The interior of the briefcase appeared to be pure jumble. You could detect pens and scraps of paper and rocks and sticks and the odd plastic dinosaur. A couple M&M’s wrappers, a crushed milk carton, a brown apple core, a ragged bit of stiffened sandwich. Who knew what all else… my stomach went queasy.
He reminded me of something but I couldn’t put my finger on what. So I decided to ignore him and look out the window instead. It wasn’t all that far to El Centro.
A minute later I was watching him again.
He combed through the junk for a minute or so and extracted a ballpoint pen, a piece of string, and a couple pages from a Little Lulu comic. He put the pen inside the pages, rolled it up, and tied it with a piece of string. Then, as quickly as he had created the package, he took it apart and tossed everything back into the stew of weirdness inside the briefcase. Pause. He rifled through again. Now, the worst part was he wasn’t looking at the stuff with his eyes. He was feeling it. Both hands tossed up bits of debris as if sorting through sand for shells, or mud for bits of gold. He hit upon a used kitchen match and the apple core.
Then it sort of clicked, what the display was reminding me of. First idea: voodoo altar. Then, poodle bags. And finally, let’s call a spade a spade, cigar box.
Certain accumulations of objects produced, like bizarre batteries, certain charges of energy.
And that’s a fact.
Okay, so used matches and bits of string and tuna-fish sandwiches may not create the most exquisite of voltages. But they did create something, according to who selected them and how they were collected. This bozo with his briefcase was essentially no different from me and my cigar box. He just didn’t have very good taste.
Outside the window, in the middle of the desert, a large black dog, sleek as the wind and shiny, trotted along with a three-foot stick in his mouth.
I shifted my butt, trying to get comfortable. My jeans felt heavy and clammy and my hair felt lank. I was plunging back into all those things that scared and intrigued me, so I might as well get used to the idea.
What else was voodoo but the combination of powerful objects?
I stroked the gris-gris around my neck, feeling momentarily comforted. Voodoo, the voodoo shop. Now was as good a time as any, and it had to be done. Closing my eyes, holding the gris-gris, and whispering a prayer, I made myself remember.
“So what do we do today?” June demanded over breakfast.
Stan and Linwood exchanged weary adult looks.
We were sitting in the sunlit courtyard of the Royal Orleans, eating breakfast. Green plants glowed greener in the humid air and the fountains rippled. White linen tablecloths. I’d ordered waffles, though, and they were always a big mistake. The idea, waffle, was great, but all that syrup and the constant soggy texture made me feel tired and cheated. At least if you ordered eggs, you got to break up the monotony with potatoes and ketchup and toast, never mind jam.
“Are we going back to Arkansas?”
“Do you want to?” Linwood sipped her coffee. It was amazing how much lipstick came off on the cup.
June hesitated and then her face started to go pink like she was going to cry. “I don’t know.”
“Pet?” Linwood asked.
I pushed a square of waffle raftlike around the shallow lagoon of maple-and-butter gunk. “Everything drags on and on,” I said. What did that mean? “It seems like one day lasts more than a week. How come third grade went by so quick and this year is so slow?”
Stan snorted that unfunny laugh through his nose. He rubbed the sides of his head with the flats of his palms. “Damn good question. Let me know when you figure out the answer.”
“The tin soldier store,” June said. “We could go buy some tin soldiers.”
“What for?” Linwood asked curiously.
“For the poodles.”
“For the poodles?” Stan repeated.
June’s face was pink, and then the tears started oozing down. None of that wide-mouthed bellowing stuff—this was real pain, the genuine article.
This was what I felt: We can’t take any more.
You looked around the table at us and you saw the deflated appearance we had acquired, that of people who have moved to a foreign country and can’t find the things they are used to, not only clothes but also food and sleep. June and I seemed like those kids raised by wolves in the forest, abandoned in the wilderness. We were at the end of some invisible rope. Without thinking, I touched the amulets still in my coat pocket. The rope floated literally before my eyes. There was a cliff too, and then there was nothing. Just an end.
Stan shook his head and lit a cigarette. “That’s a nice idea, sweetheart. But—”
He never called her sweetheart.
“—but the poodles already have so many nice toys. Those soldiers cost a lot, and I’m not sure the poodles would really play with them very much.”
June snuffled glumly. None of this was really about soldiers or poodles or any of that.
I touched my amulets again, wondering why I’d forgotten to put them in the cigar box. I’d do it tonight, without fail.
Linwood freshened her lipstick and shut the compact with a click. “Well, what do we do next?”
It was a good morning for prolonged silences.
“I can call the police again,” Stan offered. “And the airline. I can call Edith and see if she can find anything out from that end.”
Linwood paled. “Not Edith! You know how she feels about Deane. And us.”
“How does she feel about us?” June seemed to have recovered.
Linwood sat up straight and tossed her head as she lit a cigarette. So much for the fresh lipstick. “She thinks Deane is hopeless. A bad seed. And she thinks your father and I are terrible parents.”
Neither June nor I said anything. Stan and Linwood looked kind of expectant, like we were supposed to protest.
I had to say something. “Uh, what’s her idea of a good parent?” I looked down and pushed the disgusting waffle-mush around with my fork.
More exchange of adult looks.
“Church!” Linwood finally snorted. “Sunday school, Bible groups. And we’re not supposed to drink liquor or coffee or smoke cigarettes!”
My heart went out to them. What on earth would they do with all their free time?
“What’s wrong with that?” June demanded. “Think of all the money you’d save.”
The truth was secretly I agreed. But more secretly, I knew that finally I didn’t agree. How can I explain this so it makes sense? The deal was, as a child, you could see that what they did was silly, pretty disgusting, and useless. Who wanted bourbon when you could have a chocolate shake? But sure as anything, this was one of those situations where you just agree that you don’t see clearly. And you hope that one day you will.
“Mrs. Nutter doesn’t smoke or drink.”
There was another silence and then Linwood burst out with one of those noises that you think is a sob but is really an hysterical laugh. “Mrs. Nutter!” she cried weakly, her sides kind of heaving. “Mrs. Nutter!”
Stan joined in, going all red in the face. He had to take off his sunglasses and rub his eyes from merriment, the tears rolling down his face just as June’s had a few minutes before.