.”
“How can I lead the island when I can’t even keep tabs on the Dingbats?!?!?!”
*
Spark Dingbat ascended the volcano easily. It had steps. Near the top he passed a small pyramid of skulls in various shapes and sizes—a skull duck with giant ovoid eyes, a skull robot with antenna ears, a skull pig with a tiny bone beret incorporated into its cranium.
C’Krrrarn perched at the rim of the volcano, seeming bigger than he had in the plane, looming like an outcropping of the rock its
elf. As the tiny beret was to the pig’s skull, so C’Krrrarn was to the volcano. Beyond C’Krrrarn, Spark saw trickles of steam seeping from between burnt-umber rocks, the undersides of which glowed orangely, like enormous briquettes. Seagulls massed on C’Krrrarn’s brow and shoulders, their dried liquid droppings striping him in the manner of a jailbird character, perhaps some crow or weasel standing before a parole board of bulldogs.
“I hope I’m not bothering you.”
C’Krrrarn did not speak.
“You didn’t look like you were doing anything.”
C’Krrrarn did not speak.
“Are you waiting for something?”
C’Krrrarn did not speak.
“My mom says you could just probably swim off this island any time you wanted, or else maybe walk along the ocean floor, but then where would you go, because it’s not like you have a home somewhere, and maybe in a way this island is as much like a home as you’ve ever known, and maybe we even crashed here because you were sort of attracted to the island from the airplane, like you felt some kind of geomagnetic tropism or maybe you glanced down and it reminded you of your mom and dad, do you think that might be right?”
C’Krrrarn did not speak.
“Are you going to kill us all? Just kidding.”
C.D.N.S.
“How can you sit like that in the same position for so long? Don’t your legs or your butt fall asleep?”
C.D.N.S.
“My mom is weaving you a tatami mat out of all this crud from the beach. Do you know what a tatami mat is? She said you would.”
C.D.N.S.
“Do you mind if I sit here for a minute?”
*
Note to artist: Everywhere along the bottom gutters of the pages now, muddy footprints, rabbit droppings, and Dingbat spoor (ed.: What does that look like?), forming an abject trail of smeary pictograms spelling out an unknown future.
Lucky Alan : And Other Stories (9780385539821) Page 6
