by Will Clarke
* * *
“Well, that was a complete waste of time.” La La buckles her seat belt and pulls down the vanity mirror. She checks her bangs and lipstick.
“It was a logical place to look.” I start the car and point one air conditioning vent to me and one to La La.
“Did you find anyone who might have seen her?” she asks.
“Just that crazy guy who thinks he’s Kurt Vonnegut.”
“Oh, Mama loved Kurt Vonnegut.”
“The homeless guy or the actual author?”
“The author. She had all his books.”
“I don’t seem to remember that,” I say.
“Oh yeah, she had a thing for him,” La La says. “Joseph Heller, Douglas Adams, George Saunders. The weirder, the better.”
“Yeah, well this guy was weird alright. He was cold reading me.”
“Cold reading?”
“Yeah, you know like what you do to people to make them think you’re psychic.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” She leans back and screws up her face.
“No, just a con artist.” I chuckle.
“Fuck you.”
“Want to pick up lunch somewhere?” I try to change the subject.
“I’m doing a cayenne cleanse.” La La puts the visor back up and looks out the window. “Wonder why my dream misled us to this place?”
“Dreams don’t always have to mean something, do they?” I drive out of the parking lot. “Or maybe that’s what the dream meant: Mama’s been misleading you.”
“Don’t say that. Don’t say that about our mother.”
“Sorry. You’re right. Mama never misled anyone.”
“Why do you always have to be right?” she says. “Does it make you happy?”
“What would make me happy is to find Mama so I can go home and be with my family.”
“If you hadn’t disobeyed Mama, none of this would be happening right now, and I wouldn’t be threading this needle by myself.” She points to the sidewalk. “Pull over. Right here. Right now.”
“What? Why?”
“Let me out of this car.”
I pull the car to the side of the road and park it. “What’s wrong?”
“The Melissae sent you Vonnegut, and you’re too much of an know-it-all to even try to see the signs.”
“How is some crazy guy a sign?
“It’s no coincidence you keep running into him.”
“Ah, so it’s no coincidence that I ran into a homeless guy at a homeless shelter?”
“You’re never going to learn and we are all going to die because of it.” She looks at me straight in the eye. She is serious. She really believes what she’s saying to me.
And then La La gets out of my car, slams the door, and walks away from me and all my annoying logic, and I let her do it.
* * *
Slaughterhouse-Five, Chapter Four: “An unseen hand turned a master valve...” ↵
The Barnum Effect is when some poor doe-eyed soul finds very specific meaning in cleverly worded yet general statements that could apply to almost anybody with a heartbeat. Turban-wearing psychics, carny-handed mediums, and open-shirted Vegas magicians use this to great applause and profit. "The Barnum Effect" was coined by American psychology professor Paul Meehl, referencing P. T. Barnum's reputation as a hustler and flamboyant con man. However, P.T. Barnum never said, “There’s a sucker born every minute.” So there’s that. ↵
22
Under the Buzz & Glow
The red neon flickers
“You and La La figure anything out at the shelter?” Emily asks me while she is taking off her eye makeup in my parents’ pink-tiled guest bathroom.
“Not really.” I unbutton my shirt and slip out of my pants. “Just some crazy old guy who says he knows Mama, and now La La and I are in a fight.”
“Why are you in a fight? Don’t answer that. Of course, you’re in a fight with La La.” She wipes a cotton ball across her eyelashes and throws it in the trash. “What did the guy from the shelter say?”
“That he wrote Slaughterhouse-Five for her.”
“At least it wasn’t Catcher in the Rye.” She smiles. “If he had a copy of that, then you’d know you’d found your man.”
“He was going on and on about The Unseen Hand. He’s in on this somehow.”
“Duke.” She widens her eyes at me. “Did you at least get his number this time?”
“He’s homeless. He doesn’t have a number.”
“No wonder La La is pissed at you.” She turns from the bathroom mirror and looks me in the eyes. “You need to tell the cops about this guy.”
I have to look away; I act like I am looking for my phone.
“If you don’t call them in the next five minutes, I am calling Mary Glapion myself,” she says.
“She threatened to arrest me, Emily. You sat there and watched her do it.”
“Sweetheart, they kidnapped you. They put you in their car, and they held a gun to your head. They know where we live.”
“I am handling this.” I can feel my jaw tighten.
“You keep saying that, but what does that mean?”
“It means that I am going to figure out who did this and make them pay.”
“Make them pay? Are you serious? Who are you?”
“What do you mean who am I?”
“I don’t even know who this person is saying this to me,” she says.
“It’s me,” I point to my face. “Same guy I was five minutes ago before you started freaking out.”
“So now I’m the one freaking out? That’s how you want to play this?” She walks out of the bathroom, past me.
Her words hang in the air like the humidity. They both make me sweat.
I brush my teeth. I kiss my sleeping boys on the cheeks and pull the covers up to their chins. But instead of climbing into my old bed, I crawl in with Emily, and she lets me. She folds into me, and we cuddle.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper into her hair. “I’ll call Mary Glapion tomorrow.”
“You can’t keep doing this,” she says. “You can’t keep acting like these people aren’t dangerous.”
“I know.” I kiss her on the forehead. “I’ll call the cops tomorrow.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Emily falls asleep while my mind races, first to my mother’s bound wrists, then to Gay André’s dead face, then to the matchbook, and then back to Emily, back to who we used to be, back when I wasn’t the son of a missing mad woman or a lawyer for Mandala Worldwide or a bad husband or an absentee father. Back to when I was just me. Back to that Wilco concert at Stubb’s where I spilled my beer on this blonde pixie with big green eyes.
I had apologized profusely. The front of her shirt was drenched.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said.
“Let me buy you a drink,” I said.
“Sure,” she smiled. And from that moment, we stood side by side, nursing our Shiner Bocks, swaying to the music, the bright lights from the show reflecting on our faces.
She was a huge fan of Summerteeth. I thought Being There was better. We argued about this during the opening act. I bought her a beer and then another. By the time Jeff Tweedy closed the show with “She’s a Jar,” and with all those lines about sleepy kissers and all those feelings that the night is real, we weren’t just listening to that song. We had become that song.
Emily took me home, and after that night, after that supposed one-night stand, we never left each other’s side. We fell in love. Hard. She was an econ major who wanted to work for a tech start-up. I was a law student who was going to save the world. She laughed at all my jokes. I couldn’t stop holding her hand. She smelled like watermelon and cut grass.
We became each other’s everything, only thing; it was spring break in Tulum when this finally became apparent to me.
We had spent the whole day in the water, playing while the green waves swelled around us, grabbing, tickling, lau
ghing. We kissed until our mouths were numb. Then we grilled fish right out of the ocean and got drunk on cheap tequila and fresh pineapple juice. The sun reddened our shoulders and brightened our eyes. We lay on our backs, drying our bathing suits in the white sand.
And that’s when I told her that my mother was the Fortune-Teller Queen of New Orleans. I told her about the mob bosses and their jealous wives, about Willy Williams and Carlos Marcello, about my mother’s dubious claims to Madame Blavatsky’s dark throne, about the predictions and the curses.
I told her everything. She was the first girl I ever told about my family’s weird business. It was a drunken thing to do. I could have lost her, but just the opposite happened.
“Let’s get married,” she said.
“Today?” I searched her eyes.
“Is that a yes?” She rolled away from me in the sand.
“Was that a proposal?” I crawled on top of her.
“It was,” she said.
“You’re drunk,” I said.
“Just a tiny bit.”
“Then let’s do it. Today.”
“Like right now?”
“Like right now,” I said.
23
May 15, 2010
Mama has been missing for ten days
This Sunday morning, I get up early while Emily and the boys are asleep in those backbreaking bunk beds. I shave and shower. I put on my University of Texas golf shirt and Dockers. I grab Gay André’s matchbook out of my old jeans, and my iPhone off the dresser. I tiptoe through this creaky old house. But these floors ache with every step. So I take it slow, down the old staircase, past all those years of family photos, past Roman with his headgear and braces, past Yanko with his ‘N Sync hair gel and acne, Stevo in his gold helmet and football pads, past Mama in her long black braids and intense stare. At the bottom of the stairs, bodies and blankets are all over the parlor. Stevo and Cactus obviously brought their family inside from the van last night. So I step over them as carefully as I can to the front door.
I unlock the deadbolt, and slip out the door onto the porch. I stare out over the neutral ground of Napoleon Avenue to the errant frat boys and their dates stumbling home from The Club Ms. Mae’s. I try to piece together that night with Yanko and Gay André.
I check the time on the iPhone. Is 8:00 a.m. too early to call Meg Mills?
I dial the number from Gay André’s matchbook.
2-25-1-31-60-78 Ext 49.
The phone rings and then click:
“We’re sorry. You have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try your call again.”
I go inside and hide the matches in the back of the cutlery drawer. I pull down the red can of Community Coffee and make myself a fresh pot in Mama’s Mr. Coffee maker that she has had since the ’80s.
* * *
“What a big boy!” Emily shouts from behind the closed door of the guest bathroom “You did it!”
The toilet flushes and Emily brings Jo-Jo into the parlor, where I am laying on the old purple velvet sofa, playing with my phone, de-friending people on Facebook who keep posting half-truths about the Spill.
“I did it, Daddy! I did it!” Jo-Jo claps his hands.
“That’s great, buddy!” I say.
“I pooped in the potty like a big boy!”
“Yes, you did, and now Daddy’s going to take you to get a snowball,” Emily sings.
Jo-Jo walks over to me on the couch. He crawls up on my belly—the one that seems to be getting bigger and more Homer Simpson-like by the day. Jo-Jo sits on my stomach and he pats my head.
“Les go, Daddy!” His eyes are sweet and proud. “I’m gonna get a Tiger’s Blood.”
“Oh, a Tiger’s Blood. You gonna give me some?”
“All mine. You can’t have any,” he says.
“Should we let your brother go with us?” I tease him.
“No Stewy!” Jo-Jo slaps my chest.
“Daddy has to return some emails and then we can go.” I look at Emily to say, why don’t you just take him, the Snowball stand is just around the corner, and I am busy.
“Daddy can do that after you get back,” Emily gives me an expression that looks like a smile, but it really means get up and take care of your son.
So I take Jo-Jo to get a snow cone, or really a snowball—which is what I grew up calling them. I hold Jo-Jo’s soft small hand and we stroll down Magazine—Jo-Jo skips and I walk—under the power lines and errant Mardi Gras beads. The sun is angry, screaming and slapping everyone upside the head. We pass a couple of locals waiting for the bus, standing under their cheap black umbrellas, and I wonder why everyone on the street today isn’t carrying the cool shadows of black umbrellas. Why does this seem so hopelessly out-of-date or odd, when in fact it’s what any intelligent person should do on days like this?
Jo-Jo is radiating so much joy that I can’t help but feel better. He’s so proud of himself and so happy to be holding my hand. His smile pushes everything else away: The heat. The Sub-Ocean Brightside. My job. My mother. All the chaos in my life washes out to the oil slick sea and for this brief too-hot-too-humid moment I can breathe. I can walk and smile and hold my son’s hand and know that at least for just this one hot second, something is good in this world: My kid can shit in a toilet and I can buy him a snowball. It’s not a miracle, but there’s redemption here all the same.
We cross over to the shadier side of Magazine, past all the tourist ladies in their Capri pants and white ankle socks, and towards the pistachio-colored wall, where a long, angry line winds around the side of the SnoWizard’s Snowball Shack.
People are hot. People are thirsty. Having to wait in this line makes everyone scowl and sweat—everyone except my boy.
“Daddy, you can have a bite of mine,” he says, “but don’t eat it all.”
“Okay.” I tossle his hair.
“Cute kid.”
I turn around.
It’s Gay André. Alive and well. Not a single bullet in his head.
He’s licking an orange snowball and carrying an enormous Louis Vuitton backpack on his shoulder. His mouth is stained orange, and his teeth are freakishly white by contrast.
I pull Jo-Jo closer to my legs, behind me.
“You should get da tangerine. It’s scrumptious.” He takes a chompy bite of his snowball.
“How are you doing this?” I say.
“Doing what?”
“Being alive?”
“Easy. Just breathe through your mouth and nose,” Gay André holds up his snowball like he’s toasting me.
“You’re dead. I saw it.”
“Fuck you. I didn’t come here for your magic ass to give me no bad predictions. If you see me dying in the future, just keep that shit to yourself.”
I push Jo-Jo behind me, to protect from him this guy, to shield him from the weirdness of this moment.
“That your son?” Gay André peeks around me, trying to catch Jo-Jo’s eyes.
“What do you want?” I say.
“Look, I’m ya friend.” He pulls out this strange, big-eyed, plush toy from his purse. “Here, I brought this for ya.”
“Don’t want it.”
“It’s a Murakami!” he says this to me like I am an idiot for not knowing what a Murakami is. “This is the $10k I was talking about!”
“That’s the $10k? That thing?”
“For Christ’s sake. Take it. It ain’t no normal toy. It’s a Takashi Murakami. You could get twenty grand if you wanted.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Take it before you make me spill my snowball on it.” He pushes the toy against my chest, and I find myself holding it.
I look at the face of the thing. It’s some sort of bizarre raccoon with blue cartoon eyes.
“It’s a raccoon,” I say.
“It ain’t no raccoon. It’s this Japanese red panda thing.”
“Looks like a raccoon to me.”
“They ain’t even got raccoons in Japan,” he says.
“What do you want me to do with this?” I hold up the stuffed animal.
“Sell it on eBay. Make some real nice money.” Gay André takes a chomp of his snowball. “Now give me back my matches.”
“Who’s Meg? Whose number is that inside the flap?”
“Why you ax so many questions?” He licks the dripping orange syrup off the side of his styrofoam cup. “You writing a novel or something?”
“Yeah, what if I am?”
“Well then, you gonna have to leave this chapter out,” he says.
“I’ll just burn the matches,” I say. “I don’t care.”
“Gimme my goddamn matches.” He stomps his foot.
“Start talking. Or I start burning.”
“Look, that matchbook had my lottery numbers on dem. All right. Ya mamma gave them to me and told me to play them this weekend.”
“Looked like a Baton Rouge phone number to me.”
“You write that number down?” He lights up. “Cuz all I need is that number.”
“You better start talking and stop lying,” I say.
“I ain’t lyin’. Meg Mills stands for Mega Millions. Those my winning numbers. Your Mama wrote them like a phone number ’cause she said someone —she didn’t say it would be her own goddamn son—would steal my matchbook.”
“I want you to set up a meeting with The Loup Garou,” I say.
“You have no idea what you are messing with,” Gay André asks.
“Do you want your matchbook or not?”
“Look, I’ll make sure he gets in touch with you, but that won’t be before the lottery.” Gay André licks his snowball. “How about you just walk with me back to your mama’s house and give me my matchbook and I promise, I will get him to call you?”
“We’re getting a snowball,” I say. “And then, you can have your matches back.”