by Mitch Cullin
Then I left indignantly, pausing only to struggle from the gown, and hurried naked out the front door.
Beyond the porch, a clear sky stretched above the Johnsongrass. And while maneuvering past corroded nail caps that jutted from the planks, I squinted in the sunlight, which landed hot on my legs and stomach. Going down into the yard, I squatted beside the bottom porch step, and began urinating in the weeds. The piss came in a gush, spattering my ankles. Eventually, a small puddle formed underneath me, and I had to move my feet further out so they wouldn’t get wet.
When the pee dwindled, I glanced up with intense relief - and to my astonishment, a doe stood no more than twenty feet from where I hunched. She had wandered from the Johnsongrass with her long neck crooked, grazing at the nettles on the ground. At first I was so startled by the sight of her that I couldn’t think what to do. But finally I took a deep breath, pushed upright, and said, "Hi, are you hungry?"
Her head shot up, ears twitching, and her big eyes fixed on me. Keeping my gaze locked on her, I stooped and yanked at the stems of several weeds, all having been wetted by my urine. Then I went forward, carefully putting one foot in front of the other, offering the uprooted weeds in an open palm. But as I approached, she bolted. That’s when I spotted her left hind leg dangling at the joint, as if the bone had somehow been snapped at the femur.
"Don’t go!” I yelled, watching as she sprang into the Johnsongrass, the bad leg straggling, and disappeared on the cattle trail. "Come back! " I shut my palm, crushing the weeds, then threw them at the ground. "Stupid, I got you food!”
I considered bounding after her. If she knew how fast I can run, I thought, she’d be my friend. Then I could feed her and pet her and bring her into the farmhouse so she could sleep. I imagined hugging her in the kitchen, where she’d heal with the gown tied on her leg like a silky bandage. But when I heard the scampering, jabbering racket coming from behind, the idea of pursuit faded.
As I spun around, the noise stopped abruptly. Putting my hands above my brow, I scanned the porch. But nothing unusual presented itself. So I tilted my chin back, looked at the awning of roof that hung over the porch, and found myself eye-to-eye with a gray squirrel; he was frozen in place with a bushy tail curling near his head, studying this naked child in the yard below: "I see you," I said, grinning. "I know you’re there. You can’t hide.”
With his tail darting, the squirrel chattered at me briefly, an incomprehensible and irritated sound. On the edge of the awning, he made skirting movements left and right, freezing each time to give me an askance stare, then ran nimbly across the roof, scurrying to the east end of What Rocks. I followed in the yard, scratching my thighs on the overgrown buckthorn that had sprouted from under the porch.
"What were you saying?” I asked.
Reminding me of Spiderman, the squirrel sprinted along the exterior wall, traversing the wooden siding with tentative stops and starts. He halted beside the upstairs window of my father’s room, where a wide knothole existed. And even though the hole appeared too narrow, the squirrel squeezed halfway in, chattered some more with his rear section and tail sticking out, then slipped through with no effort.
"You better wait," I said, hoping he might hear me and return. "I didn’t understand you.”
Because the knothole was by the window, I pictured the squirrel exploring my father’s room, rummaging in the backpack on the mattress, sniffing at the empty Schnapps bottle. And I recalled a documentary my father and I once saw on PBS, which showed how clever squirrels could be -- hanging upside down from branches and stealing bird-feeder seeds, sailing between trees in order to avoid elaborate lawn traps set by angry homeowners.
"Pigeons without wings,” was what my father called them.
Sometimes the two of us took long walks alongside the L.A. River. When we reached Webster Park, he delighted in chasing pigeons from our path, kicking at them with his boots. But if my father hated pigeons, he hated squirrels even more.
"They’re like rats," he explained. "They’ll chew on any- thing, practically eat metal. Not worth shit. At least you know where you stand with a rat."
"I don’t think I like rats," I told him.
"Well, I don’t like squirrels,” he said.
As a boy, a squirrel he’d captured in a milk crate bit him.
"Broke the skin on my thumb so bad I could’ve bled to death. Me and my cousin beat it dead with a bat, but not before it tried climbing my pants leg, all crazy and mad. I swear that sucker meant to do me harm. Then for months afterwards I kept getting these really horrible dreams -- squirrels all over my bedroom, in my bed, gone totally nuts, tangling themselves in my hair, sinking those big yellow teeth deep in my scalp, tearing at everything. It was awful."
And on those afternoon walks, my father often picked a nice-sized rock from the ground. Then we’d leave the path and go behind a bush, huddling in anticipation. Soon as a squirrel wandered into view, he’d leap forward, pitching the rock like a baseball player. Usually he missed, but on at least three occasions a squirrel was struck, sending it rolling over in the grass.
"Gotcha," he said, almost laughing as the stunned rodent struggled to its feet. "Look at the poor dumb thing!"
Standing directly beneath the upstairs window, I knew my father would hate the idea of a squirrel lurking somewhere in the farmhouse.
"You’ll get in trouble,” I shouted at the knothole, "so you shouldn’t be in there!” It became apparent that the squirrel wasn’t listening, so I rushed onto the porch, once again minding the nail caps, and went inside.
While passing the living room, I said to my father, "I’m not telling you a secret because you won’t like it. "
Then I skipped to the stairs, thinking that if the squirrel was hiding in What Rocks, I’d need some serious help. In my bedroom, I wondered which Barbie head would join me. Contemplating each piece on the mattress, the decision was easy. Magic Curl Barbie head, with her thick blond hair, lacked guts. Both Fashion Jeans Barbie head and Cut ’N Style Barbie head were damaged -- someone had stabbed a hole in Fashion Jeans’ right eye, Cut ’N Style’s forehead and eyes had been colored black with a pen. My choice was Classique Benefit Ball Barbie head, my favorite, and the only one to have real rooted eyelashes.
Planting Classique’s head on my index finger, I said, "Are you ready?”
"Of course," she replied, "I was born ready."
"Good, because this could get pretty dangerous.”
"How wonderful.”
Creeping into the bathroom, we hesitated by the door to my father’s room. "I’m scared,” I whispered. "What if he tries to bite me?”
"Nonsense. You’re a big girl. A squirrel is only a squirrel."
"I know,” I said, turning the knob. "But you go first."
The hinges squealed as I pushed the door open. And before going in, I made certain the squirrel wasn’t hanging above the doorway, ready to drop on my head. Then I extended my arm, entering with Classique leading the way.
"See there," she said. "Safe as houses."
Everything was as before -- the dirty clothes and Schnapps bottle, the backpack, the lamp on the night table, the throw rug on the floor.
"But I’m sure he’s here," I said, walking forward.
I had expected to find the squirrel waiting on the mattress, upright on his hind legs, teeth flared, paws punching in my direction.
"Don’t be so sure, dear."
We leaned, peeking under the box spring, spotting dust balls, a folded section of newspaper, the exoskeletons of several June bugs. Then we crawled across the mattress, where I examined the windowsill, searching for the other side of the knothole.
"Where does it come out?"
"Beats me," Classique said. "Maybe he’s magic. Maybe he isn’ t really a squirrel at all but a fairy.”
I pressed my nose against the wood paneling, sniffing like a bloodhound for any sign of the squirrel. A strong butternut smell filled my nostrils, almost producing a sneeze.
So I turned my head, easing an ear against the paneling, and listened.
"Not even as good as a pigeon," I said.
"Unless he’s magical. That’s what he was telling you, I think.”
"Maybe,” I said, catching a bustling patter within the inner wall. "Do you hear that?”
"I think so."
"He’s in the wall," I said, tapping an area left of the windowsill. "Classique, he’s right in here." And as I tapped harder, the stirring quit.
Then I heard chattering.
Then silence.
"What do we do now?”
"If you want my opinion,” Classique said, "I think you should get dressed. If you put clothes on, you won’t frighten the animals away.”
"You’re right,” I said, suddenly self-conscious.
"I know," she replied.
Returning to my bedroom, I put Classique with the other Barbie heads, then scooped my dress from the floor, saying, "I don’t believe in fairies. Only lightning bugs are like fairies anyway, not squirrels. Squirrel butts don’t glow, just lightning bug and fairy butts.”
Once the dress was on, I sat at the edge of the mattress, cradling the socks and sneakers in my lap. The socks stank, so did my feet.
"Frito feet,” I called them, inspecting the brown undersurface of my right foot. Then, before pulling on the sneakers, I whiffed the frayed insoles, recoiling from the sharp aroma.
"Gross,” I said, snorting a laugh. "Spaghetti cheese.”
And suddenly my stomach rumbled. The Peanut Butter Girl needs breakfast, I thought. Then I remembered my lip. I searched for the slit with my tongue, but couldn’t locate it. So dragging my shoelaces across the floor, I headed into the bathroom for a better look.
In the mirror above the sink, I turned my lip down.
"Stop pouting,” I told myself, trying to sound like my mother.
The cut had all but healed, so I crossed my eyes for a second, growling at my reflection: "You’re hopeless, Jeliza-Rose. What are you good for? You can’t even keep bleeding?"
Then I knelt to tie my sneakers. And while knotting the laces, I noticed a small hatch below the sink, fashioned from the same wood as the wall panels. It was kept shut by a night latch which had become speckled with rust.
In my imagination, the hatch was the door Alice unlocked in the rabbit-hole, opening to reveal a corridor that ended at a garden, where beds of bright flowers and cool fountains existed. And because the entry was bigger than what Alice had discovered, a DRINK ME potion wasn’t needed for shrinking.
"Classique,” I shouted, using both hands to pivot the bolt from its notch, "there’s a way in!” The other end of the knot- hole, I thought. Squirrel, you can’t hide from me.
As the hatch swung ajar, a humid draft rushed out, bringing the scent of sawdust into the bathroom. From where I crouched, it was impossible to tell what lay beyond the hatch, except a murky space illuminated by an insubstantial amount of natural light. There was no passageway to be seen, no garden, no squirrels drinking from fountains.
So I went and got Classique, who said, "Bring Magic Curl with us. She can help."
"Are we going in?" I asked, sticking Magic Curl on my pinky.
"I think so, dear. I don’t see why not.”
"I don’t want to go,” Magic Curl said. "This isn’t a good idea.”
"Shut up, you baby,” Classique snapped at her. "You’re not going in with us, you’re just keeping guard.”
"Why can’t Fashion Jeans or Cut ’N Style do it?"
"Believe me, I wish they could,” Classique said. "But both your eyeballs work good, so it’s your job, okay? And if you keep on complaining -- then me and Jeliza-Rose will cut off all your hair.”
"Please don’t," Magic Curl whimpered. "I’ll behave."
"You better," I said. "You’d better just watch it."
In the bathroom, I left Magic Curl in front of the hatch.
"Please be careful," she said.
"We will,” I replied.
"If we’re not back in an hour," Classique told Magic Curl, "then come after us because it means we’re being pulverized."
Then Classique and I crossed through the hatchway, where we soon found ourselves standing among the exposed fiberglass insulation of the farmhouse attic.
"It’s a little cave,” I said, blinking while my sight adjusted.
With daylight slanting in from a side vent, the attic was less dim than it had seemed.
Plumbing curved out of the wall behind us.
Electrical wiring, red and black and yellow, ran overhead.
Before us sat three cardboard boxes and a large trunk.
"Those boxes,” Classique said, "let’s take a look.”
"I don't know.”
"Are you scared again?”
"I don’t know.”
"Don’t be. What’s so spooky about a box?”
"It’s the treasure chest that’s spooky."
"But I bet there’s only slippers and maybe gold in it.”
"Or a killed thing,” I said, thrusting Classique ahead as we ducked spiderwebs and a length of insulation that drooped from the sloped ceiling.
"It’s Grandmother’s stuff,” said Classique.
"Yeah," I said, brushing a fine layer of dust off the cardboard tops.
All three boxes had been written on with a marker, each with a different word (LPs. PICTURE BOOKS. CHRISTMAS). In the first box were old 78s, haphazardly packed, the plain wrappers just a bit more brittle than the records. The second box contained six photo albums, but we didn’t recognize any of the faces in the black-and-white shots -- children riding a scooter and a tricycle and a horse, men and women at a picnic in a field, a fishing trip, a wedding, an oblong brick home surrounded by other oblong brick homes.
"Strangers,” Classique said. "Nobodies.”
The third box offered broken Christmas ornaments, shatered in shards of green, silver, and red, with the hook attachments still intact.
"Worthless junk."
"Totally worthless. We need gold -- and slippers. Gold slippers are good too."
The chest reeked of mothballs. Inside were three blond wigs, all tangled in a clump, which frightened me.
"It’s a head.” I said, stepping backwards.
"No,” said Classique. "See, there’s clothes."
I looked again, realizing the wigs belonged to a larger design: two long fluffy boas stretched alongside a baggy chemise. And there were hats. A bonnet, a pillbox, and a torn cloche. Deeper in the chest, sandwiched between the wrap-arounds and embroidered quilts, was a large mason jar containing a black cosmetic bag -- as if the items within the bag were meant to be preserved forever, sealed away from the heat and dusty air of the attic.
"She wanted to be beautiful," I told Classique, picturing Grandmother at the front door of What Rocks, one of the boas wound about her neck, fluttering a gloved hand at someone; her crimson lips pursed, her blond wig styled and capped by the cloche.
"She wasn’t beautiful," Classique said. "She was old.”
"She was my grandmother?
"She was ugly with boxes of junk.”
"You’re lying,” I said. "If you don’t shut up, we’re leaving.”
But we stayed in the attic until I remembered Magic Curl. Then I turned and gazed at the hatchway. Classique nodded on my fingertip, but we didn’t move. From our perspective, the hatch seemed almost as tiny as the knothole.
"We’re squirrels," I finally said. "That’s what we are."
But Classique couldn’t say anything. I didn’t want her to.
"Jeliza-Rose and Classique are outside looking for us," I said. "But they can’t find where we’re hiding.”
And as we headed toward the bathroom, I removed her from my finger, clutched her in a fist, and pretended my footsteps left pawprints on the dirty floorboards.
7
I was planning on visiting the grazing pasture at dusk, where I’d wait in the bus for the fireflies. And I wouldn’t let the train catch me off
guard. That’s why I dug Grandmother’s cloth bonnet from the attic chest -- when the train approached that evening, the bonnet would be on, tied securely under my chin, shielding my ears.
But after retrieving the bonnet, my shins began itching; I’d brushed against fiberglass as I crawled through the hatchway.
"It’s awful," I told Classique in my bedroom.
"You’ll make yourself bleed," she said, watching from my finger as I scratched at my shins. "Do it any harder and you’ll cut yourself. "
I kept scraping like mad until the pain became greater than the itchiness. Then I sighed with relief and flopped onto my bed.
"That’s good,” I said, my shins burning. "That’s better.”
"I’m bored. This is boring. Let's spin on the porch.”
Classique hovered in front of my face like a fly, so I twirled my finger, rotating her in a circular motion.
"Stop it," she said. "I’ll get dizzy and barf."
"No you won’t. You can’t. Your mouth doesn’t work." I quit jiggling my finger, just in case.
My mother warned me about spinning in circles, not to do it in the apartment, especially following a meal. She said gyrating caused vomiting. But I never got sick. I spun during commercial breaks, arms outstretched. And I loved doing it in the living room -- the carpet scrunching and the TV whizzing by -- while my mother was unconscious, and my father slept on the couch. The wall pictures turned blurry with streaking colors and the shag carpet burned underfoot and snagged between my toes and the TV shot past as an eruption of static. Overhead, the bumpy ceiling swirled like a milk-white whirlpool and the plaster bumps were smoothed as the spinning increased, flattening everything, the edges all dissolved. Another spin in the opposite direction, the shag roots tugging and gritting, the living room easily shifting gears.
When my mother was awake, she could hear the sounds of my twirling from her bedroom. And she’d yell; I was only allowed to do splits in the living room, and handstands on my bed. The mattress was close to the floor, firm and wide. My neck wouldn’t get broken if I fell. Still, handstands were tedious, so I usually did a couple before quitting. The splits were okay. Sometimes she had me do them in her bedroom, smiling as I brought my nose to the carpet. But spinning in the living room was what I loved, and the dizziness afterwards.