Mitch Cullin

by Tideland (epub)

  "Something else."

  There was lipstick on Classique’s hair. I closed my eyes. On TV, a little boy in Germany shut his eyes and foresaw the future. He predicted that dark clouds would gather above his village and rain toads. The next day, after a violent thunderstorm, thousands of dying toads flopped on the village streets.

  "What can only a dead person use?” she said. "Think."

  "I can’t think. Crackers?”

  "Or the radio. It’s dead too."

  I opened my eyes. "Yes. She can listen to ghost voices then.”

  "And ghost music.”

  "But Daddy likes it.”

  "He’s not a ghost yet. He doesn’t need it.”

  "That’s right. I forgot."

  In the living room, I reached for the radio without glimpsing my father’s face. I lifted it from his lap. I knew he was staring behind the sunglasses. And as Classique and I ran outside, I fiddled with the dial. I listened; no music, no static. KVRP, eclectic music for eclectic minds. That was the station I wanted. But it wouldn’t come in. I couldn’t hear anything, where one station ended and another began.

  "It’s the perfect gift," I concluded. "It really is.”

  "I think so too."

  The ghost was nowhere to be seen, so we struggled through the high weeds, up the rise, across the railroad tracks, but not before I made certain a train wasn’t approaching. Then we slinked down the embankment, and crept into the field -- a portion of which had been cleared, the earth brown and bumpy from uprooting. Pulled nettles were discarded in a pile.

  "She’s not making soup."

  "Not even for potions.”

  She’d trampled foxtails to the ground, yanked and tossed nettles. She’d stacked stones and rocks -- just to save bluebonnets. That’s what her mittens had been tending. The field was littered with the spring flowers, and the ghost was protecting them.

  "She doesn’t like us here," Classique said. "Be quick.”

  So I set the radio on the ground and began encircling it with the biggest of the stacked rocks, careful not to disturb any flowers. I told myself that the ghost would welcome the courtesy, but I wasn’t sure. After all, I was returning rocks to the field, creating a jagged circle among her flowers.

  "That’s good."

  "Let’s go.”

  As we clamored up the embankment, Classique sent me a thought -- she’ll know what to do with the radio.

  I saw it on TV. A man in New Mexico could turn his radio dial and tune in the raspy voices of deceased loved ones. Sometimes his television broadcast his dead son playing soccer in a foggy meadow; he had proof, he had a videotape.

  Of course, I thought. She’ll understand. She’s a ghost.

  And moving over the tracks, we heard the quarry boom, a faint explosion, like a distant thunderclap.

  "It’s magic," I said, gazing at the clear sky. "They’re making thunder. That’s what they do.”

  9

  I hypnotized myself by swinging a Barbie arm in front of my face.

  I said, "Your legs won’t itch anymore. And you won’t scratch them for four years.”

  Then I hypnotized Classique and the others.

  "You are sleepy," I told them. "You are so sleepy and you are sleeping. You are dreaming of trains, of Eskimo Pies and old men dancing with bears. Cut ’N Style, my voice is knocking you out. And you too Fashion Jeans. And Magic Curl. Classique, you’re sleeping. You won’t wake up until I say. You won’t know where I’m going, ever.” The arm worked like a charm.

  They were snoring. They were snuggled on the blond wig. I stepped backwards from the room, watching them, thinking -- sleep, sleep, little dear ones, sleep. Then I turned and went downstairs.

  Now it was almost dusk. I sat in the bus, on the ceiling, wearing the bonnet. Everything smelled of smoke, even my dress. A breeze roamed all around, blowing away some of the humidity; the air had become cooler. I looked for fireflies. But it wasn’t quite time. The sun still poked above the Johnsongrass. And the light inside the bus was slowly shifting, the sharp edges of the broken windows shimmered -- the springs, fluff, and burnt upholstery on the overhead seats radiated, orange and white.

  Someone had carved into the metal wall, a corroded scrawl I hadn’t noticed before. The words were upside- down -- etched higher than I could reach -- but easy to read: LOIS YOU SUCK BUTT!

  "Suck butt," I said. "You suck butt.” What a crazy thing to do. I didn’t want to think about it. "That’s dumb,” I told myself.

  When my father and I walked toward the L.A. River, we often stopped to read graffiti. Whole sides of buildings were decorated with slang, sprayed symbols and designs, red and blue and silver and black, like pictures from a comic book.

  "It’s all beautiful,” my father said. "People hate it.”

  "What’s it mean?”

  "Names, mostly. Gang stuff. I’m not sure."

  Framing an entire doorway was a Valentine’s heart, full and perfect, pierced by a stiletto.

  "You know what that is.”

  "Love," I said.

  "Yep."

  We’d come back to the same building a week later, but the graffiti wouldn’t be there, just whitewashed patches hiding names and colors and massive hearts. It was gross. "They should leave it alone," I said.

  "Don’t worry, whitewash doesn’t last long, not in this neighborhood."

  There was a tunnel in the middle of Webster Park -- cutting underneath a pathway -- where bums slept and teenagers drank beer and smoked. Instead of crossing over the tunnel, my father and I usually strolled through it, dodging broken bottles and the occasional vagrant zipped up in a sleeping bag. And once we found a spray paint can. Silver Lustre. So my father shook the can, then painted a smiley face on the cement. "That’s you,” he said. "That’s how you look today."

  "No it’s not. That’s not me today.”

  "Well, it must be you tomorrow.”

  He handed me the can.

  "Give it a try.”

  I was going to make a smiley face too, but I had the valve aimed wrong and sprayed my right hand.

  "Oh no,” I said, dropping the can.

  There was wet Silver Lustre in my palm; I dabbed it off on my pink shirt. I wanted to cry, but my father was laughing. He was laughing so much he started coughing. I thought he was getting sick.

  My mother was waiting when we arrived home. She saw my shirt first, two silver handprints where a pink pony and a balloon should be. "What the hell happened to you?" She grasped my wrists, flipping my hands.

  "I’m a robot,” I said.

  Then she slapped me.

  "You’ve ruined that shirt! Your hands!”

  But the worst part was my father. He didn’t do anything. He just stood by the front door and said nothing. And I wanted to yell at him for laughing in the tunnel. I wanted him to explain that it was all his fault, that it was his idea to play with the can.

  MOM YOU SUCK BUTT! That’s what I should’ve sprayed on the cement. That’s what I should’ve told her after she slapped me.

  I scanned the walls for more carvings, but the sun had dipped below the Johnsongrass, making my search difficult. So I gazed at the pasture, where a few fireflies were already flashing.

  "I’m here," I shouted. "In here! It’s me!"

  Then I covered my mouth, shutting myself up. I’d been too loud. The ghost could’ve heard me. She might think I was calling her.

  Glancing across the passageway, through the windows, I saw her meadow. But, because of the railroad tracks and weeds, I couldn’t see the bluebonnets or the rocks encircling the radio. Or the ghost, if she was there. And beyond the meadow, glowing among a cluster of mesquite trees, was a yellow light, a thousand times the size of a firefly blink; the queen mother of all fireflies -- I thought -- lurking in the distance, at least a mile from me and the bus. On the other side of the tracks, everything seemed bigger -- the flowers, the rocks, the rows of Johnsongrass. And the ghost.

  "She can destroy Tokyo like Godzilla,” I
’d told Classique. "She’d make Mom’s bed go crash.”

  "She’s Queen Gunhild. Queens are always fatter than everyone. That’s how they become queens. Everyone gives her gold and food to eat and she gets fat and sits on scales in her court, so then everyone has to give her more food and gold -- it has to be the same as how fat she is."

  "Queens are monsters. They need to be strangled and drowned in bogs."

  I imagined my mother in the meadow, killing nettles and hurling rocks. And she knew I was inside the bus. And she was hungry. Soon she’d climb over the rise and onto the tracks. She’d be coming after me: "You miserable creep!”

  The fireflies were here, floating through the windows. They flashed everywhere, but I wasn’t really paying attention. I looked back and forth, from one window to another, in case someone was sneaking outside. I tried sending psychic messages to Classique -- wake up now, wake up, I’m in trouble -- but she was dreaming of Eskimo Pies. I was on my own. And my father relaxed in Denmark. He wouldn’t help even if my mother was choking me, even if she was ripping my head off.

  So I waited.

  When the train came I’d run. I was near the bus door, the escape exit. My father said a person could easily outrun a ghost or a bog man or any monster.

  "They only get you when you aren’t expecting them. If you’re expecting them, you can always get away."

  "But they’re fast.”

  "No, they aren’t fast. Dead things are slow.`You have to be alive to run. Your heart has to be pumping."

  "Why?"

  "Because if your heart ain’t pumping then you’re dead. And if you’re dead, you can’t run.”

  "How do you move, if you’re dead?"

  "You don’t. You just flutter, I guess. Like a leaf in the wind. Energy or something takes you from one place and puts you somewhere else. It’s like magic. If your dead, you need a ton of magic -- a lot more than a living person does."

  I couldn’t figure it. But I believed him anyway.

  "So you run when you see a monster?"

  "Or before you see it. When you sense it. When you know it’s about to pop up and grab you. Not like in movies. People are always idiots in movies. They wait to get caught. They fall and look back and scream._Iust run. Then you’re safe.”

  No more waiting. The train was late. There were bog men in the sorghum; I heard them rustling. And Queen Gunhild wanted food. But I was alive, so I ran.

  My sneakers mashed foxtails and bluebonnets. Sorry, I thought, sorry. I didn’t look back or scream.

  I just sent messages: Classique, hear me. You are awake and not sleeping anymore. You are awake and not sleeping anymore. You are awake-

  Fireflies flashed on the cattle trail, so I kept my mouth closed. I didn’t want to swallow one. If I swallowed one, my stomach might start blinking. Then if I had to hide in the tall weeds, it’d be a cinch seeing me; I’d be like Bugs Bunny, strolling in front of Elmer Fudd with a target pattern on his butt, saying, "Say, doc, what makes you think there’s a rabbit in these woods?"

  "Oh, I doughn’t know. Just a wittle hunch."

  Racing toward the front yard, I caught the sound of the train. The earth trembled with its passing. I paused beside the flag pole, panting, and felt the steel vibrate against my shoulder. The Johnsongrass trembled under the breeze, and goose bumps rose on my arms. There was no one following along the cattle trail, not yet. I tried peering through the rows of sorghum, but it was impossible. I knew what was happening though -- in the grazing pasture, fireflies were being buffeted from the bus. Chunks of glass clattered in the burnt-out passageway, some fell like hail from the windows. And, for a while at least, Queen Gunhild couldn’t cross the tracks.

  Classique was communicating, a faint transmission: It’s okay. I’rn awake. Come get me-

  Then no noise, no train, no breeze. My palms were sweating like crazy. But I was safe. I walked onto the porch and entered the house.

  My father was in the chair. I could see the back of his head. And the map of Denmark was sagging, drooping over; a top corner had come unstuck. For a moment I considered fixing the map, but that meant getting close to him. He’d probably changed colors again, and the thought of his skin spooked me -- especially now that the farmhouse had grown darker. He was like the Mood Ring in my rnother’s jewelry box; sometimes turning blue, sometimes black. That ring never worked right.

  The dressing gown lay in the entryway, at the front door, so I picked it up. The satin was so soft. I pressed it against my cheek.

  "Smooth as a baby’s butt," I said, calmed by my own voice.

  I have an idea, Classique was thinking.

  What?

  Come get me and I’ll tell you.

  I cradled the dressing gown like a baby. There wasn’t a light for the stairs; it was pitchy, the steps were invisible. But I pretended a baby’s butt rested in the nook of my arms, and that made me happy.

  "I love you so much,” I told the dressing gown. "You’re my dear sweet one."

  And when I showed Classique my baby, she said, "It’s dead. It doesn’t have bones."

  She was the only one awake on the wig.

  "I don’t care. It’s smooth."

  "It doesn’t have a pumping heart.”

  "But you don’t too.”

  "How do you know?” she said. "I might.”

  "I’m sorry.”

  I didn’t want to argue. She could be stubborn. If I argued with her, she wouldn’t explain her idea -- although I already understood what it was. So I gently laid the dressing gown on the pillow, then I slipped Classique onto my finger.

  "Get the wig,” she said.

  I grabbed the wig, tumbling Fashion Jeans and Magic Curl and Cut ’N Style across the mattress. Then I went into the bathroom and got the cosmetic bag. And before going, I noticed that the hatch was ajar, beyond which existed murkiness, outer space, a void where the Bog Man could hibernate. The attic wasn’t the same as in the daytime; it was another world, the black hole of What Rocks. I tried setting the latch, but the bolt wouldn’t stay in its notch. I pressed hard with my palm. When I let off, the bolt sprang back. So I removed a tiny toothbrush from the bag -- its bristles stained with mascara -- and wedged the hilt in the gap between the hatch and the baseboard.

  "You don’t move,” I ordered the brush, "or you’ll die."

  Sometimes toothbrushes died. The bristles dulled and that was that. Sneakers died too. And buildings. So did Moms and Dads. The planet was full of the dying, the dead, the gone. But if someone was beautiful, like Classique, they could go on forever. Death was ugly.

  In the living room I whispered, "You’re a vision.”

  The wig fit my father well, the blond coils almost concealed his ponytail.

  "You’re a sensation.”

  His face remained pallid. He hadn’t changed much during the day. And I was relieved. There was a compact of rouge in the cosmetic bag -- so I dabbed color on his cheeks, on his chin, on his earlobes, brightening the purple blotches. Then I removed the bonnet and put it on him.

  He was pretty now. So I kissed his mouth. The skin felt fake and rubbery. I kissed him more than once, until the scarlet reddened his lips. Then I sat at his boots with Classique and admired him.

  "We’re very proud of you,” I told him. "You’re Miss America."

  And that night I slept in his room with the door locked. Just me and Classique. For a while, from the window, I watched the tower strobe flicker. But I didn’t stare too long. I didn’t want to get hypnotized. Then I lay on his mattress, very quietly. I shut my eyes, transmitting messages downstairs.

  Daddy-? This is me. Am I coming in loud and clear? Daddy-? If you can hear me, say something. It’s me. Radio Jeliza-Rose, broadcasting from your bedroom. Are you there?

  10

  Sitting on the porch steps, I sipped from the gallon jug and then dribbled into Classique’s hair. There wasn’t any shampoo in What Rocks, so I pretended. I scrubbed her scalp like it was soapy. The water made her red hair look br
own.

  I called her Miss.

  "How would you like it today, Miss?" And, "Miss, could I possibly interest you in some of our exclusive hair-care products?"

  But she told me to just shampoo, to not talk.

  "Yes, Miss."

  The customer was always right, even when she was wrong. So I combed my fingers through Classique’s hair, pushed at her plastic skull, and shut up. And if she was my mother, I’d be tapping my fist on her head, like knocking on a door -- but softer. Then I'd uncoil my fist, letting my fingertips spread slowly out. It gave my mother the chills.