by Jan Carson
Junior Button was only two days into his story when Martha Orange began to recognize shades of her own anxiety in each of the flying children. This was no hillbilly parable. The pinkish circles on each of her shoulder blades, wounds as slight and negligible as acne scars, bore loud witness each time she took a shower. By the weekend of the second week she’d gathered all the justification she needed. On Monday she followed the flight out the front door of Chalet 13, over the turn circle and through the unforgiving gates of the Baptist Retirement Village. Martha Orange had no intention of returning. Neither did she feel the need to indulge in guilt. That evening Junior Button took a second tumble from his bed and the night shift, atypical in their negligence, found him five hours later, stiffly dead on the bedroom carpet. The coroner’s report favored diabetic coma and noted, as an afterthought, two small scars on the old man’s shoulder blades and the peculiar way his arms had set, straining upwards and outwards like a large bird angling for takeoff.
– Chapter Eleven –
Guns
Malcolm Orange dreamt thickly and woke to the worrying realization that he was not in his own bed. The comforter tucked beneath his chin was inconsiderately itchy and the bed, he suspected, more of a floor than an actual bed. He turned to his left and found Sorry fastly asleep, Mr Fluff cradling her forehead like a coonskin cap. The light was a toothache in his eyes. It hurt to turn his head. The previous evening’s adventures came back in hiccups, although the final movement from turn circle to unmade bed was somewhat hazy. Perhaps he had crawled or, more likely, been carried. Given the week’s events, the possibility of teleportation was no longer beyond the realms of possibility. Malcolm Orange could recall little beyond his third beer.
He turned a second time towards Sorry and wondered if the drunkenness had led to sexual intercourse or prolonged kissing. The movies had taught him that on the rare occasions when alcohol consumption did not end in physical violence it inevitably led to unplanned sex. Malcolm Orange hoped Sorry wasn’t pregnant. Ross was barely out of the sock drawer. The last thing he needed was a second baby. It was too early in the morning to contemplate another disaster so Malcolm Orange lowered his eyes and feigned sleep. Half an hour passed in migrainous silence. In the shadowy corners of his consciousness Malcolm was aware of feet approaching and receding, mumbled conversation and the unmistakable aroma of frying bacon. He woke to the cut of Bill standing over him with a dinner plate in one hand and a skillet in the other.
‘Sleeping Beauty’s back in the land of the living,’ the old man yelled over his shoulder and then, directing his attention towards Malcolm, ‘Would you like some bacon, son? It’s almost eleven. We don’t have much time so I took the liberty of fixing you both a spot of brunch.’
As he raised his head slowly, setting off a small volcano at the base of his skull, Malcolm Orange observed Sorry, cross-legged on Irene’s good sofa, chomping through a short stack of pancakes. A rivulet of maple syrup had dribbled down her chin, forming a sticky reservoir on her T-shirt. Malcolm made a superhuman effort to sit up. His head hammered in objection. He felt like an outline of himself and, looking down at his naked forearms braced against the carpet, noted with horror that there was very little arm actually left.
‘No breakfast,’ he said meekly. ‘It would only go right through me, Bill.’
The old man laughed, misunderstanding Malcolm’s fear. ‘Aye, son, that’s what the demon drink’ll do to you. Nate and I scraped you off the road last night. You were so drunk you didn’t even wake up. Cunningham’s no better. He’s sleeping it off in the RV. Irene thought it best to bring you here and, needless to say, we couldn’t send ‘you know who’ back home in that state. The Director would have murdered her.’
‘I’ll bet he hasn’t even noticed I’m gone,’ interjected Sorry.
‘Probably glad to be rid of you, you little bitch,’ yelled the disembodied voice of Roger Heinz, rumbling from the back kitchen where he was preoccupied with fixing the coffee whilst mentally removing Irene’s bathrobe.
The room was rounding like a bicycle wheel and Malcolm Orange had very little idea what was going on. Shuffling himself butt-first onto Irene’s everyday sofa, he turned towards Sorry, hoping she might have some answers.
‘Still disappearing?’ she asked.
Malcolm huffed his shoulders grouchily, ‘Looks like it.’
‘Never mind, Malcolm. It was a good excuse to get wasted. I guess you don’t remember any of it. You were pretty far gone on your three Coronas.’
‘We didn’t, you know, do anything we might regret later?’
‘Well the old guy pissed himself and you fell asleep in the street.’
‘I mean, did we do anything we might regret, you know, together?’
‘Like make out?’
‘Yeah, I know it sometimes happens when two people are very drunk. There’s no chance you could be pregnant? It’s not that I wouldn’t be there for you, Sorry, but I can’t really handle another baby at the minute, at least not until Ross is out of diapers.’
Soren James Blue looked like she’d swallowed a whole half-pound of last week’s lemons. She made a vomit face and threw an armful of Irene’s best scatter cushions at Malcolm’s head.
‘Urrgghhhh, gross, Malcolm. I think I just threw up in my mouth.’
‘Great,’ said Malcolm Orange, reassured to discover he would not be experiencing fatherhood before his thirteenth birthday. It was the first good news in a fortnight. ‘So, you’re not pregnant. We all got drunk. Cunningham pissed himself and I’m still disappearing. Anything else I missed while I was sleeping?’
‘Your mom left,’ said Sorry. ‘I guess it was your fault. She found you on the road.’
Malcolm Orange turned inside out. This sort of feeling could not be measured or quantified by Scientific Investigative Research. He wanted to kill someone, specifically God, and also his father; holding them jointly responsible for this latest loss. Malcolm Orange could not think of words or questions. Out of his mouth came a noise which he was neither making nor permitting to be made. It sounded like a dinosaur becoming extinct. Bill abandoned the bacon skillet on the edge of Irene’s good coffee table. The heat left a ring. (Later that evening Irene would discover the burn and strike Bill twice in quick succession, her pounding fists marking the next movement in a progression which would see the dementia leave her quickly violent and occasionally vulgar.)
Without asking permission Bill sat down on the everyday sofa and slipped an arm around Malcolm’s shoulder. Malcolm did not fight him off. It felt good to be anchored to something which hadn’t disappeared yet. The ungodly noise quit coming out of his mouth. It was a relief of sorts to feel once again self-contained. Ordinary words were still far beyond him. Malcolm’s insides felt almost as empty as his outsides. He began to cry, shoulders heaving up and down like a pump-action soap dispenser. Bill’s arm increased its grip. Between Bill’s arms and the involuntary sobbing, the disappearings and the awareness of Sorry, glaring from the good sofa, Malcolm Orange was finding it increasingly hard to breathe.
‘That’s alright, son,’ the old man murmured. ‘You let it out. It’s an awful thing to lose your mother. Sure, I remember the day my mother passed away. Irene’ll tell you, I cried for a week and I was a grown man.’
‘She’s not dead,’ whispered Malcolm through the sobs.
‘And even now, every year on the anniversary, well, I don’t feel greatly inclined to do anything but mope about the house.’
‘She’s not dead,’ said Malcolm, louder now, in competition with the air conditioning unit.
‘Aye, it’s a terrible thing for a young boy, two young boys really, to lose their mother.’
‘SHE’S NOT DEAD!’ yelled Malcolm Orange. ‘She’s just left us.’
‘That’s way worse,’ said Sorry, and before anyone could chastise her, slipped out the front door for a surreptitious cigarette. Mr Fluff snaked behind her heels, leaving a feathery circle of orange hairs hovering above the plush fab
ric of Irene’s good sofa. Sensing the possibility of a good argument, Roger Heinz appeared in the living room, made a rude sign at Sorry’s retreating back and pulled up a dining chair. Removing a veritable arsenal of craft knives, water pistols and cutlery from his pants pockets, he arranged his weapons on the coffee table before leaning back in his chair, arms crossed like a squat Buddha.
‘Son,’ he said, ‘if the army taught me nothing else, it sure as hell taught me this one thing. When the shit hits the fan, it’s every man for himself. Your ma’s upped and run off, most likely she’s banging some new man now your daddy’s left town. Women are like that, Malcolm. It’s not ideal but there’s no point sitting here crying like a pussy. You’ve got to man up and get on with taking care of business. Ain’t nobody else going to look out for you if you don’t look out for yourself.’
Roger Heinz leaned back in the dining chair and tucked a dessert fork behind his left ear in preparation for imminent attack.
‘Choose your weapon, Malcolm,’ he said, sweeping his hand across the aluminum arsenal displayed on the coffee table. ‘You’re all alone now. You’re going to need to be able to defend yourself.’
‘Bullshit,’ said Bill, left arm still draped around Malcolm’s shoulders. ‘Malcolm’s not on his own, Roger. He’s got us.’
‘Exactly,’ echoed Irene, who’d suddenly appeared from the kitchen with Ross in one hand and a steaming coffee pot drooping in the other. ‘Malcolm belongs right here on the cul-de-sac with us.’
‘And I’ll be damned,’ continued Bill, ‘if we don’t help the boy out.’
Within half an hour an emergency meeting of the People’s Committee for Remembering Songs had assembled in Bill and Irene’s front room. The promise of imminent danger and peach schnapps had coerced them into meeting on their day off. Nate Grubbs brought the meeting to attention with an authoritative cough. ‘No time for singing today,’ he announced. ‘Cunningham Holt has important news to share with us. This is an emergency situation and I ask for your undivided attention.’ A mood of great solemnity descended upon the room. The ladies residing on Irene’s good sofa quit pecking at their breakfast pastries and turned to stare at Cunningham. Bill rose as if preparing to receive the national anthem. Clary O’Hare did Morse code on his knee with a tea spoon and Roger Heinz, secretly delighted by the possibility of an actual emergency mission, sat in the corner feigning disinterest whilst polishing his cutlery arsenal. Malcolm and Sorry were positioned side by side on the living room rug, outstretched legs running parallel like spindly railroad slats. Sorry’s ankles cupped a dozing Mr Fluff, whilst Ross slept deeply in his duffel bag between the rubbery heels of Malcolm’s sneakers.
Cunningham Holt kept his seat. Not much of a drinker, the previous evening’s antics had left him the sappy color of lukewarm porridge. Though few of the assembled Committee members knew it, Cunningham had struggled to make the short journey from his RV to Bill and Irene’s front door. The final few yards had seen the older man half-dragged, half-carried by Bill and Nate. The two men had been concerned enough by Cunningham’s grisly pallor to put their own angina-rippled hearts at risk. Once successfully settled in Bill’s favorite armchair, Cunningham Holt had discreetly asked his two friends not to mention his faltering health. The main thing, he assured them, was Malcolm Orange’s situation. All else could be addressed tomorrow or the day after.
The People’s Committee were old enough to know better. Cunningham’s grey marbles were not wasted on them. His mouth had, almost overnight, begun to droop like an undrawn purse. His trembling hands betrayed the fact that Cunningham Holt was finally beginning to sink. The People’s Committee said nothing for they knew he could no sooner be cautioned than halted. Even in his dotage Cunningham Holt was a steamroller. When all were circled and grazing on breakfast pastries and peach schnapps, he raised a hand to beg silence and the already somber room settled reverently around him.
‘It’s like this,’ he said. ‘Malcolm’s disappearing.’
‘And his mama already disappeared,’ added Irene angrily. ‘And I don’t want that mean hitting girl in my house. And Bill’s getting really fat. And we won’t be allowed to do the singing anymore.’
‘Those are all perfectly legitimate concerns Irene, but today we’re focusing on Malcolm. If we don’t do something quickly he might not be here tomorrow. Show them Malcolm.’
Malcolm Orange extricated Ross from between his heels and stood slowly. He stepped into the middle of the room and, though he’d previously encountered nightmares very similar, slipped his shirt over his head and dropped his shorts so he stood in the centre of Bill and Irene’s living room naked, save for sneakers and a pair of skimpy X-Men boxer shorts. The People’s Committee for Remembering Songs took a quick, collective glance around the room and, having gauged the mood, let out a theatrical gasp.
‘See?’ said Cunningham Holt. ‘The boy is covered in holes.’
‘They’re getting bigger every couple of hours,’ added Malcolm, pointing out the largest of the perforations, a cavern of some ten centimeters in diameter, currently substituting for his belly button and lower torso.
‘Oh my,’ said Mrs Hunter Huxley and Mrs George Kellerman in unison. Though their Baptist upbringings had exposed them to all manner of miraculous miracles – snake handlings, healings and angelic choirs – they’d never once come across a disappearing boy.
‘Have you been fiddling with yourself, son?’ asked Roger Heinz and as Malcolm Orange turned the livid colour of cheap ketchup, persisted, ‘Most boys go blind when they fiddle with themselves. I’ve never seen a boy disappear before but maybe you’re at it more than most.’
‘It’s a terrible situation,’ continued Cunningham Holt, choosing, as usual, to ignore Roger Heinz. ‘Last night we tried to fix Malcolm by dreaming him back to normal. It was a misguided plan and, as you can see, it didn’t work.’
‘He looks fine to me,’ shouted Irene, who was too fumble-minded to understand the importance of indulging Cunningham Holt.
‘Ssshhh,’ hissed her husband, ‘MALCOLM’S DISAPPEARING AND CUNNINGHAM WANTS TO HELP and that means we’re all going to help too.’
‘Speak up, Irene,’ hollered Sorry. ‘You’re the only one in the room insane enough to tell the truth. There’s nothing wrong with Malcolm. He’s just been around you all so long he’s starting to act crazy too.’
An offer of allegiance from Soren James Blue was enough to turn Irene. She slipped on her reading glasses, squinted into the centre of the living room and confessed that she too could now see that Malcolm was definitely disappearing and would he like a nice pastrami sandwich to sustain him for the trials ahead? Malcolm declined. It was days since he’d last felt honestly hungry. Quickly redressing, he took his usual place in the circle, cross-legged at Cunningham Holt’s feet, and waited to see what advice they could offer.
‘We could hold a prayer meeting,’ suggested Mrs Hunter Huxley, and by proxy Mrs George Kellerman, who had already dropped her eyelids and clasped her hands in grateful anticipation. ‘Prayer changes things.’
‘I think we should do something a little more practical, Mrs H,’ suggested Cunningham Holt. ‘Though you are of course more than welcome to pray before, after and during our practical response. Just so long as you do it quietly.’
‘And no tongues,’ added Bill. ‘Last time you two did your praying in tongues Clary mistook it for Morse and went a bit mad when he couldn’t translate.’
‘Did someone say we should use Morse code?’ piped up Clary O’Hare, fingers already tapping out a distress signal.
‘Shut up, you old fart,’ snapped Roger Heinz. ‘You and your Morse code belong in a museum. If you ask me, we need to storm the Center. This is a medical matter and all the drugs are locked up in there. We need to get inside. We’ll need weapons of course, and a plan. It won’t be easy but Malcolm’s only hope is to get into the Center.’
‘Dumbest plan I ever heard,’ muttered Bill. ‘The Director’ll have us all thrown out
of the retirement village, and for what reason? We don’t even know what’s wrong with Malcolm. How are we going to work out how to help him? I suggest we take him to the ER and let the professionals deal with it.’
A low, murmurous grumble began to spread around the People’s Committee as the members debated, in twos and timid threes, the best plan of action. After a few moments Nate Grubbs cleared his throat and carefully coerced the conversation back on track.
‘I hate to agree with Roger,’ he admitted, fully utilizing the authoritative tone which had, over the years, talked him into leadership of various clubs, societies and sporting associations, ‘but it does seem ridiculous to drag the boy all the way across Portland when there’s a perfectly adequate medical facility right here on our doorstep.’
‘And Mrs Orange did work in the Center,’ added Mrs Hunter Hoxley. ‘The Director might look kindly on treating the boy, because of his mother.’
‘Like hell he will,’ snapped Roger Heinz. ‘The young floozy’s skipped town, probably raided the drugs cabinet before she left. The Director’s not going to let us into the Center. That’s why we need weapons.’
Whilst the People’s Committee were preoccupied weighing up Malcolm’s options, Soren James Blue had taken the opportunity to slip several of Irene’s best crystal ornaments into her jeans pockets. Thievery was not one of her specialist sins. She had always been more of an arson girl. However, all this talk of sneaking into the Center had left her nervous and itching for a distraction. An opportunity to do the right thing was hovering just in front of her nose and Soren James Blue was determined to avoid it at all costs.