9

This semester is the most difficult: twentieth century literature, why did Julie have to take the academic college track? What could she have been thinking? The reading list: Pat the Bunny, Hop on Pop, One Fish Two Fish, Curious George and The Velveteen Rabbit, but these are like, for a PhD student or something, they are way too difficult. Classical Song Lyrics as Poetry: Busta Rhymes, Jackson Browne, Tony Orlando, Missy Elliott – she doesn’t have a clue what they are about and she has never liked classical music!

“Yes it is work, but I believe you will find the texts to be worth it,” says Miss Fletsum, “You may recollect from political history a President of long ago got the nation to read The Very Hungry Caterpillar by recommending it as his favorite book. In this course we will discuss co-sign as physical commodity as well as parallel instigation; and the non-existence of the text except as validified by the critic of historical neutrality and revisionism. I do understand that many of you find the written word extremely difficult, but I believe I have made allowances in that you will find a great deal of supportive material, both in song and film. Let’s get back to business at hand, shall we? Tonto!”

“Miss Fletsum?” A student raises her hand. “When we talk about One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish, in what way are we able to reassess context according to the interpretation of the concrete, in a non-revisionist assessment?”

“Anyone want to respond to that? Sprue?”

“In my opinion,” Sprue says, “any particular ideology is nearly impossible to extricate from the body of the work. To look at the Object in a sustainable, revisionist way, without negating sign, let alone the obliteration of demerit is, gosh; I don’t think it’s possible.”

“Wrong!” says Miss Fletsum. “A bird in the hand can peck you a lot easier than two in the bush. I would have thought by now you would certainly know how to paradeduct from what we have studied so far. In viewing obtuse comprehensive equations, we can see that –”

Julie’s mind wanders. The school offers a lot of vocational courses; is it to late to change? Until the plane crash, she always thought of herself as not only an expert marksman, plus she got all As in Munitions Tech. The teacher even said she should maybe think about going into Military Marketing.

She is surprised to find Cliffort and Tahnee waiting outside the school for her. She hasn’t seen Cliffort since the day of the airplane crash. The only way she can not think about the crash is by taking larger and larger doses of Clear Wipe, which you can only get from a doctor but which she was able to buy from one of the kids at school. “What are you doing here?” she says.

“Didn’t you know?” Tahnee says snidely, “Cliffort’s applying for a job here as a teaching assistant aide now at Downey.”

“In what subject?”

“Hair. He’s going to drive us home.”

Tahnee spoke snidely
to her sister

Julie is not so happy to see Cliffort. In silence they walk to his van; Cliffort stops to pick up things from time to time and he’s putting them in his mouth, yuck, stones or… whatever, maybe it’s just sunflower seeds and he’s picking up litter. Once again the plane crash replays through her head, except that it is now all happening in slow

motion. The front end

          of the plane begins

                        going down, at first far

                                      away, then closer.

What type of plane is it?

Now, picturing it, she thinks it was a Cronan-Boeting 894 Air Luxury Liner, with extra-wide seats and a history of bad disasters in Kazakachina.

She remembers how she kept waiting, somehow, for the plane to get back on course but it continued to descend and then, still unexpectedly, hit the swamp, and burst into flames. Maybe the chemical products in the water made it burn faster? And didn’t she inhale a cloud of ash, maybe it was human remains; since that time she has never felt very good. The intense blast of heat and the hail of objects around them; a volcanic eruption turned wrongly around, so that the opposite of magma was spewing down.

Things blowing so high and fast, stuff goes all the way to the playing field, burning jet fuel, boomeranging bits of metal. The flimsy boards of the shack falling into splintery pieces and a plastic tray table had struck nearby on which partially read:

UPRI HT POSIT DURI G AKE-OFF A D LA DING

And then being hit by that finger, she didn’t know what had hit her until she saw it, on the ground, a finger with a large gold ring set with a cabochon ruby. The ring has gouged a dent in the side of her temple that, at first, she thought was her own blood but in fact later revealed itself to be nothing more than a sodden mess of tissue from the severed digit. Now she remembers, Tahnee ran over and picked it up. What has happened to it since then? Does she even want to know? The firey corpse of the plane, what’s left, blazes a half a football field away; most of the explosion occurred in the air, a variety of wreckage had cascaded down either before or just after, so the field was littered with objects. In the distance people yelling, screaming, but who?

“Everything okay there?” says Cliffort. “You seem awfully quiet. What are you thinking?”

“Nothing.”

“How about a return to the scene of the crime,” says Cliffort, pulling up beside the field where the crash took place. “As the actress said to the bishop!” Julie doesn’t know where Cliffort has been since the day he handed her the Kamikaze, but he has some super gluf, extra styff that he says even Julie will like.

“No thanks,” she says. “I don’t like steet any more, all it does is give me the skeeves.”

“This is different,” Cliffort insists.

She stares at her feet.

“Come on, Julie,” says Tahnee.

“Come on, just have a bit, you steet with me and maybe I won’t remember who pulled the trigger.”

“What?” says Julie. When Cliffort passes it to her, she inhales. He is frightening as he takes her hand to walk through the field. “No one has returned to clean up,” Julie says. “It’s been weeks!”

“What?” Tahnee and Cliffort both burst out laughing, that kind of laugh that teenage boys make when they want to sound sardonic. “What are you talking about! It was, like, yesterday, simp!”

“It was weeks ago! Remember de initial covert rescue operation? With all dose people? In de white outfits and stuff?”

Cliffort and Tahnee shake their heads. Clearly Julie is unwell.

The high from the fumes doesn’t last long and Julie realizes her sister is clutching the ring, still attached to the finger that had hit her on the head. “Ew, dat’s a scunner,” she says.

“What?” says Tahnee.

“Dat you’re still carrying dat finger around, wid de ring.”

“What?” When Julie looks again, she realizes there is nothing in Tahnee’s hand at all. They tramp through the field. Almost everything they pass is charred lumps. Here and there are recognizable objects: the back of a seat cushion, a handle from a suitcase, a shoe. Coins litter the ground, stuck between blades of dull brown grass, some of which, in sections, is engulfed in cheerful gassy little flames that appear to be everlasting, like those on some cemetery memorial.

Julie picks up a wallet, virtually intact: it contains a driver’s license, credit cards, four ten-thousand dollar bills. “Look,” she says to her sister.

In the distance the sound of sirens can be heard.

“Gimme,” says Tahnee, taking the wallet. She snatches the money, which she pockets.

A few people have gathered at the far end of the field. “Are you kids all right? Get out of there!”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re coming.”

“Maybe it’s, you know, biochemical! Hurry up! You don’t know if there’s going to be more stuff exploding. Even the Homeland Housekeeping Mission won’t touch this!”

“No kidding,” says Tahnee. She starts running across the field, but somehow her shoes are gone and she is now unable to walk on the grass that is not only flaming in spots but contains extremely sharp stickers.

The neighborhood is known for these – a renegade from elsewhere. Can pierce clothing, even shoes, boring its way into flesh; caused the death of a local child, who, on autopsy, was found to have burr seeds rooted in liver and lungs. “I can’t walk. De prickers!” Tahnee yells. Now that the steet has worn off, the thorns really hurt.

“Where are your shoes?” Cliffort has come up behind her.

“I don’t know.” Tahnee retraces her steps. A pair of blue jeans droops from a busted suitcase and she yanks out a couple of pairs of men’s underwear, which she wraps around her feet.

More of the neighborhood – whoever is home at the time – has begun to gather at the edge of the field. “What are you kids doing in there!” yells Mr Patel, the father of Locu. “Didn’t anybody tell you, that area is contaminated? I have the word of The Authorities it’s on fire below ground, it’s going to go up any minute.”

It’s true, the air is filling with dense smoke and the thick stench from the disturbed swamp water. But Julie can’t help herself and goes on rummaging through the suitcase; a man’s shaving kit, a camera, she is oblivious to how smoky the air has become. “That’s that… nuthin’ we can do at the moment,” Cliffort says as he drags her from the suitcase and across the field. The whole place begins to burn. “I’m so fafa hungry. That darn steet wore off already, the guy told me it was the new one-hour version. Oh, hang on – it has been an hour, heh-hee. Got anything to eat with you?”

The two girls look at each other. “No,” say Julie slowly. “But… we’ve probably got something at home, why don’t you come in with us?”

The back door is unlocked. In the heat the dog is too lethargic to get up.

“So is anybody home?” says Cliffort. “Mother or dad?” “

No,” says Julie. “Mom should be home soon, though.” “

And is she going to be upset? At finding me here?”

“I dunno,” says Julie. “I don’t see why. We can have friends over. Besides, you teach at the school, right?”

“At the moment, temporary substitute. Not to stand on ceremony but I’m starving. Ravenous. Mind if I have a look?” Cliffort opens the door of the refrigerator. A large bowl, stored on top, suddenly leaps into the air and falls to the floor where it smashes.

“Oh, Shi’ite,” Cliffort says. “Sorry about that. Got a mop?” He stands in front of the open refrigerator door.

“Just forget it, I’ll clean up,” says Julie. “

Will you? You’re very kind.” Cliffort stares at her in a way that makes her uncomfortable.

Tahnee has been in a daze but now she steps forward. “Don’t just stand there wid’ da door – the door open,” she snaps, in a voice that sounds like Murielle. “I’ll tell you what’s in there, because I already know!” She pushes past him. An American cockroach ambles out of the drawer marked “MEAT” and walks toward Cliffort.

“It can’t be easy being a cockroach!” Cliffort says, as he steps on it. “One minute just walking around, the next wham! You’re squished.” With one finger he swipes up the fatty white, studying it pensively.

“We have peanut butter,” says Julie.

“Ugh, peanut butter flavor. Can’t stand the stuff.”

“There’s, um, some leftover macaroni and cheese. And eggs. And, um some leftover cartons of Chinese food.”

“Hmm, Chinese food. That might be interesting. Mind if I have a look?” His hand writhes around Tahnee and into the refrigerator where, seemingly unconnected to his body, as if it has its own eyes, the hand picks up a carton of Chinese food and takes it from the fridge. Then he opens it, and, looking inside, sniffs. “Mmm,” he says. “I think I’ll try. Nice patina. How old is it?”

“It has some age. Do you want it heated?”

The young people are still woozy from the drug, the high makes everything slow, thick treacle, except when it is ice-cold and bitsy. “Nah, this way is fine. Got any ketchup?” He peers into the carton and, looking inside, sniffs. “Is it supposed to be moving around?”

“I don’t think so,” says Tahnee. “Maybe you shouldn’t.”

“That’s okay. I’m interested in trying out this new live-food diet everybody is talking about.”

“So am I!” says Julie.

“Oh, Julie, you are not,” says her sister. “You wouldn’t hurt anything that crawls, walks or flies.”

“Speaking of flying…” Cliffort says, opening cabinets and drawers. “Why don’t we just not mention that Julie brought down the plane?”

Julie doesn’t know what to say. Was she the one who made it crash? She knows she must come forward and tell the authorities what occurred; no doubt her punishment will be life in prison, which she definitely deserves. “Sure,” says Tahnee. “You want a plate or something?”

“Just a fork. Anything to drink?”

“There’s soda. Or, um, want me to see if there’s a 24-Projectiler?”

“No, the soda should do nicely.” He takes the fork and begins to stab in the box.

There is a sound – it’s Murielle, unlocking the front door. Cliffort tenses, fork poised, ready to flee. He resembles a secondary scavenger at carrion where the original killer is about to return.

“Mom!” Tahnee calls.

“Hi, I’m home!” From the other room they hear her putting down her things, bags and keys, breathing heavily in the heat.

“We, um, have a friend with us.”

“Oh? They are saying that the big plane crash at the marsh might create some kind of big explosion. I was worried you kids might be playing over there.” Murielle is flushed, she has spent the day trying to stop a massive escape at the Senior Mall. Some of the folks decided they were going to break out, and head for Nature’s Caul. Don’t they realize that even if they did make it that far, Nature’s Caul is only for the rich? They would never be allowed in.

“Mom, this is Cliffort. Cliffort, this is our mother.”

“Hello, Mother!” Cliffort lunges, his chair topples over and one of the legs falls off. On his fork is a cockroach, skewered on a tine.

“Sorry,” says Murielle, “I’m afraid we really should get new chairs, these are on their last legs.”

“Perhaps I could have a look at them, when I’m done, and see if I can fix that one. Excuse me for raiding your kitchen. I’m Cliffort Manwaring-Troutwig, old baseball family.”

“Take another chair, finish your food, I can’t believe you can eat that stuff cold.”

“Very tasty. I was totally starving, but your girls were kind enough to offer me a snack.”

Julie can’t stop staring at him. Even though she is in pain – both physical and mental – and feels wretched, it is swirled together with something else. She has never had this feeling before, except when she watches Humphrey Bogart in his latest film with Zahara Jolie, even though people say these days Bogart is kind of limited. Cliffort has such pasty skin, it is fascinating, and his ears stick out, but why this is so sexy to her, she doesn’t know. His eyes are huge, merciless and erotic; a dark algae smudge above his lip can scarcely be called a mustache. A rare creature has come to their home.

“You are… where are you from?” Murielle says. She guesses he is in his mid-twenties, harmless enough in a too-handsome way: emerald eyes, pale skin, intense.

“I’m from West Islap, near the United Laboratory tragedy? Born and grew up there before they made everybody move out.”

“I thought so!” Murielle says. “So how do you – what are you –”

“We met him in the park, Ma,” says Julie.

“We were just having a little chat. When that plane went down, a little while ago. My car conked out. Van, actually. I was trying to see if I could maybe repair it myself – I hope you don’t mind, that the girls took me in –”

“You look to be quite a bit older than them, you must be –”

“I’m twenty-three.”

“No, I was only asking because I’m going to fix myself a drink, I don’t want to offer you one if you’re not old enough, or you’re going to be driving –”

He seems relieved. “No, thank you very much, unless you have some mescal… you know, the type with the worm… Perhaps I could fix one for you?”

“Sorry… no mescal… I can do us my version of a Bloody Mary. Here, I’ll show you. I take Spicy W-3 juice, and then…” She gets a gallon container of vodka out from a cabinet.

“It’s the most disgusting thing you’ve ever seen, Cliffort, you won’t believe it,” Tahnee says as Cliffort abruptly licks the table.

“…I measure the vodka…” Murielle begins to rummage in a pile of dishes stacked beside the sink. “Where’s my measuring thingy?”

“I don’t know, Ma, nobody touched it!”

“Anyway, so tell me, Cliffort, what are you doing in New Jersey?”

“I was on my way to apply for a position at – believe it or not – the girls’ school, in the styling production department. My van started to break down so I stopped at the park here to see if I could fix it. And that’s where I met the girls and ended up here, with what appears to be a fucked transmission, Mom, excuse my language.”

“Yes,” Murielle is feeling daring. “I really would prefer you not call me Mom. It makes me feel like I’ll never get laid. Oh, here’s my jigger.” She fills and refills the jigger, until each glass is half-full of vodka.

“But I’ve always had the hots for my mother, and I can’t help it, you remind me of her except more attractive, and with that stunning strawberry hair and zaftig figure. I hope you don’t think I’m being too personal, but do you color it yourself?”

“Oh, no, I don’t color it. It’s the way it is.”

“I don’t believe it!” Cliffort licks the fork before he puts it down and touches Murielle’s head. “It’s absolutely ravishing. Never change it.”

“Oh, please, my hair’s a mess! In this weather it always gets so frizzy, and it’s thinning so much, on the top.”

“No, no, you mustn’t think that. The only thing I would say, speaking as a professional, is –” He fluffs her hair on both sides and cocks his head.

“Mmm –?”

“If you’d let me… I could marcel it for you.” He begins to play with her hair, pushing it in different directions until it sticks up.

“That feels heavenly.”

“Oh Mom, that looks so pretty!”

“And that must be where your darling little daughter got her coloring from, too.”

Murielle looks at Tahnee. “But hers is almost white. Platinum.” Cliffort, though, is looking at Julie. “Oh, you mean Julie! Haha! Yes, I guess her hair is the same color as mine – funny, I never really observed that.” Murielle admires Cliffort, he really has a touch.

A stench wafts into the kitchen. The wind has changed. Cliffort wrinkles his nose but the others are used to sour odors coming in off the swamp, now mixed with the odor of burning rubber and hair and barbecuing meats. Murielle notices tears are streaming down Julie’s face. “What the feces is wrong with you?” she says.

“Oh God, all those people! It was terrible! And it’s all my fault.”

“What?”

Beneath the table Cliffort pinches Julie on the leg. “What do you think, Mom, a marcel and what about… frosted highlights?”

“You always think everything is your fault; what did you have to do with a plane crashing?” Murielle is irritated. “You, you, you.”

Tahnee nudges Cliffort. “Julie’s got the skeeves.”

“No whispering in front of other people,” Murielle says. “It’s rude. If you have something to say, say it to everyone. My God, Julie, what’s happened to your hands?”

Julie’s fingers have bloated, blistering without any sign of a fire or boiling oil.

“Ow.”

“Tahnee, do we have anything to put on her hands? I don’t know what that is, I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

Julie’s hands roast, white marshmallows turning gold, very slowly, although there is no visible fire beneath them. Cliffort jumps up. “I always keep first-aid supplies in the van in case of a hair disaster. I’ll go back and get my salve and unguents before it gets dark,” he says. “Then I can get the marcelling equipment and the hair-frosting kit at the same time. Julie, come with me, before you gets worse.”

For the first time in two weeks Murielle begins to wash the dishes that are stacked haphazardly beside the sink. “He seems like a nice boy,” she says. “Do you think I should let him do my hair?”

“I think it would be fabulous.”

“He can stay here, if he needs somewhere to sleep. I think he’s real cute, kind of. A little wet behind the ears, but cute.”

“Mom! Keep your hands off him, I think Julie likes him.”

“Julie? Has it come to this, then, that I have to compete with my own daughter? I still have my reproductive organs intact!”

“Please, you gotta promise you’ll keep it in your pants.”

“Oh, all right. You can be such a party pooper sometimes, Tahnee. So – Dyllis told me the CEO of Bermese Pythion stopped in to see you girls! Tahnee, I didn’t realize you were helping Sis, that is so lovely! I love to learn that you girls are so close to one another. Why can’t you share these things with me?”

“That CEO guy? He’s a creepy shrimper.”

“Don’t talk that way! Dyllis says it was really exciting that the CEO was in the lab. He could help your girls, you know. He’s one of the richest men on the planet.”

“I guess.” Tahnee fingers the ring that fell on Julie’s head at the plane crash site. It’s still in her pocket. She had forgotten about it. In her hand the ring feels greasy and when she looks down she sees someone else’s hairs are wound around the ring and the stem of the hardened blue finger, in which rigor mortis has long since set.