Fan wouldn’t have understood this, of course, but she did notice that Quig and particularly Loreen visibly relaxed, and when Mrs. Nickelman and one of her older daughters brought out trays of drinks and food, they all partook with gusto, the old man and children sitting in the grass with their plates. For it was wonderful food, maybe miraculous, for being served out here, the sort of vibrant, wholesome fare you only saw on the evening programs when Charter characters dined and argued with one another amid a fully laden table. None of it was anything elaborate but that was its simple, delectable beauty: thick chunks of ripened tomato with little knobs of homemade goat cheese curds; scrambled eggs and summer squash sprinkled with herbs; fried corncakes; sliced fresh peaches in cream; and a cool sarsaparilla and mint tea to wash it all down. Of course, at the Smokes they ate food mostly out of cans and pouches, or dried items such as instant noodles and meat jerkies, everything to be warmed up and rarely ever fresh, as that’s what people can easily bring in trade. The Nickelmans were cooks, and also vegetarians, which seemed a crazy way to live when you couldn’t depend on regular supplies of anything. They were disciplined, one of the children proudly told Fan, for even when they were down to just a few mouthfuls of beans each this past winter, they still never thought about touching their goats or chickens, which would go against their beliefs.
Fan didn’t ask what those beliefs were, as she would have no real idea what the cost of transgressing any specific doctrine would be, religious or philosophical, as we in B-Mor pretty much practice none; other than an undying habit of pragmatic attention and action, there is no overarching system we subscribe to anymore, no devotion to a deity or origin story, no antique Eastern or Western assertions of goodness and badness to guide us. We abide by directorate regulations, yes, but are mostly ruled by one another as to what is optimal, which is debatable but in fact no more so in B-Mor than anywhere else, even as amoral as we may be considered by others. At least we are not wholly ruled by the pursuit of wealth like Charters, or by the specter of ill chance like open counties people, which endows us, we will say, with a certain equable stance that does not tip us either too far forward or back.
Which is how the Nickelmans seemed to Fan, and as well to Loreen and Quig, who marveled not just at the tasty food but at the oddly prosperous calm of the family, their easy generosity that was at once so thorough and modestly offered. Now was now and it was plenty. Toward the end of the meal the children huddled and pronounced that they wished to give a mini-performance of their show, and as Quig and Mr. Nickelman shared puffs from a water pipe and his wife and Loreen sipped some moonshine, the kids ran through a couple of their gymnastic cheer routines, the smaller ones climbing on their bigger siblings and leaping off into the arms of others; they even got Fan to get up on their shoulders and stand with her hands held high and then freely fall backward until she was caught and then rolled deftly onto her feet. They taught her a few steps that she picked up quickly, and within a few run-throughs, she was in sync with their slides and hops and twirls. Aside from her bloodlines, she could have been one of them, her control over her body total and natural, such that some of the Nickelmans, including the parents, couldn’t help but wide-eye one another. For you could easily imagine her integration into the group, an unlikely addition that would give their show a most memorable punctuation of shape and color: the Bounding Nickelmans, now featuring Fan the Fearless!
After the demonstration, the plates and cups were cleared (they used real ones rather than throwaways), and Quig commented on their need to be moving on, which drew a chorus of moans and pleas from the children. But he didn’t sound terribly adamant, and then Loreen, despite the liquor, was suffering from her toothache again, and Mrs. Nickelman offered to make a poultice that she could lodge against her gum and tooth, which Quig had offered many times to pull but that Loreen had resisted, as she didn’t want to relinquish any more of the front ones that were left. This was when they received a tour of the Nickelmans’ living quarters, which the visitors assumed was set secretly on the far side of the passage leading through the dense mountain of kudzu and other vining weeds that had overtaken the entire region.
But once they stepped beneath the bower, the passageway veered sharply left, and right, and then slightly downward for a short stretch, the light diminishing and the temperature dropping with each turn such that it felt they were venturing into a cave. But they were not going below ground. The footing of the path was shored up by planking but it was hard to see much and Loreen was starting to make the whistly noise from high in her throat that came out whenever she got a little twitchy. Fan herself was wondering where this would lead but she kept her focus on Quig, who didn’t seem at all worried or perturbed, just grunting assents as the nerdy, enthused Mr. Nickelman recounted how he, too, had been raised in a Charter village, though his family had been forced to leave when he was still a boy; his father had died unexpectedly of a heart attack, but because of an accidental lapse in his paying life insurance premiums, his mother couldn’t support the family at the necessary levels with her own job. They had come out to the counties and been taken in by a community that had a famous theatrical acrobatic troupe among its members, who saw his potential and trained him, and here he was all these years later, with a successful show composed of his own children and a wife (born of that famed troupe) he respected and loved, living in a home they’d constructed themselves, or more like cultivated, for it was evident now that the Nickelmans lived beneath a single tree.
And what a tree! was the thought their visitors had as they entered the large circular space beneath its immense canopy, the sunlight filtered by the vines so that there was a cool glow of jade upon everything, like the color of newly sprouted leaves. The scent of the air was richly herbal and of clean, slightly dampened earth. Loreen asked what kind of tree it was and Mrs. Nickelman said a live oak. It was of extraordinary scale; the trunk was massive, indicating a specimen of a couple centuries’ age, and when Quig questioned how it stayed alive with the normally choking vines, Mr. Nickelman explained that the vining wasn’t as invasive as it looked, as they were constantly pruning it back to allow the tree’s own leaves enough air and light, the intertwining complete but not stifling. The vines offered them extra cover, however, from the weather and bad people, and whenever it did storm, the Nickelmans unfurled circular tenting—like a circus top, in fact—from the middle of the tree to both shed and catch the rainwater. Whenever it got too cold in the winter, they let the tenting out, too, and kept warm under that, using electric space heaters running off a diesel generator outside; though, of course, it rarely got too frigid anymore, and then never for very long. The space under the canopy was partitioned by waist-high walls of plyboard into sleeping and living areas, the kitchen just a simple worktable and unplumbed laundry sink and an electric cooktop with two burners. There were a few axes and machetes and pruning clippers for clearing brush. There wasn’t much in the way of possessions, a few plastic storage tubs for pantry items and for their clothes and shoes, and then a big screen for watching the vids Mr. Nickelman took of every performance, which is what the children were doing now, the older ones stopping and starting the vid to analyze their moves and transitions between routines.
Fan was enjoying the vid as well as their serious and thorough discussion, but she had to use the outhouse and one of the girls practically leaped to her feet to accompany her, crying out that she had to go, too. Her name was Hilton and she was maybe nine years old with corkscrew curls and dark brown eyes and reminded Fan of little Star, back in the Smokes. It was obvious she already had a crush on Fan, who was very different from anyone she’d ever seen, plus oddly grown up in the way she held herself but still closer to Hilton’s size than anyone else. She took Fan’s hand and led her back out to the clearing, and when they were halfway to the outhouse, the breeze turned and carried its stink to them. Fan, who was feeling funny, had to halt and bend over and throw up on the ground, her body feeling as though i
t were turning itself inside out. It was the whole wonderful supper, now wasted, and she thought it was probably because of the fresh vegetables, which she wasn’t used to in such abundance. But she felt instantly better. Hilton said Gosh and that she still had to go and so they went to the outhouse, Fan waiting while Hilton relieved herself, which seemed to take a long time but was filled with the girl airing her wishes about Fan staying the night and maybe living with them for a while or from now on and, of course, performing, too. This was when Fan learned that some of the children were adopted, including Hilton, who was only a baby when she came to them.
While Hilton was prattling on, Fan noticed the dog, which was now in a pack of five or six other large, muscular dogs, all of them pushing and growling and madly lapping about the spot where she’d gotten sick. It was a repulsive sight and she turned away, drifting toward a flagless metal pole with beaten-down grass all around it. This part of the clearing was much messier than the rest, marked by loose piles of surplus junk like PVC piping and chicken wire, large rusted bolts and fence spikes. And a smell that was faint but squarely awful now rose, very different from the outhouse stink, like something rotting and drying up rather than foaming and fetid. It was then she was drawn to something bright in the weeds. It was a bone, long and pitted and bleached white from the sun, scarred and gouged down its length by chew marks. She figured it was the dog’s plaything and picked it up, surprised at how heavy it was, when she realized that she was standing in a veritable field of bones, most of them tiny and broken, like bits of branch or stone, with only some of them as large as the one she held.
Hilton stepped from the outhouse with a wide skewed smile, which was not for Fan but the rest of her family, who were now out in the clearing and heading toward them in a pointed mass, Mr. Nickelman at the front, the brass whistle in his mouth. The biggest boys carried machetes. He blew the whistle and the dogs magically aligned onto the family’s formation, trailing them. Shuffling in their midst were Quig and Loreen, who appeared to be clasping hands but were, in fact, secured by their inside wrists and ankles with locking plastic ties. They walked most unsteadily from whatever they’d been given, their eyes glassy but lightless against their pale faces, and before Fan could run, Hilton embraced her from behind with startling strength, a furious but loving hug that would surely never let her go.
I won’t let it happen! Hilton shouted. I just won’t!
Don’t worry your sweet head, Hilly, Mr. Nickelman said, cupping her chin as well as Fan’s. His hand was dry and cold. She’s going to be one of us from now on. She’s just right.
You promise?
I promise. You want to be part of our family, my dear? Why not, right? You’ll have lots of fun.
The entire family was expectantly nodding as though she were simply deciding on whether or not to go on a trip to the mall. And although we can’t be sure exactly what was crossing her mind at that moment, we do know about Fan’s character, which never wavered through her many trials. Was she an especially moral person? That’s difficult to say. She was consistent, is how we will put it, ever the same and same and same, which we suppose can be seen as a kind of integrity that is all too rare these days.
Okay, she said. But why not all three of us?
There was a communal groan and Mr. Nickelman scratched his head, saying, That’s really not in our plans.
That’s right, the old man concurred.
We’re a bit crowded here, Mr. Nickelman said. You’d fit in easily enough but not two more full-sized people. The missus and I are getting full-sized enough, to be honest.
Oh, Philip!
I’m just trying to explain things to Fan. She’s a very capable girl, I can tell. A special girl. We figured out a long time ago what the best way for us was. Others will go about their living differently—he glanced at Quig and Loreen—and that’s neither here nor there. But we choose to live as simply as we can, as sustainably as we can. It’s a wonderful feeling when things are in balance. We feel liberated but we’re not afraid because of our liberty, as most people out here are compelled to be. And we are as free as anyone in a Charter or where you used to live. Maybe more. Sometimes we have to buy or trade things, of course, but we’ve become pretty good at gardening and cheese making and raising our beloved animals, and I’m sure you could help us in that regard. The main thing is, we strive to be completely independent. Certain times that’s impossible, especially in the winter. But each year we always get by and we gain that much more know-how, and we hope some wisdom, too.
And if I don’t want to stay? Fan asked.
But we know you do! Hilton cried, who was now holding her hand, if just as tightly.
That’s right, Mr. Nickelman said, though not quite sounding so nerdy anymore. He blankly regarded Quig, who was clearly not of his own mind and trying to hold back the mud-black tide surging behind his eyes. But he was failing, failing, and maybe finally giving up.
We know you do, Fan, Mr. Nickelman said. You like our show, don’t you?
Yes.
You want to be in it.
Yes.
You like our family?
She nodded.
And we like you! We do, don’t we?
Yes, yes! their chorus implored.
You see, there’s not much else to say. Not much at all. So why don’t you go in now with the ladies. Hilly and the girls will set you up with bedding. Boys, you know the drill.
The younger boys led Quig and Loreen to the pole, securing their free hands and feet to it with more plastic ties.
Oh god! Loreen cried miserably. We’re going to be their meat!
We don’t eat meat, Loreen, Mrs. Nickelman gently corrected her. We never have and we never will.
But the dogs were silently poised, their maws slick and drooling, the muscles of their shoulders and hindquarters pulsing with anticipation.
I want to say good-bye, Fan said.
That’s so good of you, Mr. Nickelman said. So very good. Please, go right ahead.
Fan, with Hilton still in tow, approached Quig and Loreen, who had slumped down to a half crouch, propped by only the pole and each other. Their eyes were open but not fixing on her, and when she hugged and even kissed each of them, the only thing Loreen could muster was a whisper of little New China bitch. Quig said nothing. Fan and Hilton then stepped aside into the weeds and Mr. Nickelman told her it was time now to go inside. This was something she should not see, at least until the next time. But Fan shook her head, which surprised but deeply delighted them all, the blood rising in their necks. The machete-armed boys trooped forward, their blades gray and iridescent.
But then Hilton screamed, holding the side of her face. When she examined her hand it was smeared with blood from a cut running down her cheek. Fan had slashed her with the point of a fence spike. When the armed boys moved toward her, she garroted the girl with the crook of her arm and pressed the point of the spike against her throat.
My Hilly! What are you doing to my baby? Mrs. Nickelman cried. Let her go! Philip!
But Mr. Nickelman couldn’t do a thing. He didn’t dare try to use his whistle. The boys stood down. Fan ordered that Loreen and Quig be cut from the pole and slowly walked to their car and placed in the backseat. She took Hilton in the front seat and started the car, turning it around and rolling slowly back to the main road. The Nickelmans all ran their hands on the car, bleating crazily. Once the entrance cover was cleared by the old man, Fan let Hilton out and then pressed as far down on the pedal as she could, slinging them north in the dusk.
We have previously indicated that Fan had larger aims in leaving B-Mor, but perhaps this is not necessarily true. It may be more a matter of our own shifting perspective on that brief period, what we have come to overlay upon her journeys as we revisit them over time than anything she herself was conceiving, planning, implementing. It would appear that she was completely rash in her act
ions, even reckless, as she set out from our gates and went forth in search of Reg, armed with nothing more than the force of her feeling. We won’t say “convictions,” because it is not in the least clear that she was marching for some cause or platform. And though it seems impossible to think this now, she may not have had any of us in mind, at any juncture. Indeed, she may have had a purely singular concern, which she followed one step at a time, via one person at a time, trusting (perhaps blindly, certainly stubbornly) that each succeeding moment would obtain enough security and succor and an incremental measure of knowledge, which can only lead to greater wisdom.
If she possessed a genius—and a growing number of us think she did—it was a capacity for understanding and trusting the improvisational nature of her will. This might seem a contradictory state, and for most of us it would be. We have hopes and make plans, and if they are dashed or waylaid, we naturally rationalize and redraw the map to locate ourselves anew. Or else we brood and too firmly root. Very few can step forward again and again in what amounts to veritable leaps into the void, where there are no ready holds, where little is familiar, where you get constantly stuck in the thickets of your uncertainties and fears. Fan was different. As we have come to realize, she was not one to hold herself back. Or to be fettered. In this way she startles us, inspires us. She was someone who pursued her project as a genuine artist might, following with focus and intensity as well as an enduring innocence a goal she could not quite yet understand or see but wholly believed.
On Such a Full Sea: A Novel Page 15
