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Six-year-old Cassie Stemple stared fixedly at the mangled fur and splintered bones laying in a brittle heap in the gutter. She was certain she was going to puke. If it had just been the dead animal, maybe she’d be okay. But hovering over the pile was the statue with the white face and the dark eyes, and it terrified her. She could feel it staring, beckoning her to look at it. She didn’t want to — she really didn’t — but she couldn’t help herself. So she did.
It was dancing.
She flicked her eyes back to the dusty carcass and instead forced herself to think about what kind of animal it had once been. She knew about road kill. She was aware of how it came to be, how car tires flattened it out into hard pancakes in the baking sun. How the heat bleached and shriveled the flesh until it became like plastic. She knew about death.
Like the time she was with her mama when they ran over that possum. It was on the way to her parents’ work, and she’d felt the body thumping beneath her bottom underneath the car. Only after her mother had screeched to a stop in the middle of the lane and Cassie had turned around to look did she realize what it was.
They’d been lucky to be on a lonely stretch of road. There weren’t many other cars, and none coming right then. Not like the busy streets near where her father had gotten his apartment. If it had happened there, they definitely would have been hit by someone else following too closely behind.
“What was that, Mama?”
“Shit. I think I hit something.”
Cassie remembered how the mewling, bloodied creature had tried to rise up onto its shattered legs, its body almost vibrating in its dying throes, as if all the electricity in its tiny crushed frame was leaking out into the air.
She remembered her mother stepping out of the car, remembered seeing her shaking just as much as the poor animal was. Visibly shaking, unsteady on her feet. Cassie watched from the back seat with horrified fascination, hands pressed against the hot glass, so warm that the ghosts of her breath faded before they were fully formed. Watched as her mother had dragged it off the road by its hairless tail.
Her movements had been stiff and awkward. There was a hole in her belly. The hole where they had taken her little brother out weeks before.
Her mama had stood there on the side of the road, frozen with indecision while the car idled and the possum cried and somewhere off in the distance thunder rumbled.
“Mama?” Cassie had wanted her to just get it over with, the finishing part. Even at her age, she knew there was no way to save the animal. The poor thing was too broken to be fixed. Cassie knew about things like that. “What’s the matter, Mama? Why aren’t you moving?”
Her mother had waved her hands feebly about. “Poor thing needs to be put out of its misery. I know, I know.” She seemed to be arguing with herself. “But how?”
Tears streamed down her cheeks and dropped onto the hot road, drying quickly, leaving no mark. But then tears began to fall from the sky, too. They hit the windshield and the back window. Cassie hated seeing her mother crying like this. It always made her cry too, when she did.
Her mama had been doing an awful lot of crying lately, as if the sewn-up hole in her belly still hurt her the way Cassie’s belly hurt now watching the dancing statue.
“Its neck,” she’d said that day a couple weeks before. “Have to snap it.” She kept muttering to herself, looking up at Cassie, then back down at the dying creature. “Stay in the car, Cass. Don’t come out here. Yes, the neck. That’s the only way. Quick and merciful.” She was panting heavily by then. “I have to break it. Put it out of its misery. Don’t look, Cass, honey.”
And Cassie had wanted badly not to look, but when it came time to turn away, she couldn’t. Just like now.
Neither of them had spoken another word after that, not until they’d gotten to her mama’s work. The only voice in the car was the crazy man on the radio speaking his crazy words, the one her mama liked listening to but didn’t let Cassie. The dead animal had made her forget he was on.
Later that night, when Cassie was going to bed, her mother had come into her room and explained about death, about how it sometimes happens for no reason— “Like the possums today.” Then, as if she’d expected Cassie to make some connection between that and her little brother, she’d added: “And Remy.” She sighed. Then, as if responding to yet another unasked question, said, “As long as you love someone in your heart and keep them close, they will never truly die. They will always be real to you.”
Cassie knew what her mama was saying. She wanted Cassie to always keep Remy close, because that would keep him real. And as long as he was real, he would never truly be dead.
Cassie shivered at the recollection, now a few weeks old, but she kept her eyes fixed on the barely recognizable thing against the curb. It was better to look at it than the dancing statue.
It looks like a ratty wig, she thought. Or a hat. Like one of those flat coonskin caps she’d once seen in a museum.
Mixed in with leaf litter and plastic candy wrappers and soda cups. What had it been when it was alive? A cat, maybe. Or a dog. Although a raccoon seemed more likely. There had been a lot of them around the house lately, raccoons, scavenging through the trash, making trouble.
Bearing diseases.
That’s what their neighbor, Mister Sam, had told her. Cassie’s window overlooked his house. “Hen killers,” he’d said, his voice getting tight, as if the very idea of a diseased animal frightened him so. He was a strange man, Mister Locke. Tall and skinny with a long, funny-looking face, all rough and splintery with whiskers, like he had been carved out of old, dried wood with a dull knife. “Nasty vermin. Dirty, rabies-carrying vermin.”
But Cassie thought they were cute, even the mean ones. She’d seen them on the street in front of the house, beneath the streetlamps at night. Bunches of them with their funny masks, looking so businesslike. Sometimes two or three families of them toddling about. She bet they had soft fur. She wanted to touch them.
There had been rats too, come to think of it. Not as many, but she’d seen them as well. If anything deserved to be called nasty vermin, it was them. They were the ones carrying the diseases, the plague.
Her mother had made such a mess of the possum. She’d tried but couldn’t wrap her too-large hands around its too-small neck. Couldn’t crush the delicate little bones. The animal, even in its dying moments, kept snapping its jaws at her. The razor-sharp teeth coming ever-so-close to her mother’s skin. The blood bubbling through its teeth and out of its nose.
She ended up smashing its skull with a stone. The blood spatter made tiny patterns on her pink shirt and on her pale cheeks. Blood which she wiped away on a sleeve after each hit, never giving it a second thought.
Nasty, diseased vermin.
But finally it was done. Six blows, each one punctuated by a high cry from the tiny animal’s throat. Each one like an electric jolt to Cassie’s own body, causing her to flinch and hitch her breath. Six strikes. That’s how many it took to do the job, to strip away what little remained of the animal’s life.
Cassie hadn’t remembered getting out of the car and going over to her mother. She didn’t remember how many minutes passed as they clutched at each other crying. It had to have been many, because by the time they finally got up off the hard ground it had started to rain and they were both drenched and all the blood had formed rusty streaks on her mother’s shirt and pink tears on her cheeks.
One thing Cassie did remember was how soft the fur had been. At least it was on the tiny baby she found there with its mother. How sharp its tiny teeth had looked. How pure and white and hot the pain must have been when she pinched its little neck.
Even acts of love can hurt terribly.
Not like the pain in her stomach right now.
The car nudged forward a few feet, and Cassie heard her mother utter an impatient curse, complaining about the constant delays from all the new construction. How they should’ve taken the long way around to her father’s apartment. “Another damn tower,” she said through clenched teeth. She waved her hand at the taped-off site just ahead. “How many do we need?”
Cassie turned away. She knew the question wasn’t meant to be answered, so she didn’t say anything.
The radio was on low, some woman talking about a problem out near Brookhaven, which was just a few miles further down the highway. A disturbance of some kind. The police were there, they said. Someone was causing trouble and making traffic difficult.
“Whole island’s gone to hell,” her mother muttered.
Cassie tuned it all out.
Her eyes flicked to the work crew beside them in their fluorescent green coveralls, their faces hidden behind plastic masks. Printed in black letters on their backs were the words: PROPERTY OF THE US GOVERNMENT. She figured it must refer to the clothes rather than the people wearing them, the bad people. How could a person be property? They couldn’t be owned, could they?
Like the dancing man on the curb, she didn’t like the way the workers looked, either. She didn’t like their stiff, shuffling manner or the mute way they went about their business, never once speaking or acknowledging anyone. Not even to each other. She had even tried an experiment once — because that’s what her parents did, experiments — and had waved at them while in the car with her father. The window was open and she’d said hello in a timid voice that was probably too small for them to hear anyway. And of course they didn’t hear because they didn’t answer her back.
“Don’t talk to them,” Daddy had said, frowning at her. He used his button to close her window. “They’re not nice people. They’re convicts, murderers. People who belong in jail.”
“Then why aren’t they? Why are they out here with us?”
“Because now we can control them. We put little, tiny machines inside their heads and make them do work.”
“Can they do that to me, too?”
“No, honey. Just convicts. Those people stole from society. They owe a debt back. So, instead of letting them sit inside cozy jail cells reading books on how to cheat the system, we make them work.”
She didn’t know what a convict was and hadn’t bothered to ask, but she did know that murderers killed people. It was a horrifying concept to contemplate. How could a person do something as terrible as that? She found it hard to believe anyone could do that, especially these people. Despite her dislike for them and their histories, she didn’t think they were capable of doing anything horrible. They seemed so quiet, and slow, and clumsy.
She decided that it had to be a raccoon in the gutter behind her. She was thoroughly convinced that’s what the fur was. Of course, she couldn’t see it anymore, now that they’d moved. The hood of the car behind them was in her way.
Did killing animals make people murderers? Would her mother be made into one of these people? Would she?
Cassie didn’t want to become property.
The dancing statue was gone now. At least it wasn’t standing over the dead raccoon anymore. Cassie turned the other way, suddenly certain it was sneaking up on her. But it wasn’t there.
She scrunched down in her seat and clutched her stuffed toy rabbit tightly to her chest. Her mother’s eyes narrowed at her in the mirror. “Everything okay back there, honey?”
Cassie nodded stiffly, biting her lip so the whimper threatening to crawl out of her chest would stay put. The puke, too.
The tired eyes shifted up, away from Cassie’s face, out to the scene behind them.
“Can we go?” Cassie pleaded.
The car inched forward, then jerked to a sudden stop. Behind them, someone honked.
Cassie closed her eyes. She wished she were home instead of in the car. She wished her father lived with them again instead of all these towns away. She wished Ben Nicholas were here with her. And Shinji.
And Remy.
What did he look like now? Was he all flattened out too, after all this time? Away from the sun? Was he just bits of skin and bone, inside of his tiny, dark coffin?
She had only gotten to see him the one time, at the hospital, behind glass. She’d sensed something was wrong even then, had known it with the certainty of all of her six years on the planet.
Almost seven.
But her parents’ excitement over the birth had been contagious. It had forced her terrible worries away. Their optimism made Cassie doubt herself, make her think she was just being a stupid, jealous big sister. There was absolutely nothing wrong with the tiny, beautiful little baby brother.
Until there was.
“Come on!” her mother snapped, startling Cassie. The sound of the horn filled the car. “Damn it! Your father’s going to be pissed that we’re late.”
Cassie watched her mother lean forward to call him on the dashboard phone. She repeated along inside her head the pattern of beeps which she’d come to recognize as her father’s number.
“Lyssa?” His voice sounded flat coming through the speaker. There was no hint of anger or impatience. “I was just about to call you. I was worried. Is everything all right? You on your way?”
“We’re off the highway, but we’re stuck in the middle of town at one of the construction sites. They’ve got the road dug up. You should’ve told me they were digging things up!”
He sighed. “I didn’t know. It’s Sunday, but I guess they’re working around the clock now. What’s your ETA?”
“We haven’t moved a foot in, like, ten minutes.” She huffed in exasperation. “I don’t know why they have to do this all at once.”
“They want everyone switched over by the end of the summer.”
Cassie’s mother growled. “Yeah, but why us? Why does Long Island have to be first?”
“It’ll be over soon. Anyway, listen, when do you think you’re going to get here? Because I have some paperwork I—”
“I don’t want you working, Ramon. Cassie needs your full attention when she’s there.”
“I do give her my full attention.” He sounded hurt.
“Really? You don’t just let her do her own thing?”
He sighed. “Is that what she told you, that I ignore her? Because if she—”
“She doesn’t have to tell me anything. I know you. You’ve been too wrapped up with work lately.”
There was nothing but silence from the speaker for a long time. Outside, Cassie could hear the low rattle of the workmen’s tools and the muffled shouts of the man in charge, the one wearing the yellow hardhat and the fat goggles with the black lenses and the funny-looking gloves on his hands. He was the only one who ever spoke, and when he did, it was always in a shout.
It was time to check on the dancing statue again. Cassie needed to know where it was.
“Look,” her father said at last, “I know I haven’t handled the past couple of months as well as I could’ve, but you have to admit, neither have you.”
“I lost a baby!”
“We lost him, honey. No, that’s not right, either. He died and not because of anything we did or did not do.”
“Babies don’t just die!”
Another sigh. “Listen, it might be time we got some professional help because this doesn’t seem to be working. There’s a therapist—”
“I’m dealing with it just fine!”
Cassie cringed at the harshness in her mother’s voice, feeling it roil her insides even more than they already were. She thrust her feet against the back of the seat, as if to keep it away.
Before Remy, her parents almost never argued. But after they came back from the hospital, it seemed like it was all they ever did. That’s why her mother had asked her father to leave. But even then, the fighting continued.
“Stop pushing on the seat, Cassie!”
Cassie sighed and twisted her head slowly around, searching for the scary dancing statue. If she found it, at least then she’d have something to direct her anger toward. The sunlight bounced off the window of the car behind, blinding her for a moment. She squinted against it and turned to the sidewalk.
The dancing statue still wasn’t there where the raccoon pancake was. It wasn’t on the other side of the road, either.
“I just need time,” she heard her mother say. “And space.”
Where did it go? And why was it dancing?
Quietly, she unlatched her seatbelt. Then, slowly, carefully, she swiveled onto her knees. She didn’t really want to see it, but not knowing where it had gone was making her stomach feel really, really bad.
“I disagree. We need to work togeth—”
“Time and space. That’s what I need, Ramon. That’s all I really ever needed.”
“Honey, we—”
“Look, I just called to let you know we were going to be late. And to ask you to pay attention to Cassie while she’s there. Not to fight. Just promise me no paperwork. Or phone calls. It’s the weekend, for Christ’s sake. Spend some time with your daughter for once.”
“I wasn’t—”
The call disconnected.
Cassie shielded her eyes from the glare and squinted at the vehicles behind.
The motor revved, and they moved forward a car-length. The tires crunched over something that sounded like bones, though it was probably only gravel. But at least the glare was finally out of her eyes, and she could see the woman behind them.
The old lady smiled and waved at her. It was a shiny, brand new car, something you’d expect to see a much younger person in. A tiny dog sat on her lap, its hair just as white and curly as hers. It yapped mutely at Cassie through the windshield before turning its attention to the workers and barking at them. Cassie returned the wave, then quickly swung her eyes back to the empty sidewalk.
There was the sandwich shop her father had taken her to the first time she’d come to visit him in his apartment. A couple offices in the corner. A print shop. She recognized it because of the giant American flag on the too-short pole on the roof. The parking lot was nearly empty— only a couple cars, probably because of the construction. A man stood outside the print shop and watched the workers. He took out a tissue and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He looked worried.
“Cassie, why are you—? Get back in your seat, young lady!”
“We’re not moving.”
“Don’t argue with me. Just do it.”
Cassie tried to see past the white-haired lady’s car, but a truck blocked her view.
Maybe it went back inside. It’s too hot to be dancing on the sidewalk.
She wondered why there would be a little Statue of Liberty here, as if the real, giant one had shrunk while walking across the water on its way to Long Island. Why was it dancing like that, gesturing to the people walking past? It wasn’t even close to being Halloween. And why was it so scary-looking?
Anyway, it was gone now.
Behind her, she heard her mother open her window, heard the rattle of the machines outside and the engines and voices grow louder. She felt the sweep of hot air on the back of her neck and her bare legs, felt the brush of its thick, dry fingers on her hair. With a sigh, she turned back around and reached for her seatbelt.
The light coming into the car had dimmed. Cassie glanced up at her window, thinking a cloud had passed across the sun. But when she saw what it was, this time she couldn’t hold back the gasp.
The terrifying dancing statue bent down over her window and grinned, its mouth just inches away from her face. But then it stepped to the side, and it reached in toward her mother.
Cassie’s throat tightened, turning the cry into a choked scream.
“Afternoon, ma’am,” the scary statue said. Cassie thought his skin was sloughing away from his bones, but then she saw that it was just his makeup peeling from the heat of the day. He tiredly removed a single sheet of paper from the stack he was holding in his elbow and extended it into the car. “We’re protesting the new tax proposals. If you could read this—”
An impatient voice yelled at them from the work site and gestured for them to go. The white-haired old lady behind them honked, a sound more cheerful than urgent.
“Thanks,” her mother mumbled. “I’ll read it later. I have to go.” She took the paper and placed it on the seat next to her, rolled the window back up, and threaded the car through the narrow gap between the traffic cones.
As they passed, the statue man’s bloodshot eyes met Cassie’s one last time. He didn’t wave or smile at her. He just nodded once, almost knowingly, and resumed his dancing.