"Rose, I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
She yanked the map from the wall, squinted her good eye, and studied Denmark closely.
"What a strange secret,” she finally said, looking at my father, addressing him. "I knew you so well and you never told me. No, this isn’t right, no."
A frown crossed her face as she crimped the map into a compact square, creasing the edges. Then Denmark vanished in a pocket of her housedress. She patted the pocket twice, glancing at me.
"Enough of that nonsense,” she said. "Your house must be ordered. There’s too much filth, of course. We must clean clean clean.”
And that’s what we did.
In a duffel bag on the porch, there was a feather duster and a no-wax cleaning spray and plastic trash sacks and a sponge. Grandmother had a broom and dustpan in the kitchen. So my job was sweeping. Dell dusted. We started downstairs, in the living room, and worked our way upstairs, sweeping and dusting, collecting grime, making gray and fuzzy piles as we went. She whistled, blowing her pretty song, dancing the feather duster across windowsills, across the dining room table and the oak sideboard. I listened to her song, humming it to myself, while gathering dead june bugs and dirt balls, while dustpanning cracker crumbs and army ant bodies. And soon the air became rich with particles. My nostrils tingled, and both Dell and I sneezed from time to time.
"Mold gets in your head, makes you sick.”
We were in the kitchen. Dell dropped the remaining slices of Wonder Bread into a trash sack.
"Crackers are stale, no good, probably sampled by mice."
Into the trash sack.
"But you won’t want for food,” she said. "Dickens will bring your supper.”
Then she wiped down the counter and sink. She cleaned peanut butter off the peanut butter jar, dumped water from the gallon water jugs.
"Bad water is poison."
"What can I drink then?”
She set the jugs on the floor.
"I’ll fill them at home and have Dickens bring them ‘round tomorrow. See, Rose, we’ll care for you, right? We share Noah now. He's ours and you’re his. You brought him back to me, I think. You understand, correct? You’re part of the family now -- and this is where you belong, right? So we can’t have strangers, of course. If they come, they’ll take your father from both of us. It’s very simple -- strangers always create messes, and messes mean problems. But I fix things, child. I stop Death from proceeding, and I keep troublesome strangers away -- that’s my calling. How do I say this so you’ll understand everything? When it comes to the things we treasure, child, nothing has to die or go into the ground. When you love something, everything can almost stay the same, correct? Then I don’t have to be alone, neither do you. Am I making sense? So this is what I do -- I keep strangers and Death away so nothing has to change -- not Mother, not dear Noah, not this house, or my house, or even you or me or Dickens. I tidy problems as I hold up a hand to Death and shoo him off like a filthy fly -- that’s what a caretaker for silent souls does. Am I making myself clear?"
"I think so," I said. "You don’t want him to be in Denmark.”
"Nonsense," she replied. "I don’t know what you’re talking about. What does Denmark have to do with anything. Don’t be silly, silly child. You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said. Pay attention next time.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just stood there gripping the broom handle, looking at Dell’s black lens.
"Don’t gawk,” she said. "We’re burning moonlight. There’s more to do, there’s always more to do.”
Upstairs -- sweeping and dusting, swabbing the toilet and the bathtub, clearing spiderwebs from the ceiling. In my father’s bedroom, folding his dirty clothes and zipping them inside his backpack, dumping the Peach Schnapps’ bottle and plastic baggy in a trash sack.
"What’s happening?" Cut ’N Style wondered as I lifted her from the throw rug, placing her on the night table.
"We’re getting clean clean clean," I told her.
In my bedroom -- humming Dell’s song -- taking the doll arms and the legs and the torso from the mattress, putting them in my suitcase.
And my mother’s satin nightgown-
"Good lord, child, what’s this?”
Dell held the gown up by its arms.
"It’s my pajamas,” I said.
"No, no,” she said, "it’s too large for you. I think so. I think you’ll have to wait until you’re a woman -- and a big one at that.”
Then, grinning as if she’d just found a great bargain, Dell took the gown downstairs -- where I spied it later in the picnic basket, packed beside the thermos and silverware and crumpled foil and greasy plate.
"Hard workers deserve gifts,” she said.
So she got the gown, I got another piece of pound cake - and at dawn, once our work was completed, once all the trash and cleaning material had been crammed into the duffel bags, we moved my father upstairs. Or Dell did. She dragged him across the floor, bumped him up the stairs, and then carried him to my bedroom -- not his -- resting him on my mattress.
"The sleep of the just," she said. And she kissed his varnished forehead. And I did too.
We sat on the edge of the mattress -- Dell by my father’s head, me by his wrapped feet -- saying nothing for a while. She sighed deeply, whistled for a moment, and then asked if I knew my grandmother.
"No. She died when I wasn’t even born yet."
"I see," she said. "Well, you missed a saint. She tended my sorry body after that bee nearly killed me dead. I owe her my life."
"Oh," I said.
That’s why you’re scared of bees, I thought. That’s why you have the hood.
"How come you don’t wear the hood anymore?"
And she explained that bees swarmed by day, slept at night.
"Busy beasts,” she said. "Buzzy beee-stssss!” she hissed.
She removed her glasses, showing me her pirate-eye. I leaned forward, spotting my reflection on the milky pupil.
"Stung in my own garden,” she said. "Blinded by a filthy bee. Revenge, I say, for destroying Father’s hives. Poured gas on them all, set them ablaze at midnight?
"Why’d you do that?"
"Ah, well, Father loved his bees, you know. And his bees loved him, I’m sure. Jealous creatures though. Hated Mother. Attacked her in the kitchen. Swarmed through the window. Made her a pin cushion, poor dear. Little stingers dotting her head. Did you know a bee tried crawling up her nose? Pure evil. So Mother’s heart stopped and she never finished the dishes. I found her there in the kitchen. Pumped her chest and got her going again. But she wasn’t the same, no, no. Couldn’t leave her bed. And Father went away -- guilt and misery, I tell myself -- forever disowning me and Dickens and Mother -- and his hives. So I set them ablaze, Rose, in the middle of the night. And now there isn’t a bee alive who wouldn’t want me murdered. And this-"
She shut her good eye, leaving the bad one open.
"-this is revenge.”
"A dead peeper," I said.
She nodded.
"Dreadful, isn’t it? But I see more than most -- even with eyes closed. Do you know this? Birds and rabbits -- they’re in my dreams -- and children hiding behind bushes, everything you can imagine. Of course, children behind bushes sometimes see more than they should. It’s best minding one’s own business, right? Otherwise, Rose, bad bad things might happen under the sun."
She'd seen me and Classique. She knew we saw her sucking Patrick’s blood. My face turned bright red. I put my head down. For a second, I considered running, but I didn’t know where to go.
"Horrible,” Dell was saying, sniffing. "Awful. You reek of the devil, Rose. Come with me."
I followed her to the porch, where she dug a can of Lysol from a duffel bag and had me stand on the steps.
"Seal your mouth and eyes,” she said. "Extend your arms and hold your breath.”
She sprayed my dress and legs, my arms and hair, my sneakers and back. The Lysol fe
lt sticky on my skin. And when I opened my mouth and inhaled, the disinfectant made me gag and cough.
"Do your panties," she instructed, handing me the can.
And as I raised my dress with one hand, spraying my panties with the other, Dell went to the duffel bags. She wound the drawstrings around her fingers, two bags in her left hand, two bags in her right hand. Then she squatted, preparing to lift -- but the squirrel caught her attention. He chattered on the roof, creating a racket.
"Monster!” she shouted. "Nasty thing!”
She upheaved, rising with the bags. The veins in her neck bulged as she trudged toward me.
"I’m going home,” she said, straining, "while the bees are still napping. Dickens will fetch the basket tonight. He’ll bring you water and food. Tomorrow I’ll come for that nasty creature, that diseased brute.”
She staggered past me, grunting as she ambled through the yard.
"Bye,” I said, waving the Lysol can. "I’ll guard your spray. And I really like your cake too."
And the next day, I watched from an upstairs window as Dell readied her ambush. It was like something in a cartoon -- twine tied to a stick in the yard, a stick set vertical -- propped between the ground and an upturned crate -- and the twine ceiling away, stretching into the Johnsongrass, where she now waited to spring her trap. And there on a plate, beneath the half-cocked crate, a carrot or an onion or a chunk of wood? I couldn’t tell. Then scampering over the roof, along the awning, down into the yard--how long did it take? Longer than a cartoon, I suppose, shorter than Romper Room. The squirrel was careful, not too fast, approaching the crate in furtive darts and sudden stops, sniffing as he crept toward the plate.
"Watch out," I said.
The twine tightened. The stick collapsed. And like a shark engulfing a minnow, the crate swallowed the squirrel in one chomp. But the squirrel fought; he struggled about, almost tipping the crate, resisting so violently that Dell had to run from the Johnsongrass and sit on her trap. She clutched an empty duffel bag, which, eventually, she worked underneath the crate, consuming the trap and the squirrel and the plate. Then she pulled the drawstrings and hoisted her load-the squirrel clawing inside the bag-and hiked to the cattle trail, whistling.
Beer-Braised Squirrel, I thought. That’s what she’ll cook me. That’s what I’ll get.
"Poor squirrel,” I told my father. "He’s doomed. He never had a chance."
18
The hospital was inside my father’s belly, a shadowy and grim place smelling of varnish.
"A full recovery is expected," someone said. And dressed in green johnnies, my mother and Classique lay beside one another on gurneys. Three surgeon Barbies, breathing hard behind white masks, crowded around them with scalpels.
"Fabulous,” said Classique-except she wasn’t quite Classique. She had a human body, long legs, a blond beehive. "Fantastic, darling, wonderful!"
"Yes, sweety,” my mother concurred, "wonderful!”
My mother looked like Dell. She wore a cowboy hat and smoked a cigar.
And I was there too, somewhere.
Just then a Barbie nurse appeared. Magic Curl? Or Fashion Jeans? I can’t say for sure. She carried an oversize brain, the size of a turkey, on a silver platter.
"Your dinner is served,” said the nurse. "Set the table.”
But what I understood her to mean was: "The brain is ready. Bring the patient.”
And Classique was suddenly whisked away, blowing kisses as she went, telling me or my mother, "This is it! I’ve never been so happy! I’m alive!”
"Yes,” my mother said, sitting up and exhaling smoke, "yes, yes!” Her johnny burst into flames.
I awoke, sweating. It was afternoon, and sunlight blazed through my bedroom window, spilling over the mattress, warming me and my father. The varnish glistened like perspiration across his forehead. And I was stretched alongside him, pressed against the quilt, yawning.
"Rise and shine," Cut ’N Style said.
I’d fallen asleep with her on my finger. Now she hovered in front of my face.
"Classique is alive," I told her. "She’s okay and happy.”
"Just a dream,” she replied. "Trust me, I know. I was there, dear."
Cut ’N Style sounded different, more like Classique.
She said, "I know everything."
"Stop it," I said. "Don’t pretend you’re her.”
"That’s silly. I have no idea what you’re talking about-"
I flicked her from my finger, sent her sailing. She flew to the floor, bounced and rolled, and finally slid to the edge of the stairs. She was knocked out before she could start crying.
"It’s not just a dream,” I said. "You’re pretty stupid if you can’t see that -- even if you’re blind too!”
Then I put an ear to the quilt, listening at my father’s rib cage, hoping that the operation was well underway, and that the surgeons’ voices could be caught. But I heard nothing.
"Magic Curl,” I said softly, "Fashion Jeans -- it’s me, Jeliza- Rose. What’s happening in there? You’ll tell me, all right?”
I listened some more, hearing only silence.
Everyone’s sleeping, I thought. They’re still in the dream.
So I tried making myself fall asleep again. I rested my head on the quilt, shut my eyes and began snoring. But it didn’t work. I was wide awake.
"It’s not fair!”
In frustration, I climbed from the mattress and rushed after Cut ’N Style. She was unconscious, probably at the hospital with Classique and my mother. I kicked her down the stairs, saying, "That’s what you get, you’re a bad dog!"
And later, when Dickens arrived with food, I told him, "Cut ’N Style ruined my great dream. She woke me up and now I’ll never know."
I was at the dining room table, and he was removing my meal from a paper sack, arranging each item -- thermos, foil-covered plate, slice of pound cake in a sandwich bag, fork and knife -- neatly before me.
"She’s your friend?" he asked. "She fell in the hole and disappeared forever and I can’t find her."
"That’s Classique,” I said, "not Cut ’N Style. Cut ’N Style is on the floor over there -- but Classique is in the hospital -- I dreamt her -- and I saw her with Mom and Mom was burning."
Dickens frowned and shrugged. He didn’t understand, so I explained that Classique was no longer a head. She had a woman’s body. And she was getting a real brain.
"Bet it costs a million dollars," he said. "I’d like a new brain sometimes -- I think a new one is shiny."
"Yeah -- and it was a big brain. She was excited and I guess she wasn’t a doll anymore.”
Dickens pulled the foil off the plate -- "She must be pretty" then unscrewed the thermos cap.
"She is. She’s beautiful."
He pushed the plate toward me -- greasy meat, two legs, a thigh or a breast.
"Dell says eat what you can and hide the leftovers in this-”
He handed me the foil, which I smoothed in my lap as if it were a napkin. Then I sniffed at the meat, "Is it the squirrel?"
"No,” he said, shaking his head. "No squirrel. Dell hates those. She won’t cook those -- she just won’t."
"Oh," I said, reaching for the fork, "that’s good. I don’t think I like squirrel either.”
And while eating, I thought about Classique’s operation. How was the brain put in? Did it hurt? Did she bleed? Is she different?
Why did she need a brain anyway?
Because it’s fabulous, dear. It’s fantastic, darling.
"Fabulous," I said, picking at the meat. "Wonderful."
Dickens glanced at me. He was in the living room, holding my father’s wig, his fingers combing the coils. Then I watched as he planted the wig on his bald head; the coils sank past his ears and forehead, adorning his shoulders. And -- wearing his goggles and swimming trunks and flip- flops, the wig askew -- he looked like a crazy woman, half- naked and loathsome.
"I'm pretty pretty,” he said.
"You’re funny,” I told him. "You’re weird.”
"No, no,” he whined, "because I don’t want to be weird, okay? I’d like the red lips and then I’ll be beautiful."
He needed more than red lips. He needed rouge, maybe mascara.
"All right," I said, "I’ll fix your face."
He clapped.
"Yes, if you fix my face I’ll be happy.”
Mitch Cullin Page 14
