by Dede Crane
Coming down the lane toward the house was a gray-haired guy and what looked like a small horse. The man was dressed in a tweed cap, khaki pants tucked into high rubber boots, white button-down shirt and stretched-out brown cardigan. He looked like someone out of one of those English TV dramas.
The horse looked our way and barked a deep booming bark that echoed up the hillside. A dog? The man hushed him and turned in behind the laundry, the freak-dog following.
Mom bought some of each vegetable, some pickled beets, a couple of jars of plum jam and three of tomato sauce. Nacie didn’t provide any bags — I think you were expected to bring your own — but she sold crocheted cotton ones. Crocheted by her, we found out. A clever way to make a few more bucks, I thought, but also decent. These old people lived clean.
“Would be good to stop using plastic bags,” I said to Mom. “Producing them is real polluting and incinerating them a huge source of dioxins.”
Nacie smiled at me. “Is that so?”
I nodded and smiled back.
“Okay,” said Mom, and she bought every last crocheted bag, twenty some in all.
Nacie picked up one of the little pillows and slipped it into a bag.
“For you,” she said to Mom.
“Thanks,” said Mom without asking what the hell it was for. She started down to the car.
I looked at Nacie and was about to ask myself when she said, “It’s a sleep pillow, made of lavender and flax seeds, to lay over the eyes at night. The flax has a cooling effect and the lavender calms, helps you sleep.”
I nodded. “Thanks.” If anyone needed sleep it was my mother.
In the car, my knee still hurt. I pulled up my pant leg to see a purple and yellow bruise starting.
By the time we got home, Mom was exhausted and went right to bed. I made her take the sleep pillow, told her how to use it. Dad helped me put the groceries away but kept making these stupid comments.
“Goat’s milk, huh? Don’t goats eat tin cans?”
He picked up the new shampoo. It was a leafy-green color. Organics was the name, the label claiming seventy percent organic ingredients.
“It’s the other thirty percent you have worry about,” said Dad.
“I doubt it,” I said.
“Let me guess. Costs twice as much as regular shampoo.”
As I stuffed the shopping bags under the sink, I saw two Slurpee cups in the garbage. Dad must have taken Maggie when we were out. The amount of food coloring in that shit!
Just to prove Dad wrong about the shampoo and tell him so, I looked Organics up on the net.
Turned out it had just as much chemical crap as normal shampoo. Piss me off. Using the name Organics. Didn’t anyone have any morals anymore? Or was Dad right that these small amounts weren’t a big deal? But then what about the billion people flushing these chemicals down the drain into streams, lakes and the feckin’ ocean. And what happened when they got mixed up with chemicals in bleach, detergents, turpentine and whatever else was going down our drains? The fish bathed in it, we ate the fish… man, this world was messed.
Just to screw myself even more, I looked up babies, breast milk and carcinogens.
A newborn baby in America has 230 industrial chemicals in its blood and urine the morning it’s born — 190 of which are linked to cancer.
Jeez! I punched off the computer screen. I needed to go find Davis and nuke some brain cells. No doubt dope was grown with killer pesticides ’cause the bikers and gangs who grew it wouldn’t give a crap. But I refused to think about that.
Davis’s line was busy so I grabbed my camera and went over there.
10 Spermbags
Davis lived with his dad because his mom traveled so much, teaching yoga at various “voodoo centers,” as his dad called them. Yoga was what she got into after being married to Davis’s dad. “Her detox,” Davis called it.
In his room, Davis was sprinkling leaf onto some papers.
“Look in there,” he said, pointing to his desk.
“Why?”
“Just look. Side cabinet.” His eyebrows did a little dance.
I opened the cabinet door and was literally blinded by the light. A hole had been hacked into the cabinet’s back wall, and a lamp set in the hole was shining on a half dozen little plants.
“Grow light,” he explained. “Gray, meet my girls.”
“Are you kidding me?” I shook my head.
“Well, I hope they’re girls because the females are the only ones that produce bud. And I’m going organic with them, you’ll be happy to know. They’re grown with love, organic compost, and some of this stuff.” He picked up a little plastic bottle. African violet plant food. “They go nuts for this stuff. Makes them sing and do the hula.”
“What do you do when they outgrow your desk?”
“Plant them.”
“Where?”
“Dunno yet.”
“Your dad wants you, Davis,” called Laurie, rapping on the door.
“Dad’s slave,” whispered Davis, hooking his thumb at the door. Laurie was stepmom number two. Mom Two, as Davis called her. There was Mom One, and his actual mom who he called Real Mom.
Davis’s dad met Laurie at an AA meeting. Davis said the only reason his dad had gone to the meetings was that he’d heard it was an easy place to meet women because they were all vulnerable with shame.
“One minute,” called Davis, licking the rolling papers.
“Now,” called back his dad.
“He wants to show you something with the fish,” said Laurie anxiously.
Davis pulled the joint through his lips and slipped it in his jacket pocket. “He got a fresh salmon off a buddy who’s a commercial fisherman. He’s all proud. Thinks he caught it himself.”
* * *
Davis’s dad stood over the sink, a bloodied knife in one hand, a beer in the other.
“Come here, Dave. You, too, Gray,” he ordered.
“Go see,” urged Laurie.
There was a crucifix over the sink, a large cheesy pink thing that must have been new because it was too big for me to have not noticed before.
“I sliced her belly and look at this.” He lifted up two herring — one looked fresh, the other half digested. “Girl’s full of fish,” he laughed. “Feed them to the cat.” He dangled the herring over his shoulder for Laurie.
“Do you think raw fish is good for — ”
“It’s a cat, isn’t it?”
Laurie took the slimy fish.
“And would you look at this.” He dug with his knife and sniggered. “She’s not a she after all. Know how you tell a girl fish from a boy fish?” He looked right at me.
“No. How?”
He lifted out some weird stringy thing with a little pouch in its center.
“Know what this is?” He leaned toward me. His breath was a tangy mix of beer and nicotine.
“No,” said Davis, sounding bored.
“It’s a sperm bag. A delicacy in Japan.”
“Cool,” said Davis unconvincingly.
“Cool,” I echoed with more enthusiasm.
“You bet it’s cool,” said Davis’s dad as he shoved Davis hard with his elbow. Davis fell against me and I hit my back on the counter. “It’s cool because you didn’t know it before and now you do. So your little brain learned something today. Now get out of here.”
“Sorry my dad’s both a creep and an asshole,” said Davis once we were outside.
“What? Come on. Spermbag’s a seriously dice word,” I said, happy to get him to laugh. “Mine’s an asshole lately, too.” Though I had to admit that Davis’s dad made mine look like Jesus.
* * *
Davis and I got high and took pictures. Maybe it was because the sky was an o
vercast, metallic gray but, unlike at that farm, everything here in the burbs looked sad. I took pictures of rusted tacks pinning yellowed paper to the dead telephone pole. Another of the cracked, crumbling sidewalk. Of mud-splattered candy wrappers in the gutters. Of the paint store sign with the neon letter T burned out so it read “Hammond’s Pain.”
Davis accidentally stepped on the back end of an ant and I took a close-up of its front legs clawing the air. When I swore I heard it crying, I put it out of its misery.
We walked through the playground where the red paint was chipping off the poles of the swing set. That’s when I had one of those stoner realizations that seem really profound at the time.
Everything, from the moment it was made, began dying. Something was brand new for only a second of time and then it started to break down. From the tallest buildings to the smallest ant, everything was falling to pieces attempting to get back to its origins: nothing.
I thought about my body and how one day it, too, would be nothing but bone which would turn to ash which would be blown apart by the wind. Poof.
And then I started to feel faint and had to sit down on one of the swings.
“Hey,” said Davis, taking the swing next to me. “Here’s one. Every night before the bogeyman goes to sleep, he checks under his bed for Chuck Norris.” He laughed his donkey guffaw and I started laughing, too. Then, as if some switch was broken inside, I couldn’t stop. I laughed till my head felt like it was spinning and then I started having trouble breathing so had to calm myself down.
“You know those little signs in the school stairwell?” I said when I could breathe again. I was feeling all serious now. “The ones that say don’t disturb or remove?”
“Sure.”
“Those walls are full of asbestos.”
“Yeah?” Davis started to pump his swing.
“That shit is like one of the most carcinogenic substances in existence.”
“But don’t you like have to inhale it?” Davis said as he swung by, his voice loud then soft.
“I don’t know. Still.”
Davis was swinging seriously high now and singing some song I couldn’t make out.
“I thought you could trust adults,” I said. “But maybe they’re not smart. Maybe they’re idiots. And we’re being taught to be idiots, too — to go to school, get an education, then a job so we can buy a killer car, then a toxic house full of toxic crap, buy new improved lemon-scented detergent that kills the ocean…”
Davis was swinging really high now.
“You know what?” I said.
Davis launched into the air, ridiculously high, and landed on his feet in the sand with a dull smack.
“What?” He jumped around to face me, chest out, hands on his hips like a superhero.
“I’m going to quit my stupid job.”
“Yeah, stupid job. Although, I’ll miss those free previews.”
“I want go live like a caveman.”
“Oo-oo, ya,” yelled Davis, nodding. He stabbed a finger toward me. “Goo, ma, moo?” He hunched up his shoulders and began pretend-picking his nose. He spoke in grunts and gestures the rest of the night, and I understood every word.
* * *
When I got home, it was way past my curfew. Normally Mom would have gotten out of bed to throw a mild fit but she didn’t bother. She wasn’t sweating the small stuff, I guess.
Maggie was passed out on the couch in the living room, her movie still playing on the TV. I turned it off. Every so often her pain was so uncomfortable, she couldn’t sleep and ended up down here zoning out on TV. She was all set up with pillows and comforter. On the coffee table was an apple core and half-eaten rice cake spread with almond butter, a glass of water, a box of unbleached tissues, two prescription bottles and a deck of cards. She and Mom had an ongoing rummy match, a penny a point.
Snoring through her nose, Maggie was making little pig snuffles. In the old days, meaning a few weeks ago, I would have pinched her nostrils closed, laughed as she struggled to catch a breath and then startled awake.
Asleep, she looked even younger than twelve. More like a perfectly healthy six-year-old. She was holding a bottle of pink nail polish in one hand, her nails a pearly pink. I pulled out my camera and snapped some pictures.
A raised voice came from upstairs. I couldn’t tell whose, but it didn’t sound happy.
In the kitchen I grabbed a bag of baked not fried potato chips, a couple of organic bananas and a glass of goat’s milk and went downstairs. I sipped the milk. It was thicker than I was used to and had a goaty thing going on but it wasn’t bad.
I went online and looked up nail polish. Nail polish contained phthalates, a carcinogen. Shit. Maybe it was the nail polish. Maggie loved painting her nails. Had been doing it since she was three. I’d tell Mom tomorrow.
I would have thought Dad would know this stuff. He was the scientist in the family, after all.
I watched some TV, then went on line and messaged Nat.
looking forward 2 Friday. killer fettucini alfredo at Little Italy? caesar salad, garlic bread, tiramisu.
If she couldn’t decide where to go, I might as well. I hoped I spelled the dessert thing right. Dad took us there on Mother’s Day last year and I got that very dinner. It was seriously good.
looking 4ward 2 ur place after.
I got all warm thinking about those condoms in my wallet. Those spermbags, I thought, and burst out laughing. Just like at the playground, laughter took me over like some sort of internal earthquake, and I almost puked my goat’s milk.
I thought to warn Nat about the crap that was in her whitening toothpaste. I was about to sign off and go masturbate my way into oblivion when a message popped up.
It was Ciel.
hi gray, how’s maggie feeling? it must be so hard for your folks. and what about u? r u doing alright?
I suddenly choked up and couldn’t write back. Since Maggie’s diagnosis, not one person had asked how I was doing.
* * *
Monday morning at school, I ran into Natalie and company by the Coke machine. The benzene machine as I thought of it, which was next to the hydrogenated fat machine full of chips and candy bars.
Erin, her eyes bright and nervous, asked how my mom was doing.
“She’s okay,” I shrugged and checked out Nat’s new hair. “Whoa, your hair looks amazing.” A matching midnight blue bra strap showed at her shoulder. A new bra. Just for me?
Nat smiled her bleached white smile, tossed her hair from her eyes but didn’t answer me back.
“My mom and I saw your mom in the grocery store on Saturday,” said Erin, glancing at Natalie. “She was like yelling at the manager. And she had a cart full of groceries but she wasn’t buying them, she was returning them.”
“Yeah, well. It’s because of Maggie. We’re trying to clean out all the chemicals from — ”
“I thought she was going to hit him,” said Erin.
The bell rang and the girls scuttled off down the hall, taking Natalie with them.
I looked for Natalie between classes as well as at lunch but our paths somehow didn’t cross. After school I saw her driving off with her mom. She hadn’t said a word to me all day.
Later, I tried to call her. Her mother answered and told me she was out.
“Can you ask her to call me?”
“Sure, sweetie. Though I know she has a lot of homework to catch up on.”
Natalie didn’t call back, but then Mom had been talking to Grammy on the phone most of the night so I didn’t think anything of it.
* * *
The next day I found her alone by her locker and slipped my arm around her beautiful waist. She startled.
“Oh, you scared me, Gray. Don’t,” she said and took a step away.
Don’t what? “Hey, I made reservations at Little Italy.”
She nodded. “Yeah, you told me.”
“Can’t wait,” I said and paused, hoping she’d say the same. When she didn’t, I asked if she wanted to get a slice at lunch despite the fact that I’d brought my lunch — homemade squash muffins and kale soup — in solidarity with Maggie.
“I have to spend lunch in the library. English stuff.” She took hold of the sleeve of my red shirt and rubbed it between her fingers. “Nice color. What’s this scratchy material? Raw silk?”
“Organic hemp. Found out that growing cotton uses — ”
“Really?” she laughed. “A marijuana shirt?”
“Not quite the same kind of hemp.”
“Why did you send me that stuff about my toothpaste?”
“Well, because it’s got a lot of toxic crap in it.”
“Probably why it works so well.” She huffed a little laugh. “Anyway, I gotta go.”
I suddenly wanted to run after her, grab her, hold her, kiss her, make her want me as much as I wanted her.
Desperation, I reminded myself, was not cool. So me and my organic shirt walked away.
11 Matter Minds
Maggie was in the kitchen eating her organic porridge, Mom at the counter kneading dough. She’d started making her own bread. Maggie was wearing a new shirt. I was starting to notice things like that.
“Hey, Maggie, new shirt?”
“I silkscreened one of those organic cotton T-shirts Mom got…” She leaned back real slow in her chair as if it hurt to do so and stretched the navy blue surface flat. “It’s the moon, see, surrounded by stars.” She pointed out a scatter of little silver bits. “And this hazy swirl up here is the Milky Way.”
“Isn’t it great?” said Mom a little too enthusiastically. “Designed it herself.”
“Yeah, it’s good.” I grabbed an apple and the phone rang.
“Can you drive me to school?” Maggie asked Mom. “My legs are achy and — ”
“Of course I’ll drive you. And I’ll pick you up,” she said and answered the phone.
Maggie left to go brush her teeth. I ate my apple and listened to Mom.
