by Fiona Maazel
Hannah says, “You’re not gonna do this, right?”
“Are the other parents?”
She nods. “But you’re not a parent.”
“Look, I’m here for you. I’m doing it. Maybe they will let us go down together.” I even believe this. With two hundred milligrams of Valium, I can do anything. After that, all I gotta do is stay awake.
The woman in pumps is the first up. Getting the crotch harness secured to her body is a chore. She cannot be safe and decent at the same time. Her son has his face in his hands. A couple girls pat him on the back.
The fun of rappelling is that you get to bounce from side to side. You take your time. Also, the crotch harness can feel pretty good. This lady in the pumps, though, she drops down like a stone. We all hear the thump as she lands on one of the counselors, who, in turn, can’t unhook the carabiners from between her thighs. It’s all looking rather lewd from up here. I half expect Stanley to dash off with his sperm stick.
A few kids make it down without incident. They do their parents proud, and the favor is returned. I am beginning to feel a little sleepy. It’s nice. The leaves rustle in the wind and it sounds so tender, I marvel at how nature will share her pleasures with anyone.
Hannah is up next. She’s wearing gloves to preempt rope burn. The counselor hooks her up. She is amenable to his touch. She even smiles at something he says. He helps her swing her legs over the rail. To my surprise, her hands are trembling. She is scared. I want her to look to me for support, but instead she just takes a deep breath and relaxes into an L position before lowering herself down the line. When she hits bottom, a few other girls give her a hug. Their voices sound lonely from up here, but mostly because I don’t hear my own. Shouldn’t I be down there congratulating my baby sister? Shouldn’t we be working through this thing together?
There’s only four of us left, me, Stanley, and the Navy Seal couple. Because we are assimilating, I am paired with the Seal while Stanley gets the husband. They rappel with ease. Stanley is even balletic.
I am glad to be going last because it’s taken this long for the Valium to kick in. On the other hand, I am having trouble moving my limbs. I weigh a thousand pounds and I can’t quite understand what’s being said to me. The Valium twilight is like scuba diving. Like cupping your hands over your ears and hearing the surf. Like being a toddler whose sight lines don’t extend above the ankle. It’s like taking a dip in a vat of pudding. It’s like being made of pudding. Remarkable how little anything matters when you are made of pudding.
The counselor who straps me in is kinda cute. I wonder about my hair. The trees are upside down, which has me baffled until the counselor rights my head. He’s kinda cute. I want a tuna sandwich. He says I can have one later and now easy does it, that’s right, just slide your leg over the rail, no, no, not over my arm, over the rail, you can let go now, let go, no, you need to let go of me now, I’m nineteen, yes, let go, that’s it, yes, my mother tells me all the time, you’re doing great, don’t stop, why are you stopping, hello?
The concrete is hot to the touch, which is excellent given the spray from the waterfall. I feel like a pancake. And I am sleepy. I think I’ll just stay here for a while. The surf can’t rouse me. Not even the Navy Seal, who’s prodding my side with a stick, who’s shaking me and finally smacking me across the head. I open my eyes. I am flush with a dam, ten stories up, with legs adangle. I peel my cheek from the wall and look down. I am met by many angry faces, though I don’t see Hannah’s. The Navy Seal orders me back into the L.
Stanley says I slept for three minutes up there. That at first they thought I was paralyzed with fear, and tried to talk me down. Then someone proposed I’d had a heart attack. Navy Seal, who’s versed in CPR and emergency aid, volunteered to go back up and get me.
We are exhausted. Mercifully, it’s time for lunch. One girl tries to trade her roast beef for Hannah’s pasta salad. Bad move. After all, mad cow is preventable. What insanity not to take precautions! And Hannah, she lets the girl have it. She explains everything. She says, “It goes like this: Sheep get scrapie. They claw themselves to death, but what’s really happening is their brains have turned to cheese. In the meantime, farmers get the bright idea they can save money by recycling parts of the sheep no one would ever eat. It’s called rendering. Take a brain, some kidneys, and spleen and turn it into meat and bone meal. The stuff is high in protein, which fattens up the cows. Only there’s a problem because now you’ve got these vegan cows eating each other and the infected sheep.” She pauses to let it settle in: If you eat that roast beef hero, then it’s you eating the cow who ate the sheep whose brain is cheese. I know there’s a song in that somewhere.
“Know what else?” Hannah says, sorta loud because the girl’s covered her ears. “It took the FDA thirteen years after knowing all this to ban bone meal. Thirteen years! That’s like, as old as you are.”
I find myself nodding vigorously. People who get CJD, which is the human form of mad cow, lose one faculty after another. They forget their children’s names. They forget their own names. They weep, they stray, they nap, they die. Thirteen years! I feel a protest march coming on, at least until the other girl unstops her ears long enough to say, “Shut up, Hannah. Everyone knows you’re a liar. Like”—and here she points at me—“that girl is so totally not your housekeeper.”
Stanley takes me out of earshot. Says, “I’m sure they were talking about someone else.”
But I don’t follow. These moments come at you so fast, sometimes you just can’t keep up.
The counselor says it’s time for the game of trust and sits us in a circle on the grass. Skirt Suit finds this awkward, so she’s given a chair. The counselor asks for a volunteer to help demonstrate how the game works. One of the dads waves his arm. Because we are so many and the circle rather large, confessant and confessor need to speak through a bullhorn. This seems anathema to the intimacy of trust, but then what good is the exercise if no one can hear it?
The counselor sits the parent down opposite him. He says, through the bullhorn, “When I was a kid, I thought I was worse than everyone else.” One of the moms claps her hand over her daughter’s mouth, but it’s too late; everyone heard her laugh. She is disqualified. The counselor gives the horn to the father in a way that suggests onus and ritual. I am still wondering if Lord of the Flies means anything to these people as he brings it to his lips and says, “I never won any trophies in school.” Some people clap. And the trust game begins.
Hannah refuses to look at me. She probably thinks I’ll make a scene come our turn, even though I am determined not to make a scene. My brain is cheese. I think I’ll tell her I’m sorry.
Unexpectedly, Stanley joins us in the center. Most families have already left, which means we’re not getting much attention. The game has gone on too long. People are restless.
Hannah takes the bullhorn. Mumbles something about being afraid the world is about to end, and throws the thing at me. Perhaps the horn makes a cracking sound against my chest because suddenly we are of interest. No one has sat near me since my nap on the dam and it’s not like Stanley’s making any friends, but now it’s as if these people are at the movies and we’re what’s playing. I am supposed to say something but I can’t think of what. I don’t want to embarrass Hannah. I turn to Stanley like he’s gonna help. He shrugs and says, “I killed my wife from driving drunk.” My mouth drops open. Of all the things. I look at Hannah to check the damage, only she appears to be accepting condolences because with an uncle like that in the family, your life is tragic. Also, she seems to enjoy the attention. And the color in her cheeks, it’s not from shame. I grab the bullhorn and clear my throat. With all eyes on me I say I worry I’m too messed up for romance because the guy I love married my oldest friend and it’s not like the marriage is what messed me up but that I was messed up first, and probably they would not have married or even gotten together if not for that.
Midconfession I realize I’m not saying anything
that couldn’t be surmised from my conduct on the dam. Indeed, the group’s reaction confirms it. Those coos people make when listening to poetry read aloud, these are not forthcoming. The camper who’d been rubbing Hannah’s back removes her hand. The pitying looks turn away. Even Stanley seems uncomfortable.
The counselor decides we’ve had enough. Most of the parents have bonded with their children, mission accomplished.
I tell Stanley to go on ahead while I sit next to Hannah on the grass. She’s plucking blades one by one. She’s wearing denim shorts frayed at the hem. “On a scale of one to ten,” I say, “how bad am I doing?”
“Four.”
I perk up. “A four? Really?”
“No.”
She looks at the tent, where the rest of camp is amassing for the performance. “I have to get ready,” she says, and stands. I stand, too.
“Hannah, look. Probably we should talk about what’s happening. Isn’t that why you asked me to come? Are you scared? What can I do?”
My advances, though rare, are always met with contempt, so I am surprised when I don’t get it. No, not surprised. Worried. So long as people think I’m useless, I can stay useless. Instead Hannah says, “I don’t know. But maybe if the plague really does get to New York, you can be here? I guess that would be good.”
“I’ve got rehab,” I say. “But maybe—” I stop there because Hannah finishes for me.
“But maybe we can time the outbreak to suit your schedule? You are unbelievable.”
I don’t even try to detain her. I am too lowly for that. Because the fact is: now that rehab might recuse me from having to deal, it’s starting to look good.
When I get to the tent, our group counselor asks me to sit in the back. He whispers and nods as if we’re in on the same secret. And I suppose we are. He says he knows who my dad is, which makes me think maybe the other people don’t. Hard to imagine, but then perhaps anonymity is what Hannah comes here for. He says, “You got any inside information for me? Like for those of us who don’t have a private island, you got any advice?”
This kid looks about twenty. Blond hair cropped tight. Calf muscles and jugular vein prominent from most any angle.
“Not really,” I say. “And anyway, you don’t want to hear it.”
He takes me aside, as if whatever I have to say will lose its value when overheard. “I do want to hear it. Tell me.”
“You’re hurting my arm.”
“Oh, sorry. But look, I’m not like the rest of these people. I live with my dad, he’s deaf; I support him and my younger brother, who’s also deaf. It’s a genetics thing. Probably my kid will be deaf, too. So you think with all this on my plate, I can deal with the fucking superplague? Did you see that woman who died? Did you see her arm? I’m going to throw up! You think this piece-of-shit loony camp pays well? You think when the time comes, my boss will find it in her heart to let me and my deaf family stay in her crypt?”
“You’re still hurting my arm,” I say. “But I’m sorry. I’m sorry about your family. I don’t know what to tell you. Buy a gas mask, I guess. Buy three.”
“You know how much they’re going for now? A guy I know just spent a grand, and that’s not even for one of the high-end masks. But look, I have a checklist here, maybe you can tell me if I’m missing anything?”
He hands me a printout of items to have on hand in case of emergency: high-calorie foods like chocolate, peanut butter, beef jerky; flashlights and batteries; maps, money, tools (screwdriver, wrench, hammer); candles, whistle, butane, water; passport and driver’s license; Bible and games (cards, dominos, Jenga). At the bottom are toiletries and first-aid items plus something about KY Jelly, which seems context sensitive.
I want to say I have no idea, but he seems so in need of reassurance that I tell him yes, it looks great, he’s got all the bases covered.
“I bought an escape hood, too,” he says hopefully. “Not as good as the respirator with Hycar rubber, dual-canister mount, poly lens, drinking tube, and mechanical speaking diaphragm, but it’s something.”
“How much is the fancy one?”
“I got a friend who can score three of ’em for under a grand.”
I write him a check on the spot.
Stanley, who’s been waiting for me, is nonplussed about having to sit in the rear. He says he never gets to sit in the front. I ask if he’s five years old. “If I’m five, you’re two.”
Props onstage include a podium and a cardboard cloud stapled to a tree. Last I did this kind of thing, I had to read the Emancipation Proclamation dressed as Lincoln. I remember before the show I dipped my beard in pea soup by accident. I wonder if Hannah is nervous. If she has stage fright. I hope that by sitting in the back, we aren’t sending the wrong message.
The trumpet player does his thing and the passion play begins. Hannah comes out in a purple bathrobe. I think she’s playing a wizard. She says, “I know the blasphemy of them which say they are Jews, and are not, but are the synagogue of Satan.” Hers is a mix of scripture and sermon, and what it lacks in coherence it makes up for with bile.
Next comes the Pop Tart to recite from John. When he’s done he gives us an abstract of the reading, saying: “See how Yeshua doesn’t say the reason the Jews are not of His sheep is because they are unbelievers, but that they are unbelievers because they are not of His sheep. Yeshua knows His sheep, and knows that the Jews are not of His sheep.”
Stanley leans over to ask what’s with all the sheep. I don’t know but I imagine it’s something bad because the parents are clapping and the parents are nuts. In fact, they clap for every reading that follows, and don’t stop until camp president and pastor John Rhinestone takes the stage to tell us that one of the things they try to teach every Good-Time camper is that self-esteem and humility before God are not incompatible, but that when you forgo humility before God, you are in a world of trouble because God can punish, God does punish, just open your eyes and behold the superplague. His message is excruciating, and made worse when I see Hannah standing in the wings. She looks rapt. But in a peaceful sort of way. Like how I imagine you’d look in the glow of the alien ship when it finally comes for you. I do not begrudge her the feeling, but I wish she’d come upon it in some other fashion. She knows the science of plague better than most anyone. And yet because there’s nothing that can stop it, and because no one in her family is of any comfort, she’s done the reasonable thing of finding comfort elsewhere. Which is to say: Hannah appears to have cottoned to the idea that if you exterminate the Jews, all will be well.
I can’t see the stage anymore because people have stood up. The lecture’s not over, so I don’t know what they are doing. But once I listen, I get a pretty good idea. They are being stoked. Because we are the lost tribes of Israel. Because the Jews masquerade as the chosen people, and rob us of our destiny. Because the Jews are not Israelites, we are Israelites. Scotland, England, Ireland, France, Germany, Austria, New Zealand, are all Nations of Israel. The United States is a Nation of Israel. Rise up to welcome God’s government, and do as the Aryan Christ commands: Rid our nation of the mud races, for they have brought plague upon us.
A basket goes around while people empty their wallets. At the end of each row a camper passes out sign-up cards. This is the most civilized lynch mob ever.
By now Stanley is grateful we’re close to the exit. I tell him to go find Hannah because we’re leaving. He returns a couple minutes later, saying she won’t come.
“I didn’t say ask her.”
“Then you go.”
“Stanley. Come on.”
But there’s no need because Hannah has changed her mind. Says she’s happy to take whatever abuse I am prepared to mete out.
Stanley says, “Jesus, that’s horrible.”
We head for the van home.
In the apartment, there’s only Nana. She says Isifrid went out to sample a new caterer for Friday night, and how was Family Day?
Stanley says it was awful and what a b
unch of freaks. I shrug. Hannah says I passed out on a dam.
“How is that even possible?” Aggie says.
“Well,” I say, and try to explain. But I don’t get far. She’s watching that silent movie about love in Bora-Bora. This comes as a relief. It is one of the few entertainments we cherish together. I drop my bag and sit on the floor. Hannah throws herself on the couch. Stanley watches about three minutes, then says this movie’s boring. He does not maintain this position long. Few things are worse than the hostile look of a woman, except, perhaps, three hostile looks, which is what he gets.
Aggie’s gone misty-eyed. She always does, shortly after the start of part two. The young lovers are in hiding because the woman is supposed to be a sacred Virgin, and no man can know her love. Naturally, they are being pursued. Soon they will be caught and separated. But not before a snatch of happiness on this earth! They hold each other in a bamboo hut.
Hannah’s nose has gone red. She rubs at her eyes like it’s allergies. I am biting my forearm.
Moonbeams dapple the ocean. A breeze rouses pollen from the honeysuckle outside their door. The boy thinks he is blessed in all things. The girl has foreboding. They hold each other in a bamboo hut.
Agneth was married to the same man for forty-five years. But now that I know about her sailor, I can see why this movie slays her. Me, too. First time I watched it and saw that boy die chasing after his girl, it was like when you hold your breath for too long. The pain was visceral; I thought I was sick. And back then, I couldn’t understand it. My reaction was not normal. I’d heard of girls who, jonesing for tears, will see the same movie over and over. Tears are relief, often ecstatic. To be moved is one of the great pleasures in life. But after Tabu I wasn’t moved. I was demolished. I hurt so badly, and all because the one who got away is actually about the shell he leaves behind. It was prescient, really, that reaction. I hadn’t even met Eric. But after we split, and I was about as hollow as you can get, I think I watched Tabu three times in a row.