Be Good Be Real Be Crazy

by Chelsey Philpot

  “Couldn’t make it in the big city.” Daphne poured what was left of her coffee out. The ground steamed where the hot liquid met the pine needles and dirt. “I wanted to be an actress. Problem is, I wasn’t any good.” She snorted, then slid off the boulder. “Me and every other twenty-something girl looking to escape a trash heap town. All of us discovering the hard way that a pretty face and a great ass don’t make you special out there.” She nodded toward the woods.

  Homer wasn’t sure if she expected a response, but he gave one anyway. “At least you figured out what you believed in and went for it. Lots of people don’t get that far.” He ground a rock into the soft dirt with his foot. “Seems like you’re doing great here. Your own reality show. That’s got to be cool.” A gust breaking through the trees passed over the top of Homer’s head like a cold invisible hand, making him shiver.

  “It’s something.” Daphne wrapped her arms around her ribs, letting her empty mug dangle from her fingertips. “And I’ve got time to figure out what I want to do next. ’Stead of living on the fumes of yesterday’s dreams.” Her words were heavy, but they hung in the air for several stretched-out moments before her tone changed completely. “I better go get ready. More coffee?” She jiggled her mug.

  “No. No, thanks. I’m good. Thank you, though.” When Homer shook his mug in return, coffee sloshed over the sides.

  Daphne’s laugh cut through the morning’s stillness like a plane through clouds. “I’ll make another pot just in case.” Still smiling, she turned and walked across the clearing toward the trailer.

  Homer heard Mia singing and the sound of water running through pipes coming from one of the trailer windows.

  “For one more night I’m in your heart. Oh. Oh. Oh.

  Da. Da. Whole of mine. Whoopsie. Awaaaaaaaaay.

  Something. Something . . . duh da duh . . . here and now.

  Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Last song of our lives.”

  “Hey, Daphne,” Homer called.

  She kept one hand on the trailer’s railing when she turned. “Yeah?”

  “Thank you. For this.” Homer held up his mug, careful this time not to move too quickly. “For, uh, all of it.” What he’d been planning to say had been much more eloquent, at least it had been in his head.

  “Most folks ask a lot more of me than this,” Daphne said. “But—” Her smile faded, her expression becoming as unreadable as the ink words in a rain-soaked notebook. “You’re welcome. I’m grateful for the company.”

  This time, Homer knew he wasn’t expected to respond.

  Daphne really seemed to mean it when she said Einstein was “just a peach.” And if she was sick of his going on and on about the looming apocalypse, nothing in her demeanor suggested it.

  In fact, as they moved closer and closer to the clearing where she performed her show, Daphne’s questions came quicker and quicker even as her steps slowed:

  “What’s an existential risk?”

  “Why would super-fast atoms make a black hole?”

  “Do you suppose the scientists get depressed, thinking about the end of the world all the time?”

  As socially inept as his brother could be, Homer knew his ramblings weren’t always annoying. Sometimes, it was even kind of nice to let Einstein talk at you. Not because what he was saying was interesting, or even understandable, but because Einstein was so unapologetically enthusiastic. He didn’t care that the things he thought were cool actually weren’t. He saw mysteries to solve, and that was all he needed.

  When Daphne and Einstein reached the line where the dirt of the forest path gave way to flattened grass, Daphne halted like she’d hit an invisible wall. Einstein went a few steps into the clearing before he realized she was no longer beside him, and then he doubled back. In the time it took Homer and Mia to catch up, something in the air changed. It felt charged. Bizarre. As though someone somewhere had connected a plug that had never been connected before and switched on the atmosphere.

  Homer and Mia stopped beside Daphne. She was clutching the sides of her dress like it was the only thing holding her to the ground. The buzzing sound that Homer had started hearing just minutes after they’d left Daphne’s trailer, the sound he’d assumed was coming from clouds of insects hidden by the trees, was, in fact, the combined whisperings of an expectant crowd.

  Mia and Einstein shuffled toward each other, standing shoulder to shoulder, forming a barrier between Daphne and the hundreds of people sitting in tidy rows—waiting to see her: the American Oracle.

  “It feels like someone lowered a glass dome over this place,” Einstein whispered, “and then stripped all the atoms inside of their electrons.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” Mia whispered back. “But if you just said this is weird, then I agree.”

  “This is nothing,” Daphne said, bending down to run her hand over a patch of grass still glazed with frost. “Just wait until the asking starts.” She pressed her hand, red from the cold, to one cheek, then the other. “They all come for different reasons. They all want the same thing.” The water on her cheeks glistened like tears. “Least that’s what my ya-ya says.”

  Homer glanced at Daphne’s profile. The heavy makeup, fake eyelashes, and gauzy dress made her nearly unrecognizable as the girl in flannel and bare feet he’d been talking to fewer than two hours earlier. He had to clear his throat before speaking. “What do they want? The people, I mean.” He nodded toward the waiting crowd.

  “A performance.” Daphne sighed. “I get the nerves before every show. Gotta shake it off.” She closed her eyes and wiggled from side to side. “O-kay.” Daphne opened her eyes. “I’ll see y’all after.” Her transformation from world-weary to world famous was as sudden and blinding as the sun breaking through clouds.

  “She said she wasn’t any good as an actress,” Homer whispered as they made their way to the last row of benches.

  The worry in Homer’s thoughts must have seeped into his voice, because Mia sat down beside him—her right shoulder pressed so close to his left that he could smell Daphne’s shampoo in her hair—and reached for his hand, lacing her fingers with his one by one.

  Mia’s grip was warm and soft, and Homer’s brain felt even more jumbled than before. Still, he was grateful that she didn’t let go.

  When a tall man in a black suit and shiny shoes stepped onto a wooden platform set under a drooping sycamore tree, the crowd hushed. The man kept his smile wide as he dragged a microphone stand to the center of the makeshift stage.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. I’m Gerard Smith, your host. Miss Clara Belle, who will be joining the Oracle onstage, is my assistant.” Gerard’s rich voice filled the clearing, pressed against the trees. “Welcome to Pythia Springs.”

  The crowd clapped politely.

  “You’re here because you have questions.” Gerard paused to smile at a guy in slouchy black jeans standing just to the side of the first row of benches and holding a huge video camera. “Today’s the day you get answers. But first, a few housekeeping items.” He clapped his hands. “Please turn off your cell phones. No pictures. No filming—except, of course, for the crew from the number-three reality TV show on CGH Family, American Oracle.” Gerard gestured to the sides of the platform, where more guys dressed in black were fiddling with cameras on tripods. “Participants will be chosen at random. Unfortunately, the Oracle will not give everyone a reading, but we promise that even if you don’t Get. To. Ask. That. Ques-chin. Burn-ing. Inside. Your. Soul”—Gerard let each word ripple over the heads of the crowd—“you’ll leave here forever changed by what you’ve seen.”

  Einstein leaned over Mia and whispered out of the side of his mouth, “Really? This is the biggest bunch—”

  Homer didn’t hear the rest.

  “Without further ado,” Gerard said, “I give you Daphne Treme, the American Oracle.”

  When he dropped his arms, there was a boom like a frozen tree limb cracking, followed by a cloud of thick smoke that covered the stage.

&
nbsp; “Over the top much?” This time Einstein didn’t bother to whisper. The big man in a polo shirt sitting to Einstein’s right shook his head disapprovingly.

  The smoke cleared quickly, revealing Daphne sitting in a throne-like armchair at the center of the platform. A woman in a very tight red dress and high heels was perched on a stool to Daphne’s right. This time, the crowd’s clapping was certain, strong, more like the applause of fans in a sports stadium than the palm patting of churchgoers in pews. The woman in heels—Homer assumed she was Clara Belle—nodded at Gerard, who gestured for a cameraman to follow him. With that, the show began.

  The first person Gerard handed the microphone to reminded Homer of the old man who owned the bed and breakfast at the far end of the Los Plátanos boardwalk. His left shoulder dipped lower than his right, and the hand that grasped the mike shook from age or nerves or a combination of the two. The tremor in his voice made his question that much sadder. He wanted to know if his wife had made it to heaven.

  Daphne’s tangled response didn’t make any sense—at least not to Homer.

  “She’s found a paradise of her own creation, one spun with sugar and cinnamon. She says the creek is full, the sun doesn’t dip into the horizon, and it’s always morning and never too late.”

  The old man bowed his head, and though Homer couldn’t see his face, he noticed that the man’s back looked a little straighter as he sat down.

  All the answers that followed were just as odd and discombobulated as the first. And yet the askers, no matter how desperate the question, all seemed to understand, to hear something in the gibberish that was as clear as to them as the words of a neon sign set against the otherwise empty dark.

  There will come a time when yellow will be the right color to hear. You’ll know where.

  The past has not happened. Not yet. It will. But false hope won’t make it the same as it was before.

  Be generous with your weaknesses. Wishing alone won’t make the pumpkin into a pine tree.

  To a stocky man in a fleece pullover who asked about his estranged daughter, Daphne said, “She’s made a beautiful life out of dust and tumbleweeds. She’s pulled the moon closer with her truthful smile. When you send the letter, add a flower. She’ll open it this time.” The man nodded and wiped his eyes on his sleeve as he handed the mike back to Gerard.

  The guy who spoke next grabbed the microphone before Gerard had the chance to pose for the camera crew. “Yeah. I’ve got more of a statement than a question.” Maybe it was the way the upturned collar on his trench coat hid his face or maybe Gerard didn’t like how the guy was shifting from side to side like a boxer about to throw a punch. Whatever his reasons, Gerard raised his hand and two wide men in black overcoats and headsets appeared next to him.

  “I—” The man in the trench coat hesitated, glanced at Gerard and the men with headsets, and then spoke so quickly everything he said sounded like one big word. “Whatyou’redoinghereisthedevil’sworkandtheOneabovewillpunishyouinhelleverlastingforyoursins.” His rant done, the man dropped the mike to the ground, held his hands in the air, and started walking across the clearing toward a break in the woods. The men with headsets followed a yard or so behind.

  Gerard picked up the microphone and plastered a big smile on his face. “Whew. I apologize for that ugly interruption. Okay, who’s next?”

  With each question, Daphne slumped a little bit more. Each answer she gave transformed into a hand pressing against the back of her neck. When a woman with a cane pushed herself to her feet, the microphone grasped in her free hand, her mouth opening to ask her sad or anxious or pained question, Daphne folded in half like an antique doll and didn’t sit back up.

  Just like that, the strange show was over.

  It was horrifying, how well rehearsed everything was that happened next. Gerard excused the crowd, explaining that the Oracle was done for the day and the gift shop was open until five as Clara Belle waved and the two security guys reappeared to carry Daphne off the platform.

  Watching this, Homer felt like Einstein’s glass dome had actually been lowered over the clearing and he needed to escape immediately, but Mia’s hand, still gripping his, held him in place as he started to stand.

  “Let the rest of them go. Then we’ll find her,” she said.

  Einstein nodded in agreement, so Homer stayed put and they waited until they were the only ones left, save for two men in coveralls who came to sweep up the tissues and tickets left behind on the flattened grass.

  When they got back to Daphne’s trailer, there was a small fleet of cars parked out front, including the TV crew’s huge SUV.

  The elderly woman who answered the door might have looked sweet under other circumstances. Her hair was neatly pinned like a movie star from the 1930s, her swishy dress a comforting shade of sky blue. But at that moment, she looked like a woman who was expecting—and ready for—a fight.

  “Yes?”

  “Uh, hi.” Einstein’s hand was still raised from knocking. He lowered it quickly. “We . . . we wanted to check on Daphne.”

  “We’re her friends,” Mia added.

  The woman looked them up and down, head to toe, one by one. “How do you know my granddaughter?”

  “She let us—”

  “She helped us last night,” Homer interrupted Einstein. He suspected that Daphne’s grandmother wouldn’t like the fact that her granddaughter had let three tourists sleep in her trailer home.

  The woman eased her grip on the door handle, but her expression remained guarded. “You’ll have to come back another time. She overdid it again and needs to rest. I was just kicking those fool TV people out before y’all arrived.” She started to shut the door, but Mia’s voice stopped her.

  “Does it happen a lot? Her collapsing?”

  Daphne’s grandmother made her free hand into a fist, squeezed it tight, then looked up. “Let me tell you something. When that baby of yours comes into the world, you’re gonna want to make it so that little soul never feels even a thimbleful of pain.” The hardness in her voice dissolved like a sugar cube in hot water. “And it will break your heart when that child goes invitin’ all that bad stuff into her life after you spent most of yours trying to keep those hurts away.”

  Einstein tucked his nose into his sweatshirt. Homer looked at his feet. Only Mia seemed to know what to say.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, child.” Daphne’s grandmother was weary, strong, and kind all at once. “It’s not your fault. And Lord knows, I shouldn’t make a mama-to-be worry. I beg Him for guidance, but Daphne’s like her father, stubborn and hungry for bigger things.” She shook her head gently. “She tells me, ‘Ya-Ya, open your Bible—all those heroes and saints, they had to suffer some to do good.’ She says, ‘Ya-Ya, we all make sacrifices—at least I know I’m making mine.’ I suppose she’s not too far from the truth.” Daphne’s grandmother tapped her fingertips against the door, each tiny ping a period at the end of whatever silent prayers she was reciting in her head.

  Homer found his voice. “I’m sorry we’ve upset you. We wanted to make sure Daphne—”

  “I should go check on her. I don’t trust those TV folks any farther than I can throw ’em. I’ll tell her y’all came by. ’Kay?”

  “Thank you.”

  Daphne’s grandmother nodded and started to shut the door, but stopped abruptly. “You’re Homer?”

  “Yes. That’s me.”

  “I’m feeling my age today. Forgettin’ everything.” She fished a folded piece of paper out of her front pocket. “Daphne said to give you this. Said to tell you it was the first one she saw.”

  “I—”

  “Hope it didn’t cost her something?”

  Homer nodded, closing his hands around the paper scrap.

  “It did. But you can’t blame yourself for that.” Daphne’s grandmother smiled sadly and pushed the door the rest of the way shut.

  Homer waited until they were back at the car to open Daphne’s note and read
it out loud. “If you believe in gravity, you already believe in something higher than yourself.”

  “Huh,” Mia said as she put her bag in the Banana’s trunk. “What do you think it means?”

  “From a physicist’s point of view,” Einstein, who was half hidden behind a pine tree, shouted, “it doesn’t make sense at all.”

  Mia looked around the trunk lid at Homer. “What do you think?”

  Homer hesitated before answering. “I don’t know.” But he did. He just didn’t know how to explain.

  THE ROAD TO AWAY / THE ROAD TO SOMEWHERE

  IT TOOK MILES AND MILES of pavement between them and Pythia Springs for Homer to ease his grip on the steering wheel.

  Mia and Einstein had switched spots, so now she was curled across the backseat, her arms folded for a pillow, and Einstein was slumped against the passenger-seat window up front. Homer couldn’t make himself get back on the highway. If that meant he had to drive longer to make up the time, it was worth it not to be surrounded by tractor trailers and trucks with overstuffed beds. And he needed to let them sleep: Mia and Einstein both. When he slowed to a stop at the first real traffic light he’d seen for hours, Homer glanced to his right. Einstein’s head was thrown back and his mouth was slightly open. Homer reached over and slid the glasses off his brother’s face and set them in a cup holder.

  “Don’t be worried about Daphne. She’ll be okay.” Mia’s voice was barely louder than a whisper. “She’s very smart.”

  “I’m not worried.” Homer glanced in the rearview mirror. Mia was still resting her head on her arms, but her eyes were open, and they met his in the mirror.

  “You’re a rotten liar, Homer.”

  Homer thought about protesting, but only for half a heartbeat. “Yeah, I know. It’s on the list.”