Foreverland Is Dead

by Tony Bertauski

  “Why are you doing this?” Cyn says.

  “How are you going to wash those clothes for us? I mean, if we can’t get in there to do it, how are you going to figure it out, Shiny? While you’re sitting in the hot tub, filing your nails—”

  “I gave you clothes!” Miranda shouts. “I’ll give you food! Can’t you have an ounce of appreciation?”

  Miranda shook her fingers as if she were pinching a walnut. Just an ounce.

  “It’s not my fault you’re out there and I’m in here. Why are you blaming me?”

  The bamboo squeaks in Roc’s twisting hands. “Because tonight, when I go to bed hungry and dirty and cold, I’ll know you’re in there curled up on the couch with vanilla-scented candles. And I can’t take that.”

  “You wanted me in here.”

  “Now I want you out.”

  “I didn’t have to share anything, you know. I could stay in here until you’re all cold and dead, when you’ve all cheated each other out of food and clothing.”

  Roc shifts her weight. Her hands grip the end of the stick like a bat. Miranda is too close to the fence. Roc turns as if she’s going to walk away, fed up with the injustice, disgusted with looking at a clean and comfortable young girl who is providing them with clothes and food.

  The stick settles on her shoulder, both hands still firmly grasping the end. She plants her right foot, the bamboo levels out and begins to arch— Cyn strikes out with rigid fingers, catching the tendon in Roc’s elbow.

  Roc’s left hand opens. The bamboo cane falters in her right hand. She loses momentum, accidentally strikes Cyn across the back instead of cracking Miranda on the side of the head.

  Roc is stunned.

  It all happened so fast. It would’ve been easy to knock Shiny out, drag her across the fence line. Her lips thin out. The bamboo cane lands softly in the grass. She grabs two fistfuls of Cyn’s poncho.

  “Touch me again, I’ll throw you into the fence.”

  Rain spits off her lips, spatters Cyn’s face.

  “This time you’ll never wake up, bitch.”

  Roc throws her close to the fence. Cyn feels it in her neck.

  “And if I even see you again,” she says, pointing at Miranda, “I’ll throw a rock through every window. You’d better hope that fence stays up.”

  Roc walks off. Her form blends into the rain and gray dusk. She goes inside the dinner house through the kitchen door. Cyn will have to correct the inventory in the morning.

  “Thank you, Miranda.” She zips up the bag.

  Miranda nods. She goes inside, closes the door behind her.

  Cyn lugs the bag through the rain, the strap cutting into weeping blisters.

  15

  Miranda presses against the door, mouthing the lyrics to Carl Orff’s O Fortuna. The words are Latin, but she knows them. The poem of fate and tragedy. The string instruments draw her out of her body, out of this world, away from these feelings.

  The music is her source of sanity, masking the haunting sounds in the house. It smothers her thoughts, transforms her emotions. Allows her the strength to stay inside the brick house. Without it, she’d be out there, with them.

  And she can’t do that.

  Not now.

  Miranda’s hands tremble over her lips, brush the hair from her face. She cups them over her mouth, tries to slow her breathing. She’s hyperventilating.

  Why does the Dagger Queen have to be such an ungrateful, ragged bitch? Miranda went through every bedroom, searched every closet just so they wouldn’t freeze. The two downstairs bedrooms are the largest, but there are four more upstairs. She doesn’t go up there at night, not anymore. Too many strange sounds.

  She spent days picking out clothing that will fit them, coats to keep them warm. They think they’ll survive a real winter in those dirty rags? If they want to live, they need Miranda.

  Why do I have to suffer?

  O Fortuna ends with a flurry of applause, followed by Ode to Joy.

  She peeks between her fingers, staring down the end of the hall. The one room she hasn’t explored. The room with the smell. It took every bit of Miranda’s courage for her to climb the stairs during the day, but there wasn’t enough courage in the universe to open the metal door.

  If she hadn’t found the shelf of candles, she’s not sure how long she would’ve lasted. It takes six Yankee Candles of evergreen, vanilla, and apple-cinnamon to battle the odor. Smells like the Gingerbread Man’s corpse.

  Miranda crawls into the kitchen, candles on the counters, and leans against the industrial-sized refrigerator to the left. Her breathing has slowed. She lets Beethoven finish Ode to Joy before eating something.

  16

  Cyn isn’t the first one awake.

  Kat is stoking the fire. Jen and Mad sit cross-legged, sorting through clothes. It looks like they just struck gold. Cyn curls up beneath the blankets. The windows are dark. Rain patters the roof. The rooster is quiet.

  Jen snatches a fuzzy sweater from the pile, holds it up to her chest. “Liz Claiborne. You like?”

  “The fuzzy collar will drive you nuts,” Mad says.

  “But what will the boys think?”

  Mad’s laughter is punctuated with a snort. The first time she’s ever done that. Maybe only the third time she’s laughed.

  There’s a stack of clothing next to Cyn’s bed. It’s like Santa brought sweatshirts and coats and balled up socks. On the bottom, thick and puffy, are tan coveralls.

  “Those are yours,” Jen says. “We thought you could use them when you explore the countryside.”

  “It’s cold out there,” Mad adds. “Plus, you’re not getting new boots.”

  “Nothing’s going to fit your paddles, Cyn,” Jen says. “Unless Miranda finds snowshoes.”

  The girls laugh. Cyn joins them. She’s got wide feet for a girl.

  Her body odor wafts out, permanently stained and eternally damp from the sheets. Cyn shucks her clothing, dropping each piece at the foot of the bed. Her soft, warm skin contracts in the frigid air.

  “Whoa!” Mad hides her face. “Decency, girl!”

  Kat stares, smiling. “Panties in there. On the bottom.”

  Cyn never thought she’d be excited about underwear, but denim has about rubbed her parts raw. She craves cotton. The fabric snugs against her hips, feel nice between her legs. She pulls a padded sports bra over her head and quickly puts a new Ralph Lauren on.

  Lastly, she steps into the Carhartt coveralls. It’s all baggy, but so warm, so comforting, like a mother’s embrace. Exactly what she needs.

  Thank you.

  The stove throws orange light against the walls. Shadows stretch over the floor. Jen struts to the front door.

  “You like?”

  She’s wearing jeans cuffed at the bottom with sequins stapled to the outer seams and a cardigan that hangs to her knees. The girls clap. She stops at the front door and turns, lips pouty, and catwalks to the stove. Kat puts her fingers in her mouth and a whistle splits the bunkhouse.

  “Shut the hell up!” Roc flops over in bed.

  They look at the lump in the corner bed and stifle their laughter.

  “Let’s grab some breakfast,” Cyn says. “I’ll get the eggs.”

  17

  A gust of wind splashes against the window. The brick house creaks under the assault.

  Miranda takes the sweet honeysuckle candle into the bedroom, to the left of the kitchen. Adagio for Strings plays in the front room. She sits at the desk and sorts through the tubes of lipstick and lotions, humming along with the music, imagining the conductor’s steely glare and fluid hands.

  The upper desk drawer is full of office supplies. The second drawer is a mess of papers and envelopes. There’s a box at the bottom. She pulls an oversized pair of binoculars out of it.

  Mighty powerful ones.

  She steps to the window, lifts them to her eyes, and scrolls the middle dial. The wind harvester comes into focus. Kat is pulling on the barn door. The
hinge must be damaged; the door only gets halfway closed before the wind snatches it back. Cyn helps push while Kat gets the latch into place. They run for cover.

  Binoculars just armed Miranda in the battle against boredom.

  She puts them on the bed, digs through the middle drawer for more treasure, strikes gold again. This time, a fat manila envelope full of photographs. They’re old and scratched, bent at the corners; mostly shots of the ocean, yachts, beach houses. The sorts of things wealthy people photograph.

  The bottom drawer is mostly junk. A few more photos and a box of necklaces. She starts to shut it when she notices a leather-bound notebook, scuffed and tied with an elastic band, at the very bottom.

  The pages are rough-cut. The script is beautifully written in blue ink. She flips the pages, captivated by the handwriting. The words are a work of art.

  There’s no name inside the cover. The line on the first page reads:

  They call this place the Fountain of Youth. I call it Hell.

  Miranda sits on the bed, flipping through the pages. No dates or page numbers, just line after line of lovely script.

  Everything arrived. Some of my possessions, though, were sent back. Not enough room, I was told. Perhaps they’re right. There really isn’t a need to make this place a home. But I’ll be here until the end, so forgive me if I want it to feel like home.

  Until the end? Is this a place for dying? Miranda adjusts the pillows and leans back. She reads more but it quickly becomes mundane. Three pages on learning to saddle a horse isn’t riveting. Still nothing about why they’re here.

  Miranda begins speed-reading.

  Until…

  My girl arrived.

  Miranda sits up. She adjusts the journal to catch the waning sunlight.

  My husband is completely opposed to her. But she’s so much like me in my younger years, when I was hardheaded and tough. He just wouldn’t understand. I can’t sponsor someone I can’t relate to, and she’s perfect. I understand his reluctance, though. She’s a risk.

  In fact, she’s dangerous.

  Her background is quite alarming, but she’s the perfect candidate. If she weren’t, they wouldn’t allow me to sponsor her.

  I didn’t greet her when she arrived. I was supposed to; that’s what all the sponsors did—they met their girls when they arrived. I just wanted to see her from afar. She just reminds me so much of myself, it’s quite distressing.

  Her hair—it’s just like my hair when I was that age. I can’t quite believe my luck.

  There’s a space. As if the journal skips a few days. Maybe weeks.

  They’re scared of her. That’s good. My husband had no idea of just how frightening I could be when I was growing up. Nothing got between me and what I wanted. She exhibits the same attributes.

  Sweet Jesus, I like that.

  I know that she’s capable of getting what she wants. A trained fighter. Perhaps a murderer. She grew up in the roughest parts of the city; she did what she had to do to survive. I respect that.

  And I look forward to seeing just what she can do. After all, I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t done the same.

  Miranda drops the journal onto her lap, looks at the photos on the desk. She spreads them out on the bed. It looks like vacation photos, water and sand and boats. But there’s one. It looks recent. This one isn’t on a tropical island; this one has snowcapped mountains in the back and open meadows. It features a group of old women dressed like ranchers.

  Six of them. Four wear cowboy hats. They have their arms around each other, grinning and laughing. Four of them have gray hair, one of them has dyed brown hair.

  The sixth has black hair. Jet black.

  My girl has been very disruptive, although I would disagree. She’s demonstrating amazing leadership qualities. She picked out the toughest of the bunch and asserted her dominance. It was quick and decisive.

  I watched her from my bedroom, how my girl took her behind the cabin. How she took her down in a split second, with minimal effort. It was exciting, if I’m honest. To see someone with that much power, that much aggression. She would’ve killed her if she had to. That’s not what I want, but I like having that as an option. I like knowing that others’ lives are at my discretion.

  I must admit that I was a little nervous that she would go too far, but she’s smart. And that’s why I sponsored her. She knows exactly how hard to push.

  I think I will introduce myself to her soon. We will get along very well, I believe. She needs some guidance. If she continues, she’ll discover why she’s here.

  Sweet Jesus, that would not be acceptable.

  Miranda drops the book.

  She pushes the photos around. If it wasn’t clear already, it is now. The girls will need more than warm clothing to survive.

  18

  The wind hurls a gust of rain against the dinner house like a bucket of water. Jen and Kat race along the garden, hiding from the weather beneath their hoods. They grab onto the handle of a bag. They lug it like it’s a dead body, having to stop halfway to adjust their grip.

  The garden is a sopping mess. The roots have drowned. The landscape is an eternal shelf of misery. If Cyn is waiting for the weather to break before she escapes, she’ll be here too long. Maybe this is always the way it is. Maybe clear skies are rare.

  The wind hurls the front door open. Kat grabs it while Jen drags the sack inside. There’s a zipper down the length of the brown plastic bag. Cyn has never seen a body bag, but the sack could pass for one. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t want to put that thought in the girls’ heads. No one wants to believe there are body bags in the brick house.

  “Oh my God. My boots are filled with ice water.” Jen sits down, pries her rubber boot off. Her socks splatter the floor with water. “I swear to God, there’s a gallon in here.”

  “I done told you, tuck the boots inside the pants.” Kat peels her jacket off.

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Did so.”

  Mad comes out of the kitchen and they slide the bag in front of the hot stove. Cyn looks away while the zipper is drawn to the bottom.

  Just in case it is a body bag.

  Mad plants her hands on her hips. “I thought she was sending food?”

  “You got something against warm clothes?” Kat says.

  “What good are they if we starve?”

  “Maybe we can eat the gloves.” Jen holds up fur-lined leather gloves. “Looks like rabbit skin on the inside.”

  For the third time in a week, they unload Gucci and Ralph Lauren. Jen pulls out a full-length fur.

  “Oh my God. It’s so soft.”

  “Take that off,” Kat says. “You look like an idiot.”

  The bag is nearly empty. Cyn starts sorting the gear into piles.

  “Looks like this one’s for you, Cyn.” Kat lifts up a North Face coat.

  “Why me?”

  “Got your name on it.” Kat flicks a white piece of paper folded and pinned to the front. “Says to meet Miranda up at the brick house, she wants to talk.”

  “Secret meeting, huh?” Jen says. “Better hope Roc doesn’t find out.”

  Cyn takes the coat, looks inside as if there might be more. She slides her arms inside, zipping up the front. It fits wonderfully.

  “Nothing secret,” she says. “You can come if you want.”

  “Pass.”

  “I’ll watch from the window,” Mad adds.

  Cyn puts on the rain gear while the girls continue sorting, discovering another load of insulated socks. She’s watertight when she leaves. All except for boots. Still, nothing fits.

  Miranda unfurls a red and white umbrella. The black rubbers are up to her knees. She stops a few feet from the matted grass, where the invisible fence still works.

  Cyn has the hood pulled over her eyes, standing in a shallow puddle. “Why haven’t you sent food?”

  “It’s coming, I promise.” She sniffs, glances behind Cyn. “I’m just sorting through the inv
entory, that’s all. There’s a lot.”

  Cyn doesn’t blink. “We’re hungry, Miranda.”

  “We all are.”

  “Are we?” She tips her head.

  Another glance behind Cyn. “I’m scared that everyone is in danger.”

  Miranda reaches inside her coat, pulls out the leather book. She looks around, steps over to the fence, and hands it to Cyn.

  “What’s this?” Raindrops spatter the cover.

  “A diary.”

  Cyn quickly stashes it inside her coat before the pages swell.

  “Most of it is just regular, everyday stuff—riding horses and hiking. If you ask me, it’s like this place is some sort of dude ranch for old, rich women, like one last thing for them to do. I think they move here; I think they’re sick. They end up dying out here.”

  “What about us?”

  “They sponsor us, but that’s all it really says. Like we’re a bunch of poor kids they bring out here to save, maybe bring us closer to nature. I don’t know.”

  “You’re not poor, Miranda. You never were.”

  “You don’t know that. Maybe they’re training us to be better, maybe that’s why I’m in here. Maybe I graduated and moved into the brick house and all the rest of you will, too.”

  She had never considered that until just then.

  Cyn nods, but not in agreement. “Why are you giving me the book?”

  “The lady that wrote all that,” Miranda says, looking around, “sponsored Roc, and she talks a little bit about her. Says she’s from the street, that she’s dangerous.”

  “I figured that out.”

  “She killed someone.”

  Cyn nods, again. Now she looks behind her, like something might be crawling through the weeds. “That’s what it says in the book?”

  Miranda nods. “In so many words. I just thought you should know that she’s more than just a bully. I think she’s a murderer that someone wanted to rehabilitate. I think those things in our necks are to protect the old women from us.”