So Special in Dayville Page 17

  What happened next is a bit fuzzy. All Crystal remembers is the endless upside-down swinging back and forth, what free strands of her dress that remained slapping her repeatedly, painfully, in the face.

  Shame still burns her cheeks, remembering the scouts’ snickers at her polka-dotted panties. Or of how their boyish appreciation rose to deafening heights when her boobs popped from the Donna Summer bodice like groundhogs in February.

  The result of her second foray into oblivion meant that the scouts received yet another badge, while Crystal was court-ordered to a thirty-day stay at Dayville’s Mental Health Facility.

  “Why,” asked the therapist on day fourteen, “do you think your attempts have been unsuccessful? Could you be ambivalent? Maybe you don’t really want to kill yourself.”

  “Oh, but I do,” protested Crystal. “It’s the only way they’ll forgive me.”

  Dr. Hubble, the therapist, wandered to the large window overlooking the concrete recreation yard. The sanitarium was housed in a space formerly devoted to producing colostomy bags. “I see. And what do they need to forgive you for?”

  “I’m sorry, Doctor,” complained the girl, “but I’ve told you all this before.”

  He flashed a brilliant smile. “So you have. But in desensitizing therapy, we cover the same ground over and over again. It makes the memory less painful.”

  “Okay,” she conceded with little enthusiasm. Slowly, meticulously, she recounted again that morning at the flea market, there on the gumbo flats, when the skies had opened up with such deadly results. The recitation made her sleepy, and she yawned. “Is this what you wanted to know?”

  “It’s exactly what I wanted to know!” Dr. Hubble wheeled around, excitement on his face. “Because now I can see how you’ve become bored with your own trauma, haven’t you?”

  She jerked herself upright, indignation stiffening her tone. “Bored! You think I find my parents’ hideous deaths boring?!”

  “No, I think you’ve reached the healing stage where you’re bored with your own narcissism.” He bounded over to perch on the chair next to hers. “For two weeks, all I’ve been hearing about is you. I haven’t heard one word,” he tapped his notepad for emphasis, “about your parents. Who were they? Did they like Mozart or Beethoven best? Were they in love with each other? Did they vote Democrat or—” he broke off, flashing another brilliant smile. “I think you get the hint.”

  Openmouthed, she stared at him. “You’re right. I don’t really think of them that way, I guess. Not like real people.”

  “Funny, that.”

  “Funny?”

  “Yes, I mean if you don’t think of them as ‘real,’ then why care how they died?”

  Her own laughter surprised her. She felt suddenly better, as if a huge burden had been lifted from her shoulders. “I guess because of how it affected my life. My goodness, that is self-centered, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” He nodded with exaggerated motion. “Yes, my dear Crystal, it is.”

  “Then, really, it’s wrong for me to make their deaths all about me, right? I mean, the fact that they died really doesn’t have anything to do with me, does it?”

  His disagreement was immediate. “Oh no, their deaths were completely your fault. I’m just saying that whining about it is boring, right?”

  She stared at him at that moment, the weight of her guilt, so much more crushing now for its brief reprieve, making speech impossible.

  It was two weeks after that, following her discharge, that she hit upon the perfect solution. Byhalia Falls! No boy scouts or water jugs necessary. All she had to do was traverse the pedestrian walkway on the bridge crossing the falls. The parapet was short. Climbing over would be no problem.

  The townspeople, in fact, had been lobbying the mayor for years to raise the parapet. Adventurous children and amorous lovers were always being lost off the bridge—casualties of not paying attention.

  The mayor declared such deaths, however, to be beneficial to the gene pool. “Best to weed out the foolish. This ensures the reproduction of the quick-witted and attentive—a natural advantage in today’s global marketplace! You do see that I’m right, don’tcha?”

  The night she tried to take her life by drowning had been truly lovely. Twilight, a wilderness of pinks, corals, and atmospheric dust, was just deepening in the horizon when, taking a breath, she started walking. The bridge across the falls was long and often gridlocked. Cold sprays of water were surging up over the roadway as the cataract of water, three hundred feet below, roiled and whipped, sucking and churning, rising like steam from the bowels of hell.

  In minutes, she was drenched but undaunted. This must end. She could go on no longer. Her knee became scraped as she crossed the wet parapet on the bridge’s edge. A thin ledge was on the other side, and beyond that . . . just air. And water. And a thin layer of smog.

  This mixture of ozone, exhaust, and industrial pollutants was constantly trying to fall earthward only to be, like a volleyball, bounced back by sprays of water, into the atmosphere around the bridge.

  Shivering, she stood with her back to the stream of traffic, staring up, up, up through the flow of water to where the massive concrete dam glowed palely above the town in the failing light. But, for all the cars and all the drivers, there was no one who could see her, a small figure, neatly dressed in a black skirt, pressed white blouse, and dark sweater, standing soaked in the gathering gloom.

  Crystal opened her mouth to call to her parents. But then, remembering her past two suicide attempts, she thought better of it. Surely, they would simply know she was coming to them. A quick glance around for any boy scouts reassured her that, this time, she was truly alone.

  Her gaze resolute, she stared into the sprays of water that were inviting her to merge. This was it. Death felt right this time, like the perfect pair of jeans—not too loose, not too tight.

  Heart pounding, Crystal lifted first one arm and then the other, as if they were wings with which to take flight. Her eyes closed of their own accord, shutting out distractions. Tensing, she forced herself to sway forward, almost dizzy at this intimacy with the void, the oblivion of life, the deliverer of redemption, the—

  “Do you have a cookie?”

  A gasp sent her bouncing back against the parapet. Her knee, she noticed, was starting to bleed. “Excuse me?!”

  “A cookie,” said an enormous figure suddenly appearing on the other side of the parapet. “Do . . . you . . . have . . . a . . . cookie?”

  “No, I’m sorry,” she babbled. “I don’t.”

  The man moved. At first, she was irrationally terrified that he meant to push her off the ledge, but when the arm stopped, she caught the delicious whiff of a Meeper Cheeper Chocolate Peeper cookie. “Want one?”

  “Well,” she began, “I really don’t snack this late in the day. Spoils the appetite, you know.” But the aroma of cookies was making her vulnerable. Heart racing now for a different reason, she felt a moan escaping her lips. The arm was passing the cookie back and forth under her nose. “Oh, what . . . what,” she asked faintly, “are you doing?”

  “Here.” An enormous hand pressed the chocolate-laden cookie gently against her lips. Greedily, she gobbled it up, even licking his fingers for lingering cocoa. As Crystal chewed, the man lifted her across the parapet. She felt as weightless as a small animal in his arms. “I got more,” he said complacently. “Wanna come home with me?”

  That question changed her life. She marvels sometimes, remembering this dark period, how everything changed with those five words. But at the time, there on that bridge, all she could do was nod and follow Ajeno back to the Eden Palace.

  Chapter Ten

  Skies had darkened during Crystal’s reverie. And in the crevice, Sally Howie can smell rain coming. Her pale nose sniffs like that of a Portuguese water dog. Lips parted, revealing yellowed teeth, she then snuffles. “Storms, maybe a tornado.” A couple more deep sniffs before she begins coughing. “Not to worry, not a big twiste
r, stinks like an F1.”

  Crystal, roused from her memories, is limping up to the crevice. She’s compelled to check on the homeless woman but flinches at the distant rumble of thunder. “You know,” her gaze nervously sweeps the sky as she calls to Sally, “you can stay inside our place whenever it rains, right?”

  “Nope, can’t do that.” The middle-aged woman shakes her head. “No can do. Can’t go inside; it’s not safe.”

  “But why isn’t it safe, Sally?”

  “Walls, too many walls; they’ll trap ya!”

  Crystal thinks about this. After a moment, she smiles. “You’re exactly right, Sally.”

  “Yep. Yep. Yep.”

  ***

  At this same moment, Ruiz lifts his chin to the wind. Having taken the afternoon shift, he’s climbed to the very highest point of the tampon factory. In the rainstorm sweeping across the town, he feels gravity swirling. An inexorable force sucking his flesh deeper and deeper into this place, this Dayville, USA. He feels an unaccustomed panic at being trapped. Closing his eyes as the wind buffets his body there on the rooftop, he imagines himself instead in a space craft, floating weightless amid starlight, unanchored by datos capitalism or its Cartel. “Me gustaría,” he whispers upward. “Me gustaría . . .”

  ***

  Thunder bangs after flashes of lightning. Coming home through the alleyway between Tenth and Vine, Ajeno again stops. He listens. It’s funny, but all day he’s imagined hearing footsteps following him. Awkwardly, he turns his girth around, glancing down the alleyway. Nothing. Well, there is the powder-blue haze hugging damp factory walls, but that must be from some sort of algae.

  “Okeydokey,” he says to himself, heading once more toward Vine. The air darkens as rain splatters with increasing force into the narrow channel between the two streets. Splashing unconcernedly through puddles, he sees street traffic ahead, whizzing past the opening onto Vine.

  But then a new noise competes with the bellowing thunder. It’s a roar coming from the gloom straight ahead. Simultaneously, from behind him, also sounds the now undeniable march of footsteps. They’re gaining on him. He stops, grinning at the prospect of company.

  His head, swiveling in both directions, notes how the opening onto Vine is now blocked. Motorcycles, making a wide turn, are flooding the alley like cockroaches erupting from a sewer. They’re bearing down on him—two dozen headlights piercing the darkness. The fat man frowns. The alleyway magnifies engine snarls as it drowns out overhead thunder. Only a deafening howl remains.

  “Huh,” he says. “Too loud to talk.”

  The motorcycles, painted in Stormin’ Hamsters colors, are practically on top of him now. There’s no escaping them. The footsteps that had been approaching from behind are now retreating in terrified clicks upon pavement. “Huh.”

  A glance to the right shows Ajeno a door. A grip of fat fingers opens it. He steps inside, sheltered by a vacant factory. Bikes zoom past—bullets from a machine gun. Screams of crushed powder-blue suits are lost among the thunder rolls.

  Thunder fades, an increasingly distant sweep of bowling pins being knocked over. Ajeno sticks his palm out through the doorway. It comes back only faintly damp. Complacently, he steps from the doorway before resuming his path toward Vine. The storm, with its winds, has left behind only a brief freshening of the air and clear skies.

  ***

  Crystal pulls hard on the knob of her apartment door. Ajeno will probably get home before she returns but he has his own key. Hearing the lock engage, she clumps, clumps, clumps over to Beth’s apartment. Just that morning, the old woman had asked her to drop by that evening. “You see, I’ll be out, and . . . well . . . truth is, honey, it’s never good these days, leaving teenage girls alone on their own, is it?”

  “You want me to babysit?”

  “Not really. Just a quick check-in.” The faded blue eyes shone with vulnerability. “Will you do it?”

  “Of course.”

  Tremulously, Beth grinned, patting the young woman’s arm. “Knew I could count on you. Be here ’bout nine?”

  Now Crystal peeks into the living room. The old woman’s sitting at the dining room table. In front of her sits an enormous, ancient IBM XT computer. A dial-up modem sits nearby, blinking. With a mincing hunt-and-peck method, the withered fingers type: I’ll be seventeen in May. Dad says he might buy me a car if I keep my grades up. I like going to the overlook at the falls. Want to come with me? You can bring condoms if you want.

  “Lizzie,” Crystal says, reading over her hunched shoulder, “does Beth know you’re making dates on the Internet?”

  The old woman, looking petulant and rebellious, twists around to glare. “Beth’s not the boss of me!”

  “No, but she doesn’t want you to get hurt, right?”

  A dried-up bottom lip sticks out when she purses her mouth. “She also don’t want me having a party! She canceled it, you know. Said how we all have the same birthday.”

  “That must’ve been upsetting.”

  “Well, yeah! I just want something that’s all my own. Why do I got to share everything with two smelly old ladies?”

  Crystal reaches out to brush white hair out of the old woman’s eyes. “I don’t know, sweetie.”

  Lizzie’s anger seems to deflate, leaving her expression defenseless. “Miss Crystal, can I tell you something?” When Crystal nods, the frail figure inches to the edge of her seat. “I’m scared.”

  “About what?”

  Lizzie leans in close, whispering, “I think there’s something wrong with Beth.”

  Minutes later, Crystal slowly limps back to her own apartment. Ajeno should be back home from work by now, and tomorrow will likely reveal Beth’s return. She’s still not sure what Lizzie meant about Beth’s condition, but obviously she, Crystal, should sit down with her neighbor and judge for herself.

  She puts it out of her mind, though, once back inside her own four walls. Tonight’s when she does her weekly email to the parents of her students. Quickly, she types in the vocabulary to be included on quizzes before personalizing each message. A brief overview of each student’s performance is sketched out before she hits the SEND button. With a sigh, she finishes her task. “Thank goodness that’s done!”

  She hobbles away from the kitchen counter, where her laptop’s set up, past the open window. Its curtains are billowing in the breeze. “Oh, smell that! The best thing about storms are how they clean the air.” She hugs herself before turning to a silent Ajeno, who’s lying on the mattress.

  “Anything interesting happen today at the diner?”

  “Nah,” Ajeno stares at the television, “not at the diner.”

  “Whatcha watching, baby?”

  “A cooking show,” he breathes. His eyes close slightly in pleasure. “They’re . . . basting ham!” A fat finger scratches his scalp. “Ouch.”

  “More fleas?” she asks. He nods, scratching. The apartment above them has cats, the apartment below dogs; this often leaves their own apartment awash with the tiny biting insects. Emitting a ladylike grunt, she climbs on the mattress, careful of her cast. She then mounts Ajeno’s spine as if it’s a beach towel.

  The next twenty minutes sees her picking through his hair while he watches a show on how to prepare a brown-sugar marinade for pork. “Ha!” she grinds a flea between her bloody thumbnails. “Got another one, babe. That’s nine already tonight. I think that’s a record.”

  “Goody.” Ajeno flips to another channel. At the same time, several blocks down Tenth Street, an old man shuffles inside the front door to Mom’s Diner. He looks familiar, but Ruiz, taking orders at the counter, puts it down to the man’s thickly lidded eyes and crooked pinky fingers. A member of Los Espejos, originally from the Yucatan, is similarly endowed. But this man is much older. Fatigue and the ashy powder coating his clothing and hair undoubtedly make him appear even more so.

  Ruiz exchanges a nod when the man sits down on a stool fronting the counter. “¿Qué desea?”

 
; The old man’s eyes are mice darting behind the counter. Ruiz has to fight the impulse to turn around. Finally, the other asks for coffee. When Ruiz pours him a cup, the old man asks, “My son Ajeno—he works here, yes?”

  Ruiz flicks the other a surprised glance. He sees now his resemblance to Ajeno’s brother, Alejandro. “Yes, Mr. Garcia, he works here. He is a cook, but he does not work tonight.”

  “A cook?” Fernando’s heavy eyes widen. Then he shrugs. “True, it is no secret that he likes food.”

  Somberly, Ruiz grins. “That is true.”

  “Does he speak of us?” asks the old man. “You know him. This much is obvious.”

  The tall man shrugs while refilling the other’s coffee cup. “He tells everyone his name is Garcia. That is enough.” He adds casually, “I have met your other son as well.”

  “Alejandro?” Fernando nods into his coffee cup. “They were a pair, those two, growing up.”

  “Es verdad?”

  “Oh, yes! Awake, they always argued.” His shoulders twitch. “Or at least Alejandro argued. Ajeno, he does not say much. But the nights were even worse. Always something. Not a night could pass without one or the other waking us up. ‘Bad dreams’ is all they say.”

  Ruiz adds more coffee to Garcia’s cup. “Yes, Alejandro tells me of his bad dreams.”

  Garcia gulps coffee, but not before flapping his hand. “Not just Alejandro! Ajeno, too, had his share. Many a night he woke us screaming. He would talk of being el globo . . . how do the gringos say? Yes, a . . .,” he pronounces the word carefully, “balloon.” A twinkle animates his sleepy eyes. “Tells us how he floats to the ceiling of our trailer. Begs us to look. Begs us to see that the windows and door are locked so he cannot escape up into las estrellas!”

  “It is an odd dream, that.” Ruiz frowns.

  Lowering his gaze to the mug, Fernando gulps the dregs of the coffee. “That is what Maria says. But me,” he shrugs, “I say boys are like wild stallions. They have odd fancies to explain the fire in their veins.” His eyes begin darting about the diner again as if still hoping to see his son.