by LYNDA BARRY
“OK,” I said.
She pointed to her missing eyebrow. She said, “Roberta, is this noticeable?”
The first lie I ever told her was right then.
Chapter 14
ND BEHIND the Poky Dot Lounge a train came roaring, coal cars filled and packed down into rooftop shapes that can survive the wind. A Northern Pacific, at least a mile long. And I was standing by the car watching it and the father was around the other side taking a pee and then he came up very quiet behind me and he put his arms around me and squeezed me to him and said, “You like trains, little girl?”
And then he screamed, “SON OF A BITCH!” and tried to grab me but I was two steps out of his reach. He clutched at his forearm and shook it, looking at it and then coming at me so fast I couldn’t think to run. He delivered such a slam I saw blue light streaking. I was on the ground and he kicked me.
You remember I mentioned my biting problem.
“GODDAMNED CLEAR TO THE BONE!” He kicked me again. The blood from his arm splattered across the dirt and I was thinking it was adding its molecules, the father’s blood was adding its molecules to the composition of the dirt, I was concentrating on the molecules because I have learned that concentrating on the smallest things can proved a distraction, an escape hole to disappear down. I was concentrating on the molecules and particles and atoms while he kicked me, the spaces between the molecules can be demonstrated by taking a gallon of water and a gallon of rubbing alcohol and pouring them into a two-gallon container and you will see that it will not make two gallons, it will not reach the two-gallon line because—“YOU BIT ME! YOU FUCKING BIT ME!”
Human bites are ferocious with bacteria. They can give you kinds of infections that are hideous, very dangerous, every meat man knows about the danger of bacteria introduced deeply into open wounds and there was only one bottle of Old Skull Popper left and the father was very angry about having to waste the precious drops on sanitizing. I heard him making ow, ow noises as he poured it on.
“What the hell got into you, Clyde?” His voice was calmer. I rolled myself up and felt the stabbing pains in my side. “I could have killed you right then. Don’t put a man in that state, ever. He can’t be held responsible.”
He dripped the clear harsh liquid on the shell-shaped wound. “If it was just one inch over that way I’d be ripping your guts out for a tourniquet. What in the hell got into you?”
I was not able to reveal the true answer. The train wound away into the distance.
“Was it that little squeeze I gave you? You think I want something from you? What the hell do you have that could interest me? You ain’t even female to me.”
But he had said “little girl.” The train was a pinpoint on the horizon that vanished away. I thought that’s what he said but I didn’t feel sure. Ears played tricks. Eyes played tricks. Fingers and hands played all kinds of tricks.
It was true I like trains. I have had a certain problem around trains since I was very little. I have been very attracted to them stopped or moving but especially moving. I have never been able to get close enough to them and while trying I have done things that would make an average person scream. I have laid on my stomach flat and close to the tracks to let the roaring pass over and shake my molecules hard. The exhilaration. The exhilaration. Everything is always easier after the exhilaration.
In my restricted life there has not been much opportunity for the exhilaration. The mother has given me a type of exhilaration by throwing sharp things at me, screaming about the various ways she is going to kill me, but it’s not the same thing at all. I never feel better afterwards. There is never any relief that comes from it except maybe to her.
I can hear the trains from my bedroom window at night, but I have never walked to find them. In my restricted life I have not been allowed to actually go anywhere except school.
I have had nightmares about the coal-car train. The truth of what happened roars back to mind, the father’s flesh gives way between my teeth, his fist knocks me down, his blood splatters across the dirt. Back-splatter. It’s one thing the evidence people look for at the crime scene.
The father broke the door to the Poky Dot Lounge. He needed a cigarette bad. He needed Old Skull Popper, and a tank of gas, but most of all cigarettes, and there could be other things he needed depending on what he found inside.
I was stationed at the door to watch for trouble. The sun went down and the world stood empty. No dust stirred anywhere.
The father said, “Clyde, give me a hand. You see a goddamned light switch anywhere?”
There was a pull string that brought a bare bulb to life. The place smelled hard of pee and the walls were filthy. Someone had gone insane with a spray can, blasting out dripping dots of paint on the rough walls and sagging ceiling. There was a short bar, a couple of stools with cracked vinyl tops, a pool table with a grease spot in the middle the size of a man, and a nasty-looking blanket. And there was a record player. A kid’s record player, the kind that plays 45s. There was one record. Hugo Winterhalter and his orchestra doing “Canadian Sunset.” I switched the record player on and it spun. When I put the needle down the sound of sudden music made the father jump. He said, “Jesus! Give a man some warning!”
It was strange to stand in such a decrepit place listening to the sounds of pianos and violins. The father was getting frustrated. “This place is such a shit hole. Goddamn train bums. I don’t know why I wasted my time beating that front door open because the back door ain’t even attached. Always walk around a place before you bust into it, Clyde. Remember that.”
The father gave up hope of finding anything he could use. He said bums were better scroungers than the civilized man. He said he was surprised the record was still there. He handed it to me. “Want it? Keep it. It’s yours. Shows I don’t got no hard feelings against you, but you try another trick like that and I’ll flay you in six pieces and drag you behind the car.”
He took a last look around the room. “Firetrap. Nobody would miss this place.” The father made a high pile of burnables and threw on a match.
Don’t ever disappoint the father when he needs something. Ever. You see what happened to the Poky Dot Lounge.
Chapter 15
O,” SAID Vicky Talluso. “You ready to meet him?” We were cutting through different back ways, different alleyways, heading to her house. I said, “Who?”
“Him. The future love of your life.”
“Oh.” I shrugged. I was feeling tired. Still floaty from the Creeper but it was a downward float. What I really wanted to do was sit down somewhere and just stare. I didn’t care at what. My legs were feeling rubbery and Vicky Talluso was starting to get on my nerves. I hadn’t known her very long but I already noticed she never asked a question without expecting a specific answer. She never asked, for example, a free-form question, like what was your opinion on something, or for more details about something you mentioned about yourself, like how you killed someone. And then I realized I hadn’t asked her any questions either. I tried to think of one but nothing came.
We turned onto another alley. I had no idea where I was, the alley was dirt and the tire ruts were deep. A smell of garbage circled us. Vicky said, “You better not screw this up, Roberta.”
“Screw up what?”
And the story came out that the guy who was so perfect for me was the brother of Dane, the guy she was wanting for her boyfriend. Dane said for her to bring someone for his brother.
“What’s his name?” I asked. Vicky didn’t know. It turns out she had never actually seen him. But she figured he would be amazing because Dane was so amazing. I got a sick feeling in my stomach at the thought of an amazing guy meeting me.
“I don’t know, Vicky.”
“You don’t know what?” She shoved my shoulder. “You don’t know now that I’ve gotten you high and I’m taking you to my house to get you some decent clothes so you don’t look like such a skag and I’m taking you to meet an amazing guy who lives on the V
iew in an amazing house with a heated swimming pool, and no parents home for two weeks, you don’t know about THAT?”
She was shouting at me and it made a huge dog start barking behind a tall wooden fence and the dog started leaping and saliva wads were flying off its lips and then Vicky ran over to the fence and started kicking it with her yellow boots and the dog went insane and a window flew open on the second story of the ratty house behind the fence and a bald man stuck his head out and said, “Get the HELL away from my dog!”
“GO FUCK YOURSELF!” Vicky shouted so hard the veins on her neck were out.
“WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?” The man’s face started contorting. Vicky shouted it again and he left the window.
I said, “We should go, Vicky.”
She screamed, “I’LL KILL YOUR FUCKING DOG IF I WANT TO!”
I will admit that it was me that tripped her. The father taught me how to do it. A simple flip with your foot, you catch them right under the heel when they are walking. The father said, “If you do it right, they don’t even feel it. They’re on their butts before they know what happened. All you have to do is look concerned and help them up and you have made a friend.”
I reached my hand to Vicky and she slapped it away. She took her purse and threw it into the sticker bushes. The gate flew open and the dog lunged. Vicky jumped and rolled and was on her feet running. You never run from a dog. Ever. What you do with a dog is step toward them and then keep your hands by your sides and stay very still. You can glance at their eyes but don’t hold a stare. They may jump up and tear your face off anyway but at least you will have a chance. If you run you are dead. Especially with a big dog like Brother. And if you run you won’t see that Brother is on a choke chain held by the bald man.
Brother was a beautiful dog. Even while he was making vicious leaps at me I noticed it. Have you ever seen a chocolate Doberman with his real tail and ears? Beautiful is the word and I guess I kept saying it because the bald man finally stopped shouting and Brother stopped barking. That was what I wanted to stare at. A dog like Brother with golden eyes and the dog smell that has always calmed me.
I said, “Sir? I’m really sorry about my friend acting like that. Her father just died, sir.” I don’t know why I said the thing about Vicky’s dad. It just followed the first sentence right out of my mouth.
The man turned very understanding. Brother let me pet and fuss over him. The man got a rake and held the sticker bushes away so I could get Vicky’s purse, and then told me to keep an eye on my friend. If she kept acting like that she could end up in the hospital.
On his arm I saw a faded USN tattoo.
I said, “You Navy?”
He smiled at me big.
But where was Vicky? Where was Vicky Talluso? I had her purse, I found her hat, her red velvet tam laying in the next alley but where was she? The light was fading fast and I realized I had nowhere to go.
The father said when you are lost you can follow the telephone wires. If you are stuck in the middle of nowhere having fits because you have no cigs and no booze and your car ran out of gas on you so you lit it on fire and it’s flaming behind you in the dark and you have that lonely craving for the opportunities other people can provide you with, by all means, follow the wires.
“This damn thing is heavy as shit,” said the father. He had the suitcase in one hand and his USN duffel over his shoulder. My bag was also USN, less wide but longer with a drawstring top. In it were a few of my clothes and the rifle, broken down and carefully wrapped along with some boxes of shells. “Why do you keep turning back to look at the damn car, Clyde?”
I told him I was waiting for it to blow up. In the movies when cars started on fire they always blew up.
“Not when they don’t got no gas in them they don’t,” said the father. “That’s just common wisdom.” And he was about to lay more common wisdom on me when the explosion happened.
“What the hell,” said the father. “I’m still right.”
He said he burned the car because they might be looking for us. The authorities might. And we needed to start covering our tracks. And then he said where I bit him was throbbing like a son-of-a-bitch and he reminded me that he almost twisted my neck, he could have snapped it easy, he knew how to do it. He was a hand-to-hand man. The Navy was sad to lose him. He said he could snap my neck and who would ever know? There wasn’t anybody looking for me. He asked me if I could think of a single person who would report me missing.
I couldn’t.
We slept that night in the weeds alongside the road. We were both so tired it didn’t matter. When I heard the father’s sleep breathing, I pulled my duffel farther away.
In the morning we were walking again. The father was wearing fresh slacks and a fresh short-sleeve shirt. I could see his sleeveless undershirt through it. He told me to change my clothes too, and at first I wouldn’t because there was no place to change. Not a thing to stand behind.
The father said, “What are you worried about? Hell, I’ve only seen you bare-assed all your life. I won’t look. There ain’t nothing to look at.”
But of course he did. He waited a few moments before he turned around and watched everything.
We were saved by a man in a truck who jerked his dirty thumb back toward the direction we’d been walking and said, “Your car blowed up,” and then shot a jet of tobacco spit through the air. “Hop in.” The father got in first.
“Bub-bub-brother?” The father had his shoulders slumped and he was stuttering. Dazzle camouflage. “H-have you g-got a ci-ci-cigarette on you?”
“Naw,” said the man. “Take dip?”
“If yyy-you can sp-sp-are it.”
The man passed the Copenhagen to the father who took out a huge wad, stuck it in his lower lip and held the can out to me.
The man’s name was Syd. He was very tan and his clothes were very faded but he looked like a very together sort of person. His hair was oiled and combed in the Robert Mitchum style. I was admiring the comb-tooth pattern when the father nudged me with the can. I took a pinch.
Syd said, “Your boy chew? He don’t even look eight years old.” Syd’s eyes looked friendly. Bloodshot but sincere. He didn’t look old but his face had a million creases. Later the father said you could have poured a gallon of water into that face and not a drop would spill out. The sun did it. It dried the strongest men out like jerky.
“Hhh-he don’t ttt-talk. Eh-eh-eh-pilepsy.”
Syd said, “Epilepsy? I got a sister has epilepsy and she talks fine.”
The father started tapping his hand on the dash. Watch the hands. He taught me that. Watch the hands. They will tell you everything you need to know.
“Bbb-brain damage fff-from fff-falling.”
In the wing mirror I caught a glimpse of my face. It was swollen bad and the color around my left eye was deep and purple-red.
“That what happened to you, son?” Syd leaned forward to adjust his straw seat cushion and took a longer look at me. The father caught it. After that, whenever Syd leaned, the father blocked his view.
“Muh-muh-muh-mongoloid.”
“No shit,” said Syd. “Epileptic mongoloid with brain damage to boot. Somebody dealt you a real bad hand, son. I’d fold if I were you.” Syd leaned forward fast and winked at me and I got a sudden bolt of fear in my stomach. I’d never met someone who could see through the father before. I didn’t know it was possible. And I had no idea how the father would handle it if Syd pushed him. But Syd didn’t. He reached under the seat and pulled up an old pop bottle for the father to spit in and that was about all that happened until Syd dropped us at the Trailways.
The father told Syd to come see us anytime. He peeled off the Copenhagen label, wrote a fake name and address on the back of it and said, “My www-wife’s real p-p-pretty and she’d g-get a kuh-kick out of you.” He told Syd he could look forward to a free haircut because the father had his own barbershop.
Syd gave me a wave from his window. He said, “Keep y
our old man out of trouble.” A piece of paper fluttered into the air behind him as he drove off.
“Look there,” said the father. “Stupid shit already lost my address.”
Chapter 16
N THE bus station the father handed me five dollars and pointed me to the lunch counter. “Get yourself something to eat.” He went into the men’s room and when he came out his hair was combed and aftershave clouds were drifting off of him. He shoved our bags into a metal locker and put the key in his pocket. At the ticket counter he asked for two tickets to Dentsville. The ticket lady was looking at him in an interested sort of way and he was looking back at her like a mirror. “Two?” she said.
“Yeah. One adult and one pain-in-the-ass nephew.”
She looked over at me and laughed. I lifted my upper lip a little and showed my teeth. Sometimes I did this. I picked it up from dogs.
There were some hours to kill before our bus left. I watched the ticket lady’s eyes follow the father as he walked out the glass door to find the liquor store she gave him directions to. She liked that he had turned to look at her. She put a sign out that said PURCHASE TICKETS AT NEWSSTAND AND SUNDRIES, grabbed her purse and told the waitress she was taking lunch.
The waitress shook her head and wiped the counter in front of me. She was old but not ancient and she had a hair net on. I saw her flick her eyes at the round-headed man sitting behind the sundries counter and I saw him flick his back. He was smoking a cigarette that had gotten very wet around the lips. He picked up a bent fly swatter and went back to staring out the window. I asked for pan
I asked for pancakes but it was too late for pancakes. The waitress seemed very insulted that I would even mention the word “pancakes.” She pointed to a big clock with a yellowed face and a wig of greasy dust. She pointed to the menu. She said, “Read? Tell time?”