My father told Patrick to turn on Saturn Road, and soon the pickup was bouncing across a winding dirt road. "How f-f-far?"
"A mile or so, maybe two. First gate you come to is good enough. That’s pretty much it.”
The microwave tower was now in the rearview.
To the left, dense groupings of cedar.
To the right, a clear meadow under a canopy of low-lying clouds.
Then we passed empty sidelots parceled by barbwire fences, each with a real estate marker advertising new concepts in family living, reasonable financing available. The wild grass had been grazed or chopped down, but was still thick enough for snakes and armadillos to hide in.
"Tons of d-d-deer out here,” Patrick mentioned. "Rain has g-g-g-given them e-e-e-nough to eat.”
The pickup flew past longhorns sunning themselves beneath a windmill.
"An hour or two before the sun’s gone,” my father uttered, turning to stare as we zoomed by.
When Patrick pulled off at a long frame gate, he asked, "This it?”
"Yep,” my father replied. "Awfully kind of you."
"No p-p-problem.”
We climbed from the truck and began organizing ourselves. With his backpack hanging off a shoulder, my father clutched the grocery sack against his chest. I was slightly lop-sided, gripping a gallon jug in one hand, my suitcase in the other. Chalky road dust, stirred up behind Patrick’s Nissan, caught us and then billowed on.
Patrick mentioned that once a week he did a delivery run near What Rocks -- to let him know if we needed anything - and, leaning across the cab to close the passenger door, he said, "H-h-have a nice one.”
My father gave him a nod, and I smiled but he didn’t seem to notice. He was already shutting the door. Then he had the pickup bumping around in the opposite direction, sending more sandy dust to the air, and sped away.
The purr of cicadas rattled among the mesquite and cedar trees. From the road, What Rocks wasn’t visible, only the thick Johnsongrass which grew wild on the property. "Go on," my father said, planting a boot against the bottom cord of barbwire alongside the frame gate. He pressed the cord to the ground, creating a wide gap.
So I crossed under the range fence, and he followed, grunting with exasperation as he bent. Then the two of us walked to the washed-out driveway, each occupying a gravelly rut.
"Weeds get the better of everything,” he said, mumbling to himself.
He glanced at me, elaborating, "When there’s no cattle on the land, the weeds grow greedy,”
About a half-mile in, where the driveway forked between two cedars, the farmhouse came into view.
"Wow," I said, trudging toward my father, who had stopped near one of the trees, "is that What Rocks?"
"That’s her," he said, wiping his brow with the heel of his palm. His backpack was at his feet, the grocery sack crumpled and torn beside it.
I set my suitcase and the jug on the ground, keeping my eyes on the old place.
A flagless flagpole stood in close proximity to the wrap- around porch. There was a copper-colored weather vain on the lean-to, but shaped as a grasshopper instead of a rooster. And while it appeared no different than most two-story farmhouses in Texas -- pitched roof and an open plan -- its weathered planks, gray and stark and splintering, gave it a decidedly forlorn facade. Even before stepping through the doorway, I sensed the layers of grime, frayed spiderwebs, crumbs,and mice droppings that were eventually found within.
"Home at last,” my father said, sounding somewhat relieved. He hoisted his pack, unzipped the top, and rifled inside, producing a shoelace with a key tied at the end.
And in less than three minutes, I was already upstairs in What Rocks, staring from my bedroom window at the upturned school bus, while my father was downstairs tacking up the map of Denmark.
Night arrived.
I had been to the bus and returned. Now I was upstairs again, having left my father in the living room. On the edge of the single mattress, where a faded brown stain filled the middle, my suitcase sat open. Carefully, I removed what few items I’d managed to pack-my mother’s satin nightgown, and an armful of Barbie doll parts (four heads, two arms, onetorso, six legs, each dismembered piece unearthed in a thrift shop bin). Aside from the contents of the suitcase, another thrift shop purchase, my dress, panties, socks, and sneakers were all I had.
Biting my sore bottom lip, I took a moment ordering my possessions. The nightgown, which had been folded haphazardly, was given rest on the mattress pillow, a regal flourish in my imagination. The doll parts were then arranged in a line beside the pillow: heads first, then arms, then legs, then torso.
Finally, I zipped the suitcase, noticing with some sadness that its neon-colored flower stickers were coming unstuck, and shoved it underneath the bed anyway. And while crouching, a tiny drop of blood spattered on the floorboard. So I drooled into a palm, watching as a red string of saliva formed in my cupped hand.
"I’m dying,” I said in mock-horror, affecting the voice of a soap opera actress. "I can’t go on, I must go on."
I went to look in the bathroom mirror. Puffing my bottom lip, I spotted the sliver of split flesh oozing blood, but was disappointed it wasn’t any worse. So I spat at the sink, hoping my spit would suddenly turn crimson and profuse. It didn’t. In fact, it seemed mostly clear.
"You will survive,” my reflection told me, aping a TV doctor. "A complete recovery is expected."
"Thank you, thank you," I replied. "Now there’s hope."
Then I twisted the sink knobs, praying a little water might spurt out so I could brush my teeth. But nothing happened. It didn’t matter anyway, I reasoned, because I’d forgotten a toothbrush and toothpaste. And when I brought a finger to my clenched teeth, sliding it back and forth like I was brush- ing, more blood bubbled from my lip.
My reflection grinned, showing me how the blood had discolored the crowns.
"You’re red all over," I said, noting my orangish hair and freckles, the hyacinths on my dress.
"Simply ghastly,” my reflection exclaimed in an English accent, just then catching music playing faintly in my father's bedroom. "A ghastly noise, Jeliza-Rose."
"Yes, we must put an end to it,” I replied, turning from the mirror.
Then I crossed to the other bathroom door, which opened into the adjoining sleeping quarters.
When I entered, the hinges creaked like in some monster film, so I stood near the doorway for a bit, sucking my bottom lip and taking everything in the backpack on the bed, the lamp glowing on the night table, the ratty throw rug on the floor. My father’s room was almost identical to mine, except he had a double mattress with a larger stain. On the windowsill above the headboard, a hand-held radio transmitted music -- girl, you really got me going, you got me so I don’t know what I'm doing -- and I remembered how my father kept the radio pressed against an ear as the Greyhound journeyed through the desert, listening with his eyes shut, sometimes sleeping for hours while music or news or static droned.
"You really got me, you really got me,” I sang, going to the mattress.
The contents of his backpack were in a small pile on the bed, unwashed clothes topped by a depleted Peach Schnapps bottle. The sandwich bag once containing the mixed pills had been emptied, and was now stuck over the bottle neck like a makeshift prophylactic. And I pictured my father swallowing and swallowing and swallowing, then exhaling relief as he waited for the hallucinations and thought disturbances to begin. "Thought disturbances-” that was what he called them, "sweeping clean the little messes in my brain.”
I climbed across the mattress toward the windowsill. Parting the curtains, I saw the strobe flutter from the distant microwave tower.