Molly O

by Mark Foss

— I was upset about Hoss disappearing. He’s still not back. But I realize this is a difficult time for you. I don’t want to be a burden.

  She turns the pancakes over and sniffles.

  — Sorry I threw the bracelet. I had no right to go through those clothes or try on the perfume. I don’t know what came over me.

  — Don’t believe her, man. She’s always going through my drawers.

  — Swann! I told you to wait upstairs.

  Anthea is blushing now. Her voice, which sounds less hoarse this morning, is dry again.

  — I’m sorry, LJ. First me, now my son too. We’re taking up so much space in your moment of grief. It’s just that Swann needs a lot of looking after, and …

  The smoke alarm cuts through the bullshit with piercing beeps. Anthea rushes to the stove to take the pan off the burner. In her haste, one of the pancakes slides onto the floor. It sits there while she catches her breath and Swann removes the battery from the alarm. He scans the kitchen for her purse, finds the puffer on his first thrust into the deep chasm and puts an arm around her shoulders as she inhales deeply.

  The whole place could be vacuumed to suck up the dust and cobwebs, all traces of neglect. I wonder if Candy has allergies or if her immune system, like the rest of her, has remained totally uncompromised. She could stand in the middle of the ozone layer and not get burnt. Or so I believed.

  31

  AN AIRPLANE IS GETTING LOUDER and closer. I leave Swann and Anthea with their pancakes and run to the stage. What better re-entry into our lives than landing in a custom-made parachute with blazing colours. When she hits the ground, her gas mask will protect her from the toxic fumes. Such drama! Such poetry! I’m turning into a bad screenwriter.

  I crane my neck, waiting for the plane to make a second pass. No joy.

  — I don’t think it’s coming back.

  His voice, apart from the masculine timbre, is so much like what I imagine Candy’s will be like, if she talks. New. Elegant.

  — Sometimes they write messages with the smoke.

  — A stage in the middle of the country is the perfect setup. I’ve got a telescope back home, you know.

  — The words can be miles long. If there’s no wind, they can hover up there quite a while.

  — I want to discover a new star or something. Is that crazy?

  — A bunch of planes fly in formation. They release smoke in sequence. I’ve read about it. Skywriting.

  — Last night, after I ran away from you, I lay on the stage for an hour. Comet Swann. How cool is that?

  I’m not surprised Candy hasn’t taken up skydiving. She has typically gravitated towards the earth. That ostensibly solid ground could turn and swallow a person whole has always captivated and frightened her. On auction nights, while we set up, she would gaze into the Wasteland. Did she mouth a prayer or a curse? She would walk backwards on the stage not just to control the gaze of the patrons, but also to keep the spectre of the dead field out of sight and, paradoxically, to take strength from it.

  Those nights we crawled under the stage might have been the most powerful influence of all on her creation of Molly O. This was where it all began: sitting in the dark, with the boards bowing under Joseph’s weight, his chants spawning with dirt to enter our pores, the cool air from the Wasteland flowing into our secret lair from the south. We experienced elusive intimacy.

  No way could I cram myself in there again with or without Candy. I’ll walk on the boards above her head. There and not there. So close, so far.

  — It’s like three giant lily pads. I’ve never seen a stage like this. Did you have an orchestra playing here? I’ve been accepted into Cornish this fall. It’s the best music school in Seattle. They can wait. It’s La Scala or bust for me.

  — Your mother tore up the front of it.

  — The Queen Mother did that?

  — I was stuck underneath.

  — I’m not a snob, you know. I might even sing in cabarets and clubs.

  — You didn’t see the sign out front under the big “G”? We held auctions here. Big ones.

  — You’ve seen Citizen Kane, right? He had a big “K” on his fence.

  — Kubla Khan. We generally call our property the Wasteland, which can refer to the field behind you, the house, the stage, or all three. Depends how people feel in the moment.

  — You’re not into this “moment” shit too, are you? My mother’s such a head case. I can’t let her out of my sight. Not for a minute.

  — Which is why you left your father’s house. To take care of your mother.

  — He lent me the bike. I hid it in the barn.

  — So are you going to help me fix this stage?

  SWANN STARES AT me, his blue eyes mirrors. His blond hair is luxuriously thick and unfashionably long. His voice, feather-light. He saws boards with the drama of a magician cutting a woman in half. Slow, deliberate strokes, as if a life depended on it.

  You crawl under the stage. You sit on a rock all night. You stare into the sky waiting for words. Sorry about your mother’s grave.

  — Can’t you talk and saw boards at the same time?

  The boards don’t match in size, shape, or colour, but a hole has been covered, the sanctity of the hiding place restored. Candy will appreciate the effort, if not the half-assed result.

  Swann is whirling around on the second tier of the stage in the bright sunlight, a blur of flinging hair.

  — I thought you were an opera singer.

  — I try to be l’artiste absolu — singer, dancer, poet, magician.

  He does the splits, then lifts himself back up with two fingers.

  — I thought an opera singer needed heft.

  — What’s wrong with dreaming?

  — Nothing. You can be the It Boy.

  — I’m not sure the Wasteland likes me up here.

  — Don’t look at the field. Try moving around backwards.

  — Like an eclipse. I get it.

  Swann’s heels brush up against the steps. As if jolted by electricity, he boomerangs back to centre stage. He stumbles wildly across the surface, arms flailing. A mysterious force carries him right to the edge. His arms push out into nothingness as he desperately tries to right himself. He’s right on the spot where Hoss fell.

  — Look out!

  I leap closer, arms out, abs braced. How heavy can this kid be?

  He winks! His right arm turns from a flail into a casual wave in my direction. He pulls his chest even with the rest of his body and falls backwards on his hands in the middle of the stage. He transforms his routine into a short breakdance before leaping to the third tier in a single bound.

  Candy could never do any of this. Maybe Swann would teach her.

  I lie on the boards with one ear attuned to any movement underneath, and the opposite eye on Swann, whose prancing on the stage comes regularly into my peripheral vision.

  32

  — SOMETIMES HE’S A HAPPY SEVEN, but at night he calls out in his sleep so I think he’s a fearful Six. I want him to do an Enneagram retreat so I can know how to parent him better. He is so fixated on opera. You know how many times a day I listen to that?

  Through the open kitchen window, I can hear Swann singing a strange warm-up exercise in the barn. It’s not a song, exactly, although it has rhythm. The kitsch-happy hohoho and lalala seem from another time.

  — “I’m Glad I Am Finally Going Home.” That’s what it’s called. It’s some Russian thing that was all the rage on YouTube.

  Maybe Candy will give us a rollicking rendition of her own.

  Anthea has set up The Riflemen on the kitchen table. Initially an auction leftover for rainy days, the board game is now helping kill a sunny one since Anthea won’t risk getting burned outside. Candy liked to take on the identity of the father, Lucas McCain, leaving me to play Mark, the son. Roll, spin, and move. She always managed to get her herd of cattle into the opposite corral first. What’s taking her so long to get home this time?

  �
� Ashok is a truly kind and wise man. He knows a lot about you now. At least from what Janardan has said about your family. He wants to meet you one day.

  — I’m not interested in answers, only questions.

  Not true. If Ashok has an inside track on Candy’s whereabouts, I’ll bray like a donkey and he can pin any number he wants on my ass.

  — Just being in his presence lifts the weight from your heart. He’s funny, too. Spirituality doesn’t have to be serious. I learned that from Ashok. He doesn’t play favourites either, not like some other teachers I’ve had. He loves us all equally.

  — I thought you were pissed at him for switching your number.

  — I let it go.

  — Don’t believe anything Hoss says about me when he’s under the influence of a guru.

  — It takes a great deal of reflection for him to decide who you are. I have to take my share of responsibility. I’m internally inconsistent.

  The doorknob turns on the back screen door, and my heart jumps a little. All my fantasies have revolved around Candy using the front door. So what? I’m open to change.

  — It still works, man! Come see! Quick, Mom. The sun’s under a cloud.

  I need to hang bells around Swann’s ankles so I recognize his tread. I don’t like the idea of him touching the Steenbeck. The last time it was up and running Candy was still appearing on our stage. It’s sacrilegious to play with its rollers and reels.

  As we cross the yard, Anthea touches my arm and pulls me down to whisper in my ear.

  — He stole his father’s motorcycle. I should have left him at home.

  Swann heads directly to Flicker, whose dust cloth lies in a heap on the ground. He pops in a quarter and sends a ball cascading through the faces of early Hollywood. He racks up points on the board, and the numbers add normally and don’t change. Lights flash, but bells and whistles also chime with each bounce off the bumper or target. For the first time ever at the Wasteland, Flicker is firing on all cylinders. Either Joseph tinkered with the wiring or the machine repaired itself. I am terribly confused, but stand ready to lay a laurel wreath as tribute.

  — Swann! It’s a pinball machine, not the Second Coming.

  Neither can appreciate the significance of Flicker’s rebirth. If this small miracle, unexpected and unasked for, can transpire in our humble barn, what might be possible from all the energy I’ve expended on willing Candy back to the fold. I’m thinking like an Ashok disciple, convinced the universe is not indifferent but sending signals to those who can read them.

  33

  I KEEP WONDERING HOW A quick stop to the pharmacy for sunscreen could have delayed them so long. Was Anthea searching for the right mix of shea butter and aloe vera? But no, there is more to the story. Hoss must have warned her about the state of our larder, and she insisted on stopping at the bulk food store. But for the legumes, they might have got here before Joseph died. On the first night she left her lentils in the cupboard out of politeness, but she feels at home now. For the first time since crops were harvested in our fields, centuries ago, the table is brimming with natural goodness. So healthy I choke just to look at it.

  Swann bounds down the stairs, wide-eyed.

  — Man, you should charge admission to that room. All those long-playing records.

  — Swann! You didn’t play LJ’s music!

  — Don’t worry. There was a box of surgical gloves. I didn’t catch anything.

  I like this kid.

  — And the Playboys. With a Canadian playmate! She was so hot. But she must be, like, sixty now. How weird is that. Downright creepy, man. Can’t you get your kicks online like everyone else?

  — Swann! I’m sure LJ has a reason for keeping pornography in the house. It’s none of our business. And stay out of the girl’s bedroom.

  Anthea and Swann both go quiet, embarrassed for me. As if I can’t stomach the idea that we’re talking about Candy behind her back. No, they feel the need to protect my feelings, which is worse.

  — I hope you kept the gloves on while you looked at the centrefold.

  — I could not even get the pages to lift and separate, man. They are positively glued shut.

  — Can we stop with the juvenile jokes? It’s been twenty-four hours. Is it normal that Janardan would leave like this and then not call?

  — Those are my brother’s records.

  Given Swann’s lapse into thoughtful silence, Hoss has moved up a notch in his estimation. I didn’t realize they’d even met. Yet they seem to have a history. One more relationship for me to circumnavigate.

  — I took Swann to see Jon Anderson last year. He didn’t understand a word.

  — Didn’t matter. The guy could shatter glass.

  — Swann wants to sing. Like his father. I thought they’d connect over music.

  — He still listens to Donovan. Patetico!

  — You know Yes fired Jon Anderson and hired an avatar? Someone younger who sounds just like him. Then Ian Anderson hired an avatar for himself to sing the high parts for the Thick as a Brick sequel. They think they can stop time. They’re not accepting life in the moment.

  How long has Hoss been standing there? He is glowing. It’s not often he can integrate arcane prog-rock knowledge and nuggets of spiritual wisdom into everyday conversation so easily. But he should not push too hard against living in the past. This is someone who owns the complete collection of Bonanza on one hundred and thirteen DVDs.

  — I’ve brought someone special with me.

  My fingers, tacky with wholesome nutrients, grip the Formica. A few AWOL navy beans are lodged in my throat. All I can do is glare. Choosing Hoss over me? I am not her Orpheus, destined to escort Eurydice back to the land of the living, the first to see her again. Unless she’s held me in reserve for a larger purpose. The way, in credits, the most important actor often appears last. My fingers regain dexterity, food passes into my esophagus. But Anthea beats me to the indignant response.

  — Where the fuck have you been?

  — Yeah, where the fuck?

  — Swann!

  Hoss seems to notice Swann for the first time, this blond upstart in his chair.

  — I was dealing with the undertaker and the lawyer.

  “Undertaker” is a Joseph kind of word, imbedded in another era. I’m impressed with Hoss’s diction and self-control, the way he sucks the righteousness right out of Anthea with this oblique reference to our recent loss. Who could recover from such a low blow?

  Round and around on the back roads, marking time without a trace of Anthea’s eco-consciousness. I know it’s me Candy can’t face. She wants to explain her life with a shrug and knows I’ll never accept it. Not after I’ve brought her back through the blog. You needn’t say it all out loud! Write a book. Maybe make a sequel to Going, going, gone. I could help. No hard feelings.

  She’s in the car, collecting her thoughts, gathering her courage. This homecoming is more intense than she has imagined. The dam of grief has burst. A lifetime of long-forgotten tears flows down her cheeks. She doesn’t notice how quickly they fill up the car, threatening to short-circuit the electrical systems. By the time my hands, sticky from quinoa, pull at the locked doors and pound on the closed windows, the salty water is up to her neck. With the very axe that rescued me from the crypt, I smash in a rear window. Water gushes out, carrying Candy on a wave into my arms.

  Hoss moves quickly to block my rescue attempt. I bang up against some canned goods in the grocery bag. Frozen food is suddenly not good enough for my brother? It has to be some vegetable from Green Giant. Because even as I wince from the whack on my knee, the blow has opened a long-lost file of tv commercials in my brain, and the giant’s “Ho, Ho, Ho” starts playing in a loop. I used to like the jingle. Now I think the giant is laughing at me.

  — Our guest doesn’t want to be disturbed. He’s preparing. He’s taking it all in.

  Hoss thinks a masculine pronoun will throw me off the scent? He forgets that Candy belongs to no one. Not ev
en me. The insight makes me limp back to my chair. Swann brings me a Hungry Man Dinner as an icepack.

  — You brought someone speziale. Like we care, man. You hurt your brother.

  Swann grins slyly at me. Candy will like him.

  — You bring me and then leave. I’m not speziale enough? I thought we had a connection.

  Another asthma attack can’t be far off.

  — Yes, I brought someone special. Period. No comment.

  He plants the bags on the counter and pulls out the items, his back towards us. With a deep breath, he appears to be debating whether to store things in the cupboard or send them flying. He adjusts to what’s needed, faces us with a look of superior wisdom.

  — You are where you need to be.

  — You think I need to be in this lunatic asylum?

  — What she said, man.

  — Swann!

  — Our guest wants some time alone before coming inside the house. He is attuning to the propitious moment. Is that so much to ask?

  A refugee, internally displaced or eternally expected, but hardly a guest. I know she’s perusing the yard, walking across the tiers of the stage, inspecting the barn. I wish she’d hurry up. I need a package of frozen Buffalo chicken for my forehead because the room is spinning and I can’t handle another disappointment.

  — I’m sorry to be the cause of so much consternation.

  34

  IF I HAVE SPENT MY adult life grasping for Candy at every turn, our sister has never ranked high on Hoss’s inner search engine. His spiritual path brooks no detours. It flows one way, optimized to ignore fresh breadcrumbs, hidden code, or promising links. In Hoss’s narrow, moment-based world, Candy could never be special. She is too far beyond established perimeters to register in his consciousness. I know this, or should. So why do I feel utterly drained? Hoss has taken a can opener to my heart, ripped the lid off my hopes and poured them down the sink like so much dirty lentil rinse water.

  Hoss seems to have hauled a long-haired, bearded, and generally unkempt Ian Anderson off the stage of a Jethro Tull concert circa 1970 in the midst of singing “Back to the Family.” He’s kept the flute, but replaced the patchwork hand-me-downs with an embroidered cotton shirt and knitted cap, and given him the complexion of an East Indian, an East European accent, and another foot in height.