"What I love," I said, "is back there," and I knew she was scared, but there was no reason to be scared, I wanted to tell her that this was the kind of thing you did when you were falling in love, when your names rhymed, when you'd just had a magnificent dinner together. I wanted to tell her that I understood she was uneasy and apprehensive, but I'd never let anything happen to her, because she made me happy and I'd never been happy, and we could be happy for the rest of our lives. She was safe and loved, and I was safe and loved, and nobody was ever going to hurt us. I wanted to tell her that maybe people could be happy, maybe people could sculpt happiness out of all their shapeless disasters. I'd tell her that we could build it, and we wouldn't have to do anything except breathe, because everything else would already be in place and everything would already be beautiful and we'd be beautiful, and the only thing we'd ever have to worry about again is breathing, that was it.
"Is there another way we can go?" she said. "This is spooky."
"You're safe," I said and took her wrist with my good hand and guided her. The alley had the smell of boiled chicken and onions, and Handa wasn't walking fast. I practically dragged her. Forced her. But I knew in the end this would all be worth it. All she needed to do was see where we were going, where we were going to end up, and she'd trust me forever.
"Let's go back," she said.
"We're almost there."
"You're hurting my wrist."
I let go of it and said I was sorry.
She rubbed the spot where my hand had been.
I stopped in front of the dumpster and patted its metal side. "This is it."
"You love this?"
"I love this."
"You love a dumpster?"
"It's not just a dumpster."
"Can we leave?"
"Trust me."
"Please?"
"You won't believe this."
"I'd like to leave."
"Just give me a second."
"Can we please leave?"
"Hold on," I said, knowing there was nothing I could say to make her understand; she had to see with her own eyes, had to see the trapdoor and the huge ladder snaking down into the darkness. She needed to experience it all for herself and then she'd understand.
I threw the dumpster's lid open and was trampled by its humid breath, yawns of awful odors, all those wasted meats — steak and pork and chicken — rotting and steaming in the dumpster's stomach, and lucky for me, it was only half-full this time so I jumped in and burrowed through the swampy textures, but it was slow going because of my crooked arm, and Handa said, "Big Boy, please, stop!" and I said, "Just wait one second," and she said, "I'm leaving," and I said, "I know this seems weird, but trust me."
I continued my excavation, tunneling deeper, throwing handfuls of old napkins and Styrofoam boxes and clumps of rice into the alley, and she said again, "Please stop!" but my fingernails were already scratching against the dumpster's metal bottom, I didn't even throw the rest of the trash out, scooting it into the corners. I told Handa, "I can't wait for you to see this," and she said, "Stop, please," but I was so close, launching the last bits of trash out of my way, and the door should be right here. The door should have been right here. But it wasn't. I told myself not to be scared, to stay calm. The garbage that I'd only pushed aside before, now I heaved every single thing out of the dumpster, because this was all some mistake, some misunderstanding, I knew there was a trapdoor, I'd already squeezed through it and I was going to do it again, we were going to do it together, Handa and Rhonda. We'd squeeze through, and this was the beginning of a happy life together.
I couldn't bring myself to go to Damascus because I didn't want to see Vern and I obviously couldn't go to Handa's store. Lucky for me, there were entire constellations of liquor stores in the Mission; I bought bourbon and brought it back to my apartment, plopped down on the burned couch. Drinking. Staring at the bend in my arm. Inflating with humiliation, swelling like Madeline had done. Waiting for the warp in my arm to speed up, for my arm to suddenly wrap around my neck like a boa constrictor and put me out of my misery. Thinking about my mom, leaving. How everyone leaves, and no one cares, and why didn't she visit me when I was in the hospital, and why didn't she try to reach me after I got out, why hasn't she called me to say I know you had depersonalization and I'm sure you regret what you did, but I should have done a better job protecting you and the past is the past and let's try and be a family?
And thinking about Handa, too, as she ran down the alley, away from me and the magic dumpster, as I stood in it, trash thrown everywhere, thinking about her telling me to stay away from her and never come in the store again, I mean NEVER, EVER, or I'll call the police, I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN!
I stormed into the kitchen and took the picture of the homeless man and his pizza box off the fridge, ripped it up, shoved it into my mouth, washed it down with a huge swig of bourbon. My eyes welling up. I didn't need that picture. Things couldn't be worse. I'd been wrong. Been wrong this whole time. Things were awful and life was awful and there was no way all this sadness would ever be conquered by anything else. Life was just a collection of sadness, an acceptance of sadness, its prowess caging us all in regret.
Then I heard purring coming from inside the burned couch. I jumped up. Stood in front of it. Something slithered around under the couch's charred fabric, like a burst of liquid navigating a vein. I leaned over and pushed on it, expected it to buckle under the pressure from my finger, but it was hard, felt strong. The purring got louder. I knew the noise. It was a sidewinder. One of my friends. I went to the kitchen for a knife and cut a deep gash in the arm of the couch, a gash much deeper than the fire's damage, and a sidewinder fell out of the couch and onto the floor. It coiled and purred and I got down on the floor, stuck my face right up to it. Felt the calming flit of that cold tongue. That loving tongue. Touching me in rhythmic rushes, fast lashings. My old friend, my protector, we'd spent so much time together. I'd hide and you'd watch out for me, wouldn't let anyone hurt me.
But the snake lodged its fangs in my neck. Latched on and wouldn't let go. Me, Rhonda, betrayed again. I rolled around on the floor. Trying to rip it off but it was hopeless. There was nothing I could do. I yanked on the shaft of its body, but it wouldn't let go. I could feel the venom shooting from the fangs. Could feel it blasting through me at mach speeds. It was like all that poison ran straight to my brain. Because suddenly I knew what I was supposed to do. Suddenly I knew what was supposed to happen. I knew that there was a way to make everything in my life all right again. Nothing was going to get better until I took care of the past. Locked it away so it couldn't keep coming back from the dead.
The snake shot one more massive blast of venom into my neck; I stopped moving and my hands buzzed, even my mannequin hand. The snake wound up the couch's leg and wiggled back into its decimated guts; I lay on the floor and listened to every whisper that came to me from the poison, those supple suggestions, as the venom outlined the plan.
When I woke up, my head rested in little-Rhonda's lap. The light on his helmet was off. He stroked my hair.
"Am I dead?" I asked.
"What did it tell you to do?"
"We have to go to Phoenix."
"?" W y
"To burn down our house."
Psychic Kid
Before Letch lived with us, my mom used to take me on her drinking expeditions. She didn't like to pay for cocktails or babysitters. We'd walk into one of our regular bars, and some guy would say, "Hey, look, it's the psychic kid." Everyone would smile at me and slap my shoulders as we walked deep into the joint. Mom would help me onto a stool, and the bartender would put a 7UP with a handful of old cherries in front of me. "It's on the house, kind sir," he'd say, and my mom would lean across the bar and kiss him on the cheek, ordering herself a fuzzy navel. Blended. Nice and thick.