by Adam Rapp
When I opened my eyes, Britney Purina, Todd Chicklis, and Bronson Kaminski were gone. I didn’t even hear them unlock the door or gather their materials or leave. They were just gone.
So I locked the door and then I pulled the tape off, which burned my mouth and chin, and then I went to the bathroom because I had been holding in so much gas that it caused me to have to move my bowels, and after I did that, I wiped and threw my stained underwear in the wastebasket under the sink and pulled my pants up and secured my belt, and then I looked in the mirror, and in addition to the irritation around my mouth from the duct tape, I could see what Britney Purina had written on my forehead.
She’d written FUM, Dave.
FUM.
And then in the reflection of the mirror, I could see that someone had spray-painted FUM all over the walls, so now my forehead matched the walls of Corinthia Bledsoe’s private bathroom.
I’m just glad they didn’t take my dad’s watch, which I’ve been wearing since Mom gave it to me that time in the kitchen.
I never made it to my sixth period and didn’t bother going to Principal Ticonderoga’s office to report Britney Purina, Todd Chicklis, and Bronson Kaminski, because I just felt so bad and dumb and I didn’t have any underwear on.
I decided to skip the bus and walk home, and the air was getting really cold and my teeth were starting to chatter. It took me about half an hour to get home, and when I finally did, Mom was in her bedroom listening to Hootie and the Blowfish’s second album, Fairweather Johnson.
I just kept sitting at the kitchen table. I felt useless and filled with shade. After a while Mom came downstairs. She was wearing a bathrobe and pajama bottoms and slippers and this Chicago Cubs baseball cap she’s been wearing since she threw her wig into the backyard and screamed, “Fuck you, world!” The wig is still back there, Dave. It sort of looks like an animal that got stuck in time. I’ve been checking on it periodically. Part of me wants to drive a barbecue fork through it and into the cold crust of the ground so it will stay there forever. I’m not sure what this would accomplish, Dave, but I’ve thought about doing it more than once.
Mom was still humming this one song called “When I’m Lonely,” which is the final track on Fairweather Johnson. Then she sat at the table and said, “Hi.”
And then I said hi back and then we were quiet for a minute.
She seemed too tired to be downstairs, and I worried that she might fall asleep on the kitchen floor again. Then she started to hum the song again.
I said, “Hootie.”
“Yep,” she said. “They’re the best.”
Then Mom asked me if I wanted hot dogs for dinner, and I said sure, and then she turned and looked toward the living room.
She said, “Look, it’s snowing,” and from where we were sitting, you could see through the kitchen and through the living room and into the backyard through the patio doors. And it was snowing, Dave! Snow was falling! They were these huge flakes, and they were falling really fast, as if the mind of the world had something in store for all humans and animals and bugs and crops, and then Mom got up and walked over to the sliding patio doors and just stood there staring out at the snow.
“It’s not even November,” she said after a minute.
Eventually she went back upstairs and put Hootie and the Blowfish on again and started crying, although she might have been singing, and I just sat there, Dave. I just sat there because I realized that she’d forgotten my birthday and that she wasn’t coming back downstairs to make hot dogs or give me a present or a chocolate cake with M&M’s on it, and I started to think about so many things, Dave, like, for instance, my dead dad and my gas problems and all the people on The List and about how my heart is shrinking little by little and about how Mom didn’t even notice the FUM on my forehead and about this notebook and specifically how you’re my only friend but how you’re not really a live person, how you’re more like a thought, Dave, even though you have a name and I can almost imagine what you look like, like maybe you have light-brown hair and a little mole under your eye and how sad it is that we’ll never get to hang out and help each other with vocab words or talk about the Sioux while throwing stones at bottles.
And then I tried to fight this glumness and avoid throwing too much shade at myself by imagining Camila the cafeteria worker, like she and I doing activities together, like picking out apples at the supermarket or going to see a movie or riding in a canoe, and how she would just have to sit there because I would do all the steering and paddling.
And then I saw something in the patio doors, Dave. It was eerie but special at the same time. What I saw was a wolf. I’m almost positive it was one of the gray wolves that the local news has been reporting about for the past few weeks. They’ve been showing pictures of them in the newspaper. They’ve been killing huge amounts of deer in the forest by the frontage road and all these carcasses have been appearing in the forest. But now the deer are all dead, or maybe the ones who were left found an effective escape route, so the wolves are looking for other sources of protein.
But anyway, there was this wolf staring into the house from the backyard. You could see its yellow eyes gleaming. Dave, what I did was I walked up to the patio doors. I walked up to them and just looked at the wolf. And it looked back at me, in a sitting position, the way a dog sits when it wants something. And it just stared at me with its yellow eyes. It was like the gray wolf was trying to talk to me. I really felt that, Dave, like it was trying to tell me the greatest secret, or like it was inviting me to go into the forest over by the frontage road and show me where the log is. I know that sounds weird, but that’s really what I felt.
I even held my dad’s watch up so the wolf could see it.
“I have the watch,” I said to the wolf through the patio doors. “Take me to the log.”
Then I heard a noise from upstairs, a loud thud, and I turned to this sound. When I turned back to the window, the gray wolf was gone.
I was curious about the thud, so I went upstairs and knocked on Mom’s door.
“Mom?” I said. “Mom?”
“I’m okay,” she said.
“What happened?” I asked from the other side of her bedroom door.
“I fell out of bed,” she said.
“You sure you’re okay?” I asked.
“I’m really fine,” she said.
“Want me to bring you anything?” I asked.
“No, thank you,” she said. “I’m gonna go back to sleep.”
“Okay.” I said. “Good night.”
The List grows.
New additions include those three people from homeroom:
13. Rose Bryant
14. Breanne Billson
15. Rod Benedict
By Halloween, almost a foot of snow has fallen on most of southern Illinois. It’s a record snowfall for the region, and winter wear is in full effect. Children trick-or-treat throughout the modest neighborhoods of Lugo, the youngest ones being escorted by their parents, the older ones left to their own devices. Their colorful costumes would normally stand out against the pristine white hide of snow, but aside from masks, most costumes are hidden by parkas, ski pants, and even snowmobile suits.
Corinthia Bledsoe and Cloris Honniotis are sitting on Cloris’s living-room floor, drinking boxed white wine. They have each taken one of Corinthia’s leftover Valiums from her recent hospital visit. Cloris decided to boycott Halloween and has disabled her doorbell and is ignoring all trick-or-treaters. It is her belief that Halloween is just another consumer holiday designed to be a big payday for candy companies that use white sugar and other mass-produced ingredients that actually harm children.
Their backs are set against Cloris’s plaid sofa, and they’ve moved her coffee table off to the side to make room for Cloris’s laptop, which rests on the carpet in front of them. Cloris has pushed herself about a foot closer to her laptop by wedging two throw pillows between her back and the sofa, a strategy that will hopefully balance out the e
xtreme size difference between her and Corinthia for the live videoconference they are about to take part in.
The Valium has started to take effect, and Cloris initiates the Skype connection with 103-year-old young adult novelist Lorcan Nutt. Through an impassioned phone call and a half dozen follow-up e-mails, Cloris was able to persuade Mr. Nutt’s assistant, an elderly lady named Lorna, to talk the reclusive writer into Skyping with her and her friend, Corinthia Bledsoe. She assured Lorna that it wasn’t an interview, that it would in no way be digitally or otherwise disseminated for public consumption, that she was simply a passionate young adult librarian hoping for a conversation with her favorite author. Of course Cloris didn’t mention the fact that she’d been recently fired from Lugo’s district library. They agreed upon Halloween, which Mr. Nutt doesn’t observe either. Lorna was absolutely insistent that Mr. Nutt would be able to give them only twenty minutes of his time, as he was busy finishing a novel.
Cloris and Corinthia primped, Cloris put eyeliner on, Corinthia covered a pimple with Cloris’s non-oil-based cover-up, and they’re both wearing flattering sweaters; Cloris was sure to put on her charcoal cable-knit turtleneck because Corinthia told her that it brings out the color of her eyes.
After a few rings, the Skype call is answered. An elderly woman’s face appears on the screen. She has skin like wet tissue paper, its pallor marked with fleshy folds and little coffee-colored spots. Her unadorned earlobes are almost shockingly long, like dangling tears of putty. Her hair is short and so white it’s almost colorless, and she doesn’t appear to be wearing makeup.
“Hello,” she says.
“Hello,” Cloris and Corinthia reply in unison.
“How are you ladies this evening?” the woman says. Her voice is a lively warble, one perhaps more befitting a bird.
“We’re fine,” Cloris says. “How are you?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” the woman answers. “A little tired, but we’ve had a long day.”
“Are you Lorna?” Cloris asks.
“I am,” she says. “I’m Lorna.”
“I’m Cloris!”
“Hello, Cloris.”
“And this is my best friend, Corinthia Bledsoe.”
“Hello, Corinthia.”
“Hello, Lorna.”
“Can you young ladies see me okay?”
“We can see you perfectly,” Cloris says. “Can you see us?”
“I can see you pretty good,” Lorna says, “but my Internet connection is not the greatest out here in the boondocks. I hope I don’t get fuzzy.”
“We’ll be sure to let you know if you do,” Cloris says. “Is Mr. Nutt there with you?”
“He’s definitely here with me,” she says. “He most certainly is.”
“Is he planning on joining you?” Cloris asks.
“Well,” Lorna says, “I can’t promise anything. He tends to be quite shy.”
“It’d be such an honor to chat with him,” Corinthia says.
“Could you tell him that?” Cloris offers.
“What exactly is it that you two young ladies want to talk about?” Lorna asks.
“First of all,” Cloris says, “we just wanted to tell him how much we admire his work here in Lugo, Illinois.”
“He’ll be happy to hear that,” Lorna says.
“And we’d love to know if he’s working on anything new,” Corinthia says. “I think I’ve read The Smallest Hands four times now. I’m hungry for a new book!”
“We be hungry!” Cloris adds, definitely loopy from the Valium-and-white-wine cocktail.
“Well, he certainly is working on a new book,” Lorna says. “He’s been working on it for many years.”
“Can you tell us what it’s about?” Cloris asks.
“Mr. Nutt normally doesn’t disclose this kind of information,” Lorna says. “He’s quite discreet about the subjects of his books while he’s working on them.”
“We won’t tell anyone,” Cloris promises.
“We really won’t,” Corinthia adds. “You have our guarantee.”
“It’s about an escaped circus monkey,” Lorna begins, “who teaches a small town in the middle of America how to play volleyball and also how to run better.”
“How to run better as a town?” Cloris asks.
“How to run better as in run better,” Lorna says. “As in the verb to run. Because the citizens of this particular town only walk and sit in front of their computers. They’ve forgotten how to run. The monkey teaches them how to jump and play volleyball, too.”
“Fun!” Cloris says, giggling.
Lorna goes on to tell them that after the town starts to run and jump and play volleyball through basic edicts of physical fitness and team sports, the citizens come to understand joy and how to sustain a kind of civic well-being that awakens them to the concept of happiness. But they soon forget about the monkey. And one night he is seen hanging from a tree branch, and the authorities capture him and keep him in a cage, and, though he is still trying to speak to them with his learned language skills, they stop hearing his voice. To them he only screeches and makes base monkey sounds. He is now a creature to be kept in a cage. Eventually they even strip him of his circus outfit because they no longer find it to be amusing. And then they starve him. The monkey eventually dies, and local dogs eat his viscera and bones. All that is left is a lump of fur. But the town thrives and becomes one of the most physically fit, highest-jumping, fastest-running towns in America.
“But is it a book for young adults?” Cloris asks.
“I think Mr. Nutt believes his books are for everyone,” Lorna replies.
“Is the monkey a young adult?” Corinthia asks.
“No,” Lorna says, “but his only true friend in town is a young girl named Hallie Elizabeth, who brings him bananas when no one is watching. They become good friends, and at one point Hallie Elizabeth even tries to free the monkey, but she gets caught and is sent away to a military school in Pennsylvania. The monkey affectionately calls her Hallie Bananas. But once she’s sent away, no one else comes to feed him, and he withers and dies.”
“Where does the town keep the cage?” Cloris asks.
“In the back of a used-car lot,” Lorna replies.
“What’s the title?” Corinthia asks Lorna, clearly affected by Lorna’s summary.
“Mr. Nutt is temporarily calling it The Book of Matthew. Matthew is the name of the monkey.”
“It sounds incredible!” Cloris proclaims.
“Really incredible-sounding,” Corinthia adds with far less enthusiasm, her voice betraying her a bit.
To Corinthia, Lorna says, “You seem disappointed.”
Cloris turns to Corinthia. “Are you disappointed?”
“Why can’t Hallie Bananas set him free?” Corinthia asks.
“Because that’s not how life really is,” Lorna says. “If one is reading purely for pleasure, one can always turn to books about wizards and bespectacled young geniuses who can time-travel and solve all sorts of the world’s problems with magic potions and charm.”
Cloris says, “Is this what you think, or what Mr. Nutt thinks?”
She says, “As far as I see, that doesn’t really matter.”
“Why not?” Cloris asks.
“Because he is me and I am he.”
“You’re Lorcan Nutt?” Corinthia practically shouts, exuberant.
“I’ve been Lorcan Nutt for as long as he’s been writing books,” she explains, “but Lorna Nuttinger is what it says on his birth certificate.”
“Holy shit!” Cloris cries.
Lorna says, “Language, girls, language!”
Cloris apologizes, and she and Corinthia are giddy with excitement.
“You young ladies must keep this a secret,” Lorna says. “You must swear this to me.”
“We swear,” Cloris says. “We swear, we swear!”
“It’ll be our little secret,” Lorna says. “Now I must get back to work. But before I sign off, you must remember t
o be good to each other. No matter how bad things get. Don’t expect much from people, because humans are generally a very disappointing species. But nevertheless, you must try to give as much love as you can. Endure this life. And help others endure it, too. And fend off bitterness at every turn. Do you hear me?”
“We hear you loud and clear,” Cloris says.
“We hear you,” Corinthia echoes.
“It was lovely chatting with you,” Lorna adds. “Over and out.”
And just like that, the Skype session is over and she’s gone. Cloris and Corinthia sit in silence for a long time while snow continues to fall.
Corinthia considers Lorna’s advice about fending off bitterness and helping others. Not an easy task of late. Not easy at all when virtually everyone around you thinks you’re a witch or a monster or some grotesque combination of the two.
She closes her eyes, and she can see Lavert Birdsong asleep in a hospital bed, his body frail, his face racked with pain. It feels as if a sewing needle is being slowly pulled through her heart.
A few trick-or-treaters pass by Cloris’s living-room window. They are bundled in winter clothes, their Halloween masks ghastly and vibrant. One small boy comes through the bushes, presses his face to the glass, and peers in. He is not wearing a mask, but his face is made up like a clown’s, painted white with red balloons on his cheeks.
