"It sank to the bottom of the sea," I told Classique, gazing into the murky interior of the wreck.
"No one survived," she said. "It’s spooky."
"Let’s go.”
We floated over the rise to see if Dell was in her meadow. But she wasn’t. So we swam off -- eventually surfacing by the tracks, panting for air near Dickens’ wigwam. We’d almost drowned.
"The monster shark could be anywhere," I told Classique, stooping. "We better be on the lookout.”
The squashed pennies stretched along the rail like misshapen drops from a candle. And I tried peeling one up, but it wouldn’t budge. The shark had crushed it good and proper.
"It’s dangerous here. We’re safer in the submarine,"
I imagined the shark racing forward, teeth snapping as it sailed after us. ·
"Shark attack!” I yelled.
And Classique and I scrambled across the tracks, down the embankment, and into Lisa. But Dickens wasn’t waiting inside. He wasn’t at the helm, goggles in place, searching the ocean floor for What Rocks and me. And the wigwam didn’t seem any more like a submarine than it had the day before.
"Shark attack”
Lisa was falling to pieces, and Classique hated her. She thought the wigwam smelled worse than What Rocks. With all the junk and the dirt, she thought Lisa was more of a wreck than the bus; part of the shotgun roof had caved in overnight, several long mesquite branches lay crosswise on the crunched bicycle, other branches covered the shredded tires, others stood vertical -- stabbing the ground and jutting out the gap in the roof. The collapse sliced the wigwam in half, making the already confined interior more cramped.
Lisa’s been sunk, I thought. Dickens can’t swim. He isn’t even an octopus or a seahorse.
"The pirate did it,” Classique said. "She boarded the submarine and took him prisoner. The captain will walk the plank for sure. She’ll drown him because she’s a pig. She left you in the field. She’s trouble.”
And Dell came to mind -- pound cake in one hand, her lips wet with apple juice, her dark lens glinting in the afternoon sunlight. She was out there somewhere, waving a sword above her head -- "Aye! Aye!" -- or pressing the tip of the sword against Dickens’ spine as his flip-flops clomped toward the end of a plank.
"Save him! Save the captain-"
"--or he’s shark food!"
But we didn’t have to save Dickens after all. He was fine, mumbling to himself and smiling, raking the front yard of his and Dell’s home. And he wasn’t in flip-flops or a swimming suit. The goggles weren’t on his forehead. He had on a red baseball cap and a T-shirt. He wore jeans and cowboy boots. He looked like a farmer.
"He’s not a captain or a prisoner-”
"-or anything.”
Classique and I were cloistered among mesquites, spying behind a juniper bush, watching as Dickens went in circles. He kept going around and around, raking his bootprints, mumbling and smiling, mumbling and smiling. He couldn’t get it right. Soon as a patch was raked, he’d turn and step backwards into it. His bootprints were everywhere.
And Dell was there too, wearing her hood and mittens, picking tomatoes and squash in her garden, setting the vegetables into a plastic bag, tossing some aside. And she was whistling to herself. But every now and then she’d pause, telling Dickens, "No, no, see -- you’ve forgotten a spot, of course. Pay attention."
She’d point, jabbing a finger.
"Not there -- there."
And Dickens would scan the dirt, searching for what he’d missed. He’d step backwards, creating new bootprints.
"Right there. Yes, right there.”
Then he’d rake nervously at the bootprints before him, mumbling and smiling, mumbling and smiling.
"No, no, see -- now there’s more. You’re messing it all up as you go. Pay attention, right?"
It could’ve continued for hours -- Dell pointing, Dickens raking and making fresh bootprints -- except Patrick the Bagger Boy arrived in his Nissan. The horn honked twice as the pickup truck came bouncing over the bumpy driveway, sunlight reflecting off the windshield.
The honks startled Dickens; he let the rake fall. Then, biting his bottom lip, he glanced at Dell and hugged himself.
"Uh-oh,” he said.
She stood upright on the gravel walkway and told him, "Go in. Stay in your room until l call you out.”
"Okay, Dell, okay.”
Off he went, running like crazy, still hugging himself. His boots pounded the ground, leaving more prints in the dirt. He jumped onto the porch, and, once inside the house, he slammed the front door.
"They’ll stay far.”
Dell drew a ring in the air. Then she clapped her hands. Then she removed the hood and helmet, placing them on the walkway, and spit into the yard.
"They’ll mess elsewhere.”
The Nissan had already pulled in alongside the house -- the driver’s door standing wide open. And Patrick, straining, was busy lifting two heavy paper sacks from the bed. Then he cradled them, one in each arm, and walked around to the yard, where Dell was wiping her mittens across her apron.
"After-noon, M-m-m-iss Munro,” Patrick said.
"Hello, Patrick,” Dell said. "ls it afternoon? My how the day flies, you know."
She was grinning. Her voice had a friendly tone. She seemed like someone else, someone younger.
"Yes, m-m-m-am, sure does!”
Dell aimed a finger at the porch.
"You can put your load there, by the door. I can bring the sacks in myself. You remembered Land O Lakes -- sweet and unsalted, yes? And the buffalo jerky?”
He nodded. He was grinning too.
"Of course, you remembered, yes, yes.”
She watched as he set the sacks on the porch, lightly touching her hair, the yellow bun.
"l appreciate all you do for me, Patrick. You’re such a , kind young man.”
Then he was going to her on the walkway, smirking from one side of his mouth. She reached for his hand, took it, and held it against her chest.
He stammered, "I-I-I-I-”
"I know,” she said, "you already paid for everything?
He nodded.
"Right, yes, of course. Thank you, thank you."
"W-w-w-will you?" he asked.
"Yes, Patrick, I will. But not here, not in the yard, not by the tomatoes.”
What happened next I didn’t understand. Neither did Classique. It didn’t make any sense.
Dell led Patrick to the side of the house, where she had him stretch out on the ground. Then she knelt down beside him. He rested a hand on her yellow bun as she unzipped his pants. And his eyes shut, his lips parted. She found his boy-thingy and held it -- ugly thingy, swollen and purple. And she kissed it, put it in her mouth for a bit. He was moving her head with his hand -- back and forth, back and forth -- gripping her bun. It was like Dell was eating something big, her cheeks were puffed. She was hungry.
Back and forth.
Patrick was breathing hard, moaning a little bit.
She’s hurting him, I thought. She’s sucking his blood.
Then Dell suddenly quit. She stood and straddled him, lifting her dress, bunching the hem in her mittens. And she squatted, pretending she was a rider and Patrick was a horse. She moved her hips around, but didn’t say anything. She wasn’t laughing or smiling, just riding along quietly. But Patrick’s fingers were scratching at the dirt. His sneakers twisted, and his lips trembled like he wanted to yell, like he just couldn’t get the words out-”H-h-h-h-h-help!" But he never screamed, only groaned and thrust upward some. His face was flushed as he uttered, "Oh, sh-sh-shit, oh-!”