The Sasquatch Hunter's Almanac (22 page)

“She's nice!” Ginger had told her mom. “She likes you! She gave me rock candies!”

Ginger's mom had said, “Oh, right, she just loves me,” and then joked that the rock candies were probably poisoned. Ginger, still young enough to take all things literally, had cried.

“She's here!” Ginger said now, running for the door. “Amelia's here!”

She threw it open and stretched her arms wide to embrace her older sister, but Amelia took no heed of her, only strode through the foyer and into the living room, looking this way and that, as if wanting to pick a fight. She tossed her attractive black purse onto the floor, and Ginger admired it soulfully for a moment before saying shyly, “Hello, Amelia.”

Now Amelia looked over her shoulder. “Hello yourself, Kumquat,” she said. “Where's your
padres
?”

“My…” Ginger trailed off, confused.

“
Padres
. The 'rents. Where are they? Speak now or forever hold your peace, Kumquat.”

“Amelia,” Ginger's mom said, materializing from the kitchen, ferrying a drink in each hand. “Thanks for coming. We weren't sure, you know, if you could make it.”

“Well, I'm late,” Amelia said. “Not my fault.”

Ginger's mom nodded as though she understood, but it was a fake nod that hid how annoyed she was. Their father joined them silently, coming forward smoothly, as if on wheels, to give his eldest daughter a kiss on her cheek. Amelia smiled at him warmly.

“Dad,” she said. “Sorry I'm late.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Why am I sorry?”

“Why are you so late? We've been waiting for you for almost two hours. My presentation is at eight o'clock. We missed the dinner.”

“Oh, dear,” Ginger's mother said, handing him his drink. “We had better run. It's nearly seven-thirty now.” She waggled her drink in the air. “For the road.”

Amelia ignored Vanessa. “If you must know, Dad, it was Gladys. She didn't see why you needed me. She wants Vanessa to stay home with Ginger. You know how she gets. She's pigheaded. I had to get down on my knees and beg her for the ride. Practically.” Amelia's frown deepened. She was clearly annoyed with the memory. “As though it was so important to me.”

“I'm sorry, Amelia,” their dad said. “It's not fair, her behavior.”

“Well,” Amelia said, “at least she treats me at all. I mean, how long has it been since you've invited me over? Or visited me on campus? You've never seen my dorm room, you know.”

Ginger's mom grew pale. She began to respond, but Eli lifted his hand and silenced her.

“You're welcome here whenever you wish,” he said. “It's an open invitation, Amelia. I shouldn't have to explain that to you. And as for your dorm room, well, we've been very busy with my work.”

Amelia stood very still. Ginger went up to her and touched her hand. The fist was curled in on itself like a tortured bird.

“Have a good night,” Amelia said. “Have gobs of fun.”

Ginger's mom giggled, the nervous way she did when drinking. “We really need to leave, Eli. You'll be too late. They said six, and—”

“Come on,” Amelia said, taking Ginger's hand into her own and yanking her toward the den. “Let's go watch TV, Kumquat.”

Ginger surrendered gratefully. When she looked over her shoulder, she saw her father setting down his drink, putting on his coat, taking the drink up again. His face showed no emotion whatsoever, but her mother was grinning, with a smile that was painted on like a clown's.

Amelia threw herself down on the couch and took up the remote. “We're watching
Dallas
later. No arguments.” She groped around on the side table for a moment and then pulled the phone onto her lap. The door to the garage swept shut. Ginger was delighted to finally be alone with Amelia.

“I'm so glad the other babysitter was sick,” Ginger confessed. “This is so much fun!” Then, when Amelia didn't say anything, she added, “I
love Dallas.
”

That was a lie. She didn't follow
Dallas
—it was just a lot of adults talking about money and lying around in bed together half naked. Amelia said it was glamorous, but Ginger didn't really know what that meant. Beautiful, she supposed. Secretly, she preferred shows like
Looney Tunes
. Or, especially,
The Muppet Show.
But that was baby stuff now. Stuff that Amelia hated.

“Sick babysitter,” Amelia said, bemused, gazing off into the white space above the television set. “So that's why they called me. Those dicks.”

“Should I make popcorn?” Ginger asked.

“No,” Amelia said. Then, beginning to dial, “Yes. Popcorn. Good. Lots of salt and butter.”

Ginger jumped to her feet, squealing and clapping.

“
Silencio,
Kumquat. I'm calling my boyfriend.”

And Ginger fell silent.

*   *   *

T
HEY HAD BEEN
outside for over an hour now, and Ginger, coatless, began to shiver. It was early summer, but the day had been rainy and cool.

“I'm cold,” she said, tugging on Amelia's jacket, which wasn't really her jacket. It belonged to the larger of the two boys, the boys who were now punching each other on the shoulder, harder and harder, a game that Ginger thought was stupid.

Ginger didn't like these boys. She hadn't liked them ever since they'd arrived, hauling with them a wide silver case of beer. The beer followed them everywhere like a loyal animal. They—Amelia, too—kept fishing around in its mouth for a fresh can. The empties lay all over the lawn and pasture, like so many dead silver fish. Ginger thought she might have one, too, but then she became too cold. The idea of drinking cold beer in the cold air sounded awful to her. They should be having hot chocolate. Apple cider. Something warm and comforting. But she knew better than to say this aloud.

“I'm cold,” she repeated.

“Stop whining, Kumquat,” Amelia said. “Good grief, kid.”

“How old are you, sweetheart?” the larger boy said, giving his friend one last punch. His name was Rudolph: a reindeer's name. He was tanned and half naked in a tank top and shorts. He was big, solid, and the shadows of his muscles winked with every small movement. Ginger thought he was probably considered very handsome, but she liked the shorter one more, whose smile seemed less wolfish and whose thin, graceful body seemed less inhuman—at least he was wearing jeans and a windbreaker. The shorter boy's name was John. A simple, likable name.

“I'll be ten soon,” she said. “I'll be in fifth grade.”

“Good,” Amelia said. “Stay in elementary forever. Junior high sucks.” She reached over and ruffled Ginger's hair. “But you're not a tub of lard like I was back then. It'll be easier on you.”

“Give me a break,” John said. “You were never.”

“She was,” Rudolph confirmed. “Plump as a piglet. Fingers like sausages. We called her Fat Arm-Elia. She hated it.”

“You were an asshole,” Amelia said affectionately.

“Were?” John said.

“But then she got all beautiful and mean and weird,” Rudolph said teasingly.

“Yeah, that old man you dated in high school,” John said. “What a creep.”

“Oh, fuck!” Rudolph said. “I totally forgot about that dude.”

“He was handsome,” Amelia said.

“Wasn't he like forty-five?”

“He was older, but she didn't know how old,” John said. “I mean, who knew? Guy could pass for one of us.” He wrinkled his nose, growing thoughtful. “Hey. Didn't he die or something?”

Amelia stared into her shoes. “Ask
her,
” she said with a nod at Ginger. “She'll tell you. She knows every last detail.”

Ginger blushed. She had been listening carefully; she, like the boys, wanted to know the story. She shook her head.

“You don't know?” Amelia asked, eyes narrowing.

“Mom won't tell me the whole thing.”

“What about Eli?”

Ginger almost said,
He never talks about you,
but it wasn't that exactly; it was that her dad didn't really talk much, period. Normally when they sat together there was a comfortable silence, or he just listened to her talk. Any news or stories came from her mom.

“No,” Ginger said.

“Huh,” Amelia said, baffled. “I can't believe Vanessa wouldn't tell you. She usually leaps at the chance to slander me.”

Ginger rushed to her mom's defense. “She says it's a crazy story.” Her mom had also said:
It was a good thing it happened. She was self-destructive before that guy died, but it woke her up. She stopped hanging out with the wrong people. She started taking school seriously again. She's still a wild one, but not like she used to be.
Ginger knew she shouldn't mention this to Amelia. “She says she'll tell me when I'm older.”

“Why, 'cause you're such a big baby now?” Amelia said. Then, straightening, she said, “Look. I'll tell you guys what happened. The short version. I met this guy. I dated him, for fun. We stole Dad's car. We had sex.” Ginger squirmed uncomfortably here, and Amelia continued, “Lots of it. He was gross. We drove toward Seattle on Route 2. I knew it was stupid, even then, but I thought, why not? Hilarious! Then he drove Dad's car into Lake Roosevelt and drowned.” She shrugged. “They found his body weeks later, washed up at Grand Coulee Dam.”

“That's a fucked-up story,” Rudolph said.

“It's not a story. It's true.” Amelia looked off into the trees, tall white papery poles with black shifting coins for leaves. Then, turning suddenly to Rudolph: “And don't say
fuck
anymore, you dick. My little sister is right here.”

“I liked you best when you were a fatty,” Rudolph said. “You were nicer.”

To Ginger's relief, Amelia laughed.

Ginger laughed, too, mostly because she could never picture Amelia as fat or unattractive or vulnerable. Amelia could cut anyone down to size. Ginger's mom and their dad withered before her. Weren't all of her enemies obliterated in such a fashion?

The wind picked up and Ginger shivered.

“I need a coat, at least,” Ginger said.

“Well, go get one. Do I need to hold your hand?”

“No. I mean, I can go get it. I just … Will you be here when I get back?”

“No, we'll be riding camels into the rocky Himalayas.” Then, after Ginger's silence, “Jesus, yes, we'll be here. Go. Go now, please, before I tell you to piss off for good.”

She already sounded pissed, so Ginger hurried. The truth was, she didn't trust those boys, or Amelia, really, with the animals. There were rules about letting the dogs out of the kennels, for instance. And Rudolph had already thrown an almost full can of beer at one of the goats. Ginger had screamed at the impact and then watched sorrowfully as the poor beast limped off toward its companions, which had wisely sprinted for the far end of the property. John and Amelia had laughed—laughed!—at the poor goat limping away.

When Ginger's beloved cat, Peter, sprinted by, Rudolph had tried to snatch him up, saying he wanted to “feed it some beer,” but Ginger came forward angrily and pushed at him, hollering, “Leave Peter alone!” and he had stood back with his arms raised in surrender.

“She's annoying,” Amelia had said.

“It's cute,” Rudolph had replied, and he grinned at Ginger as he said it, but it was not a nice grin. It was a grin filled with blunt white teeth and bulging, mocking eyes. The eyes of a wolf, Ginger thought. She hated Rudolph.

Ginger considered all of this as she raced to fetch her coat, as she thrust a hat on her head and even considered—and then abandoned—a pair of warm woolen gloves. Why had Amelia invited these two boys over? And which of them was her boyfriend, anyway? To both of them, Amelia was as indifferent as she was affectionate. It made little sense to Ginger. If she were Amelia, she would choose John. She would choose John in a heartbeat. And she would tell Rudolph to go home, please, and to take his crazy grin and stupid muscles with him. That's what she would say, if she were Amelia.

But it seemed to Ginger that she would never be Amelia: tall, pretty, independent and adult, flip and serene. She would forever be “Gentle Ginger,” as her mother called her: dull, unimposing, softhearted, childish, and afraid. Boys at school liked girls in much the same way that these older boys liked Amelia, but they did not like Ginger. They made fun of her brown mop of curls (“Mushroom Head,” they called her) and imitated her when she gazed out the window, lost in a reverie while the teacher repeatedly called out her name. But Amelia had been teased, too. Maybe she would grow up to be like Amelia, after all. This knowledge put a skip into Ginger's step.

But when she returned with her coat, the garden plot where she had left Amelia and her boyfriends was empty. Ginger looked around in alarm. She told herself not to panic. They couldn't have gone very far. And sure enough, there they were, heading for the dog pens. Ginger sprinted after them, calling out in warning, “We're not allowed over there. We'll get in trouble.” They only laughed. Ginger pumped her short legs.

It seemed even as she raced toward them that she would never reach them, no matter how hard her legs pushed against the compact earth. Their bodies shrank. The ground stretched before her like a conveyer belt, so that Ginger ran in place, so that she ran backward, so that her sister and her sister's companions became no more than dark scrambling ants. From this great distance, Ginger's screams of protest meant nothing. The latches to all of the kennels were released. The dogs unfurled from their hovels and scattered in all directions, fast and random as smoke.

*   *   *

I
T WAS DARK.
Amelia had not bothered to put her to bed, the way the other babysitters always did, but instead gave her a large bottle of pop and allowed her to settle, exhausted, before the television set in the den. Ginger sat there for a good hour or so, pleased enough to sip her pop and watch heretofore-taboo programming, but before long the house became too dark and too still. Ginger began to feel awash in a gaping, raw sadness. Where had her sister gone? Where were the two boys? She could hear laughter from somewhere upstairs, but mostly it was quiet, and the quiet disturbed her more than the rude guffaws.