by Maria Flook
Tracy was driving and Cam rested in the backseat with his feet propped, surrounded by 1950s smut magazines. “I don’t want to hear Elizabeth’s opinion,” Cam said.
Margaret was holding one of Franklin’s velveteen boxes. She clicked the lid open and closed as she talked. “She’s kind of scared.”
“Sure she’s scared,” Cam said, “she’s worried I’ll find out the straight dope.”
“You’re so certain she’s guilty of something. Did you ever stop and think what it was like for her, Lewis running off like that?”
Cam said, “He jumped ship, that’s all.”
“Rats jump from ships.”
Tracy was smiling. He said, “Nice volley, keep it up.”
Margaret said, “Living with her folks all those years, the prime of her life.”
“Oh, she got out of the house. She was a Dancing Queen.”
“Maybe just to fill up the empty hours. She enrolled in a school and learned the fox-trot and the samba.”
Cam said, “You can bet she did the samba. On her back.”
“Elizabeth never fooled around. She told me.”
“She’s a liar.”
“I’m not finished, let me tell you. One time I asked her if she had some lovers after Lewis. Negative. None? I ask her. Elizabeth says, ‘I didn’t make love to them, I let them make love to me.’ I like that distinction,” Margaret said.
“You’re gullible,” Cam said.
“No, I believed her. She didn’t make love to them, she let them have a try. No one impressed her.”
“You’re simple, Margaret.”
She was getting mad. “Do you know what Elizabeth calls you? You were just an immaculate conception!” The phrase was easy to dramatize.
Tracy said, “Just an immaculate conception? Only a biological miracle?”
They ignored Tracy. It was between the two of them.
“What are you saying?” Cam asked Margaret.
“An immaculate conception. You’re the product of a farewell fuck. Lewis didn’t even know you were coming, maybe he doesn’t even know you’re alive now.”
“He was still with Elizabeth when I was born—”
Margaret said, “Sorry about that. She told me. She told me the truth. You were a regular, run-of-the-mill bastard.”
“A leftover bun in the cold oven,” Tracy said.
“You learn something every day,” Cam said. She looked back at him and his face was turned. He was staring out the window.
“Didn’t she ever explain anything to you?” Margaret said; she hated to let her voice soften, but Cam must be thinking how he was unwanted. Unwanted then, and now. Margaret knew a woman who openly displayed her ambiguous feelings toward her child. She was always letting the child play in dangerous areas, near open cisterns, climbing onto high diving boards, letting him roam too near his father’s table saw. Margaret wondered how long it could go on. When the child was born, they said he had the cord wrapped around his neck. The tight cord made him skinny and underdeveloped as if the mother had been trying to choke him all those months he was inside her.
Tracy started singing an old Bobby Darin tune, the one about the orphan: “They found little Annie all covered with ice!”
Cam said, “Fuck you, Tracy.”
Tracy kept singing. He had a clean, dominant tenor and he held the notes with a sullen vibrato. Cam started pitching the collectors’ smut rags out the car window, one after the other, their brittle leaves tearing loose and fluttering over the interstate traffic.
The left front tire had a slow leak. They had to keep testing it, stopping at gas stations to give it a little air. Most of the time the air was free. Then Cam had to put a quarter in the air pump. That’s when Cam decided to get the tire fixed. He said he didn’t want it nickel-and-diming him. Margaret started thinking maybe Cam was stalling. They estimated eight hours and they’d be in Chicago, but Cam kept getting off the freeway. He got out of the car to scratch bugs off the front grille of the Duster.
“There’s just going to be more insects,” Margaret told him.
Now he was getting all the tires changed. New ones all around. They left the Duster at the Firestone Tire Center and walked a few blocks into the town. Margaret put on Darcy’s shoes since she couldn’t walk far in her flip-flops. Her feet were the same size as Darcy’s, but the shoes were unfamiliar ballet pumps with garish leather blossoms at the toes. They went into a drugstore and Margaret found some mentholated witch hazel and some pocket handkerchiefs. The store sold sneakers and canvas pumps. She tried on the pumps; they were stiff and slipped up at the heel, so she kept wearing Darcy’s. Then she went into a church thrift store and bought a skirt for herself. It was what they used to call a wraparound, three panels of fabric sewed together at an angle. The skirt swirled and flounced if she turned around sharp. The fabric was light and airy and the print was busy with Irish setters running nose-to-tail. It really was something corny, something to cheer everybody up. Franklin would have liked it. After she came out of the thrift shop, Tracy pointed to a sign up ahead. The sign said ELITE CHICKS in mint-green neon.
“It’s a strip joint, I guess,” Tracy said.
“Well, I don’t particularly want to see strippers at this hour,” Margaret said.
“Would you like to see them tonight, after dark? We could stick around.” Cam was smiling.
“Ohio girls,” Tracy was saying. “Interesting. Some Buckeye gals. Tell me, just exactly, what is a buckeye?”
“I’m curious,” Cam said. “We could inquire while I have myself a beer.”
“It’s the Midwest and it’s called a ‘draw.’ We’ll ask for a couple of draws,” Tracy said.
Margaret didn’t care one way or another. When they reached the tavern, they stopped at the plate-glass window.
“What in the hell is this?” Tracy said.
Margaret said, “This is great.”
In the storefront window they saw undulating waves of yellow pollen, a thousand hatchlings, baby chicks, balls of fluff on tiny rice feet. The big stainless-steel incubators were polished and gave off a reflection of the three of them. “This place sells chickens!” Cam said.
“They’re so cute,” Margaret said, leaning into the glass. “What are they for?”
The men looked at one another. Tracy said, “Easter, they must be for Easter.”
“Sure, for next Easter,” Cam said.
Margaret said, “I’d like to have them just like this, five in a row on a skewer!” She hated it when they condescended to her. She walked ahead of them. She could squash a baby chicken, rotate the toe of Darcy’s shoe on its little beak if they wanted to make something of it.
“You wouldn’t really eat chickens in a row like that.” Tracy was smiling.
They went back to get the car. It had four new tires on it, steel belted, with narrow white walls. The white walls were glazed with blue soap. It was a pretty sight, Margaret thought. These tires would assure her safe return to Celeste. The sooner the better. Cam went into the office to pay for the tires. Several minutes passed and he came back out.
“They won’t take my Visa. They won’t take any of my cards. She’s blocked them.”
“What?”
“Darcy’s put a hold on all my cards. She’s reported the cards stolen,” Cam said.
Tracy was shaking his head, but he looked impressed. He was pleased by the turn of events, he was admiring the mind of the girl behind this. All these miles and Darcy was able to swoop down, rain on their parade, right where they were standing in Ohio.
Margaret said, “Call the bank and tell them it’s not stolen. They’ll take the freeze off.”
“Not if she says her cards are stolen, it’s the same number. They’ll just issue new cards and tell us we have to wait for that,” Cam said. “Look at this place. It’s a one-horse shit hole. Nowheresville.”
There it was again, Tracy’s diction invading Cam’s.
“Jesus Christ,” Margaret said. She wanted Cam
to know she was feeling worse about it than Tracy.
“She’s trying to shut me down,” Cam said.
“I’ve got a card, you can get the tires,” Tracy said.
“I don’t think so,” Cam said, “that’s not the point here.” He opened the car door and got behind the wheel; he touched the keys dangling from the steering column. He swatted them like a cat so that they jangled. “Get in,” Cam told them.
Margaret got in beside Cam. Tracy came around and leaned in the passenger door until he was level with Cam. “You aren’t going to buy the tires? Is that what you’re saying?” Tracy said.
“Correct,” Cam said.
Tracy got into the car beside Margaret. He yanked open the glove compartment and shuffled the velveteen boxes around. Then he shut the glove compartment. He was thinking it over. “You’re test-driving the tires?” Tracy said.
Cam started the engine and they drove away from the Tire Center. He followed the rules of the road, he didn’t make a production out of it. Then they were back on the highway.
“Did you have to steal the tires? Stupid shit,” Margaret said.
“Maybe I’ll send them a check later.”
“You’ll be writing your checks from the nick,” Margaret said.
Tracy said, “It’s Darcy. Darcy made him do it. She says he’s a thief, he’ll rise to the occasion. He’ll become a thief.”
“Look,” Cam said. He stopped mid-sentence and pinched his fingers high on the bridge of his nose, pressed the heel of his hand against his left eye, then his right; he finished by rubbing his temple with his fingertips. Margaret thought he must be starting a terrible headache. He wasn’t thinking of her or of Tracy. He wasn’t with them, he must be thinking of the Arrow Collar as he studied the road that was bringing him closer. Sometimes his shoulders suffered minor cringes. It was as if he saw something, apparitions. Margaret searched the highway; the heat waves wobbled, then subsided, wobbled again. They passed a dead dog on the shoulder; the wind from the opposite traffic was lifting the plume of its tail. It reminded Margaret of those half-alive segments, dismembered insects, their notched legs beating with only a chemical memory of life. One tiny, exhausted nerve still pulses, unaware of the fate of its whole. Margaret looked at Cam’s face. When his discomfort didn’t flare, it retreated into the remote ganglia. Either it’s pain at rest, or pain at work. It was never an absence of pain.
Cam was pleased with the tires. He braked. He let go of the wheel to see if the Duster pulled to the left or to the right. The tires were riding smooth. Perhaps he was just stalling again, but he asked Margaret if she really wanted to visit Tina at the commune. “What’s it called?” he asked her.
“Sun and Moon, I think.” She kept her voice flat. “Sun and Moon Farm.”
“Jesus,” Cam said.
“Wait, that’s perfect,” Tracy said. “It says everything. Your basic celestial dichotomy. Two opposing worlds that create continuity and balance on Earth—sun and moon.”
“Piss and shit,” Cam said.
A big, six-foot flag was nailed between two trees at the entrance of the commune. They stopped the car and looked at the place. Margaret wondered if maybe they should just roll away before they were seen. These organic gardens and whole-grain bakeries were always tainted by an inner conflict: capitalism, or socialism, which would it be? Her sister’s commune would probably be the same—flower children searching for an angle.
“That’s an Italian flag,” Cam said.
“No,” Tracy said, “it’s supposed to mean ecology, see? It says it right there on the green stripe.” Tracy was right, there was something written on the flag. The words said, Love Your Mother.
“Nice,” Cam said.
“I’ve heard that before,” Margaret said.
“Still looks Italian. Makes me think of a pizzeria,” Cam said.
They drove up the dirt road toward an old farmhouse and outbuildings. The place looked run-down, like an abandoned farm you can buy from the government for one dollar and a letter of intent. In a field near the buildings, a parachute billowed up and down, several children tugging its hem. The children ran in and out of the circle, making the silk lift, puff up, then deflate. It was supervised play of some kind, like Ring Around the Rosie using army surplus materials. “That chute’s from Nam,” Cam said.
“The parachute?” Margaret asked.
“Yeah, I can tell.”
“But you weren’t over there—in Vietnam, I mean.”
“It’s a Nam chute, I’m telling you.”
Tracy said, “I think that’s a Du Pont fiber. I’m sure it is.”
Tina was bronzed. Her teeth looked white as peppermint Beechies. “I’m always out in the sun,” she told them. She’d been planting trees. During the summer months, the commune was a children’s ecology camp, but it was a year-round Christmas tree farm. Tina said that they had just put in two new acres of Fraser fir seedlings. It was hard work, the pine needles were sharp, stabbing, and the gluey pine tar darkened her fingers like tobacco juice. Margaret saw that Tina’s hands were sore-looking.
Margaret kissed her sister and something rustled against her breast. “What’s that you’re wearing around your neck? Looks like some kind of origami?”
“Peace cranes,” Tina said. “That’s my forte. I teach peace cranes to the campers. That’s my expertise, my specialty.”
“Peace cranes?” Margaret asked. She looked at Tina’s heavy necklace, paper origami cranes in a matted half-circle.
“There’s a thousand on this necklace,” Tina said, “it’s my first thousand. Don’t you know the story?”
Tracy said, “Yes, I know that one. About the little girl after Hiroshima, right?”
“A little girl?” Margaret asked, she didn’t want to hear another gruesome story.
“She’s dying from radiation poisoning, right?” Tracy said. “She makes a wish, she cuts a deal—if she folds a thousand origami cranes for world peace, maybe she’ll recover.”
“Is this a true story?” Cam said.
Tina said, “Absolutely.” The whites of her eyes were very white, like the tiny porcelain rim around sheeps’ eyes, or the overly alert ceramic eyes of dolls. Margaret studied her sister and figured it was probably the deep walnut color of her skin that accentuated the whites of her eyes. She’d seen that same dogmatic look on church rectors and overenthused athletic coaches. A single-mindedness seems to bleach the eyes as the skin weathers.
“What happens to the girl, does she fold all those cranes on time? Does she get better?” Cam said.
“Nine hundred and something,” Tracy said, “then she buys it.”
“Oh Christ,” Cam said.
“How many of these cranes have you folded, Tina?” Margaret asked.
“Thousands and thousands. I fold hundreds a week, and I keep going.”
Margaret felt a little queasy. Tina could do this to her. Tina was in her forties, still driving her VW micro bus, rust spots patched with fiberglass, its original logo altered, soldered to form a peace sign. The vehicle was a relic, something for the Museum of Natural History; Margaret could research how Tina’s consciousness evolved by tracing the cellophane scabs from the decals and stickers. It all started with a single butterfly chair back in the late fifties. Margaret remembered her sister sitting cross-legged in her chair with those black canvas wings. Then she joined a group called the Peace Pilgrims. She started traveling, living out of her van. She kept several disposable toilets in neat stacks, some cottage cheese containers that she was meticulous about although she seemed to flaunt them. She sat Indian-style, no matter what the social function. Then she refused to wash her hair, she just inserted a piece of cheesecloth over the bristles of her hairbrush. “Shampoo robs the essence from hair,” she said.
During a visit home, she hurt Elizabeth’s feelings when she refused to eat a piece of homemade blueberry pie. Elizabeth showed her the thick slice, the rich mirrory fruit, like mercury on the plate.
“Y
ou can’t eat the pie? This used to be your favorite,” Elizabeth said. Tina explained, she couldn’t eat anything “picked,” nothing could be harvested. Fruit had to fall on its own. Fallen fruit was all she would eat.
When Tina learned to make sandals she pestered Margaret or Cam, asking if she could trace someone’s foot on a piece of leather. Margaret finally agreed. She watched her sister ink a rough outline of her foot on a piece of cowhide. The pen tickled her instep as Tina drew the arch line, then she curved around her toes, leaving enough space for the thong.
Once, when Tina visited, Elizabeth washed Tina’s dashiki with the family laundry and the dye ran, erasing the ancient patterns from the African cloth. Everything else was stained.
Tina was showing Cam around the farmhouse. There was a big wheel of cheese left out on the kitchen table. “Cam, have a piece,” she said, shaving the cheese with a knife. “The great news is,” Tina was saying, “the cranes make me financially independent.”
“The cranes?”
Tina explained that she earned one-hundred-dollar stipends from the public schools. She brought her own colored paper, the glazed kind for folding origami; regular construction paper was too hairy and coarse. Reporters wrote newspaper articles about Tina, calling her the “Origami Mommy.” She kept clippings about herself, her paper empire, in a manila folder. She made Xerox copies of these newspaper articles to promote herself.
“You get paid?” Margaret said.
Tina cut a curl of cheese and handed it to her sister. “I give peace instruction, it’s not just arts and crafts.”
Some others joined them as they stood around the cheese. Tina pulled Cam by his sleeve. “I’d like you to meet my friends Tru and Clear.”