"Me either. I get a seizure then I sink in the pool like a penny. I get a seizure and the bowling ball smashes my feet. I drived before but that was bad and if I do it now Dell says I get arrested or worse. So I can’t drive to save my life, not even if I’m bloody or my arm’s chopped off.”
"If you drive you’ll go-"
I rolled my eyes and twitched for a moment.
"Yeah. That’s what’ll happen all right."
Then we both smiled. And in the silence that followed we fidgeted, inarticulate, and dug patterns in the dirt.
The Johnsongrass swayed overhead and around, murmuring.
"Say, I was meaning to say,” Dickens finally said, "I’ve got a submarine. It’s big enough for me. See, then I don’t have to swim anyway."
"Can I play in it?”
At first he said sure, and then he went, "I don’t know, maybe tomorrow you can. I don’t know."
"But I’d like to see it because I like submarines. And maybe you’d play in it with me.”
"I guess. Thing is, you’ve got to hold my hand, okay? Then you can come with me there.”
"Okay.”
"That way we don’t get lost from each other."
"Okay."
He extended a slender hand. So I took it. And his palm was warmer than mine. Then he led the way, trudging through the Johnsongrass, trampling stalks, where hoppers sprang from underfoot like tiny land mines. And as we wandered parallel with the grazing pasture -- the hull of the school bus looming -- I said, "Fireflies visit me in the bus at nighttime.”
Dickens squeezed my hand.
"That’s a bad place," he said, sounding fearful. "It’s wrong there.''
But I didn’t ask why.
You’re a sissy, I thought. That’s how come you talk like that. That’s how come you’re scared all the time.
A hopper clung to my shin; I let it ride on me until we left the sorghum -- then I slapped it dead.
Dickens was saying, "I’ve got a million pennies.”
We were side-by-side, stepping between railroad ties. And I kept looking back in case a train was coming.
"I’ll show you.”
He released my hand and began walking faster, leaving me behind, his flip-flops going clomp clomp clomp. His butt jiggled in the trunks. It was funny. His legs were hairy and skinny. He reminded me of a flamingo, a white flamingo.
"You’re a bird!"
"Not really," he said, bending on the tracks, pointing at a rail. "A bird doesn't have pennies, but I’ve got lots."
And he did have lots. They were on the rail, pressed into flat blobs of copper; hundreds of them -- fused, overlapping -- stretching for yards.
"You’re rich.”
"I will be. Because someday they’ll get squished together and make a big penny. The world’s biggest penny. Do you know how much that’ll be?"
"A million dollars."
"At least. And I’ll buy a boat then. Or a real submarine-”
A real submarine? He reached for my hand.
"-that’s much better than the one I got."
But he didn’t have a submarine to show me. It was a wigwam built from mesquite branches and weeds, in the embankment beside the tracks. And it was packed with junk -- a mangled bicycle, smashed cans, three shredded tires. There wasn’t room to play or sit. There wasn’t even a periscope.
"She’s Lisa," he told me, pulling the goggles to his eyes. "Vessels underwater have girl names. Boats on top do too. Well, some of them do.”
I asked about the bicycle, with its twisted frame and crushed spokes.
"Shark attack."
And the tires. And the cans.
"Monster shark."
Then he explained.
The junk was bait. He was a great shark hunter, exploring the South Pacific in his submarine. Mostly he used pennies for bait, but sometimes he found bigger lure for his prey. Then he hid in the wigwam and waited. And soon the monster shark came gliding along the tracks, jaws thrashing, mashing anything in its path -- a bicycle, beer cans, old tires, helpless pennies. Nothing escaped.
"The only way to kill that shark is to blow it up,” he said. "Rocks and spears don’t work, believe me. I’m lucky I’m alive."
His voice suddenly sounded deep, not sissy. He cocked an eyebrow. And I thought he seemed brave, and older -- like a captain. But when the cowbell clanked in the distance, he became Dickens again.
"Uh-oh,” he said. "I need to be home. You too. You can’t be in here without me. It’s my submarine."
He grabbed my hand and we ducked out of the wigwam.
The cowbell continued clanking and clanking.
And Dell was somewhere shouting: "Dickens! Home! Dickens! Home! Dickens-"
"We can play tomorrow,” he said, letting go of my hand. "Don’t get in my submarine without meI”
Then he scurried away -- foot in front of foot, elbows swinging, head straight, clomp clomp.
"Bye, friend!” I called after him, waving. "Don’t drown!”
But he didn’t turn and wave. He didn’t say anything as he went.
"Come visit me tomorrow! ”
And I knew Dell had pound cake for him. And apple juice. She probably had the picnic basket all ready. My stomach grumbled.
After that I returned to What Rocks -- ”Stinky Fart Rocks,” I said to myself -- where my father’s lunch had been stolen, carted past the open door by a robber. Cracker crumbs were scattered across the living room floor, rnorsels for the ants to claim. And the squirrel rampaged on the roof, chattering and creating a racket -- his teeth, I imagined, smeared with peanut butter.
13
Dickens didn’t come for me the next day.
I ate saltines on the porch steps and waited, listening to the noisy cicadas, hoping that a quarry boom would suddenly erupt and silence them for a while. Then I played Shark Attack with Classique. She was a goldfish on my fingertip, swimming in front of me while I chomped at her.
"Don’t eat me! Don’t eat me!"
"Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-!”
And when I put her in my mouth she tasted worse than cough syrup. Some strands of her hair got under my tongue, and I had to spit them out. Then I kept spitting until I couldn’t taste her anymore.
"You’re gross,” I told her. "You’re dirty."
"You love Dickens," she said.
"No, I don’t! How do you know?"
"You love him because he’s a shark hunter. You want to kiss the cut on his head and hold hands.”
"And he has a submarine too.'’
"Except it’s fake.”
"But he’s going to be rich and buy a real one. He has more pennies than you. But I won’t show you if you don’t shut up that I love him, Classique, because I don’t really.”
Dickens was a flamingo. He walked funny. But he hunted the monster shark. And he was my friend.
"He’s a sissy."
"Sometimes he’s a captain too.”
In Lisa he roamed the South Pacific. Perhaps he appeared on TV -- that’s where I always saw boats and oceans and submarines and sharks. I might’ve seen him on PBS -- his submersible exploring the remains of the Titanic -- and didn't even know it was Dickens at the helm.
"He’s sailing under the seas."
"So he’s not coming."
"But maybe he will."
"Maybe he forgot where What Rocks is-"
"And he’s searching."
"Because we’re in danger.”
What Rocks was sinking fast; it’d just hit an iceberg. Soon I'd be swallowing saltwater. So would Classique. We had to stay afloat until Dickens rescued us. He was our only hope.
"Come on,” I said. "Don’t give up. We have to swim for dry land.”
"But I can’t swim."
"Dog paddle," I said. "Dog paddle like the wind!"
We drifted from the steps -- my arms parting the waves - and let the tide carry us away. Then we were underwater, gliding past the seaweed-sorghum. I held my breath for as long as possible. But it was hard. So I transformed into an octopus, my fingers fluttering like tentacles. Classique became a seahorse. And in the grazing pasture, we swam around the upturned Titanic, where minnow-hoppers darted in and out of the busted windows.