Mostly Dead Things

by Kristen Arnett

“Nah, not that. Something else. Fresher.”

  Lolee wandered out in ancient pajama shorts and my old high school sweatshirt. “Climb in the back,” Bastien yelled through the window. She boosted herself along the bumper, flip-flops slapping at the corrugated bottom of the bed.

  Pressing her mouth to the back window, she made a monkey face, tongue streaking the glass with her spit.

  “Keep your shoes on,” I said. “There might be broken bottles back there.”

  Bastien drove haphazardly, zigzagging across a few of the wider residential streets, making Lolee screech as she tumbled around in the back. Instead of taking us out one of the exits, he circled closer to the heart of the neighborhood, nearing the golf course that ran through the middle. Despite its name, Fawn Creek didn’t have any kind of running water, just retention ponds. A fountain spewed water from its center, turning colors on holidays: red and green for Christmas, patriotic hues on the Fourth of July.

  Dusk came quickly, shepherding in a horde of bats. They fluttered spastically in the orange-washed sky, tripping over each other mid-flight. Bastien turned down a side street. It was poorly paved; the truck bumped along the divots in the asphalt, bouncing my beer until some spilled on my pants.

  “Slow down, dick,” Lolee yelled, slapping her palm against the glass. “I’m gonna crack my head back here.”

  Bastien laughed and revved the engine, then cut a tight corner at the back of the golf course. I’d never been to this area before. It was where the workers came to unload stuff. I had a sudden memory as he parked his truck near the cages of balls and unearthed a key chain from his pocket.

  “Didn’t you used to work here when you were in high school? Like a caddy?”

  “Nothing that glamorous.” Bastien hopped down from the driver’s seat and cracked his back, stretching his arms high overhead. “I mowed the grass. Sometimes I drove the truck that picked up the balls people shot out on the driving range? It sucked.”

  Lolee stood up along the side and the whole truck dipped under her weight. Bastien helped her down, dropping her in the grass with a grunt.

  “You’re not as strong as Daddy,” she complained, then leaned over to massage her calves.

  “I’m not as nice, either.” He pressed down on her head until it went almost between her knees. Lolee screamed and swatted at him.

  “Okay, seriously.” I drank the rest of my second beer. There were three still in the truck and I thought I might need them soon. “What the hell are we doing here? I’d like to get dinner.”

  Bastien’s chin had a scraggly growth of beard coming in. His eyes were colorless in the foggy evening. “Shouldn’t take long.”

  I ghosted along behind the two of them as we moved farther away from the lampposts that dotted the periphery of the smoothly mown green. It was quiet except for the occasional switch of our legs sliding through the grass. There was a dank, creepy little shed near the back of the lot. I stopped to look while Bastien and Lolee trudged toward it.

  “Hey,” I called. Lolee turned around and trotted back. “What is this, what are we doing?”

  “Getting the peacocks.” Lolee pulled her hair up on top of her head and knotted it with one of the elastic bands she kept looped around her wrist. She danced around me, spinning, twirling like a little kid.

  I could barely make out Bastien in the murky light. Our shadows were long and fragmented over the shitty grass that made up the far corner of the course. Lolee and I walked together, swinging our arms in tandem. I wondered when I’d get home so I could drink in peace and forget about the day.

  Closer up, the shed looked less like something out of a horror movie and more like something from Little House on the Prairie. The roof was slanted and angled with wooden planks, and a long gravel drive sat behind it. Someone had painted the slats slate gray at some point, though they had started to peel in the humidity. A sign posted on a two-by-four out front said NO TRESPASSING in very collegiate font.

  Close to the shed, the air turned thick and gamey. A peacock stuck its pinhead out the door. Another appeared above it, creating the comical impression of two kids peeking around a corner during a game of tag.

  “Are those alive?” I asked. “They’re fucking alive?”

  Three peacocks strutted through the open doorway. Bastien followed along behind them, golf club tossed over his shoulder as if he were about to tee off. The birds walked ahead of him, feathers glossy gold-green in the moonlight, unafraid.

  Lolee continued playing with her hair, braiding the small pieces that drifted down from the sides into little spikes that stuck out from her temples. Completely confused, I followed alongside Bastien, who shepherded them back toward the truck.

  “The fuck are we going to do with live birds?” I asked. “The fuck, Bastien?”

  “Do you know if that new Chinese place opened yet?” He swung the club gently to the right when one of the birds fell out of line to examine something crawling in the dirt.

  “What Chinese place?” The birds looked stately and regal, like emissaries headed to an important event.

  “That one by the bus station. Near Bennett.”

  “Oh. I didn’t even know there was a new place opening. I always go to the one by Grandma’s house.”

  Bastien laughed. “That place closed like three years ago.” The golf club swung again, tenderly guiding the last bird back in line.

  Back at the truck, he handed off the club to his sister and climbed into the cab. The birds milled around in the high weeds in front of the tires, pecking at dust and gravel. They fluttered a bit when the engine turned over, but then went back to digging, feathers glistening and iridescent in the glow of the headlights.

  He revved it hard and they startled, landing awkwardly on top of each other before running back in the direction of the shed. Bastien drove after them, taking the small hill up into the course. The birds shrieked and so did Lolee, who ran behind the truck. Bastien swung wide doughnuts in the middle of the grassy lawn while the peacocks screamed, sounding nearly human in their terror.

  One keeled over immediately. It flopped belly-first over its legs, skidding into the grass. The second fell right alongside it, feathers fanning over both their bodies. Lolee ran after the third, which was half flying in any direction that might take it away from the truck. It had almost made the tree line when Bastien swung back around and nearly drove over it. The bird rushed toward me, screaming, and then fell over mid-stride.

  Bastien drove to where the first two lay. He left the truck running and climbed out, picking up both birds and dumping them into the bed.

  Lolee skipped to the third and poked at it with the golf club. Its neck flopped, but it didn’t stir. “Got ’em all this time!” she called to her brother, before heaving the dead peacock over her shoulder.

  PAVO CRISTATUS—INDIAN PEAFOWL

  Brynn’s mother was between husbands. That’s what she called it, as if it were only a matter of time before the next one wandered into the justice of the peace and put a ring on her finger. Marsha Wiley spent most nights out at the bar looking for marriage material, even though she’d warned fifteen-year-old Brynn that bars were the absolute worst place to find a man.

  Too many losers. She leaned back in the beach chair, mirrored sunglasses perched at the end of her tiny nose. Everybody’s already been married before and fucked it up. If they’re not married, they’re too fucking old.

  She pitched her half-finished cigarette into the planter. Brynn’s eyes followed the butt, and I knew she’d fish it out after her mother left.

  All your husbands are old. Brynn was still in her nightgown. We’d spent the night at the trailer. Her mother had stayed out till three in the morning on a date, and we’d kept an eye on Gideon.

  That’s not what I mean. These guys are, like, old horses. Like they’ve been trained to work a certain way and once they pass fifty, it’s no can do. No changing. They’re just gonna keep living the same bachelor lifestyle they always did.

  Cou
ldn’t you find one who’s not gonna change but you don’t mind it? I asked, eyeballing her long legs. They still looked really good, very tan and smooth. Not as thin as Brynn’s but muscular, like a runner’s.

  Marsha smiled and slid a hand down my arm. Oh sweetheart, these guys are like little kids. They have awful hygiene, they can’t hold down a job. Letting one in your house is like taking in a pig.

  You make men sound fucking disgusting. Brynn pulled her hair back into a ponytail that sat high on the crown of her head. Bald patches of scalp showed through the grease. Neither of us was clean. I could smell the dank odor of my armpits through my T-shirt.

  Watch your mouth. Marsha picked up one of our plates from the night before and scavenged a leftover pepperoni. Did you eat all the pizza? Now what’ll Gideon have for lunch?

  Let’s dig out the kiddie pool. Brynn dragged me back inside the trailer. I looked for it while she put on her bikini. Digging around in the front closet, I pushed past plastic Publix bags full of discarded clothes and car parts that the last boyfriend left behind. The pool was buried under a stack of old school stuff and expired coupon mailers. It looked like there’d been a leak. The papers were all damp and warped, curled up on the corners. I saw Brynn’s name in shaky, childish scrawl on a painting of an orange cat. It had leached a bright wash onto the sleeve of an abandoned sweatshirt.

  We dragged the pool outside and down the splintery wooden steps of the porch. Brynn crouched in her bathing suit, flattening the plastic over the crunchy dead grass and sandspurs. A guy working on his truck a couple of trailers down yelled something in a grunting voice that made me uncomfortable, but Brynn just ignored it.

  It was exhausting work blowing up the pool. We took turns, huffing our bubblegum breath into the small rubber nipple. Once it got halfway inflated, Brynn sealed it up and tossed it down in the weeds.

  Good enough, she said, yanking out the hose from where it rested under a corner of the trailer, looking like a snake someone had run over with a car. She turned on the spigot, and the water came out boiling hot. Everything smelled like chemicals and damp dirt.

  Marsha came back out wearing a neon green sarong and a sparkly pink bikini. On her hip she carried Gideon, who was still dead asleep. She dropped down in her beach chair and it creaked ominously, sagging nearly to the ground from their combined weight.

  Brynn and I sat in the water and let the hose flush up on us like a fountain, the sun beating around our heads, flies buzzing in the neighbor’s garbage. The guy working on his truck was listening to loud country music and singing along. He didn’t seem to know too many of the words.

  Marsha kicked off her flip-flops and scooted forward until her feet reached the water. She stuck them in beside my legs. Her toes wiggled around in the bottom of the pool, nails coated with bright teal polish. The same color flashed on her fingers. She was the only mother I knew who wore her teenage daughter’s clothes and makeup.

  You sure you don’t wanna borrow a suit? Marsha tangled her fingers in my hair, combing it out until I wanted to fall asleep. You gotta be hot in that getup, baby.

  I wore some of Milo’s old cargo shorts and a bass-fishing T-shirt with the neck stretched so wide you could see both my dirty white bra straps. I’m okay, I said, leaning back into her fingers. They scratched and rooted, searching out knots.

  Oh please, Jessa’d never show that much skin. Brynn flopped over onto her stomach, bikini bottom riding up the crack of her ass. I tried not to stare, pulling my knees up to my chest. Just concentrated on the fingers rubbing circles along my scalp.

  Leave her alone. Jessa doesn’t need to show a bunch of skin.

  Why not? Brynn wriggled around until her legs hung off the back of the pool. Water spilled over the crushed lip, streaming miniature rivers. Muck floated down the dirt driveway out into the street.

  Because she’s got a great body. You can see it without having to show it off. She’s got a really classy way about her.

  Brynn snorted. Right. That bass-fishing shirt is classy as hell.

  My muscles loosened until my shoulders drooped and my head dropped down onto my knees. I’m so classy that I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.

  You’re such a little bitch. Brynn cupped her hand and sent a tidal wave of water down my front. The next scoop went over me and landed on her mother and Gideon. He woke abruptly and started wailing.

  For God’s sake, Brynn. Marsha stood up, half her sarong dangling off her arm, while Gideon struggled and rubbed his eyes. The back of his head was sweaty and wet. Take him inside and give him a Coke.

  Brynn groaned and stood up, shaking water onto me like a wet dog. She took Gideon from her mother, staggering under his weight. His legs hung down around either side of her body, nearly dragging to her knees. This kid’s about to pull my top off, Christ Jesus almighty.

  Brynn kicked the trailer door open with her foot when it jammed in the frame. It slammed closed behind her.

  Marsha went back to playing with my hair. I could feel her separating the strands, braiding them loosely, letting them fall down again before she picked them back up to start over.

  You’re getting a little pink. Marsha ticked a fingertip against the shell of my ear. You need some sunscreen.

  The chair creaked as she got up again and went into the house. She came back with a brown plastic bottle that smelled like coconuts and pineapple. She dabbed a little where she’d touched before, smoothing it down and around until my whole ear was covered.

  Working at the store this summer?

  Yeah. Gonna skin some deer mounts tonight. My dad’s gonna show me how to set the eyes. Last one I did ended up cross-eyed.

  I relaxed again into her strokes, and the scent of the lotion filled my nose. She pinned my hair at the top of my head and began working on my neck, which was so tense it felt gristly and only half-human.

  When she bent low to talk, the smell of her cigarette still clung to her breath. I breathed in and out, coconut and cigarette, cigarette and pineapple.

  You’re so knotted up. Her hands worked lower, dipping down into the neck of my shirt, fingers feathering across either side of my spine, sliding under my bra straps until they hung limply from either shoulder.

  It’s from sewing. I have to use the tiniest stitches. Dad makes me redo them most of the time.

  Hands smoothed over my shoulders, fingers dipping into the valleys of my clavicle. My nipples hardened as her hands lowered incrementally. Breath shored in my lungs.

  Your skin’s like a baby. Smoothing, down, farther down, until the tip of one finger rubbed against the edge of my areola. How are you so soft?

  There was a loud, drawn-out honk. Marsha’s hands left and I stayed in the same position, simultaneously hopeful and scared that she’d put them back. Wondering what would slow the steady, awful pounding in my chest. Even my eyeballs felt like they had a heartbeat.

  The man who’d been working on his truck waved over at Brynn’s mother. He had a bandana shoved into his back pocket. When he turned around, it looked like a wagging of tail feathers, a bird showing off plumage.

  Come take a look at this. His shirt rode up, revealing a lot of his tanned back. Marsha got up right away, leaning on my shoulder to balance as she slipped on her wedges. I stared at her toes, covered in dirt and stray bits of weedy dead grass.

  She padded down the dirt driveway, sarong flaring out wide and bright behind her, ass swaying side to side as she made her way across the street. The rhinestones sewn into the fabric spit with light. I was thirsty all of a sudden. I picked up the hose and drank the rubbery, cold water until my stomach felt full enough to burst.

  Fucking finally. Brynn stomped back down from the trailer and sat with a splash in the water next to me. She flopped her legs over mine, sticky with coconut lotion. Some of it slicked off into the water, leaving iridescent rings like an oil spill. Can we eat dinner at your house tonight? I know my mom’s gonna try and talk me into watching this kid, and we ate all the good stuf
f. She won’t get anything else until her next paycheck.

  Marsha laughed at something the man said, her voice trilling up high and sharp, almost screeching when he reached out and dug a finger into her side.

  I’m working the mounts tonight.

  Please. I’ll just stay at your house and we can hang out when you’re done. I’ll play cards with your mom and Milo or something. Anything’s better than this.

  We both stared at her mother, who was leaning hard over the open guts of the truck. One sandal dangled from a lifted foot.

  I guess. Lemme call my mom first.

  Brynn shot up out of the water and shook until water sprinkled down my neck. Nah, let’s just go. She’s gonna wind up hanging out with that guy tonight and I can’t deal with it. Let ’em just come over here.

  Vacating the pool, we both stomped our feet clean, leaving it half full of mucky water. Inside, I changed into one of Brynn’s shirts, too tight and small, but at least dry. It was pink with a rainbow across the front; a bright blue surfing wave said ALOHA over the bust.

  We collected our bikes from where they leaned next to a tiny, rusted-out shed. I felt too hot and kind of sick, as if my skin were too tight for my body. We climbed on and pedaled through the sloppy front yard, weeds high up in our spokes, tires dipping down into the wet earth.

  Marsha saw us when we finally hit the pavement. She yelled, waving her arms over her head, jogging after us. The sarong was a bright flag behind her.

  Hurry up, Brynn said, standing up and pedaling hard.

  Once we turned the corner out of the trailer park subdivision, I couldn’t hear Marsha anymore.

  Brynn laughed, and the sound floated back to me. Please kill me if I’m ever like that, she yelled. Her hair stuck out wildly behind her, crunchy from leftover hair spray. She wore her mother’s mirrored sunglasses. They perched on the end of her nose and flashed in the sunlight.

  8

  Lolee rode between the prone bodies of the peacocks in the back of the truck. There was something feral about her, teeth gleaming in the hard bright light from the streetlamps, a yellow glow bouncing off her skin. Her canines seemed too sharp in her tiny elfin face. When she smacked her open palm against the back window to get my attention, I flinched and turned around to face front. Pretended like I didn’t hear her howling and thumping around like a wild animal.