Minding the bluebonnets that lurked in the high foxtails, we walked the length of the wreck. Then I bowed at a busted window, where the foxtail spikes tickled my chin. In midday, the upturned bus was smaller, less ominous than I remembered. And gazing straight through the gloomy interior, I caught sight of the Johnsongrass parting in the adjacent field -- the ghost moving out into pasture, partially obscured by the rise of railroad tracks.
"It’s a lady,” I said, noting her black dress.
Her head was covered by a mesh hood, the kind beekeepers use for protection; she stooped-she didn’t notice us. And the idea of running never crossed my mind. My heart didn’t beat any faster, my hands didn’t shake.
For a better view, Classique and I crept to the rear of the bus, my steps swooshing in the foxtails. And peeping around the side, we saw the ghost grabbing nettles, effortlessly, like pulling one Kleenex and then another from the box.
Ghost, I thought. Big fat ghost.
With the hood on, her housedress bunching as she crouched, the ghost appeared larger than any woman I’d ever encountered, including my mother. And while observing her at work, Classique and I were all whispers.
"She comes from a cave somewhere in that field,” I said.
"Because she was killed in this very bus,” said Classique, "all burned bad and that’s why her face is covered.”
"She boils what she pulls in a pot and makes weed soup. That’s what she does.”
"That’s how ghosts get fat. There’s so many weeds it’d be easy to get fat that way.”
No other explanation presented itself.
On Halloween, I asked my father if ghosts haunted L.A., and he said just a few, mostly dead movie stars, like Marilyn Monroe and Fatty Arbuckle.
"But in Texas,” he explained, "there’s a ton. Bluesmen like Lightnin’ Hopkins and Leadbelly wander Dallas streets at night. Woody Guthrie too. Then there’s the Alamo -- that joint is rich with spooks. And where Mother lived, way out in nowhere, she’d spot ghosts coming and going right outside her windows, right in the middle of the day.”
"Bullshit," my mother said. "Noah, you’ll be up with her tonight when she’s scared to sleep."
"No I won’t," my father told her, "‘cause I’m saying now that most spooks are harmless. They just want to be seen but don’t want to be bothered.” Then he gave me one of his winks, saying, "As long as Mother was alive, them ghosts didn’t bug her. In fact, she enjoyed knowing they was there. They kept an eye on her place, made her feel all safe."
And I was going to tell Classique what my father had said, but then my ankles were itching again, and my legs felt like needles were pricking at the skin but not quite sinking in.
"She got killed in the fire," whispered Classique.
Wrenching nettles from the ground and throwing them aside, the ghost paused to wipe dirt on her white apron. And even though it was warm outside, she wore gray mittens.
"No, she didn’t get burned in the bus,” I said. "She got strangled.”
"And drowned."
"She’s Queen Gunhild and she didn’t want to stay in the bog so she decided not to be dead anymore."
Bog men rose from their peat graves, so did Gunhild. After all, she was a bog woman. And perhaps my father had become a ghost. He could be in the kitchen eating crackers, or upstairs searching for that squirrel. He might be on the porch, waiting.
"We have to go."
"Right now."
"We have to hurry.”
But I couldn’t run because my shins were sore. So we took our time.
The ghost was busy with her mittens, whistling a pretty song. The railroad tracks and the foxtails made it impossible to see what exactly her mittens were doing.
"He won’t be on the porch,” Classique said. "He won’t be upstairs. He’s not a ghost yet.”
"But he will be."
"I know," she said. "I know everything?
I looked at her face, her long eyelashes. I wondered who removed her head. I wondered who did that kind of thing to dolls.
8
Classique said, "Quit scratching and it’ll stop itching."
That’s what my mother would tell me when I pinched at a scab or rubbed a bug bite.
"Just let it be and it’ll heal quicker. You’re making it worse.”
So upstairs in the bathroom, I resisted the urge to rake my shins with my fingernails. Instead, I donned one of Grandmother’s blond wigs. And standing at the mirror, I put on lipstick, trying my best to apply it evenly. If the lipstick ended up crooked or smeared, then it became poisonous. My tongue would swell, and I’d choke.
Grandmother’s cosmetic bag had six different lipsticks, various shades of red, the scarlet being my favorite because it reminded me of apples. It also reminded me of blood. And it felt waxy like an apple peel but didn’t dry like blood. I wondered if each lipstick had its own flavor and smell. I wondered if scarlet tasted good. I’d know when I finished; I’d bring the stick to my tongue and lick it. Then I could slide it between my lips -- I’d study my reflection, how the stick went in and out -- and see what flavor it had. I could bite into the stick if I wanted; I could chew it in my mouth like gum. But that was too risky. I didn’t want my tongue swelling -- microscopic syringes hid in the lipstick.
I spread it carefully. If I went any quicker my hand might get shaky and the lipstick would end up all over my chin; it might redden my nose. Then the poison would be released. A gradual application was the safest bet, stay within the borders, no hurry -- like drawing in my Barbie Coloring Book. It was easy coloring the dresses or hair. But the heads and arms and legs were difficult to get right; they were so thin, my crayons always scooted past the borders if I hurried. When I wasn’t meticulous, the picture got ruined, and Barbie had to be ripped from the pages. And I cursed myself.
Careful. Almost done. Deadly lips as delicious as an apple. Dream Date Jeliza-Rose doll. When the lipstick reached the nooks of my mouth I had to pause; it was hard getting the scarlet neatly in the corners.
My reflection glowered. She suddenly resembled my mother and it frightened me. She said, "Get on with it. You little bitch, l’m hungry.” She was staring into my eyes, gazing through me.
I glanced down. The lipstick moved. I felt it smear and looked up. The scarlet had smudged across my upper lip, daubed between my nostrils. Doomed. My reflection smiled with her crazy wig and messy lips. Murderer. I’d been poisoned.
Grasping my throat, I ran into my bedroom.
"Classique, I’m dying. My tongue is filling my head. I can’t talk anymore because I'm really dying now."
"Dear, you’re already dead,” she told me. "You’re a ghost!”
"Already?”
"A spook.”
I touched the blond coils hanging on my forehead.
"And so beautiful too. I’m a vision.”
"Very beautiful," she said. "More beautiful than -- I don’t know.”
"More beautiful than-"
Scampering, rapid light-sounding steps came from behind. I turned. I couldn’t believe it.
The squirrel was at the bathroom door, puffy tail curled - he sniffed the floor; I watched him. That twitching muzzle. He was almost motionless, hunched in the doorway. I wondered what to do, but I couIdn’t think -- I could only watch. It was as if he didn’t see me, and I wasn’t afraid of him. I just didn’t know what to do.
Then he cocked his head to one side, considering me. His paws flexed on the floorboards. I waited to see if he seemed fearful; then I worried that other squirrels were coming, a hit squad. When I took a deep breath, he swung around, facing me, went up on his hind legs, sniffing. He wasn’t scared.
"What do you want? How’d you get in?"
I knew the squirrel was fast. And he was mean. He could spring through the air. He might bite me. He might steal Classique, eat her hair, and gnaw her into nothing with those nasty teeth. It was creepy, an animal always chewing on wood or wires or plastic things. He did it because he was a pig and couldn’t
hunt food like a lion. He was also stupid. But his teeth were huge, tusks, worse than claws. While attacking, he could sink into a skull as easy as someone crunching into an apple.
"You better leave,” I said, a warning for good measure, but it didn’t rattle him. "You go!”
His tail swooshed. He couldn’t quit sniffing. His ears quivered.
I threw the wig at him. But it missed; he was already scrambling, tearing through the room.
So I hurdled onto my bed, screaming, "Go away!"
The squirrel was confused and chirping like a bird; his knothole was somewhere else. He sprang from one end of the room to the other, desperate for a good climbing place -- a wall without a ceiling overhead, just sky. Back and forth across the throw rug. Chattering and angry. That was the worst part. Squirrel babble near my bed and me and the dolls. Then under the bed, then out, across the throw rug again, to the wall -- to the other wall. Hesitate, sniff, stand, down, run. Chatter, chirp. Back under the bed, out. Across the throw rug. Wall to wall.
I hobbled on the mattress, yelling, bouncing the doll parts. Doll heads leaping. Some of them mashed by my feet, like ants. Toes on Classique, toes on Fashion Jeans. Jumping and shouting.
Then he froze, no good climbing place, no knothole.
I couldn't scream anymore; the breath had abandoned me. My shins were itching. The wig sat in a clump. The room smelled like skunk.
"Just go-"
He shot into the bathroom, skidding on the floor. Claws scratching; he was frantic, irate. Hopping about in there, making a racket -- then he was gone.
"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 gi
ft."
"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.
Mitch Cullin Page 6