by Mark Foss
— Let me tell you exactly why you’re here. You are a projection, nothing more, nothing less, the latest in a long line of women whom Hoss has chosen to represent our sister. Hoss wanted Joseph to see his daughter one more time, that’s why he brought you. In his eyes, you are the perfect choice, putting the words in her mouth that he has longed to hear all his life. The good news is he’s only pissed off at you because he’s seeing Candy. Whether you use I-language or not, you — Anthea — do not exist.
The way Anthea gets up from the cushion wordlessly and retreats in silence is likely the closest she has come to embodying my sister’s character.
CANDY TURNED HER head at the precise moment the clump of grade ten boys protecting me from view stepped from the hallway into an alcove of lockers. Exposed as the sibling stalker, I feigned indifference to her gaze of contempt and pretended our encounter was by chance. What I really wanted was a reaction, to hear her shout and scream at my intrusiveness. But no. She accepted me as a hanger-on, perhaps secretly welcomed it. The warning bell rang, and I needed to run to the other side of the school for my own class. I lingered instead, watching the girls take their places at the back of the row next to the window. Candy took the coveted last seat with Rox just ahead. While Rox opened her geometry set and slipped a pencil inside a compass, Candy stared at the parking lot. Had Mickey Nailand already made contact with her at this early date? At lunch break, they met in his Dodge Coronet to map out their future. Was she attracted to him for his soul, his body, for what he represents, or not at all? It’s hard to believe Nailand had already formed his avant-garde approach to erotica. Chances are his ideas were still vague, especially given the derivative nature of his debut. His patter was smooth, hypnotic in its own way as her father’s chant. It flattered her, this unadulterated male attention. Unlike Joseph, of course, Nailand directed his considerable charm at Candy herself rather than at nameless auction-goers. Nailand had been one of these patrons, watching Candy and her father exert their dual effect on the helpless crowd. Nailand promised Candy a bohemian life, where she could push her artistry so much further. Did she understand the nature of her future roles? Or had she already in mind a strategy to push Nailand in unimagined creative directions? He pressured her to leave. She would choose her moment of departure. No one else.
If I had spotted the two of them in his car, would I have intervened? Deprive Candy of her chance at stardom? Or would my blundering big brother act have pushed her away faster. I was never certain if my presence, or its absence, was in her best interests. I too walked on eggplants.
ANTHEA HAS LEFT her shoes at the bottom of the stairs rather than wear them into the bedroom. In her anger and hurt, she still observes social niceties. A gesture that makes me regret my outburst all the more. It can’t be easy for her. She arrives at the childhood home of her new love interest only to find future father-in-law recently demised and brother-in-law-to-be trapped beneath a stage in his underwear. Her love interest has a name she doesn’t know about — and names matter to her — then he falls into a mute trance and disappears in a huff. Instead of offering comfort and hospitality, little brother growls, snaps, and bites, declaring her a nonentity. Not even the water in the Wasteland can be trusted.
The delayed shame in my gut, the realization that I am a first-class heel, is too much to bear. I need to feel better. I head upstairs with a bottle of the good stuff to make amends with Anthea.
Explosive caramel on top, musky middle, and vanilla foundation — the triple effect they promised on the box. Having availed herself of Candy’s perfume, Anthea is holding up one of my sister’s vintage dresses against her own pint-sized body. With every motion, the pink “Give me Candy” bracelet slides up and down her wrist. Joseph kept an antique .22 in his closet. No safety catch. Loaded. I could tell police I thought Anthea was an intruder, which is, in fact, the truth.
— The door was open. It’s not like she’s going to wear this again.
— Candy never wears the same dress twice, at least not without changing an accessory. I’m surprised you don’t know that; you, who presume to inhabit the skin of my sister. But your assumed knowledge is skin-deep, and not even the perfume that you’ve purloined can …
With the economy of motion I’ve come to expect, Anthea rips the bracelet off her wrist and flings it, Frisbee style, at my face. Then she grabs my peace gesture from the tray, twists off the cap, and squirts Perrier behind her ears.
— Are you happy now? What a fucking house this is.
I can distinguish between the burst of anger on top, the mid notes of embarrassment, and the vanilla-inflected hurt at the base. But with her face all wet, it’s hard to separate the fizzy water and eau de parfum from the salty tears.
Joseph’s door squeaks before it slams shut. Let her sleep in the bed of a dead man while I repair the damage she has wrought. The pink bracelet has landed — significantly, I think — within a foot of the loose board that hid Phebe’s time capsule. I rub off all traces of Anthea’s fingerprints and replace the bracelet on the nightstand, next to the perfume, which I readjust so the label will be the first thing Candy sees. I brush down and hang back up the little black dress Anthea unceremoniously dropped to the floor. The sweet scent of Candy’s perfume cannot penetrate my nostrils since they are stuffed. Tears roll down my face. What if this impersonation of my sister is as good as it gets or, worse, a harbinger? Abrasive, unequivocal, verbose, and vulgar. I could not bear it if Candy turned out this way. What about the inner contradictions, the dark mystery, the refined intellect? I want her home intact.
30
THE OPPRESSIVE HUMIDITY OF THIS summer night ends at the edge of the field. Once I pass through the rope barrier, and trek towards the flat rock, the temperature will drop. It will be pleasant at first, but then grow uncomfortably cool. I’ll be shivering soon enough, my hands dry and chapped, especially if the wind picks up. Apart from the extra candles, flashlight, water, snacks, compass, and gps, I’ve packed a fleece, windbreaker, and wool gloves. The rope around my waist won’t help get me there, only guide me back. Wasn’t it just the other day I was dragging out Joseph’s body? I don’t know where the time goes. Maybe it doesn’t.
The first few minutes are the most dangerous because I’m tempted to look at the auction stage from behind. I will imagine Candy in one of her costumes, walking backwards towards me. I hold on to the image until the emptiness of the stage blots it out. But by that time, all my weight on one spot has stirred up manure buried in the soil from the time of Phebe, Lewis, and Isaac, and released methane. I won’t see or smell it, but I know it’s there. My legs go rubbery, my vision blurs, and the steady beat of my heart is replaced by syncopation worthy of vintage King Crimson. If I don’t move quickly, I can get confused about what I’m doing out here.
The moon is on my side tonight; it reveals the rock to be a stone’s throw away. This lifts all temptation to look back. I march smartly, testing the ground ahead with my walking stick. Without warning, the earth might simply open up into a dark chasm. I tap gently so as not to arouse ire. No one has ever been welcome here, except perhaps Joseph. Maybe we should have done something to drain out the poison. Sometimes it’s better not to mess around. The Wasteland likes things as they are. I often think of Frogs, the film with Ray Milland as the bitter patriarch who refuses to accept that nature is rebelling. The others escape, leaving Milland in his wheelchair on his island to face the spiders, snakes, and other angry reptiles, alone and helpless. Joseph never disrespected the Wasteland, but it killed him anyway. Unless it didn’t. Was the field always a danger zone or did the warnings only start after Mary died? How much easier was it to instill in his children a fear of the mystical qualities of the Wasteland than for Joseph — a busy widower — to keep an eye on them. My obsessive precautions may be as meaningful as Hoss’s superstitious pinball tactics. But the Wasteland isn’t the Flicker machine and I cannot deny the moment I step into the field I taste bile and my throat constricts. The moment I stop bel
ieving in the power of the Wasteland over life and death is the moment its power will be unleashed.
I can’t see my feet now in the warm mists settling around my ankles. Around my head, where the air is thinner, it’s getting colder. I’m more than halfway when a cloud comes out of nowhere, covering the moon and turning off the heat. I could see my breath if there were any light. Sinking to my knees comes naturally. It’s warmer down here and I feel less exposed. This subservient position also suggests humility, which might be a good idea about now. Too awkward to crawl with a flashlight so I pull out my Blackberry as a talisman. It’s slow going because it only reveals the few inches of ground directly in front and the light keeps going off, but it’s got an old photo of Candy as the wallpaper.
I STUMBLE UPON the rock, my hands sliding across its smooth surface, just as my Blackberry dies. I had recharged it earlier in the day. My watch, too, has stopped. The flashlight batteries, which I tested, are also dead. The gps says I’m in the middle of nowhere. From the other side of the fence, I hear a frog.
It takes me so long to strike a match I start to think the Wasteland doesn’t like basic technologies either. But it’s just that my fingers, raw from the crawling and numb from the cold, won’t cooperate. I sit on the stone, holding the candle to keep warm. What was I thinking? That coming out here, under duress, would prove my worthiness to Candy? That, upon arriving home, instead of entering the house, she would inspect the auction stage and spot the light in the distance? That she would understand, intuitively, it was me out here, and follow the rope? That sitting on this cold forsaken rock in the dead of night would render our reunion all the more bittersweet? That everything has a price?
In my place, Hoss would probably start meditating. Focus on the breath. Don’t fight the discomfort. Embrace the fear. Be in the moment. I would like to see how far all that New Age hokum would get him out here in the Wasteland. I don’t imagine he ran out here when he stormed off. He probably drove to the Night Brew in Shep to score some pot for old times’ sake and is now wandering around the empty parking lot like a character in a Jethro Tull song, vacantly scuffing his toes on packs of cigarette papers that fell out of trouser pockets long ago. The more he tries to forget Candy, the more he remembers. He has feelings to burn, which get filtered through the haze of his joints. Not only does the pot cool his hands, it softens the edges of his rage. Because surely that’s what his ambivalence to Candy has always been about: how she stole the life of our mother, and then elevated herself to star of the household. Again, this unpleasant sensation in my gut that Hoss will not welcome Molly O into our midst.
HOSS AND I stood in the far end of the yard, on the edge of the Wasteland, both of us doubled over — me in a fit of coughing, him in a fit of laughter. He was fourteen and I was two years younger, though I never felt so close to him again. The feeling lasted five minutes, broken by Candy’s appearance. All of ten years old, she was drawn by the tiny fire in the night sky and the sound of Hoss giggling without the laugh track of a prime-time sitcom, a first for her. Hoss and I were transfixed under the light of the moon, embarrassed, guilty. It wasn’t bad enough that he was indoctrinating his little brother to the wonders of weed, now there was little Candy about to reach for the roach clip. Just as she opened her mouth, as if to speak, Hoss moved towards her. I didn’t know what he had in mind. She fled, straight into the field, and disappeared.
My giddiness from the half-inhaled joint went up in smoke. Paranoia set in, but I couldn’t move my legs to chase after her. I looked to my older brother for steel-eyed resolve. He had all the get-up-and-go of an extra in a Cheech and Chong movie. Had this been his plan all along — to scare Candy into foolish choices?
I ran along the perimeter, calling out every few seconds. There was no hair shirt in sight so I let the rope burn the palm of my hand. Every so often I stopped and listened to the night. There was no swirling dust, no fog, or mist, but I could not penetrate the darkness or overcome my fear of plunging over the edge.
— We’d better get Joseph.
Hoss lowered his squeaky voice a few notches in a desperate bid to exude auctioneer-like confidence. I smelled his fear, and heard the second thoughts at his dastardly plan to resculpt our family. I ducked under the rope and threw myself into the void, falling flat on my face. The land was dry that night. I was still afraid of stumbling into a pit of quicksand. Hoss’s voice became ever fainter as I moved deeper and deeper into the field. I refused to imagine the worst.
I am not sure how long it took to reach the stone or how I managed to find it. I only know she was waiting for me. She took my hand and squeezed it tight. I had proved myself to her. She sat, covered in dust and damp earth, placing her hands where we had spread Mary’s ashes. I joined my hands with hers. She, too, missed our mother. For the first time I stepped out of my own lingering grief. At least Hoss and I had known Mary. We did not carry the guilt of causing her death. We sat a while. I heard Hoss calling forboth of us. It felt good.
She led me back through the dark without a false step. It was the last time I felt so close to her, because soon after Rox would get top billing. That night ruptured something with Hoss. A week later he smoked up before the auction and fell off the stage, effectively starting Candy’s acting career. I can’t forgive him for that either.
IF I BURN myself, would she come home faster? I wave my finger through the flame, sit close for the faint warmth it projects. Hot wax drips evenly onto the rock and then flows into darkness. It follows the downward slope of the rock, rolling with the impenetrable force of lava into the dead soil.
I light another candle and, when it burns out, another. The wind is still, the ground sleeps. The thin air magnifies and distorts sound. When I throw my voice, “Candy!” bounces at me from all directions and at all volumes. So close I scooch over to make room for an unexpected visitor. So distant and faint, my heart aches. Here. I’m right here.
I’m trying to decide whether my last candle is half burned or half intact when I hear a motorcycle. It must be on the concession road, but I can’t get a fix on it. Either the Wasteland is playing tricks again or the bike is speeding up and slowing down over and over. It’s avoiding rocks and craters, searching for its destination. Now both louder and slower and lacking the distinctive two-piston pop of a Harley, this is unquestionably a touring bike meant to carry long-lost sisters to their far-off childhood homes. Perhaps it has a sidecar for extra luggage. My paltry imagination has carved out no space for such a grand entrance.
My candle has drawn the bike past my car to the back of the stage, just as I’d hoped. The headlight is not strong enough to penetrate the barrier of the Wasteland. About three-quarters of the way to the rock it dissipates, but not before she has pulsed out the dots and dashes for “CQD” — the signal that came into use during the silent film era. All stations: distress. The perfect choice to announce her trepidatious return, but why has she waited so long to light the beacons? She switches off the headlight and tugs the rope. I tug back, hoping she ties it around her waist so I can reel her in. Seconds later, the rope is limp in my hands. She must be going it alone.
What takes me hours of crawling on all fours Candy completes in minutes. My feeble candle picks up the orange reflective patches on her motorcycle vest. We have brought you back alive. A whiff of gas fumes from a hard day on the road wafts past me. The eau de parfum has turned into a better homecoming present than I could have imagined. Although she’s left her helmet behind, her face is obscured by the poor light, as if the ghost of Mickey Nailand has followed along just to mess with my head one last time.
The boots have boosted her height. From what I can tell through the vest, time has left her flat chest intact. Surprising, as Molly O is more developed. The moon appears! Not a wrinkle, not a blemish. Time hasn’t stopped for Candy; it’s reversed. A plastic surgeon could not have altered her features more profoundly. She is in the witness protection program. That must be it.
— I saw your light.
/> She speaks! Her voice, almost masculine in tone, is hesitant, as if we’re strangers.
— I knew you’d make it.
— The end to a totally weird journey.
— The important thing is you’re here at last. I’ve got so many questions.
— Would it be okay if we went to the house now? I’m really beat.
— I was only out here to guide you.
— Hold on one second, would you? I’m dying.
She moves to the edge of the rock, unzips her pants and sends a stream of urine onto the ground.
— You’re a man.
— Don’t you start. You don’t even know me.
Something’s not right.
— Who the fuck are you?
— Take it easy, man. I’m looking for my mother.
No, this is not Candy, but a strange young man. He lacks the requisite toughness to be a biker. Turning from the empty road at the tempting flicker of hope. There’s only room for one obsessed guy in the Wasteland at a time.
— You found mine instead, and you just pissed all over her grave. I suggest you retrace your steps and watch out for the quicksand.
The kid backs away without the grace and sultriness of Molly O. A silhouette turns down the path, running into darkness, following the yellow rope to safety. Maybe I should not have mentioned the quicksand. I think sometimes that only those who believe in it have to worry.
I feel impotent, incapable of crawling back in the dark against a malevolent environment. Best to keep vigil on the rock.
ANTHEA STANDS AT the frying pan, her back to me.
— I think we need to process what happened last night.
I stare, bleary-eyed and stiff from a night contracting my muscles to protect myself against the cold and the frogs. What part of last night does she mean?