Black Eyed Susan

by Elizabeth Leiknes

  “Here,” I said, handing the girl two dollars from my pocket.

  The mother said, “Thank you so much, but we can’t take that.” She smiled at her daughter, trying to convince her that love always surpassed money. The girl gave her mother a sweet smile—a smile that, no doubt, would’ve been wider if she’d had a college fund and an iPod.

  “Nonsense,” I said. “That money is yours. I picked it up off the floor after you dropped it. I’m just giving it back.” I didn’t wait to see if she’d go along with it, but instead took the ticket from the clerk and handed it to the girl, who was more than excited to scratch it with her lucky penny.

  “You can’t drink that in here,” the cranky clerk told me as I opened another beer can. I handed him a twenty-dollar bill. But before he could scold me again, the little girl screamed.

  “Mama! We got five cardinals!” she said, revealing five of Virginia’s state birds in a row—a winning ticket.

  “Let me see,” the mother said, looking on the wall at the digital display of the current lottery pot at stake: $956,897, followed by an equal sign and five cocky cardinals. “Is this right? Did we win?”

  After looking at the winning ticket, the clerk, now wide-eyed and manic, said, “Now, just wait a minute. As owner of this store, I get a bonus for any big winners, and I’m not gonna get screwed on any goddamned loophole.” He snatched the ticket from the girl’s hand and looked at me. “Technically,” he said, “you bought it. It was your money. The state lottery board has strict rules ’bout this.” He was now coming out from behind the counter, barging his way through the mother and daughter toward me.

  “No, no, no. That was her money. I swear!” I said, but before I could make things right, the owner was on the phone with the local news crew, promoting his store and pointing at me. This was all I needed, considering I had Vegas police, maybe Mono and Clyde, and, by now, my fake mother, whom I hadn’t called in over a week, on my tail.

  The clerk looked at my shirt, “Lucky” from nipple to nipple, and said, “That’s gonna look awesome in the pictures with your check!” He scrambled around the store, tidying up for the onslaught of media.

  Meanwhile, the woman and her daughter disappeared out the door without anyone noticing.

  I snatched the ticket from the clerk and chased down the woman and her daughter, who were getting into their beat-up Datsun in the small parking area in the front of the store. “Wait,” I said, knocking on the woman’s window until she unrolled it. “Here,” I said, handing her the ticket. “Merry Christmas, Happy Valentine’s Day, Happy Halloween, Happy Birthday.” I smiled. “Happy life.”

  She didn’t look like she was going to take it, so I assured her, “Don’t feel bad. I don’t want the money. I don’t need the money. You owe this to your daughter.” I released my hand from hers and placed it on her shoulder. Then I relayed what had become glaringly obvious to me. “Money can’t fix any of life’s really big problems, but it’s pretty damn good at fixing most of the little ones.”

  After pausing to catch my breath, I said, “Hey, do you think I could borrow fifty cents? I’d like to buy a newspaper. Those machines only take quarters and—”

  The woman started laughing and screaming, and in an explosion of excitement, threw her purse at me. “Take it!” she said, kissing me on the lips. “I love you, whoever you are.”

  “Susan,” I said. “And if they ask, you bought this ticket from me for fifty cents.”

  The woman, now crying, tried to say thank you, but ended up squeezing my hand as the thunder bellowed and the sky grew darker.

  I handed her the ticket and walked away. Within seconds, I felt a tap on my hip, so I turned around.

  Standing in front of me was the little girl, the neighborhood’s newest and tiniest near-millionaire. In a silent effort to protect me from the elements and everything else, she handed me a tattered Rainbow Brite umbrella, closed with a small nylon strap, and waved goodbye.

  Will, who by now had finished cleaning the hearse windows, waved at me from underneath the roofed fill-up island. He wore a cape-like plastic rain poncho and pointed to himself. “Found it in the back under a tire jack,” he said with an air of machismo. He followed the sidewalk to where I stood and put his arm around me. “Drinking without me?” he said when he saw my beer. When he looked over at the woman and daughter driving away in their soon-to-replaced Datsun, he said, “What was all that about? Do you know her?”

  “No,” I said. “She forgot her wallet in the store. I was just bringing it to her.”

  Just then the sky, having held it in long enough, released one, then two, then three droplets of rain on the sidewalk, and let loose with a giant gust of angry wind.

  “We’re gonna need a bigger boat,” Will said, wiping rainwater from his cheek. “We better go … before this storm hits.”

  But I knew the real storm had already arrived.

  “I’ve got something to tell you,” I said.

  He grabbed my hand. “Tell me in the nice, dry car.”

  “No,” I said, removing his hand from mine. “I have to tell you right now.”

  As I was about to spill the deadly beans, Calliope hollered at us from underneath the hood of the car.

  She held up a dipstick covered in oil and yelled, “Where the hell’s the line? It’s all smeared!”

  Will looked into my eyes. “Hold that thought, darlin’,” he said, running over to help her.

  I stood alone with my conscience, growing heavier by the second, and tried to pull my shit together. If I could just go back in time, before this tumor began growing, I could alter the past, alter the future, and have a blissful life with Will. Where was Superman when you needed him?

  And then the clouds opened up in a fury and began to unload. I lifted the umbrella high above me and, with one crisp click, convinced myself that my confession was the right thing to do. The truth shall set you free. Exposed, and feeling a renewed sense of energy, I now experienced another type of energy—one stronger than I’d ever felt before. In a quick flash, I became one with the sky.

  Here’s what I know about lightning: It’s something to avoid.

  So there I stood, the temporary home for a burst of pesky free electrons and three-hundred thousand volts of electricity.

  Against all odds—one in 79,746 to be exact—I’d been hit by lightning.

  What a shocker!

  At first, it felt like every killer bee in the entire world had stung me at once. That was the good part. Then came the real pain. Some people think getting hit by lightning causes the victim to spontaneously explode and ignite into flames, but it doesn’t. Don’t get me wrong—you do pray that you’ll burst into flames, because that would take your mind off a throbbing pain that can only be described as the worst ice-cream brain freeze you’ve ever had, times a million.

  You might also think that getting stuck by a random bolt of lightning would be a relatively quick process. After all, in reality, it takes only a few milliseconds. But when I got hit, time stopped at the point of contact. Trapped in an electric death grip, I felt like an electric fence had wrapped itself around me and wouldn’t let go. I fell into a paralyzed heap on the sidewalk, my limbs resting at strange angles, and I must have looked like a giant, discarded mosquito after a run-in with an industrial-strength bug zapper.

  As the pain started to subside, I began to hover above my own body, able to inspect my too-big facial pores and frizzed hair. The “Lucky” on my shirt had melted into itself and was blurry.

  And then, without warning, I was back on the ground, inside myself again, looking up at a man flying above me. His cape snapped in the wind, and as he flew in for a closer look, he placed his warm, manly hands on my face. He was beautiful. He was super.

  But not a super kisser, I thought, as the slow-motion world creeped around me in my haze. He crushed my face in his hands and swallowed my lips—his kiss was way too open-mouthed, and there was way too much air being exchanged. He directed his own brea
th inside of me, inflating me like a sick balloon, and just as I was beginning to enjoy the tandem respiratory dance, which was quite sexy, he hit me in the chest—really hard. He kept pushing until one of my ribs cracked, and even then, he refused to stop. This guy was relentless. I felt something heavy pressing into my sternum, and it must have been his super watch, because he stripped it from his wrist and threw it on the ground, sending it flying through the air in tiny little pieces.

  In a slow progression, the foggy shadows of people bustling around me disappeared, and were replaced by absolute nothingness. White space. Tabula rasa. And although part of me wanted to drift into a nice long sleep, another part of me felt this undeniable urge to add to the blank slate appearing before me. It was a sad void, a white hole of emptiness begging for graffiti, for color, for stories.

  And then suddenly, the aggressive kisser, Mr. Deep Breather, was back. After one last inhalation, I coughed, and the images around me came into focus as I blinked my eyes. The first person I recognized was Will, whose face was inches from mine.

  “Susan! Breathe, goddamn it!” he yelled, like I was in big trouble, and I noticed his rain poncho snapping in the wind.

  I gasped and, after clearing my throat, tried to speak. The bizarre, belabored sound that came out sounded like a cross between Björk, the Icelandic singer, and a prepubescent boy who’d just swallowed a parakeet.

  I decided it was time to tell the truth, so I did. “Lethal injection,” I squeaked out.

  “What?” Will said, touching my face. “What, sweetheart?”

  “Lethal injection—definitely a better way to go.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Before I went on “hiatus,” I used to sit at work and think about things like: If the Bangles and the Go-Go’s got into a catfight—I mean a real bitchin’ brawl of miniskirts and sugar-sweet harmonies—which girl band would win?

  Or I pondered situations that were interesting to me. For example: How much would it suck to have 867-5309 as your real phone number? And if I was unfortunate enough to have the catchy number Tommy Tutone made famous in song, how would I answer a crank caller who asked, “Is that whore Jenny home?”

  But after getting struck by lightning in Appamattox, Virginia, I had more pressing things to mull over. For example: How could I tell Will, “Thanks for saving my life,” and then turn around and tell him I’m going to die soon anyway?

  My life had become one giant near-death experience.

  “Suze? You all right?” Calliope asked as Will placed me on a blanket in the back of the hearse.

  “Cal, go get her some water,” Will said as he put a duffle bag under my head. “I’m gonna call 9-1-1.”

  “No!” I said, trying to sit up. I didn’t want any more detours. I had a distinct feeling I couldn’t waste any time getting to my sister. The tumor wasn’t getting any smaller, and my sister wasn’t getting any younger. I worried that a shaman’s power might fade with time and I would be too late. “We’ve gotta get back on the road,” I said, still trying to lift my head up.

  “Why are you in such a big hurry?” Will said, visibly shaken.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, attempting to sit up and touch him. “Is it the electrocution thing?” I scoffed. “Cuz I’m totally fine.” My head throbbed, so I went back to lying down. “Thank you, by the way, for—”

  Will leaned over me, and I could tell it was going to be bad. “What kind of person refuses to go to the hospital after getting hit by lightning? What kind of person digs up weird things in people’s backyards? And what kind of person gets followed by two random guys claiming their ‘boss’ is mad at you?” When he said “boss,” he became hostile and formed angry little mini-quotes with his fingers. “Huh, Susan? Who?”

  I would’ve raised my hand, but I didn’t have the strength. I felt overheated, and small beads of sweat were forming on my forehead.

  His voice softened when he looked back at me. “You need anything? Blanket? Aspirin?” He paused for effect, like a good actor should. “Umbrella?”

  Will then walked around to the front and started the car to get the air conditioning going. With impeccable timing, Billy Joel’s “Only the Good Die Young” began playing on the radio. “Ain’t it the truth, Mr. Joel?” Will said, looking back at me and adding, “You’re in luck, you bad, bad girl.”

  It was the best news I’d had in days. If Billy Joel was right, I still had a chance. Dying young implied a sense of goodness—a goodness I didn’t have.

  Will caressed my fried hair. “Be right back. Hold tight.”

  Before I could stop him, he was off and into the convenience store, and I knew he was going to call an ambulance. I’m sure I looked really bad, but I wasn’t ready for him to find out, from someone other than me, just how bad I was. With both Will and Calliope temporarily out of sight, I took advantage by grabbing my sister’s letters and reading the next one. Turning slightly on my side, I propped it up on Calliope’s bag so I could read without straining.

  May 5, 1988

  Dear Ruby,

  It’s been a busy few months since I last wrote. My little hobby of helping people has turned into full-time healing. And there’s something new. I’ve developed a new talent. Well, I don’t know if it’s a talent, cuz it’s kinda creepy, but anyway, I’m now able to sense what people feel. And not just the sick ones that visit me—other ones, too.

  Sometimes they’re far away. Like just yesterday I told my friend River Walk that her cousin, who lived on a reservation in New Mexico, was heartbroken over the loss of something important to her. And sure enough, it turned out that her cousin’s golden lab had just died and she was really bummed.

  And here’s what I’ll tell you, but no one else. I’ve had this feeling, I mean totally real, you know, that I’m living in two places at once. It’s SO weird, I can’t quite figure it out. It’s like I live here on the reservation, but I also live somewhere else, too. I see a white farmhouse, a second-story window view with cornfields on the horizon, and I know it must be me because there are rainbows all over my room, hung on the walls, the door, the mirror. And you won’t believe this. There’s a green frog—a sweet, fresh, springy-green frog—who plays a banjo and talks. And no, I haven’t been smoking the pipe too much.

  I don’t know what it all means, yet, but I will. I always figure things out.

  Love,

  Rainbow Warrior

  So, she knew about me. All those times I sat in my room alone, feeling like there was no one else in the world like me, she was actually with me.

  My exhausted body collapsed into sleep, and I dreamt Kermit and I were rowing in a charming little boat down a charming little river. We were moving toward a rainbow in the distance, but every time we thought we were going to reach it, it moved further away.

  He sang “The Rainbow Connection,” and ended with a phrase that was hopeful, yet unresolved. “Someday we’ll find it,” he sang as we continued to chase the sky.

  When I woke up I was no longer in the back of the car. I was somewhere else—somewhere I’d never been before. Will and Calliope were gone, and in-between slow, groggy blinks, I saw Ally Sheedy moving her silent mouth, and a Mr. T framed on the wall. And I heard two people whispering from across the room.

  I thought maybe I was over the rainbow, but then I saw it. On a small table in front of me was a small card propped up against a hardcover copy of The Color Purple.

  THIRTY-THREE

  “Eees she dead?” I heard someone say.

  Another someone answered, “She fine.”

  It took me longer than usual to recognize their voices because I was so sleepy and dazed. To my surprise, I was relieved to hear the heavy accents of Mono and Clyde, my apparent kidnappers.

  Clyde, dressed in MC Hammer’s pants and Vanilla Ice’s tank top, walked over to the overstuffed corduroy couch where I’d been sleeping and adjusted the pillow under my head.

  “Where am I?” I asked when he crouched down to my level.

  “You
are at dee home of Mees Abigail,” Clyde said.

  “We’re back in California?!” I tried to yell, but I didn’t have enough strength to generate much volume. “I gotta get outta here,” I said. “I’m on the wrong side of the country!” Then I muttered, in slurred speech, “But my sister …” When I swung my legs to the floor, everything began to spin, and the contents of the room overlapped, layer upon layer, like a decoupage picture. Mr. T melted into T. J. Hooker, who melted into Ally Sheedy, who was still blabbing on the big screen television along with the rest of the St. Elmo’s Fire Brat Pack.

  Mono, wearing the same outfit as Clyde, only eight sizes smaller, hurried over to help him in coaxing me back onto the couch. “No, Mees Spector, we’re no in California,” Mono said. “We’re no in the L.A. house. We’re in Mees Abigail’s udder house.”

  My eyelids were heavy, and my brain foggy. “Udder house?” I mumbled, envisioning a house decorated with various types of large, erect bovine nipples.

  Clyde explained, “Mees Abigail’s udder house is on the coast of dee East. Eees the Salem house.”

  I rested my eyes for a moment and whispered, “Salem? I knew she was a witch.”

  After I realized I was within hours of my sister, I calmed down and mumbled, “Massachusetts. Good. That’s close to New York.”

  “Not Salem of dee Massachusetts. Salem of dee New Jersey,” Clyde said, and just as he spoke the words “New Jersey,” both he and Mono dropped to their knees, prayer-style, and bowed down to the giant oil painting of Jon Bon Jovi hanging above the big-screen television. It rested on a chunky mantle-like shelf, which was a makeshift shrine dedicated to the homegrown Jersey rocker. To my surprise, the painting depicted Mr. Bon Jovi wearing a nice suit, sipping a glass of cabernet in a Sherlock Holmes-type reading room. He didn’t look like the rocker I was used to seeing, clad in a mesh tank top and tight jeans. Instead, he just looked … Italian.