No more waiting. The train was late. There were bog men in the sorghum; I heard them rustling. And Queen Gunhild wanted food. But I was alive, so I ran.
My sneakers mashed foxtails and bluebonnets. Sorry, I thought, sorry. I didn’t look back or scream.
I just sent messages: Classique, hear me. You are awake and not sleeping anymore. You are awake and not sleeping anymore. You are awake-
Fireflies flashed on the cattle trail, so I kept my mouth closed. I didn’t want to swallow one. If I swallowed one, my stomach might start blinking. Then if I had to hide in the tall weeds, it’d be a cinch seeing me; I’d be like Bugs Bunny, strolling in front of Elmer Fudd with a target pattern on his butt, saying, "Say, doc, what makes you think there’s a rabbit in these woods?"
"Oh, I doughn’t know. Just a wittle hunch."
Racing toward the front yard, I caught the sound of the train. The earth trembled with its passing. I paused beside the flag pole, panting, and felt the steel vibrate against my shoulder. The Johnsongrass trembled under the breeze, and goose bumps rose on my arms. There was no one following along the cattle trail, not yet. I tried peering through the rows of sorghum, but it was impossible. I knew what was happening though -- in the grazing pasture, fireflies were being buffeted from the bus. Chunks of glass clattered in the burnt-out passageway, some fell like hail from the windows. And, for a while at least, Queen Gunhild couldn’t cross the tracks.
Classique was communicating, a faint transmission: It’s okay. I’rn awake. Come get me-
Then no noise, no train, no breeze. My palms were sweating like crazy. But I was safe. I walked onto the porch and entered the house.
My father was in the chair. I could see the back of his head. And the map of Denmark was sagging, drooping over; a top corner had come unstuck. For a moment I considered fixing the map, but that meant getting close to him. He’d probably changed colors again, and the thought of his skin spooked me -- especially now that the farmhouse had grown darker. He was like the Mood Ring in my rnother’s jewelry box; sometimes turning blue, sometimes black. That ring never worked right.
The dressing gown lay in the entryway, at the front door, so I picked it up. The satin was so soft. I pressed it against my cheek.
"Smooth as a baby’s butt," I said, calmed by my own voice.
I have an idea, Classique was thinking.
What?
Come get me and I’ll tell you.
I cradled the dressing gown like a baby. There wasn’t a light for the stairs; it was pitchy, the steps were invisible. But I pretended a baby’s butt rested in the nook of my arms, and that made me happy.
"I love you so much,” I told the dressing gown. "You’re my dear sweet one."
And when I showed Classique my baby, she said, "It’s dead. It doesn’t have bones."
She was the only one awake on the wig.
"I don’t care. It’s smooth."
"It doesn’t have a pumping heart.”
"But you don’t too.”
"How do you know?” she said. "I might.”
"I’m sorry.”
I didn’t want to argue. She could be stubborn. If I argued with her, she wouldn’t explain her idea -- although I already understood what it was. So I gently laid the dressing gown on the pillow, then I slipped Classique onto my finger.
"Get the wig,” she said.
I grabbed the wig, tumbling Fashion Jeans and Magic Curl and Cut ’N Style across the mattress. Then I went into the bathroom and got the cosmetic bag. And before going, I noticed that the hatch was ajar, beyond which existed murkiness, outer space, a void where the Bog Man could hibernate. The attic wasn’t the same as in the daytime; it was another world, the black hole of What Rocks. I tried setting the latch, but the bolt wouldn’t stay in its notch. I pressed hard with my palm. When I let off, the bolt sprang back. So I removed a tiny toothbrush from the bag -- its bristles stained with mascara -- and wedged the hilt in the gap between the hatch and the baseboard.
"You don’t move,” I ordered the brush, "or you’ll die."
Sometimes toothbrushes died. The bristles dulled and that was that. Sneakers died too. And buildings. So did Moms and Dads. The planet was full of the dying, the dead, the gone. But if someone was beautiful, like Classique, they could go on forever. Death was ugly.
In the living room I whispered, "You’re a vision.”
The wig fit my father well, the blond coils almost concealed his ponytail.
"You’re a sensation.”
His face remained pallid. He hadn’t changed much during the day. And I was relieved. There was a compact of rouge in the cosmetic bag -- so I dabbed color on his cheeks, on his chin, on his earlobes, brightening the purple blotches. Then I removed the bonnet and put it on him.
He was pretty now. So I kissed his mouth. The skin felt fake and rubbery. I kissed him more than once, until the scarlet reddened his lips. Then I sat at his boots with Classique and admired him.
"We’re very proud of you,” I told him. "You’re Miss America."
And that night I slept in his room with the door locked. Just me and Classique. For a while, from the window, I watched the tower strobe flicker. But I didn’t stare too long. I didn’t want to get hypnotized. Then I lay on his mattress, very quietly. I shut my eyes, transmitting messages downstairs.
Daddy-? This is me. Am I coming in loud and clear? Daddy-? If you can hear me, say something. It’s me. Radio Jeliza-Rose, broadcasting from your bedroom. Are you there?
10
Sitting on the porch steps, I sipped from the gallon jug and then dribbled into Classique’s hair. There wasn’t any shampoo in What Rocks, so I pretended. I scrubbed her scalp like it was soapy. The water made her red hair look brown.
I called her Miss.
"How would you like it today, Miss?" And, "Miss, could I possibly interest you in some of our exclusive hair-care products?"
But she told me to just shampoo, to not talk.
"Yes, Miss."
The customer was always right, even when she was wrong. So I combed my fingers through Classique’s hair, pushed at her plastic skull, and shut up. And if she was my mother, I’d be tapping my fist on her head, like knocking on a door -- but softer. Then I'd uncoil my fist, letting my fingertips spread slowly out. It gave my mother the chills.
"Cracking an egg.”
"Do me now."
We took turns. My mother and I. Cracking eggs on each other’s heads. Often we rapped with both hands, two fists crumbling, and the fingertips would then drip all over, an oily feeling, trickling toward the neck, around the ears, the forehead. Gooseflesh. I loved that game.
Spider, Pinch, Blow -- another chill game.
"Spider crawling up your spine-"
Fingertips creeping along the back to the shoulders.
"Tight squeeze-"
Pinching the shoulder blades.
"Cold breeze-”
Blowing on the neck while dragging nails down the spine.
"Now you’ve got the chills."
It never failed. The bumps grew, rough and pimply. I’d rub my arms and neck so they’d go away. "Do it again," I’d tell my mother, once the bumps disappeared. "Just one more.”
"That’s what you said before.”
"But I promise._Just one more."
And sometimes we shampooed each other’s hair. But we didn’t use water or shampoo. We did it in her bedroom. It was all make-believe.
My mother always said, "Could I interest you in some of our exclusive hair-care products, miss?"
"No thank you,” I replied. "Not today.”
I wanted her to stroke my scalp without saying anything. I closed my eyes, knowing the massage wouldn’t last long, wishing she’d never stop. She could’ve put me asleep, easily; I would’ve liked that.