by Ted Michael
What Stringbean didn’t know: Goose had often stumbled upon footage of Stringbean’s late-night machine duets when one or the other of them was digitizing tapes or editing. He hadn’t ever said anything, but he had those videos at home, all cut and ready to go if she ever disclosed their existence. Goose knew how to wait for Stringbean’s cue on things she didn’t want to talk about.
6. Junie Mae and Goose, Sitting in a Tree
“Goose!” Junie Mae, Stringbean’s seven-year-old baby sister, screamed, blasting out of the house. Junie Mae hurtled into Goose’s arms.
“Hi, Goosie,” Junie Mae cooed.
“Hey, kiddo,” Goose said good-naturedly. Goose and Junie Mae had historically enjoyed a certain the-world-against-Stringbean camaraderie, one that Goose regarded as a joke and that Junie Mae regarded as indelible proof that they were forever meant to be together. Stringbean could hardly blame Junie Mae, much as she tried. It was hard to ignore, and equally hard to admit, that Goose’s recent growth spurt, and resulting loss of baby fat, had made him sort of, well, tall and handsome. Right now, though, his face looked like he hadn’t showered in a year.
“Oh my God, get your disgusting crush off of us,” Stringbean teased, rolling her eyes. “Or at least put it to good use and get us some crackers and Easy Cheese.”
“No. I came out to tell you that Mom says Big DeeDee needs you,” Junie Mae said. “So why don’t you and your big fat boobs go help her already.” Junie Mae’s eyes darted to Goose, who she knew she’d be alone with in a minute.
“Eat shit, Junie Mae,” Stringbean said, crossing her arms as she stalked off toward the house.
7. Flip-Flop
This was Stringbean’s least favorite part of the day: Big DeeDee, Stringbean’s grandmother, had to be flipped. Big DeeDee had been a dancer once, but now she laid in bed all day. Stringbean stalked reluctantly into the house, where two DeeDees, Big and Little, were waiting. Little DeeDee had wheeled Big DeeDee’s hospital bed parallel to the couch.
“Ma, we’ve been over this and over this,” Little DeeDee, Stringbean’s mother, said. “If we don’t move you and change the sheets, you’ll get bedsores.”
“The mother of unhappiness is a desire to control,” Big DeeDee said calmly and cryptically, which is to say characteristically.
“Yeah, well, the mother of me is you,” Little DeeDee retorted. “Stringbean, get on the other side.”
“Hi, BeeDee,” Stringbean said to her grandmother, kissing her on the forehead as she crossed to the far side of the bed. “How you feeling?”
“I love you far more than I love polite questions,” Big DeeDee responded, patting Stringbean’s hand. “Up and away, I suppose.”
In a practiced, choreographed motion, Stringbean and Little DeeDee hoisted the sheet underneath Big DeeDee and gurneyed her over to the couch. Little DeeDee swept away the hospital bed’s sheets, then Stringbean and Little DeeDee gently rolled Big DeeDee over to pull out the sheet underneath her. Little DeeDee threw the new sheets, faded pink plaid, over the bed, and tucked one under Big DeeDee to regurney her back off the couch.
“One. Two. Three,” Little DeeDee said, and she and Stringbean lifted Big DeeDee back to the bed.
“Four!” Big DeeDee said, pumping a fist midair, just to be contrary. Big DeeDee had cancer in her guts but she didn’t act like it, except for being in bed all the time. Sometimes, morbidly, Stringbean wished she could see Big DeeDee’s ugly guts, to understand the whole thing better. The doctors just kept saying it won’t be long now.
Little DeeDee breathed a sigh of relief. “Well. That’s done. I’m going to get Junie Mae fed. Stringbean, you can make yourself a sandwich and get BeeDee something, right? I’ve got to get in the shower and get to work.” Little DeeDee was a waitress at a fried chicken restaurant called Chicken Fair.
“Sure,” Stringbean said, internally rolling her eyes. Between taking care of Junie Mae and taking care of Big DeeDee, Little DeeDee didn’t have much time left over to take care of Stringbean, whom she knew could pretty much take care of herself. Stringbean knew her mother was busy and stretched too thin, but she couldn’t ever fully rid herself of the thought, Don’t I get a little mothering too?
“You want ice cream?” Stringbean asked Big DeeDee, rising to go into the kitchen. Big DeeDee nodded. Since her grandmother was now in hospice care, she got to eat whatever she wanted, which usually meant she opted to indulge her notorious sweet tooth as much as possible. Stringbean came back with half a ham and cheese sandwich in her mouth and a bowl of coffee ice cream in her hands. Chewing, she sat down and spooned up some ice cream.
“Here you go,” Stringbean said, leaning over to feed Big DeeDee a bite.
8. Interlude: So Sweet and So Cold
Little Stringbean had always loved Big DeeDee’s refrigerator, back in Big DeeDee’s big old house. There was always ice cream and pop and maraschino cherries. Stringbean liked to pour herself a glass of Sprite and tip cherry juice from the bottle into it for a homemade Shirley Temple, and then watch an actual Shirley Temple movie with Big DeeDee. Big DeeDee had lots of good old VHS tapes. Their favorite was a tape of highlights from The Carol Burnett Show.
Stringbean liked Carol Burnett because Carol Burnett seemed to like ugly things, and because she had grown up with her grandmother, too. She had a maid outfit that made her look like a Raggedy Ann doll.
Stringbean liked that: Carol Burnett didn’t care too much about being pretty all the time. She just wanted to sing, her way. Carol Burnett had a drunk dad too. Stringbean wondered how she had it in her to be funny all the time, or if being funny was just what Carol Burnett had in her. Was Carol Burnett ever afraid to sing?
9. Nipple Stickers
Big DeeDee peered down Stringbean’s shirt collar as Stringbean leaned over.
“Bean,” BeeDee whispered, coffee ice cream pooling in the corner of her mouth, “do you have duct tape on your nipples?”
Stringbean sat down quickly and took an evasive bite of her sandwich, looking at her shoelaces. She felt herself blush an alarming shade of purple. The truth was that Stringbean had tested a variety of materials in her ongoing attempts to tame her seemingly untamable breasts. When they were smaller, an A-line men’s undershirt under her T-shirt mostly did the trick. Then two months and another whole cup size later, she added a layer of sports bra. Then she went up another cup size and bought a sports bra a cup size smaller.
Finally, to contain the C-and-a-half-cup spillage, Stringbean’s daily boob-constriction routine went like this: too-small sports bra, tight mummy-like layer of ACE bandages over the sports bra, then undershirt, secured by a quick lap of duct tape, T-shirt, and if it was cooler than eighty degrees, sweatshirt. It was ninety-five today, and Stringbean had been forced by massive pit stains to abandon the sweatshirt.
“It’s—it’s nothing,” Stringbean muttered lamely.
“Doesn’t it hurt?” Big DeeDee opened her mouth slightly, like you do before the priest puts the crispy Communion wafer on your tongue: more ice cream. Stringbean obliged.
Stringbean sighed. This was the problem with her boobs: they insisted upon themselves. They were always protruding into things.
“I’m sort of used to it,” Stringbean said.
“Don’t you know rich ladies pay good money for ta-tas like that?”
“BeeDee. Don’t say ta-tas .”
“Why not?” Stringbean fed Big DeeDee another bite in an unsuccessful attempt to shut her up. “I’ve got them, don’t I? Even if they look like pissed-out pig bladders now.”
“Christ on a bike, BeeDee.”
“Now who’s got the mouth?” Big DeeDee chided Stringbean unconvincingly. “I’m done with the ice cream. Stomach’s starting up again.”
“Drink some water,” Stringbean said, handing her the pink plastic cup with the pink plastic straw.
The truth was her boobs had gotten Stringbean to thinking. They seemed like an omen, an indication of things to come: Stringbean was outgrowing the bo
dy that had gotten her this far, and she was wondering where the new one could take her. Out of Ladyslipper. Out of her fear.
10. Ignore
The home phone rang in the kitchen; Stringbean got up to check the caller ID.
“Who is it?” Little DeeDee called from the shower.
“Eight hundred number,” Stringbean called back, knowing what that meant: bill collector.
“Press IGNORE,” yelled her mother.
About a year ago, Big DeeDee’s treatment, and then hospice care, had forced them to sell Big DeeDee’s big house, which Stringbean and Junie Mae had been born and raised in, and to move into the smaller, rented two-bedroom house where the four of them now crowded. Stringbean’s mother, to the best of Stringbean’s understanding, had to ignore money most of the time because she had to pay so much attention to everything else.
Another fact about Stringbean: Stringbean didn’t really have a dad, at least not anymore. Junie Mae didn’t either, but a different one. The family had pressed IGNORE on the subject of Dad.
Stringbean heard a cough behind her and turned. Goose gave an uncertain wave from the front door with one hand, the camera hiked by the other on his shoulder. Junie Mae bounded in from behind him, feeling no such uncertainty.
“Honk, honk!” Big DeeDee called happily at the sight of him.
Goose’s face brightened at the welcome. He’d sensed for a moment that this was a bad time, though the amount of time he spent at Stringbean’s had at this point pretty much transcended the boundaries of good and bad times. He crossed the threshold and came over to give Big DeeDee a kiss.
“How’s the weather today, BeeDee?” Goose asked, sitting down on the couch.
“Hot as hell and getting worse.” Big DeeDee sighed. “But cooler for the sight of you, dear. Long time.” Sometimes Big DeeDee didn’t remember that Goose had been here yesterday. Or every day this week.
“BeeDee, have you ever been out to the old hotel on the island?” Goose asked.
Stringbean saw Goose’s hand start to reach toward the camera. Stringbean shook her head firmly. She isn’t ugly, Stringbean meant, so don’t film her. Goose nodded subtly and reached instead for a butterscotch candy on the end table.
“Sure, before it burned down,” Big DeeDee said. “Big dances. Cotillions. Rich kids’ summer weddings. The owner liked to call it ‘The Coney Island of the West.’ God knows why.”
Predictably, Junie Mae bounded onto the couch beside Goose.
“Goose, can I be in your movie today? You said I could be in one soon. It’s soon now. Pleeeeease?”
Stringbean rolled her eyes. “We have enough footage for today.”
“Why don’t you two sing our song for me?” Big DeeDee asked. When Stringbean was little, Big DeeDee had taught her the harmony line to “Amazing Grace,” and they’d sing it together. Later, she had taught Junie Mae the melody, and she liked to hear the two girls sing it together.
Stringbean blushed, bashful at the idea of singing in front of Goose. If Goose thought she was bad, then singing would pretty much be over, and Stringbean didn’t want singing to be over.
“Maybe another day, BeeDee.”
“Not so many days to sing, String,” Big DeeDee said cryptically. “Not as many as you think.”
11. The Grand Hotel Sault St. Marie
Stringbean and Goose had decided to go out to the island.
Ladyslipper had a big lake on the east side of town, dotted with cabins and trailers, docks and boats, Friday night fish frys and fireworks after dark. Stringbean’s mother hated the lake life because it made tips at Chicken Fair, off the lake at the intersection of Highways M and 40, pretty dismal on summer weekends. But Goose’s family had a little summer place, and it was where Stringbean had learned to swim.
In the middle of the lake was an oblong island, like a banana-split dish thick with trees. It had taken Stringbean and Goose awhile to screw up the courage to make the trek out to the island, seeing as local law enforcement strictly prohibited it, but they figured if they did it close to dark on a Friday night, when the whole cop shop was at the bar anyway, probably no one would care enough to stop them. On the island, local folklore recalled, there had once been an upscale lake resort, a real white-tails-and-fresh-towels joint. Some said Al Capone had hid there for hot stretches in the twenties.
12. Celebrity Ghost Stories
It was 7 p.m., the first fingers of sunset over the dock, as Goose and Stringbean loaded up the paddleboat for their expedition: camera, extra tapes and batteries, trigger spotlights that were the kind you used to catch deer in a hunting field, flashlights, a hammer, trail mix, and Cokes.
Stringbean paused a moment, hoisting the camera on her shoulder. An August sunset over the lake was an affordable luxury, a mundane extravagance, and it wasn’t the least bit ugly, but she wanted a shot of it anyway. Stringbean faced the lake with the camera. Tiger lilies and cantaloupe smiles and the end-of-the-movie glow of E.T.’s translucent throbbing heart spread across the sky, silhouetted underneath by the banana-split-dish shape of the island; a fishing boat hummed across the water, heading home for dinner. Because of the long northern days of the summer, they had maybe two hours of fading light left to explore the island.
“Give me an intro,” Stringbean said, turning to face Goose in the boat. Goose was an aquatic machine with boats; he was thinking about joining the Coast Guard like his uncle, and that way he could go to college for free. Stringbean thought she’d prefer to skip the Coast Guard part and go straight to college, but she wasn’t sure how that was going to happen, so she tried not to think about it. Stringbean had seen on one of her many visits to Carol Burnett’s Wikipedia page that she had gotten a scholarship to UCLA. Stringbean wondered how you got one of those.
Goose snapped to attention. “Ready?”
“Hit it.”
“The date is August fourteen. The setting is dark with history. We are at Amy Bell Lake, the oldest part of the mostly insignificant town of Ladyslipper, in the great state of Wisconsin. Our destination: The haunted, burned-down, long-forgotten Grand Hotel Sault St. Marie. Opened to serve illegal liquor in 1922 and torched under suspicious circumstances in 1978, the hotel supported much of the growth of Ladyslipper, providing jobs, parties, and a place on the map for this sleepy little factory town. When the hotel was gone, a piece of Ladyslipper’s history went with it.
“Tonight, for the first time, my fearless partner Stringbean and I will actually witness the island’s wreckage for ourselves, avoiding the watchful eye of the law and providing, as always, the top-notch flip-flop ugly pops this side of the mighty Mississippi for our viewers. We’re live from Ladyslipper, and”—Goose pointed an Uncle-Sam-Wants-YOU finger at the camera—“you know that’s a Goose.” “That’s a Goose” was a catch-phrase Goose had been trying to attach to their dispatches. It made Stringbean giggle.
“Pop, pop,” Stringbean said, loading the camera in the paddleboat and hopping in behind it. “Let’s go.”
Goose untied the paddleboat, and they pedaled their way toward the island. Once she got comfortable, Stringbean brought the camera back.
“So, Goose,” she said, “how are you feeling about your first rummage through the ruins?”
“Like I’m finally going to have something to talk about for my Celebrity Ghost Stories cameo in five years,” Goose said. “Now give me that. You talk.” He peered into the lens, probably giving the fans a graphic shot of the inside of his nostril. “Now, a rare few words from our camera-shy director. Stringbean, how are you feeling about your first rummage through the ruins?”
“I always wanted to be a reenactment actor on Unsolved Mysteries,” Stringbean said, stiffening up at the sight of the camera. “Like, look normal, then look concerned, then look really paranoid and scared, then either die or spend the rest of the episode convincing the police officers you really did see a dead person.”
“I bet a lot of really famous people got their start looking concerned on Unsolved Myster
ies.” Goose nodded. “It’s either that or Law & Order, right?”
“I don’t really want to be an actor, though,” Stringbean continued, a little to Goose’s surprise. “I don’t want to play other people. I only want to play myself or people that I make up myself. Like Carol Burnett did on her show.”
“That’s cool,” Goose said. “Your self is the best.” Goose smiled in a way that made Stringbean feel like the boat was rocking, but the water was glass-calm. Stringbean swallowed, crossing her arms, pedaling harder.
“Why do you like to film ugly things?” Goose asked, slowing his feet. Goose had never asked her this before. The necessity of filming ugly things had always been tacit, agreed-upon, unquestioned.
“I don’t know,” Stringbean stammered, stumped. “I mean, why not? Nobody else does.”
“But why do you like it?”
“Because I’m ugly,” Stringbean said simply, surprising Goose even more. “I feel connected to ugly things. I see myself in them.”
“Stringbean,” said Goose, looking at her over the camera, but not turning it off. “You’re the farthest thing from ugly.”
“Shut up,” Stringbean snapped. This was starting to leave her comfort zone in a major way. “You call me ugly like every day.”
“No, I don’t,” Goose said with unexpected solemnity. “I’ve never said that.”
As soon as Goose said that out loud, Stringbean realized it was true. Goose had never called Stringbean ugly. Only Stringbean had.
“Besides,” Goose went on, “who gets to decide? I mean, who says what’s ugly and what’s beautiful?”
“Exactly,” Stringbean said. “I want to decide.”
“But if you can decide, if you accept that you have the power to decide,” Goose said, steering the paddleboat toward the sunken-down dock on the island. “Why did you decide that you’re ugly?”
