The Shark Curtain

by Chris Scofield

“So Jamie’s . . . not in control?”

  Mom sits down to draw again. “Aunt Jamie is fragile sometimes. I don’t know how to explain it; some things can’t be explained.” She wets her thumb and rubs it across the paper, smearing the dark waters of Peace Lake. “Romania has the Black Sea, of course, but we are from Sibiu. Jamie calls us landed mermaids.” Mom smiles. “Maybe that is why we have the occasional . . . issue with water. It makes us—you and me and Jamie—different. Like someone in one of your books. Different isn’t so bad, is it, Lily?”

  All three of us are weirdos?

  “Every family has problems,” she says. “Judy’s family, for example—” Mom suddenly stops talking. She draws a circle in the sky over Peace Lake. A sun, a moon, or a hole in the sky, I can’t tell.

  I don’t want to be fragile. I don’t want to have a problem with water or anything else. I draw a heron fishing in the reeds, or maybe it is in mud like the “special mud,” the primordial ooze we all come from.

  Aunt Jamie keeps a collection of fairy tales on her nightstand.

  Once, when I stayed over, she read me several stories about mermaids. “When a mermaid grows up,” Jamie explained, “she has to choose between the water and love. She can’t have both. If she tries, she’ll be unhappy the rest of her life. The world’s full of women who used to be mermaids.” She turned the old leather-bound book to the back. “I want to show you something.”

  When she unfolded the sheet of water-stained paper, sand spilled from it. It smelled of saltwater and tide pools, fish and wind and dead stuff on the beach. I took a deep breath.

  “You smell it too?”

  “Ocean?”

  “Tears.”

  Act III

  Aunt Jamie’s in love with Kevin. They’re getting married in October.

  Mom says Kevin’s always in a “big fat hurry.” Too busy to help Jamie with her rescued animals, garden, or chores; too busy to read her poetry or spend more than a weekend at her house, or even come to our house when Dad builds us a kite or Mom makes lasagna. Kevin’s too busy to do anything but fly Jamie to strange exotic places that she loves and never wants to come back from. Kevin has his own plane and promised to teach her how to fly it someday.

  “Are you ever going to swim again?” I ask her.

  “Why should I?” Jamie smiles. “Kit told me you stopped. It doesn’t matter, I don’t need it. Kevin makes me happy now.” I smell patchouli when she hugs herself then twirls around like that scene in The Sound of Music. The long pink underwear and knee-high moccasins under her patchwork skirt remind me of the tiny pink hollyhock dolls she used to make for Lauren and me.

  Jamie stops and weaves in place. She grabs the back of the chair for balance.

  “Won’t you miss it?” I ask.

  “Swimming? What’s to miss?”

  When she smiles her cheeks stand up, making her teary eyes squint. Chinese, Japanese, knobby knees, look at these. I bet Kevin saw more than titties and that’s why they’re getting married.

  “But you said if a woman was smart she never gets married.”

  “It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind, Lily.” Jamie got after Mom for saying that once. She said there was no such thing as a woman’s prerogative; that it was that “kind of talk that keeps women down.”

  “But what about the dogs?”

  “Dog. There’s only one left.” Jamie looks toward the sliding glass door that empties onto the porch where she grows tomatoes, peppers, and herbs in whiskey barrel halves. “I’ll miss all the animals, wild and tame,” she says. “I miss them already.”

  Past the porch and down the hill, Percival, the abandoned three-legged terrier, stands at the gate, barking at the mail truck. Jamie said that Mitch the mailman never worried about leaving his truck and walking up the road until Percival tore his pant leg. He liked Jamie’s animals, even the peacocks, but he was especially fond of Ray, Aunt Jamie’s blind llama, who used to stand by the fence waiting for a head scratch. I only saw Ray once before a drunk hunter shot him dead, but I liked him too. Today, Mitch sticks the mail in the box and drives off.

  “What about Percy?”

  “I found him a home.” I stare at my beautiful aunt. “What, don’t believe me?”

  Nope. She lied about never getting married, why wouldn’t she lie about finding a home for Percival? No one wants an old three-legged dog anyway. She’s probably taking him to the pound.

  “I’m in love, Lily. I want a different life now.” She cocks her head. “There’s nothing wrong with that. You aren’t mad at me, are you?”

  “No,” I lie.

  Each Christmas Lauren and I get water stuff from Aunt Jamie: umbrellas, rain boots or brightly colored slickers, beach towels, flip-flops, snorkeling gear. She promised to buy us scuba-diving lessons when we were “old enough,” so we can explore “the underwater ruins of Alexandria, the Turkish coast, and the Red Sea.”

  Now it’ll never happen.

  I look around Jamie’s place. It’s almost empty. No music playing, no incense burning. She stopped baking and gave away her sourdough starter. Her posters are rolled up; her books and records, pictures of friends, and tie-dyed doilies are packed in boxes.

  “Cup of tea, Lily? I’m having one.”

  “Sure.”

  I wrote a story about Aunt Jamie. When Jamie walks away, I stick it in a book by Emily Dickinson. In my story . . .

  Jamie has fish scales and wears leotards to hide them. Her toes are webbed, and a small gill grows under each arm and behind each ear.

  When she’s not writing poetry, Jamie sits in the bathtub for hours and never has to dry off; she doesn’t even own a towel. In fact, except for the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in every room, the bathtub is the biggest thing in the little yellow house with the red shutters off the old coast highway.

  Her skin and hair twinkle with salt crystals. Empty glass saltshakers are scattered everywhere. At night, Jamie’s glittering skin lights her way to a cliff overlooking the ocean. As the wind blows her long red hair, ships looking for landfall mistake her for a twinkling constellation of stars and crash into the rocks.

  She gets in trouble, and they put her in jail.

  While she’s locked up, Kevin falls in love with a waitress and leaves town. After Jamie gets out, she moves in with us, and everyone lives happily ever after.

  Lauren wrote the last sentence when Jamie announced her engagement.

  “You know, after we’re settled,” Jamie calls from the kitchen, “we’ll come back to visit. If your parents say it’s okay, you could join us on a trip sometime. Wouldn’t Africa be great? Would you like to come to Africa with us?”

  Of course.

  Kevin’s helping Jamie sell the house. “Don’t know where we’re going, but we’re going,” she told me. She was happy when she said it; maybe even twirling around on the inside like dumb old Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music.

  “Mom says you don’t have to sell your house,” I remind her, while she shows me her ring. “You could rent it for a while, in case you want to come back.”

  “But I don’t want to come back. To stay, I mean. I’m tired of being alone.”

  “But you’re not alone,” I say, wiping away a tear.

  Jamie stands up and heads to the kitchen. “I’ll miss you too,” she calls back. She pops the lid off the imported cookie tin Kevin gave her and places two teacups on the empty counter.

  “Did Kevin make you give up the animals and swimming and stuff?”

  Jamie fills the kettle and sets it firmly on the burner. “No,” she finally answers, standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips. “Why is everyone so damn suspicious?” She glances around the room. “Can we talk about something else? Please?”

  I just chewed off my two longest fingernails. They’re not as long as Judy’s, but they were getting there. “Do you think there’s a curse or something? You know, about our family and water, I mean?”

  Jamie sighs. “Sure. Your mom and I jok
ed about it for years.”

  Joked?

  Jamie hands me a jar of sugared lemon slices. “I made them for you,” she says, finally smiling again. “Want to know what I really think about the water curse, Lily?” I nod. “Water-schmahter.”

  Jamie is beautiful and groovy and smart.

  “Hey, do you like the Beatles’ song ‘And I Love Her’?” She sways in place and sings, “A love like ours . . . could never die . . . as long as I . . . have you near me . . .” Jamie turns her head when three-legged Percival barks again.

  “Do you know that dog spelled backward is God?” I ask her.

  “I heard that somewhere, yeah.” Over her shoulder, dead sunflowers tilt in the breeze. Jamie grows the tallest sunflowers I’ve ever seen. “Listen, Lily Lou, Percy will be fine, I promise. Dog-spelled-backward will take care of God-spelled-backward.”

  I saw a photograph of John Lennon holding a sunflower once. “I like George. Who’s your favorite Beatle?” I ask.

  “Kevin. Want my Beatles cards?”

  Chapter 9

  The Savage Boy

  I’m just waking up when the mermaids, printed on my wallpaper, drag themselves onto the rocks of Copenhagen Harbor to sing.

  Each mermaid has two voices and their songs sound like hunger growls, tinkling glass, and crying. Mermaid songs are easier to hear with your eyes closed. The brighter the sun, the harder I squeeze out the light. Without opening them, I know the wallpaper is littered with little numbered rowboats too. Aunt Jamie sits in each one, waiting to be rescued.

  I keep a harmonica under my pillow and, taking it out, I match the mermaid songs by holding two notes as long as I can, hoping they reach Peace Lake, Copenhagen Harbor, and Jamie’s empty house on the old coast highway.

  “I thought I heard something,” Mom says, standing in my doorway. “Breakfast.”

  Startled, the mermaids slip underwater.

  Mom’s hair is perfect. Lauren and I went to the salon with her after school yesterday and watched a chubby woman in a tight pink smock do Mom’s hair and nails while talking about her oldest boy, a pimply faced high school junior who hasn’t been to class on time “all year, swear on the Christ Child!” The woman looked at Lauren and me. “I keep a tire iron in the hall closet to pry him out of bed each morning!”

  Lauren flipped through the glossy pages of Today’s Hair but I listened intently.

  “Just kidding, sweetheart,” the hairdresser said. “You’re Lily, aren’t you?”

  Down the hall, the kitchen radio advertises “unheard-of deals on new Mustangs.” Mom opens Lauren’s door next. “Up and at ’em,” she says, then announces that even though it’s Sunday, “No church. It’s your day. Do what you want.”

  Mom’s in a good mood. Yesterday was their sixteenth anniversary. They had dinner at the London Grill and grabbed a brandy at The Benson on the way home. Dad gave Mom a dozen red roses and she gave him a bottle of fancy champagne she’d hidden in the laundry room for weeks. Lauren and I stayed home alone for the first time, and were asleep on the couch when they got in. I left a detailed list of everything we did on the kitchen table.

  “Paul?” Mom calls. “Paper’s here!”

  It’s only 8:22 a.m. but the Oregonian is late again this morning, even though Dad called the circulation desk last week to complain. That’s when he found out we were the last house on the Savage Boy’s route. Dad says he dropped out of school, and Mom calls him a “hood.” He stole a strip of Christmas lights off our laurel edge last Christmas; Mom saw him. He’s sixteen, has his driver’s license, and looks like TV idol Tab Hunter if Tab didn’t take a bath or wash his hair for, like, six months.

  One time, when his parents weren’t home, Judy and I climbed a tree overlooking the Savages’ backyard and watched him and some of his friends jump off the roof onto a pile of mattresses, sleeping bags, and furniture cushions. He did backflips and cannonballs, which Judy says he probably learned from his father who is a high school gymnastics coach. I got shivers when he stood at the edge of his house; his bare toes curled over the eaves trough and, leaning out, he threw himself into the air.

  There’s a thump outside my window.

  A dog barks.

  A car door closes.

  Maybe Rusty’s volleyball finally fell off the roof.

  Maybe it’s Jesus; I wish He’d use the door like everyone else.

  I look at the window from the corner of my eye. That’s how you see fairies, but there’s nothing there, no Jesus, no sprites or leprechauns.

  Mom once said, “Fairies live in the woods and use flowers as umbrellas when it rains. They never grow old, and they’re always in love.” Someday I’ll move to the country I see out of the corner of my eye, and fall in love with a boy who loves me the way that Dad loves her. We’ll fly to Paris for dinner and sit at the top of the Eiffel Tower where there’s nothing but stars until a giant balloon drifts by, showering us with Cracker Jack toys and yellow rose petals.

  I make a pirate’s spyglass with my fists and run the view over the room.

  I spy . . . Mrs. Wiggins’s tooth on the floor at the end of the bed where it fell from the pocket of my jeans.

  I spy . . . Frieda’s new picture of Jesus, His arms wide open to the plump happy children who gather at His feet.

  I spy . . . the wallpaper. Quiet Copenhagen Harbor, and the bronze statue of the Little Mermaid with a fleet of colorful fishing boats docked behind her. A seagull flies overhead. The water is still, not a ripple anywhere. It’s wallpaper, from floor to ceiling, and the scene is repeated sixteen times; four across, four down. Mom’s painting over it tomorrow. “A nice pink,” she says, “to match Lauren’s room.” Mom loves to decorate. “Now if your father would just replace the window screens.”

  I wish she wouldn’t. I like my “busy wallpaper.” I like old houses left to grow old, unpainted walls, empty rooms, crumbling chimneys. Jamie said there’s life everywhere: under a rock, on a rusty bumper, in a bare corner.

  Lauren explodes from her bedroom fully dressed, and flies into the bathroom. No one’s seen her in underwear for years. Mom says she’s shy about her body.

  * * *

  Two days ago, I sat beside Judy in her front yard.

  “I’m bored,” she said. Judy’s bored a lot since she came back from the appliance convention. She doesn’t want to talk about the trip, or the fight we had either.

  Sherman rode up on his three-speed. He’s twelve years old, like Lauren, but he enjoys hanging out with Judy and me because “older women are more sophisticated.” Mom laughed when I told her.

  “Sounds just like Jim,” she said. Jim Newell is Sherman’s “handsome new stepfather.” He’s also a pharmacist with his own business who made enough money last year to have a bomb shelter built in their backyard.

  Dad said the Cold War is over and there’s nothing to worry about, but how does he know?

  Sherman likes to gross us out. The subject that day was dog penises. I put my fingers in my ears and sang, “La la la,” but Judy only laughed. “Dog penises are ugly,” she said. “Boy penises are ugly too.”

  She’s seen boy penises?

  Sherman blushed and looked down at his new handlebar grips.

  “What’s wrong?” she said in a tired voice. There was a pimple on her chin. “Isn’t your penis ugly, Sherman? Or is it too small to see with the naked eye?” Huh? “Lily, go get your microscope. Let’s examine it.” Why was she talking to us like that? “Boys always want girls to look at their penises, don’t they?”

  They do? Sherman and I stared at her.

  Suddenly, the Savage Boy rode up on his new ten-speed. Standing up on the pedals he rode back and forth in the same concentrated space, making a deep muddy hole in Mr. Marks’s thick, weedless grass.

  “What are you doing here?” Judy asked. She sat up straight. “Heard the word penis and had to be part of the conversation?”

  The Savage Boy leaned back on the narrow black bicycle seat that jutted between his legs,
crossed his arms on his chest, and smiled. “Whose penis?” he asked. He smiled at me. “You look nice, Lily.”

  “Sherman’s,” Judy said. “ We were discussing its size.” She paused. “Is it bigger than a cat’s?”

  The Savage Boy laughed.

  “Nothing to add, Lily? No additional mammals of comparable size or scientific classification?” Judy was sweaty and nervous; I could tell when her glasses (with the rhinestone frames) slid down her nose. She looked at Sherman and me. “You two are such weirdos,” she said.

  Where were all the moms? They’re usually everywhere.

  “Let’s go, Lily,” Sherman said, climbing on his bike. He didn’t wait. Riding off he yelled, “You’re a bitch, Judy Marks!”

  His words gave me goose bumps and I stood up and stared at the top of her head. Does she know she has dandruff? I remembered the duet she taught me once, how impressed I was that she was older and smarter, and her freshly painted fingernails clicked the piano keys—they made their own music. Now Judy’s angry all the time.

  “Sherman’s right,” I said. “You have dandruff too.”

  “Who cares?” she said, storming off. A second later, her front door banged shut.

  The Savage Boy looked around. “Where is everybody?”

  “Lauren’s home.”

  “Where’s Rusty Nail?”

  “Rusty and Mrs. Marks are . . .” I put my hands on my hips. “None of your beeswax.” The Savage Boy’s arms were tanned and strong. Even though it rains a lot in Portland, he’s always outside, smoking cigarettes, popping wheelies on his bike, or working on his older brother’s car. When he scooted his bike closer to me and leaned across the handlebars, he smiled like he did when he threw himself off the roof.

  The Savage Boy is brave. Maybe people were wrong about him.

  I was close enough to see that he had freckles like Opie on The Andy Griffith Show. I was still counting them when he asked, “How many penises have you seen, Lily? You’re old enough. Pretty enough.”

  Huh?

  “Want to see mine?”

  “No thanks,” I said, hurrying across Judy’s yard toward home.