“And avocado,” my mom said.
“We must do pomegranates,” I said. “They’ve got antioxidants.”
“We’re in search of the best cricket bait!” Dad said.
“I think it’s going to be pomegranates,” I said with a Tic Tac smile, my perfect little white teeth all in a row. “What do you think, Mom?”
“I think you were right about getting the lizard,” she said. “It’s good for you to have something to love right now.”
Those words brought me back to the day we discovered the hole in Mrs. Hose’s theory. The day we were playing Monopoly. Mom walked right into it with her words. I looked at my plate again, ’cause I knew my dad remembered too; he would take his cue from me. Mom adjusted her scarf. None of us said a word — we couldn’t. Guy’s chair was empty.
“May I be excused?” I said.
“Of course, Sussy,” my mom said. “Yes, of course.”
There was hardly a mark left on my leg. “They’re healing up from the inside,” my mom said when she came to say good night. She looked at my puncture wounds, which were barely raised above the skin anymore. “That’s how they’re supposed to heal.” She patted my leg. “Might not be a scar at all.”
And what I didn’t say was that there should be a scar, just like Matylda’s spots. A scar would mark the day that Guy left me here to love a lizard who wouldn’t even eat my feeders.
“I’ve got to find a way,” I said. “Got to keep her strong.”
“I love you, Sussy-girl,” my mom said, kissing the top of my head, turning off my light. She hadn’t called me Sussy-girl in forever.
Her worry was everywhere.
That night, I dreamed I was in a Hula-Hooping contest. There were supposed to be lots of us competing — it was a national contest — but the only contestant was me. I was in an enormous stadium that could seat fifty thousand people, and the ticket holders filtered in, ready to cast their votes. Their ballots were shaped like hearts, scissor-cut red valentines; and as the stadium filled up, the spectators waved them in the air — happy hearts welcoming me.
The price for a ticket was high, but the show was sold out anyway. Everybody got one vote, either for me or against me. If they were for me, they handed in their ballot; against me, they kept it. No scores, just for or against.
The crowd focused on me, by myself, in the middle of it all. In my red capris and sunflower shirt. The trick I was supposed to do was Walk the Dog. I knew it well. If the crowd voted for me, then I could love Matylda enough because I’d have all the hearts — so much more than I needed.
Roll away, flip my wrist, and the hoop rolls back. Roll away, flip, roll back. I went over it in my mind. Roll, flip, roll back. Easy. I could do this. It was one of the first tricks you learn in hooping. My chance to get the votes. The hearts were waving. They could be mine if I just did the trick.
Stay calm, smile, no pressure. Effortless.
They’ll vote for me, I told myself.
Calm, smile, and LET’S GO GO GO GO! And I rolled and flicked and there in my dream, my hoop became thousands of hoops spinning spinning faster rolling toward me spokes appearing shiny spinning steel — they were bicycle spokes coming to crush me crush me crush me. “Guy!” I screamed.
“GUUUUYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!” And I woke myself up with my cry and Guy wasn’t there and the dream wasn’t real but he still wasn’t there and I couldn’t walk the dog. . . .
I saw Matylda then, in the corner of her tank, the sun starting to come up. Her tail was curled tight around her head.
“I’m sorry,” I said to her, getting out of bed. I couldn’t stand to see her like that, in the corner. “I had a bad dream,” I said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Come on over here. It’s okay.” But Matylda didn’t move. She lay there as if she were back in the holding cell and I was the puny future king.
She’d won her fiftieth duel, and her wish was to be loved; I was supposed to be loving her, and I had scared her into the corner.
“I’ll do better, Matylda. I won’t scare you again.”
She looked up, uncurled her tail a little. Maybe she understood that bad dreams come; maybe she was having them too.
I stayed there for a while, watching her, and Matylda uncurled her tail all the way and stepped up to the glass; she put her toes against it and nodded quickly, a few times in a row. “You understand about bad dreams, don’t you?” She nodded again.
“Or are you just covering up?” The gecko manual said that geckos would try to mask outward signs of illness because sick-looking animals were singled out by predators looking for an easy meal. She couldn’t hide the fact that she wasn’t eating, but maybe she was hiding something else.
“Can I look at you?” I said. “If you’re sick, I have to know.” I put my hand on the carpet. She didn’t come over.
“I have to check you,” I said. “You don’t have to come to me, but just stay still.” I consulted the manual.
Eyes: Matylda’s were not cloudy. Okay.
Nose and mouth: Clean.
Hip bones: I couldn’t tell if they were sticking out or not, so I had to get her to move. “Can you do this?” I said, and I walked my fingers across the dresser in front of her. And she walked, too — she was helping me. “Thanks for doing that,” I said. Her hip bones were not sticking out.
Wounds, lumps, or discoloration: None that I could see. But I couldn’t be sure. What wounds, lumps, and discoloration did she have that I couldn’t see?
She was thin, but her tail was as plump as it should be; the fat stored inside it would help her in case of famine.
If she was sick, she was good at hiding it.
“Cherry pie!” my dad called up. “Cherry pie for breakfast!”
My dad had cherry pie. “Cherry pie for my piggy!” he hollered. Guy always loved Cherry Pie for Breakfast Day at our house.
I didn’t want cherry pie.
But I went downstairs ’cause he’d bought it for me.
“You still love it?” he asked. The wanting-me-to-be-all-right eyes were there. The wanting-me-to-be-all-right voice was there. The wanting-me-to-be-his-piggy was hovering over everything. So I scrunched up my nose and made my piggy face, and I said yes. He stuck a spoon in his pie. That was how we did it. We each got a pie and we each got a spoon. I used to take a spoon and a cherry pie and have no mercy.
I wanted to be his piggy and vanquish the pie. But I couldn’t eat cherry pie with a spoon anymore and I dreamed that I was attacked by thousands of spinning bicycle spokes and I had scared Matylda into a corner. I had scared myself.
I didn’t want cherry pie.
But I didn’t tell my dad that. It would hurt his feelings, and I might see his eyes afraid again. When he handed me my spoon, his face was bright and that was good. He talked about how cherry is the best, and I dug in.
The spoon went through the filling slowly, touching down on the bottom. I turned it toward me, the spoon heaping with dark sour cherries. I could do this. I could do this without Guy. I put the spoon in my mouth, and the cherries sat there, filling me with sour and sweet, so much taste and too much taste. I held my lips together; it had to go down.
Lips still together, I saw myself, alone, in a cemetery made of screams. This was what it was like to eat cherry pie without my best friend, cherries turning to ash in my mouth, hard to swallow, dry and dusty, hot. . . .
I thought about Matylda and her crickets, of me watching her not eat. Of course she wasn’t thriving. She must have felt the same way I did trying to eat cherry pie. I had to get her food that wouldn’t remind her of him. We needed new flavors; maybe that would help; maybe then she’d come to my hand.
“Dad,” I said, once the pie went down. “Can we try new bait for the crickets like we talked about? I think Matylda would like that.”
“You bet,” he said. “Absolutely!”
Let’s make our list,” my dad said after we took our dishes to the kitchen. “We’re going to buy the best cricket bait!” He had a pencil and
paper.
“Pomegranates,” I said.
“Kiwi,” he said.
“Pineapple and mango.”
“I’ll raise you one,” said my dad. “Papaya!”
“How about this?” I said. “Blueberries!”
“Great idea!” Dad said.
“I wonder what’s going to win,” I said. “I cast my vote for pomegranate.”
“We can do several traps at once,” he said. “An experiment.”
“Why not?” I said, imitating my mom, and that’s when I heard my dad laugh for the first time in forever. It was worth almost anything to hear him laugh like that.
“ShopRite?” he said, still laughing.
“ShopRite,” I said. “Now.”
“Yes,” said my dad. “We have fruit to buy. Cricket bait!”
“Not sure about avocado,” I said once we got to ShopRite. My dad picked through them.
“Why not?” He said it this time, in my mom’s voice, and he got me. It felt like the laughs I hadn’t laughed since Guy died burst out of me, as if they’d been dammed up and now were let loose.
“Yeah, why not?” I said back, once I could speak.
My dad was laughing again, and he looked relaxed. He looked younger. “I’ll get everything else on our list,” he said. “You do the cricket bait.”
My shopping was funny — at first. I tossed a pomegranate in our cart. “Why not pomegranates?” I said.
“And why not papaya?” I laughed, putting one in.
“Why not bananas?” I got louder and threw some in. I kicked the cart forward. “Pears?” I hollered, grabbing some. “And why not apricots?” We had forgotten apricots. “HOW COULD WE FORGET APRICOTS?” I screamed. In they went. I was pushing the cart faster now, through the fruit displays.
“BLUEBERRIES! I LOVE BLUEBERRIES! I’LL TAKE TWO!
“AND KIWIS — I CAN’T FORGET KIWIS!” I screamed louder. “I ALMOST FORGOT THE KIWIS — I NEED CITRUS. WHY NOT GRAPEFRUIT AND ORANGES AND TANGERINES? WHY THE —”
That’s when I saw them staring at me, every customer in the produce department, as if the voters from my dream were there, the ones I couldn’t do Walk the Dog for, the ones who kept their ballots, who didn’t give their hearts to me. They all turned back to their produce when I stopped and looked at them, back to their shopping, searching for iceberg lettuce, weighing their bananas, making sure they weren’t plantains, smelling the parsley. Was it parsley or cilantro? Chives? Green onions or scallions? Everyone was busy.
Did they know I was the girl who wanted to ride bikes and see the flowers that day? That I was the girl who loved the saucer magnolia? That I was the girl who was with the boy who died on Witchett Road, the boy who was trying to save my life, the boy who had gone away but made me promise, even in death . . .
I was furious at Guy then, furious that he asked me to love the lizard like he did when I didn’t know how. Furious that he had to get the D3 that morning. Furious that Matylda didn’t love me, that she wouldn’t even come to my hand, wouldn’t eat my crickets. Furious I had to see the flowers. Furious I loved him so much.
I wanted to do it over, and I couldn’t do it over. And the spokes came fast, faster, faster, spinning spinning spinning . . . “Help,” I said quietly, bent over the shopping-cart handle.
Guy, help me. Where are you? Where are you, Guy? Help me, help me, please, I said to myself, trying to breathe, as I pushed my cart through the squash, the turnips, the onions. “Help,” I whispered, my cart a blur of colors — all the produce in the world, and I didn’t know if it was enough.
Keep moving, roll your cart, it’s rolling, you’re breathing. . . . Okay.
Calmer now, and I was back on Long Beach Island, on the beach. We had our umbrella and chairs set up, red-and-white-striped towels. It was especially warm, the kind of day when all the clear old dead jellyfish disks were floating on the surface. I didn’t want to go in the water; even though their stingers were long gone, I didn’t like the squishy jelly disks. I was scared of them. Didn’t want to touch them.
“But they won’t hurt you,” Guy said. “They don’t bite.” He ran to the shore and picked up a few to show me.
“See?” he said.
“Get them away from me,” I said. “I don’t like jellyfish.”
“They’re innocent,” he said, “and squishy.” He started juggling them. “Don’t be afraid,” he said, juggling closer now.
“Guy! Stop! I don’t like them.”
“Touch one,” he said, holding it out, wanting me to try. “I promise they won’t hurt you.” He wouldn’t give up. He came closer. “Please just touch one,” he said, right up next to me. And I took the jelly disk from his hand and I whirled it right at his face. It hit him on the forehead. He was surprised, and I was, too. He crouched on the sand, head between his hands.
“Why did you do that to me?” he said, looking up. “I just wanted you to touch it.”
“Did it hurt?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, you hurt me too,” I said.
“Really?”
“I told you I didn’t want to touch the jellyfish.”
“But —”
“I’m not a jellyfish toucher, okay?”
Guy looked sad then, sad that he had done that to me, and he said, “Sorry, Suss. I just like playing with them. I’m sorry.”
I crouched down beside him, and I said, “Me, too. You can be a jellyfish toucher if you want. Just not me.”
“You don’t have to be one,” he said. “I like you no matter what.”
I didn’t mind jellyfish days after that. I was hardly ever angry with Guy, and we got through it okay. Maybe we would now, too.
Breathe.
My dad came back after a while. The onlookers were gone, and all my dad saw was a fruit-and-veggie shopper who’d filled her cart. He admired my produce. “I like your enthusiasm,” he said. His words were warm. I hugged him around the middle, my face on his belly.
“Oh, Daddy,” I said softly. “I hope this works. I hope she knows I’m trying. I hope she’ll eat.” My dad put his hands on both sides of my face and tilted my head up.
“It’s going to work, Sussy Reed,” he said. “We’re going to catch the most delicious crickets in the state of New Jersey!” He put his arm around my shoulder and we moved to the checkout that way.
We got busy making more cricket traps at home. There were ginger-ale bottles to collect and cut, caps to unscrew. Bait to insert. Best locations to be determined.
“I’m going to catch you the tastiest crickets ever,” I said to Matylda that night. “You can choose your favorites. They’ll be different from the ones Guy and I caught for you.”
She came to the glass, and I knelt down. “I had a bad day,” I said. “And I had to eat cherry pie, but it didn’t taste right without Guy. I figured you might feel the same, so I’m making you different-flavored crickets. They’ll be easier to eat. I’m trapping them with all kinds of produce. I think it’s going to be great,” I said. “Just you wait till tomorrow.”
Suss!” my dad called the next morning. “You coming down? Let’s see what we caught. We’ll see what produce worked best!”
“Dad,” I said when I got downstairs. “I want to check myself. I’d like to bring Matylda something she can’t resist, just from me. Let me do this, okay?”
My dad searched my face. “Are you — ?”
“Yes,” I said. “I want to do it myself. You’re supposed to be writing a book.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay, boss,” he said. “I’ll get to work. You check the traps. Keep track of the numbers. How many crickets we caught with what kind of bait. In the name of science.”
In the name of science. Dad didn’t know those were Guy’s words, some of the last ones I heard him say. How I hoped Matylda would like the flavored feeders; how I hoped she would like me, too. How I hoped I could do right by her, feed her and love her . . .
I took a box of mason jars, and I punched some airholes in the lids. This was how I’d keep my feeders organized. Everything would be perfect. I found my parents’ jelly labels and I stuck them in my pocket, along with a pen. The first trap I checked was the kiwi, one of the baits my dad suggested. Four crickets. They shot into the jar from the trap, and I screwed the lid on fast. I was getting used to not thinking about the feeders — don’t think about it. I wrote KIWI on the label and set the jar on the deck. Pears, papaya, and pomegranate were next. The crickets were swarming the pomegranate; I especially hoped she’d like that one. There were a few on the pears and papaya, too. Three more jars to add to my inventory.
On to the citrus, the oranges and grapefruit and tangerines. Those traps were all empty. I made some notes. Was it the location or the acidity? I’d have to move them somewhere else to find out. The blueberries and apricots were very popular, and the crickets in those traps seemed larger. Dad would figure out why.
I had nine jars lined up in the kitchen, all labeled with their lures, the citrus still empty.
“Dad,” I called. “You won’t believe it!” He came up from the basement. “No crickets in the citrus traps.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously,” I said. “Nuts. But look how many we caught. I can’t wait to see what she likes best.”
“You are your mother’s daughter,” he said, smiling at my neat row of jars. “I like the way you’ve organized this. But about that citrus, I’m nonplussed.”
“Dee-dee-do-do-do,” I said. “We don’t know crickets, it’s true. Dee-dee-do-do —”
“DOO!” said my dad. “Who would have known?”
“I’ll see what she wants,” I said, taking all but the empty jars up to my room.
“Are you ready for something different?” I asked Matylda. “I caught these just for you.”
“Shall we try the pomegranate first?” I said. “It’s very healthy.” She didn’t nod, but I still thought she might like it. I pulled back the screen and dumped in a pomegranate cricket, quickly screwing the lid back on the jar so the others wouldn’t escape. Matylda didn’t move. The cricket was jumping around, playing on the carpet, as if it knew she wouldn’t bother it.
Matylda, Bright and Tender Page 5
