by Ruth Lehrer
Under the cemetery quince tree, we came up with our next gang goal. We didn’t know it was a goal at first. We thought we were just drinking juice and talking about Keely.
“You think your mom will try to steal you again if she finds out you aren’t dead?”
I had almost forgotten about the bloody death scene. Where had Keely gone after I escaped the shack? Did she really think I was dead? Would she come looking for me? Maybe almost losing me like that, thinking I had bled to death in the cold, would change her, make her try to be a real mother like Molly?
“Naw,” I said. “Even if she tried it again, everyone would know it was her right away. It couldn’t work a second time.”
“That’s true,” said Duck-Duck. “They probably have a permanent BOLO out on her already.”
“What’s a ‘bolo’?” I reached inside Duck-Duck’s backpack and pulled out a granola bar. I tore off the top of the wrapper and started making a careful slit down the side. I hated it when the bottom was all crumbs. You couldn’t split it evenly.
“ ‘Be On the Lookout.’ It means the cops tell all the other cops that someone is bad news, and they tell everyone the license plate number, and every cop all over the country will memorize it and be on the lookout.”
I broke the granola bar and gave a perfect half to Duck-Duck.
“Maybe,” said Duck-Duck, biting off a piece, “she’s gone for good.”
Despite the fact that she had kidnapped me, despite the fact that she had made me drink shakes three times a day for weeks, this made me a little sad.
“Do you have any other family?” Duck-Duck asked.
“Nope,” I said.
“Other grandparents?”
“I guess they’re dead now, but who knows?”
“Didn’t you ever ask?”
In fourth grade, we had a unit on family trees. We were supposed to draw a tree and write out the list of names of everyone in our family, all the way back to olden times. I had no clue what to put on mine. I hardly ever asked Grandpa direct questions. It was better to try and blend into the wall, but suddenly I had really wanted to know. I decided it was worth the risk of being hit with the stick.
“What was Grandma like?” I had asked Grandpa.
“She was a bitch,” he had said. “What did you expect? The queen of England?”
“I tried to ask about my grandmother once,” I said to Duck-Duck, “but Grandpa wouldn’t tell me. I told him I was sad I had never met her, and he said, ‘My heart pumps piss for you.’ ”
“He said that?” said Duck-Duck.
“Yup. He wouldn’t even tell me her name.”
“People deal with death in different ways. Maybe he was just grieving. My mother said that when Ellen’s sister died and Ellen poured all the salad dressing down the garbage disposal.”
“No,” I said, “it wasn’t like that. He was just an asshole.”
It made me wonder how a person became an asshole. Was it genes, or food, or mold in the walls? Grandpa must have begun very young to get so good at it. There’s something good in everyone, one of the first Social Service ladies said. You just have to find it. Maybe when Grandpa was five years old, he would pet kittens and not drown them. Maybe he wasn’t an asshole then. I doubted it, though.
“I can’t imagine who would want to be with Grandpa,” I said. “Let alone marry him.”
“Maybe Keely came from a surrogate,” said Duck-Duck, “or she was an incubator baby. Maybe your grandfather put sperm in a box and he bought eggs from a donor and they incubated Keely.”
I tried to imagine Grandpa going to the hospital with a lunch box full of sperm because he wanted a baby.
“No way,” I said. “He hated kids. He would never make one on purpose. Also, it probably costs a lot of money to incubate, and he was really cheap.”
“It’s true,” she said. “You can goof up and make a baby the regular way, but surrogates and incubators take premeditated intent plus cash.”
I wondered how much money it cost Molly to buy sperm from the bank to make Duck-Duck, but it seemed rude to ask.
“We could do research and find out if your grandmother existed,” said Duck-Duck. “We could at least find out her name. It could be our next goal. She’s a missing person, and no one is looking for her except us.” She ate the last of her granola bar and licked her fingers. “I bet we could find her on the Internet.” She pulled paper and pencil out of her backpack and started drawing family trees. She added leaves and roots as if they were real trees.
“My family isn’t on the Internet,” I said. “You’d have to be married on paper and born in a hospital. I bet no one was.”
“We’re all on the Internet now,” said Duck-Duck, adding some vines that looked like poison ivy. “But we should think of a more interesting way. Gangs like things complicated and risky. Nothing risky about the Internet. Unless you’re looking at dirty pictures, of course.”
I wondered what her idea of risk was. Keely’s idea of risk was buying a scratch ticket. I waited.
“We can steal your file from the social worker’s office,” said Duck-Duck.
“Oh, God,” I said. “Why don’t we just print a label that says BEHAVIOR PROBLEM and glue it on my forehead?”
“No, really. We won’t get caught. I have a super plan.”
Duck-Duck told me her super plan. It didn’t seem so super to me.
“No way,” I said. “I can’t act like that. Candy will think I’m on drugs and send me to the ER.”
“Sure you can,” said Duck-Duck. “Distract the target. Just give her a lot of eye contact and say sappy things. Get her to em-path-ize.” She drew out the last word and made her blue eyes get really big so I would know just how sappy. “Let’s give it a try. What’s the worst that can happen?”
I didn’t want to think about that.
Even though I still thought buying a scratch ticket was a better idea and had a better chance of winning, the next day we went down to the Social Service lady’s office. Duck-Duck hid around the corner while I went in.
“Hi,” I said. Candy was sitting at her desk, writing. I wondered why they had computers if they were going to waste all that paper anyway.
“Hello, Fishkill. So nice to see you. What’s up?”
“Well,” I said, gathering my lie-making abilities, “I just wanted to talk.”
This was a magic phrase.
“Talk?” Candy smiled. “Why, certainly. What’s on your mind?” She pulled out my file and moved a second chair closer to her. “You’ve been through so much.”
I sat down on the chair but then pulled a tissue out of my pocket. “Well,” I said, and coughed a little. “I was just thinking” — I coughed a bit more —“I wanted to ask you . . .” And then I had a humongo coughing attack, like I might have scarlet fever or something contagious.
“Goodness!” said Candy. “Would you like some water?”
I nodded and stood up, coughing some more. I almost convinced myself there was actually something clogging my lung tubes. I stumbled out toward the water fountain.
Sure enough, Candy followed me out of the office with a hand on my back. I coughed myself down the hall slowly so Duck-Duck would have time to look around the room. Then I leaned over the water fountain and drank, slowly. Candy started to move away, and I gripped her arm as if I needed her in order to drink, and she waited.
“You okay?”
I nodded and took a few breaths. It was probably possible to kill yourself by fake coughing.
“You need some more?”
“Maybe a soda?” I said. My voice was kind of hoarse, like it would be if I were dying of scarlet fever. I read a book once about Helen Keller. She had something like scarlet fever and then she was deaf and blind. They didn’t say anything about her being hoarse, but I bet she was.
“Sure, no problem,” said Candy. She walked to the soda machine down the hall and pulled out some change. “What kind do you want?”
“Orange?” I s
aid.
“Here you go,” said Candy. “You okay now?”
“Yes,” I said. “Maybe it’s allergies.” I stood near the water fountain and popped the can open. I took a sip. Then I took another sip. I coughed a little cough.
Before I could stop her, Candy started walking back to her office. She reached her door and jumped a little jump.
“And what are you doing, missy?” Candy actually sounded mean. “Give me that.” She was probably mad that she forgot to lock her office door. She grabbed a file out of Duck-Duck’s hand.
I could tell Duck-Duck was about to give a legal speech, but I interrupted.
“It’s not her fault,” I said. “It was my idea. I just wanted to find out some things.”
Candy looked at me. She was still pissed off, but she didn’t seem quite as nasty. “What do you need to find out? Why on earth didn’t you just ask me?”
I couldn’t think of an answer to that.
“Ask your question,” said Duck-Duck. She made her eyes wide and gave me a little poke. “You just want to know things, right?” She shoved her foot into my foot.
“Yeah,” I said. “Ummm.”
Candy crossed her arms and made a face. It was almost a snarky playground face, not a Social Service – lady face. “Umm, what?”
“What she means,” said Duck-Duck, “is she wants to know whatever information you have in the files about her maternal grandmother.”
Candy looked at me. “Is that all you want?”
“Yeah,” I said. It sounded stupid when she said it that way.
“You could have just asked.” She picked up the file and started flipping the pages backward. Then she put it down on the table and kept turning pages. Back, back, back, still no grandmother.
“Huh,” Candy said. She probably was a little embarrassed. I would have been if I had just made such a big fuss and then wasn’t able to come up with the answer. “It’s not here.”
“Was it censored?” said Duck-Duck. “Was the information redacted?”
Candy stared at her like she didn’t know what redacted meant and didn’t want to admit it, but then she said, “I guess the original records were incomplete.”
“You knew my mom when you were little,” I said. “Do you remember if her mother was around then?”
“No,” she said. “She wasn’t. It was always just your grandpa and Keely.”
“What about your files on Keely?” pushed Duck-Duck. “Maybe it’s in her files.”
“That’s confidential,” said Candy. She stopped looking embarrassed and started looking definitely unfriendly. She probably wanted Duck-Duck to stop hassling her.
Duck-Duck heaved a big sigh. “Well,” she said, “that would be true if the information that was supposed to be in Fishy’s file were actually there. But because you folks screwed up, it’s necessary to access Keely’s file. Get it?” she added when Candy looked confused.
“Hold on,” said Candy. She started to leave the office. “Do not touch anything.” She locked her drawers and her file cabinets, looked at us threateningly, and went down the hall.
We waited, every once in a while checking to see if she was coming back yet. Just as I was giving up, Candy appeared. “Okay, here we go,” she said. She handed me a piece of paper. “Is that good enough?”
This paper was definitely redacted. Candy had blacked out all the information on a page of Keely’s file except one thing. Under Mother it said Mary Esther Jamison. Under Father it said Leroy Jamison. Grandpa.
“Her name was Mary Esther,” said Duck-Duck. “Cool.”
Not so cool was that after Mary Esther’s name it said Deceased.
“She’s dead,” I said. “I would be too if I had married Grandpa. I wonder why she married him in the first place.” Mary Esther sounded like the name of someone who would marry a William or a Frank, not a Leroy. Especially not a Leroy.
“That,” Candy said, “is beyond my purview.”
“Well, it’s a small lead,” said Duck-Duck. She flicked her blond ponytail. “Come on, Fishy. I think that’s all this informant has to offer.”
“Sorry,” I whispered to Candy as we went out. “Thanks for the soda.”
The next day we were going to follow up on Candy’s lead and figure out why Mary Esther married Leroy in the first place, but Duck-Duck decided to start learning tap. I thought tap dancing sounded even more dangerous than soccer, but I kept my mouth shut. I did say I wouldn’t be caught dead in one of those leotards.
“No, you should get one!” Duck-Duck laughed. “A pink one! I don’t think you can wear sneakers, though.” She fluttered her blond eyelashes at me. “I think you’d look cute.”
“No way,” I said. “I’m going food shopping with Molly.”
“That’s what I like about you,” said Duck-Duck. “You’re so flexible and open-minded.” She poked me in the side and did a little tap dance. The light shone off her blond hair. I almost told her she looked like a movie star, but then I didn’t.
“Maybe next time,” I said.
After we dropped Duck-Duck off at tapping school, Molly and I drove to the fancy food store. It was the beginning of May, and there were hanging flower baskets outside. Flowers spilled over the edges of the pots: pinks, yellows, sky blues. We stopped for a second to look. I picked a cart, and we went in and turned down the fruit aisle. There was a little tray with pieces of free mango. Each slice was speared with a blue toothpick. I picked up a toothpick and ate the mango. It was smooth as it went down, but furry too, like a sweet sun that used to live near blue water. I held on to the toothpick when I was done. I poked it between my teeth and chewed on the end.
We had reached the end of the fruit aisle when I heard her.
“What the hell is this? It tastes like orange shit.”
I gripped Molly’s hand.
“This store always did have weird food. God, I can’t get this stuff off my tongue.”
It was Keely, and she was so loud that people were looking at her. I pushed Molly, but she didn’t move. If she had been Duck-Duck, she would have known what I meant right away.
“What’s the matter?” said Molly.
Keely turned, and I knew we had been seen.
“Hello, girls,” said Keely. “You should taste this crap. It’s like slime on a stick.” She started moving toward us. I knew she was drunk.
I was still pushing Molly, and finally she took a few steps.
“Running away?” Keely yelled. “Afraid the court will find out you’re a fag?”
Molly pushed the cart between us and Keely. “Hon, fag is for men. The word is dyke. Get your terminology straight.” She smiled just a little, like there was a joke only she was in on, but she kept a firm, almost crushing grip on my hand. “If you want to talk to either of us, you can contact Social Services. Or, better yet, my lawyer. If you follow us, I’ll call the police.”
“Bitch!” growled Keely. “Pervert! You ruined my life! You’ll be sorry!”
We left our cart in the aisle and walked out. There wasn’t all that much in the cart yet — we had only gotten through the fruit aisle — but I felt bad for the apples sitting there all alone in the plastic bag.
We quickly got back into the car and Molly drove out of the lot. She called the cops to let them know Keely was in town.
“We can do our shopping tomorrow,” said Molly. “Are you okay?”
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know if I was okay or not. I realized I was still gripping the toothpick.
“Why can’t she just be . . . ?” I couldn’t finish my sentence. Why couldn’t she just be a regular mom? Why couldn’t she just be someone who didn’t drink beer? Why couldn’t she just act normal? I almost started crying, which was dumb. Crying wouldn’t make Keely love me enough to follow rules and not act wacko.
“Yeah,” said Molly. “I know.” I believed her too. She seemed to know exactly what I was going to say, even though I couldn’t finish my sentence.
We stopped for mil
k, since we hadn’t really shopped. We bought three Hershey’s Kisses, too. Then Molly started the car again, and we went to pick up Duck-Duck from tap dance class.
The dance school was up on the second floor, above the hair salon. Molly and I got out of the car and watched women get their hair washed and cut while we waited for the tappity-tap-tap to stop from overhead. I tried not to think about our encounter with Keely.
“Would you like to get your hair cut?” asked Molly. “Think about a style you might like, and the next time we bring Chrissy to tap, you could get your hair done.”
We watched one woman’s hair turn from gray to black.
“Did you see the goo she put on that woman’s head?” I said. “Gross.”
The woman’s now-black head turned curly. She looked like a poodle.
“I’m done!” said Duck-Duck. She had run down the stairs, and we hadn’t even noticed. “So, are you going to get a perm?” she asked, smiling, as we turned away from the poodle-headed lady.
“Yeah, right,” I said. “Let’s go, tap-girl.”
I got into the backseat of the car. Instead of going around to the door on the other side of the car, Duck-Duck climbed in on my side and pushed her dance bag against me.
“Slide over, Fishy,” she said. “It’s muddy over there. You want me to get my dance shoes dirty?” She pointed her sneakered feet like a prima ballerina and then picked up a foot to examine the bottom, miming horror and dismay.
I moved in but pinched her thigh to make her jump. “Dirty Ballerina. That’s a good title for a porn movie.” We giggled and pinched each other until Molly shushed us.
“I can’t hear myself think,” she said as we started to drive home. “When are you girls going off to college? Soon, right?”
And then there was a flash of green. A white scream.
Breathing under air is like breathing underwater. I was blind.
I heard someone say, “The passenger on the right . . .”
Am I the right passenger? I thought.