I may have committed to going back in that funhouse, but I can at least enter from the other end. Rather than ducking through Wonderland doorway, battling cobwebbed blackness, I head downstairs, step outside, and trek to the building’s rear.
Sliding my key into the bolt is a second challenge, because hardly anyone’s unlocked this door from outside since Brenda’s father opened it for deliveries. I jam the key in, jiggle ’til the mechanism grinds, gives way. Pushing the door wide, I shine my flashlight, piercing the murk. I reach into the fuse box and trip all the switches.
The overheads hum briefly, ancient fluorescent tubes crackling, before winking to life. I wait for them to steady; then, pulling the door closed, bolting it, I edge forward.
Simultaneously trying to look nowhere and everywhere, I anticipate a monster in each corner, behind every piece of furniture or equipment. “Get in and get out. Get in and get out.” It’s my mantra as I survey the clutter.
Mantra or not, I’m freaked. Along with the fact that one of my first spectral sightings occurred here, it’s hard not to get distracted by the wealth of shit we’ve accumulated. Shallow breathing to minimize filth inhalation, I pick my way toward the spot where most of our stuff is heaped. It’s clear this area’s stint as storage dump predates us.
A tower of furniture climbs one wall. Rocking chairs and twin bamboo side tables balance like acrobats atop an antique vanity. Everything’s ratty, scratched, sealed beneath a lifetime of cobwebs and ceiling dust.
Sucking breath, I squeeze between a chest of drawers and an old metal walker. My butt catches the edge of a vinyl tarp, dragging it—and a milk glass pitcher—to the floor with a thud.
“Shit!”
I spin, surveying damage. Thankfully, the pitcher’s in one piece. Sliding it back against the wall, I spot my old friend Pharaoh. Next to him, cardboard boxes I hope contain my quarry.
Stopping to pat my horse’s muzzle, I swab grime from his soft, brown eyes. In them, I see Corey’s, ablaze with fear and hunger like that last time in the woods with Fawn. Then they fade to a milky haze, their warmth draining.
“Where are you, Corey?”
A sob batters my rib cage, but I contain it by pinching my upper lip hard as I can take. It’s a charley horse cure, but I’ve found it works to harness untamed emotion. Pulling a calming breath, I press my forehead to Pharaoh’s, my hat brim folding against his dull white star.
Then I turn my attention to the boxes. They sit as I remember, one atop the other. Instinct—Tia Luz might call it something else—tells me the metal box waits within the bottom one. I listen. As I lift the top box to place it on the floor, one of those skeevy, gazillion-legged creatures Willa calls eyelash bugs skitters over my hand. Shrieking, I drop the box back in place.
F-bombs and vigorous hand-flaps soothing me, I make a second attempt, successfully lowering box number one to the floor. Dragging the bottom carton from the wall, I pick at the packing tape, loosening it enough to yank a strip free. I unfold the cardboard flaps. Ignoring the musty smell, and the possibility of an eyelash colony within, I peer inside.
Old magazines, dog-eared school portraits, and my ancient drawings—sort of touching she saved those—share space with the promised scrapbooks. I hit the jackpot underneath. Buried there is the stainless steel container of memory. Hopeful it holds those long-ago snapshots, I wrestle the lid.
It’s locked.
Another f-bomb session ensues. Lucky as I was to find it, there’s no way in hell “instinct’s” going to lead me to the key. If I were the heroine of some film noir, I’d use a bobby pin from my perfect hairdo to deftly pop the latch. Sadly, no such useful instrument resides beneath my ultra-chic, denim hat.
I give the box a violent shake; then, channeling calm, I actually look at it. Made of the flimsiest metal, barely thicker than a tuna can, it shouldn’t be too hard to break open.
Declaring, “My kingdom for a can opener,” I balance the box on Pharaoh’s back and commence pacing. As much as these crammed and crusty quarters will allow.
On one pass, I catch my reflection in a blistered mirror and, barely aware I’d started, I deliberately stop mid-chew. Assessing my thumb, I find the nail split and ragged; the cuticle bleeds. The thumb itself is two-tone. Apparently, I’ve consumed a hearty portion of store crud while stress-gnawing.
“That’s it. I’ve got to develop a more hygienic tension habit.”
Cleaning my tongue on the hem of my tee, I lean closer to the vanity mirror. Looking in her eyes, I say, “Think, Teddi.”
Ever helpful, my reflection suggests, “What about the drawer?”
Glancing down, I grasp brass handles and rattle the drawer open. It’s littered with loose hardware: picture hangers, screws, these slender L-shaped tools. Allen wrenches? I scoop a handful of debris and, snatching the box from Pharaoh’s back, I go to work.
Gently first, I prod and scrape. Starting with the smallest wrench, I jab the long end of the L in the keyhole. It slides in easily, then lodges. Unable to pull it back out, I curse under my breath and yank with all the strength I possess in my thumb and forefinger. It’s stuck. Giving a final twist, I exhale relief as it gives. Up close, I see the wrench has snapped; a small sliver of metal protrudes from the lock.
Generating Zen thoughts, I channel my energy in a positive direction. Frustration’s no help. Feigning relaxation, I plant my left foot, and, yogi-style, slowly raise the right, my legs a giant number four. Exhaling, I locate my center. Then, lifting the box above my head, I hold the pose for a ten-count before lowering my foot smoothly to the floor.
I inhale through my nose, eyes closed.
Then, with all the force I can muster, I slam the lockbox downward, bashing it repeatedly against the steel body of the Mister Sno ice-grinding machine. So much for serenity.
Stopping to regain breath, I inspect for destruction. The box is badly dented, and two tiny tacks have loosened, the handle drooping at an angle. Otherwise, it’s survived the beatdown remarkably intact.
Facing Pharaoh, I say, “Sorry you had to witness that, friend.”
He reserves judgment.
For a moment, I contemplate resorting to the big guns—Grandpa Alder’s table saw stands against the opposite wall—but, leery of leaving this craphole minus a digit or three, I rethink.
The tuna can image resurfaces and, though this freaking container is certainly more impenetrable than your basic tin of Bumble Bee, it gives me an idea.
“I’ll bet there’s something in the kitchen I can use.”
Pharaoh seems to whinny agreement. Or he wants me gone so he can hibernate in relative peace. I consider returning the storage area to its original state; then, rather than waste a single, precious, Brenda-free moment, I decide as-is condition will suffice.
After shoving aside the cardboard bins, I squeeze back through the debris field. Switches tripping, I plunge Pharaoh into blackness and bolt the door.
Outside, I behave as if I’ve pulled a heist. Hyperaware, I race around the building, fully expecting to be intercepted by . . . someone—beat cop, cat burglar, roving skunk—but I make it to the front door without incident, treasure clutched to thumping heart.
Binks scrabbles at the other side of the glass for me to open the door. When I step inside, he power-leaps into my arms, nearly knocking the box from my grasp. Placing the metal cube gently on the floor, ironic after the way I whaled on it moments ago, I ruffle his fur, hoping to calm him.
Once he finally plunks on his bed, I sprint to the kitchen, rip open the junk drawer, and collect an impressive array of dangerous utensils. Moving to the table, I set to work with the studied precision of a neurosurgeon.
If I’m being honest, I try every implement—from metal shish kebob spear to meat mallet—to stab, hack, and bludgeon my way into the box. Ultimately, after piercing the lid with a corkscrew, I open a ragged gash, using an old school, hand-crank can opener.
Cautiously folding serrated metal into accordion creases, I un
cover a potpourri of Alder artifacts. First up, a zipper bag containing trace elements of Baby Teddi: my newborn hospital bracelet; a quartet of sepia baby teeth; and—blurg—what could only be an umbilical snip, all cocooned within a fuzzed clump of baby hair. Eerie, like a fossil, or some fetish trophy. Serial killer party sack? I pretend it’s a normal display of parental nostalgia. Pushing it aside, I’m thankful not to have encountered a full-on mummified placenta.
A little leery, queasy even, about continuing, I commit to digging deeper. Pushing aside baby relics, I uncover a plastic bag from Always 18, a long-gone mall store. Mindful of the gashed lid’s jagged edges, I lift the bag. Inside is a Tigger greeting card; it’s stuffed with loose-leaf pages, sticky notes, fast food napkins, candy wrappers.
It seems like an arbitrary batch, ’til I notice the writing. Everything, including the wrapper scraps, is inscribed with this messy, left-leaning scribble. There are dates, song titles, ’90s catch phrases, and the initials B.A. + G.V. My “parents.”
Ugh. I’ve unearthed some sort of romantic keepsake, a memento from Papa Sperm. Though on one level I find it more repulsive, if slightly less disturbing, than that umbilical sachet, on a deeper stratum it’s just damn sad. I’m a little angry she’s kept it. And surprised to realize Brenda’s still able to disappoint. I thought I’d moved past expectation, at least where she’s concerned.
Shouldn’t these tokens have succumbed to a ritualistic burning a decade ago? I make a mental note that, if things with Aidan continue to fizzle, I will systematically destroy all remnants of him, rather than risk looking absurd to some future daughter at some future date.
Cramming Brenda’s adolescent shame back into the Always 18 sack, I shift the remaining lockbox contents, revealing a flat, manila rectangle. The envelope lines the metal bottom; lifting it out, I note Brenda’s inscription: RECEIPTS.
“Yeah, right.”
I know better than to believe she’d ever save receipts. Bending the tiny clasp, I feel this hiccup of certainty. All anticipation has led me to this. Opening the envelope, I tip out the small bundle of photos, held fast with a blue elastic.
As I unwrap it, my mind stretches with the rubber. I see Brenda sweeping these very pictures into the box, tossing the elastic in on top.
Jaw tight, I confront the top photo.
The back’s labeled: MOM AND DAD’S 25TH. Brenda’s parents pose next to a cake table, all bride-and-groomish. They look to be about fifty, way younger than I ever remember, and atypically happy, as well. They always seemed to be baked inside this crust of disdain, and I was afraid to know what was underneath.
Of course, I only knew them post-BBS, Brenda’s Big Scandal. Well, obviously, because technically I am Brenda’s Big Scandal. Speaking of Mom, she’s in the picture, too, looking a lot like me, the couple-years-ago version. Must be around fourteen. From her expression, this bash is the last place she wants to be. I do some quick math, figuring, at this point, she’s only a year from meeting her destiny, my future dad.
I skip to the next photo, wherein Baby Teddi makes her unremarkable debut. This one’s familiar, a wallet version of one Mom keeps on the living room entertainment unit. It’s my first Christmas pic; I look like a velvet-trimmed turnip. I stick it facedown.
Shuffling through the rest of the photos is like some mind-bending card game. They’re in no specific order, so Picture Teddi rebounds from infancy to a sullen nearly ten, and back to toddlerhood. No formal portraits are included, besides that unfortunate yule pic. These are the candid shots that tell the warty tale of my early years.
I spread them on the table, mindless of chronology. I’m not so much interested in my image anyway, or even Brenda’s. It’s the supporting characters who pull focus, demanding to be seen.
One photo shows me with Corey and his mom. Brenda’s scissored the picture down. Skillfully cropping the brick façade and most of the sign above our heads, she’s almost managed to purge context. Except the Saint Anthony’s symbol is semi-visible by Corey’s ear. Besides, I’d recognize this place anywhere: the soup kitchen steps.
Examining the image, I guesstimate particulars. Summer, late afternoon. I can’t pretend to recall this moment exactly, but it had to be around the time Corey and I met. We both look so small. His mother laughs, head thrown back, as Corey clowns for the camera. Little Teddi gazes at him like a groupie, as if she’s in the presence of some magic creature.
It’s a cute scene, and looking at it, I feel like someone’s gift-wrapped my heart in barbed wire. Breath hitching, I blot tears and stash this photo underneath the others.
Mercifully, there’s no sign of Corey in the next one. But that’s the only mercy.
Brenda, in a fairly shocking tube top and micro-shorts, straddles a motorcycle. My pimply father sits in front of her, bastard grin blazing. I’m tiny, wearing only a diaper—no shirt, no shoes. No helmet. Bio-Daddy’s perched me between the handlebars. It’s a disconcerting mashup: domestic bliss coupled with shockingly poor judgment. This could serve as the totem image for our family unit.
But another figure hovers just behind. I shudder in my seat.
Tall, thin, handsome in a predatory way, he’s left of Brenda, his large hand cupping her bare shoulder. Distracted, he eyes a tattered Elmo doll in his other.
He’s a little younger, several shades cleaner, but it’s him: Eli. And there, materializing beside his thigh, an eye, an angular cheek, a mass of hair converge. It’s Fawn. She must be about five. Even that young, she’s unmistakable, her face somehow hard.
But it doesn’t make sense. I have no memory of Fawn until later, Corey and I meeting her when we were six or seven. And she was eleven. What does it mean that she and Eli were participants in my babyhood?
Flipping the picture, I hope for a clue on back, courtesy of Brenda’s pen. For once, she comes through. Her scribble reads ME AND BABY T, GEOFF’S BIKE. FUN DAY WITH G’S BUDDY ELI. FUNNER NIGHT.
Suddenly, I’m sick. Shoving my chair back, I lunge for the counter, hang my head over the sink. I ache to block my memory of Eli naked by the pond, but it’s all I can see, and for a horrible moment, it’s Brenda kneeling eagerly in front of him.
My gut burning, I force the mirage away. I have to focus all my will on not puking. Retreating for a few minutes into the sound of gushing water, I’m able to calm my stomach. Though the nausea passes, I can’t shake this dread.
Back at the table, I sift through more photos. There are others with Brenda and Teen Dad, but fortunately, no further appearances by Eli or Fawn. Nothing rivals the motorcycle shot for sheer shock value. For this, I am thankful.
But that doesn’t stop me wondering what it means. My mind keeps trying to connect dots in ways that make terrible sense. The trouble is they revolve around my mother as some drug whore servicing Eli, and God knows who else, to score a high. I’m not willing to accept that. Much as I’ve struggled with the fact that she screwed up and had me at sixteen, I’ve always chalked that up to bad judgment, to romance, to sexual immaturity.
Her futile belief in one true love.
But it gets a little trickier to buy that angle if she was involved with Eli. The words FUNNER NIGHT keep echoing, and I realize my only option if I want the whole truth is to talk to her. Pleasant prospect.
She’ll be home soon. I should meet her at the door with the photo, ask her point-blank, “So, what was it like, screwing for drugs?”
That’d be awesome. A real moment of mother/daughter closeness. Brenda’s voice playing in my head, “worthless slut like your mother,” I bury my face in my hands.
Binks snuffles my hair. Looking into his sad eyes, I almost smile for his benefit, but can’t quite manage it. Lifting him onto my lap, I sob for Corey, for Brenda, for my own sorry life.
Finally, moisture depleted, I reach for a napkin. Rubbing my eyes, I say, “Thanks, Binksy. I’m better now.” Of course, I’m not, but, looking to salvage my dignity, Binks plays along.
I glance clockward. Feels like I’ve be
en here for hours, blubbering, but it’s just quarter past one. Not bad. I managed this whole freaky, life-altering treasure hunt in under an hour.
Rubber banding the pictures back into a neat pile, I slide them inside the envelope. When they catch on something, I put the photos aside. Peering in, I notice a smaller packet.
Upending the manila, I tap it gently, and a white envelope dislodges, dropping out onto the table. As panic inflates my chest, I squelch it. After all, what could be worse than the discoveries I’ve already made?
Turning the envelope over, I find the back flap tucked rather than glue-sealed. Inserting my finger, I free the creased triangle and remove the contents.
A paper clip joins a cluster of news clippings. Removing it from the smudged paper, I warily unfold the pages.
“My God.”
Binks looks up at me with concern as I scan the first headline. SEARCH CONTINUES FOR MISSING LOCAL BOY. Below the bold print is the photo of a face I’ve known forever. Beneath the picture, a name I’ve learned only recently: Naphtali C. Boatwright.
There are few details, aside from a brief reference to “the mother’s boyfriend” and the fact that “Naphtali was last seen by his brother, Micah, in the company of a young neighborhood friend.” They don’t name names, but it’s obvious they mean me.
Folding the page, I glimpse the next headline: COULD PLAYMATE HOLD KEY TO DISAPPEARANCE? I do read this entire article. Again, they don’t mention me specifically, but it says, “Police interviewed the girl’s mother, who insists her daughter was home sick the day of Boatwright’s disappearance. She also claims, ‘My daughter hasn’t spent much time with Corey lately. She’s been sick a lot this summer.’ Refusing to allow her daughter to be questioned, she told police, ‘I won’t put my girl through that. She’s not feeling right. And she’s lost her best friend. My heart goes out to Adele and her older boy. They’re good people.’ ”
The Precious Dreadful Page 17