Fum

by Adam Rapp

  And then I asked her if she was wearing a wig.

  I said, “Is that a wig?”

  She said, “You can tell?”

  I nodded, and then she pulled it off, and she made a face like it hurt when she did it. Underneath the wig was this little flesh-colored cap made of panty hose material, and Mom took that off too and balled it up and threw it to the floor, and her hair underneath the little flesh-colored panty hose thing was all thin and matted and looked like a cat’s hair after you throw the cat in the shower and blast the water.

  “It keeps falling out,” Mom said, touching her hair. “I went to the doctor, but they say nothing’s wrong.”

  One little part above her ear was curling up on its own. It was like an old man’s hair.

  “It’s Dad,” I told her.

  Mom asked me what I meant by that.

  “He’s pulling it out,” I said.

  Then she slapped me hard across the face, Dave. She really hit me hard, and it was loud, too. Some of the slap also hit my ear and made it ring.

  “Because you’re sad,” I said. “His spirit is pulling it out little by little until there’s nothing left.”

  My ear was really ringing, but I just kept talking.

  I told her that when it finally grew back she wouldn’t be sad anymore.

  She asked me how I could possibly know something like this and I told her that I just did.

  She said, “Do you read this stuff?”

  “I just know it,” I said.

  She said, “Well, then why isn’t he pulling your hair out?”

  I told her it was because I’m not sad.

  “Why not?” she said. “Why aren’t you sad?”

  “I’m just not,” I said.

  “Then, what in God’s name are you?” she asked.

  She was crying now, Dave, like really, really crying with a lot of dramatic feeling.

  I said, “I’m Billy.”

  “Not who are you,” she said. “What are you? Are you a boy? Are you a robot? Do you even have feelings?”

  I know I’m underlining a lot of words in this entry, but that’s because things were quite expressive, and excessive volume was being used. But I couldn’t answer Mom’s questions, Dave. I had no idea what to say. The only thing that came to mind was that I wasn’t a robot, so that’s what I said.

  “I’m not a robot,” I told her.

  She was on the floor now. She was on her hands and knees, facing down like a dog that had broken the rules. She was acting like I was the one who’d slapped her.

  “I’m a boy,” I said.

  But she just cried and cried.

  And then I told her I wished he could take my place, “he” meaning my dad, and that I would trade my life for his if I could, and I meant it when I said it, Dave — I swear I did.

  I told her I just needed to find the log.

  “What log?” she said.

  “The log on the mythical river,” I said.

  I tried to explain the whole thing to her, about how my dad can’t find the log and how he’s wandering around in the garden looking for his watch and how the wolves from the newspaper are in the forest by the frontage road protecting the log and how if I did this one thing, this one very important thing, I could help my dad get to it so he could cross the mythical river and pass into the spirit world, but nothing was coming out right, the words were all confused and in the wrong order, and Mom was crying now and her body looked really exhausted and her dark-brown wig was over in the corner and it sort of looked like a shot bird, so I went over and picked it up and started petting it so it wouldn’t be so messy and dead-looking, but when I tried to put it back on her head, she said, “Don’t you dare, you little shit!” and she sort of hissed that phrase like a feral cat, Dave, so I didn’t do it. I didn’t dare do that, no way. Then Mom opened the silverware drawer and grabbed something and slammed the drawer shut and forced whatever it was into my hand, and when I looked down, I could see that I was holding my dad’s watch.

  “There’s his goddamn watch,” Mom said. “Happy?”

  I didn’t know what else to do, so I left the kitchen and went upstairs.

  Up in my room, I could still hear Mom crying, which went on for a long time. It sounded like she’d been knifed in a forest and left there to die.

  The thing about Mom is she’s not a mean person at all. She’s never slapped me and she’s never cursed in front of me, either. These events made me very sad for her.

  Later I went back down to check on her, and she was curled up on the floor, at the foot of the refrigerator. It was like she was waiting for a secret knock.

  The secret knock would come, and then she’d wake up and stand and open the refrigerator door, and there he’d be, my dad, exactly as he was before he fell face-first into his plate at the dinner table, like he’d just returned from a long trip and had thousands of stories to tell, like maybe he rode an asteroid or communed with some aliens and taught them the state capitals or met God, who sort of looked like that actor Jeff Bridges and was maybe wearing a corduroy coat with a falcon on it.

  Then I would hand him his watch, and he’d smile and thank me and maybe pat me on the head.

  And after that, they would step to the side, and I would walk into the refrigerator.

  “Good-bye, Billy,” Mom would say, closing the door behind me.

  “Be brave, son,” my dad would say. “Don’t forget to take your medication.”

  In the basement of the Church of Our Merciful Savior, on Eleventh Street, just north of Muhammad Ali Boulevard in downtown Louisville, with the help of Sturm Fullilove and Clinette Sloper, Marlene Bledsoe is in the process of securing a white sheet to one of the paneled walls. She is first up at PGDC’s Tuesday-night meeting — it’s going to be her first share — and her hand is shaking so much, she can’t quite drive the thumbtack into a channeled groove of the weathered wood. Tonight a faint electricity charges the normally slightly fungal air of the small meeting space.

  Knowing about Marlene’s important evening through an e-mail from the PGDC leader, Shepard Montrose, everyone is in a festive mood. For instance, Chauncey Shore, normally a quiet man who rarely shakes hands or hugs anyone, gently squeezed Marlene’s shoulder when she arrived. And Sturm Fullilove brought twice as many Krispy Kreme doughnuts. This is the general treatment one receives on the night of their first share.

  “Lemme help you, Maylene,” Clinette Sloper says. Marlene hands her the thumbtack and steps back.

  Others who are present for this week’s meeting are Clinette Sloper’s husband, Spinner, who just finished arranging a dozen whole-grain apple-spiced muffins on a few sections of paper towels, Shepard Montrose, whose thick white hair seems a little yellow this evening, Chauncey Shore, who, in a matter of minutes has already eaten two of Sturm Fullilove’s Krispy Kremes, Amy Rubbentugh, a first-timer with cystic acne who drove all the way over from Lexington, and last but not least, Lemon Tidwell, who walked in only moments ago carrying a big cardboard dispenser of Veranda Blend Coffee from Starbucks.

  “Sorry I’m late, everybody,” Lemon apologized. The smell of his aftershave sent a jolt of longing through Marlene’s kidneys so potent that she almost wet herself. A little might even have squirted out, in fact, and she had to go to the ladies’ room to make sure it wasn’t showing through the crotch of her Talbots stretch khakis that she’s worn especially for him.

  Although it’s the second week of October, Marlene is sweating so much that she regrets not having worn a darker blouse, which would better hide any pit or neckline stains. But she absolutely had to wear the baby-blue Eileen Fisher top with the banded hemline that she picked up from the mall in Kaskaskia.

  “That’s great on you,” the young salesgirl told her after she came out of the fitting room. “It’s very Connie Britton. Your husband’s gonna love it.”

  After Eileen Fisher, Marlene spent another hour at the Best Buy back in Lugo, where she purchased a state-of-the-art projection device that
plugs into an iPhone’s mini-USB port and displays hi-res images in a slide-show format.

  Once the sheet is secured to the wall, everyone gathers around the buffet table, except Spinner Sloper, who is stationed by the door, ready to kill the lights when cued.

  Marlene stands in front of the projection sheet while the others look on.

  Shepard Montrose, who is the last one to settle in, places one of Sturm Fullilove’s Krispy Kremes on a napkin, sits, and says, “Whenever you’re ready, Marlene. Take your time.”

  Marlene takes a deep breath and closes her eyes.

  “Hello,” she says, opening her eyes.

  “Hello,” the group echoes.

  Marlene bobs back and forth in her white, sporty Dexflex Comfort stretch flats.

  “As most of you know,” she begins, “I’m Marlene Bledsoe and I have a disfigured child and this is my first share.”

  “You get it, girl,” Clinette Sloper says encouragingly.

  Marlene nods to Spinner Sloper, who kills the lights. She then touches her phone and the first image is projected onto the sheet. It’s a picture of a baby with chubby cheeks, a faint strip of hair, and large, wondrous eyes.

  “Channing Taylor Bledsoe was born on May eighteenth, nineteen ninety-seven,” she begins, facing the white sheet, standing to the left of it. “A quiet baby who loved to nurse, Channing often slept through the night.”

  Marlene touches her phone again, and the second image is projected: Channing as a young boy. He is wearing shorts and a baseball shirt with green sleeves and is holding the first fish he caught.

  “This is Channing at seven,” Marlene says. “Here he is just after he caught his first fish on Rend Lake. A smallmouth bass that weighed over four pounds. Pretty impressive for a kid his age.”

  She touches her phone again and the next picture is of Channing as a freshman in high school. He stares directly at the camera, and there is a pimple on his chin, the slightest fuzz on his cheeks. He is wearing a blue button-down oxford-cloth shirt and boasts only the faintest smile.

  “This is his freshman picture at Lugo Memorial High School,” she continues. “I asked him to wear my favorite shirt that day, and he did. Such a sweetheart. Look how thick that hair is. I don’t think anyone could possibly anticipate how handsome and strong he’d turn out to be.”

  She touches her iPhone again, this time producing an impressive action photo of Channing in full cream-and-crimson Lugo Memorial football regalia. He’s airborne, flying into the end zone, his body almost parallel with the turf, his muscular arms outstretched, about to catch a football. There is a defender on his heels, also airborne.

  “Channing caught this thirty-two-yard pass in the closing seconds of the fourth quarter,” Marlene explains proudly, “which sealed the conference championship for Lugo Memorial. As a junior, he was named First-Team All-Conference and First-Team All-State for Class One-A in Illinois. A photographer from the Chicago Tribune took that picture. They wound up running a story on Channing, who is believed to be a rare small-school find with Division One —”

  Suddenly the lights snap on. Spinner Sloper is standing beside the entrance, his hand on the light switch.

  He says, “Where you goin’ with this, Maylene?”

  Everyone at the table is squinting and shielding their eyes from the harsh light.

  “Where am I going?” Marlene replies, somehow unfazed by the blast of fluorescence, but clearly confused.

  Chauncey Shore runs his hand through his white-yellow hair and says, “Did somethin’ happen to your boy, Mylene?”

  “I don’t understand,” she replies.

  “Unless this is goin’ somewhere,” Clinette Sloper adds, “I don’t see how these photos are pertinent.”

  Everyone stares at Marlene, indignant. Even the new woman, Amy Rubbentugh, seems agitated, her heavy arms crossed in front of her.

  Marlene can suddenly hear a faint buzzing in her head.

  “Am I doing something wrong?” she asks, bringing her fingertips to her temples. “Can you not see the images?”

  “We can see the images fine, Marlene,” Shepard Montrose replies calmly. “I’m sorry to say this, but I think Spinner has a point.”

  “Point?” Marlene says, feeling the room start to tilt a bit. “What point?”

  “Well,” Shepard Montrose starts in gently, “I’m not sure anyone here understands what you’re sharing. We’ve all shown one another very difficult images. We’ve shared the most intimate details about our children. This group exists to foster a safe environment in which to have a dialogue about the challenges that come with having a grotesquely disfigured child.”

  “We showed you our son!” Spinner Sloper says, upset. “All those pictures of DeMarcus! He ain’t no superstar quarterback!”

  “Is this s’posed to be some typa ignorant joke?” Clinette Sloper adds.

  “Mylene,” Chauncey Shore interjects, muffin crumbs all down the front of his red-plaid sixties madras shirt, “there just doesn’t appear to be anything wrong with your son.”

  “Do he got like burn marks on him or somethin’?” Sturm Fullilove asks.

  “Burn marks?” Marlene cries, suddenly beside herself with rage. She is starting to lose her balance and has to push against the paneled wall. “Of course Channing doesn’t have burn marks!”

  “Did he get bit up by a dog?” Spinner Sloper asks from his post near the entrance.

  “I thought you were comin’ to these meetings because of your daughter,” Clinette says.

  Marlene can feel the walls closing in on her. She can practically see the grooves in the paneling expanding into fault lines. It suddenly feels as if a cold, invisible hand is squeezing her heart.

  Lemon Tidwell finally speaks. His deep, steady voice is like a prayer being answered.

  “I think Marlene’s just confused,” he offers. “I have no doubt that she’s here for the right reasons. She’s just confused.”

  “Marlene?” Shepard Montrose says to her. “Can you explain yourself?”

  Marlene takes in the group. Her face flushes, and her nostrils flare. Her pupils contract down to pinpoints.

  “You know nothing about my son!” she seethes through her teeth. “Nothing! He’s a scholastic hero! He’s a Lugo legend!”

  Marlene quickly turns and claws at the sheet, which tears in one corner. The thumbtack in the opposite corner shoots off the wall and strikes newcomer Amy Rubbentugh, the slope-shouldered shy woman with the heavy arms and cystic acne, square between the eyes, and although it’s the flat side that connects with her, a sound flies out of her mouth that’s not unlike the shriek of a spooked jungle bird. The thumbtack skitters across the table and into Chauncey Shore’s party-size bag of sea-salt-and-vinegar potato chips.

  “Careful with those chips,” Chauncey warns the group.

  And now Marlene Bledsoe is down on one knee, and her body is convulsing soundlessly with some strange combination of grief, confusion, and exhaustion. Her arms swim out in slow motion. It’s as if she’s performing the animal expression of some unfathomable emotion that manifests equally as flying and drowning.

  Amy Rubbentugh, whose own arms are now oddly suspended above her head, is looking at the bag of sea-salt-and-vinegar potato chips with such unblinking intensity, it seems as if she is willing it to transform into a portal through which she can escape.

  Lemon Tidwell reaches down and gathers Marlene Bledsoe under her hot, moist armpits and helps her to her feet.

  She stares at his bristly mustache and opens and closes her mouth, but no sound comes out.

  “Let’s go get some air,” he says.

  The smell of Lemon Tidwell’s aftershave — that manly funk of musk and smoky spices — seems to momentarily calm Marlene. She stares up at him and finds the clear cerulean blue of his eyes and smiles the sweetest smile because she knows he understands her. He might understand her more than anyone she’s ever known.

  “What do you use?” Marlene asks him, drunk with hi
s aroma now, almost swooning. “What is that?”

  “Come on, Marlene,” Lemon Tidwell says, an arm around her waist, grabbing her phone with his free hand, then her purse, while easing her across the little basement room and out the door.

  At the Lugo district library — at the long, smooth, cherrywood young adult reading table, to be exact — Corinthia Bledsoe is studying her life sciences assignment, which covers the male procreative habits of the forty- to fifty-foot humpbacked baleen whale, whose complex ritualistic mating song is as mysterious as it is incessant. In a matter of a few paragraphs, Corinthia has learned that these stud whales will repeat each ten- to twenty-minute song for hours at a time. This whale music must sound maddening, she thinks. Absolutely maddening.

  Since her suspension from school, this is her first attempt to actually complete one of the many homework assignments she’s received via e-mail from Vice Principal Doogan Mejerus’s office. Despite her recent lackluster performance, she has not received a single admonishment from Vice Principal Mejerus, Principal Ticonderoga, Guidance Counselor Smock, or any of her teachers, for that matter. She does find it strange that nothing has been said of her total disregard for her schoolwork. Has anyone alerted her parents? Is the faculty simply being super-understanding, considering the community concern surrounding the disappearance of her brother? Or do the adults at Lugo Memorial even care?

  According to today’s e-mail, Mr. Sluba will be conducting a ten-question pop quiz based on the reading assignment.

  Corinthia is doing her absolute best to focus her attention on the male mating rituals of the humpbacked baleen whale, but she keeps getting lured away by the September and October issues of The Wonderful World of Wolves. The cover of the September issue features a large white Alaskan wolf perched at the top of a cluster of river rocks that are frothy with rapids. The wolf’s mouth is wide open, its enormous jaws angled to catch a flat, airborne salmon, whose expressionless face is so detailed Corinthia can practically see the indifference in its eye. The picture is remarkable. The turbulent river is silver and black, almost gold in places . . . the incandescent flash of the salmon’s skin . . . the wolf’s frighteningly long, prehistoric-looking teeth.