And for her to tell me this would never sound strange or sad because I would feel the same. I would wrap myself in her bedsheet or blanket, wear her clothes, cut her hair and put it in a bottle to keep with me. When I needed to, I could open the bottle to smell her. I could fill the room with her presence, her scent, her spirit. By both of us doing this, we would share in a ritual, something we would never be able to define or understand. My hair was long, but hers hung down past her shoulders. I wanted to grow my hair longer to be like hers. In a strange way we could pretend to be each other, though I would never mention such a thing.
Then one night she looked at me silently and said she thought things couldn’t get any worse.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“What is it?”
But she wouldn’t tell me anything.
I went to the window and pressed my face against the glass. I couldn’t see anything outside but darkness.
As she began to mention death more in our late night conversations, Rosemary confessed to me that she had written a letter to be read after she passed. She showed me only the first line, which read: “I aspire to the condition of the spirit.”
“Read the whole thing,” I said.
“That’s all you get until I’m dead.”
“No.”
“There’s more and more and more.”
As days passed she retreated to her room and asked that I not bother her. I found it hurtful—it was as if she was no longer interested in me, like she’d grown bored with my company. Had I not been talkative enough? Did she already understand me better than I even understood myself? Thoughts raced through my mind as to why she was slowly distancing herself, slowly becoming less involved in my life, less interested in anything.
When I asked her to get coffee, she declined. She didn’t want to go to Sonic. I even suggested we take food back to the homeless camp at Black River, but she said she was too tired. “I’m just really, really tired lately,” was her excuse. “I feel like my body is worn out.”
“From what?” I asked.
“Everything.”
I didn’t want her retreating from me, losing interest. When I told George about it, he said it was normal behavior for her. He sat in our room, writing in his notebook. His tongue protruded slightly from his mouth as he brought the notebook closer to his face and squinted at it.
“You think she’s depressed?” I asked.
“She’s just quiet like that. She’s moody. It’s just her.”
“She seems different.”
George turned the page in his notebook, wrote something down and tore out the sheet. He brought it over and handed it to me. In capital letters, underlined twice: Don’t Worry!
But I did worry. I’d saved some money from past jobs, mowing yards, cleaning out garages, loading a junk truck for a friend of my mother, and I was super thrifty, spending my earned money only on cigarettes, an emergency fund. I decided, on a whim, that I would buy a bunch of little gifts for her to cheer her up. After all, I told myself, it wasn’t the price of the gift, but the thought that counts. So one Saturday morning, George and I went to a garage sale and I bought a bunch of stuff for ten dollars.
In my dresser I kept a list of everything I would give her in case I needed to remind her of the gifts I had given. I liked to keep an inventory of gifts or nice gestures I did for people to remind them in case they ever wronged me. I also kept a list of the people who’d hurt me throughout my life, mostly involving kids from previous schools who had made comments about my face, or about my clothes, or about anything that hurt my feelings. It didn’t seem strange at the time to do such things.
I gave her a Disney princess pen with a pink feather attached to the eraser, and a greeting card with a photo of two white kittens on the front. Inside the card I wrote, “You have a face I want to have.” I also gave her a clown figurine and an old doll. I put them into a sack and gave it to her.
She took them out of the sack, one by one, and placed them on her bed.
“Your face isn’t bad,” she said.
“Yours is better.”
“Don’t be ashamed of yours.”
“When I was little I wanted to be someone else.”
“When I was little I dreamed of magical lands,” she said. “There were giant lollipops and marching bands with music that filled the air and brought kids running from all over. I drew pictures in crayon of angels and dogs. Those were my first drawings. The stories I liked to read all dealt with children escaping wolves or held prisoner.”
We lay on the floor, listening to “Venus in Furs” by The Velvet Underground. For a while neither of us said anything. We listened to X. We listened to Robert Smith sing about dark things. I walked my fingers across her leg, up to her hip. I fluttered my hand like a bird.
She was reading something from her journal and showed it to me. “You want to know something personal about me?” she said, showing me the open book.
I sat up and read:
I was placed here for shoplifting and taking a bunch of pills. They have me on all this medication here which does nothing except make me sleepy. Dr. Smith-Treson said those are side-effects that will go away with time. I asked her—“How long will I be here?” But she couldn’t give me a clear answer. Today I’m pretending to be invisible because this place is horrible.
“Was it terrible?” I asked.
“Pretty much.”
I didn’t want to tell her I’d spent time in juvenile detention. It wasn’t something that felt important at the time. I pretended to act like I was intrigued by the thought of being locked up.
“Lately I’ve been following the news story of a kid somewhere in Kansas,” I told her. “He walked into school and shot another student. That almost never happens.”
“You want to walk into school and shoot someone?” she asked. She laughed a little, like it was funny to think about. This bothered me. I opened my eyes and stared up at the ceiling. Shadows stretched across the ceiling like ghosts.
“I think Harold knows I took some money from him,” she said. “Last year he caught me and freaked out. Ever since, he goes around thinking I’m trying to steal from him all the time. I’ve only taken like twice in the past year.”
“He doesn’t trust you,” I said.
“He’s a bookie. He doesn’t trust anyone.”
What I soon understood about Rosemary was that she was adept at answering questions without giving direct answers.
“I don’t feel complete unless I know death is going to happen soon,” she said. “If that makes sense? I’m so pissed at Harold right now. It makes me think about the point of life. Maybe the world is ending and we’re all being held accountable for our actions.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I mean, you’re trustworthy.”
“I know people think I’m crazy for saying this, but everything points too strongly in that direction. The world is ending. Nobody needs a long life.”
“You think people believe that?” I said. “The world is ending? Shit, nobody knows.”
“Nobody needs a long life,” she said again.
“I’m more afraid of dying in a horrible car accident or something,” I said. “Or finding out I have cancer. And whatever happens after death. Maybe there’s something.”
“There’s nothing,” she answered.
One Saturday, an unusually warm day for winter, Rosemary suggested we go for a bike ride to the country, far from the house, far away, she said, to a secret place that felt like another world. I was ecstatic with the idea, thinking maybe she was coming out of her isolation, wanting to spend more time with me. Even though I didn’t have a bicycle, there were four in the garage that I could choose from. Rosemary chose a red one with a basket in front and placed an old blanket in it. As I stood trying to decide wh
at bicycle to ride, she decided for me, pointing to the blue one.
“That one,” she said.
I followed her as we walked the bicycles out of the garage. The blue one, too, had a basket in front, along with a dented handlebar with worn grips, but I didn’t mind. I hadn’t ridden a bicycle in a very long time. I loved the sudden plunge of pedaling down the driveway and onto Comanche Road with my jacket zipped up and the cool wind in my face. As I think back, I consider that bicycle ride as one the most invigorating experiences during my stay at the Troutts. For me it was about undiscovered territory, full of strangeness and wonder, riding down hills and plunging into unknown areas. We rode past tall weeds, dark puddles, past old shacks and through pebbles scattered along the road. I pedaled behind Rosemary, following her, and soon we stopped beside the road and she pointed to a low-hanging branch with a pink bandanna tied to it.
“That’s how I know where to turn,” she said.
“You tied it?”
“I climbed it and tied it to that branch last year. Nobody’s even stolen it. I think people who drive by must think it’s a memorial or something.”
We started down the trail into the woods that looked as if it hadn’t been traveled in years. I imagined wolf tracks under my tires, coyotes and bobcats slinking around at night. Trees crowded us on both sides as we rode into the deep woods, coasting along the trail.
“I hope we don’t see any snakes,” I shouted, following, but Rosemary didn’t respond. Then we came to a fork in the trail where she turned left and followed a narrow path, and I trailed behind her, gripping the handlebar firmly with both fists as I pedaled over dirt and old leaves and twigs. We came upon a clearing near a small hill that sloped down to a creek full of water from fresh rain. I got off the bicycle and leaned it on the kickstand. Over by the edge of the slope, I looked down at the streaming water and all the rocks and brush around it.
“This is the best place,” Rosemary said.
“It’s dark and quiet,” I said. “Do you come here a lot?”
“When I don’t want to be found.”
“But why today?”
“I want you to see it, too.”
She took the blanket from the basket on her bicycle, unfolded it and spread it on the dirt. I watched her slip off her shoes and sit down, digging into her purse. I sat across from her and watched her. She retrieved a cigarette from her purse and lit it with a lighter.
“Hope there aren’t any snakes out here,” I said.
She inhaled and smiled, then handed it to me. I took a drag on it and handed it back.
“Lie on your back and look up,” she said, and I did so. We stared up into the ashen sky and I watched the top of the trees move.
“What do you see?” I asked. “What am I supposed to see?”
“Everything looks like we’re at the bottom of a pit and looking out of it,” she said.
“I don’t know.”
“I mean it looks like the world is up there and we’re down here, deep underground. Like we’re buried alive and nobody knows we’re down here.”
“Weird,” I said, and soon we were both laughing. We sat up and I stared at her mouth.
“We should go down to the creek,” she said.
“Why?”
I kept staring at her mouth and she frowned. “Come on,” she said, standing, and I stood and followed her. We edged our way down the slope to the creek where water streamed past. It was cooler down there, and more shaded from the outside world, and I could see why Rosemary liked the spot so much, since it felt so secluded from everything. What a fantastic hiding place, I thought.
Rosemary knelt down and put her hand in the water, and I did the same. The water was freezing cold, and dark, and I felt the mossy rocks underneath. I withdrew my hand and dried it with my shirt.
“I dare you to pee in it,” she said.
“The water? No way.”
“Do it. You’re too scared?”
“Whatever.”
“You don’t want me to see it, huh?”
She laughed and stood, shaking her wet hand. She wiped her hand on her jeans and looked down at me. “You afraid of snakes?” she asked. “Are you scared a snake will leap out and bite your dick if you do it?”
“It’s not that.”
“You’re scared of me,” she said.
“No.”
She started back up the slope toward our bicycles. I stayed there, watching her walk.
“Where are you going?” I called out.
“Home,” she said, without looking back at me. “Are you coming or not?”
“Why?” I said, standing. “Wait, let’s stay!”
“You’re scared, Sequoyah.”
“Wait,” I said again, hurrying up the slope, trying not to slip and fall.
After the long ride back along the road, past the dark puddles and old barns, after I trailed behind her on the dented blue bicycle, we finally made it home, and she asked me a question that surprised me. In the garage, as we leaned our bikes against the kickstands, she asked me if I would ever spy on her.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Would you watch me when I wasn’t aware? Would you do that?”
I stood there, unsure what to say.
“You always stare at my mouth,” she said. “So I’m just wondering if you like to watch me when I’m not looking.”
“Do you want me to? You want me to spy on you?”
She hooked her hair behind her ear and started for the door inside. “You’re kind of freaking me out,” she said.
Later that same afternoon, Liz called to remind me that my mother’s court hearing was on Thursday. She would drive to Little Crow to pick me up and take me. She told me to wear a nice pair of slacks and a collared shirt.
“What do you think will happen?” I asked her.
“I’m just not sure,” she said. “But you’ll get a chance to visit with her before the hearing in a supervised visitation.”
“So does this mean I’ll get to go home with her?”
“I hope so, Sequoyah,” she said. “But I want you to understand these things aren’t that easy. She could get probation or she could be rejected. I don’t want you to be too hurt if she’s rejected.”
“I know,” I said.
When we got off the phone I went upstairs to my room and saw that George was asleep. I picked up the book Rosemary had given me and started reading. Thinking about my mother’s parole hearing made me nervous, and I needed to keep my mind occupied with something else. About ten minutes into reading, George made a sound in his sleep. When I looked over at him I saw he was biting his bottom lip and grunting. I set the book down and went over to him and touched his arm. “George,” I said, but he stirred and bit his lip so hard that it started bleeding. This time I shook him harder to wake him. “George,” I said loudly. “Wake up, you’re bleeding. George!”
He opened his eyes then blinked and stared at me, confused for a moment. Then he touched his lip and looked at the blood on his finger.
“You’re bleeding,” I said.
He looked at me again. Then he got out of bed and rushed out of the room. I heard him close the door to the hallway bathroom. I went back to my bed and started reading again.
A few minutes later he was standing in the doorway, holding toilet paper to his mouth. “What did you do?” he asked.
I smiled at him. “What?”
“What did you do to me?” he said again, this time louder.
I set the book down on the bed next to me. “I woke you up, George. You were having a bad dream or something. You were biting your lip so hard it started bleeding.”
“I don’t believe you,” he said.
I laughed, turned away. I’m not sure why I was laughing at him. When I turned back, he looked confused, even afraid. It wa
s the first time I’d seen him look at me in this way. Then he left, and I heard him walk down the hall and down the stairs.
Later that night I retreated to the attic to be alone. I climbed the stairs and sat, listening to music on my headphones. There was a dusty antique lamp on the floor next to where I sat. The longer I spent in there, the more I appreciated the room’s smallness, its safety. Soon I saw a shadow emerging from the stairs. I expected to see George, and I secretly hoped for Rosemary, but when I looked up I saw Harold. In the shadows, he loomed in the doorway. He was smoking a cigarette, and in the dim light I could see the smoke trailing from it.
I turned off the Walkman and removed my headphones.
“Hey,” he said. “Can I come in?”
“Sure,” I said.
His footsteps were heavy on the wood floor. He found an old lawn chair, unfolded it, and brought it over to me and sat down. I pulled my knees to my chest and looked up at him. He was tall, and his legs looked abnormally long as he sat in front of me in the lawn chair while I sat on the floor, staring up at him.
“You doing okay?” he asked. He took a drag of his cigarette. I saw smoke settling around his face.
I nodded.
“Yeah? Good. Agnes was worried about you. She went into our bedroom and saw the stairs and knew you were up here. She thought maybe something was wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“That’s good,” he said. “I do the same thing in the basement. A man needs his time to himself.” He reached for an empty soda can and ground his cigarette out on it. “One other thing,” he said. “There’s something else I want to ask you about.”
I couldn’t tell whether or not he was angry. I tried as quickly as I could to think of everything I might’ve done in the past day or two that might’ve offended him.
“There’s some money missing,” he said. “Some cash I keep in a private place. It isn’t very much, but I was wondering if you knew anything about it.”
Where the Dead Sit Talking Page 14