by Mitch Cullin
"But what about the booms? You’re lucky Lisa didn’t get exploded!"
"They don”t boom this anymore,” he said.
Then using the Barbie arm as an indicator, Dickens pointed across the quarry toward its farthest cliff -- where a solitary cluster of mesquites stretched alongside the brink.
"Past them trees, these men do it there now. They dynamite that new boom hole but it doesn’t even have an ocean or any jellyfish."
No sooner had he spoken when a boom erupted, reverberating like a sonorous thunderclap, quaking our perch, jiggling my insides. Dickens shielded his face in the nook of an arm -- and I covered my ears, gaping at the far-off mesquites, expecting fiery billows and chunks of debris to be blazing upward beyond the cluster. Instead -- as if the mesquites had suddenly splintered apart -- I saw a swarm of black birds shoot from the trees, rising into the sky, shrieking; they sailed around like an angry cloud, sweeping in unison, this way and that, eventually returning to their roosts when the boom had died.
I took my hands from my ears, slowly, listening as the birds squalled.
"They’re mad,” I told Dickens, who was lifting his head.
"They were sleeping, I guess. The booms will kill them if they don’t leave soon.”
And I remembered my father’s story, how as a boy he murdered starlings. So did his cousins. So did Grandmother. Everyone in their town murdered starlings.
"Because they shit on everything,” my father said, "and they made so much noise. And it was fun as well, I suppose. We got a dime for each bird we caught and killed. Earned nearly five dollars once, and that bought a feast of gum and hardtack back in those days."
The Annual Clatter Pot Round Up it was called.
Men and women and children -- fanning out, walking from one end of town to the other -- banging spoons against pots and pans and trashcan lids, frightening the starlings. That racket kept the birds in flight, kept them swooping frantically overhead, searching for a quiet place to land, flying until they couldn’t fly anymore -- then, exhausted, they began plunging. Starlings came tumbling toward the earth, crashing into streets and sidewalks, in yards and on rooftops. And rny father and his cousins and Grandmother and everyone else would start using their spoons like hammers.
"The ones that were breathing and trying to fly again,” my father said, "we beat the heads flat. Sometimes we just crushed them with our boots, and sometimes the wings were flapping long after the skulls popped."
My mother hated that story. I did too.
"Dickens, my daddy murdered birds. It’s mean doing that.”
But he wasn’t paying attention.
"That was close,” he said.
Then he studied the Barbie arm for a while, pressing a thumb into the plastic flesh.
"I got a secret,” he finally said.
"What is it?"
"If I say you can’t tell, okay? If Dell knows she’ll wallop me good and then I’m in trouble forever.”
"I got a secret too.”
He looked at me.
"Give me your secret and I’ll give you mine, okay?”
"Okay.”
We both sat up on the cliff, crossing our legs like Indian chiefs. Then I shut Cut ’N Style in a fist so she couldn’t hear. And I whispered my secret, saying that he was my boyfriend, that I was Mrs. Captain -- and that I liked silly kissing his lips.
"Oh,” he said, "mine is different -- mine is that I got dynamite in my room and that’s bad news for me.”
Dynamite. Two sticks. He found them at the new boom hole, he said.
"I forget everything," he said, "and stealing is what gets me in trouble. That’s what happens, that’s why it’s a secret.”
"I’d like to see,” I said.
He sighed, drawing his mouth into a tight circle.
"I don’t know, maybe tomorrow when Dell drives to town. I don’t know. When she drives to town I’m in charge, so I can take care of myself if I want.”
"If you show me I’ll believe you," I said. "If you show me, you can keep the arm as my birthday present.”
He was supposed to smile, but his face revealed nothing. He glanced at the arm.
"WIhat’s its name?"
"Army," I said.
"Is it a boy or a girl? A girl is nice, I think."
"It’s a boy.”
"How can you tell?”
I took the arm and held it between my legs, aiming the diminutive appendage outward as if it were a boy thingy.
"That doesn’t mean it’s a boy," he said.
"Yes it does. It’s a thingy. You got a thingy, I know."
"No.”
"I can see it after we peck. I can see it bigger."
"No you can’t. That’s wrong. I don’t have that.”
He rocked forward, folding his forearms over the front of his trunks. A soft breeze pushed around us, stirring the dust in the wig, powdering us with rock flour.
I set the arm on his left knee.
"Dickens, I’d like to see your dynamite.”
"Maybe tomorrow,” he said, "when Dell goes to town. I don’t know.”
"But you’re my boyfriend," I said.
"I don’t understand that,” he replied, removing the wig, dumping it in my lap. "I better get home, I think."
I love you, I thought. You are my dear sweet captain.
And on the cliff high above the Hundred Year Ocean we kissed for a moment in the late afternoon, then we wandered away, silently, listening as we went, hoping for another boom that never came.
20
Cut ’N Style wouldn’t shut up.
"Dickens has a girlfriend,” she teased. "He’s your boyfriend."
"He’s my husband,” I told her. "I’m his wife."
"He’s a dreamboat. He’s a sunny cloud.”
It was morning, hours before noon. And even though Dickens always brought my meal after lunchtime, I waited on the porch steps for his arrival.
"Kiss me,” Cut ’N Style said.
"That’s gross. You’re a girl."
"Please. Kiss me and I’ll be a boy."
"Girls don’t kiss girls that way.”
"Please-"
I kissed her, but it wasn”t the same as kissing Dickens; there wasn’t any tingling in my belly. Then I consumed her with my mouth, sucking her from my finger, pretending that she was a trout and I was a whale. Her skin tasted like soap, her hair like licorice. She made me gag. So I spit her into my palm.
"You’re disgusting,” I said.
And she was supposed to cry or complain. Instead she started laughing.
"That was fun,” she said. "That was great."
You’re nuts, I thought. You're crazier than the wind.
Then we were both laughing.
"You’re my best friend,” I told her.
"And you’re mine too.”
"And I love Dickens.”
"He’s the sweet prince. He’s the great king.”
"He’s apple juice and jerky.”
"We’re a happy family."
"That’s what we are.”
And Dell would take care of us all. Soon she’d watch our babies while we explored the Hundred Year Ocean. She’d marry my father and become my mother. Then she and Dickens and Cut ’N Style and I would build a castle from mesquite branches and flattened pennies. We’d eat meat and pound cake at every meal. We’d drink juice from gold-plated Dixie cups.
"It’s a dream come true,” I said.
"It’s Christmas,” Cut ’N Style said.
My belly tingled. I poked my stomach, imagining a baby squirming within, a Barbie baby with real rooted eyelashes and blue goggles and a real brain. I saw it on TV -- if a boyfriend silly kissed a girlfriend enough times, something was bound to happen.
"Tell Dickens,” Cut ’N Style was saying. "Tell him about the castle and the babies. And then you’ll see his dynamite. Maybe Dell is driving to town already and he’s there alone thinking he’d like you to visit and see his dynamite."
"But may
be she’s still there-"
"And she’ll invite us for a tea party or picnic because she loves Daddy and she’s our friend too. That’s why she won’t drink our blood. Anyway, she doesn’t do that anymore, Dickens said so."
My stomach grumbled; the baby was kicking around. That’s why my belly always tingled while Dickens and I squished our lips together -- every peck caused the baby to grow a little more. I should have known.
"Better tell Dickens," I said. "I think a baby is in me from kissing. I think it’s Classique, I think. She"s coming back."
"Let’s go tell,” Cut ’N Style said. "Let’s touch the dynamite.”
And as we drifted from the steps, a shiver shot through me, beginning at the base of my neck and rippling down my spine. I pictured Dell and Dickens' dark house -- the windows locked, the shades shutting out the daylight -- their bee-stung mother dozing somewhere inside.
A castle is safer than a home or a farmhouse, I thought. A castle keeps bees and ants from attacking everyone.
When we arrived, their house seemed as unknowable and forsaken as ever. On either side of the gravel walkway, the beds that once fostered tomatoes and squash were now barren, just upturned soil and withering vines. The dirt yard was littered with bootprints and twigs. And moving onto the porch, I noticed that the yellow floodlight no longer glowed above the front door; the imagined queen mother of all fireflies was defunct.
I knocked -- quietly at first, three soft raps with my knuckles.
"Hello," I said, addressing the door. "It’s me."
I paused, expecting Dell or Dickens to answer. But neither came.
"It’s Jeliza-Rose.”
I knocked harder -- knock knock knock -- then paused again.
"It’s really a nice day for a tea party so me and Cut ’N Style are here in case you’re not too busy."
I put an ear against the door, held my breath, and listened; nothing -- not a creak or a bump or the clomp of flip-flops
"Maybe they’re sleeping," I told Cut ’N Style. "Maybe they're in town.”
Maybe they’re hiding, she thought. Maybe they’re at What Rocks looking for us.
"Maybe.”
After that, we tramped from the porch and went alongside the house. And ignoring the sudden pangs in my stomach, I skipped toward the backyard, heading where the weeds and foxtails thrived, where the Ford pickup with the cracked windshield sat. But the Ford was gone.
Stopping near the house, I stood between the curvy ruts left by the pickup’s tires, and spotted Dickens -- out of his captain’s uniform, dressed like a farmer -- unlocking the padlock on the storage shed door.
Tell him, Cut 'N Style was thinking. Tell him you’ve got a baby and he’ll show you his secret. He said he would.
Dickens pushed the door open and entered the shed. So I hurried across the backyard, running over the beaten trail, hoping to surprise him. I wanted to tell him that I loved him so much and that Classique was coming back as my Barbie baby. I planned on surprising him with -- Sweet prince, Classique is on her way; and those words would’ve sailed past the shed doorway had I not seen the squirrel -- if I hadn’t hesitated before the shady doorway, gazing to my right at a wooden hutch, puzzled by the tufts of gray fur bulging through the chicken wire, the puffy tail curling in on itself.
Was he dead? No. Asleep? No. Wide awake -- lying still with his paws on his muzzle, breathing deeply, watching me with black eyes. See what she's done to me, Jeliza-Rose. See what happens when you’re small and hungry all the time. You get trapped and stuck in a cage. I’m a prisoner. I'm doomed.
I felt sad for him. He wasn’t a monster or a nasty thing, only a squirrel, and now he didn’t seem so mean. But I didn't dare stick my fingers in the hutch to pet him; if I did, he might bite me. He might confuse me for Dell and chomp my fingers off.
Know what she’ll do to me? Go in the shed and you’ll understand. Look for yourself Thats right, go on-
And what did I find when stepping beyond the doorway? A long folding table and wide shelves, each surface crammed with Dell’s handiwork, novelties and what-nots, some finished, some in progress. On and around the table - lamps with deer antlers for a base, an antler hat rack, foot stools (the legs formed by two pairs of antlers), deer foot lamps, a dozen or so deer foot thermometers. But it was the shelves that held my attention -- a fierce-looking tabby cat ready to pounce on a coiled rattlesnake, squirrels clutching acorns, three rabbits huddled together, a raccoon with a trout in its paws, another tabby biting into the head of a bat, an upside-down armadillo, a convincing jackalope sitting upright; all glassy-eyed creatures, inanimate and posed, mounted like trophies on varnished flat cuts of wood. This was where Dell kept Death at bay, where she saved silent souls from going into the ground. But I didn’t want to end up like those creatures-frozen and on a shelf; I didn’t want to be stuck like that forever. Might as well go into the ground, I thought. If you can’t run around and yell and cut muffins, you might as well be dead.
And there was Dickens, in a corner, his backside to me, unloading a duffel bag, removing paper towels and rubber gloves.
"It’s a zoo room,” I said.
Upon hearing my voice, his body rigored and he shrieked -- dropping the paper towels and gloves, turning sharply with a hand clamped to his mouth; the shrill continued, passing his fingers, filling the shed. So terrifying and startling was his scream that I began yelling too. And for a moment the two of us faced one another, bellowing as if we were being murdered, until the air escaped our lungs.
Then he slumped down on the duffel bag, breathless and hugging himself. My hands trembled. Cut ’N Style quivered on my finger. Outside the squirrel was chattering in the hutch, no doubt aroused by our screams.
"Not fair,” Dickens was saying, "not fair."
"You scared me good," I said.
"No, you did that to me, you did. That’s not fair.”
He was rocking, staring at his boots, mumbling something.
"But it was an accident,” I told him. "I just saw this zoo and I was coming to tell you the news but the zoo made me forget everything and I was wondering if they’re dead - they’re froze and napping, I guess. I guess that’s why we got scared because they’re pretty spooky like that."
Dickens head came up, his eyes glaring, as he exclaimed, "That’s not right ‘cause Dell makes them alive again. That’s what she does. And people are so happy they bring old dead dogs and old dead kitties and she’s Jesus how she makes them alive. And she does those-" He thrust out a hand, pointing at the lamps and foot stools and thermometers on the table. "And that’s what she sells in town when she goes to town. She’s an artist -- she says so -- and a healer.” He nodded at the shelved animals. "And they’re not spooky, they’re friends -- and you scared me and that’s not fair. I think I fainted.”
"I’m sorry," I said, crossing to where he sat.
"Don’t do that again or I’ll die, okay?”
''Okay.”
I hugged him, wrapping my arms about his shoulders, patting his neck with Cut ’N Style.
"I think I’rn sorry too,” he said. "I think so.”
Tell him, Cut ’N Style thought. Tell him.
And with my lips near his ear, I mentioned the baby. I said that he was my husband now, and that Classique would appear soon; she’d be our Barbie baby.
"We can build a castle, and Dell can marry my daddy. But you have to show me your dynamite first.”
He went rigid.
"I don’t know. That baby sounds like a strange thing -- and I can’t build a castle. I don’t know how, I don’t know.”
So I whispered, "If you show me your secret, I’ll love you forever."
He leaned his head against mine. Our cheeks brushed.
"I’ll show you," he said. "Just once only. Except not yet ‘cause I need to unpack this bag before Dell gets in. Then I’ll show you my room in Momma’s house, okay? But if I can’t unpack this bag I won’t eat tonight. So you wait, okay? But don’t touch nothing. You’r
e not supposed to be in here. This place is Dell’s place.”
"All right,” I said, withdrawing myself, "I’ll wait for my cutie. You’re my kisser."
Then I watched him slowly rise, turn, and bend over the bag. His movements were sluggish and clumsy, his awkwardness suggesting a lack of coordination, his boot heels veering outward from the tips. And after a while I got bored and snuck outside, creeping below Dell’s creatures on my way, mindful of the rattlesnake poised to strike.
Going from the shed, the sunlight blinded me; I squinted before the hutches, putting a hand above my eyes.
I'm a prisoner.
The squirrel was chattering. He paced nervously, regarding me with surreptitious looks.
"Dell will freeze you alive,” I said. "You could eat a bat or a fish.”
But she’ll have to kill me -- then she' ll freeze me alive. I'm not old dead dogs and old dead kitties. I'm a hungry squirrel.
"We’ll help you,” Cut ’N Style said.
His hutch had a little gate which was kept closed by a hook latch.
"You do it,” I told her. "I don’t want to get in trouble.”
But Cut ’N Style wasn’t worried. She flicked the hook without thinking twice.
"You’re free.”
I might have opened the little gate for him and pointed above the weeds and foxtails to the mesquites. It was there, among the trees, that he could flee. I wanted to help him more, but I didn’t. Unlatching the gate was enough.
Then I peeked into the shed, making certain Dickens hadn’t seen what we’d done. But -- with his butt aimed toward the doorway, his hands digging inside the duffel bag -- I knew he was unaware. And glancing at the hutch, I saw that the gate now hung open; the prisoner had already slipped away. He was quick, that squirrel. He understood what to do, where to go, how to hide. He wouldn’t be tricked or trapped again - and, as the sun warmed my shoulders and arms, I was glad.
21
That day, Dickens and I became ghosts.
As we tiptoed up the back steps, he said, "Can’t wake Momma so we can’t talk like this ‘less it’s in my room." His voice dropped to a whisper, "We talk like this first.”
"We’re quiet ghosts,” I said. "Your house is the witch’s cave, and we’re disappearing and we won’t get caught.”
