Dig, page 12
“A bell?”
“It’s like, an heirloom or something. I think it was a souvenir someone got down south. It’s a slave bell.” Nancy looks at me like she doesn’t understand, and I realize that most people wouldn’t. “I have a picture,” I say, and scroll through the pictures on my phone.
When I show it to her, Nancy makes a face like she’d do anything to unsee the bell—even if her only other choice was getting a manicure in Wichita.
THE FREAK HEARS THE ENTIRE POPULATION OF EARTH TALKING AT THE SAME TIME!
The hallway at any school on any given Monday morning is loud, but today it’s louder. Like the entire population of Earth talking at the same time.
The shoveler is swinging his shovel at a group of boys who have tried to take it from him.
“Get the fuck away from me!” he screams.
A discipline employee is running down the hallway, but he won’t get there in time.
The Freak saw this coming. She can sometimes hear the movies in the shoveler’s head and it wasn’t going well lately. Everything ended in anger. Everything caused frustration. The kid wasn’t doing well socially at his new school. Not like he’d tell anyone about it. Who does he have to tell?
His mother?
Mike the neighbor?
Marla and Gottfried Hemmings, who’re too distracted by paint color charts to give a shit about their own messed-up kids, let alone the social life of the cheap labor they hired to paint?
The Freak feels like she’s failed him as she watches the shovel graze a boy’s cheek—as she watches the shovel nick another boy’s arm. By the time the discipline guy gets him in an armlock, the boys grab the shovel from the hallway floor and start running with it.
That’s when The Freak steps in.
She holds the boys by their hair. She says, “Give me the shovel.”
“Who the—what the fuck are you?”
“Just give me the shovel.”
A boy approaches from behind her, and she lets out a kick that makes him tumble toward where he came from. The two boys in her hands try to squirm free, but she tightens her grip on their hair.
“Drop the fucking shovel,” she says one last time.
They drop the shovel at her feet. She tosses them, like two dolls, across the hallway. She picks up the shovel and walks slowly toward the main office.
* * *
Teachers try to get students into their rooms. Try to get the place to quiet down. None of the students listen. They mill around in circles like they’re in an enormous, angry blender, looking for more ingredients.
“It’s like a fuckin’ prison riot,” one teacher says to another.
“I don’t know how I do this anymore,” the teacher replies.
* * *
The Freak can’t flicker now. She’s got the shoveler’s shovel. She’s already underground and has nothing to lose. She walks into the main office, past the protesting secretary, and into the principal’s office and hands the shovel to the shoveler.
He looks up at her and says, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
The principal nods at the discipline guy who’s still there. He walks toward The Freak and she closes her eyes slowly.
The shoveler yells, “No!” but she’s already gone.
The adults in the room all look like they need Easter break to come a lot sooner than a month from now. The principal is the only one who looks concerned for her own mental health. None of them ask the obvious question.
* * *
The Freak finds herself back in the tunnel she was in more than two weeks ago. Gray, rivets, lit only where she stands, and the sound of someone writing.
Scribble-scribble-scribble.
The Freak walks toward the sound. Everything in front of her is dark. Everything behind her is dark, but she trusts. Two right-hand turns later, she finds a lit piece of the tunnel ahead. A girl.
“Who’s there?” the girl yells.
The Freak stands still.
“Leave me alone!” the girl screams.
The girl gets up and starts running—in the direction away from The Freak.
“This is MY fucking tunnel! Stop chasing me! You’re not welcome!”
The Freak doesn’t know what to say. She’s never wanted to scare anyone, but she suddenly feels at fault for everything that’s happened today. The shoveler in the principal’s office. This girl, freaking out.
“I’m sorry!” The Freak says. Then she closes her eyes.
Lands in her bedroom again.
To the same old note.
You can’t just disappear without telling me where you went. I know your dad leaving has been hard on you, but we have to be a team now. I want your car keys on the kitchen table before dinner.
The Shoveler: Some Shrink
Mom is not impressed. She had to leave the car lot an hour early and mutters something about how she might get fired on our walk from the office to the car.
“I’m really sorry,” I say.
“Doesn’t sound like it was even your fault,” she says. But then she shakes her head and has that look on her face. “Can you explain again why the hell you’re carrying a shovel around?”
I can’t tell her. How do I tell her?
Safety is a lie. I’m floating in space with no tether. I’m underground and existence is pointless until I find the right roots to the right plant. It’s hard to breathe here. It’s hard to see here. I just keep living, but I don’t know what for. I make movies. Movies in my head. I plan everything. Every step. Every word. Mostly I plan to avoid. Avoidance is the only way to live like this. You never told me who my father was. You never told me where I got half of me. I’ll always be half lost. Half here. Half real.
What if he was a bad guy? What if he was some guy who hurt you? What if he was someone who didn’t know how to take a no? What if he was someone you don’t remember? What if he was someone you don’t want to remember? What if he comes back one day and wants me to visit him? What if he finds me on the Internet and asks me to go fishing? Will he drown me?
Will he drown you? Will he blow up our house? Will he steal our TV? What do I do then? What do I do when he comes for me? Do I even want to meet him? What if he’s rich and can help us out? We could buy a house. We could afford more food.
That’s why I carry the shovel. I can’t stop the variables. I can’t stop asking because I haven’t found the answer.
* * *
I don’t answer her. Instead, I say, “Do I have to see that shrink?”
“Yes.”
The school said they’d give me a break if I saw the school shrink. Mom didn’t even fight it. “You think I need to see a shrink?”
“No,” she says. “Maybe. I don’t know. They’re not all that bad. And this makes us look compliant.”
“Those guys were going to steal my shit. Probably beat me up, too.”
She sighs. “Life’s not fair, kid. Life’s not fair.”
“So now I have to see some shrink.”
“Right.”
“You don’t seem upset about this. You’re my mom. They’re saying I’m crazy.”
She pulls the car over to the side of the street. Turns to me. “Nobody said you’re crazy. I don’t think that at all. Stop being mad at me because you got in trouble. I wasn’t the one who brought a shovel to school,” she says. “And you know what? Maybe it’ll be okay for you to talk to someone. You sure as shit don’t talk to me, and you don’t talk to Mike even though he’s tried. He likes you, and I thought you two could hang out. He’s a good guy.”
My brain’s flying. Movies. Most of them with Mom and Mike and things I don’t want to describe.
“You got this job and that’s great. You’re doing great. But you really need some friends. I mean real friends, too, not like Texas or Nebraska. Those boys just used you to do their homework in exchange for teaching you how to smoke cigarettes,” she says. “You think I don’t know? I know plenty. I was your age once, too.”
The only word on my lips is shoplifting, but it seems so petty. I’m not handling this well. More movies. More movies with Mom and Mike and how familiar they are.
I take a deep breath. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“I mean, can I ask you a question and can you give me an answer?”
“I’ll try.”
“You’ve known Mike a lot longer than since we got here, haven’t you?”
She nods.
“What’s your old business? Was it Mike? Are you guys gonna get married or something?”
She laughs like I just told the funniest joke, but it’s not the kind of laugh that pisses me off. “Oh, boy! Your imagination! Look.” She smiles. “I’ve known Mike since I was about nine years old. We’re friends. That’s all. He helped me out a long time ago. A few times,” she says. “Remember the Christmas you got your first phone? That was Mike. Good guy. But I’d never marry him.”
This makes me happy. But her last claim makes no sense to me. “So he’s the nicest guy alive but you wouldn’t marry him? Why not?”
She shakes her head and makes that sound: ffffft. “You don’t know Mike like I know Mike. That’s all I’ll say.”
I can’t think of Mike as anyone other than a guy who watches old baseball games and apparently uses a lot of kitchen appliances. And he’s even nice to his mom. Can’t see what’s so wrong with that, but Mom’s already pulled back onto the street and is driving us home.
When we get in the house and I change into my painting clothes, she says, “I miss you these days. You’re working so much.”
“It’s a short-term thing. I’ll be done by Easter.”
“Doesn’t make me miss you less. Soon you’ll be out in the world and I’ll be on my own.”
“Maybe rethink marrying Mike, eh?” I say. We laugh. “Thanks for today. I know I nearly got suspended. I know you’re the reason I didn’t.”
“I still want to know who the girl was that they talked about.”
“No girl. They must have been hallucinating.”
“Are you seriously still going to take that everywhere with you?” She’s motioning toward my shovel.
“Um. Yeah. If that’s okay.”
“Whatever gets you through.”
* * *
On my drive to Marla and Gottfried’s house, shovel lying across the back seat, I think about that. Whatever gets you through. That’s why she shoplifted pork loins. It’s why she stole people’s Social Security numbers. It’s why she did everything she ever did, I guess.
It’s why she won’t tell me about him.
Whatever gets you through.
Gottfried Thinks Marla Is the Grim Reaper
Gottfried is impressed with the painter kid. He’s a bit weird—always has a snow shovel in his car, even now, when Marla’s crocuses are blooming and the tulips are starting to bud—but he’s got a good work ethic.
Gottfried respects a good work ethic. His father did, too. And probably his father before him. Gottfried wouldn’t be worth so much if he’d been lazy. He gets pride butterflies whenever he sees the total. Sold off those hundred and fifty acres slowly, developed them with the right builder, grew them with the right houses, rented them to the right people, collected check after check after check.
He’s intrigued by the kid. Doesn’t say much. Hasn’t even talked to Malcolm, the grandson living there. Malcolm isn’t hard to get to know. He’s a good kid, too, for the most part. Different from the painter kid, though. Reminds Gottfried of his sister. Just one sister, dead now, and a brother, who hasn’t talked to Gottfried in decades, the three of them completely different from one another.
Marla is working on her checklist. It’s the last day of February and she’s planning Easter. The dinner. The eggs. The flowers. Even the place mats. One month to go.
Gottfried doesn’t know what to do with himself in the evenings. Malcolm stays in his room for the most part, sometimes coming out to watch TV. Marla sits reading or making her list or using the iPad she got for Christmas to look for new recipes. Not like Gottfried minds. He never learned how to cook like that.
The painter kid had the second floor to himself for the last four weeks and he did the first four rooms quickly. Started small—the bathroom. Moved into the guest room, then the office, and he’s finishing the other guest room now—the one Malcolm lives in. Marla picked the ugliest color for that room, a pastel sea-foam green. Malcolm hates it. He told her. She said, “Tough noogies, kid.”
It’s as if Marla doesn’t see what’s coming.
One day their son Harry will die.
One day their grandson Malcolm will be theirs.
Gottfried’s had to talk to her three times in the last month about making lamb chops when Malcolm is here and she doesn’t listen.
And every night she serves dinner while the painter kid is here and she never offers him any. Kid’s skinny. Could use some of her cooking. She used to love feeding people—the compliments and the clean plates.
* * *
Gottfried watches the kid drive away, then closes the garage door and walks into the house, landing in the living room, where Malcolm and Marla are fighting about nothing. Marla’s just picking again. Malcolm can’t do anything right.
“Marla, stop it,” Gottfried says.
“Shut up,” she says. She turns back to Malcolm. “You can’t live here and disrespect me. Do you hear me? You have to live by my rules.”
“Marla, stop it,” he says again.
Malcolm looks at his grandfather as if he might cry. Gottfried can see Harry in the boy’s face. Marla didn’t want Harry to be Harry, either. She’s just repeating herself—going to give this boy cancer, too, if she doesn’t stop.
Marla stands there for a few seconds and looks from Malcolm to Gottfried and back at Malcolm again. Then she storms out and into their bedroom.
Gottfried thinks of the robins. He walks to Malcolm and hugs him. Not just some small hug, either. This is a real hug. And Malcolm cries, finally. Just sobs into his chest and Gottfried finds himself crying, too. He’s not sure what he’s crying about, but he’s pretty sure he’s crying about everything.
Malcolm in the Consciousness
Marla fights with me about everything. World news, national news, local news. She’s the most entitled woman on Earth. It’s almost spring, so Marla is in full-on Easter mode and it bothers me.
Marla and I have differing views on Easter.
I’m not even sure why Marla is so into Easter. She doesn’t go to church or do anything religious, really. I’m not even sure she believes in the resurrection. Or Jesus. Or anything. Marla’s religion is her kitchen. Her freezer. Her flower beds. Interior paint.
Dad and I believe in the Consciousness—a huge ball of energy formed by the energy of people who’ve died. It’s like a giant resurrection, really. Picture it as big as the Pacific Ocean. As big as Jupiter. As big as the galaxy. How big does the pool have to be if it has to fit the ideas of everyone who ever died into it?
I’d be lying if I didn’t say this is a seriously white belief system. New Age bullshit, probably. But it means my mom is here in every moment, and it means Dad will be, too.
When I talk to Marla about it, she seems to think the only people in the Consciousness are either people she knew or famous people. She says she can’t wait to see her mother again and meet Elvis Presley.
I say things like, “All the people from India will be there, too.”
And she rolls her eyes at me. “They’re Hindus. They’ll go somewhere else.”
Marla’s grasp on the afterlife and Hinduism is tenuous. “The Consciousness is all-inclusive,” I explain.
She really thinks about it. “So murderers and rapists and dogfighters’ll be there? I’ll take a pass, thank you. It’s scary enough to live with those people. I don’t want to die with them!”
“Maybe that’s the challenge,” I say.
“No one wants a challenge after they die, Malcolm. This is a depressing theory. No way I could go there.”
“So Heaven and Hell work better for you?”
“Absolutely!”
“And what makes you think you’ll end up in the right place?” I say. “I mean, away from the murderers and stuff?”
“I’m a good person.”
Marla is resolute in this idea. Marla Hemmings is a good person. She looks after me while my father dies. She gives money to the animals. That’s her convenient ticket to Heaven. It’s Marla’s flush toilet. The septic tank is underground, just like Hell. She never has to think about it once she presses the handle.
She has no idea how her shit affects what she’s planted above it. No idea that her grown children, my dad and his siblings, resent her for good reason—that each flush douses them in the knowledge that they’re failing at mere survival while she marinates top-cut lamb chops.
Loretta, Act Two: Classic with Cheddar
Act Two is always a struggle. Act Two is always a surprise.
“Hurry up! We’ll leave you here if you don’t come out in five seconds!” Loretta’s father is yelling this into the crack of the bathroom door. There’s no need to yell, but it must say in the script that this line should be yelled. It’s a very good script, and he’s a very good actor.
From behind the door, there’s the sound of weeping. Loretta thinks the critics will give them a rave review. Never has an act been so convincing.
