by LYNDA BARRY
The father said, “Dolly-baby, that right there is the genuine Eye of the Idol. Worth a pile.”
Auntie Doris snorted the word “Earlis” into her highball glass.
Pammy hung on.
Chapter 47
ICKY CAME up the stairs dripping wet and her mascara had run black streaks down her face and her missing eyebrow area was looking very waxy and prominent. “Roberta. Come here! Come here!” Her whisper was urgent.
She pulled me over to her and put her face against my ear. Some of her dripping soaked into me. She whispered, “We did it. We did it. Oh god. I am SO in love.”
The Turtle and the Great Wesley stared at her.
Vicky said, “What?! Mind your own! Fuck.”
No one knew what to say.
Vicky pinched her eyes down into suspicious lines. “How come everybody stopped talking? What’s going on? You guys were talking about me, weren’t you?”
The Turtle said, “My dear Wesley. Let us return to the piano. You will play a dirge. I shall sing.”
And so the Great Wesley played and the Turtle sang, “Daaane...is such...a fuh...ker...He...is...such...a fuh...ker...”
Vicky’s smile shined when she saw Dane come up the stairs with his wet hair combed back. I saw him avoiding her eyes.
“Alas,” said the Turtle. “Alas and oh fuck. The Sultan of Ass-heads lives.”
“Fuck you, fuckhead. I need to get high, man.” He picked up the carved apple. “What a wicked fucking pipe, man. Matches. Matches.” Vicky scrambled to get him some. He took them without looking at her. He was acting like she was not in the room. Every time she sat closer, he moved away.
The Turtle said, “Observe. The Sultan knew her and now he knows her not. The Violent One has become a banished and broken filament in the world’s saddest lightbulb. Play, Wesley. Play the mournful tune.”
The Turtle sang to Vicky and threads of drool hung from his lips. He was looking very pale, and even when he sank to his knees he kept singing and in between vomits of watery pinkness into the shag carpet he kept singing and crawling toward her and she scrambled backwards, shouting, “Fuck! Fuck! Get away!”
The Sultan thought it was hilarious. He coughed out his apple cloud and said, “You two are fucking perfect for each other!” Vicky slapped the apple pipe out of his hands. The Sultan flipped her the finger.
The Great Wesley closed the piano cover, stood up and readjusted his bathrobe and said, “Brother, it is time I inform you that I am leaving and I will be taking the car.”
“The FUCK you ARE!”
The Turtle crawled to the apple pipe and was trying to get a hit off of it when the Sultan kicked. The apple pipe flew and hit the wall and the Turtle rolled onto the floor holding his jaw and the Sultan was about to kick him again but was stopped by a sudden cut on his arm, a slice, very clean and very deep and instantly gushing. Little Debbie gleamed in my hand.
“FUCK!” shouted the Sultan. “What the fuck ARE you people? I’m FUCKING calling the COPS!” And he ran to the telephone and we ran for the garage. All of us piled into a very sleek car and after a few false starts and some violent jerks we were rolling, rolling though the deep shadows of the dark boulevard, listening to Vicky crying and saying, “He used me. He used me. He used me.”
Chapter 48
LYDIE? CLYDIE, honey?” This was Pammy talking, looking yellow in the bug light. A little spot of light in an ocean of darkness. We were at the concrete picnic table. She kept trying to make conversations happen with me. Talking out her little comments and observations. Asking me for mine. Freaking me with her friendliness. It was so sincere and horrible.
The father and Auntie Doris were inside the office settling out some private things. It was Gy-Rah the Sequined Genius who had received the final suitcase. Gy-Rah, half brother of the father, son of Auntie Doris and Old Dad, sired by a slaughterhouse man and not the Sensational Powder Monkey. This was news Gy-Rah could not accept. This was news he refuted through a bull-horn from his hidden location in the rock face above us. He did not want the money, he wanted no part of the pollution, he wanted the defiling elements to leave his surroundings.
“Clydie,” said Pammy. “Why don’t you run go knock on that door and find out what is taking your daddy so long in there.” She lit a Salem from the charity pack Auntie Doris tossed her like an apple to a hog. “Son of a bitching menthol. Can’t taste them.” She was lighting up one after the other, smoking them down, stabbing them out, lighting one up again.
“YOU WILL EVACUATE THE AREA IMMEDIATELY!” said the insulted amplified voice.
“Clydie,” said Pammy. “Could you run up that hill and find that screechy little bastard and tell him his voice is giving me a headache?”
Cookie was asleep on my lap. She was wiggling her feet slightly and making little noises. Dreaming. I didn’t want Pammy to keep talking. I didn’t want to get to know her. I didn’t want to care about what was going to happen to her now that she was in the realm of the father.
“Clydie, can I confess you something? I never been this far before. I mean away-far. And this is far. You better believe it. This is son-of-a-bitching far and it gives me the shivers thinking about it. I want to call Arden and tell him where I’m at but that Doris says there’s no telephone. Now how can you run a motel without a telephone. Arden is not going to take this too good.”
I thought of the sheriff hanging half out of his car, draining himself into the corrugated half pipe. After you are dead you don’t really keep bleeding, there’s nothing to keep your blood moving except for gravity. If you are hanging upside down then gravity is a factor. It’s called bleeding out the carcass.
“Clydie, how is it that your daddy and that Doris are related?”
She studied the ring. The gleaming Eye of the Idol. “She from your daddy’s side of the family?”
I shrugged. She stabbed out another Salem. She gandered at her ring some more, tilting it this way and that way. She said, “You think it makes my finger look fat?” She was rolling, following the glinty glimmer of the Eye of the Idol into the darkness. She was rolling into the blackness after the imaginary man.
She knocked the stone against her dead tooth. Tap-tap-tap. She said, “It’s real. Can tell by the sound.” Tap-tap-tap. “See there? It’s genuine.”
I said, “His name is Raymond. Raymond Rohbeson.”
She said, “Who is? What is?”
I pointed toward the office door. “Raymond Rohbeson.”
She said, “Which?”
I didn’t say anything.
She said, “Your daddy?”
I nodded.
“You say he’s Raymond?”
I nodded.
She lit another smoke. She said, “Raymond Ro-what?”
“Rohbeson. With an ‘h.’ And he’s not really my father.”
“He’s not the what?”
“He told me he wasn’t really my father.”
“Earlis did?”
“No. Not Earlis. Raymond. Earlis is a dead guy.”
Pammy slapped me. She slapped me very hard across the face. When I told the truth about the father this was her reaction.
And after I jumped away and after Cookie lunged at her snarling with fangs exposed and ready to puncture, and after they did puncture and grip through the lard and held on through Pammy’s jumping panicky yanks and after Pammy hollered, “EARLIS, HELP ME! GODDAMN IT HELP ME!” and after Cookie let go and precious blood drops flew and scattered, there came such a flashing light, blue-white and blinding, sending a brief shock of skin-searing heat and a deafening blast, an explosion coming at us in echoing waves and the ground trembled and rocks came loose and there was a sudden flurry of scattering lizards and dusty snakes shooting out of hidden places and Pammy screamed again and Cookie faded fast up into the rock face and I followed her.
Pammy screamed, “IT’S THE END OF THE WORLD!” In the open doorway of the office stood Auntie Doris calmly lighting a Salem. She said, “Oh, honey, shit. T
hat ain’t nothing but Dreamland.”
The father came out behind her, buttoning his shirt and smoothing his hair and hitching his pants as he walked to the picnic table. And in the bug light his skin looked oily. And from the cavern opening, from the Lair of the Sequined Genius came a rolling cloud and a thick, searing smell, like burning wires and rotting eggs. Pammy was backing away with her arms out and her eyes wriggling in terror.
The father poured two tall ones. He said, “You ain’t getting cold feet about our wedding, honey, are you? Did you know Doris here is a certified beautician?”
Doris took one of the highballs. She said, “You could use a set and a comb-out, hon.”
Dreamland is Air Force. Top Secret. Located somewhere on the base that stretches on and on for miles, filled with such craters from the violent tests of all the interesting bombs that came after the A and the H. All the silent letters of the alphabet that exploded after those.
There are many people who know about Dreamland but there are not many people who know this: Dreamland is never in the same place twice. Dreamland roves about beneath the landscape. Sometimes it’s under a dry lake bed, sometimes it is in the mountains, sometimes it roves off the base completely through a system of chutes and tunnels and natural underground passages. Dreamland is nowhere and everywhere at once. The billowing fumes that rose from the Lair of the Sequined Genius had me sick and kneeling in my hidey-hole. Pammy was also brought down. The father coughed a little bit and wiped his eyes but kept on drinking. Doris wasn’t affected at all. She said she hardly notices it anymore but it did used to bother her. One time it turned her eyeballs blood-red and egg-yellow for a couple of hours but now she can’t even smell it.
The father glugged his highball whole and poured again. “Radioactive shit. Fallout particles, that what it is? Shit is supposed to be bad for you.”
“Oh yes,” said Auntie Doris. “Real bad.”
“Earlis,” Pammy was crying. “Help me, Daddy-baby. I can’t breathe, that son of a bitching dog bit me to where I am bleeding to death and your boy has been telling lies on you.”
“You’re fine,” said the father, sitting comfortable. “You’re doing great. What lies has Clyde been telling you?”
His voice was casual but I heard a tautness.
And Pammy told him what I said. Pammy spoke his real name right to his face and he said she ought to know better than to listen to a turd like me. He said it wasn’t exactly all lies because partly his name was Ray.
“Earlis-Ray is my name, honey, but true family just call me Ray. Clyde’s just trying to welcome you into the family is all.” The sound in the father’s voice was chilling me. There is such a thing as Very Sensitive Vibration Feelers and the father had them when it came to me. The Navy sentence for treason is death.
“Come on, Pammy,” said Auntie Doris. “Let’s fix you up. What time is it? Gy-Rah ain’t had nothing to eat tonight.” Her big jaw lowered and her voice boomed, “GY-RAH!”
“I’m bleeding,” said Pammy.
Doris said, “Come on inside. I’ll clean you up. The dog did that? When I find her I’ll break her neck for you, OK, hon?”
And the office door closed behind Pammy and Auntie Doris. And then it was silent. Just the father at the concrete table sipping a highball and saying my name. Speaking to me in a normal voice. “Clyde. I know you can hear me. I don’t give a shit about that what you told Pammy. Come on out, Clyde, and have a drink with me.”
Chapter 49
O MY house, to my house,” said Vicky. “Turn here.”
“New Orleans,” said the Great Wesley. “South, good Hillbilly Woman.”
“Alberta,” said the Turtle. “Neil Young shall make our beds ready.” And while he blabbed on a little about how Neil Young was excited about our visit, Vicky blabbed out things she wanted me to get from her room because I had to get these things because she was not going inside there was no way she was going inside, she did not want to see Susie. Her blabbing was interrupted occasionally by the Great Wesley leaning forward to say, “South, south. New Orleans! Naturally!” And I had my own opinion on a destination. You can say I had the way memorized. I was liking the sleek car very much. Liking the smooth quickness. It reminded me of Little Debbie.
It was because of the Stick I followed Vicky’s directions. I wanted him to come with us. Vicky said, “Stop! Here! Don’t park in front of my house,” and I pretended to listen to her instructions while my heart pounded and I wondered if I could convince the Stick to come along.
I walked the warm sidewalk and Vicky shouted after me that if I forgot her HeavenScent perfume she would kill me.
There were no lights on in the house except the jumping light of the TV in the front room. I whisper-shouted for the Stick from the bushes beneath his open bedroom window. I backed up to see the attic oval window, to see if his face was peering down at me. There was no one. I cupped my hands around my mouth. “Stick! Stick! It’s Roberta. It’s me.”
Click. The porch light came on. Green light shed itself onto my skin, onto my hands as I climbed the porch steps. I waited for the door to open but it didn’t. There was no sound but the mumble of the TV. A man’s voice, a lady’s voice, and audience haw-hawing. I knocked. Tap-tap-tap.
“SHIT AND GODDAMN!”
I called through the door. “Is the Stick there? I’m looking for the Stick. Is he home?”
Nothing.
“Mr. Tallusoj?”
“SHIT AND FUCK TO YOU! THE INTERRUPTION! AND GODDAMN TO YOU!”
I waited but no one came. I knocked one more time but much harder and the door flew open and the green arm of Susie Homemaker shot out of the smelly darkness and dragged me inside.
And there was a great struggle and I was kicking and fighting but Susie Homemaker was very strong. He was grunting low terrible grunts and I could not reach Little Debbie and I could not find a biting place and my breath was leaving me, Susie was crushing me and there were the popping lights bright and blue swimming in front of my eyes and then there was a sick crack, some sick bashes and Susie’s arms shriveled and I jumped away screaming, yanking on the door which would not open. The Stick grabbed on to me shouting, “Wait! Wait!”
He bashed Susie on the head so hard with a bottle of Whitley’s that Susie was sent into panic-jerks and clawing at the chest and then a huge arch of the back like horrible electrocution and then stillness. And then blood. Blood looking very thick in the bouncing blue light of the television, blood coming from Susie’s ear and Susie’s mouth.
The Stick ran to the phone. He picked it up, started dialing. Emergency and slammed it back down. He picked it up again and did the exact same thing. He shouted, “I don’t know what to DO! What should I fucking DO?!” And he was shaking and freaking severely.
I said, “Go get a blanket. He just needs a blanket.” But I saw the extensions of the extremities, the toes and fingers stretching out and then nothing. Nothing. Empty eyeballs reflecting the TV light.
I stared at the body of the creature who attacked me, now covered to the chin with a torn and pilled blanket. Tucked in. Blood wiped away. Blank eyes staring as always at the nonstop box displaying so many unreachable worlds. I stared at the stillness of Susie Homemaker and felt a certain emotion wave pass over me. I have noticed while watching Nightmare Theater that there is a strange sort of feeling that comes when a monster finally dies. Sometimes it is sadness. Sometimes it is vomiting.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” The Stick was rocking and smoking. He was sitting with his arms wrapped around his knees and he was crying. “I fucking killed him. I killed Susie. I can’t fucking believe it. It’s over. It’s over. I’m free.”
I came down the stairs in my original clothes and I carried a pile of random things from Vicky’s room. I said, “You’re coming with me, Stick. Come on, get up.”
There is a certain spreading blankness that covers over the mind after you kill someone. A certain blank tide washing in, smoothing thinking into something of a horizon
line. The Stick stopped talking. He did not look well. After some urging sentences he finally followed me out the front door.
Vicky hissed and swore at me because I brought her brother and forgot the HeavenScent.
Chapter 50
T WAS morning in the desert and I was awakened by growling and barking and then a yipe. The father kicked Cookie away and yanked me up out of the hidey-hole. “Clyde. You stupid piece of shit.” He snorted. His lips moved a cig from one side of his mouth to the other. He gripped my arm and shoved me down the hillside in front of him. “I put all my goddamn faith in you, Clyde.” His eyeballs were red. All of his eyeball veins looked like they were leaking. His hair was sticking up and a bad smell drifted over him. He grabbed the back of my neck and dug in his fingers. “I got some bad news for you, Clyde.”
We heard music. Both of us heard sudden music so loud that we started and the father released his grip and I tore down the hill.
The music came from the Lair of the Sequined Genius. It was the kind of music people call mood music. Music for the background. It kept playing even when the amplified voice began to speak. “Today on the Sequined Genuis Hour, poetry about irritation.”
The voice of Gy-Rah welcomed listeners to his show. He said, “I will begin with a new poem called ‘My Dark Itching.’ ”
The father headed toward the cave entrance.
“Ray!” Auntie Doris stepped out of the office with a pot of coffee and two cups. “Many a man has been lost in that snarl of caverns. And if it’s Gy-Rah you’re after, he’s not there.”
“I hear the bastard,” said the father. “That’s the Sequined Gonad, ain’t it?”
They both paused to listen to the amplified words. Gy-Rah spoke them slowly and dramatically.
“My dark itching protean
results in terpsicorean
actions dissilient,
mother,
I need my liniment.”
Auntie Doris poured herself some coffee and said, “Burma Shave.”
