Without Annette

by Jane B. Mason

  Now we were starting to talk about indigenous cultures of the Amazon, some of whom had very unusual beliefs. At times the subject seemed to transform Professor Mannering into a little kid telling ghost stories around a campfire, while at others he seemed overcome with guilt about having been a colonist himself. Starting when he was nine years old, he’d spent two years in Ecuador with his explorer father.

  “We visited many cultures, but the one my father was most interested in was the Shuar,” he explained, his eyes a surprisingly bright blue behind his glasses. He’d actually cleaned them! “The Shuar were technically under Quito government, but they lived so deep in the Amazon jungle that they governed themselves. Seeing a non-tribesman was unusual—seeing a white man was really unusual … unless of course the white man was a hallucination.”

  Professor Mannering went on to explain that the Shuar believed that the regular “waking” life wasn’t real. “The forces that determined events were supernatural, and could be witnessed, understood, and manipulated with the help of their ancestors and natema, a brew made from an Amazonian vine.” He paused for a moment. “A strong hallucinogen.”

  “Oh, come on,” Damon said. “That’s crazy.”

  “Not to the Shuar, it isn’t.” Professor Mannering’s face was dead serious. “Appropriate ceremonial use of natema helps a Shuar warrior find out who he is bound to kill.”

  The class erupted into guffaws, but Professor Mannering pulled us back. “Peoples,” he said, “who are we to say that another’s beliefs are wrong? Who is anyone?” He was perched on the edge of his desk like a vulture on a fence. “The Shuar are loyal to their beliefs. They don’t believe in death by natural causes—they believe it to be the result of invisible enemy attack. Under the influence of natema, they discover who is responsible, and once that is known, they have little choice but to gather forces, plan an attack, and kill them.”

  “Of course they have a choice. Everyone has a choice,” a girl named Maxine said.

  Professor Mannering’s face darkened. “Technically, yes. But such things are not always so simple. Revenge is deeply rooted in the Shuar culture, as is ancestral loyalty. Without the blessing of those who came before them, they believe, their culture will not survive. Not exacting revenge for a death will bring the wrath of their ancestors and, indeed, their own demise.

  “It often took weeks or months to plan an attack, and several days of difficult travel on foot to complete it.”

  Marina raised her hand. “What about the shrunken head business?”

  Professor Mannering blinked, and hesitated, as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. “The shrunken head?”

  “Wasn’t it normal practice for the Shuar to shrink the heads of their victims?”

  “Oh yes, you mean the tsantsa,” Professor Mannering replied, his face relaxing a little. “I was getting to that. After the enemy is slain, his head is cut off, and a meticulous process of skinning and shrinking begins, often during the journey home.”

  He paused for a sip of coffee. “During the headshrinking process, various rules must be strictly upheld. Warriors must abstain from sex, and certain foods and other activities must be avoided. This is to help keep certain spirits away—not doing so is extremely dangerous.”

  “This is all sounding like hocus-pocus,” Damon said.

  “Not to a Shuar, it doesn’t,” Marina said.

  “To them, this is life … or death.” Professor Mannering dropped his gaze to the floor, as if he suddenly wanted to hide his eyes for a moment, and cleared his throat before continuing. “I will not go over every little detail of headshrinking—this is not a neurosurgical class. But I will tell you that a skilled headshrinker can remove the skin, hair, and cartilage from the head and skull in just fifteen minutes.”

  The classroom grew completely silent.

  “The entire shrinking process takes nearly a week and involves boiling the head and the use of hot sand and pebbles to cure the skin. The eyes and lips are sewn shut so that the spirit of the victim cannot see, or cry for revenge. The skin is blackened to keep the spirit from escaping altogether.”

  His blue eyes looked right at me and I realized I was holding my pencil in a death grip. I put it down.

  “Europeans saw the tsantsa as mere trophies,” he said. “But to the Shuar, they were the souls of their enemies. The trapped and powerless souls of their enemies,” he added. “A tsantsa would be worn for approximately one year, during which time three important ceremonies were held to show the ancestors that revenge had been accomplished. After the third ceremony, the head was discarded.”

  “Discarded?” Penn repeated. It was the first time he’d spoken during the entire class. “Like, thrown away?”

  “Not exactly. They were sometimes given to children, or sold to Europeans.”

  “Sold?”

  “Traded is more accurate, I suppose. The Shuar traditions went unchanged for hundreds of years, but by the end of the twentieth century, white men’s intrusion and fascination with shrunken heads created a commercial demand. The Shuar were amenable to trade, and the rate of exchange was simple: a gun for a head.”

  A gun for a head. The words swirled.

  “Demand for tsantsa led to an increase in tribal warfare, however, while at the same time the white man’s diseases caused many Shuar deaths … deaths that, naturally, had to be avenged.”

  “So the white man killed the Shuar with their germs, which made Shuar kill more Shuar, and in the end the Europeans got the heads.” Marina looked more than a little horrified.

  “That is precisely correct, I’m afraid,” Professor Mannering agreed. “And perhaps even worse was when a white man came in contact with a tsantsa before the ceremonies had been completed, when it still carried the soul of the victim. I myself know of cases in which a Shuar warrior was forced to abandon his sacred tsantsa before completing his obligation to his ancestors.”

  “Abandon? Like just leave it somewhere?” I asked.

  Professor Mannering nodded solemnly. “Yes, Ms. Little, I’m afraid so.”

  “But where?”

  “Wherever seemed safest at the time, I suppose. In the river, or the jungle …” Professor Mannering’s voice faltered. “But certainly the location matters less than the actual abandonment. Imagine killing someone, shrinking his head, and then just leaving it somewhere, knowing that your ancestors will exact horrible revenge for not fulfilling your sacred obligation, but that handing over a sacred tsantsa to a white man would make the ancestral revenge even worse.”

  “Between a rock and a hard place,” Maxine murmured.

  “Between ancestors and aggressive, colonizing Westerners,” Professor Mannering said as the bell rang. I blinked at the clock, surprised that forty-five minutes had already passed.

  I glanced down at my notes and shuddered. While I’d been sitting in anthropology, a skilled Shuar warrior could have removed my head from my skull three times.

  “What do you think, my child?” Roxanne asked, emerging from the bathroom with her hands pressed together, as if in prayer. Her face was a mask of empathetic calm. “Tell me your sins.”

  “Too many to list!” I grinned and adjusted my habit. It was Halloween and we were going as a pair—priest and nun. I pulled my black robe over my head and added one of the cross necklaces we’d made out of cardboard, black string, and metallic gold paint from the art studio.

  Roxanne bowed slightly and pulled a bottle of Grey Goose from the folds of her robe; we’d splurged with my recent poker winnings. “Let us bow our heads together in drink,” she said in monotone. She poured two shots and handed one to me. “To the sinners of the world, and therefore, job security.”

  I chuckled as we clinked, and drank.

  Roxanne wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Speaking of sins, maybe you can find Penn and pucker up—cause a little scandal in the church,” she teased in her regular voice.

  I whacked her on the arm before screwing the top back on
and stashing it in the closet. “That’s just what we need,” I said as I reemerged. “Scandal.”

  We dutifully popped our Altoids into our mouths, shoved our pockets full of the fun-size candies my mom had sent in a care package, and checked our side-by-side reflections, making final adjustments. Roxanne pulled two small prayer books out of a desk drawer.

  “You have prayer books?” I asked, unable to keep the incredulity out of my voice.

  She shook her head and handed one over. “I stole them from the chapel.”

  “Another sin!”

  Laughing, we left the room, our robes swirling behind us as we descended the dormitory stairs. When we hit the first floor, my laughter halted. I hadn’t talked to Annette or Penn since the kissing incident and was, secretly, grateful. What was I supposed to say to Penn? And, more important, to Annette? I had no desire to kiss Penn again, that much was clear to me. But untangling how I felt about being so adored by someone—even a boy—wasn’t so easy. And Penn’s affection cast a sallow light on my relationship with Annette. So much had happened between us in the last two months—so much pulling apart. What was left to hold us together?

  You should tell her about Penn’s kiss, said a voice.

  No, don’t, said another.

  What do I owe her? they both wondered.

  The door to Annette’s room was closed. Was she behind it? Already dressed? She hadn’t decided what she was going to be as of lunch the day before, and Becca had been full of suggestions. Becca was always full of suggestions, suggestions Annette seemed to accept as if they were gospel.

  “Coming?” Roxanne called from the exit door, looking very serious in her priestly attire. I hurried to catch up with her and we left the dorm, skirting the main building to the other side of campus and perusing every costumed figure we passed. I was particularly impressed with the outhouse and the gaggle of boys dressed as showgirls.

  “Nice legs!” Roxanne hooted.

  “Thank you, Reverend.”

  Normally, students weren’t allowed off campus on Friday nights—it wasn’t considered the weekend since we had classes on Saturday—but Halloween was an exception. Away from campus, the streets grew more and more boisterous with every passing block. Little kids clutched their candy bags and rushed from house to house, ringing doorbells and stuffing candy into their mouths. By the time we got to the House of Horrors, an old gabled Victorian covered in fake spiderwebs, we were in a swarm of costumed individuals, young and old. The line was fifty people long.

  I scoped out the scene, pretending not to have my eyes peeled for Annette. I couldn’t help it, really—we’d spent every Halloween together since we were six, and she was usually my costume partner.

  “I hate lines,” Roxanne complained, falling in behind giant bottles of catsup and mustard.

  “So use your position with the church to cut, then,” an approaching voice suggested. It was Hank.

  “That’s more your style than mine,” Roxanne retorted, eyeing his outfit. He was dressed as the Flash, complete with yellow boots and foam lightning bolts instead of ears. “And who will you be flashing tonight, I wonder?”

  “Not me,” Penn said, tugging his fur-lined hood over his head. Was he trying to avoid making eye contact with me? He was the Flash’s nemesis, Captain Cold, and had on a blue-and-white ski parka and a pair of white fur boots. Coming up behind them was the Green Lantern … Sam.

  “Mr. Moon was in charge of costumes, I presume?” I said. Penn was right next to me, and though it wasn’t the first time I’d seen him since the kiss, it was as close as I’d gotten.

  Hank tugged at his red unitard near his crotch. “I certainly didn’t come up with this madness.”

  “I think you look pretty good,” I said, smirking. “Not everyone is willing to attempt the red-hot superhero look.”

  Roxanne glared at me, her eyes clearly saying “now you’re calling this jerk a superhero?”

  “Can’t you just freeze this guy out?” she asked Penn.

  Penn shook his head. “Afraid not. He’s too fast.”

  “You can say that again,” Roxanne agreed while I continued to scan the crowd. The line was moving pretty quickly and we were almost at the entrance.

  “Say what again?” Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz asked. Only it wasn’t really Dorothy—it was Becca. And Marina, dressed as the same barmaid she’d been at Dress to Impress, with a few alterations. I half wondered why she’d repeated the costume—I knew for a fact that she had way more creativity than that.

  “Becca should really be the Wicked Witch of the West,” I whispered to Roxanne as someone in the crowd let out a low whistle.

  “Hell-o, Ariel,” someone hooted.

  “You wanna swim over here, princess?”

  I turned and saw Annette teetering up the sidewalk. Uff-da, I thought as I tried to take in what I was seeing. She was wearing a costume she’d worn before—Ariel—only this version was different. This version was …

  My brain searched helplessly for the right word.

  “Doesn’t she look incredible?” Becca fingered a Dorothy braid and grinned like a Cheshire cat while Annette wobbled up to us, hastily trying to adjust her flap of a tail with the help of Cat-in-the-Hat Cynthia.

  Ariel-Annette’s metallic green tail was skintight, the filmy purple bodice totally sheer except for the shell-shaped cups, studded with pearls, that covered her breasts. Her hair had been dyed a hideous orangey red.

  “Hi, everyone,” she said breathlessly while I tried to get a handle on her purple eyelids and fire-red lips. And then, to me, “I’m Ariel again. Remember when I was Ariel?” She giggled. “This time I got to dye my hair.”

  Of course I remembered. We were eight and had gone as a duo—Ariel and Ursula, from The Little Mermaid. Shannon had refused to let Annette dye her hair, and as I watched her fiddle with her bodice, I found myself thinking that, against all odds, Shannon had been right.

  “I hope the color is temporary,” I murmured. It was hard to look at her, and I could tell she’d been drinking by the way her words sort of slid together. Not slurred, exactly, but slippery. Not that I really had the right to judge. We’d all been drinking. It was the Brookwood norm.

  Annette leaned into Penn, who was clearly trying not to look too closely at her costume (unlike Hank, who seemed unable to help himself). Becca tugged her upright, and I found myself wanting to take Annette by the elbow and walk her up the hill to our dorm, to see her safely home. Or at least put Penn’s Captain Cold parka on her—she was shivering. But taking care of Annette wasn’t my job anymore. Hadn’t she made it clear that she didn’t want my input, or help?

  “Nice shells,” I finally said. I was momentarily tempted to knock on one, to see what they were made of, but we had arrived at the door of the decorated Victorian—it was time for the House of Horrors.

  “No cutting,” Roxanne said to the others, sounding fed up. She handed our tickets to a familiar-looking Dracula while everyone else moved away.

  “Hey,” Dracula greeted me. I had the vague feeling I was supposed to know him, but didn’t, so I crammed a Milky Way in my mouth and stepped into the haunted house. Which, it turned out, was not nearly as scary as a tipsy Annette with fake red hair, bad makeup, and a skintight costume. Still, the spooky sound track was unnervingly loud and the whole place smelled like latex and fake smoke. I was more than a little relieved when we finally exited the side door into the night.

  As if on autopilot, I rushed around to the front of the gabled house, my eyes adjusting to the light as I scanned for the rest of our crowd, for Ariel-Annette. I tried to remember how long the line had been when we’d gone in but had no recollection whatsoever.

  “Are we going to stand here and wait?” Roxanne asked. “Because I can think of about a hundred other things I’d rather do.” She waved her prayer book.

  “Really? A hundred?” I unwrapped a Kit Kat.

  “All right, five.”

  I bit off the top layer of crispy wafer.
Roxanne was right. What was I waiting for? Annette was clearly having her own Halloween, without me. “One is enough,” I said between chews. “Let’s go.”

  We headed up a narrow road with massive, decked-out-with-skeletons-and-fake-gravestones houses, and cut through the woods into a church parking lot, emerging next to a small graveyard (a real one) flanked by forest.

  “A cemetery?” Until that moment I’d had no idea it was even there.

  “Yeah, and famously old. Some of the people in here died in the Civil War.” She pulled a flask from the folds of her robe. “How about a little Communion?”

  “Vodka, tombstones, and fun-size chocolates,” I said with a hollow laugh. “What a combination.” Part of me was still back at the House of Horrors with Annette and the others—a bigger part than I wanted to admit. Seeing her in that sleazy Disney mermaid costume had been crazily unnerving. What made her dress up like that? Did she know what she looked like? Could she see herself, or was she too smashed together with the other microbes in the Brookwood petri dish? She’d told me she wanted people to see her as an individual before we told them we were a couple, but as the weeks passed, she seemed less and less herself. Is that true? I wondered. Or is it just that she’s becoming less and less of who you want her to be?

  Roxanne led the way along the row of stone crypts, peering at the engravings on the tombstones. “Eleanor Bradshaw, loyal wife, mother, and friend, 1868 to 1952. Calvin Northrop, civil leader and loving father, 1898 to 1967.”

  Our feet crunched over the fallen leaves as she read inscriptions aloud, searching for the right dead person to sit with. “Frances Stone, 1893 to 1993. Now With Her Creator.”

  I shook my head slightly. “Too religious, even for you and your prayer book.”

  “It’s not mine!” Roxanne unscrewed the top of the flask and took a sip. “Frank Mathison, 1902 to 1919.”

  “A teenager,” I noted. “All right if we sit with you, Frankie?” The only response was wind rustling the trees and distant hoots of Halloween laughter.