And there was Dickens, in a corner, his backside to me, unloading a duffel bag, removing paper towels and rubber gloves.
"It’s a zoo room,” I said.
Upon hearing my voice, his body rigored and he shrieked -- dropping the paper towels and gloves, turning sharply with a hand clamped to his mouth; the shrill continued, passing his fingers, filling the shed. So terrifying and startling was his scream that I began yelling too. And for a moment the two of us faced one another, bellowing as if we were being murdered, until the air escaped our lungs.
Then he slumped down on the duffel bag, breathless and hugging himself. My hands trembled. Cut ’N Style quivered on my finger. Outside the squirrel was chattering in the hutch, no doubt aroused by our screams.
"Not fair,” Dickens was saying, "not fair."
"You scared me good," I said.
"No, you did that to me, you did. That’s not fair.”
He was rocking, staring at his boots, mumbling something.
"But it was an accident,” I told him. "I just saw this zoo and I was coming to tell you the news but the zoo made me forget everything and I was wondering if they’re dead - they’re froze and napping, I guess. I guess that’s why we got scared because they’re pretty spooky like that."
Dickens head came up, his eyes glaring, as he exclaimed, "That’s not right ‘cause Dell makes them alive again. That’s what she does. And people are so happy they bring old dead dogs and old dead kitties and she’s Jesus how she makes them alive. And she does those-" He thrust out a hand, pointing at the lamps and foot stools and thermometers on the table. "And that’s what she sells in town when she goes to town. She’s an artist -- she says so -- and a healer.” He nodded at the shelved animals. "And they’re not spooky, they’re friends -- and you scared me and that’s not fair. I think I fainted.”
"I’m sorry," I said, crossing to where he sat.
"Don’t do that again or I’ll die, okay?”
''Okay.”
I hugged him, wrapping my arms about his shoulders, patting his neck with Cut ’N Style.
"I think I’rn sorry too,” he said. "I think so.”
Tell him, Cut ’N Style thought. Tell him.
And with my lips near his ear, I mentioned the baby. I said that he was my husband now, and that Classique would appear soon; she’d be our Barbie baby.
"We can build a castle, and Dell can marry my daddy. But you have to show me your dynamite first.”
He went rigid.
"I don’t know. That baby sounds like a strange thing -- and I can’t build a castle. I don’t know how, I don’t know.”
So I whispered, "If you show me your secret, I’ll love you forever."
He leaned his head against mine. Our cheeks brushed.
"I’ll show you," he said. "Just once only. Except not yet ‘cause I need to unpack this bag before Dell gets in. Then I’ll show you my room in Momma’s house, okay? But if I can’t unpack this bag I won’t eat tonight. So you wait, okay? But don’t touch nothing. You’re not supposed to be in here. This place is Dell’s place.”
"All right,” I said, withdrawing myself, "I’ll wait for my cutie. You’re my kisser."
Then I watched him slowly rise, turn, and bend over the bag. His movements were sluggish and clumsy, his awkwardness suggesting a lack of coordination, his boot heels veering outward from the tips. And after a while I got bored and snuck outside, creeping below Dell’s creatures on my way, mindful of the rattlesnake poised to strike.
Going from the shed, the sunlight blinded me; I squinted before the hutches, putting a hand above my eyes.
I'm a prisoner.
The squirrel was chattering. He paced nervously, regarding me with surreptitious looks.
"Dell will freeze you alive,” I said. "You could eat a bat or a fish.”
But she’ll have to kill me -- then she' ll freeze me alive. I'm not old dead dogs and old dead kitties. I'm a hungry squirrel.
"We’ll help you,” Cut ’N Style said.
His hutch had a little gate which was kept closed by a hook latch.
"You do it,” I told her. "I don’t want to get in trouble.”
But Cut ’N Style wasn’t worried. She flicked the hook without thinking twice.
"You’re free.”
I might have opened the little gate for him and pointed above the weeds and foxtails to the mesquites. It was there, among the trees, that he could flee. I wanted to help him more, but I didn’t. Unlatching the gate was enough.
Then I peeked into the shed, making certain Dickens hadn’t seen what we’d done. But -- with his butt aimed toward the doorway, his hands digging inside the duffel bag -- I knew he was unaware. And glancing at the hutch, I saw that the gate now hung open; the prisoner had already slipped away. He was quick, that squirrel. He understood what to do, where to go, how to hide. He wouldn’t be tricked or trapped again - and, as the sun warmed my shoulders and arms, I was glad.
21
That day, Dickens and I became ghosts.
As we tiptoed up the back steps, he said, "Can’t wake Momma so we can’t talk like this ‘less it’s in my room." His voice dropped to a whisper, "We talk like this first.”
"We’re quiet ghosts,” I said. "Your house is the witch’s cave, and we’re disappearing and we won’t get caught.”
He grinned.
"Yes, I think that’s right. I think that’s a good idea. ‘Cause Dell will wallop me for having company."
Then we entered the cave-house -- coming into the kitchen, not saying a word, holding hands, the sunlight vanishing with the push and turn of a knob. I felt nearly as blind as Cut ’N Style, but Dickens led the way, tugging gently at my arm. And we floated through darkness, two ghosts, inhaling the familiar mixture of varnish and Lysol, gliding over slippery floorboards, proceeding down a hallway lit only by a cat- shaped night-light.
What’s it like? Cut ’N Style wondered.
Halloween, I thought. Black enough for bog men, black enough to fool bees that it’s bedtime.
Each door we passed was shut -- except one, beyond which I glimpsed the shadowy outline of a mounted game head, an elk perhaps, hanging above a sofa, its massive antlers like branches, bifurcating upward and almost touching the ceiling.
Dickens pulled me further along, around a corner, away from the night-light. Another hallway? A doorway?
What’s it like now?
Don’t know. Can’t tell.
He let go of my hand. And suddenly I heard a click and an overhead lightbulb flickered on -- so bright, so unexpected, stunning my sight for a moment.
"My room," he announced, closing the door.
His room -- cramped, untidy, befitting a pack rat. Stacked along a wall were National Geographic magazines, hundreds of them, in five or six precarious piles. The floor was a clutter of T-shirts and socks, underwear and jeans, his flip-flops and swimming suit, Coke cans and plates with dried food, spoons and forks -- more National Geographics, the pages spread, a chance collage of deserts, starry skies, constellations, killer whales, ocean sunsets and schooners and coral reefs.