by Kathe Koja
Her hand did not shake as she used the knife; the light made her brown hair glow.
• • •
The man at the Stop-N-Go gave good directions: already he could see the workshop building, the place where the garage had been. He wondered how many people had driven up this road as he did, heart high, carrying what they needed, what they wanted her to use; he wondered how many had been in pain as he was in pain; he wondered what she said to them, what she might say to him now. Again he felt that wash of gratitude, that odd embodied glee; then the pain stirred in him like a serpent, and he had to clench his teeth to hold the road.
When he pulled up beside her workshop, he paused in the dust his car had raised to peel off the used patch and apply a fresh one; a small one, one of the 25 milligrams. He did not want to be drowsy, or distracted; he did not want sedation to dilute what they would do.
• • •
He looked like her memories, the old bad dreams, yet he did not; in the end he could have been anyone, any aging tourist with false new sunglasses and a sick man’s careful gait, come in hope and sorrow to her door; in his hand he held a red string bag, she could see some of what was inside. She stood in the doorway waiting, the X-Acto knife in her palm; she did not wish he would go away, or that he had not come, wishing was a vice she had abandoned long ago, and anyway the light here could burn any wish to powder, it was one of the desert’s greatest gifts. The other one was solitude; and now they were alone.
• • •
“Alison,” he said. “You’re looking good.”
She said nothing. A dry breeze took the dust his car had conjured; the air was clear again. She said nothing.
“I brought some things,” he said, raising the bag so she could see: the wires, the bottle, the hair; her hair. “For the box, I mean . . . I read about it in a magazine, about you, I mean.”
Those magazines: like a breadcrumb trail, would he have found her without one? wanted to find her, made the effort on his own? Like the past to the present, one step leading always to another, and the past rose in her now, another kind of cloud: she did not fight it but let it rise, knew it would settle again as the dust had settled; and it did. He was still watching her. He still had both his eyes, but other things were wrong with him, his voice for one, and the way he walked, as if stepping directly onto broken glass, and “You don’t ask me,” he said, “how I got out.”
“I don’t care,” she said. “You can’t do anything to me.”
“I don’t want to. What I want,” gesturing with the bag, his shadow reaching for her as he moved, “is for you to make a box for me. Like you do for other people. Make a box of my life, Alison.”
No answer; she stood watching him as she had watched him in the courtroom. The breeze lifted her hair, as if in reassurance; he came closer; she did not move.
“I’m dying,” he said. “I should have been dead already. I have to wear this,” touching the patch on his arm, “to even stand here talking, you can’t imagine the pain I’m in.”
Yes I can, she thought.
“Make me a box,” as he raised the bag to eye-level: fruit, tumor, sack of gold, she saw its weight in the way he held it, saw him start as she took the bag from him, red string damp with sweat from his grip, and “I told you on the phone,” she said. “I can’t do anything for you.” She set the bag on the ground; her voice was tired. “You’d better go away now. Go home, or wherever you live. Just go away.”
“Remember my workshop?” he said; now there was glass in his voice, glass and the sound of the pain—whatever was in that patch wasn’t working anymore—grotesque, that sound, like a gargoyle’s voice, like the voice of whatever was eating him up. “Remember what I told you there? Because of me you can do this, Alison, because of what I did, what I gave you . . . Now it’s your turn to give to me.”
“I can’t give you anything,” she said. Behind her, her workshop stood solid, doorframe like a box frame, holding, enclosing her life: the life she had made, piece by piece, scrap by scrap, pain and love and wonder, the boxes, the desert, and he before her now was just the bad-dream man, less real than a dream, than the shadow he made on the ground: he was nothing to her, nothing, and “I can’t make something from nothing,” she said, “don’t you get it? All you have is what you took from other people, you don’t have anything I can use.”
His mouth moved, jaw up and down like a ventriloquist dummy’s: because he wanted to speak, but couldn’t? because of the pain? which pain? and “Here,” she said: not because she was merciful, not because she wanted to do good for him, but because she was making a box, because it was her box, she reached out with her long, strong fingers, reached with the X-Acto knife and cut some threads from the bag, red string, thin and sinuous as veins, and “I’ll keep these,” she said, and closed her hand around them, said nothing as he looked at her, kept looking through the sunglasses, he took the sunglasses off and “I’m dying,” he said finally, his voice all glass now, a glass organ pressed to a shuddering chord, but she was already turning, red threads in her palm, closing the door between them so he was left in the sun, the dying sun; night comes quickly in the desert; she wondered if he knew that.
He banged on the door, not long or fiercely; a little later she heard the truck start up again, saw its headlights, heard it leave, but by then she had already called the state police: a sober courtesy, a good citizen’s compunction because her mind was busy elsewhere, was on the table with the bracelet and the varnish, the Gideon Bible and the red strings from the bag. She worked until a trooper came out to question her, then worked again when he had gone: her fingers calm on the knife and the glue gun, on the strong steel frame of the box. When she slept that night she dreamed of the desert, of long roads and empty skies, her workshop in its center lit up like a burning jewel; as she dreamed her good eye roved beneath its lid, like a moon behind the clouds.
In the morning paper it explained how, and where, they had found him, and what had happened to him when they did, but she didn’t see it, she was too far even from Eventide to get the paper anymore. The trooper stopped by that afternoon, to check on how she was doing; she told him she was doing fine.
“That man’s dead,” he said, “stone dead. You don’t have to worry about him.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for coming.” In the box the red strings stretched from top to bottom, from the bent garage nail to the hospital bracelet, the Bible verse to the Polaroid, like roads marked on a map to show the way.
BABY
It’s hot in here, and the air smells sweet, all sweet and burned, like incense. I love incense, but I can never have any; my allergies, right? Allergic to incense, to cigarette smoke, to weed smoke, to smoke in general, the smoke from the grill at Rob’s Ribs, too, so goodbye to that, and no loss either, I hate this job. The butcher’s aprons are like circus tents, like 3X, and those pointy paper hats we have to wear—“Smokin’ Specialist,” god. They look like big white dunce caps, even Rico looks stupid wearing one and Rico is hot. I’ve never seen anyone as hot as he is.
The only good thing about working here—besides Rico—is hanging out after shift, up on the rooftop while Rob and whoever swabs out the patio, and everyone jokes and flirts, and, if Rob isn’t paying too much attention, me and Rico shotgun a couple of cans of Tecate or something. Then I lean as far over the railing as I can, my hands gripping tight, the metal pressing cold through my shirt; sometimes I let my feet leave the patio, just a few inches, just balancing there on the railing, in thin air . . . Andy always flips when I do it, he’s all like Oh Jani don’t do that Jani you could really hurt yourself! You could fall!
Oh Andy, I always say; Andy’s like a mom or something. Calm down, it’s only gravity, only six floors up but still, if you fell, you’d be a plate of Rob’s Tuesday night special, all bones and red sauce; smush, gross, right? But I love doing it. You can feel the wind rush up between the
buildings like invisible water, stealing your breath, filling you right up to the top. It’s so weird, and so choice . . . Like the feeling I always got from you, Baby.
It’s kind of funny that I never called you anything else, just Baby; funny that I even found you, up there in Grammy’s storage space, or crawl space, or whatever it’s called when it’s not really an attic, but it’s just big enough to stand up in. Boxes were piled up everywhere, but mostly all I’d found were old china cup-and-saucer sets, and a bunch of games with missing pieces—Stratego, and Monopoly, and Clue; I already had Clue at home; I used to totally love Clue, even though I cheated when I played, sometimes. Well, all the time. I wanted to win. There were boxes and boxes of Grampy’s old books, doctor books; one was called Surgical Procedures and Facial Deformities and believe me, you did not want to look at that. I flipped it open on one picture where this guy’s mouth was all grown sideways, and his eyes—his eye— Anyway. After that I stayed away from the boxes of books.
And then I found you, Baby, stuffed down in a big box of clothes, chiffon scarves and unraveling lace, the cut-down skirts of fancy dresses, and old shirts like Army uniforms, with steel buttons and appliqués. At the bottom of the box were all kinds of shoes, spike heels, and a couple of satin evening bags with broken clasps. At first I thought you were a kind of purse, too, or a bag, all small and yellow and leathery. But then I turned you over, and I saw that you had a face.
Right away I liked touching you, your slick wrinkled skin, weird old-timey doll with bulgy glass eyes—they looked like glass—and a little red mouth, and fingers that could open and close; the first time you did that, fastened on me like that, it kind of flipped me out, but then I saw I could make you do it if I wanted to. And then I wanted to.
I played with you for a long time that first day, finding out what you could do, until Mommy came and bitched me out for being “missing.” How big was Grammy’s house? Not very, Mommy was just mad that she had to be there at all, even once a year was too much. Mommy and Grammy never really got along. Speak English, Mommy used to yell at her. This is Ohio!
So when she yelled at me I wasn’t surprised: What are you doing up here? with the door open and the afternoon light behind her, like a witch peering into a playhouse; I was surprised at how dark it was in there, I could see your face perfectly fine. I knew to hide you, Baby, even though I didn’t know why; I stuck you in the folds of one of the evening skirts, and I’m just playing dress-up, I said, but Mommy got mad at that, too: Stay out of that stuff, all her Nazi dancehall stuff, it’s all moth-eaten and disgusting. And anyway come on, we’re leaving now.
Can I take these? I said, pointing to the board games, I threw the games away when I got you home. You slept with me that first night, didn’t you? You got under the blanket, and fastened on . . . It was the first time I really had it, that feeling, like when you spin yourself around to get dizzy, or when you’re just about to be drunk, but a hundred times sweeter, like riding an invisible wave. I could see into things, when you did that, see into the sky, into myself, watch my own heart beat. It was so choice.
It’s funny, too, because I never liked baby dolls, or dolls of any kind. Grammy bought me like a million Barbies, but I don’t think I ever played with any of them, or the Madame Maurice dolls that anyway aren’t meant to be played with, Mommy ended up selling those on eBay. But you were different. It wasn’t like we were playing, I wasn’t the mommy and you weren’t the baby, I didn’t have to dress you up, or make you walk and talk. You were pretty much real on your own . . . If I’d been a little older, I might have wondered more about that; I mean, even then I knew you weren’t actually a toy. Or a “real” baby, either. You never cried, for one thing. And what you ate never made you grow.
But I knew you loved me since I got you out of that clothes box, and so you did things for me, things that I wanted you to do. Like when Alisha Parrish wrecked my Lovely Locket and wouldn’t say sorry, and you puked—or whatever that was—all over her sleeping bag! That was choice. Or when I threw Mommy’s car keys down the wishing well in the park, and she told me I couldn’t come home until I found them. She was surprised, wasn’t she, Baby?
I let you do things, too, that you wanted, like when we found that dead raccoon out by the storage shed, remember? Or the time I was so sick with the flu that the fever made me see things, and I let you fly all around the room; you were smiling, Baby, and swimming through the air. I wondered, later, how much the fever had to do with it, and for a long time after, I kept watching, to see if you would smile again, or fly . . . It was kind of like having a pet, a pet who was also a friend.
And a secret, because I knew without even thinking about it that I could never show you to anyone, not sleepover friends or school friends or anyone, that you were only meant for me. You knew it, too. And you were happy, you didn’t need anyone but me anyway.
For sure Mommy’s never seen you—Mommy doesn’t even go into my room—but Roger knew about you, or knew something; remember Roger? With the mustache and bald head? He used to look at me weird, like he was sad or something, and once or twice he asked me if I was OK: You doing all right, Jani? You feeling all right?
I’m fine.
Anything you want to talk about? If you’re not—feeling good, or anything, you can always talk to your mom about it. Roger didn’t know Mommy very well. And he didn’t last very long.
Definitely Flaco knew about you, I don’t know how but he did. He finally caught us in the hallway, in the Pensacola house, when Mommy was at the gym, he popped out of the bathroom like he’d been standing there waiting, and So there’s your Santeria toy, he said. Come on, Jani, let’s see it.
He smelled like aftershave, and skunky weed; he was smiling. In the dusty hallway light, you looked yellower than normal; I could feel the heat coming off you, like it does when you’re hungry. I tried to hide you under my arm.
It’s just a doll, I said.
Ah, that ain’t no dolly, girl, come on. That’s a bat-boy! A familiar. My Uncle Felix had one, he called it Little Felix. We used to say it was the Devil’s little brother. Flaco was still smiling; the skunk-weed smell was burning my throat. He bites when you tell him to, don’t he? Does anything you tell him to.
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how he knew. “Familiar”? With what? The Devil’s little brother. Family. You were squirming under my arm, I couldn’t tell if you were angry or afraid.
They can do some crazy shit, familiars. Come on, I won’t tell your mama. Let me see—and he tried to make a grab for you, he put his hand on you, and Stop it! I said.
Let me see, girl!
You stop it, or I’ll tell Mommy you tried to touch me, I’ll say you tried to touch me under my shirt.
I wouldn’t never— That’s a sick kind of lie, Jani! but we both knew that Mommy would believe me, Flaco was pretty much a straight-up man-whore from Day One. He let us go then, didn’t he, Baby? And he never said anything about you again, to me or to Mommy, even though I let you do things to him, once or twice—OK, more than that, but whatever, he was passed-out high when you did it, and anyway he deserved it, right? And even though he knew—he had to know—how it happened, those bites, he never said a word.
Flaco moved out that Christmas Eve and took all the presents with him, his and ours: A real class act, Mommy said, and then she threw a big Christmas party to celebrate, and to get more presents. Mommy said she was tired of Flaco’s drama anyway, and really tired of Pensacola, and so was I.
So I hid you in my backpack and we moved back to Ohio—Bay Ridge—and I hated it, hated middle school, hated the girls who made fun of my jeans and called me a trashburger and a slut; I was like eleven years old, how much of a slut could I have been? Even in Bay Ridge? In Ohio you wrinkled up like a raisin, and you barely moved at all—I think it was too cold for you there, I don’t think you can, like, process the cold. In Pensacola you always smelled a little bi
t funky, like an old sneaker left in a closet, or a dog’s chew toy, but at least you could get around. Once or twice in Bay Ridge, you were so stiff and so still in my backpack that I thought you were, you know, dead, and I cried, Baby. I really, really cried.
When we moved again, down to Clearwater, things got better; you liked it better here, too, at least at first, right? It was warm again, for one thing. And I started high school, which is a lot more fun than middle school, and our house is a lot nicer, too: there are two bathrooms, and the solarium with the hot tub, even if it leaks, and the home office where Mommy works, she’s an online “consultant” now—
What kind of a consultant?
I’m a relationship counselor.
What kind of relationships?
—but the more I asked, the madder she got, all pinched up around the mouth until she looked like Grammy; and really I don’t care, right? At least we have money now, at least there are no more boyfriends wandering all over the house in their tighty-whities. Not hers, anyway . . . The first time I did it with a boy, you knew somehow, didn’t you, Baby? When I got back from the Freshman Spring Fling, you smelled all over my hands and face, and then you went all stiff at the side of the bed, and you didn’t want to fasten on, you wouldn’t until I made you.
And when I woke up the next morning you weren’t there, even though I looked all over, and Mommy yelled at me for being late to school, I’m not going to call in for you again, Jani, I mean it! All day I thought, Oh god, what if Mommy finds Baby? I couldn’t imagine what she would do to you, or to me. Kick me out, or who knows what Mommy would do.
I was pretty scared, and pretty mad, when I got home. Mommy was sleeping, so I tore apart the house again, and when finally I found you, curled up behind the washer—where Mommy could have seen you in a second, if she ever bothered to look, if she ever bothered to do a load of clothes—Where were you? I said. I think I shook you a little, or a lot. Where the hell were you?