The hinges squealed as I pushed the door open. And before going in, I made certain the squirrel wasn’t hanging above the doorway, ready to drop on my head. Then I extended my arm, entering with Classique leading the way.
"See there," she said. "Safe as houses."
Everything was as before -- the dirty clothes and Schnapps bottle, the backpack, the lamp on the night table, the throw rug on the floor.
"But I’m sure he’s here," I said, walking forward.
I had expected to find the squirrel waiting on the mattress, upright on his hind legs, teeth flared, paws punching in my direction.
"Don’t be so sure, dear."
We leaned, peeking under the box spring, spotting dust balls, a folded section of newspaper, the exoskeletons of several June bugs. Then we crawled across the mattress, where I examined the windowsill, searching for the other side of the knothole.
"Where does it come out?"
"Beats me," Classique said. "Maybe he’s magic. Maybe he isn’ t really a squirrel at all but a fairy.”
I pressed my nose against the wood paneling, sniffing like a bloodhound for any sign of the squirrel. A strong butternut smell filled my nostrils, almost producing a sneeze.
So I turned my head, easing an ear against the paneling, and listened.
"Not even as good as a pigeon," I said.
"Unless he’s magical. That’s what he was telling you, I think.”
"Maybe,” I said, catching a bustling patter within the inner wall. "Do you hear that?”
"I think so."
"He’s in the wall," I said, tapping an area left of the windowsill. "Classique, he’s right in here." And as I tapped harder, the stirring quit.
Then I heard chattering.
Then silence.
"What do we do now?”
"If you want my opinion,” Classique said, "I think you should get dressed. If you put clothes on, you won’t frighten the animals away.”
"You’re right,” I said, suddenly self-conscious.
"I know," she replied.
Returning to my bedroom, I put Classique with the other Barbie heads, then scooped my dress from the floor, saying, "I don’t believe in fairies. Only lightning bugs are like fairies anyway, not squirrels. Squirrel butts don’t glow, just lightning bug and fairy butts.”
Once the dress was on, I sat at the edge of the mattress, cradling the socks and sneakers in my lap. The socks stank, so did my feet.
"Frito feet,” I called them, inspecting the brown undersurface of my right foot. Then, before pulling on the sneakers, I whiffed the frayed insoles, recoiling from the sharp aroma.
"Gross,” I said, snorting a laugh. "Spaghetti cheese.”
And suddenly my stomach rumbled. The Peanut Butter Girl needs breakfast, I thought. Then I remembered my lip. I searched for the slit with my tongue, but couldn’t locate it. So dragging my shoelaces across the floor, I headed into the bathroom for a better look.
In the mirror above the sink, I turned my lip down.
"Stop pouting,” I told myself, trying to sound like my mother.
The cut had all but healed, so I crossed my eyes for a second, growling at my reflection: "You’re hopeless, Jeliza-Rose. What are you good for? You can’t even keep bleeding?"
Then I knelt to tie my sneakers. And while knotting the laces, I noticed a small hatch below the sink, fashioned from the same wood as the wall panels. It was kept shut by a night latch which had become speckled with rust.
In my imagination, the hatch was the door Alice unlocked in the rabbit-hole, opening to reveal a corridor that ended at a garden, where beds of bright flowers and cool fountains existed. And because the entry was bigger than what Alice had discovered, a DRINK ME potion wasn’t needed for shrinking.
"Classique,” I shouted, using both hands to pivot the bolt from its notch, "there’s a way in!” The other end of the knot- hole, I thought. Squirrel, you can’t hide from me.
As the hatch swung ajar, a humid draft rushed out, bringing the scent of sawdust into the bathroom. From where I crouched, it was impossible to tell what lay beyond the hatch, except a murky space illuminated by an insubstantial amount of natural light. There was no passageway to be seen, no garden, no squirrels drinking from fountains.
So I went and got Classique, who said, "Bring Magic Curl with us. She can help."
"Are we going in?" I asked, sticking Magic Curl on my pinky.
"I think so, dear. I don’t see why not.”
"I don’t want to go,” Magic Curl said. "This isn’t a good idea.”
"Shut up, you baby,” Classique snapped at her. "You’re not going in with us, you’re just keeping guard.”
"Why can’t Fashion Jeans or Cut ’N Style do it?"
"Believe me, I wish they could,” Classique said. "But both your eyeballs work good, so it’s your job, okay? And if you keep on complaining -- then me and Jeliza-Rose will cut off all your hair.”
"Please don’t," Magic Curl whimpered. "I’ll behave."
"You better," I said. "You’d better just watch it."
In the bathroom, I left Magic Curl in front of the hatch.
"Please be careful," she said.
"We will,” I replied.
"If we’re not back in an hour," Classique told Magic Curl, "then come after us because it means we’re being pulverized."
Then Classique and I crossed through the hatchway, where we soon found ourselves standing among the exposed fiberglass insulation of the farmhouse attic.
"It’s a little cave,” I said, blinking while my sight adjusted.
With daylight slanting in from a side vent, the attic was less dim than it had seemed.
Plumbing curved out of the wall behind us.
Electrical wiring, red and black and yellow, ran overhead.
Before us sat three cardboard boxes and a large trunk.
"Those boxes,” Classique said, "let’s take a look.”
"I don't know.”
"Are you scared again?”
"I don’t know.”
"Don’t be. What’s so spooky about a box?”
"It’s the treasure chest that’s spooky."
"But I bet there’s only slippers and maybe gold in it.”
"Or a killed thing,” I said, thrusting Classique ahead as we ducked spiderwebs and a length of insulation that drooped from the sloped ceiling.
"It’s Grandmother’s stuff,” said Classique.
"Yeah," I said, brushing a fine layer of dust off the cardboard tops.
All three boxes had been written on with a marker, each with a different word (LPs. PICTURE BOOKS. CHRISTMAS). In the first box were old 78s, haphazardly packed, the plain wrappers just a bit more brittle than the records. The second box contained six photo albums, but we didn’t recognize any of the faces in the black-and-white shots -- children riding a scooter and a tricycle and a horse, men and women at a picnic in a field, a fishing trip, a wedding, an oblong brick home surrounded by other oblong brick homes.
"Strangers,” Classique said. "Nobodies.”
The third box offered broken Christmas ornaments, shatered in shards of green, silver, and red, with the hook attachments still intact.
"Worthless junk."
"Totally worthless. We need gold -- and slippers. Gold slippers are good too."
The chest reeked of mothballs. Inside were three blond wigs, all tangled in a clump, which frightened me.
"It’s a head.” I said, stepping backwards.
"No,” said Classique. "See, there’s clothes."
I looked again, realizing the wigs belonged to a larger design: two long fluffy boas stretched alongside a baggy chemise. And there were hats. A bonnet, a pillbox, and a torn cloche. Deeper in the chest, sandwiched between the wrap-arounds and embroidered quilts, was a large mason jar containing a black cosmetic bag -- as if the items within the bag were meant to be preserved forever, sealed away from the heat and dusty air of the attic.