Tideland

by Mitch Cullin

If I do, you’ll have to listen for her. She could trap us.

  No, she won’t. She didn’t hear you. You escaped.

  "Okay,” I said. "All right.”

  Then I wandered to the footpath, glancing around every so often for Dell. The rabbit-hole was easy to find, a cavernous opening beneath the mesquite tree. And I showed it to Classique, my arm extended. I held her over the brink. The hole was black, much larger than I remembered. I could maybe squeeze my shoulders past the rim.

  Closer, Jeliza-Rose. Let me go in.

  But the rabbit is there.

  Closer, please.

  "This is Alice’s hole,” I said.

  And just then Classique slipped. In she went. Spinning, spinning, spinning into blackness, beyond my reach. Lost. She was falling through the earth, to where the people walked with their heads downwards.

  My stomach sank like Lisa. "Classique!”

  And I wanted to cry. And I would’ve too -- but she sent a message: "It’s okay, dear. I’m falling very slowly. The sides of the hole are filled with cupboards and book-shelves. I wonder how many miles I’ve fallen by this time?”

  I couldn’t go home. Not yet. So I stayed there until dusk, in the golden light, wondering how to rescue her. I sat under the mesquite tree with my legs crossed. I tossed pebbles into the creepy hole. Then the train whistle blew. And I knew the Bog Man would soon be stirring in his grave.

  "Classique, don’t worry,” I said.

  But no message came.

  She’s sleeping, I told myself. She’s sleeping, flying down down down, dreaming of me and What Rocks and her bodiless friends.

  And wandering home that evening, I was angry at myself for finding the rabbit-hole in the first place. And mad at Classique too. She wanted me to take her closer. It was her fault anyway -- now I was alone again.

  "You’re so stupid," I said. "Sometirnes you’re the dumbest."

  14

  Classique was the first head I discovered in the thrift shop bin. I held her in my palm and showed my mother.

  "She’s so beautiful,” I said.

  My mother shrugged. She wasn’t looking at me. She was gazing at a shelf lined with painted china plates, all mounted on wire stands, each depicting a different image-a waterfall, John Wayne, kittens, Jesus on the cross, The Beatles.

  "Can I have her, please?"

  And to my surprise, my mother said yes. She dug two dollars from her purse.

  "If it’s more than that,” she said, "put it back.”

  She hadn’t read the cardboard sign above the bin: All Doll Parts, Mix & Match, 5 for $1.

  "Thank you, thank you," I said.

  Then -- carefully holding Classique in a hand -- I rummaged through the box of arms and torsos and legs and heads. I found Magic Curl next. Then Fashion Jeans. Then Cut ’N Style. But none of them were as good or as beautiful as Classique. She was the best. And she knew it.

  "Dear, I picked you,” she told me later. "And you picked the others.”

  If her voice had a flavor it would’ve been honey, sweet and ingratiating.

  But after falling into the hole, it became harder to hear her. Her voice was fainter, a distant transmission almost impossible to make out, and sometimes she had to scream.

  "CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?! CAN YOU--?!”

  While I slept on my father’s mattress, she appeared; her red hair billowed as she sailed past cupboards and bookcases, her tight lips somewhere between a grimace and a smile.

  "This is it, dear. I’m done for. You’ve abandoned me, I suppose.”

  No, you’ll be okay. I need you.

  "Too late. Too late. But at least you have the others for company.”

  The others; they were on the floor when I awoke the next morning, waiting anxiously like beauty queens at the conclusion of a pageant. Three heads wondering which among them would replace Classique and receive the crown of Jeliza-Rose’s friendship.

  "She’s not dead yet,” I told them. "You’re just sharks! You’re happy she’s falling through the earth!”

  Then I forbade them to speak for a million years.

  "You’re just heads! You don’t have hearts! You’re traitors!"

  I attacked on hands and knees, tucking my index finger behind my thumb -- and then I flicked the traitors around the room.

  "Take that-!”

  Flick.

  Magic Curl spun across the floor like a top.

  "And you-!”

  Flick.

  Fashion Jeans shot up into the air.

  "And you too-!"

  But I couldn’t flick Cut ’N Style.

  My finger hesitated in front of her damaged face and blackened eyeballs. If anyone had a right to hate Classique it was Cut ’N Style -- so I tipped her over, gently, and whispered in her ear, "You’re better than those other two. I’m sorry Classique was so mean to you."

  Then I considered bringing her with me to the rabbit- hole, where I could put her on Grandmother’s boa and lower her inside. And because Cut ’N Style was blind, maybe she’d be good at sensing Classique there in the darkness. Maybe she could somehow rescue Classique and they’d be best friends for life.

  I want to save her, Cut ’N Style was thinking. Let me come.

  "No, you better stay,” I concluded, reluctantly. "You might fall in -- then I’d be trapped with Fashion Jeans and Magic Curl. They’re just as bad as ants. They’re worse than squirrels.”

  And I was glad Cut ’N Style didn’t accempany me after all. She wouldn’t have been much help. The boa was pointless as well, too light and fluffy for a lifeline; I couldn’t tell if it was reaching anything in the hole or not.

  "Dumb big feathers!"

  I ended up slinging the boa around my neck -- while Classique screamed from the void -- and went searching for semething else, something long and sturdy.

  CAN YOU HEAR ME?!

  Yes. Loud and clear.

  IT’S COLD! I’VE HIT BOTTOM, I’M PRETTY SURE! OR I’M ON A LEDGE PERHAPS!

  Don’t worry. I’m here. I’m getting a stick.

  IT’S SO VERY COLD AND I’M SO TIRED-!

  "I’m corning," I said. "Don’t go to sleep. Stay awake.”

  Mesquite branches were everywhere, on the greund, beside the footpath, all gangly and brittle; none was long enough though. I had to break a dead branch from a tree, had to tug on one end of it until the slender limb splintered loose in my fist. Then I dragged it on the footpath.

  Branch longer than my leg, I thought. Lenger than P-P- Patrick’s creepy boy-thingy.

  And I felt like whistling as the branch scratched against the dirt. I pursed my lips, blowing. But only breath and some saliva burbled from me. It was hopeless.

  So I invented a happy song instead.

  I sang, "Dragging the branch, dragging the branch -- better watch out for Mr. Dragon Branch -- he’ll bite your head, he’ll bite your head -- dragging the branch -- Mr. Dragon Branch - dragging the branch-”

  It was such a great song that I leaned over the hole, smiling, and began singing for Classique, the words echoing in the blackness. I pretended that all the nearby mesquites were an audience of old men and old women. They were applauding; their craggy twig-fingers wore diamond rings and gold bands.

  I finished with, "Thank you, everyone, everyone everywhere," and stroked the boa like it was a cat sitting on my shoulders.

  And when the applause finally died in my mind, I listened for Classique’s faint message. She was supposed to say, "Fantastic! You’re wonderful! Mr. Dragon Branch is the bestest song ever!”

  But she didn’t say anything.

  "Classique,” I said, "are you still there?”

  No message arrived.

  I waited.

  "Classique-?"

  Nothing.

  I stuck the branch into the hole. Down down down. Three feet, at least. My hand and wrist slid past the rim. And suddenly the branch stabbed the bottorn -- crunching against soil, perhaps poking clods and pebbles -- and broke apart. Then it was as if the
earth caved in, the hole became deeper.

  "Uh-oh,” I said, sounding like Dickens.

  I couldn’t poke the bottom anymore, just space. So I opened my hand, letting what remained of the branch drop.

  "He’s coming!" I warned Classique.

  l/Ir. Dragon Branch was falling toward her now. He’ll bite her head, he’ll bite her head.

  Then I sat with my legs crossed and contemplated the hole. Classique hadn’t tumbled as far as I thought. If I had grown-up arms, I could reach in there and probably touch her with my fingertips. And I wouldn’t be afraid of the darkness inside -- the hole wouldn’t look so huge.

  "Uh-oh," I said again.

  I imagined Dickens hugging himself with those skinny arms, his hands almost meeting at his spine. He could rescue her in a heartbeat. His arms were like broom handles. He didn’t need a rake, he could comb the yard with his fingers. He wouldn’t even have to bend much.

  "Classique, I’ll be back.”

  I had an idea.

  "Don’t go anywhere.”

  Dickens didn’t need the rake. But I did. And the rake wouldn’t crumble; its claws could go into the hole -- snagging Classique and bits of the branch and clods and pebbles -- and come out again in one piece.

  The Rake of Life, I thought -- wandering along the footpath, sneakers stepping over stones. Making my way to the edge of Dell’s front yard, I glanced around cautiously. Dell might be hiding nearby, lurking behind a grizzled trunk; she’d suck my blood if I wasn’t careful.

  "You’ll stay far," I said.

  I turned and spit.

  "You’ll mess elsewhere."

  Crouching at the juniper bush, I scanned the yard, the walkway, the porch. The yellow light glowed above the front door. But the Rake of Life was gone. And everything was silent. No whistling, no mumbling. The house seemed deserted -- shades pulled, dim -- like Dell and Dickens had packed their bags and went on vacation. Or they were napping. Or exploring the ocean in Lisa.

  I left the bush and crossed the yard, leaving prints where Dickens had raked. And I crept alongside the house, going to the backyard -- my ears listening for anything, a whisper, a voice, floorboards creaking.

  It was another world, the backyard; it wasn’t tidy like the front. Weeds and foxtails grew high. A blue Ford pickup was parked near the house, a crack zigzagging across the windshield. Further off stood a storage shed without windows -- all corrugated iron, even the walls and door -- and beside it, netted with chicken wire, were two wooden hutches.

  But where was the Rake of Life? There was nothing else on my mind.

  As I headed for the shed, a blast erupted somewhere in the mesquites -- in the distance -- breaking the silence, startling me for a second. A second blast. A third. Not the same booms as from the quarry. Different, less thunderous. These blasts weren’t as scary.

  I followed a beaten trail -- the weeds no doubt matted by Dell’s boots -- and peered into the brambles, squinting, looking for the rake. But the overgrowth was too dense. I couldn’t see the ground.

  Where’d they put you? Maybe in here, maybe-

  I rattled the padlock on the shed door, but it was fastened. A strong odor lingered about the place, distinctive, turpentine or nail polish remover. My eyes burned some. And I couldn’t tell if the rake was inside. I tried peeking through a thin gap between the door and its frame. Impossible. The shed was as dark as the hole.

  The search had been a complete failure, so I uttered my father’s favorite curse: "Shit fuck fire!”

  I kicked the shed door.

  Things and people kept disappearing. Classique. The bottom of the hole. Dell and Dickens. The rake. Even the hutches were bare, except for stained newspaper and chunks of white fur and pellet-sized turds.

  "Shit fuck fire!”

  There was no escaping it; I had_ to return to the hole empty-handed. And that’s what I did, with pouting lips, swinging my arms limply, punting stones from the footpath - the vision of defeat.

  What’s worse, I couldn’t remember my song. I slumped in front of the hole and tried singing it.

  "Dragon Branch coming -- Mr. Dragon Branch -- he’ll bite her head-”

  But the words weren't correct, neither was the rhythm.

  "-Mr. Dragon Branch coming -- coming coming-"

  It was useless, so I quit trying and slapped my forehead. And that’s when I heard the boy say, "-hell, I don’t know, Luke. You were there first."

  And another boy said, "I know, I know.”

  They were half-laughing, talking loud, getting closer. Then I saw them. They strolled right by me and the mesquite tree and the hole, going leisurely on the footpath toward Dell’s house. But they didn’t notice me. They were too busy chatting and staring forward. One had black jeans, one had blue jeans. Both carried bolt-action rifles. And they seemed like wild boys, twins or brothers -- baseball caps pulled low, tanned necks, pants tucked into muddy boots -- tank tops hanging loosely, showing whiter than white skin beneath the neckline.

  Black Jeans’ rifle barrel was propped on a shoulder. Two dead rabbits hung from his belt; their hind paws bound with wire. And Blue Jeans was chewing something, gum maybe, or tobacco; he held his rifle at his hip, the barrel pointing downward.

  "Hey, you sure we ain’t lost, Luke?” Blue Jeans was saying.

  "Positive. This’ll take us to the road. I’rn positive.”

  I went to the footpath and watched them go. The backsides of their britches were green with grass stains. Black Jeans tugged at his rear as if his butt itched, as if his underwear had bunched in his crack. Then I pursued them for a while -- a glamorous spy with a boa, keeping a safe distance, eventually concealing myself among trees. They were nearing Dell’s house, chattering like squirrels, making a racket.

  Better be quiet, I thought. You’ll get your blood sucked.

  And no sooner had it crossed my mind when Dell appeared.

  "Vandals,” she screamed. "Yes, yes, stay put!"

  She sprang from the woods, scrambling onto the footpath -- her housedress flapping, the hood and helmet askew. And both boys started. And if Dell wasn’t holding a smoothbore shotgun -- aiming the lengthy barrel, swinging it back and forth, from one boy to the other -- they might’ve bolted. But they didn’t. They didn’t move an inch.

  "Criminals and filth," she shrieked. "Do you know where you are, trespassers?”

  "No, no, we was going to the road, to Keeler’s place," Black Jeans began suddenly. "We was takin’ a shortcut.”

  "Liar!” Dell yelled. "What kin are you of Willy Keeler? None, I think!"

  She thrust the barrel like it was a pitchfork, piercing the air between herself and the boys.

  "He’s my uncle," Blue Jeans began, "I swear it," and his voice wavered. .

  "Mine too,” Black Jeans said.

  "Mine too, mine too!” Dell mocked. "I swear it, I swear it!"

  "We’re visiting, honestly," Blue Jeans explained. "We didn’t know we was trespassing.”

  "There wasn’t no sign or a fence or anything,” said Black Jeans.

  Dell continued jabbing the shotgun at them.

  "Of course, right, and this shortcut is your shortcut? This is where you go? I think not. I own this land. It’s mine. All of it. And those are mine!”

  She was pushing the mouth of the sleek barrel at Black Jeans, shoving it at the rabbits hanging on his belt.

  "Those there, mine! Understand? They belong to me!”

  Black Jeans’ voice seemed about to crack. "We’re sorry,” he murmured. "We didn’t know.”

  Dell sneered.

  "Yes, I should say so,” she said. "The pair of you are sorry. I’ve seen everything, right? I’ve been watching you, filthy, filthy. Peeing on my land, blowing your noses on your shirts. Hunting here!”

  And afterwards -- when everything was finished -- I spoke into the hole, hoping Classique could hear me, telling her that the boys were lucky Dell didn’t murder them.

  "You cross my path again," she’d said, "you�
�ll regret it for certain. I’m worse than death.”

  That’s what I told Classique: "They got lucky -- Dell’s meaner than death.”

  I lay on my stomach beside the hole -- hands folded under my chin, the boa sandwiched in my palrns -- and related the entire episode. I mentioned that Dell had the boys unload their rifles, that she took their bullets and_their rabbits. And the boys were shaking and nervous the whole time. But Dell didn’t suck them. She just warned them with her froggy voice.

  "You cross my path again-"

  Then she let them go; they rushed from the footpath, bounding through the woods like deer, boots crackling on twigs, vanishing.

  "And I’m probably invisible,” I said. "Dell didn’t see me, Classique, ‘cause I’m almost a ghost. I really think I am, don’t you?”

  I stared into the hole, waiting for an answer that never came.

  So I closed my eyes and sent psychic messages: You there? Can you hear me? Am I loud and clear?

  Nothing except static, a far-off hiss.

  I needed the radio. I could use the dial to find Classique, to tune her in. Then maybe I could remember my song. And she'd enjoy hearing me sing, a special broadcast just for her. She’d stay awake and listen. And she wouldn’t feel so lonely - my song would keep her warm in the hole.

  15

  Dickens came for me with a pocketful of bullets, and I thought he was the squirrel at first. I was upstairs and heard him stomping around below. And because I’d opened the front door that afternoon -- letting in fresh air, clearing out some of my father’s stink -- I was sure it was the squirrel in the living room, rummaging about, searching for crackers and peanut butter.

  But when going downstairs to investigate, I found Dickens -- shirtless, in jeans and flip-flops -- standing in front of my father, gazing with the blue goggles on.

  "Hi," I said, stepping up behind the leather chair.

  He glanced at me, flinching. And I expected him to start hugging himself. But he didn”t.

  "I’m sorry,” he began. "I better go -- I didn’t knock and that’s rude -- and it’s getting late already -- so I’ll go, okay?"

  His fists tightened. He seemed like the squirrel, jittery and ready to dash for the door.