"He’s my uncle," Blue Jeans began, "I swear it," and his voice wavered. .
"Mine too,” Black Jeans said.
"Mine too, mine too!” Dell mocked. "I swear it, I swear it!"
"We’re visiting, honestly," Blue Jeans explained. "We didn’t know we was trespassing.”
"There wasn’t no sign or a fence or anything,” said Black Jeans.
Dell continued jabbing the shotgun at them.
"Of course, right, and this shortcut is your shortcut? This is where you go? I think not. I own this land. It’s mine. All of it. And those are mine!”
She was pushing the mouth of the sleek barrel at Black Jeans, shoving it at the rabbits hanging on his belt.
"Those there, mine! Understand? They belong to me!”
Black Jeans’ voice seemed about to crack. "We’re sorry,” he murmured. "We didn’t know.”
Dell sneered.
"Yes, I should say so,” she said. "The pair of you are sorry. I’ve seen everything, right? I’ve been watching you, filthy, filthy. Peeing on my land, blowing your noses on your shirts. Hunting here!”
And afterwards -- when everything was finished -- I spoke into the hole, hoping Classique could hear me, telling her that the boys were lucky Dell didn’t murder them.
"You cross my path again," she’d said, "you’ll regret it for certain. I’m worse than death.”
That’s what I told Classique: "They got lucky -- Dell’s meaner than death.”
I lay on my stomach beside the hole -- hands folded under my chin, the boa sandwiched in my palrns -- and related the entire episode. I mentioned that Dell had the boys unload their rifles, that she took their bullets and_their rabbits. And the boys were shaking and nervous the whole time. But Dell didn’t suck them. She just warned them with her froggy voice.
"You cross my path again-"
Then she let them go; they rushed from the footpath, bounding through the woods like deer, boots crackling on twigs, vanishing.
"And I’m probably invisible,” I said. "Dell didn’t see me, Classique, ‘cause I’m almost a ghost. I really think I am, don’t you?”
I stared into the hole, waiting for an answer that never came.
So I closed my eyes and sent psychic messages: You there? Can you hear me? Am I loud and clear?
Nothing except static, a far-off hiss.
I needed the radio. I could use the dial to find Classique, to tune her in. Then maybe I could remember my song. And she'd enjoy hearing me sing, a special broadcast just for her. She’d stay awake and listen. And she wouldn’t feel so lonely - my song would keep her warm in the hole.
15
Dickens came for me with a pocketful of bullets, and I thought he was the squirrel at first. I was upstairs and heard him stomping around below. And because I’d opened the front door that afternoon -- letting in fresh air, clearing out some of my father’s stink -- I was sure it was the squirrel in the living room, rummaging about, searching for crackers and peanut butter.
But when going downstairs to investigate, I found Dickens -- shirtless, in jeans and flip-flops -- standing in front of my father, gazing with the blue goggles on.
"Hi," I said, stepping up behind the leather chair.
He glanced at me, flinching. And I expected him to start hugging himself. But he didn”t.
"I’m sorry,” he began. "I better go -- I didn’t knock and that’s rude -- and it’s getting late already -- so I’ll go, okay?"
His fists tightened. He seemed like the squirrel, jittery and ready to dash for the door.
"You don’t have to go,” I told him.
"Oh," he said, nodding, "that’s good -- ’cause I was thinking you should play with me today, okay?”
"Okay,” I said.
And just then I wanted to ask if he’d rescue Classique. I was about to say that his skinny arms could stretch deep inside any hole in the world. But before I had the chance, he said, "Your daddy sleeps a lot. My momma does too. That’s all she ever does these days."
I tried imagining Dickens' mom, but Dell filled my mind instead; she was sleeping somewhere in that dim house, or sitting still in a chair, the hood and helmet resting on her lap.
Where was his mother?
"Is she a ghost?"
He shook his head.
"Not anymore, not really -- she’s just a dozer. She’s isn’t as pretty as your daddy. Her hair isn’t nice like his is.”
"It’s only fake,” I said. "Look-”
I reached over the chair and tugged on the bonnet and blond wig, lifting them a bit.
"That’s funny,” he said, flatly. "You fooled me ‘cause I didn’t know.”
"Not supposed to be funny," I replied, straightening the wig, smoothing the coils. "It was Classique’s idea anyway, it wasn’t my idea. And now she’s in the hole and I can’t get her.”
Dickens pinched his nostrils, fanned the air with a hand.
"He’s spoiled,” he said, his voice sounding nasally. "He must’ve been sleeping forever."
"He’s cuttin’ muffins is all."
"Oh. I guess that’s what it is, I guess. Whatever it is-"
Then he dug in a pocket, removing six bullets. He held them in his palm for me to see.
"I can feed the shark these," he said. "If you want, you can help me too. We can’t catch the shark with these but we can lure it. "
He let me hold one; -- gold-colored, rounded at the tip, longer than my fingers. I rubbed the bottom of the shell, remembering how Dell made the hunters unload their rifles. I figured she’d given the bullets to Dickens -- or maybe he stole them when she wasn’t looking.
"All right,” I said, "I'll help you, but you have to help me later. You have to rescue my friend.”
"I don’t know,” he said. "I probably can’t do it."
"It won’t be hard, I promise. She’s in trouble. She’ll get l hurt bad if you can’t save her.”
"Maybe she’s hurt already."
"Or she’s dying. She’s farther than the ocean, I think.”
"Uh-oh,” he said. "That’s farther than the moon."
"And you’re better than a stick or a rake -- you’re the captain!”
"Yeah, I am. I’ve got my own submarine."
"I know."
"Her name is Lisa."
"I know. Will you help me?"
"Can we feed the shark? I’d like to do that. I’d like to play with you too."
"Then you’ll rescue my friend."
Dickens shrugged.
"If you’ll show me what to do," he said, "in case I don’t understand everything about it. "
"Yes."
He popped his knuckles and sucked his lip and tilted his head and sighed.
"Okay,” he finally said, moving toward me. "Okay,” putting his slender hand in my hand.
And off we went -- through the front door, along the porch -- escaping the flatulence of What Rocks. Across the yard. Into the sorghum. Swishing among the grass. Climbing to the tracks. Moving into the tideland, going underwater. Dickens couldn’t have known this -- I was an octopus, he was swimming like a dolphin. If I told him, he might’ve panicked. Then he’d drown for certain and Classique would never be saved. So I didn’t mention that we were beneath the sea, or that there were men miles above us fishing.
Dickens said, "You get three."
Three bullets, clanking in my palm.
We crouched on the tracks, downwind from Lisa and the flattened pennies.
"Put them here this way-”
He carefully set each of his bullets on the rail, crosswise, spacing them apart by a foot or so. Then he watched as I did the same on the opposite rail.
"What’ll happen?” I asked.
Dickens puffed his cheeks. He made an erupting noise and clapped his hands together.