And there, below the mirror, the dead radio.
"That’s my gift.”
"No, that’s Dell’s,” he said, "that’s hers.”
I was too busy studying the shrine to argue.
Lining the mirror were black-and-white snapshots, family portraits, abstracted faces from the past -- a man and a woman reclining in a porch swing with babies on their knees, a boy hoisting a kite, a girl wearing a hula; those images mixed with pictures of John F. Kennedy and Chekov from Star Trek and Davy Jones from The Monkees and a life-like Jesus carrying his cross -- and my father in his heyday, his guitar slung behind a shoulder, a finger pointing at the camera.
In fact, my father was everywhere. Driving a convertible. Eating a hot dog. Signing autographs. Swigging beer in a white T-shirt. Playing pinball. And who was that with him? That girl with her arm around his leather jacket, or kissing his cheek, or mussing his hair. That girl, in every shot, with blond hair and thick lips. Her mouth to his mouth, her fingers in his jacket or under his T-shirt.
Even without sight Cut ’N Style knew.
It’s Dell, she thought. She was beautiful once, not fat or a pirate. She loved your daddy. She had two good eyes.
Then Dickens and I were all whispers.
"They were kissers,” I said.
"I think so,” he replied. "That was forever ago, I guess. But Dell is pretty. That was her boyfriend, that was her special friend. He took care of her for a long time."
"It’s my daddy."
"No, I’m not sure. No. Your daddy doesn’t look like that boy. I think I’d remember that.”
"But it’s him and that’s Dell -- and they kiss. They do it like we do it."
Just then I wanted to be kissed. I wanted his tongue wiggling in me. And I told him so.
"I do too,” he said.
My belly tingled.
He took a lipstick from the silver tray and led me to the pallet -- where we sat facing one another, our heads ducked so we couldn’t see Momma, so she wouldn’t see us if she miraculously awoke. And we put lipstick on each other, making our lips red and sloppy. Then we kissed, squishing tongues with closed eyes. His fingers found my panties, and he was tickling me down there. But I didn’t care -- because I was Dell and he was my father -- and we were married and our baby was coming. When we kissed I felt warm and safe, everything inside me crackled like a sparkler; that feeling would continue from now on, I was certain. It would never end.
But it did end, fizzling abruptly with, "Filthy filth! Evil!”
There was Dell, glowering at us with a menacing scowl, grasping her hooded helmet. Before either of us had a chance to start or speak, she nudged Dickens with a boot, pushing him away from me. And what happened next stifled my breath; she pounded the helmet with a fist, a muffled whapping, which sent Dickens scrambling backwards across the floor, against a wall.
"No, Dell, no, no-"
"Rotten! Rotten!"
She threw the helmet down -- and it spun from the hood, rolling like a tire on its brim toward Dickens, bumping the wall near his right knee, missing him. Then the helmet yo- yoed back across the floorboards, wheeling past Dell’s boots, colliding with a dressing table leg. But it might as well have wounded Dickens: he fell on his side, shielding his face, drawing himself into a ball. His chest heaved and a pitiful moan, punctuated with sobs, trembled out of him.
"Rotten!”
I covered my ears, gazing at Dell’s mesh hood -- which had dropped before me, had landed in a clump by the pallet -- but I still heard everything.
"Doing that here!" she was yelling at him. "Bringing nasty nastiness into our home!” She turned, her housedress sweeping above her boots, and crouched in front of me: "This is my home! My home, betrayer! Like father like daughter, I’d say. That's right, of course!”
And I was a spy, she said so. I always went where I wasn’t invited, bringing my little friends, my little spies.
‘'Watching in bushes, vile nasty child! You’ll starve, right? No more food for you, not a thing, nothing! ”
"I didn’t do anything!" I said, and began crying. "I didn’t do anything! ”
"Liar!”
"I didn’t-”
She grabbed my wrist and stared at Cut 'N Style, mocking me, saying, "I didn’t do anything, I didn’t do anything!”
"I didn’t-”
Messing where I don’t belong. Me and my friends.
"I’ve seen you do it, spying everywhere!”
On her land and in her home and being filthy with Dickens in Momma’s room.
"You're not welcome here, wicked one!”
Now I'd starve. I’d wither and die. No more me. That’s what she said.
"And no more of these--"
Then she shook my wrist, making Cut ’N Style wobble and fall from my finger.
"No more spies-”
She stood upright, crossing to the dressing table, where she opened a drawer and rifled about inside of it.
"Child, you’re not the only one who lurks-"
Then she returned to me with something planted on a mittened index finger, something sprouting red hair; it was, I was horrified to discover, Classique.
"This is a troublesome creature,” Dell told me, twitching Classique in front of my face so I could see her. "This is you-!"
"That’s mine," I sobbed.
"No,” Dell said, "I think not.”
My guts twisted, my stomach roared with pain, as if Classique had been ripped from me.
"She’s mine and I hate you!" I screamed. "I hate you, hate you-!”
I hate you!
And hearing my words., Dell’s ferociousness crumbled into a stunned silence; she was taken aback, and -- with Classique curling into a fist -- she lowered her hand.
"What an awful thing to say,” she said, sounding truly hurt. "What an awful, terrible thing to utter at someone."
With tears welling, snot dripping, I glared at her vexed, confused expression. just then Dickens’ heels banged the floorboards, his arms flailed. He wasn’t moaning anymore, and, when I looked, he was on his back, convulsing wildly; spit bubbled between his clenched teeth, and his face strained as spasms jolted his body, as he hissed saliva and gagged.
"Look what you’ve done," Dell said, rushing to him. "Look what you’ve done!”
She pried his mouth open, forcing two fingers into his throat -- Classique stuck on one of them, disappearing from sight again, lost in another hole. And I didn’t understand why she was doing that, why she blamed me and was choking him with my doll head. All I knew was that I had to escape or next she’d be using those fingers on me, slipping them past my lips. So I sprang forward, grabbing the hood.
Without this you’re dead, I thought. Without this bees will kill you good.
"Evil! Evil!”
And I was fast, much faster than Dell. I was a ghost, sailing around her outstretched arms, her clawing mittens.
"Monster child!"
I don’t remember running from the witch’s cave, or tearing along the footpath, passing the hole where Classique had fallen. I can’t recall Dell’s hood slipping from my hand, drifting to the ground behind me. Or scrambling across the tracks. Or locking the front door of What Rocks. Or crying as I told my father what happened.
But I did cry, weeping for what seemed hours, wetting my father’s quilt with tears. And finally exhausted, I shivered beside him -- the lipstick smeared across my chin, my stomach aching, my legs sore from running-hugging his rigid form, hoping he’d protect me from Dell.
"I didn’t do anything," I said, again and again. "I didn’t. Just kissed Dickens, that’s all. I didn’t do anything.”