After that, Dirk drove along Sunset to the Carney’s hot dog train.
“Do you have a dollar?” The boy sitting in front of Carney’s looked like Sid Vicious. “I’m Sinbad,” he said.
He was really skinny so Dirk motioned for him to follow him in. But when they were sitting on the bench outside, Sinbad said he didn’t want the hot dog Dirk had bought.
“I’m a vampire,” he said.
“A what?”
“A vampire.”
He bared his teeth. He had fangs.
“They’re bonded on,” he said. “They really work. Want to see?”
“No,” Dirk said.
“Don’t you want to exchange blood with me?” He leaned closer on the bench.
“Get away from me,” said Dirk.
“You don’t know what might happen,” said Sinbad.
Two boys walked by, leaning against each other, sharing a frozen yogurt.
“If you ask me all those fags are going to die out,” said Sinbad.
As he got in his car, wishing he had brought Kaboodle for a kiss and a wink, Dirk thought of Sinbad’s eyes. They were familiar. Where had he seen them? Then Dirk knew he had seen those eyes in the mirror when he scrutinized his face for blemishes and imperfections, when he imagined that no one would ever love him.
Fifi was volunteering at a local hospital the next night. Dirk was home listening to his Adolescents album.
“I hate them all—creatures.”
The angry voice made Fifi’s collection of plaster Jesus statues shake as if there were an earthquake, or as if they were about to start slamming, Dirk thought. He imagined a pit full of slamming plaster Jesuses. He didn’t like the thought.
Suddenly Fifi’s music box with the ballerina on top began to play, the ballerina going around and around on one toe. The china cabinet doors flew open and Fifi’s coaster collection spun out like tiny Frisbees. Dirk covered his head to protect himself. The clown paintings on the walls swung back and forth, and Dirk thought he heard them laughing evil clown laughter. Dirk had never liked the clowns. He turned away from their leering mouths and saw the plaster Jesus statues slamming. Dirk stared into the eyes of one of them. The eyes were glowing. The statue fell from the shelf and its head broke off but the eyes kept sizzling like fried eggs. Finally the Adolescents’ song was over and the house was quiet. Dirk heard an owl hooting in a branch outside the window and some cats screaming. He could have screamed like that. He plucked his wet T-shirt away from his sweating body and collapsed on the bed.
Fear, the band, was playing out in the valley. Dirk armed himself in chains and the leather motorcycle jacket. He rode the 101. The freeway made him think of loss instead of hope, stretching out under a hovering orangish buzz of night air, not seeming to lead anywhere. At night the valley felt deserted. Dirk drove down barren streets under tall streetlamps. The little houses looked blank, as if they wanted to deny that anything unpleasant happened in or around them, but the way they were nestling under the crackling telephone wires, Dirk knew they were afraid.
Dirk got to the place where Fear was. Punks were hanging out in the parking lot drinking beers, smoking, grimacing—everything out of the sides of their mouths. White-bleached hair bright under the blue lights, black-dyed hair stiff with hair spray, ears and noses pierced with metal, backs covered with leather. Some boys were giving each other tattoos with ink and needles. One boy was burning his arm with a cigarette butt while a girl shrieked at him. Dirk couldn’t tell if she was laughing or crying.
He went inside. The lead singer’s square white head and hate-filled mouth seemed blown up, larger than life. As the music speeded, Dirk climbed out of the pit, up onstage and flung himself into the slamming mash of bodies. As he fell into the sweating arms he felt desire inside and around him but it was a brutal thing, feverish and dangerous. He looked into the eyes of one boy and saw that the desire was mixed with a hate so deep it had the same shape as the swastika tattoo on the side of the boy’s vein-corded neck. Dirk knew there was nothing he could say to the boy that would change what he thought about the thing inked so deep into his flesh, inked so deep into him. It wasn’t like shrink wrap. But he said it anyway.
“Fuck fascist skinhead shit.”
Swastika and two other boys with the same tattoo followed Dirk outside when the show was over.
“Where you going, faggot?” the first boy said.
Dirk felt they had looked inside of him to his most terrible secret and it shocked him so much that he lost all the quiet strength he had been trying to build for as long as he could remember.
“Fuck you,” he whispered.
The skinheads were on him all at once. Dirk saw their eyes glittering like mica chips with the reflection of his own self-loathing. He wondered if he deserved this because he wanted to touch and kiss a boy. The sound of everything was so loud and he kept seeing the skinhead skulls with the stubble, the bunches of flesh at the back of the neck like a bulldog’s. His own head felt like a shell. A thin one you could crush on the beach. He had never realized how delicate his head was. This pain was hardly different from what he had always felt inside—torn, jarred, pummeled. In a way it was a relief—a confirmation of that other pain. But he wanted to escape it all finally.
He wanted to die.
When the blood had stopped pouring enough for him to see, Dirk drove home. He never knew, later, how he made it. He had to stop every so often to lean his head against the wheel. Blood was all over the car upholstery.
Once when he looked up from the steering wheel he saw a house crossing the road. It was a cheerful-looking yellow house moving on wheels through the valley night. Dirk thought at first he must be hallucinating. Then he thought, my father. He didn’t know why but that was what he thought. He leaned his head back down and when he looked up the house was gone.
When he got home finally he managed somehow to get the lamp Fifi had given him off the front of the car and carry it inside. He staggered to the bathroom and washed the gashes on his face while Kaboodle whimpered at his feet and gently pawed his leg. His reflection pitched and blurred in the mirror. Blood was caking now, turning darker and thicker.
Dirk steadied himself by leaning against the wall until he got to his bed. He fell down there and closed his eyes.
Dirk dreamed of the train. It was moving through the hills, through the forests like a thought through his mind, like blood through a vein in him. There were the fathers taking their showers. They were naked and close together under the water. But something was different. Thin fathers. Emaciated bodies. Shaved scalps. Something was happening. What was happening? Not water. Gas. Coming through the pipes. Gas to make their lungs explode. Dying fathers as the train kept going kept going kept going. To hell.
PART II
Gazelle’s Story
Kit was lying over Dirk’s heart staring at him, her usually aloe-vera-green eyes now black with pupil. Even Kit could not take away the pain flashing and shrieking through Dirk’s body like an ambulance. His blood shivered.
Help me; tell me a story, Dirk thought, knowing that somewhere in the room the lamp was waiting. Tell me a story that will make me want to live, because right now I don’t want to live. Help me.
He shut his eyes.
The wind was tapping the peach tree’s long thin leaf fingers against the window. The moon cast shadows of the branches across the floor. Dirk sat up in bed and Kit jumped off of him, yowling. It felt as if Dirk’s heart leaped out of his body with her. In the corner of the room beside the golden lamp the figure of a woman was seated on a chair. She was wearing a long dress of creamy satin covered with satin roses and beads that shone like crystals under rushing water, raindrops in the moonlight. There was a veil over her face but Dirk could see her pallor, the sadness in her eyes. Eyes like his own. He clutched his wild-duck-printed flannel pajama shirt closer around his chest impulsively but he was no longer cold. And the pain was far away now—a fading red light, a retreating siren.
&nbs
p; Am I alive? Dirk wondered.
He wished that the woman would go away. But she looked so sad; she looked as though she needed to talk to him.
“Who are you?” Dirk said softly into the darkness.
“My name is Gazelle Sunday. You want me to go.”
“No I don’t.”
Was she about to cry? Dirk didn’t want her to. He tried to think of something.
“Do you have a story?” Dirk asked.
“A story?”
“Yeah. I don’t have one.”
“I can’t remember,” she said.
“I bet you can. I bet you are full of stories. I can see in your eyes.”
“No, no, not really.”
“Try to think.” He really wanted her to tell him something now. “Maybe something about that dress. Where did you get that dress?”
The woman reached her almost-transparent hand out to him.
“Please, “he said.
“If you will dance with me.”
“Okay,” said Dirk, and then wondered if that was such a good idea. She looked like death. He wondered if she would dance away with him. Dance him to his grave. Maybe that was the best thing. Maybe that was what he wanted. Or it had happened already. And besides he had promised, and she, this white ghost lady, had begun to tell.
“I never knew my mother but I knew she had given me my name and I loved her for that. I imagined that my mother and father were from France, very young, very in love. In my mind they looked like children in the book of fairy tales—the only thing besides my name that my mother had left me. The book was big and full of intricate, jewel-colored pictures of castles with turrets, enchanted mossy forests, goblins, banshees, trolls, brownies, pixies, fairies with huge butterfly wings and djinns on magic carpets. I pretended that the two children in one story were my parents. I saw them walking into the woods, their faces as pale as the snow they trudged through, their eyes big dark mirrors like the frozen lakes they had to cross, their mouths like petals ripped from the red roses that they waited for all winter but never saw again, dying in each other’s arms when I was born. At least that is the story I told myself, walking in circles, twisting my hair around one finger, sucking my lower lip, holding the book open in my arms.
“I lived with my aunt in a dark and musty building. The kitchen smelled of boiled cabbage and potatoes; the claw-foot bathtub behind the screen in the kitchen corner smelled of mildew no matter how hard I scrubbed it clean. I was always leaning my head out the window to smell the bay, the baking bread, to hear the trolley car ringing its bell as it crested the steep hill. In the parlor was a dressmaker’s mannequin. I was afraid that if I misbehaved the mannequin would attack me with the needles and scissors my aunt used to make dresses.
“My aunt was a cold woman with raw hands and a mouth that looked as if it was always full of pins. She hated me. I knew that the only reason she let me live with her at all was because I helped her sew. I became a better and better seamstress. I could do the most elaborate embroidery and beadwork with my tiny fingers. I could make roses out of silk; they looked so real you hallucinated their fragrance. Women came from all over the city for my dresses. My aunt never let me wear what I made. I had one black frock and a brown one for Sunday church—the only day she let me out of the house. I didn’t mind the hard work, really, or the plain clothes or even the fact that I couldn’t leave and had no friends. But I wanted to dance. I needed it. Dancing was the only thing I wanted. I would do it in secret. With a child’s wisdom I knew never to let my aunt see. She thought it was a sin.”
That’s like me, Dirk thought. Like me loving boys, not wanting anyone to know.
“When she went out I pulled back the carpets. It was very strange. Whenever she went out some beautiful music would start to play in the apartment next door. I learned later that it was Chopin. It was like a magical being from my fairy book had entered my body when I heard the music. I felt the strong center of who I was pulsing with the sound of those fingers on the piano keys; it radiated out through my limbs until I became like a giant butterfly or a silk rose, a waterfall, fire. I never saw anyone come out of the next-door apartment but it didn’t matter—the gift of their music made me feel I had finally found a friend. I danced wildly the story of my parents, of my birth, my life with my aunt. I saw worlds beyond the parlor as if I were soaring through the air on a magic carpet, cities twinkling like fairies or the crowns of giants, and forests green and singing with elves.”
In just the way that Gazelle had seen those cities and forests, Dirk saw, there before him, a Victorian parlor and a slim girl dancing among coffinlike furniture draped in dark shawls. She had a child’s body in old-fashioned white underwear but her eyes and mouth were a woman’s. She was spinning as if she wanted to make herself dizzy, falling to the floor where she twisted and turned and tangled in her pale hair, each motion full of longing. Dirk heard, too, the faint strains of piano music ghosting the air.
“I danced till I was nauseous and sweating through my underthings,” Gazelle went on. “I had to change before my aunt came home. I knew she was coming because the music always stopped in time for me to change and get back to work. But one day even when the music stopped I kept dancing. I couldn’t stop. I heard the music inside of me still. So that when my aunt came into the room I didn’t even look up. I was kneeling on the floor, running my hands all over my body. Then I opened my eyes and I realized there hadn’t been music for quite a while. My aunt was looking at me with scissors in her eyes.
“She grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet.
“‘What were you doing?’ she said as if she were snipping pieces out of the air.
“I told her I was dancing.
“‘Do you know what happens to girls like you?’ my aunt said.
“I saw the mannequin in the corner. The cloth I had covered it with had slipped off. I imagined that the mannequin had needles sticking out of her body and was ready to shoot them across the room at me.
“‘Girls who touch themselves grow up ugly’ my aunt said, like a curse. ‘No one will ever marry you. No one will want you because you will be a little monster. You are the devil’s bride. He plays music in your head.’
“And it was worse than being whipped. It was as if she had broken my legs with that. I never heard the music again. I never danced. I never told my story.
“When I bled for the first time a few months later my aunt saw the stains on my underthings and said, ‘You see. You see what happens to girls who touch themselves. They bleed like little monsters. But they don’t die. You will wish you died, I think, because you will always be alone.’”
“Oh my God,” Dirk said. “How could she do that to you? She was sick.”
Gazelle wrung her hands. She was trembling.
“Are you cold?” Dirk asked her. He took a blanket off the bed and held it out.
“Oh, no thank you. How kind you are. Kind, like him.”
“Who?” Dirk asked.
Gazelle’s eyes filled with tears. “He saved me, finally. I thought I was a monster. I huddled and hunched in my black dress. My fingers cramped like an old woman’s. My face grew twisted with pain. There were always bruise-blue circles under my eyes from holding my tears back. Without my dancing I was like the mannequin in the corner, no arms or legs, swaddled and bound. I never left the apartment.
“But he came to me finally. It was my sixteenth birthday, and my aunt was out. It was a windy evening full of spirits. I almost thought I heard my piano player through the walls but it was only the wind. There was a knock on the door.”
As she spoke, Dirk saw the parlor again, the image quivering as if behind smoke or water. The girl was older this time, and her body looked as if it had never danced and never would. Dirk gasped to see how different she was, almost as ravaged as the woman in white. He wished he could have waltzed her out of that place.
She hobbled over to a door and opened it. There stood a small man with dark skin and blue eyes. His head was
shaved so that his sharp cheekbones seemed to stick out even more.
“I shivered with awe when I saw him. I felt my whole life lived in that moment—blooming from a seed in my mother’s belly, swimming like a tiny slippery fish, growing a birdlike skeleton, clawing forth—a baby lynx, dancing as a girl, becoming a woman with a child inside of me, lying in a satin-lined coffin beneath the earth while a young woman danced the story of her life above me.
“‘I need you to make a dress for my beloved,’ said the man in a voice like a purr.
“‘Come in’ I said.
“He sat on the brown sofa. I noticed a red jewel embedded in his nose. It caught the light like a tiny fire.
“‘I want you to make me the most beautiful dress’ he went on. He reached into the sack he was carrying— he must have had a sack of some kind although I don’t really remember it now. But how else could he have brought the fabric in? I remember the fabric. It was a bolt of thick cream Florentine satin. And he also gave me the most fragile lace—all chrysanthemums and peonies and lilies and baby’s breath—and a golden box full of tiny crystal beads.
“He put all these things in front of me.
“‘I’ll need to see the woman in order to make it,’ I said. I imagined a fairy woman with dark skin and pale eyes like his, jewels in her ears and nose and on her fingers, chunks of rubies, emeralds and sapphires like her eyes. I would have been afraid to touch a woman like that—to have her there at my fingertips, just on the other side of the satin, vulnerable to my pins and needles. But I wanted to see her, too.
“‘I want the dress to be a surprise for her’ was all he would say.
“‘Do you have her dress size and measurements?’ I asked. I was very shy. I kept my head down the whole time I spoke to him. But I had to look up to see his answer because he was silent, just shaking his head and looking at me.
“‘Well, how will I know what size to make it?’
Dangerous Angels with Bonus Materials Page 28
