The Universe is a Very Big Place

by APRIL ASHEIM

  "Wait, you told us to be good," said Shane, scratching his head.

  "It’s a trap!" Blaine accused her. "Don’t listen, Shane."

  Spring spread her hands, exasperated. "I know what I told you, but now I think Ms. Droll doesn’t believe Mommy about your behavior problems. What did you tell her when I was in the hall?"

  Blaine spoke up. "That you get angry for no good reason and that Daddy lives in the park."

  Spring shook her head and stifled a yelp as Ms. Droll returned. "Blaine and Shane," she said enthusiastically, clapping her small hands together. There was so little skin covering bone that they barely made a sound as flesh hit flesh. "We are going to play a game. All you have to do is draw a picture of whatever you like and I will give you a piece of gum when you are done."

  "Not the Draw Me a Picture game!" Spring hadn’t meant to say these words aloud but they fell from her lips before she could stop them. The twins were masters of Draw Me a Picture, having been administered the test by the many counselors that had transitioned in and out of Cooper Elementary since Blaine and Shane had begun school two years ago. They enjoyed toying with their therapists and with each subsequent attempt became more original in their artistic renderings. "Is there any other test we can do? They have done this one before. This one doesn’t really test for ADHD does it?"

  The lines around Ms. Droll’s thin lips deepened, little creeks shooting from a main river. "ADHD is often confused with another disorder, Miss Ryan. These pictures can say what their little mouths cannot." The boys took the crayons and paper and got to work. Spring tried to see what they were drawing but Ms. Droll positioned herself between them, her small frame providing adequate privacy for the boys to create.

  Please, God, please. Let them be drawing rainbows and flowers. Puppy dogs and a happy family playing board games. If I haven’t called in a favor lately, I need this now.

  The twins were deliberate in their work and every color in the box was used at least once. They occasionally glanced at one another’s drawings and nodded, confirming to the other that they were on the right track.

  "Done," they said simultaneously, and held up their representations for the women to see.

  Ms. Droll, seeing the pictures first, staggered back, leaving a space large enough for Spring to peek. The sight turned her cold. Both pieces of paper were covered in dozens, if not hundreds, of sad faces––big, small, thin, fat, red, orange and blue circles with dots for eyes and a turned down line for a mouth. Ms. Droll raced to retrieve her notebook and frantically scrawled away. "I’ve...never. In all my years.."

  She could not finish the sentence.

  "You don’t think this really represents them, do you? They are never sad. Quick-tempered, but not sad." Spring said. "They are playing you!" Spring gave the boys an angry glare and turned her attention back to Ms. Droll. "I told you this wasn’t a good game."

  The counselor regarded Spring. "Miss Ryan. I’m not going to lie. I’m disturbed. I’ve worked with families for a long, long time and this is a first for me…beyond my scope of help. I’m going to have to find you some additional resources." Ms. Droll snatched up the pictures and began digging through a drawer in a file cabinet. The boys sat cross-legged on the carpet; blue-eyed and innocent.

  "Well," said Ms. Droll, rifling through a fistful of pamphlets. "I looked over their school files and there seems to be nothing about depression...but...I’m not convinced. I am also not convinced that there isn’t any emotional neglect going on. Normal children do not draw pictures like this. I’m recommending that you and the father attend parenting classes and family counseling." She turned and gave them a sympathetic look. "Additionally, based on the recommendations of their teacher..." She tapped the notebook Mrs. Felding had sent over. "...I’ve decided to put the boys on Ritadate for their ADHD. I’m still not convinced they are hyperactive but let’s give it a try. Please take all of this to heart." Ms. Droll handed Spring a prescription and a brochure for a workshop called Hugs Not Hits.

  "I can’t believe you boys did that to me," Spring hissed at them from the front seat. She turned in time to see them pulling plastic dinosaurs from their pockets. “You stole the dinosaurs, too? No McDonald's for either of you. Ever."

  "What?" Shane argued. "She liked us. She gave us gum."

  "She thinks I’m a child beater," said Spring, running her hands through her hair. "Do you want them to take you away from me?"

  Blaine blew a strand of blond hair from his eyes. Spring could see the wheels turning in his head. "I had a friend who went to live with foster parents and they gave him his own room and a bike and took him to Disneyland. Maybe we could get parents like that."

  Shane grinned. "Yeah we could get parents who take us to McDonald's every night."

  Spring tightened her grip on the steering wheel, honking at the car in front of her who sat idling at a green light. "I sacrificed everything for the two of you ungrateful delinquents. I can’t believe you would sell me out for McDonald's."

  "And Disneyland," corrected Shane.

  Spring sat at the dining room table picking at her food. She was not a fan of lamb, but Sam insisted she try it after he spent the last few hours preparing it. She watched him take a bite. He let it roll around in his mouth, chewing several times before swallowing. Each taste was followed by a look so blissful his face could hardly contain it––his lips long and upturned, his eyes rolling back into his head. A look most people reserved for sex. There were very few meats he could eat since he converted to Islam and he relished every one.

  "Good?" he asked and she nodded.

  "I knew you’d love it," he said, dabbing the linen napkin to his chin. It was pastel green and Spring wondered when they had acquired them. Sam must have snuck in a trip to the mall while he was away on business. She would have to search his closet when he napped to ensure that napkins were all that were purchased. He had a tendency to acquire new, expensive items and never use them. If she were quick she could probably send them back to the store before the labels were off...and the bills were due. She clicked her fingernails on the table and waited until he took his plate to the sink and then she dumped her scraps into her napkin and headed for the trash can.

  "Sweetie," he said, glancing at her empty plate. "You don’t have to gobble. There’s plen-ty." He dried his hands with a paper towel and went to scoop another serving for her, but she caught him.

  "I’m stuffed. So, so good." She quickly shook the napkin into the garbage and turned to him, patting her stomach for effect.

  "Not too stuffed for dessert, I hope?" Sam’s eyes sparkled as he hunched over, holding up one finger to show that he was not done with the surprises. Spring thought he looked a little like the Grinch after he had returned the gifts to Who-Ville. She slumped back into her chair as Sam scurried to the refrigerator and produced a monstrous bowl of brown mud.

  "Mocha mousse!" He ladled a blob out for himself and an extra-large helping for Spring. It wriggled off of the serving spoon as if it were alive and knew its impending fate.

  Spring wrinkled her nose distastefully. She hated the taste of coffee, its bitterness and smell, but Sam was watching her so she bobbed her spoon into the muck and put it to her lips.

  "Mmmm," she nodded again, feeling guilty. Sam tried so hard to instill a sense of ‘culture’ in her, but her tastes were simpler than his. She couldn’t help it. Years of concession stand food tends to do that to you.

  "It’s wonderful, isn’t it Pookie? I learned the recipe while I was away. Mustn’t eat too much, though, or you’ll get fat."

  Spring bristled and thought about correcting him. They had been together two years now and in that time she had never once drank a cup of coffee or gained a single pound. She raised an eyebrow but let it fall before he noticed.

  "The boys do okay during drop-off?" Sam feigned interest as he licked the last of his pudding from his lips. What he was really asking was what had transpired between herself and Jason.

  "Yep, it went fin
e. I was so angry with Jason after my date with the counselor today I didn’t stick around to talk to him. I dropped them off and ran."

  "So,” he said, pushing his empty dessert bowl towards the center of the table. “Tell me about your promotion."

  Spring snorted. She had given him the rundown on the phone earlier and he had seemed unusually excited. "It’s hardly a promotion. Actually, one might call it a demotion."

  "But you got a raise, right?" Sam leaned across the table, his eyes twinkling.

  "Yes, a whopping fifty cents an hour."

  "Not bad,” he said. She watched him do the calculations in his head. His face turned a different shade of white when he was working on numbers. "That’s twenty bucks more a week, almost a thousand bucks more a year.” He tapped the tips of his fingers together and smiled.

  "A thousand bucks is not worth my soul,” she said, yanking up the bowls and walking towards the sink. She rinsed them out and hoped that it would not clog the drain. She had the memory of a movie Lanie had taken her and Chloe to see as children. Something about a glob of goop that devours everything in its path. She shook the thought from her head.

  "But sweetie, it’s not like you have to be the condom."

  "No, but I have to walk into public places holding hands with a penis. A penis," she repeated for emphasis. "How would you like to walk down the street holding hands with a vagina?"

  "Now that’s just silly." Sam shivered. "Vaginas are disgusting. Besides," he continued. "You are doing a good deed for the youth. That‘s something to be proud of." Sam was holding his head in one hand, propped up on the table, tapping his fingers on his knee with the other. The air conditioner caught what few hairs he had left on his head and they danced in a way that Spring found mesmerizing. Like fairies around a druid ring. She resisted the urge to pluck one. He guarded those last few hairs with his life.

  "Meg, the PR lady, even wrote me a song to sing. A rap song." Spring rummaged through her purse on the table, dropping a plastic knife and a yellow crayon which Sam deftly caught before they hit the floor. At last she produced a white piece of paper folded into quarters. "Listen to this...

  "...His name is Casey Condom and he’s here to spread

  The word about protection, just use your head

  Though it feels real good not wearing a coat

  Your breasts will leak and your stomach will bloat

  So if you’re gonna do it, don’t be a lout

  Cover it up, or cut it out...

  "The last line says to lean backwards and cross my arms," Spring added at the end.

  "That’s actually not too bad. Short and simple. Gets the message across."

  "What? Didn’t you hear me? They want me to rap!"

  Sam took the paper from her, folded it up, and handed it back to her. "You’ll do fine, Spring. You always do."

  The grandfather clock Sam had purchased at an antique shop struck six. No matter how many times a day that thing went off, Spring still jumped. Before the six dongs had been fully struck, Lanie emerged from the hall, blinking against the light like a groundhog in February.

  "What is your mother doing here?" Sam’s nails dug into the back of Spring’s shoulders.

  "I’m sorry. I forgot to tell you earlier...Chloe asked me if I could keep her awhile," Spring said. "You won’t even notice her, I promise."

  Lanie wandered around the kitchen, arms raised in homage to some god or another. Her black muumuu with its bright purple flowers and her neon red hair gave her a clown-like appearance. "How can anyone not notice her?" Sam said, turning to face the woman. By the way Lanie’s fleshy body undulated beneath her dress, Spring could tell that Chloe had been feeding her well.

  "Don’t mind me," said Lanie, picking up the serving bowl filled with Sam’s special mousse. She ran her finger along the inside rim and put it to her mouth. "Yuck. Who the hell eats coffee pudding? I’m a coffee drinker and I don’t even eat this shit." Lanie set the bowl down and retreated towards the living room. Six o’clock meant that it was time for her medication and The Wheel of Fortune.

  "How long?" Sam asked as Lanie flopped into his recliner.

  "Not that long. Just until she’s done with menopause."

  "Menopause?" Sam’s voice trembled. "Doesn’t that take years? Why can’t she get her own place?"

  "Apparently the carnival didn’t provide a very good retirement package. But she did offer to give you free Tarot Card readings for life."

  Sam’s eyes narrowed as Lanie flipped through the channels. "Can she predict if I will be found guilty in an upcoming murder trial?"

  "Sam!"

  They watched as Lanie sat in the living room, one hand on the remote control, the other fanning herself. "Oh, Lordy," she grunted. "Why the hell did you pick Arizona to settle in? Arizona is too fuckin’ hot. I’m old. I might die."

  "Only if we’re lucky," Sam said.

  Four

  1984

  Lanie stepped outside of the motel room, a steaming mug of coffee cupped between her hands. She took a sip, letting the drink sit in her mouth for a moment before swallowing. It was decaf but it was still pretty damned good.

  Lanie inhaled deeply, breathing in the crisp, fall air. Autumn was the very best time of year to be a fortune teller. Even atheists and agnostics came around to have their cards read or their palms glanced over, come Halloween. Good thing, too. Her wig was fraying and she’d need a new one. Maybe something long and sleek this time. Something Cher.

  "Morning, gorgeous," said Ernie, closing the door behind him. He was wearing jeans with holes in the knees and his knockoff Members Only jacket purchased at the Asian district in St. Paul. "Let’s get some pancakes before the girls wake up. I got something to show you."

  Lanie followed leisurely behind her husband as he hustled to the Motel diner: The Blue Moose Café.

  "Where we going to anyway?" she said as Ernie opened the door for her. The restaurant inside looked very much like any other restaurant Lanie had seen during her years on the road. Red booths and speckled tables, waitresses in outdated hairstyles, and a jukebox near the entrance that serenaded its guests with Johnny Cash. A few of the roadies whose names Lanie couldn’t remember nodded at them as they made their way towards the rear of the place.

  "Flagstaff, Arizona, baby." Ernie said as he scooted into the booth. "Home of the Chipotle tribe. The greatest Indian warriors in all the country. More scalping per square foot there than anywhere else in America."

  Lanie narrowed her eyes and leaned across the booth. "Let’s make a deal, Ernie. You save the shit for the customers and so will I."

  Ernie grinned and snapped his fingers at a nearby waitress.

  "So what do you want to show me?" Lanie asked after ordering her hotcakes with extra syrup and bacon. Ernie raised his eyebrows but kept his mouth shut and Lanie was tempted to kick him under the booth. He never gave up his dramatics, even when they were alone. Finally, he reached into his coat pocket and produced a bloated, white tube sock that clattered and clanged when he threw it on the table.

  "Ta da! Once again the World’s Most Virile Man has come through for the woman he loves. Check this out." Ernest picked up the end of the tube sock and dumped the contents. Ten cent pieces scattered across the booth, some rolling into Lanie’s lap.

  "You’re pilfering from the dime toss, Ernest?" Lanie couldn’t believe it. Ernie could be called a lot of things, but she had never thought of him as a crook. A crock but not a crook.

  "What? It’s not like I’m stealing from the church bowl. These people don’t care what happens to their dimes once they toss them into the plates. The only thing they care about is whether or not they win the giant teddy bear. Why do you have to be so negative?" Ernie scooped up the dimes with his right hand and pushed them into his lap. The waitress returned with their breakfasts and gave Lanie a look that said she knew she was going to be paid in change and it wasn’t making her happy. Lanie returned the look with a helpless shrug.

  "But what abou
t Don? He okay with this?" Don was the owner of the show and had already threatened to give Ernie a booth at the far end of the midway––the worst possible place to have a booth––if he didn’t cut out his crap. This was Ernest’s fourth booth in the last six months.

  "Pfft. I keep the books. It all balances out." Ernie took a bite and considered. "They expect us to take a cut. We’re carnies, Lanie. That’s what we do."

  Lanie straightened up and looked at her husband. She was a gypsy. A witch. A prophetess. She was not a carnie. She finished her breakfast in silence and threw a five dollar bill on the table. "That will pay for mine," she said, rising with the dignity of a queen.

  She left her husband staring, and a few of the roadies gossiping.

  Lanie walked across the parking lot, weaving in and out of the parked trucks bearing the slogan "The Bob Cat Carnival Show." She waved hello to Maria, the Mexican woman in charge of one of the cotton candy stands who was pregnant with her seventh kid and couldn't find the daddies of the first six. Lanie took out her key and opened the door to room 133, the nicest room in the Blue Moose Motel.

  Spring and Chloe were propped up on their elbows, watching The Smurfs on their shared double bed. Lanie huffed, wishing they would take advantage of the free HBO. She worked hard to give them nice things and they never appreciated it. "Time to go," Lanie said, turning off the television. "Take a spitz bath and put on your clothes. We can drive through the McDonald's and pick up Egg McMuffins on the way out of town."

  Chloe jumped up and ran to her brown grocery store bag, digging for her favorite jeans. Spring quietly sat there, glaring accusingly at her mother. "But we just got here last night," she said. "I’m not going. I’m tired."