The Sasquatch Hunter's Almanac (14 page)

The smile that broke open his face was a bright and beautiful thing, and I thought how easy it was to say something and make it true, no matter what you really thought deep down.

Come on, he said, pointing out the window to the star-swept sky. Let's do some shit. Some dynamite shit.

And we snuck downstairs to make sandwiches. We shook my dad's keys out of his wallet. We stole all the dough out of it and out of Vanessa's purse. We backed my dad's Jaguar out of the garage, out of the driveway, into the street. We put it in gear and shot out of that shitty town like it had been set on fire by a thousand atomic rockets. I was ready for us to drive all night, but Marion stopped at a motor lodge just past Airway Heights. He wanted to be naked with me, he said, one more night before our nuptials. And I was in such a glad mood I didn't fight him on it even slightly. The woman at the front desk looked at us nervously when we gave her cash for the room. She asked if we were minors. Marion showed her his ID with a proud grin.

This is my little sis, he said to the woman, shucking his thumb at me. We're going to Alaska to see our dad.

I liked this story. Alaska sounded like a great place to live. I felt a strange longing to have an older brother, a doting Alaskan father. We could go fishing, maybe. Bear hunting. What a better life that would be.

I asked Marion if I could see his ID. The woman had laughed at his picture, called it goofy. He shook his head.

No way, he said. You'll make too much fun of me.

We took our backpacks to the room, and I let Marion touch me all over and have sex on me. I didn't fake anything or moan or do any of that crap. It felt less uncomfortable than the last time but not at all amazing. Not like things I'd read or heard rumors about. I smiled and patted his head when he finished, as though to tell him good job, and he went right to sleep. He always said he was really skilled at sex, but he wasn't. Or maybe it was me. Or maybe he was lying when he said he'd done it lots.

Just like we all lie to seem better, cooler, tougher.

I like it when people lie. I like how vulnerable it makes them.

I stayed awake for a few hours. I ate a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and watched TV with the sound dial turned completely off. Eventually, I slept. When we awoke, it was near ten and already hot in our room. The TV was still on. A sudden terror rose in my throat. Eli would know his car was missing. Vanessa would notice her empty purse. The police could be after us already.

We have to go, Marion. Now. Get up.

He moaned. He grabbed at me and tried to pull me down.

We're fugitives, he said. That makes me horny.

Too bad. I'm leaving. You can come with me or not.

He stumbled out of bed, grinning. He had a boner that stuck straight out. I tried not to laugh at it, but I did.

You think it's funny, huh? Funny? And he poked it into my thigh as a joke and I screamed in mock disgust, which was really real disgust. We grappled with each other, and I enjoyed being kissed. And then there was no choice but to let him fool around with me again.

Finally, we made it out to the car. We were already sweating. The heat made us groggy. And then the air conditioner spat out more hot air at us, stinking and raw like onion breath, but it was sort of funny that my dad's fancy car had this bogus side, just like everything else in life. We were laughing at it by the time we pulled into a diner for breakfast and coffees. After coffee, our grogginess receded and we felt like we could drive all the way into the guts of the sun. Not that we needed to: it straddled our car with its big hot legs, dripping onto us.

Marion drove us the first hour or so but then said he was bored. He pulled over in Davenport and told me, Your turn.

I don't have a license, I told him, and he said he didn't much care if I didn't.

So I took over. It was thrilling to feel the wheel against my palms, to press the ball of my bare foot hard on the accelerator. I turned up the radio and crooned along to a song I didn't know, making up the words. Marion complained about the heat, but when I glanced at him, still singing, I saw that he was smiling.

My silly honey, he said, putting his long skinny fingers in my hair. He leaned over and kissed my cheek before releasing me. My silly gorgeous honey girl.

This, I thought. This is what it's like to be loved.

*   *   *

I
WANT TO
park on the boat ramp, I say.

The boat ramp is a lovely gravel road sloping into the lake. It would look wonderful underneath the car.

We can't, Marion says. It's for people with boats.

I don't care. I'm parking here. What are these assholes going to do?

Arrest us, he says. Check my ID and call me a kidnapper.

But I ignore him and park on the boat ramp anyway. Not enough to block it, but just enough so that I can get out of the car and see what my first parking job looks like.

I'm pleased. The Jaguar looks important, its nose pointed downward, toward the lake. It looks beautiful in the sun, sleek and shining.

We get some of our stuff from the backseat and dump it on the sandy shore and then race into the lake. Marion follows me as I splash in the water. I'm still limping a little, but my ankle is much improved. I'm wearing a bikini top and my jean shorts, which I don't even bother to remove. One of my cheap sandals floats forlornly to the surface, and I throw it at Marion's head. Somehow I've become the reckless one. I'm shrieking and splashing and wanting all of the attention. I make more noise than the children present. They paddle away from me, wary, looking for their moms. The moms lie on their big towels on the sandy beach, gray and fat like dying porpoises. One of these women rises up on her elbows and gives me a look. I dunk under the water and swim to Marion and pull at his trunks. The white worm of his dick appears and I emerge from the water, laughing.

You're embarrassing me, Marion says. Settle down. You want us to get caught?

I scowl at him. It's no fun to laugh alone. I stomp out of the water and collapse on the beach, sulking. Marion stays in the water, swimming here and there. He is a deft swimmer. I had no idea he was an athlete, but I'm transfixed now, watching his long arms carving out smooth lines of water, propelling him forward. He reaches a raft far away from us and stands on it and waves. Despite my wanting to punish him, I sit up straight and eagerly wave back. He's a total fox, the sun glinting off his skin, his bright white teeth grinning at me over the lake, and I want to be close to him. I want to kiss him again, to be in that dirt field with all of those stars overhead. I want to do everything with him. Get married. Have babies. Always. All of it.

It's funny how the distance from him makes everything seem possible.

And then someone touches my back.

I jump, thinking it's a snake at first, so cold and slimy. It's rattlesnake country here. Things can bite you and then you die.

But when I look behind me I see it's an older man, crouching there in the sand, dressed head to toe in black. He has a derby hat on his head and looks to be some kind of minister.

Sorry to bother you, young woman, the man says. I'm wondering if you've seen my grandson?

He has a kindly face, older and wrinkled and soft to the touch, not that I would ever touch it. Despite the heat and his heavy black clothes, his skin is dry and powdery.

I don't know, I say. I haven't been looking for anyone.

He's about your friend's age, the old guy says, though not as beautiful as your friend. The man looks across the water to Marion. He's a beautiful young man, isn't he?

I feel an inflated pride at this comment. We're going to be married, I say. We're in love.

Really? You're awfully young for marriage, aren't you?

I shake my head and say, I'm a nurse. At Deaconess, in Lilac City. And he's a doctor. A famous one. That's his car.

I look back at the Jaguar. I'm sort of realizing how awful this story is, how stoned I sound, but I love telling it.

He's leaving his wife for me, I say, and I think of Vanessa, how powerful she must have felt when my dad decided to leave Gladys for her. We'll be married soon. In Seattle.

I guess I want to try this life on, twirl around in it, and see if someone approves of its fit.

The man does seem impressed.

You are both so beautiful and young, he says. He gives me a profound smile. I wish you all the very best in life.

He speaks formally, as a preacher might. I see how strange his thumbs are, locked around his knees. They bend backward and not forward. They must be double-jointed. Something about these hands makes me fidget, as if they're touching me without touching me. I look quickly over my shoulder, hoping Marion is coming, but he's talking on the raft to some older men. One of them has a cigarette that he bums. I wonder how that man swam out there with dry cigarettes.

My grandson would love to meet you, the man says. He would simply love it.

I look around the beach. I don't see anyone else our age. What does your grandson look like?

You wouldn't miss him, the minister says, his eyes all over me, like he's memorizing every inch. My grandson has a fish's face. He has the legs of a rooster.

I laugh and say, I don't think I've seen him. He sounds like a bad joke.

The minister smiles at me broadly. It's odd; he had seemed so old a moment ago, but now he looks semi-young, no older than forty. He says, He does, doesn't he? I hadn't thought of that before.

He sits down beside me, very close, so close that our legs touch. I scoot away to give him more room. His legs fold strangely at the knees, like he's made of rubber. I consider his hands again. A whole body of creepy liquid joints.

Anyway, I say, growing uncomfortable. I haven't seen him. Sorry.

Don't be. You don't mind my sitting with you, do you? I won't be a nuisance. I'd like to meet your mister.

My what?

Your mister. You said you were going to be married, right?

Suddenly I know what's happening. This man is on to us. He's a cop of some sort. He's a weird cop, but this is a weird area. He's Electric City's Finest. I look in a panic over at Marion. He's sitting there, smoking, not even glancing at me. He's telling some story and moving his hands in the air like small birds. I stand up and try to wave.

The man says, sadly, You're not leaving, are you?

No, I say. Well, I thought I might swim out there. You know. Get some exercise.

I don't know if you should, the man says. You left your car unlocked.

I look down at the man where he sits, his hideous hands wrapped tightly around his hideous knees. I ask, How do you know that?

My grandson is in your car, he replies. He shakes his head sadly. I saw him just now, crawling up from the water. He's in there, waiting for you both.

I laugh awkwardly.
Come on, Marion. Come the fuck back.

Gosh, I say (a word I never say). I'm going to—

Oh, don't go out there, he says mildly. My son will just follow you, you see. He's a remarkably strong swimmer. We all have our strange talents, we do, all of my family: my sisters, my nieces, my son, and I. He's a world-class swimmer.

I wave my arms at Marion. He sees me now and waves back, grinning. The raft is millions of miles away. I beckon to him frantically.
Come! Come now!
He pumps his arms in the air, mimicking me, laughing. He always says that he loves to feel wanted. Maybe he senses now that I want him more than ever. Not him, but someone. Someone safe. He turns back to some of his new friends and shouts something unintelligible. I hope it's
goodbye.

You poor children, the man says, rising to stand beside me. So eager to grow up. My son was the same way. Only he grew smaller and smaller, you see. He grew backward.

I have an image in my head from my biology book at school. The fish that crawled out of the water and became the first mammal. The fish with the flesh mustache and the muscular yellow arms.

Around us the chubby happy bodies of children float, overseen by the larger, looser bodies of their moms. They all seem headless to me now, decapitated; brainless forms strutting brainlessly from one activity to the next; unfeeling and stupid. I reach up to touch my own head, to make sure it's there. It is, but just so. A small vein throbs in my throat. Life drips away from me with each beat, every moment surging toward non-life, whatever that is. My hair is hot to the touch, soaked with sun. Marion swims toward us now, slowly and smoothly, face down one moment, lifting to the side the next, his arms rotating, stroking. The danger ahead of us has calmed him. He has, without knowing it yet, become a hero.

Here comes your young mister, the man whispers. Here he is now. So much to look forward to, isn't there? I can't wait for you to see what's in store. It's so beautiful. So crushing.

Something catches my eye. Something in our car, some dark form pressed against the windshield. I can't quite make out what it is. Part of it is suctioned to the glass.

The man is right. Something is there, waiting for us. It has been waiting for us all along. We've been hurtling straight toward it since that first day when Marion set eyes on me.

The man notices my stare. He puts his broken fingers on my forearm as if to say,
There, there.
His fingers are icy cold. He makes a sound that is guttural and comforting, a sound Eli might make to Ginger.

Marion comes out of the water, extends his hand to our stranger. For a moment there, I wanted to be with Marion forever, but what a crock of shit.

Forever. I should really know better. After Eli. After Gladys.

There is no such thing.

The man, beaming, bends in for a kiss.

 

ALL'S WELL

Gladys had lost her husband. Also: her hair, her self-respect, much of her already fragile sanity. But mostly she thought of her husband. Of all that she had lost in life, this loss pained her the most.