Castles: A Fictional Memoir of a Girl with Scissors

by Benjamin X. Wretlind

  2

  When I was nine, I ventured off with a few of the local kids—all boys—to see what the Bus was all about. We'd traveled the park so many times, crawling through pipes, breaking into abandoned sheds and exploring our environment as much as we could. The Bus was nothing more than another step, one that led beyond the confines of our trailer park and into the Great Wide Open. The distance into the desert—about a mile—made it the less appealing of adventuresome spots, especially during the heat of summer. We were smart on that first trip, however. We packed water in little G.I. Joe canteens.

  Michael and Justin, two boys from the neighborhood, led the way. Behind me, six-year-old Cade stuck to my side like jelly on bread. We were destined for discovery, something any child should take part in. The Bus was our pirate ship, the desert an ancient sea run dry a hundred years ago. We were sure there was buried treasure, or maybe a Jolly Roger flag we could bring home and plant in our front yards.

  "Where are we going?" Cade asked. He was dangerously close to my side. I could feel the dirt kicked up by his shoes.

  "To the Bus over there. Why?"

  "I don't want to go too far without a snack."

  I smiled. Little kids that age must be drawn to events that allow snacks or candy. I may have been three years older, but I considered myself more mature. "We won't be gone long. You can get a Twinkie when we get back home."

  The Bus loomed closer. Michael and Justin were steps ahead, weaving through the desert brush like snakes. They bounced, much like Cade and I, in anticipation of the unexpected treasure we were sure to find.

  "Wait up!" I called out. They didn't need to be that far ahead of us. We were supposed to be a team—the same team that explored the Drainage Pipe of King Crud or the Mountain of the Tire God. We were supposed to stick together.

  As I look back on our zeal, it becomes painfully obvious to me that we, as children, let our imaginations guide what we believed to be true and so often put ourselves in harm's way. We didn't abide by our parents' warnings or their desires to make sure we never ventured beyond the fence. Didn't they know what was out there? Didn't they explore the nether regions of their environment as a child? Didn't they climb Mount Doom?

  That parental chain might have held other kids back. Mama, on the other hand, probably didn't care if I went out of my bounds. I remember telling her a number of times where I was headed, whether it was to the Bus in the desert or the movies with friends. She was either too drunk to care or just not home at all.

  Grandma, however, didn't want me to go to the Bus. She was more fearful, I think, of the expanse of desert between my desired destination and the safety of the fenced trailer park. Maybe she thought I'd run into a snake or cut myself on a cactus needle. Maybe she thought I'd go too far and not be able to come back, drained of water and cursed with blurred vision. Maybe she wanted to hide the treasure, to keep it for herself.

  I didn't tell Grandma where I was headed that day. She'd fallen asleep on the couch while Mama was out. I crept out of the trailer—as good as anyone could with a squeaky screen door—grabbed the boys from around the corner, filled their canteens and headed off to adventure.

  Cade pulled on my shirt. "Are they going inside that thing?"

  "That's the plan." I'd wondered if he really understood what we were doing or if he was just tagging along looking to be one of us. "It's an abandoned van. Don't you wonder what's inside?"

  Cade looked nervous, a trait I'd come to recognize all too well. "No. I think I'll go back."

  "Cade." My whine was enough. He let go of my shirt and followed me the final steps to the Bus.

  The other two boys were already there. They walked around the great rusted beast and slapped the side of it with sticks they must have picked up along the way. Neither one seemed anxious to climb inside even though the passenger door was gone. They just walked around and around, like kids on a carousel.

  I opened the floor for debate. "Aren't you going inside?"

  "No." Michael swatted the side of the Bus again, reveling in the steel clang. "We're waiting for you to show us the way."

  I balked. Show them the way? They way was obvious: into the Bus through the missing door, look around and find the treasure. Fine, I reasoned. If they didn't want to be true explorers, I'd take the part. "Treasure's mine!"

  "You share!" Justin walked around the front of the Bus. "We came out here together, we go home with the booty together."

  Cade looked scared, but he still carried his wits about him. "Booty?"

  "Treasure, you little punk. Who brought you along anyway?"

  Whatever instinct I had that gave me the gall to stand up to bullies crept out from its hiding place. I stepped up to Justin and stood my ground. "I did. And the treasure I find belongs to Cade and me." I turned back to Cade. "You coming?"

  Cade looked frightened, like he stood at the mouth of a great cave and feared the bear oblivious to the adventure that surely lay ahead. He slowly shook his head. "No."

  "Fine. Treasure's all mine then." I swallowed whatever fear I had left and walked to the gaping hole in the side of the Bus. What did they know? Weren't boys supposed to be full of courage and all that stuff we learned in school and watched on television? Weren't they supposed to lead the dance?

  I looked at Michael and Justin, then back at Cade. Fear was painted across their face in way I know I'll never forget. Hell, it was just a Bus, abandoned years ago for whatever reason. We'd grown up looking at it from behind the fence, wondering what was inside. Finally, we get a chance to see for ourselves what wonders fill the Great Wide Open and these three idiots are chicken. Sometimes it's tough to be the sensible one.

  I looked inside. The sun cast shadows across the seat, shadows that looked like the scratches of a giant coyote. The vinyl of the seat was torn, the floorboard rusted through. The desert appeared to have grown inside. I couldn't be sure—and I'm still not to this day—but I thought I saw a dead bird stuffed under the console, like it was placed there by a thrifty coyote who wanted to save a meal for later.

  I carefully put my knee on the passenger seat and climbed inside, aware of the rusted floorboard. A cut from something so sinister would surely send Grandma into a tantrum and Mama over the edge.

  I hadn't expected the smell—rank, almost humid if such a smell could exist in the dry desert. Aside from that, safety glass littered the driver's seat and torn vinyl hung from the ceiling. A gentle breeze blew in from the shattered windows, and in the shade of the Bus, I felt that much cooler. I pitied the boys outside, standing in the sun, their canteens nearly drained.

  There was nothing unexpected in the front of the Bus—a few old cans faded from years, dust and sand that covered the instrument panel, some fuzzy dice that must have once hung from the rearview mirror.

  The back of the Bus I couldn't explain. It was empty save the body of a man sprawled out on the floor.

  I jumped back, nearly slipped from the passenger seat and fell on the floorboard. A squeal of some sort must have escaped my lips; Michael and Justin were suddenly at the door yelling at me.

  "What's wrong?"

  "What do you see?"

  "Are you okay?"

  I let my heart settle down before I said anything. My thoughts needed a chance to coalesce into something that made sense. There was a body in the Bus, his clothes torn to shreds. Bruises and cuts lined his legs like he'd been dragged through a cactus and rock garden. From where I was, though, I couldn't see his face.

  "Well, Maggie?" Michael sounded impatient. "You going to tell us what you see?"

  I pulled my eyes away. "It's a dead man."

  3

  Cade ran through the desert as fast as his little legs would take him. Right behind, I screamed for him to stop. Thankfully, he tripped and I finally caught up to him. I didn't know how much more I could have run.

  He'd been crying, dirt and sand now pasted to his wet cheeks. "I . . . I . . ."

  "Relax, Cade." I tried my best to calm the boy.
I knew he was scared—hell, I was petrified—but we had to talk about what we were going to tell our parents. First, six-year-old boys aren't supposed to be out of the park. Second, none of us were officially "allowed" to go to the Bus. Third, and most importantly, if Grandma or Mama ever got word of where I'd been, I was sure to see the wooden spoon—or worse—in action again.

  I couldn't have that.

  "You promised, Cade." I knelt down beside him and pulled his chin up. "You promised you wouldn't tell anyone."

  "There's . . . a dead man, Maggie." He struggled to get his words out. "There's a dead man and we have to tell someone."

  "No we don't," Justin called out from a few feet away. They'd been slower to follow Cade through the desert, but I'm sure they understood the gravity of what we'd seen as much as I had. "We don't have to tell anyone."

  Cade looked at Justin, then Michael and finally back at me. I think he sought some reassurance from my eyes that being honest was the right thing to do. My eyes said something else.

  "What do I say?" Cade asked.

  "You tell them nothing." When I thought it over later that afternoon, what was Cade going to say anyway? That'd we'd stumbled across a dead body in the desert? I think they'd be angrier that we were outside our bounds.

  Cade slowly nodded his head. At that point, I sought reassurance that our secret was safe. If the body was to be found, it wasn't going to be by kids who weren't doing as they were told.

  I don't know exactly what possessed me at that point, but I smacked Cade across the face as hard as I could. He fell to the side, his cheeks brushing a barrel cactus on the way down. If people in the trailer park didn't hear my pleas for him to stop, Cade's cries were certainly heard.

  I watched Cade's body quiver as he cried and waited until there was little more than a soft whimper. Michael and Justin—who later would tell me I was out of line—stood still and watched with me.

  Cade finally pushed himself off the ground and looked up at me. A few scratches ran across his now bright red cheek.

  "We say nothing, Cade," I finally said.

  Cade nodded slowly and stood up. He was going to keep his promise.

  4

  I remember my dreams more often than most people, I think. They are vivid reminders of some past life dropped into surreal settings—school days sitting behind a desk on a beach of purple clay or playing with the neighbor kids on the back of a rhinoceros. I learned early on—probably when I was seven or eight—to wake up and consciously remember every detail I could.

  "Write it down," Grandma would say. "You can sell it later."

  I tried that for a few years, but after Mama read my journal to one of her boyfriends, I stopped cold. No one else needed to understand what went on inside my head when I slept, just as they didn't need to know what I felt about them.

  I started writing again when I was twelve.

  The dream I had the night we stumbled across the body in the Bus was surreal, of course, but it was also memorable in other ways. I met people I don't think I'd ever seen before, walking around the Bus in circles, holding hands and singing songs I didn't know. They would stop on occasion, look at me and laugh, then continue on in their little carousel.

  One of the faces in the crowd looked at me longer than any of the others. There was something recognizable about the man—maybe in the way he walked or what he wore or how his eyes would speak volumes to me each time he rounded the corner of the Bus and caught my gaze. I don't know for sure if he was the body in the Bus, but my thoughts have always gone that way.

  5

  The next evening, a storm smacked into our trailer park. I'd found the cupboard to be too small to hide in, so I'd started to crawl under the table. Mama would always look at me whenever she was home and just shake her head. I could imagine the anger in her eyes, but I feared nature more than her wrath. Didn’t matter: she wasn't home that night.

  I sat under the table with my knees pulled to my chest. I think this was the first time I really wondered what I was doing. Here I was, a mature nine year old who'd just been witness to a dead body. What did nature have against me that I feared it so much?

  Nervously, I crawled out from under the table. Mama wasn't home to witness the birth of her daughter from the cocoon of fear I'd been so wrapped up in, but I knew Grandma would probably tell her. I thought for a moment of going to the window and watching the dust pound the side of the trailer, but I never made it that far. All I could do was stand against the side of a wall in the kitchen and wait.

  At least I wasn't under the table.

  When the winds finally died down, I took a few cautious steps toward the front door. Grandma was outside in her chair, rocking back and forth. As she rocked, I heard her hum softly.

  "Grandma?" My voice stopped both her hum and her rocking.

  "Come here, Maggie." She turned back and looked at me through the screen door. "The storm is over."

  I stepped onto the porch and sat down next to her. There was still a pretty strong breeze and the smell of rain and dust was in the air. The sky had turned a reddish brown.

  "Did you hear the wind talk, Maggie?"

  "No, Grandma. I didn't listen."

  "Well, well. You really should." She looked down at me and brushed her hand through my hair. "You didn't hide under the table this time."

  "No I didn't."

  Grandma was proud of me. She didn't have to say it for me to know. Inside, I felt more comfort emanating from her than I think I'd ever felt from anyone else.

  "What did the wind say, Grandma?"

  "Oh . . ." She took her hand back and pulled the afghan around her a little tighter. "Something about a secret you're keeping."

  I didn't know at the time, but Grandma had always known where I was and what I was doing. She told me a few months later that she'd woken up from her nap and sat outside on the patio, watching the boys and me run from the Bus. I don't know if she saw me hit Cade.

  "The wind knows a lot of things, Maggie. You can't keep it all to yourself."

  I swallowed and looked out past the fence. The sun had set, but in the red glow of the dust tainted sky I could see the outline of the Bus.

  6

  For the next few nights, I dreamt of the Bus and the carousel of singing men. The one who looked at me for longer than anyone else had moved from the line and stood to the side. Always he looked at me, and although I wished he'd speak, he never said a word. He smiled, though, and I appreciated that.

  I still wondered if he was the man I'd seen in the Bus. I'd wake up from each dream, write down what I saw and always question the possibility. I don't consider myself an obsessive person, but for days after, the body in the Bus was at the forefront of my thoughts.

  I guess I needed to know.

  I didn't dare ask anyone to go with me. Between the three boys, there may have been enough courage to walk to the Bus, but not enough to go inside. I didn't even want to bring up the subject to Cade; he may have been manipulated to keep his mouth shut once, but I didn't think he'd do it again. Michael and Justin were just not man enough. They barely peeked in through the window when I told them what I saw.

  What was my curiosity? To know for sure if what I'd seen was a dead body or to satisfy the dream images? Maybe I could get them to stop or at least transform them into something more pleasant.

  I waited until Grandma was at the store and Mama was asleep on the couch. I knew the routine well enough to know when I could test the waters of supposed freedom. Grandma would take about an hour, and even if Mama woke up, she wouldn't question where I was. I guess she thought I was old enough to go to the neighbor's trailer and hang out, be back for dinner and all that.

  I really don't think she cared what I did.

  I crossed the desert at a slight trot, weaving between the bushes and cactus carefully. As the Bus loomed closer, I could sense anticipation swell inside me. My heart beat faster, the palms of my hands seemed tacky, sweat beaded on my forehead. I was scared, as well. S
cared of finding a rotted body, of discovering something maybe a nine-year-old shouldn't see. And how was I to be sure the body in the Bus was or wasn't the man from my dreams? Did I have it in me to turn him over? Was his face even there?

  I stopped before reaching the Bus. The fear had eclipsed the anticipation and forced my body into inaction. It was something I hadn't expected. It was supposed to be simple—run to the Bus, satisfy my curiosity and get back before dinner.

  I know now the reason I finally stepped through the door of the Bus was something akin to what makes a person look for the dead body in a crash, keep their eyes open when they stumble across a beheading on the Internet or watch in stunned silence as massive destruction is spread across the news. In all of us, there is a morbid interest to see what death looks like, as if knowing will ease our internal fear of it somewhat. It's that need to temper our fear of the unknown that welcomes the open casket at a funeral. We hope to see serenity in death, a smile on the face of a loved one as they begin the process of decay.

  I am no different.

  When I stepped into the Bus the second time that summer, I was greeted not with a dank smell or that odd humid heat. I was not shown anything new in front; the dice were still there, the dust undisturbed except where I'd placed my hand days ago.

  From the back of the Bus, something stirred. It sounded like a small animal, but the more I listened, the less confident I was I could identify it. Surely a snake wouldn't make so much noise. A small mouse might, but it sounded louder. A coyote was too big. With those animals discounted, I was pretty much out of zoological knowledge.

  I peeked around the passenger seat, hoping the noise came from an animal I could easily outrun.

  The body was gone. In its place, writhing on the ground in what looked like pain was what I could only describe as a blackened leather tongue. It shifted back and forth on the floor of the Bus, a sick sucking sound coming from what looked like its mouth. In the brief moment my body couldn't move, I swear to this day the thing looked up at me and cried.