by Mitch Cullin
And on the farmhouse porch, I spun with itchy ankles, the wood slats groaning. It was the first time since leaving the apartment, though I considered having a whirl in the aisle of the Greyhound. With Classique and Magic Curl and Fashion jeans on my fingertips, we went round and round, all four of us. Cut ’N Style stayed upstairs. She was just too blind.
"Eyes that can’t see don’t enjoy twirling,” Classique concluded when I began gathering the heads. We never played with Cut ’N Style anyway, unless we had a tea party -- then she became the guest of honor.
Our corner of the front porch was shaded. It felt cool and pleasant. Sunlight shined further on, landing across the steps leading to the yard. But our corner had fallen under siege: army ants traveled in three long lines, back and forth along the slats, up and down the newels. They came and went from the thin crack beneath the front door, carrying crumbs in their pincers; some had dust balls or what looked like bits of straw. I suspected that if one of the Barbies dropped in their midst, she’d quickly be hoisted and dumped off the porch, disappearing forever in the overgrowth below. So I spun in defense, performing pirouettes on the ants. Then I stomped all three ant lines, squashing the invaders, scrambling their ranks, chanting, "Save Cut ’N Style from the monsters! Save Cut ’N Style from the monsters!”
Cut ’N Style was unprotected on my pillow, surrounded by the torso, dismembered arms and legs. At Kmart, I once studied a brand new Cut ’N Style in her box. With hoop earrings, hands poised for clapping, red hair hanging to her butt, she was a stunning doll. Her baby-blue eyes glowed, and her Astronaut Fashion dress with matching go-go boots was an inspired touch. Years ago, my Cut ’N Style’s head had been even more stylish than Classique-and that’s why Classique hated her. In an effort to clean the black ink from Cut ’N Style’s forehead and eyes, I poured nail polish remover over her face, just a few drops. But it smeared the red paint on her lips, blemished her plastic cheeks, and didn’t put a dent in the ink.
"Now she’s a complete freak," Classique said. "Get rid of her."
"I can’t," I said. "What if it happened to you?"
"Then you should kill me."
The lines re-formed. The slats were overrun again.
For every crushed ant, at least two more arrived and began picking at the remains, the splat, the parts that hadn't been mashed into nothing. I was too dizzy to continue spinning, so I leaned against a newel and followed the lines with my wobbly vision. The army ants looked enormous and ancient, like runty dirt dobbers -- except they didn’t have wings.
On the soles of my sneakers, when I checked for bug parts, there were wet stains, dark and fresh, not unlike the chewing tobacco juice my father sometimes spit into a Coke bottle. And there was an ant head squirming in a tread, pincers still moving; the mangled body somewhere onthe porch, or between the pincers of some other ant.
"Help me,” it was trying to say. "I don’t want to die. No, please-”
I brought my sneaker down, grinding the sole, then pounded it on the slats, making certain that the ant head was atomized.
"No mercy."
I singled out the biggest ants. I smushed their rear sections, allowing the front and middle sections to scramble away. Or I leveled the heads so only the rear and middle parts continued moving.
Then I watched.
The separated rear sections went astray, often slipping between the slats. But the head sections dragged themselves forward, showing no pain. So I picked them from the line and flicked them past the edge of the porch. To serve as a warning for the others, I didn’t bother the rear parts. Sometimes a dumb ant explored one of the cleaved sections, but it couldn’t understand what had happened. So it clambered on without a worry. But it didn’t matter. I was tired of killing. These ants lacked intelligence anyway; they couldn’t care any less about getting stomped -- they weren’t even interested in revenge. Squirrels were different. A squirrel would squish a person if given the opportunity.
"What do we do?" asked Classique.
Tugging Magic Curl and Fashion Jeans from my fingers, I said, "Wait, I got an idea.”
Now I had a mission. So did Classique. Fashion Jeans and Magic Curl were hostages held by guerrilla forces; their heads sat on nail butts and the army ants roamed nearby. It was a desperate situation. But we could free only one, otherwise we might get noticed. Fashion Jeans was the obvious choice. She wasn’t a whiney ass, so we’d save her.
I leapt across the porch, clearing enemy lines. Classique swooped down, almost sliding from my fingertip, and rescued Fashion Jeans before an ant reached her neck. But the mission hadn’t been completed. We needed to get back. I sprinted over the ants -- swinging my arms -- and Classique went sailing. And when I picked her up from the porch, she said, "It’s a stupid game. Let’s do something else.”
So we abandoned Fashion Jeans, and went searching for squirrels. But while skipping to the steps, I tripped. It was a mess. I tried getting hold of the railing, except I was stum- bling and couldn’t manage. My tailbone hit the top step; I sprang up. Then I fell. I couldn’t stop myself, I was going too fast. My legs, my hands, elbows -- they went crazy. I landed crosswise on the bottom step, clutching Classique. And for a moment I remained crumpled by the yard, like a monstrous foot had squashed me there. When I stood, splinters poked from the redness of my shins, thin slivers of wood sticking under the skin. I yanked them and then scratched. The itching was beginning again.
"l could’ve mashed you,” I told Classique. "I could’ve fallen on you and you’d be dead.”
Like that woman in Poland: she became suicidal after her husband said he was leaving. He told her that he was going to live with another woman. Then he left their apartment, which was on the tenth floor of a building. While he was exiting the lobby, his wife jumped from the balcony. She soared downward, hoping to collide with the sidewalk, and dropped smack-dab on her wanton husband’s skull. Killing him. And she survived. I heard all about it during this TV show. Stranger Than Fiction, Amazing Stories of Life and Death. But my mother thought I was lying.
"A man tumbled into a coleslaw blender and got mixed to death."
"No he didn’t.”
"And another man tumbled into melted chocolate and died, and it happened to another man but it was gravy instead of chocolate. They died in vats."
"Jeliza-Rose, your stories aren’t interesting.”
"Do you know what this woman in New Zealand was stabbed to death with?”
"I don’t care. That’s enough.”
"A frozen sausage. Can you believe it? And this man was in a coffin--”
"Enough. Seal it!"
But my father believed me. And when I explained about the workmen in Houston who tried freeing a squirrel from an irrigation pipe, he listened carefully.
"They lifted the pipe and it bumped a power wire, and they got zapped dead. But the squirrel was okay."
"Horrible," he said. "That’s really awful."
And that second day at What Rocks, I spied a ghost lady near the railroad tracks, and wondered if she’d died horribly - if something like a frozen yogurt machine had electrocuted her, or a vat of molten lipstick was accidentally spilled on her. Or maybe she was lured to a wedding and murdered.
I wouldn’t have seen the ghost if Classique hadn’t asked to visit the bus. We’d been among the weeds, creeping around the farmhouse yard in hopes of spotting another squirrel, when she said, "Jeliza-Rose, show me that upside-down place."
"Okay,” I told her, "but only you and me can go, and you can’t tell anyone else because it’s secret.”
Then we snuck away toward the Johnsongrass, careful not to arouse Magic Curl and Fashion Jeans; their hollow necks stuck over nail butts on the front porch, hostages once more.
Stepping along the cattle trail, Classique and I quietly sang, "I’m a little tea pot, short and stout-" And as we reached the grazing pasture, I mentioned how the fireflies had materialized from nowhere.
"So now we can’t sing or talk now,” I said, d
ropping my voice, "or we’ll spook the lightning bugs and they won’t come tonight.”
And when she said, "We must see the light bugs tonight,” I put her against my lips and shushed her.
"You’ll scare them," I said. "They probably won’t be out tonight anyway.”
I didn’t want her returning with me that evening. The fireflies were my extra secret friends. Classique wouldn’t understand their blinks.
Minding the bluebonnets that lurked in the high foxtails, we walked the length of the wreck. Then I bowed at a busted window, where the foxtail spikes tickled my chin. In midday, the upturned bus was smaller, less ominous than I remembered. And gazing straight through the gloomy interior, I caught sight of the Johnsongrass parting in the adjacent field -- the ghost moving out into pasture, partially obscured by the rise of railroad tracks.
"It’s a lady,” I said, noting her black dress.
Her head was covered by a mesh hood, the kind beekeepers use for protection; she stooped-she didn’t notice us. And the idea of running never crossed my mind. My heart didn’t beat any faster, my hands didn’t shake.
For a better view, Classique and I crept to the rear of the bus, my steps swooshing in the foxtails. And peeping around the side, we saw the ghost grabbing nettles, effortlessly, like pulling one Kleenex and then another from the box.
Ghost, I thought. Big fat ghost.
With the hood on, her housedress bunching as she crouched, the ghost appeared larger than any woman I’d ever encountered, including my mother. And while observing her at work, Classique and I were all whispers.
"She comes from a cave somewhere in that field,” I said.
"Because she was killed in this very bus,” said Classique, "all burned bad and that’s why her face is covered.”
"She boils what she pulls in a pot and makes weed soup. That’s what she does.”
"That’s how ghosts get fat. There’s so many weeds it’d be easy to get fat that way.”
No other explanation presented itself.
On Halloween, I asked my father if ghosts haunted L.A., and he said just a few, mostly dead movie stars, like Marilyn Monroe and Fatty Arbuckle.
"But in Texas,” he explained, "there’s a ton. Bluesmen like Lightnin’ Hopkins and Leadbelly wander Dallas streets at night. Woody Guthrie too. Then there’s the Alamo -- that joint is rich with spooks. And where Mother lived, way out in nowhere, she’d spot ghosts coming and going right outside her windows, right in the middle of the day.”
"Bullshit," my mother said. "Noah, you’ll be up with her tonight when she’s scared to sleep."
"No I won’t," my father told her, "‘cause I’m saying now that most spooks are harmless. They just want to be seen but don’t want to be bothered.” Then he gave me one of his winks, saying, "As long as Mother was alive, them ghosts didn’t bug her. In fact, she enjoyed knowing they was there. They kept an eye on her place, made her feel all safe."
And I was going to tell Classique what my father had said, but then my ankles were itching again, and my legs felt like needles were pricking at the skin but not quite sinking in.
"She got killed in the fire," whispered Classique.
Wrenching nettles from the ground and throwing them aside, the ghost paused to wipe dirt on her white apron. And even though it was warm outside, she wore gray mittens.
"No, she didn’t get burned in the bus,” I said. "She got strangled.”
"And drowned."
"She’s Queen Gunhild and she didn’t want to stay in the bog so she decided not to be dead anymore."
Bog men rose from their peat graves, so did Gunhild. After all, she was a bog woman. And perhaps my father had become a ghost. He could be in the kitchen eating crackers, or upstairs searching for that squirrel. He might be on the porch, waiting.
"We have to go."
"Right now."
"We have to hurry.”
But I couldn’t run because my shins were sore. So we took our time.
The ghost was busy with her mittens, whistling a pretty song. The railroad tracks and the foxtails made it impossible to see what exactly her mittens were doing.
"He won’t be on the porch,” Classique said. "He won’t be upstairs. He’s not a ghost yet.”
"But he will be."
"I know," she said. "I know everything?
I looked at her face, her long eyelashes. I wondered who removed her head. I wondered who did that kind of thing to dolls.
8
Classique said, "Quit scratching and it’ll stop itching."
That’s what my mother would tell me when I pinched at a scab or rubbed a bug bite.
"Just let it be and it’ll heal quicker. You’re making it worse.”
So upstairs in the bathroom, I resisted the urge to rake my shins with my fingernails. Instead, I donned one of Grandmother’s blond wigs. And standing at the mirror, I put on lipstick, trying my best to apply it evenly. If the lipstick ended up crooked or smeared, then it became poisonous. My tongue would swell, and I’d choke.
Grandmother’s cosmetic bag had six different lipsticks, various shades of red, the scarlet being my favorite because it reminded me of apples. It also reminded me of blood. And it felt waxy like an apple peel but didn’t dry like blood. I wondered if each lipstick had its own flavor and smell. I wondered if scarlet tasted good. I’d know when I finished; I’d bring the stick to my tongue and lick it. Then I could slide it between my lips -- I’d study my reflection, how the stick went in and out -- and see what flavor it had. I could bite into the stick if I wanted; I could chew it in my mouth like gum. But that was too risky. I didn’t want my tongue swelling -- microscopic syringes hid in the lipstick.
I spread it carefully. If I went any quicker my hand might get shaky and the lipstick would end up all over my chin; it might redden my nose. Then the poison would be released. A gradual application was the safest bet, stay within the borders, no hurry -- like drawing in my Barbie Coloring Book. It was easy coloring the dresses or hair. But the heads and arms and legs were difficult to get right; they were so thin, my crayons always scooted past the borders if I hurried. When I wasn’t meticulous, the picture got ruined, and Barbie had to be ripped from the pages. And I cursed myself.
Careful. Almost done. Deadly lips as delicious as an apple. Dream Date Jeliza-Rose doll. When the lipstick reached the nooks of my mouth I had to pause; it was hard getting the scarlet neatly in the corners.
My reflection glowered. She suddenly resembled my mother and it frightened me. She said, "Get on with it. You little bitch, l’m hungry.” She was staring into my eyes, gazing through me.
I glanced down. The lipstick moved. I felt it smear and looked up. The scarlet had smudged across my upper lip, daubed between my nostrils. Doomed. My reflection smiled with her crazy wig and messy lips. Murderer. I’d been poisoned.
Grasping my throat, I ran into my bedroom.
"Classique, I’m dying. My tongue is filling my head. I can’t talk anymore because I'm really dying now."
"Dear, you’re already dead,” she told me. "You’re a ghost!”
"Already?”
"A spook.”
I touched the blond coils hanging on my forehead.
"And so beautiful too. I’m a vision.”
"Very beautiful," she said. "More beautiful than -- I don’t know.”
"More beautiful than-"
Scampering, rapid light-sounding steps came from behind. I turned. I couldn’t believe it.
The squirrel was at the bathroom door, puffy tail curled - he sniffed the floor; I watched him. That twitching muzzle. He was almost motionless, hunched in the doorway. I wondered what to do, but I couIdn’t think -- I could only watch. It was as if he didn’t see me, and I wasn’t afraid of him. I just didn’t know what to do.
Then he cocked his head to one side, considering me. His paws flexed on the floorboards. I waited to see if he seemed fearful; then I worried that other squirrels were coming, a hit squad. When I took a deep breath, he
swung around, facing me, went up on his hind legs, sniffing. He wasn’t scared.
"What do you want? How’d you get in?"
I knew the squirrel was fast. And he was mean. He could spring through the air. He might bite me. He might steal Classique, eat her hair, and gnaw her into nothing with those nasty teeth. It was creepy, an animal always chewing on wood or wires or plastic things. He did it because he was a pig and couldn’t hunt food like a lion. He was also stupid. But his teeth were huge, tusks, worse than claws. While attacking, he could sink into a skull as easy as someone crunching into an apple.
"You better leave,” I said, a warning for good measure, but it didn’t rattle him. "You go!”
His tail swooshed. He couldn’t quit sniffing. His ears quivered.
I threw the wig at him. But it missed; he was already scrambling, tearing through the room.
So I hurdled onto my bed, screaming, "Go away!"
The squirrel was confused and chirping like a bird; his knothole was somewhere else. He sprang from one end of the room to the other, desperate for a good climbing place -- a wall without a ceiling overhead, just sky. Back and forth across the throw rug. Chattering and angry. That was the worst part. Squirrel babble near my bed and me and the dolls. Then under the bed, then out, across the throw rug again, to the wall -- to the other wall. Hesitate, sniff, stand, down, run. Chatter, chirp. Back under the bed, out. Across the throw rug. Wall to wall.
I hobbled on the mattress, yelling, bouncing the doll parts. Doll heads leaping. Some of them mashed by my feet, like ants. Toes on Classique, toes on Fashion Jeans. Jumping and shouting.
Then he froze, no good climbing place, no knothole.
I couldn't scream anymore; the breath had abandoned me. My shins were itching. The wig sat in a clump. The room smelled like skunk.
"Just go-"
He shot into the bathroom, skidding on the floor. Claws scratching; he was frantic, irate. Hopping about in there, making a racket -- then he was gone.
