by Micol Ostow
leila was my family, now. leila and i were bound.
leila was blood.
“it’ll be here,” she said coolly.
“everything stays here.”
dolls
i wanted a barbie.
when i was seven years old, i wanted a barbie doll for christmas.
i didn’t care which one—and there were so, so many: a doll for every fantasy, for every possible escape, for every alternative to real life. your barbie could be a nurse. she could drive a car (pink, and convertible, obviously, the better to offset her painted complexion, ideal for allowing the breeze to tousle the stiff, synthetic strands of her candy-floss, gold-spun hair). she could carry a briefcase, or a hatbox. she could sing in a cabaret, dance in a chorus line, ride in a rodeo.
barbie could do anything but wear flat-heeled shoes.
anything but speak, or move on her own. those were not prerequisites for the complete, full-flourish, barbie experience.
or so i imagined.
thus far, barbie was only a fantasy to me. a pastime for other girls. girls with real fathers, mothers, families. girls with gold-spun hair.
girls i’d never known. would never be.
i wanted a barbie for christmas.
but. christmas with mother and uncle jack was a time for disappointment.
i knew instantly that year, upon seeing my present under the tree, that it wouldn’t be a barbie. the box was too big, lumpish, unevenly wrapped, even for one of her endless accessories. barbie accessories are packaged smooth and slick, ripe for pristine presentation. so. it couldn’t be.
in a way, it was better to know like that: all at once, no time for false hope to marinate, to work its way under my fingernails and behind my ears before finally taking hold of the space inside my rib cage. the space i mostly kept tucked away, quiet, ironclad. it was better not to expect. better not to forget the true meaning of the constant hum, the tacit pressure of endless almost.
better to know—swiftly, simply—what real life tended to hold in store.
i feigned enthusiasm (jack was always a stickler for enthusiasm, however false) and pulled at the wrapping. paper; ribbon; glossy, sticky tape gave way to a monstrosity:
a life-size baby doll, birthed into my bewildered arms.
“you can feed her. and change her diapers.” mother seemed pleased at the prospect.
i was baffled. not surprised, exactly, never quite surprised; i knew too much for surprise. had never let hope take hold. but feeding and changing a baby doll? my own mother had never shied away from sharing with me the idea that motherhood hadn’t been her first choice, but rather, a last resort.
my own mother hadn’t wanted a baby. hadn’t wanted me.
my own mother’s fantasy, from what i understood of it, even then, was about as far away from motherhood as a person could possibly get. why, then, would she ever think that make-believe motherhood was a gift to be passed along?
christmas was a time for disappointments. and motherhood—make-believe or otherwise—was, perhaps, the biggest disappointment of them all. we were keeping on theme, at least.
i ignored my gift. crafted crude paper dolls from thick, dull construction paper instead. sketched outfits for them that were better suited for a pool party at the barbie dream house than christmas dinner in anywheresville.
i thought about fantasy: my own, my mother’s.
i discovered something else my mother had managed to pass along to me, after all:
the void, the vortex. the endless, empty chasm of never being satisfied.
her orbit was a black hole; she was antimatter. we couldn’t fill each other up, mother and i, couldn’t even fill ourselves up.
but i couldn’t bring myself to completely let go, either.
not that it did me much good.
i was skating, scraping at the edges of the confines of my life, fingers curled, toes flexed like the soles of a plastic plaything.
i was clinging.
while mother pulled endlessly further away.
campfire
Henry had told me about the campfires that He would hold at night, but it was different, being there.
being there was quiet. holy.
more, even, than what i imagined, those three days there in the van. i couldn’t have imagined this much.
being there made me feel special, like a magnet tugged at all of the tiny ions in my body and tilted me toward Henry. and in that, i was connected to every other jagged shard that He had collected. connected to every member of our sea-glass circle of family.
the fire threw off heat, baking the edges of our skin, drying our eyes, and coaxing our own fever outward. warming us at our collective core.
on my first night at the ranch, i don’t have to cook.
on my first night, i am treated like a guest, like a princess, like a treasured object.
i meet my sisters, and though i can’t yet recall each of their individual names, i know it is no matter. they understand. they feel my love, my wells of gratitude. and in response, their faces radiate light, protection, welcome.
i am a part of this group, instantly. folded in, enveloped.
i meet brothers, too. some brothers, a few. young boys with blooming cheeks and hair almost as long as my own. they wink and chuckle, appear pleased to meet me. happy to know me. to have me.
they are. the brothers.
they are here, shelly explains, to help Henry. to aid emmett. to assist with all of the infinite endlessness of life at the ranch.
“there are some things you need a boy for,” shelly says. the corners of her mouth turn up as she responds to the punch line of a joke i haven’t yet been let in on.
i nod as though i understand. as though i get it.
here, now, i want to get it.
i want to hold it, to have it all. to claw my way up the dank, slippery walls of my ink-black well and find my way to this bright, enlightened, newborn family forever.
i nod as though i understand. as though i get it.
and i know that soon enough, i will.
after shelly finishes my tour, and the sun begins to set, the rest of the girls set about fixing dinner for the group.
“we take turns,” shelly explains, though she obviously isn’t taking a turn tonight, and she doesn’t offer as to when her turn generally falls.
i suppose they have a system worked out.
they—this family—have worked it all out. and they work together. they all work. together.
the ones who are cooking don’t seem to miss her, don’t seem to mind; they move smoothly, their preparations a choreography that they’ve each committed to heart.
pots rattle and drawers clang and from somewhere, someplace that has somehow until now escaped my curiosity, several mangy dogs approach, sniffing eagerly, but managing not to be underfoot.
they, too, understand the system.
the rhythm here is metered, measured, tuned to a frequency that even the animals are aware of.
Henry’s influence, His orbit—it’s what does this. it’s what binds these people. it’s the opposite of my mother’s half-life, the black hole that nearly crushed me, pulverized my stony places into a fine dust of no, not now.
never.
Henry’s half-life fuses, fixes, folds people inward.
where my mother’s only ever pushed me away.
when dinner is ready, Henry gathers us around the campfire, a leaping, dancing bonfire out behind the barn. it is just as He described it to me when we were off in the van on our own: pixilated stars piercing the inky depths of the sky, girls and boys with scrubbed faces and long, flowing hair, crouched, happy, eating to their fill.
there is one hitch that i learn quickly, though.
bowls are passed out, and spoons. i peer into mine: some sort of soup, or stew. it smells of garlic and smoke, but even if it smelled like nothing but clear blue air, it’s fine; after three days of service-station snack food, i could eat just about anything. i
dip my spoon into the bowl.
immediately, there is a sharp elbow poking into my ribs. shelly’s elbow.
i turn, confused.
she points to a spot just to the left of the campfire, to where the dogs have reappeared, eagerly devouring bowls of flood of their own.
“we have to wait until they’re finished,” she says.
it takes me a moment, as she jerks her head, until i get what she means:
they.
as in: the dogs.
we have to wait until the dogs are finished.
i glance at Henry, and at His side, junior, the tall cowboy type with the toothpaste smile. shelly told me earlier that he tends to emmett’s cattle.
right now, junior is eating. scarfing, in fact: scooping mounds of soup from his bowl and shoveling it straight into his mouth without even swallowing. a thin dribble of liquid runs down his chin, snaking an oily, pungent trail through the early-evening scruff of his sculpted jaw.
junior is not waiting. for anyone or anything.
“the girls,” shelly says, seeing the puzzlement on my face. “the girls have to wait.”
i glance around the circle and see that she is right; none of the girls are eating yet. several bounce babies from the corral on their laps; most are content to simply stare off into space. leila is stretched back on her elbows, the sleeves of her peasant blouse pushed up, sandals kicked off and bare feet pointed toward the fire. she wiggles her toes, sighs.
her face has relaxed, and i realize that though her features are sharp, cruel, she is pretty.
all of Henry’s girls are pretty.
does this mean i am pretty?
Henry finishes with His food, sets His bowl beside Him, grins. flames flicker, framing His face. His cheeks are tinged with a deep orange glow.
“aren’t you hungry, mel?” He asks.
i get it: this is how He tells me that it is time. for me, for the girls to feed. this is how He tells us.
i get it.
“aren’t you hungry?”
and i am.
i am hungry.
more than that, even.
i am starving.
Henry indicates that it is time for me to eat. for me, and all of my sisters.
so i do.
we all do.
later, shelly explains it.
“it’s a sign of respect,” she says, “that the girls eat last.
“it’s a sign of His respect.”
last but not least, i think.
or even: saving the best for last.
it’s a sign of respect. Henry’s respect.
i can see in shelly’s eyes how much she wants me to understand, to get it, like the punch line from that nearforgotten joke.
her want is enough for me.
more than enough. it’s everything.
and. well.
after all: respect.
of course.
no wonder i didn’t recognize it.
music
after we have all eaten our fill, Henry takes out His guitar.
when Henry plays guitar, it is easy to see how shelly could mistake Him for jesus.
myself, i suddenly wonder if in fact i do believe in god. (i have no doubt about how it is that i believe in Henry.)
i know it’s a cliché to say so, but Henry plays guitar like an angel.
assuming that angels can play guitars.
i figure that angels can do whatever they want to do. just like Henry. and anyway, it’s not angels i am interested in right now.
He plays folk music, the same music He played for me in the van, and it’s clear that all of the people here, all of His family, know His music well.
they sing along, hum, bob their heads, sway. they wrap their arms around each other, form tight cocoons. they touch, stroke, smile. the babies have long been put to sleep.
“He’s going to be famous,” shelly says to me. and i believe her. “He’s going to spread our family’s music. and love.”
seeing everyone, all of Henry’s family, swaying in tune, in concert, together, i believe her. i believe it.
junior brings out a pipe, the tall, smooth, blown-glass type that i’d seen in storefronts when i first arrived in san francisco. Henry passes him a small plastic bag filled with something thick and green.
i know what that is, inside the bag. Henry and i smoked some while we were in the van. it’s different than the tabs He gave me; more mellow, less severe.
but in the end, they are the same. in the end, they are all the same, really: they are all something to carry you away. a chemical undertow.
after the pipe has been passed from outstretched palm to outstretched palm, Henry sets aside the guitar. He winks at shelly, who wanders over to junior’s side of the circle. she leans down to him, rubs his shoulders for a moment, pulls him up, and the two of them stumble off toward the barn.
leila giggles and rolls her eyes. she has hitched her shirt up like she’s sunbathing, and i can see the flat expanse of her stomach.
Henry catches her eye and laughs with her.
“dirty hippies,” He says. meaning shelly and junior, who are off to fuse their fevers, to collide their tides, to consume each other oh-so-casually.
this is what family does.
it is what family—even Henry’s family—does.
even. still. of course. always.
some things, so many things, are always.
i pause, reflect, and find that i am not surprised.
this family is flowing—overflowing—with love. this is how we share it with each other. how we collect the runoff as it spills down the surfaces of our skin. we are a chain of paper dolls, connected.
Henry catches my eye across the bonfire, asks me an unspoken question.
He knows, of course—knows my reply before i even have the chance to cock an eyebrow, to twitch a lip. He sees me. sees through me.
He knows that i am not surprised.
in the haze of smoke and tide and undertow, i understand. i get it.
i see—how it is that this family works. how we share. collide. fuse.
burn.
i am lightweight. i am afloat.
at peace. ready.
to love and be loved.
with my family.
dirty hippies. that is what they are—what we are.
Henry is joking, of course. Henry knows there is nothing dirty about our family’s love. but. it’s what uncle jack would call us. and he wouldn’t be joking.
when uncle jack would read about the new west in the paper—about the drugs and the sex and the boys with hair almost down their back—disappointment, disgust, would drip from his voice.
“dirty hippies. diseased, you know. all of that free love.”
free love.
i couldn’t say for certain what was going on with shelly and junior back at the barn. i mean, i had an idea, of course. something about music, and now, and tidal shifts. but.
“free love”?
i still wasn’t sure.
to me, that kind of love, the sex kind, didn’t ever really come free. that kind, the kind among family?
that kind, i learned from uncle jack, always had a price.
it was uncle jack’s love that was diseased, uncle jack’s love that changed the way i felt about love in general—any kind of love, all love.
the only free love was Henry’s.
and i was sure of only one thing, in that moment:
i was going to take what i could get of it. for as long as i possibly could.
hooking
when Henry found her, shelly tells me, she was—where else?— in the haight, hooking.
“well, technically,” she says, “topless dancing. but it was never enough money, and there were always men willing to pay for something extra.”
in the parking lot outside of the strip club. that’s where the “extra” would happen, where she turned her tricks. except, she doesn’t call it a strip club. she calls it an exotic nightcl
ub.
whiskey breath and roving hands: how exotic.
shelly is originally from oregon, she says. like me, she never had a mother. and her father showed his love the same way uncle jack did. shelly knew disease and fever.
like me.
“so frankly,” she says, “stripping seemed like a big step up. at least i was getting paid.”
shelly was one step ahead of me. she knew, even then, that there was no such thing, really, as “free love.”
she is not self-conscious, either; unlike me, she will happily shed her clothes as a snake shakes off its too-tight skin, will gleefully wind her way around the campfire at night, bathing in flames and warmth and light and Henry’s orbit. she thinks nothing of offering her body, welcomes the touch of someone, anyone, the family, reaching out to share her, cup her, coax her, hold her. drink her in.
Henry helped her, she explains. to remove her doubt, her second thoughts, her mirror-self. to let go of the halflife and shake off her too-tight skin. she has been reborn.
through Henry, she has been reborn.
let me be your father.
it sounds familiar; i should be jealous, could very easily be jealous. but of course, there is more than enough of Henry to go around. enough for everyone, for our entire family.
Henry is infinite.
i learn the story of how shelly met Henry at a party: one of the other dancers from the exotic nightclub was having people over, and of course, shelly was in. shelly was always in, always up, always down for anything: free drugs, alcohol, drinking in skin. anything to beckon the undertow back, to help to fold it, slide it beneath the surface again.
“He walked in,” she tells me. “Henry. and the entire room just—whoosh—dropped away.”
she waves her hand to show me whoosh. she doesn’t have to. i know that feeling, the spinning, yawning, antimatter sensation that comes from Henry’s orbit.
“i knew right then that there was something special about Him, that He was someone i was supposed to meet. supposed to be with.”
she sighs.
He was with another girl that night, someone He’d brought with Him to the party. not leila, but one of the others, someone named margie, or merri, someone who hadn’t stuck around. He had invited shelly to come stay with them in their apartment—back then, He’d had an apartment (how conventional, ordinary, everyday, how jarringly normal)—which shelly did. but it turned out margie-merri wasn’t one for sharing.
