by James Zerndt
“That’s stupid.”
Dustin props the book up in his lap, reads the poem over again to himself. “Mom spelled ‘pistol’ wrong.”
I field that one.
“It’s supposed to be like that, D. A pistil is part of a flower.”
“Oh,” he says and sits back. I’m waiting for him to ask me just exactly what a pistil’s function is, which I’d have to make up, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he says, “I’m hungry.”
“We’re stopping soon,” I say, then, after a short silence, “Didn’t you like the poem?”
“No.”
I debate whether or not to ask, but can’t help myself. “And why’s that?”
He scoots forward, places his hands on the seat, and, like he’s addressing a child, says, “Because flowers don’t have living rooms. Flowers, Thomas, don’t have anything because flowers don’t exist anymore.”
We still have flowers, of course.
Only they’re about as rare as clouds these days.
I can’t remember the last time I saw either.
Jerusha, thank God, steps in, and, with more patience than I’ll ever have, explains that they still had flowers back when our mom wrote the poem.
“And I suppose flowers had TV sets back then, too?”
“No, Sweetie. I think your Mom was speaking metaphorically.”
“Well maybe she shouldn’t speak meta-whateverly if she can’t be around to explain it to people.”
It’s a rarity, Dustin taking a shot at Mom. And I can tell Jerusha wasn’t expecting it, isn’t quite sure how to handle it.
“Those poems were like your Mom’s present to the world.”
“Then she should’ve left a gift receipt.”
Two digs in a row.
Unheard of.
“You see those towers along the beach?” I say, utilizing the one parenting skill I’ve mastered: changing the subject.
“Uh-huh.”
“You know what they’re for?”
“They’re look-out towers,” Dustin says. “Big deal.”
“Sergeant Lundy told me that one time a Leftover was out crabbing, got snipered from one of those towers.”
“Really?”
“Sarge said the guy went out at midnight, thought he could fool the guards, but they had night vision.”
“Infra-red?”
“Yep. Spotted the guy a mile away.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Where on the Ten Unforgivables does Food-Poaching fall?”
“Number eight.”
“Punishable by...”
“Death.”
“Bingo,” I say and pause for affect. “Only took one shot, right through the back of his head.”
Jerusha reaches over, squeezes a healthy chunk of my thigh. I manage not to yelp, but the tears start to well up anyway.
She doesn’t get it yet, doesn’t understand that I’ll say anything, do anything, to keep Dustin’s mind off the fact that he hasn’t seen his mom or dad in over a year. For a second I think maybe I’ve made a mistake, that he’s finally grown out of this stuff, but then I see Dustin staring out the window.
And that’s when I hear what I’m waiting for.
“Awwwwwesome.”
*
We pull off at a deserted rest-stop and Dustin and I set up the tents while Jerusha goes about removing the dust-diaper from the engine.
“We going to have a fire?”
“You better ask Jerusha,” I tell Dustin.
“Why?”
“Because she’s the one who’ll get the ticket.”
It’s not exactly on the list of Unforgivables, but the fine can still be pretty hefty if you run into the wrong Water-cop.
Like Dustin, for example.
“Sure,” Jerusha says while shaking out the diaper. “Why don’t you see if you can’t scrounge up some firewood for us, Dustin.”
Dustin, just happy he doesn’t have to set up the tent, runs off. When I yell after him to keep in sight, he just waves his hand in the air.
Which could be taken as either okay or fuck off.
Lately, it’s hard to tell which.
Once we’re alone, Jerusha kneels down next to me, says, “Hi. My name’s Jerusha. What’s yours?”
I’m still not used to this.
Jerusha being nice.
Jerusha being sweet.
Chances are I never will be.
“Hi,” I say back, my mouth drier than usual.
“So. An illegal fire, huh. Next you’ll be bootlegging.”
“You’d like that.”
“Like it?” she says and leans over, places her mouth against my ear. “I’d love it.”
She exhales just enough so that my stomach starts doing jumping jacks. I’m about to grab her, drag her into the tent, do speakable things to her, when, right on cue, Dustin comes back with an armful of twigs.
“Fire we shall have,” he says, dropping them at our feet.
My little brother, the walking cold shower.
I’d like to use his adorable little face for kindling.
Maybe throw Yoda in for a little color.
“Yes, fire we shall have,” I say. “As soon as the matches I find.”
“They’re in the glove compartment,” Dustin says, his face all scrunched up like somebody farted. “And by the way, your Yoda sucks ass.”
I dig out an old soot-filled fire pit, but we still have to be careful. One stray spark and the whole place will go up like tissue paper. Then they’ll call in the planes, bomb the place with dirt before we even can say ‘oops.’
Once the fire gets going, Jerusha places a few pills on a piece of tin foil, makes a big production of roasting them before popping one in her mouth.
“They’re tasty this way. Anybody game?”
I try one and the usual taste of chalk is temporarily masked by a smoky flavor. For all of about two seconds. Then the old bitter taste comes roaring back twofold. Even so, I swallow, force myself to wait a full minute before reaching for the water bottle.
“So what’d you think?”
“Not bad.”
“Want another one?”
“Nah. Wouldn’t want to spoil my appetite.”
“How about you, Dustin?”
Dustin’s unusually quiet. Meditative almost. Watching the flames like they’re lines from one of Mom’s poems and he’s trying to puzzle them out.
“Dustin?” Jerusha says again and this time he turns his head. His eyes are all watery, and, for a second, I think he’s been crying, but it’s just the smoke.
“What?”
“You want a fire-roasted pill? Special of the day.”
“No,” he says and turns back to the fire. “I don’t want anything.”
“You have to eat, D.”
“Fine,” he says and takes one of the pills. When he finishes, he spits into the fire.
Without looking at either of us, he mutters, “Like shit they taste.”
*
It’s funny at first, overhearing Dustin playing in his tent with Yoda and Lando as we hunker down for the night.
“Is that you, Mom?” “Yes, Dustin. It’s Mommy.” “How’s the Cloud Seeding going?” “Your father’s making wonderful progress. I hear you’re coming to see us.” “Yep, we’re on our way. I miss you.” “I miss you, too, Sweetheart.” “Don’t you miss Thomas?” “No, not as much.” “Is Dad there?” “Yes, but he’s in the bathroom and you know how long he takes.” “Yes, I do.” “Is Thomas humping Jerusha?” “No, I don’t think so.” “Are you humping Jerusha?” “Yes, Mom. I think so.”
Jerusha has to put her hand over her mouth to stop from laughing. Things stay quiet for a while, but then, just as I’m making progress up Jerusha’s shirt, he starts up again.
“I’m so proud of you, Dustin.” “Thanks, Mom. You should probably get some sleep now. I bet it takes a lot of energy saving the world.” “You bet it does. I love you, Dustin. More than a
ny of my other children who aren’t as smart or beautiful as you.” “I know, Mom. I love you, too. Say goodnight to Dad for me.” “I will, son. Goodnight now.” “Goodnight, Mom.”
Even though Dustin’s quiet, it still feels like he’s in the tent with us. I can hear him breathing, can’t help but wonder if he’s made a little bed for Yoda and Lando.
Maybe one for Mom and Dad.
I whisper to Jerusha, “Next time we set the tents farther apart.”
I get a kiss for that, more than I deserve really.
And, if that isn’t enough to keep somebody awake, every time I’m about to drop off, I think I hear Dustin again.
Phantom Dustin.
Then I think I hear Mom.
Then Dad.
But it’s always just the dust swirling and eddying around our tents.
Part of me wishes it wasn’t.
No.
All of me wishes it wasn’t.
She’s a Real Pistil
i’ve never been good with names-
like this flower
with its orange house and yellow trim.
Or the fly inside
wearing a phosphorescent purple zoot suit
and yellow tap shoes.
He’s dancing around six slender sisters
as they stand in a circle
all with identical hats.
He picks one out,
starts humping her
right there in the living room
while the neighbors
turn up their television sets
to drown out the cries of pleasure.
5 What Will Your Children Drink?
The world has become smoke.
A dirty cloud.
Except it isn’t a cloud.
It’s dust.
Howling dust that’s turned the interior of the car dark, like we’re inside a carwash.
Too bad you can’t drink irony.
Not yet anyway.
The radio has proclaimed a Low-Visibility Alert, which means no driving. A brown-out. We pull over and Jerusha and Dustin go outside to change the diaper again. I offer to help, but Jerusha wants to show Dustin how to do it in case something happens to us.
What, exactly, she doesn’t say.
I’m in the backseat, leafing through Mom’s poems, using Yoda as a book mark, his face smashed into a poem titled “Apology.”
There’s water in the poem.
A lake. A boat. Fish. A father.
All things I miss.
And the language is all my mom’s, like she’s talking to me, telling me a story about her father, but she’s not just telling me a story.
She’s teaching me something.
I can see her face for the first time since she left us. I’ve tried before, but things usually short-circuit, go all fuzzy. Like my mind shakes the Etch-A-Sketch every time it gets close. But now she’s here, in the poem, looking back at me in all her pre-drought glory. Smiling. The crow’s feet proud and deep. Her black hair just starting to gray, the gray only making the black look blacker.
We’re in the backyard digging for worms.
I ask her why we’re digging and she says, “Just to see,” like it’s a game and not the end of the world. When we don’t find any, she tells me the worms must’ve gotten the memo already, that they’ve all high-tailed it to the rainforest.
“Worm Mecca,” she calls it and smiles like it’s a good thing.
When I look up from the poem, she disappears.
I close my eyes, try to see my dad’s face, but all I get is an old photograph. Something fading. The image un-developing. He’s in the garage, working on the cloud chamber he designed, talking about ambient air, relative humidity, the refractive index of air, how laser pulses are the future of cloud seeding, how it could change the way we live our lives.
I was probably the only boy in the world jealous of a cloud. Virtual or otherwise. All I wanted was for my dad to look at me with the same love he had for filaments of light.
I wonder if he’s up there watching us.
I can almost hear him banging on the glass firmament above, trying to tell me it’s all true, to be good because someday it will matter.
But when I open my eyes, it isn’t Dad’s face I see.
It’s Dustin’s, pressed up against the window, his eyes so bugged out that at first I think he’s joking. There’s a figure behind him and suddenly the interior of the car turns from carwash to tomb. I snap the book shut like I’m shielding Mom from what’s happening outside and try to open the door.
Dustin’s body is barricading me in.
Then I see it.
A blurry badge.
A drop of blue water wearing handcuffs.
For about half a second, I feel something like relief.
But then I hear Jerusha yelling.
She’s cuffed, a cop pinning her down with one hand, the other on the back of her head. Standard procedure for dealing with troublesome Leftovers.
They gag her and I bolt from the other door just as I see another officer undoing Jerusha’s belt, tugging her jeans down. Her body’s contorted, writhing with rage as they press her against the hood of the car.
I’ve heard of this happening. Officers taking advantage of the younger female Leftovers. But I didn’t really believe it.
Not until now.
Ten men stand up inside of me, and, in the space of a heartbeat, I know what it feels like to want to kill another human being. Before I can get a word out, before I can tell them I’m one of them, three red dots appear on my chest and a spotlight blinds me.
A voice booms out of the white: a deep, disembodied voice like maybe God switched careers, turned Water-cop.
“FREEZE!”
I raise my hands, let the dust cake my teeth. “I’m a Water-cop!” I yell into the light. “We’re Water-cops!”
I point to where I think Dustin might be. I can hear voices, a whispered argument of some sort before a pair of hands replaces the red dots.
“If you’re looking for my badge, it’s in the car,” I say and another voice, an almost human voice, says, “You better not be fucking with us. For your sake.”
I wait, try to puzzle out Jerusha and Dustin, but the light’s still drilling into my eyes.
“You guys, okay?” I ask into the void.
“Wonderful,” Dustin says in something like a growl. “Thanks for asking.”
I strain to hear Jerusha, but it’s deathly quiet.
The cop comes back, holds my jacket up, the one Jerusha made. “This yours?” he says and I nod. “You know it’s illegal to deface government property?”
“We modified it,” I say. “For the trip.”
“Modified it. That’s a good one.” He pulls my badge from the inside pocket, holds it up to the spotlight. “They’re legit,” he says and the lights cut out.
The guy’s young, scrawny, would probably be working in a mall if it wasn’t for this gig.
“Look,” I say. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
He eyes me like maybe I’m up to something.
“My brother’s faith in the Operation has been shaken. You know, thinking about random Unforgivables and whatnot.”
The cop shakes his head like a disappointed old lady.
“Me and my girlfriend are taking him across country, showing him some Leftover hot-spots to open his eyes a little. You know, scare him straight type of thing.”
He shakes his head a little more, then waves his hand and the other cops un-cuff Jerusha and Dustin.
“It’s like smoking,” he says finally.
“I’m sorry?”
“Smoking. You know, when you catch a kid smoking a cigarette and then you make him smoke the whole pack so he pukes his guts out.”
“Right,” I say. “Like smoking.”
He nods, smiles. “That’d be funny.”
“What?”
“Smoking a pack of Leftovers. I’d pay to see that.”
He looks at me
and I force a smile.
Dustin’s standing by Jerusha, his chest puffed out, hands on his hips as she barks something at the guards from behind her dust mask. Next thing I know the guards are covering the engine with a fresh diaper.
“She’s a spirited one,” the cop says, a nasty smirk on his face. The wind gusts, pushing dust into my eyes so that I have to turn away.
“You mind if we wait in the car?”
“Oh, right. And, hey, sorry about all this,” he says, waving his hand in Jerusha’s direction. “But I’m sure you understand.”
“I’m sure,” I say and start to walk away.
“You do realize you guys stopped just short of a charging station, right?”
“We couldn’t see ten feet in front of us.”
He considers this, says, “When we saw something white waving around, we thought you were sending signals. Parked cars tend to make us nervous, and, well, Leftovers pull all kinds of crazy shit. We’ve gotten ambushed twice already this quarter.”
“I understand,” I say, trying my best to look sympathetic and climb into the car before I turn oasis. When I close the door, my eyes start to water, little rivers carving down my cheeks.
I must look like a very sad Lawrence of Arabia.
Minus the blue eyes.
And good looks.
Jerusha and Dustin climb in after me, both of them gaping at me like this is all my fault.
“What?” I say. “They mistook us for Leftovers. A little misunderstanding, that’s all.”
“That’s all?” Jerusha says, staring straight ahead. “They were touching me, Thomas.”
“I know they were a little rough, but--”
“No,” she says, her eyes wattaging out from beneath layers of dust. “Not touching me that way.”
“What way then?” Dustin asks.
“Listen,” I say, trying to ignore Dustin. “They’re going to escort us to the charging station. We’ll figure out what to do after that.”
We hear them pulling away and I start the car, follow after their eco-friendly monster truck. There’s only one other car at the charging station: a mother and father in front, one kid in the back. On vacation no doubt, all smiles, everything pre-approved months in advance.
Good, obedient, scared citizens.
