It was too early for fireflies. Not the hour, but the season of the year. They would make their appearance soon enough, but with the arrival of the summer solstice still a few weeks away, the winged beetles had not yet begun their nocturnal courtship dance in this northern latitude. Still, there was something about how the beam of light from the flashlight that frolicked across the branches of the band of trees that surrounded her that reminded Keisha of her childhood encounters with the lightning bugs. That’s what everyone called them in the southern states, where on the steamy, sweltering evenings of July and August, an invasion of hundreds of luminescent bellies lit up her backyard. They were easy to imprison in the pickle jar her mother had rinsed out with air holes she had poked through the metal lid. Even for the ten-year- old Keisha, who scampered and cavorted with her pals in a contest to trap the most of these gentle, glowing insects inside their glass cages. It was almost too simple a task to snare the slow-moving aviators that hovered low to the ground, so after an hour or so, the game wound down and the captives were released unharmed. The next night brought out the hunters and their tiny winking prey once again to repeat the ritual until the inevitable boredom of youth set in, as the autumnal equinox approached and the jars of the neighborhood kids were tucked away in cupboards or consigned to the recycling bin.
It seemed like such a long time ago, but just a decade had passed, and the pleasant memory was still fresh in Keisha’s mind as she flicked the beam to and fro into the darkness that enveloped her. She sat with her back lodged against a tree trunk and amused herself with the irregular patterns and shapes she created, pretending the flashlight was a brush and she was an avant-garde artist painting her latest abstract masterpiece. The muteness and isolation of the woods might have concerned her more if she was alone and allowed her imagination to conjure up scary images of things that went bump in the night lurking outside the range of her light. However, as Dana rustled nearby, Keisha was no more uncomfortable at that moment than those carefree evenings of bygone years when dusk descended and beckoned her friends out to play.
Dana was out of Keisha’s sightline, but well within earshot as she stirred a few yards to the rear. She was agitated, not as much by the au natural bathroom facility which she was attempting to negotiate, as by the thorn in her side that swam in the same gene pool as she did. “My brother is such a freak!” she blurted, in the frank, open manner of girlfriends gossiping inside the powder room.
Keisha chuckled to herself, not wanting to upset Dana further by making light of her sibling issues with Stan. She was lucky the relationship she had with her own brother was much different. Darnell was far less intense, his personality more accepting and nurturing, so much so that Keisha couldn’t recall a single argument between them. (Although his endless hours of trombone practice in an adjacent bedroom did test the limits of her patience at times.) Instead, his battles were fought with their father who pushed him to achieve in the merciless way so many dads do with their first-born son. Keisha, on the other hand, was a daddy’s girl who could do no wrong in his eyes and reaped the benefits of being doted on by her adoring papa. Darnell had every right and reason to despise her for the kid-glove treatment she received growing up, while he endured the constant harangues of Master Sergeant Walter Crenshaw. But he never did, and for that, she was grateful and never grew weary of being referred to as his baby sister.
Keisha could hear the crackle of underbrush smooshing beneath Dana’s feet as she settled into position in the outdoor latrine. She assumed the final words about Stan had yet to be spoken and waited for Dana to resume her diatribe. The opening salvo had been fired, but she figured there were plenty of potent rounds left in Dana’s vocal magazine. Keisha realized that sometimes a person just had a need to vent, even to a virtual stranger. This was one of those times.
“All he cares about is his dumb movie,” Dana charged.
Keisha paused to consider her response. On one hand, she wanted to provide the emotional support Dana sought, be that someone she could lean on and confide in with complete assurance of confidentiality. But, on the other, she didn’t want to knock Stan’s film. Keisha was grateful to have the opportunity to be a part of it and wasn’t too keen about criticizing the guy who had made her first film role possible. Besides, her job at this moment was to listen and play the role of sounding board, not hog center stage. This was Dana’s show, not hers. The trick was to answer in such a way that made it seem that they were in agreement, but at the same time, not bash Letter 13 or its director. Say something without saying something. When in doubt, she decided, play the vague card.
“He’s definitely, uh…possessed,” Keisha offered, a comment so broad, so open to interpretation, that she hoped Dana would snatch it up and veer off in another direction. She did not disappoint.
“Possessed! Ha! You don’t know.”
Keisha heard Dana’s footsteps draw near. When she emerged out of the shadows, she plopped down onto her knees next to Keisha, anchored her toes in the soil, and rested her backside on her heels.
“Okay, listen to this,” she confided. “When I was nine, Stan decided to remake a scene from The Exorcist for some stupid high school extra-credit project. So he had me fill my mouth with totally yucky cold pea soup. I was supposed to lie in the bed, and then when he yelled ‘action,’ lean forward and spit it off to the side. Instead, I got sick and puked for real. All over his camera.”
Keisha cringed as she pictured the messy scene in her mind. “Ouch.”
So anyway,” Dana continued, “I thought Stan would be like super mad, ya know? But I never saw him so happy. He kept shouting ‘great, great, give me more, give me more!’ He’s so weird.”
“Well, they say all the great directors are a little crazy.” Keisha smiled, but it took every ounce of her willpower to stifle any laughter. After all, this was more candid get-it-off-your-chest type testimony than stand-up comedy routine. A certain amount of respectful decorum must be maintained.
“A little?” Dana rolled her eyes. “My brother’s waaay more than just a little whacked. Another time he got into mega major trouble and my parents grounded him for like six months.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask, but what happened?”
“Oh, not much, except he almost got us all thrown in jail!” Dana crossed her legs beneath her. “So get this. He poured this fake blood he made in our kitchen all over me and my friends and made us lie down in the middle of the street. Then he told us to moan and pretend like we were hurt while he taped the whole thing from the roof on our house. It was supposed to be a scene for some end-of-the-world movie he dreamed up.”
“You mean like aliens attacking and taking over the planet?”
“Yeah, sort of. He never really told us. It was supposed to be this big secret, ya know? So anyway, he forgot to tell the neighbors about it, and when the lady across the street saw a bunch of bloody kids in the road groaning and rolling around like we were dying, she called the police. They showed up with sirens blaring and lights flashing. So did a bunch of ambulances and the fire department. It was even on the six o’clock news, and the newspaper had a front-page picture of Stan handcuffed and sitting in the back of a cop car. My mom and dad were super angry about it, especially when my father had to leave his birding group to go down to the police station and pick him up. But Stan didn’t seem bothered about any of it. He was more bummed about not getting the shot he wanted.”
Keisha shook her head, a sympathetic nod to indicate that she understood why Dana might have been her brother’s biggest skeptic. “Well, I guess you at least have to admire his dedication.”
“I suppose,” Dana admitted, but didn’t sound very convinced. “I just hope his dedication doesn’t get us all killed.”
Keisha couldn’t help but think the same exact thing as Dana lifted a pebble off the ground and launched it somewhere into the dead of night.
Dead As Dutch Page 16