Tideland

by Mitch Cullin

  "When I bought it for her,” my father explained, "I told her she could sell it off someday to that quarry if she wanted. I’m thinking she could’ve made a little dough, you know, selling the limestone under that property. But I don’t think she ever considered doing that. I mean, the house and land were a gift, so that’d have been rude in her mind. She was a pretty proper old woman sometimes, wouldn’t even drive this baby-blue Cadillac I got her because she thought it looked too showy. I tell you what, we could sure use that car today.”

  Riding in the Greyhound made my father restless. The seat aggravated his spine, which was damaged when he slipped headlong from a stage in Chicago, landing squarely on his back. But being on the run, he couldn’t afford anyother mode of transportation. His prized Buick Riviera with white sidewalls was traded for a sandwich bag of mixed pills - Pamergan, Dextromoramide, Diconal, DF-118, Fortral, and Methadone, my mother’s favorite. And when we finally arrived in the small town of Florence, some ten miles from the farmhouse, he uttered a low groan while putting on his backpack.

  Then he handed me my neon suitcase, saying, "Suppose you’re ready for a picnic.”

  "Pizza,” I said, earnestly.

  "Can’t eat pizza on a picnic," he said. "You should know that."

  "We don’t have to have a picnic,” I said, following behind him as we moved along the passageway.

  "Got to eat sandwiches. That’s what you eat. That’s what it’s going to be.”

  At the Main Street grocery store, whatever cash remained went toward saltines, Wonder Bread, peanut butter, and two gallon jugs of water. And even though some minor celebrity status was attached to his name, my father’s face was far from well-known. It was like a black-and-white Western where the gunslinger saunters into the saloon; soon as we stepped through the doors -- a grubby little girl and a pale, long-haired man wearing huge sunglasses -- all heads turned toward us, all mouths stopped talking.

  It wasn’t as if the store was crowded. In fact, I recall just a chubby bagger boy with a crew cut and two high school-looking checkout girls, one Hispanic, the other white, both sporting hair-sprayed bangs that curled upward like a wave.

  "What time is it?” my father asked.

  "S-s-s-orry, not wearing a w-w-watch,” the boy replied, stuttering painfully, his lips and jaw twisting spasmodically as he spoke. "Around four, I-I-I think.”

  "It’s about four-thirty,” the Hispanic girl said.

  "Then you’re still open.”

  "Until five. Six on Saturday."

  "That’s good,” my father said, taking my hand. "Where’s the peanut butter?”

  "Center aisle, near the marshmallows, to the left.”

  And when we returned to the front with our groceries, my father asked the bagger boy if he knew someone who might give us a lift.

  The checkout girls glanced at each other, their grins verging on laughter.

  "Where you-you-you g-going?”

  "East of town, out toward the microwave tower on Saturn Road."

  "Guess I-I-I could t-t-t-ake you," the boy said, unfolding a paper sack. "It’s on my w-w-ay home, if you don’t mind waiting till I-I-I’m off.”

  "Not at all,” my father said. "I appreciate it, friend.”

  The afternoon sun had colored the asphalt golden, and as the bagger boy drove us from Florence in his Nissan pickup, he put on a pair of dark convex glasses -- less against the bright rays spilling across the county road, I suspected, than against my father’s menacing eyewear. His name was Patrick.

  "I live with my g-g-g-grandfa-fa-father,” he explained, accelerating the vehicle. "We’re going fishing to-to-to-tonight, so I-I-I'm in a bit of a h-h-h-urry."

  Then he asked if we were visiting family, wondered where we were traveling from.

  "Going to see my parents,” my father lied. "My girl and I live in Austin.”

  I was sandwiched between them in the cab, my knees on either side of the gear shift.

  "Th-th-that right," Patrick said. "Austin’s gr-gr-great! Haven’t had much of a ch-ch-chance to know people a-around here. just moved from D-D-Dallas. Not from Florence. My grandfather’s b-b-b-been here for-e-e-ever."

  "Forever’s a pretty long time,” my father said.

  "You bet-bet-bet-cha,” Patrick sputtered. "I-I-I think I-I-I-I’d go nuts if I-I-I stayed here as long as he-he-he has."

  And while Patrick struggled in conversation with my father, I tucked my shins underneath my butt, pushing myself up, and gazed over the dashboard at the hilly landscape ahead. Cedar and mesquite trees grew along the road, in pastures lush from spring thunderstorms. This was farming country. In the distance, the microwave tower my father had mentioned loomed like a futuristic obelisk, reddish girders criss-crossing, an infrequent strobe flaring at its top.

  My father told Patrick to turn on Saturn Road, and soon the pickup was bouncing across a winding dirt road. "How f-f-far?"

  "A mile or so, maybe two. First gate you come to is good enough. That’s pretty much it.”

  The microwave tower was now in the rearview.

  To the left, dense groupings of cedar.

  To the right, a clear meadow under a canopy of low-lying clouds.

  Then we passed empty sidelots parceled by barbwire fences, each with a real estate marker advertising new concepts in family living, reasonable financing available. The wild grass had been grazed or chopped down, but was still thick enough for snakes and armadillos to hide in.

  "Tons of d-d-deer out here,” Patrick mentioned. "Rain has g-g-g-given them e-e-e-nough to eat.”

  The pickup flew past longhorns sunning themselves beneath a windmill.

  "An hour or two before the sun’s gone,” my father uttered, turning to stare as we zoomed by.

  When Patrick pulled off at a long frame gate, he asked, "This it?”

  "Yep,” my father replied. "Awfully kind of you."

  "No p-p-problem.”

  We climbed from the truck and began organizing ourselves. With his backpack hanging off a shoulder, my father clutched the grocery sack against his chest. I was slightly lop-sided, gripping a gallon jug in one hand, my suitcase in the other. Chalky road dust, stirred up behind Patrick’s Nissan, caught us and then billowed on.

  Patrick mentioned that once a week he did a delivery run near What Rocks -- to let him know if we needed anything - and, leaning across the cab to close the passenger door, he said, "H-h-have a nice one.”

  My father gave him a nod, and I smiled but he didn’t seem to notice. He was already shutting the door. Then he had the pickup bumping around in the opposite direction, sending more sandy dust to the air, and sped away.

  The purr of cicadas rattled among the mesquite and cedar trees. From the road, What Rocks wasn’t visible, only the thick Johnsongrass which grew wild on the property. "Go on," my father said, planting a boot against the bottom cord of barbwire alongside the frame gate. He pressed the cord to the ground, creating a wide gap.

  So I crossed under the range fence, and he followed, grunting with exasperation as he bent. Then the two of us walked to the washed-out driveway, each occupying a gravelly rut.

  "Weeds get the better of everything,” he said, mumbling to himself.

  He glanced at me, elaborating, "When there’s no cattle on the land, the weeds grow greedy,”

  About a half-mile in, where the driveway forked between two cedars, the farmhouse came into view.

  "Wow," I said, trudging toward my father, who had stopped near one of the trees, "is that What Rocks?"

  "That’s her," he said, wiping his brow with the heel of his palm. His backpack was at his feet, the grocery sack crumpled and torn beside it.

  I set my suitcase and the jug on the ground, keeping my eyes on the old place.

  A flagless flagpole stood in close proximity to the wrap- around porch. There was a copper-colored weather vain on the lean-to, but shaped as a grasshopper instead of a rooster. And while it appeared no different than most two-story farmhouses in Texas -- pitch
ed roof and an open plan -- its weathered planks, gray and stark and splintering, gave it a decidedly forlorn facade. Even before stepping through the doorway, I sensed the layers of grime, frayed spiderwebs, crumbs,and mice droppings that were eventually found within.

  "Home at last,” my father said, sounding somewhat relieved. He hoisted his pack, unzipped the top, and rifled inside, producing a shoelace with a key tied at the end.

  And in less than three minutes, I was already upstairs in What Rocks, staring from my bedroom window at the upturned school bus, while my father was downstairs tacking up the map of Denmark.

  Night arrived.

  I had been to the bus and returned. Now I was upstairs again, having left my father in the living room. On the edge of the single mattress, where a faded brown stain filled the middle, my suitcase sat open. Carefully, I removed what few items I’d managed to pack-my mother’s satin nightgown, and an armful of Barbie doll parts (four heads, two arms, onetorso, six legs, each dismembered piece unearthed in a thrift shop bin). Aside from the contents of the suitcase, another thrift shop purchase, my dress, panties, socks, and sneakers were all I had.

  Biting my sore bottom lip, I took a moment ordering my possessions. The nightgown, which had been folded haphazardly, was given rest on the mattress pillow, a regal flourish in my imagination. The doll parts were then arranged in a line beside the pillow: heads first, then arms, then legs, then torso.

  Finally, I zipped the suitcase, noticing with some sadness that its neon-colored flower stickers were coming unstuck, and shoved it underneath the bed anyway. And while crouching, a tiny drop of blood spattered on the floorboard. So I drooled into a palm, watching as a red string of saliva formed in my cupped hand.

  "I’m dying,” I said in mock-horror, affecting the voice of a soap opera actress. "I can’t go on, I must go on."

  I went to look in the bathroom mirror. Puffing my bottom lip, I spotted the sliver of split flesh oozing blood, but was disappointed it wasn’t any worse. So I spat at the sink, hoping my spit would suddenly turn crimson and profuse. It didn’t. In fact, it seemed mostly clear.

  "You will survive,” my reflection told me, aping a TV doctor. "A complete recovery is expected."

  "Thank you, thank you," I replied. "Now there’s hope."

  Then I twisted the sink knobs, praying a little water might spurt out so I could brush my teeth. But nothing happened. It didn’t matter anyway, I reasoned, because I’d forgotten a toothbrush and toothpaste. And when I brought a finger to my clenched teeth, sliding it back and forth like I was brush- ing, more blood bubbled from my lip.

  My reflection grinned, showing me how the blood had discolored the crowns.

  "You’re red all over," I said, noting my orangish hair and freckles, the hyacinths on my dress.

  "Simply ghastly,” my reflection exclaimed in an English accent, just then catching music playing faintly in my father's bedroom. "A ghastly noise, Jeliza-Rose."

  "Yes, we must put an end to it,” I replied, turning from the mirror.

  Then I crossed to the other bathroom door, which opened into the adjoining sleeping quarters.

  When I entered, the hinges creaked like in some monster film, so I stood near the doorway for a bit, sucking my bottom lip and taking everything in the backpack on the bed, the lamp glowing on the night table, the ratty throw rug on the floor. My father’s room was almost identical to mine, except he had a double mattress with a larger stain. On the windowsill above the headboard, a hand-held radio transmitted music -- girl, you really got me going, you got me so I don’t know what I'm doing -- and I remembered how my father kept the radio pressed against an ear as the Greyhound journeyed through the desert, listening with his eyes shut, sometimes sleeping for hours while music or news or static droned.

  "You really got me, you really got me,” I sang, going to the mattress.

  The contents of his backpack were in a small pile on the bed, unwashed clothes topped by a depleted Peach Schnapps bottle. The sandwich bag once containing the mixed pills had been emptied, and was now stuck over the bottle neck like a makeshift prophylactic. And I pictured my father swallowing and swallowing and swallowing, then exhaling relief as he waited for the hallucinations and thought disturbances to begin. "Thought disturbances-” that was what he called them, "sweeping clean the little messes in my brain.”

  I climbed across the mattress toward the windowsill. Parting the curtains, I saw the strobe flutter from the distant microwave tower.

  Then I saw nothing.

  The world outside was darker than I ever knew it could be. And aside from the strobe and several moths trying to thump past the pane, it seemed as if all else had fallen into a vast hole. There was just me and my father and What Rocks and the radio. The Johnsongrass had disappeared. So had the horizon.

  Imitating Patrick the Bagger Boy, I stammered, "I-I-I think I-I-I-I'd go nuts if I-I-I stayed here as long as he-he-he has.”

  Then I took the radio from the windowsill and carried it from my father’s room.

  4

  I was naked with my arms stretched over my head. My dress was on the floor, covering my sneakers and socks, and the hand-held radio sang the blues on my night table. My mother’s nightgown, all shimmery pink and smooth, sank around me. And I could smell her, the persistent body odor she often had. The gown was so massive over me that for a moment I was lost underneath it -- my hands searched for the sleeve openings, my head rummaged against the silk in an effort to reach the neckline.

  The headless housewife, I imagined, flapping her arms like a chicken.

  When I finally poked through the collar, my hair stood on end with electrostatic. Then I scrunched the sleeves past my wrists, and tried twirling in a circle like a dervish. But the gown was too long, so I had to stop.

  "You’re crazy,” I told myself, grabbing the radio. "You’re insane.”

  "That’s right, looks like any chance we had for rain has all but disappeared,” a throaty-sounding DJ said, speaking over the fade-out of a song. "Well now, instead of thunderclaps here’s Mr. John Lee Hooker -- as requested by Jimmy in Salado-going boom boom boom for everyone on the Stillhouse Hollow Lake marina."

  Ah-boom boom boom, I wanna shoot ya right down!

  With John Lee Hooker vibrating in my hand, I headed downstairs. The gown dragged at my feet, and it was a precarious trip from one squeaky step to the next. Still, I managed without trouble, envisioning myself as a graceful ghost while descending into the murky dining room. At the bottom of the stairs, the gown hem swept across the floorboards, stirring dust in my wake. But it didn’t matter much. Everything was dusty anyway -- the long dining room table, the oak sideboard, the air I inhaled.

  "Aaaa-choo!” I faked a sneeze, hoping to summon my father’s attention.

  To the right of the stairs was the kitchen, and to the left was the dining room and then the living room, separated by only a wood-burning stove. Because the entire downstairs lacked interior walls, it was fairly easy to gaze from room-to-room -- especially when standing at the foot of the stairs.

  "Aaaa-choo!" I went again, but my father remained as before in the living room, so I about-faced and glided into the kitchen.

  Leaving the radio near the stove, I dug in the grocery sack and placed the goods on the counter. Then I turned ravenous.

  A saltine dabbed into the peanut butter jar, breaking the glossy surface.

  More saltines followed.

  John Lee Hooker had long since finished, and now bluegrass music entertained the kitchen. Wild fiddles and stomping feet kept time with my smacking.

  I drank from a gallon jug, spilling water on the gown.

  Then my index finger became a knife, squishing peanut butter across a slice of Wonder Bread. And I continued eating and drinking, waiting for my stomach to feel satisfied.

  By the time I was full, my eyes had grown tired. There was peanut butter on the roof of my mouth, along the ridges of my gums, and I was content, half-awake and nourished, listening
to "K-V-R-P, eclectic music for eclectic minds-”

  Fatigue pushed me downward.

  With the gown bunched over me like a blanket, I was aware for the first time how very warm What Rocks was -- as if the entire place was holding a stifled breath. But the floor seemed cooler than anywhere else in the house. And the radio was now playing Tumbleweed, one of my father’s slower songs, so it was okay to rest for a little while.

  In the ethereal moments before sleep, I imagined my father on a stage in some L.A. dive, where a beam of indigo light shone on him, glistening in the creases of his black leather pants and jacket. With his legs apart, his guitar held in front of him like a weapon, he curled his top lip, saying, "This is for the loves of my life, my baby girl and my beautiful wife.”

  An Elvis moment, he called it. Every performance needs one.

  Tumbleweed, tumbleweed blowin 'cross the yard

  Wonder where you’re goin', wonder how far

  Tumbleweed, tumbleweed rollin’ in my mind

  Wonder what she's doin’, wonder who she’ll find

  My mother bragged that the lyrics were written about her, and I never heard my father say otherwise. He wrote them while touring England during the early ‘70s. That’s where they met. My mother, a runaway from Brooklyn, was a wafer-thin eighteen-year-old, who had an Asian guru named Sanjuro. She also had The Who, or, to be exact, the drummer, Keith Moon. By then, my father was a guitar-twang icon, known for his string of instrumental hits in the 50’s, and an emotive, ferocious style of playing that had influenced a young Pete Townshend. Evidently though, when Pete saw my father perform in London, he was quite disappointed. lt was an acoustic performance of country standards, mostly Hank Williams and johnny Cash covers. Following the show, Pete went backstage long enough to shake my father’s hand, then he sulked away by himself.

  "I’m sure he made a song about that night,” my father once remarked, digressing from how my mother was introduced to him. "‘The Punk Meets The Godfather’- I’m positive that one’s about me. Not a nice tribute."