Tideland

by Mitch Cullin

  "You don’t come back!" I yelled, stepping to the floor.

  But I knew he wouldn’t return; that was why I left the bed. I was going to discover how he got inside What Rocks; it didn’t make sense. I stood at the bathroom doorway. I glanced over a shoulder, like a paratrooper on the verge of plunging. I was alone. Classique and the others had been bounced into unconsciousness. They probably wouldn’t join me anyway, not on this mission. So I entered the bathroom, tip-toeing, with eyes alert and ready.

  I noticed the hatch at once; it was slightly open, wide enough for a squirrel. When I brought the wig and cosmetic bag from the attic, I’d forgotten to shut the night latch. And peeking through the opening I spotted him. He was near the chest. He was nibbling on scrap wood, holding it in his paws. I didn’t yell or call for Classique. I didn’t want the squirrel to know I’d found him. This was how it should be -- me spying on him while he did squirrel stuff, like nibble and then clean his face by wetting his paws. I wasn’t mad that the squirrel got in the attic. This was better than stalking him outside.

  Also, I liked the idea of doing something without Classique, but she often became jealous if I ignored her. So I’d make certain she wouldn’t know about the squirrel, how I could see his busy paws, his head between them as he rubbed at his snout, cleaning. I could see him scratching his side with a hind leg. I was thrilled. I could have clapped my hands with delight. But I was scared to make a sound, or everything might get ruined.

  I could hear Classique stirring, whispering my name. But I didn’t answer. I’d wait by the hatch until the squirrel went away, then I’d leave the bathroom before Classique panicked. But she kept saying my name; she’d whisper it all day, thinking the squirrel had punctured my brain and dragged me into the attic for a chew.

  I wanted to scratch my shins. It was humid here, heat pushing from the attic. It was hot. The squirrel sniffed and glanced my way.

  Caught.

  He bit the air with his teeth. He tried to bluster me, to bully my eyes, to keep me from looking.

  We were gazing at each other now, waiting for one another to bolt. It’d be finished soon; Classique would know I was in the bathroom and bellow. These were the final seconds of just me and the squirrel. Next thing, he was scampering toward the vent. He was squeezing between the slants, gone again.

  "The wig needs help! It’s in trouble! Where are you?"

  It was Classique.

  "Don’t rush me,” I said, pushing the night latch. "I’m in here minding my own business.”

  And as I exited the bathroom, my right foot landed on the wig and I almost slipped.

  "See there," said Classique. "That wig is trouble."

  "That’s not what you said,” I told her.

  "That’s exactly what I said."

  I put the wig on. Then Classique.

  "I’m hungry,” I said. "Are you?”

  "Silly,” she said, "I don’t have a stomach. It goes in my mouth and drops on the floor like pooh.”

  "Gross.” I laughed. "You’re gross. Now I’m not hungry."

  But I was lying; nothing could prevent me from eating. Not even army ants. They were in the kitchen, raiding the saltines. They crawled around the rim of the peanut butter jar, explored the water jug. They’d stolen chunks from a Wonder Bread slice. It bothered me. But I should’ve sealed everything up the night before. Then all the ants could scavenge were crumbs, and the peanut butter smeared on the counter -- I’d been sloppy -- and the bread crust I’d removed like a scab, tossing it aside. They were welcome to the crust. I hated it more than them.

  So I ate without destroying any ants. I just thumped them from the jar, from the cracker box.

  "Pulverize them," said Classique. "Make them die."

  She was annoyed. She was pouting. She’d got peanut butter in her hair when I’d scooped some with a finger. I was always getting junk in her hair, glue or toothpaste. She worried her hair would fall out. Aside from her rooted eyelashes, it was all she had, and she had lots of it -- but baldness still tormented her. I was concerned too, so at home I bathed her and washed her hair. I never used a lot of shampoo and I always combed it afterwards. Every time. Her red hair was thick. If I didn’t comb it, she’d go frizzy and look stupid.

  "These ants are evil,” said Classique. "They’re poisoning everything. It isn’t funny.”

  "But it’s my fault." I’d finished my peanut butter crackers and was licking my finger-knife. "They’d go somewhere else if l didn’t make messes."

  It was dumb, not putting the food away. Bread slices left out overnight were hard and withering; I sprinkled water on them but it didn’t help. Now I was going to have to let the ants finish them. Dozens of pincers clamping and ripping. Piranhas. They’d get so fat they’d pop.

  Wonder Bread bombs, I thought. Ants exploding on the porch.

  Serves them right, thought Classique.

  We could suddenly read each other’s minds. We were psychic. Like those people on TV.

  In the 1500’s, Nostradamus predicted the rise of Hitler and the assassination of John F. Kennedy. He was a physician and an astrologer. He was also French. The Loch Ness monster, via extrasensory perception, communicated with an elderly Scottish woman every Friday. She refused to say what it told her. The Bible foretold the disaster in Chernobyl. Dion Warwick relied on psychic friends for picking her hit singles. Ghosts appreciated receiving gifts, like cookies or toys; it was a way of acknowledging their presence, of befriending them. Six out of ten twins could read each other’s minds. It was all true. It was on TV.

  The ghost is sending us a message.

  What is it?

  I’rn not sure.

  If we go upstairs we can see her, I think.

  We can look out the window and see her.

  Yes. Come on-

  We raced upstairs, vaulting every other step. And going to my bedroom window, short of breath, we looked hopefully for the ghost -- but even if she was haunting the field, the Johnsongrass and bus blocked our view.

  I sighed. There were moth bodies outside, near the window ledge, dotting the roof. I didn’t feel like being psychic anymore; my brain hurt.

  "I don’t see her."

  "She wanted something. Ghosts appreciate gifts."

  I nodded and sucked the peanut butter from Classique’s hair. Then I asked, "What can we give her?”

  "Not just anything," she told me. "It’s got to be useful. A good gift."

  "Like cookies."

  "Except we don’t have cookies anyway."

  I would have killed for some cookies, Oreos or Nutter Butters. I loved them almost as much as Crunch bars.

  "It doesn’t need to be food,” she said.

  "I could draw a picture of you and me.”

  "Or give her Cut ’N Style."

  "Or Magic Curl.”

  I imagined Magic Curl squirming in the ghost’s palm and blubbering like a baby; she’d wet herself, if she could.

  "Something else."

  There was lipstick on Classique’s hair. I closed my eyes. On TV, a little boy in Germany shut his eyes and foresaw the future. He predicted that dark clouds would gather above his village and rain toads. The next day, after a violent thunderstorm, thousands of dying toads flopped on the village streets.

  "What can only a dead person use?” she said. "Think."

  "I can’t think. Crackers?”

  "Or the radio. It’s dead too."

  I opened my eyes. "Yes. She can listen to ghost voices then.”

  "And ghost music.”

  "But Daddy likes it.”

  "He’s not a ghost yet. He doesn’t need it.”

  "That’s right. I forgot."

  In the living room, I reached for the radio without glimpsing my father’s face. I lifted it from his lap. I knew he was staring behind the sunglasses. And as Classique and I ran outside, I fiddled with the dial. I listened; no music, no static. KVRP, eclectic music for eclectic minds. That was the station I wanted. But it wouldn’t come in. I coul
dn’t hear anything, where one station ended and another began.

  "It’s the perfect gift," I concluded. "It really is.”

  "I think so too."

  The ghost was nowhere to be seen, so we struggled through the high weeds, up the rise, across the railroad tracks, but not before I made certain a train wasn’t approaching. Then we slinked down the embankment, and crept into the field -- a portion of which had been cleared, the earth brown and bumpy from uprooting. Pulled nettles were discarded in a pile.

  "She’s not making soup."

  "Not even for potions.”

  She’d trampled foxtails to the ground, yanked and tossed nettles. She’d stacked stones and rocks -- just to save bluebonnets. That’s what her mittens had been tending. The field was littered with the spring flowers, and the ghost was protecting them.

  "She doesn’t like us here," Classique said. "Be quick.”

  So I set the radio on the ground and began encircling it with the biggest of the stacked rocks, careful not to disturb any flowers. I told myself that the ghost would welcome the courtesy, but I wasn’t sure. After all, I was returning rocks to the field, creating a jagged circle among her flowers.

  "That’s good."

  "Let’s go.”

  As we clamored up the embankment, Classique sent me a thought -- she’ll know what to do with the radio.

  I saw it on TV. A man in New Mexico could turn his radio dial and tune in the raspy voices of deceased loved ones. Sometimes his television broadcast his dead son playing soccer in a foggy meadow; he had proof, he had a videotape.

  Of course, I thought. She’ll understand. She’s a ghost.

  And moving over the tracks, we heard the quarry boom, a faint explosion, like a distant thunderclap.

  "It’s magic," I said, gazing at the clear sky. "They’re making thunder. That’s what they do.”

  9

  I hypnotized myself by swinging a Barbie arm in front of my face.

  I said, "Your legs won’t itch anymore. And you won’t scratch them for four years.”

  Then I hypnotized Classique and the others.

  "You are sleepy," I told them. "You are so sleepy and you are sleeping. You are dreaming of trains, of Eskimo Pies and old men dancing with bears. Cut ’N Style, my voice is knocking you out. And you too Fashion Jeans. And Magic Curl. Classique, you’re sleeping. You won’t wake up until I say. You won’t know where I’m going, ever.” The arm worked like a charm.

  They were snoring. They were snuggled on the blond wig. I stepped backwards from the room, watching them, thinking -- sleep, sleep, little dear ones, sleep. Then I turned and went downstairs.

  Now it was almost dusk. I sat in the bus, on the ceiling, wearing the bonnet. Everything smelled of smoke, even my dress. A breeze roamed all around, blowing away some of the humidity; the air had become cooler. I looked for fireflies. But it wasn’t quite time. The sun still poked above the Johnsongrass. And the light inside the bus was slowly shifting, the sharp edges of the broken windows shimmered -- the springs, fluff, and burnt upholstery on the overhead seats radiated, orange and white.

  Someone had carved into the metal wall, a corroded scrawl I hadn’t noticed before. The words were upside- down -- etched higher than I could reach -- but easy to read: LOIS YOU SUCK BUTT!

  "Suck butt," I said. "You suck butt.” What a crazy thing to do. I didn’t want to think about it. "That’s dumb,” I told myself.

  When my father and I walked toward the L.A. River, we often stopped to read graffiti. Whole sides of buildings were decorated with slang, sprayed symbols and designs, red and blue and silver and black, like pictures from a comic book.

  "It’s all beautiful,” my father said. "People hate it.”

  "What’s it mean?”

  "Names, mostly. Gang stuff. I’m not sure."

  Framing an entire doorway was a Valentine’s heart, full and perfect, pierced by a stiletto.

  "You know what that is.”

  "Love," I said.

  "Yep."

  We’d come back to the same building a week later, but the graffiti wouldn’t be there, just whitewashed patches hiding names and colors and massive hearts. It was gross. "They should leave it alone," I said.

  "Don’t worry, whitewash doesn’t last long, not in this neighborhood."

  There was a tunnel in the middle of Webster Park -- cutting underneath a pathway -- where bums slept and teenagers drank beer and smoked. Instead of crossing over the tunnel, my father and I usually strolled through it, dodging broken bottles and the occasional vagrant zipped up in a sleeping bag. And once we found a spray paint can. Silver Lustre. So my father shook the can, then painted a smiley face on the cement. "That’s you,” he said. "That’s how you look today."

  "No it’s not. That’s not me today.”

  "Well, it must be you tomorrow.”

  He handed me the can.

  "Give it a try.”

  I was going to make a smiley face too, but I had the valve aimed wrong and sprayed my right hand.

  "Oh no,” I said, dropping the can.

  There was wet Silver Lustre in my palm; I dabbed it off on my pink shirt. I wanted to cry, but my father was laughing. He was laughing so much he started coughing. I thought he was getting sick.

  My mother was waiting when we arrived home. She saw my shirt first, two silver handprints where a pink pony and a balloon should be. "What the hell happened to you?" She grasped my wrists, flipping my hands.

  "I’m a robot,” I said.

  Then she slapped me.

  "You’ve ruined that shirt! Your hands!”

  But the worst part was my father. He didn’t do anything. He just stood by the front door and said nothing. And I wanted to yell at him for laughing in the tunnel. I wanted him to explain that it was all his fault, that it was his idea to play with the can.

  MOM YOU SUCK BUTT! That’s what I should’ve sprayed on the cement. That’s what I should’ve told her after she slapped me.

  I scanned the walls for more carvings, but the sun had dipped below the Johnsongrass, making my search difficult. So I gazed at the pasture, where a few fireflies were already flashing.

  "I’m here," I shouted. "In here! It’s me!"

  Then I covered my mouth, shutting myself up. I’d been too loud. The ghost could’ve heard me. She might think I was calling her.

  Glancing across the passageway, through the windows, I saw her meadow. But, because of the railroad tracks and weeds, I couldn’t see the bluebonnets or the rocks encircling the radio. Or the ghost, if she was there. And beyond the meadow, glowing among a cluster of mesquite trees, was a yellow light, a thousand times the size of a firefly blink; the queen mother of all fireflies -- I thought -- lurking in the distance, at least a mile from me and the bus. On the other side of the tracks, everything seemed bigger -- the flowers, the rocks, the rows of Johnsongrass. And the ghost.

  "She can destroy Tokyo like Godzilla,” I’d told Classique. "She’d make Mom’s bed go crash.”

  "She’s Queen Gunhild. Queens are always fatter than everyone. That’s how they become queens. Everyone gives her gold and food to eat and she gets fat and sits on scales in her court, so then everyone has to give her more food and gold -- it has to be the same as how fat she is."

  "Queens are monsters. They need to be strangled and drowned in bogs."

  I imagined my mother in the meadow, killing nettles and hurling rocks. And she knew I was inside the bus. And she was hungry. Soon she’d climb over the rise and onto the tracks. She’d be coming after me: "You miserable creep!”

  The fireflies were here, floating through the windows. They flashed everywhere, but I wasn’t really paying attention. I looked back and forth, from one window to another, in case someone was sneaking outside. I tried sending psychic messages to Classique -- wake up now, wake up, I’m in trouble -- but she was dreaming of Eskimo Pies. I was on my own. And my father relaxed in Denmark. He wouldn’t help even if my mother was choking me, even if she was ripping my h
ead off.

  So I waited.

  When the train came I’d run. I was near the bus door, the escape exit. My father said a person could easily outrun a ghost or a bog man or any monster.

  "They only get you when you aren’t expecting them. If you’re expecting them, you can always get away."

  "But they’re fast.”

  "No, they aren’t fast. Dead things are slow.`You have to be alive to run. Your heart has to be pumping."

  "Why?"

  "Because if your heart ain’t pumping then you’re dead. And if you’re dead, you can’t run.”

  "How do you move, if you’re dead?"

  "You don’t. You just flutter, I guess. Like a leaf in the wind. Energy or something takes you from one place and puts you somewhere else. It’s like magic. If your dead, you need a ton of magic -- a lot more than a living person does."

  I couldn’t figure it. But I believed him anyway.

  "So you run when you see a monster?"

  "Or before you see it. When you sense it. When you know it’s about to pop up and grab you. Not like in movies. People are always idiots in movies. They wait to get caught. They fall and look back and scream._Iust run. Then you’re safe.”

  No more waiting. The train was late. There were bog men in the sorghum; I heard them rustling. And Queen Gunhild wanted food. But I was alive, so I ran.

  My sneakers mashed foxtails and bluebonnets. Sorry, I thought, sorry. I didn’t look back or scream.

  I just sent messages: Classique, hear me. You are awake and not sleeping anymore. You are awake and not sleeping anymore. You are awake-

  Fireflies flashed on the cattle trail, so I kept my mouth closed. I didn’t want to swallow one. If I swallowed one, my stomach might start blinking. Then if I had to hide in the tall weeds, it’d be a cinch seeing me; I’d be like Bugs Bunny, strolling in front of Elmer Fudd with a target pattern on his butt, saying, "Say, doc, what makes you think there’s a rabbit in these woods?"

  "Oh, I doughn’t know. Just a wittle hunch."

  Racing toward the front yard, I caught the sound of the train. The earth trembled with its passing. I paused beside the flag pole, panting, and felt the steel vibrate against my shoulder. The Johnsongrass trembled under the breeze, and goose bumps rose on my arms. There was no one following along the cattle trail, not yet. I tried peering through the rows of sorghum, but it was impossible. I knew what was happening though -- in the grazing pasture, fireflies were being buffeted from the bus. Chunks of glass clattered in the burnt-out passageway, some fell like hail from the windows. And, for a while at least, Queen Gunhild couldn’t cross the tracks.