I miss her. My other. She’s down there while I’m up here. She has my hands, my lips, and my nose. I have everything else. Neither of us can see Gustav’s helicopter on a Wednesday.
I slept last night. Gustav doesn’t even grow sleepy. He says he’s wide awake. He says, “No drills today for us.”
I think of my parents and I miss them. I think of the week’s worth of freezer food that they bought for me to heat up, and wonder if they will eat it now that I’m gone.
Or will she go and take my place? Can she?
I move my hands and purse my lips. I wiggle my nose.
I don’t know what I left back in Gustav’s yard, but it wasn’t her. She’s here with me. But part of me is gone.
I say, “Is it dumb for me to miss home?”
Gustav says, “Depends what you call home.”
I say, “I miss China. I even miss Lansdale and her lies.”
“You only left yesterday,” he says.
“China needs me,” I say.
Quiet grows between us.
“What happened to China?” he asks. “Why did she swallow herself?”
“I think it has something to do with a boy,” I say.
“Irenic Brown,” Gustav says.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Look. It isn’t really a secret, is it? Not with pictures for everyone to see,” he says.
I didn’t look at them. I knew they were there. I heard, but my ears didn’t want to listen. I try to pretend things are normal, the way Mama and Pop pretend they go to bed early every night.
I tell Gustav, “I have dreams about coffins. And sometimes Adolf Hitler.”
He nods. “Why Adolf Hitler?”
“Why not?” I answer. “I have dreams about cheese, too. Can’t choose what you dream about.”
“True,” he says.
I say, “In one of them, Adolf Hitler is a huge beetle and he eats all the other beetles. Even his own kind. And there’s another one where everyone at school knows how to waltz but we don’t know how to waltz.”
“I’m pretty sure Adolf Hitler knew how to waltz,” Gustav says.
“I mean you and me. We don’t know how to waltz,” I say.
“Oh,” he says. “I’m in your dreams?”
“With the coffins?”
“Yes.”
“Are we dead?”
“Yes. But then no. It depends which dream. You’re always in the red coffin.”
“Does Hitler have a coffin?” he asks.
“Yes. It’s black,” I say.
“Seems right,” Gustav says. He asks, “Does anyone dance with him?”
“No. I don’t think so. He’s always the bug eating other bugs. But one time he had lederhosen on and was exercising his hamstrings.”
“Are there drills in your dreams?” he asks.
“Sometimes there are bombs, too. And the dangerous bush man,” I say.
“He’s a good neighbor,” Gustav says.
“He is.”
“And you’ve kissed him for letters,” Gustav says. “But you’ve never kissed me until yesterday.”
I think about this before I answer. “I didn’t think you wanted me to kiss you,” I say.
“I’ve been busy,” Gustav says.
I want to touch a part of the helicopter to emphasize that I know he’s been busy—to tell him how genius he was to build it—but it’s not there. Not the body, not the windscreen, not even the seat I’m sitting in. If I think about it for too long, I grow frightened, so I focus on the hem of my lab coat. I fiddle with the fat corner where all the fabric meets. I slip my thumbnail into the tiny groove left by the sewing machine.
“Do you have any other dreams?” Gustav asks. “Dreams without coffins?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Do you want to tell me about them?” he asks.
“No,” I say.
“Am I in them?” he asks.
“Mozart is in them,” I say. “And I’m Stanzi. And we’re happy. And everything is falling apart.”
“Mozart doesn’t get a coffin, does he?” Gustav asks.
I do not explain that the movie Amadeus is fictitious. I let Gustav believe that genius is often disregarded. That’s the point of the film, and I allow Gustav his fictions.
“Why did the dangerous bush man have the map?” I ask.
“Clearly, he’s been here before,” Gustav answers.
“I think he’s harmless,” I say. “I don’t think he really puts roofies in the lemonade he sells. I think it’s a joke to him.”
“He’s a very funny man,” Gustav says.
“I never knew this about him,” I answer.