by Kelly Link
The next Thursday the tattoo was back, tucked discreetly under the left breast, but it was too late. It ended as I slept, dreaming about the waitress at Frank’s Inland Seafood, the one with Monday nights off, with the gap between her teeth and the freckles on her ass. I was dreaming that she and I were in a boat on the middle of the lake. There was a hole in the bottom of the boat. I was putting something in it – to keep the water out – when I became aware that there was another woman watching us, an older woman, tall with a stern expression. She was standing on the water as if it were a dance floor. “Did you think she wouldn’t find out?” she said. The waitress pushed me away, pulling her underwear back up. The boat wobbled. This waitress’s underwear had a word embroidered on it:
Payday.
I woke up and the girl detective was sitting beside me on the bed, stark naked and dripping wet. The shower was still running. She had a strange expression on her face, as if she’d just eaten a large meal and it was disagreeing with her.
“I can explain everything,” I said. She shrugged and stood up. She walked out of the room stark naked and the next time I saw her, it was two years later and she was disguised as an Office Lady in a law firm in downtown Tokyo, tapping out Morse code on the desk with one long petal-pink fingernail. It was something about expense accounts, or possibly a dirty limerick. She winked at me and I fell in love all over again.
But I never saw the waitress again.
What the girl detective eats for dinner.
The girl detective lies down on her bed and closes her eyes. Possibly the girl detective has taken the fat man’s case. Possibly she is just tired. Or curious.
All over the city, all over the world, people are asleep. Sitting up in my tree, I am getting tired just thinking about them. They are dreaming about their children, they are dreaming about their mothers, they are dreaming about their lovers. They dream that they can fly. They dream that the world is round like a dinner plate. Some of them fall off the world in their dreams. Some of them dream about food. The girl detective walks through these dreams. She picks an apple off a tree in someone’s dream. Someone else is dreaming about the house they lived in as a child. The girl detective breaks off a bit of their house. It pools in her mouth like honey.
The woman down the street is dreaming about her third husband, the one who ran off with his secretary. That’s what she thinks. He went for takeout one night five years ago and never came back. It was a long time ago. His secretary said she didn’t know a thing about it, but the woman could tell the other woman was lying. Or maybe he ran away and joined the circus.
There is a man who lives in her basement, although the woman doesn’t know it. He’s got a television down there, and a small refrigerator, and a couch that he sleeps on. He’s been living there for the past two years, very quietly. He comes up for air at night. The woman wouldn’t recognize this man if she bumped into him on the street. They were married about twenty years and then he went to pick up the lo mein and the wontons and the shrimp fried rice, and it’s taken him a while to get back home. He still had his set of keys. She hasn’t been down in the basement in years. It’s hard for her to get down the stairs.
The man is dreaming too. He’s working up his courage to go upstairs and walk out the front door. In his dream he walks out to the street and then turns around. He’ll walk right back up to the front door, ring the bell. Maybe they’ll get married again someday. Maybe she never divorced him. He’s dreaming about their honeymoon. They’ll go out for dinner. Or they’ll go down in the basement, down through the trapdoor into the underworld. He’ll show her the sights. He’ll take her dancing.
The girl detective takes a bite of the underworld.
Chinese restaurants.
I used to eat out a lot. I had a favorite restaurant, which had really good garlic shrimp, and I liked the pancakes, too, the scallion pancakes. But you have to be careful. I knew someone, their fortune said, “Your life right now is like a rollercoaster. But don’t worry, it will soon be over.” Now what is that supposed to mean?
Then it happened to me. The first fortune was ominous. “No one will ever love you the way that you love them.” I thought about it. Maybe it was true. I came back to the restaurant a week later and I ordered the shrimp and I ate it and when I opened the fortune cookie I read, “Your friends are not who you think they are.”
I became uneasy. I thought I would stay away for a few weeks. I ate Thai food instead. Italian. But the thing is, I still wasn’t safe. No restaurants are safe – except maybe truckstops, or automats. Waiters, waitresses – they pretend to be kind. They bring us what we ask for. They ask us if there is anything else we want. They are solicitous of our health. They remember our names when we come back again.
They are as kind to us as if they were our own mothers, and we are familiar with them. Sometimes we pinch their fannies.
I don’t like to cook for myself. I live alone, and there doesn’t seem to be much point to it. Sometimes I dream about food – for instance, a cake, it was made of whipped cream. It was the size of a living room. Just as I was about to take a bite, a dancing girl kicked out of it. Then another dancing girl. A whole troop of dancing girls, in fact, all covered in whipped cream. They were delicious.
I like to eat food made by other people. It feels like a relationship. But you can’t trust other people. Especially not waiters. They aren’t our friends, you see. They aren’t our mothers. They don’t give us the food that we long for – not the food that we dream about – although they could. If they wanted to.
We ask them for recommendations about the menu, but they know so much more than that – if only they should choose to tell us. They do not choose to tell us. Their kindnesses are arbitrary, and not to be counted as lasting. We sit here in this world, and the food that they bring us isn’t of this world, not entirely. They are not like us. They serve a great mystery.
I returned to the Chinese restaurant like a condemned man. I ate my last meal. A party of women in big hats and small dresses sat at the table next to me. They ordered their food and then departed for the bathroom. Did they ever come back? I never saw them come back.
The waiter brought me the check and a fortune cookie. I uncurled my fortune and read my fate. “You will die at the hands of a stranger.” As I went away, the waiter smiled at me. His smile was inscrutable.
I sit here in my tree, eating takeout food, hauled up on a bit of string. I put my binoculars down to eat. Who knows what my fortune will say?
What color is the girl detective’s hair?
Some people say that the girl detective is a natural blonde. Others say that she’s a redhead, how could the girl detective be anything else? Her father just smiles and says she looks just like her mother. I myself am not even sure that the girl detective remembers the original color of her hair. She is a master of disguises. I feel I should make it clear that no one has ever seen the girl detective in the same room as the aged housekeeper. She and her father have often been seen dining out together, but I repeat, the girl detective is a master of disguises. She is capable of anything.
Further secret origins of the girl detective.
Some people say that a small child in a grocery store bit her. It was one of those children who are constantly asking their parents why the sky is blue and are there really giant alligators – formerly the pets of other small children – living in the sewers of the city and if China is directly below us, could we drill a hole and go right through the center of the earth and if so would we come up upside down and so on. This child, radioactive with curiosity, bit the girl detective, and in that instant the girl detective suddenly saw all of these answers, all at once. She was so overcome she had to lie down in the middle of the aisle with the breakfast cereal on one side and the canned tomatoes on the other, and the store manager came over and asked if she was all right. She wasn’t all right, but she smiled and let him help her stand up again, and that night she went home and stitched the days of the week on
her underwear, so that if she was ever run over by a car, at least it would be perfectly clear when the accident had occurred. She thought this would make her mother happy.
Why did the girl detective cross the road?
Because she thought she saw her mother.
Why did the girl detective’s mother cross the road?
If only the girl detective knew!
The girl detective was very small when her mother left. No one ever speaks of her mother. It causes her father too much pain even to hear her name spoken. To see it written down. Possibly the girl detective was named after her mother and this is why we must not say her name.
No one has ever explained to the girl detective why her mother left, although it must have been to do something very important. Possibly she died. That would be important enough, almost forgivable.
In the girl detective’s room there is a single photograph in a small gold frame of a woman, tall and with a very faint smile, rising up on her toes. Arms flung open. She is wearing a long skirt and a shirt with no sleeves, a pair of worn dancing shoes. She is holding a sheaf of wheat. She looks as if she is dancing. The girl detective suspects that this is her mother. She studies the photograph nightly. People dream about lost or stolen things, and this woman, her mother, is always in these dreams.
She remembers a woman walking in front of her. The girl detective was holding this woman’s hand. The woman said something to her. It might have been something like, “Always look both ways,” or “Always wash your hands after you use a public bathroom,” or maybe “I love you,” and then the woman stepped into the street. After that the girl detective isn’t sure what happened. There was a van, red and gold, going fast around the corner. On the side was “Eat at Mom’s Chinese Restaurant.” Or maybe “Eat at Moon’s.” Maybe it hit the woman.
Maybe it stopped and the woman got in. She said her mother’s name then, and no one said anything back.
The girl detective goes out to eat.
I only leave my tree to go to the bathroom. It’s sort of like camping. I have a roll of toilet paper and a little shovel. At night I tie myself to the branch with a rope. But I don’t really sleep much. It’s about seven o’clock in the evening when the girl detective leaves her house. “Where are you going,” I say, just to make conversation.
She says that she’s going to that new restaurant downtown, if it’s any of my business. She asks if I want to come, but I have plans. I can tell that something’s up. She’s disguised as a young woman. Her eyes are keen and they flash a lot. “Can you bring me back an order of steamed dumplings?” I call after her, “Some white rice?”
She pretends she doesn’t hear me. Of course I follow her. She takes a bus. I climb between trees. It’s kind of fun. Occasionally there aren’t any trees and I have to make do with telephone poles, or water towers. Generally I keep off the ground.
There’s a nice little potted ficus at Mom’s Chinese Restaurant. I sit in it and ponder the menu. I try not to catch the waiter’s eye. He’s a tall, stern-looking man. The girl detective is obviously trying to make up her mind between the rolling beef and the glowing squid. Listed under appetizers, there’s scallion pancakes, egg rolls with shrimp, and wantons (which I have ordered many times. But they always turn out to be wontons instead), also dancing girls. The girl detective orders a glass of water, no lemon. Then she asks the waiter, “Where are you from?”
” China,” he says.
“I mean, where do you live now,” the girl detective says.
” China,” he says. “I commute.”
The girl detective tries again. “How long has this restaurant been here?”
“Sometimes, for quite a while,” he says. “Don’t forget to wash your hands before you eat.”
The girl detective goes to the bathroom.
At the next table there are twelve women wearing dark glasses. They may have been sitting there for quite a while. They stand up, they file one by one into the women’s bathroom. The girl detective sits for a minute. Then she follows them. After a minute I follow her. No one stops me. Why should they? I step carefully from table to table. I slouch behind the flower arrangements.
In the bathroom there aren’t any trees, so I climb up on the electric dryer and sit with my knees up by my ears and my hands around my knees. I try to look inconspicuous. There is only one stall and absolutely no sign of the twelve women. Maybe they’re all in the same stall, but I can see under the door and I don’t see any feet. The girl detective is washing her hands. She washes her hands thoughtfully, for a long time. Then she comes over and dries them. “What next?” I ask her.
Her eyes flash keenly. She pushes open the door of the stall with her foot. It swings. Both of us can see that the stall is empty. Furthermore there isn’t even a toilet in it. Instead there is a staircase going down. A draft is coming up. I almost think I can hear alligators, scratching and slithering around somewhere further down the stairs.
The girl detective goes to the underworld.
She has a flashlight of course. She stands at the top of the stairs and looks back at me. The light from the flashlight puddles around her feet. “Are you coming or not?” she says. What can I say? I fall in love with the girl detective all over again. I come down off the dryer. “I guess,” I say. We start down the stairs.
The underworld is everything I’ve been telling you. It’s really big. We don’t see any alligators, but that doesn’t mean that there aren’t any. It’s dark. It’s a little bit cool and I’m glad that I’m wearing my cardigan. There are trees with moss on them. The moss glows. I take to the trees. I swing from branch to branch. I was always good at gym. Beneath me the girl detective strides forward purposefully, her large feet lit up like two boats. I am in love with the top of her head, with the tidy part straight down the middle. I feel tenderly towards this part. I secretly vow to preserve it. Not one hair on her head shall come to harm.
But then we come to a river. It’s a wide river and probably deep. I sit in a tree at the edge of the river, and I can’t make up my mind to climb down. Not even for the sake of the part in the hair of the girl detective. She looks up at me and shrugs. “Suit yourself,” she says.
“I’ll wait right here,” I say. There are cute little canoes by the side of the river. Some people say that the girl detective can walk on water, but I see her climb in one of the canoes. This isn’t the kind of river that you want to stick your toes in. It’s too spick-and-span. You might leave footprints.
I watch her go across the river. I see her get out on the other side. There is a nightclub on the other side, with a veranda and a big sign over the veranda. DANCE WITH BEAUTIFUL GIRLS. There is a woman standing on the veranda. People are dancing. There is music playing. Up in my tree, my feet are tapping air. Someone says, “Mom?” Someone embraces someone else. Everyone is dancing. “Where have you been?” someone says. “Spring cleaning,” someone says.
It is hard to see what is going on across the river. Chinese waiters in elegant tuxedos are dipping dancing princesses. There are a lot of sequins. They are dancing so fast, things get blurry. Things run together. I think I see alligators dancing. I see a fat old man dancing with the girl detective’s mother. Maybe even the housekeeper is dancing. It’s hard to tell if their feet are even touching the ground. There are sparks. Fireworks. The musicians are dancing, too, but they don’t stop playing. I’m dancing up in my tree. The leaves shake and the branch groans, but the branch doesn’t break.
We dance for hours. Maybe for days. It’s hard to tell when it stays dark all the time. Then there is a line of dancers coming across the river. They skip across the backs of the white alligators, who snap at their heels. They are hand in hand, spinning and turning and falling back, and leaping forward. It’s hard to see them, they’re moving so fast. It’s so dark down here. Is that a dancing princess, or a bank robber? Is that a fat old man, or an alligator, or a housekeeper? I wish I knew. Is that the girl detective or is it her mother? One looks back at the o
ther and smiles. She doesn’t say a thing, she just smiles.
I look, and in the mossy glow they all look like the girl detective. Or maybe the girl detective looks like all of them. They all look so happy. Passing in the opposite direction is a line of Chinese waiters. They swing the first line as they pass. They cut across and dosey-do. They clap hands. They clutch each other, across the breast and the back, and tango. But the girl detectives keep up towards the restaurant and the bathroom and the secret staircase. The waiters keep on towards the water, towards the nightclub. Down in that nightclub, there’s a bathroom. In the bathroom, there’s another staircase. The waiters are going home to bed.
I’m exhausted. I can’t keep up with the girl detectives. “Wait!” I yell. “Hold it for just a second. I’m coming with you.”
They all turn and look back at me. I’m dizzy with all of that looking. I fall out of my tree. I hit the ground. Really, that’s all I remember.
When I woke up.
Someone had carried me back to my tree and tucked me in. I was snug as a bug. I was back in the tree across the street from the girl detective’s window. This time the blind was down. I couldn’t see a thing.
The end of the girl detective?
Some people say that she never came back from the underworld.
The return of the girl detective.
I had to go to the airport for some reason. It’s a long story. It was an important case. This wasn’t that long ago. I hadn’t been down out of the tree for very long. I was missing the tree.
I thought I saw the girl detective in the bar in Terminal B. She was sitting in one of the back booths, disguised as a fat old man. There was a napkin in front of her, folded into a giraffe. She was crying but there was the napkin folded into a giraffe – she had nothing to wipe her nose on. I would have gone over and given her my handkerchief, but someone sat down next to her. It was a kid about twelve years old. She had red hair. She was wearing overalls. She just sat next to him, and she put down another napkin. She didn’t say a word to him. The old man blew his nose on it and I realized that he wasn’t the girl detective at all. He was just an old man. It was the kid in the overalls – what a great disguise! Then the waitress came over to take their order. I wasn’t sure about the waitress. Maybe she was the girl detective. But she gave me such a look – I had to get up and leave.
