“Not to eat bad grass,” the turtle said.
They were sitting around the tree stump, drinking flat beer out of Styrofoam cups, and the bear, who'd found the precious liquid scattered among pieces of charred wood, seemed already a little drunk.
“Here, here,” he lifted his cup, “I'll sing you a song. . It was sad. It was sad. It was sad when the Titanic went down. Men and women lost their lives, even little babies died. It was sad when the Titanic went down.”
“Why are you always so gloomy?” asked the caterpillar. “This is a birthday party, not a funeral.”
The turtle looked depressed. Her husband had died not long ago and the funeral had been a fiasco.
“Cheer up,” the bear said. “Today you're sixty-seven.”
“Seventy-six,” the caterpillar corrected him, “and remember what Lincoln said, ‘If this is coffee, I'll have tea, if this is tea, I'll have coffee.’”
The bear and the turtle looked at him blankly. “Could you explicate?” the bear asked.
“Oh, you know Abe,” the caterpillar said. “He was a nice man, though not always coherent.”
But there was nothing to be done; the turtle was depressed, the big barroom bags under her eyes sagged, and she got teary. “Looks like rain,” she said, glancing up at the sky.
“Yes,” the caterpillar nodded, “everyone make sure to stay away from the swing set because it attracts lightning. If you touch a door handle and it's hot, never go into the hall; and if someone catches on fire, wrap them up quickly in a blanket. Don't go in the water if you hear thunder and try not to be at the top of any trees. Put out all campfires with water and don't throw your cigars into dry grass. Always watch out for stranger danger and be careful if you've had a big meal and feel light-headed and your blood turns into heavy cream. Don't take any pills the troll gives you.”
The ones she'd taken earlier made it impossible to keep awake. Water moved against the shore in its white noise way and she heard a buzzing sound that at first she took for a fly inside the van, then a giant dragonfly hovering outside the passenger window, and then a speedboat towing water-skiers.
The back door swung open and bright light shone in her eyes. She felt her pupils quickly retract and she turned her head.
“You'll like her,” the troll said. “She lies still.” Water licked the wooden poles of the dock, where blue crabs fed on algae and barnacles, and nobody said anything. They like me, she thought, because I lie still.
And a new voice said, “That's Sandy Patrick.”
“Down here nobody will know the difference,” the troll said.
“What, are you crazy?” the man asked. “She's on the news once a week.”
“You didn't take the other one either,” the troll said bitterly.
“She was too old and he don't like them to have tattoos,” the man said. And then the light was gone. The hue under her eyelids changed from orange to wavering black. She was four and had wet her bed again. They like me because I lie still. If the bed gets wet, throw the sheets on the floor, throw the afghan; then it will dry but the whole place will smell of urine. The man who owns this mattress puts water onto the bed. And it's horrible to sit all night in a wet diaper, but if you wet your underwear just try to go before bed. They like me, Sandy thought, because I lie still.
“Bad luck,” the man said. He and the troll had walked around to the front of the van. “Call us if you got something we should know about.”
The troll got in and slammed the door, turned on the engine, glanced at her in the rearview window.
“Never put your finger in an electrical socket,” the caterpillar continued, “and look both ways before you cross the street. Don't swim on a full stomach because you might get a cramp and watch out for swaying weeds at the bottom of the lake, because sometimes tendrils catch your feet and pull you down. Wash your hands after you go to the bathroom and don't eat moldy bread. Never play with matches, hold sparklers at arm's length and scissor blades together and pointing down, and never run at the pool. Don't eat things you find in the medicine chest — it's not food, it's scientific — and always, always wear your seat belt.”
“Home again, home again,” the troll shouted with glee, “jiggidy-jiggidy-jiggidy-gee.”
Seven: GINGER
All night long weather fronts battled for the soul of the house. The doorknob shuddered and wind tried to get at her, invading the glassy installation, snaking through vents in the paneling. Wet leaves, twigs, and tiny wood chips were strewn all over the backyard. A big branch hung off the walnut tree just outside her window, its pulpy-colored wood swarming with earwigs and centipedes. Underneath one of her mother's breasts, cancer broke through like bubbles of steak fat, so tender and oozy that they went through a box of cornstarch every day.
When she was younger, she'd dreamed of Christ's body, the holes in his palms and between the tendons of his feet, but not only the gross parts, the sexy parts too, his flat stomach, even his cock. Nobody ever talked about that, the slight sheen of sweat on his red ball sac, the fine wrinkled skin in the crack of his ass. When you die your soul slips into a pitcher of water or the moisture inside a cat's eye; the soul waits until the body's buried or burned, then wanders the world looking for a human or animal who wants to have a baby. Sometimes the soul flies off to heaven, through the hospital window and up like a plastic grocery bag caught in a gust of wind. Or the soul goes with you right into the ground, becomes one with nature, growing up in every blade of grass and falling with every raindrop. The souls of the earth mingle and that's why nature tingles with intelligence, why ice covering a pond seems like more than frozen water.
The phone rang upstairs. The jangly cadence made her think of Mulhoffer's face, and she pulled the flannel flap of the sleeping bag up against her neck and puzzled a second until she remembered the trustees’ meeting and how her father asked her to get there early, have coffee ready, and arrange some butter cookies on the silver platter. He figured waiting on the trustees graciously would soften their hearts and bring her back into favor. But she heard his car pull out of the driveway hours ago. A current of anxiety cut through her stomach. Once again, she totally fucked up.
Trucks whipped past, trailing ribbons of exhaust, splashing mud over the soft shoulder. She passed the mall; only a few dozen cars dotted the parking lot. The place had deterioated to several empty storefronts and third-rate chains. It might go bust. The mayor was already talking about turning it into a health club or a high school annex.
Rainwater puddled in the drainage ditch outside the church, and she had to straddle the muddy water to reach the latch on the big aluminum mailbox. Just a catalogue for Sunday school supplies and a flier advertising cheap group rates to Sweden. Tucking both under her arm, she ran up the wet asphalt. It was littered with wind-blown leaves and wet chrysanthemum petals, soggy gladiola, and shriveled carnations that had blown out of the Dumpster.
Her father's car was gone, as were the trustees’. The meeting must have been long over and she guessed her father was making up for yesterday and visiting the sick. There was a car parked near the door, one she didn't recognize, and this made her apprehensive about going into the church. A trustee might be waiting to ask if her dad's car had air conditioning, if he drank wine around the house or spent lots of money on new clothes. Once when she was little, playing communion with her dolls on the altar, a trustee came into the church and said she had no respect for Jesus. Inside, the butter-colored Ford was meticulously clean. A small plastic garbage bag hung from the radio dial and a shoe box of inspirational tapes by Depak Chopra and Mary Anne Williamson were arranged alphabetically. It was probably Mrs. Mulhoffer's car; she came by often to fiddle with the plastic altar covers, to settle everything in the sacristy to her touch.