"Are you on vacation?"
Instead of waiting for an answer, I grabbed the silent radio from his lap, bringing it to my ear. I turned the volume dial back and forth, moved the station meter from one end to the other and back. Nothing worked. So I returned it to him with a sigh.
"Because if you’re not,” I said, "then it’s not funny then."
I wanted to rage around the living room, pounding the floorboards in frustration. But the urge to pee was so bad that my insides hurt.
"Won’t talk to you too,” I told him. "It’s not nice, you know. You won’t like it too.”
Then I left indignantly, pausing only to struggle from the gown, and hurried naked out the front door.
Beyond the porch, a clear sky stretched above the Johnsongrass. And while maneuvering past corroded nail caps that jutted from the planks, I squinted in the sunlight, which landed hot on my legs and stomach. Going down into the yard, I squatted beside the bottom porch step, and began urinating in the weeds. The piss came in a gush, spattering my ankles. Eventually, a small puddle formed underneath me, and I had to move my feet further out so they wouldn’t get wet.
When the pee dwindled, I glanced up with intense relief - and to my astonishment, a doe stood no more than twenty feet from where I hunched. She had wandered from the Johnsongrass with her long neck crooked, grazing at the nettles on the ground. At first I was so startled by the sight of her that I couldn’t think what to do. But finally I took a deep breath, pushed upright, and said, "Hi, are you hungry?"
Her head shot up, ears twitching, and her big eyes fixed on me. Keeping my gaze locked on her, I stooped and yanked at the stems of several weeds, all having been wetted by my urine. Then I went forward, carefully putting one foot in front of the other, offering the uprooted weeds in an open palm. But as I approached, she bolted. That’s when I spotted her left hind leg dangling at the joint, as if the bone had somehow been snapped at the femur.
"Don’t go!” I yelled, watching as she sprang into the Johnsongrass, the bad leg straggling, and disappeared on the cattle trail. "Come back! " I shut my palm, crushing the weeds, then threw them at the ground. "Stupid, I got you food!”
I considered bounding after her. If she knew how fast I can run, I thought, she’d be my friend. Then I could feed her and pet her and bring her into the farmhouse so she could sleep. I imagined hugging her in the kitchen, where she’d heal with the gown tied on her leg like a silky bandage. But when I heard the scampering, jabbering racket coming from behind, the idea of pursuit faded.
As I spun around, the noise stopped abruptly. Putting my hands above my brow, I scanned the porch. But nothing unusual presented itself. So I tilted my chin back, looked at the awning of roof that hung over the porch, and found myself eye-to-eye with a gray squirrel; he was frozen in place with a bushy tail curling near his head, studying this naked child in the yard below: "I see you," I said, grinning. "I know you’re there. You can’t hide.”
With his tail darting, the squirrel chattered at me briefly, an incomprehensible and irritated sound. On the edge of the awning, he made skirting movements left and right, freezing each time to give me an askance stare, then ran nimbly across the roof, scurrying to the east end of What Rocks. I followed in the yard, scratching my thighs on the overgrown buckthorn that had sprouted from under the porch.
"What were you saying?” I asked.
Reminding me of Spiderman, the squirrel sprinted along the exterior wall, traversing the wooden siding with tentative stops and starts. He halted beside the upstairs window of my father’s room, where a wide knothole existed. And even though the hole appeared too narrow, the squirrel squeezed halfway in, chattered some more with his rear section and tail sticking out, then slipped through with no effort.
"You better wait," I said, hoping he might hear me and return. "I didn’t understand you.”
Because the knothole was by the window, I pictured the squirrel exploring my father’s room, rummaging in the backpack on the mattress, sniffing at the empty Schnapps bottle. And I recalled a documentary my father and I once saw on PBS, which showed how clever squirrels could be -- hanging upside down from branches and stealing bird-feeder seeds, sailing between trees in order to avoid elaborate lawn traps set by angry homeowners.
"Pigeons without wings,” was what my father called them.
Sometimes the two of us took long walks alongside the L.A. River. When we reached Webster Park, he delighted in chasing pigeons from our path, kicking at them with his boots. But if my father hated pigeons, he hated squirrels even more.
"They’re like rats," he explained. "They’ll chew on any- thing, practically eat metal. Not worth shit. At least you know where you stand with a rat."
"I don’t think I like rats," I told him.
"Well, I don’t like squirrels,” he said.
As a boy, a squirrel he’d captured in a milk crate bit him.
"Broke the skin on my thumb so bad I could’ve bled to death. Me and my cousin beat it dead with a bat, but not before it tried climbing my pants leg, all crazy and mad. I swear that sucker meant to do me harm. Then for months afterwards I kept getting these really horrible dreams -- squirrels all over my bedroom, in my bed, gone totally nuts, tangling themselves in my hair, sinking those big yellow teeth deep in my scalp, tearing at everything. It was awful."
And on those afternoon walks, my father often picked a nice-sized rock from the ground. Then we’d leave the path and go behind a bush, huddling in anticipation. Soon as a squirrel wandered into view, he’d leap forward, pitching the rock like a baseball player. Usually he missed, but on at least three occasions a squirrel was struck, sending it rolling over in the grass.
"Gotcha," he said, almost laughing as the stunned rodent struggled to its feet. "Look at the poor dumb thing!"
Standing directly beneath the upstairs window, I knew my father would hate the idea of a squirrel lurking somewhere in the farmhouse.
"You’ll get in trouble,” I shouted at the knothole, "so you shouldn’t be in there!” It became apparent that the squirrel wasn’t listening, so I rushed onto the porch, once again minding the nail caps, and went inside.
While passing the living room, I said to my father, "I’m not telling you a secret because you won’t like it. "
Then I skipped to the stairs, thinking that if the squirrel was hiding in What Rocks, I’d need some serious help. In my bedroom, I wondered which Barbie head would join me. Contemplating each piece on the mattress, the decision was easy. Magic Curl Barbie head, with her thick blond hair, lacked guts. Both Fashion Jeans Barbie head and Cut ’N Style Barbie head were damaged -- someone had stabbed a hole in Fashion Jeans’ right eye, Cut ’N Style’s forehead and eyes had been colored black with a pen. My choice was Classique Benefit Ball Barbie head, my favorite, and the only one to have real rooted eyelashes.
Planting Classique’s head on my index finger, I said, "Are you ready?”
"Of course," she replied, "I was born ready."
"Good, because this could get pretty dangerous.”
"How wonderful.”
Creeping into the bathroom, we hesitated by the door to my father’s room. "I’m scared,” I whispered. "What if he tries to bite me?”
"Nonsense. You’re a big girl. A squirrel is only a squirrel."
"I know,” I said, turning the knob. "But you go first."