Love in the Time of Global Warming

by Francesca Lia Block

  “Leaving,” I say. I try to sound bold but I know it’s a pathetic attempt.

  The man pats his goatee with his small, neat hand. “Oh no, it’s not that simple. You blinded Bull, whom I created myself. One of my first two children, the ones who started it all. My baby. Haven’t you heard the expression an eye for an eye?” His own eyes roll up, surveying the ceiling as he turns his hooked profile to us.

  Hex steps forward with his sword drawn but then something comes out of the shadows and it is Bull, the Giant I blinded. He sniffs the air like a massive dog. The empty sockets gaping in his head reminding me of what I have done. I put my hand on Hex and pull him back.

  “You must give me something in exchange for her,” the man says, still not looking at us. His voice is soft, almost a lisp with his tongue.

  “What do you want?”

  “Fuck you,” Ez says.

  We all look at him. He is standing shoulder to shoulder with Hex and I realize that Ez is quite a bit taller; I’ve never really thought about it before because Hex is the tougher of the two. Ez looks as ready to fight as Hex, and I wonder how this has happened.

  Bull—one of Kronen’s living weapons—shifts his weight. A small Egyptian statue falls from an alcove and crumbles on the floor.

  “No,” I say. “It’s okay. Let him talk.”

  “An eye for an eye.” Kronen is still fascinated by the ceiling, still petting the strip of hair on his chin like it’s a small animal. Then he looks at me for the first time. “I want your eye,” he says softly.

  “What the hell. He’s insane,” Hex says. “Fuckin’ worse than I thought, man.”

  But I don’t care about anything except helping my mother now.

  “Give me my mother and you may have my left eye,” I say.

  Ash and Ez and Hex all put their hands on me at once.

  “Give me the eye first,” Kronen says. “Or I’ll have Bull take care of it.”

  “No, Pen,” Ez says, interlacing his fingers with mine so I can feel the flow of his blood. “No!”

  I turn to look at him, then at Ash and Hex. “I can’t let go of her again.” I want to sob but my voice is very calm.

  A low growl burbellows in Bull’s throat.

  My mother has closed her eyes. The bones of her face jut out. She doesn’t have much time left down here.

  “Penelope, my hands are so cold,” my mother says. “My hands are so cold. Won’t you warm them?”

  “Wait, Mommy. Hold on. Soon. I’ll be back, I promise.”

  “It’s too late,” says Hex softly. “She won’t make it.”

  I push my friends off of me and go toward the man. “Take my eye,” I say. “I have another.”

  Before they can step forward, the earth shakes with the now familiar rumbles. The other Giants have come out of their stupor. They emerge from all sides, hulking over us, sniffing the air, waving their hands, blood red in the candlelight.

  I know then that my eye is not enough, that my friends and I are going to lose no matter what. We are going to lose everything.

  20

  THE SEER

  ASH WAS AWARE that it was more likely that his beauty would save him than his intelligence, which he had been told was negligible, or even his musical talents, which no one except his choral director, Luther, seemed to notice. Even the choral director was more interested in Ash’s looks, anyway. The coveted lighter-than-a-paper-bag brown skin, “good” nose, and almond green eyes with teasable “girly” eyelashes, the tall, broad-shouldered, naturally muscular body.

  “You should be a model,” the choral director told Ash, instead of, You should be a professional singer. A musician. The choral director watched Ash all the time so that it made Ash uncomfortable, but he liked the idea of being a model someday. He thought he could do a pretty good job because he had a strong imagination (for which he was often chastised by his mother), and he had observed that the best models seemed to be able to transport themselves to other places. He could do this. He could fly in his mind. Especially when he was singing.

  When Ash’s mother came home from work early and found him at the one-bedroom apartment, cutting school, smoking weed, singing and playing piano for a handsome, dark-skinned boy named Darel White, she began smashing Ash’s piano—the one his choral director had given him, his most precious possession, the only item he owned that made him feel like he was home. Then she called him a stupid fag and threw him out.

  Ash stayed with Darel White for a few nights until his family became suspicious and asked Ash to leave. He went to the home of the choral director who lived alone in the better part of town. Luther showed his big teeth when he saw Ash on his doorstep and invited him in. That was the first time Ash was really grateful, and also ashamed, of his “good” features and lighter-than-a-paper-bag brown skin. He stayed with Luther until the night he came into Ash’s bedroom. Ash went to a shelter where he lived until he landed his first modeling gig with a well-known men’s magazine. Although he had been imagining it all his life, on his first photo shoot, the world ended and Ash actually flew away.

  * * *

  Ez was named after Ezra Pound and Eliot after T. S. Eliot, two great modernist poets. Their parents were English professors and poets so it made sense. Red-haired twins with the coloring of their Irish mother, Sean, and their Russian-Jewish father Mark’s elegant bone structure. Sometimes, when he was older and had studied his namesake, Ezra wished his parents had chosen a different name because, while Ezra Pound was undoubtedly a brilliant poet, he was also known for being, in later life, a fascist and a madman.

  In their white-walled, sun-washed bedroom in their rather grand, Spanish-style house that late spring morning, fourteen-year-old Ez had asked fourteen-year-old Eliot if he could tell him something. They were standing beside each other in front of the oak-framed mirror, getting ready to go to the private Westside school where Eliot excelled in sports and academics and Ez daydreamed and compulsively sketched male nudes in every class in spite of the danger of being found out. Two such different, yet identical, boys in the school uniform of white button-down shirts and dark trousers. Ez wore a red tie, though it was not required. His hair was longer and in its natural curly state while Eliot slicked his back. This was their morning ritual, surveying themselves side by side in the mirror before they left for school. They had done it since they were very young. It was still fascinating to them that they looked so alike and yet so different. Sometimes Ez stared into this mirror alone, thinking, I hate you. What’s wrong with you? Why don’t you just go away?

  Ez hadn’t planned on telling his brother on this morning of this day. But somehow, staring into the mirror at the two of them, he felt compelled. That was a trait of his—compulsion. It was why he couldn’t stop drawing, even when it put him in danger academically or, more significantly, socially when it was pictures of male nudes. It was why he ate too much sugar. He couldn’t help it though he knew all about nutrition and even at fourteen could cook better and healthier meals than anyone in his house. He had introduced Eliot to superfoods, which seemed to have enhanced his athletic skills even more. But often, after making a meal of mung bean stew and kale salad for his family, Ez snuck off to consume a carton of rain forest–flavored ice cream, or two.

  “You know, I’m gay,” Ez said to Eliot’s reflection in the mirror.

  Eliot didn’t blink an eye. “I know that, Ez,” he gently replied.

  “You do?”

  “Uh-huh. I think most people do.”

  “Mom and Dad?”

  “I think so, yeah.”

  “Oh.”

  Eliot turned to face Ez so Eliot’s handsome profile was reflected in the mirror. “Those drawings of nude guys? Kind of gives it away. Really well done, by the way.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Ez said. “Those.”

  They began to laugh, giggles at first, that turned into guffaws and then, finally, unmistakable and perfectly identical snorts. Their mother had to come knocking on the door to tell them
they would be late for school.

  * * *

  The girl’s name was Yxta. She told Alexandria that it meant princess. Alexandria thought she looked like one. A girl from a fairy tale with long white-blond braids, firefly eyes, and a soft, wan face. Even the shirt she wore was princesslike, all pink and sparkles. Alexandria had a closet full of shirts like that, most of them covered with pink sparkling hearts, and she refused to wear any of them.

  Alexandria told Yxta, “Call me Lex.”

  Yxta and Lex. She liked the sound of their names together. The X’s.

  The night before Yxta came over for the first playdate Lex was so excited she hardly slept and she chewed her fingernails although her mother had made her promise she would stop that “filthy habit.”

  Yxta and Lex walked to Lex’s big yellow and white house with the rose garden. It was just down the street from the school but Lex wasn’t sure Yxta’s parents would have been okay with the girls walking home alone. They had probably assumed Lex’s parents or nanny walked with them but the nanny was at home, cleaning, and Lex’s parents were gone, as usual. Still, Lex felt sure she could protect Yxta if a stranger bothered them.

  When they got to Lex’s house, the girls went upstairs to her room. It was decorated all in pink. Lex hated this but her mother had insisted. For once, though, she was glad because Yxta was delighted.

  “It’s a princess room!” Yxta exclaimed.

  Lex shrugged. “If it was yours it would be. I’m more of a dragon.”

  Yxta picked up the abalone-shell-inlaid brush and looked at her friend. Lex’s hair was thick, wavy, and long, although she had begged her mom to let her cut it. “I can make you into a princess, too,” Yxta said. “You’re so pretty.”

  Usually Lex did not want to look pretty but this made her stomach swirl pleasantly. She let Yxta brush the tangles from her hair and even paint her fingernails bright watermelon pink with the nail polish her mother had bought her. Even though Lex didn’t like the nail polish because it smelled bad and gave her a headache, she opened the windows and didn’t complain. Yxta looked so serious, her brow furrowed in concentration and her miniature fingers skillfully applying the polish to Lex’s ragged, dirty fingernails. The citrus trees in the yard and the chlorine from the pool made the room smell like summer, which it almost was.

  “You have so many lemons! Can we make lemonade?” Yxta asked.

  They went into the backyard and Lex scaled the tree to retrieve the best, biggest, yellowest lemons for Yxta. Then the two girls went into the kitchen and made lemonade, which they served in doll-size china tea cups.

  Lex never thought anyone would ever convince her to have a tea party, let alone to sip from a doll-size cup held with pink-sparkle-painted nails. Yxta, though, had made this all seem perfectly sensible.

  “See, you are a princess!” Yxta said.

  “I would still rather be a dragon.”

  “I know. You’re not a dragon or a princess.” Yxta pointed to her T-shirt, which was pink, of course, and had a sparkling lavender unicorn on the front.

  Lex smiled for the first time that day. She did not know that smile was even more magical than her doll-size china tea set, her mirrored bureau covered with nail polish in every shade of pink, her lemon tree, or her long wavy hair. Yes, she could be a unicorn. Their horns were sharp and could do battle.

  She did not know at that time that even with a magical horn she would not be able to protect Yxta from the pills that came in almost as many shades as the nail polish on Lex’s mirrored bureau. Or that, in some ways, dying from an overdose might be considered a reprieve in the world that was to come.

  * * *

  In my twilight sleep I can see all of them before; I know what happened to them as if I were there, watching. But I cannot see what has happened to them after we are separated, where they have gone. And I have no idea what has happened to me.

  21

  TWILIGHT SLEEP

  WHEN I WAKE I’M LYING in an old black Mercedes with torn upholstery, beneath a rough blanket that smells like wet dog. Under it, my body is iced with sweat—sleet behind my kneecaps, in the crook of my elbows, between my breasts—that sets my teeth chattering. There’s a pain in my head like someone’s been hammering on my temples and a fierce, stitched itching around my left eye, out of which I can’t see. I reach up and touch the cloth bandage that covers it. I try to slide my fingers under the bandage and then I vomit all over the blanket, like I’m puking up my heart and lungs.

  “At least hurl out the window,” a man’s voice says.

  I recognize him as the man who found me in the basement and gave me the van. Merk, who knew my parents. He takes the blanket off me and tosses it out of the car.

  He’s leathered from the sun and wearing a ragged shirt and jeans. His eyes watch me coolly, inscrutable.

  “What happened?” I choke out the words, not really wanting him to answer.

  “Kronen. You can’t go back there, though. He would have killed you, slowly. I got you out in time, cleaned it up, bandaged it, and gave you something for the pain. You’ve been in twilight sleep.”

  “He promised,” I say, sobbing. It makes my eye hurt more. No, not my eye, my … “Where is my mother?”

  Merk shakes his head and looks away. “A better question is, where do you want to go?”

  “Where are my friends? What happened to them? Hex!” I scream, thrashing against the sides of the car. “Hex!”

  Where would they go? I think of lying with my head in Hex’s lap, the houseboat rocking beneath us. I think of the two of us, swimming. His kisses … his hands touching me under the water the way only I’d ever touched myself before, but it was so much better. We were there together, all of us, at Tara’s.

  Maybe if I go to Twentynine Palms I will find her. Even though she couldn’t see my brother before, maybe she will have a clue as to where he is now. Maybe she can help me find my friends.

  I need to get back there. To the oasis.

  I don’t even realize if I speak this out loud or not but Merk says, “Yes. That’s right. That’s my girl.”

  * * *

  I know the oasis has changed as soon as Merk and I arrive. I can’t tell you why but I feel it in my bones and blood and in the aching empty socket of my eye. Something terrible has come here. Or perhaps it is just me, with my suffering.

  Only one palm tree lies prone in the water while the others stand. The sun is setting and the water is red as if the tree is bleeding out into it.

  “You going to be okay?” Merk mumbles around his cigarette.

  I don’t answer. It won’t matter. If I say yes he’ll leave and the same is probably true if I say no. He sent me off once before.

  I stand by the water as the last late rays of sun burn redder, stain everything, and then fade. A cold shadow falls over the oasis, creeping chills along my arms. When the sun sets lower, no longer blinding my eye, I see the van, painted with Ez’s cornucopia, parked at the other side of the oasis. Merk sees it, too.

  He gives me a nod. “Go on.”

  “Are you coming?”

  He tells me no. His eyes look strange, almost sad. “You’ve got to do this on your own. It’s the only way to get stronger, hone your gifts.”

  And before I can say anything his car peels out down the road in a cloud of dust.

  I run with one hand over my bandage—every step a jolt of pain—toward the van but as I approach it, I stop. Why did I let Merk leave so quickly? What if my friends aren’t here? And what if someone else is?

  I slither up to the windows as quietly as possible and look inside. The van is dark and empty. “Hex!” I shout, not caring if the wrong person hears. “Hex! Ez! Ash!”

  My voice dissolves into the air. No one answers.

  I run, now, again, toward the water and the bridge, across to the houseboat. The floor creaks as I step inside. The air still smells vaguely of herbs and desert grasses, dry and sweet. No one is here, either. I should have known.

&nb
sp; Then on the floor I see Hex’s sword.

  I crouch down beside it and hold my head in both hands like it’s going to fall off if I let go. Tears pour down one side of my face but the other cheek is dry as bone. The Tibetan goddess Tara was born of tears of compassion for those suffering; perhaps this Tara will appear to me now.

  But no, they are all gone.

  Where is Hex, his delicate hands and nostrils, his jagged smile? Where is gentle Ez and Ash who proved that we don’t have to be what people tell us we are, and that lost love returns? I gave them all up. I gave up too easily. Now I must look for them, and for my brother.

  I pass out on the floor, curled, like something from one of Tara’s strange jars, the boat swaying beneath me and the black night lapping.

  * * *

  When morning comes I fill my pockets with the remaining glass vials of tinctures, take Hex’s sword, and walk slowly around the oasis. The air is already burning hot and sweat weeps down my neck. Not a clean sweat but toxic and foul-smelling. As I move down toward the water to splash my face I see a small pile of something white on the shore.

  It is hard to make out at first. Then I recognize some bones of a human body (rib, mandible, metatarsal, scapula, femur…), a small human body. The bones of a girl. Sucked clean. Beside the bones lie a red silk scarf and a single silver bangle that I recognize; they once belonged to Tara.

  * * *

  The girl is in the low hills sloping above the desert floor, digging with a trowel among the twigs and rocks, looking for herbs and flowers, anything alive. She has faith that something is still alive besides her fan palms and the other plants in her oasis. Above her the sky is like a vast eye watching her. She’s wearing her boots and jeans instead of silk scarves but there’s a red silk scarf on her head, under her hat, and one silver bangle on her arm.

  When she is on her knees she feels the shaking. She closes her eyes and whispers, “Om tare tam soha. I will be reborn. I will not give up on this place.”