“Hey,” Ryan said. His voice was far away so I pressed the corrugated plastic against my ear.
“Hey,” Mara replied.
“Good evening, Ms. Dorothy,” he said to the cat.
She replied in the kitten’s voice. “Well, hello there, Mr. Ryan!” I winced at Mara’s easy effervescence and the couple’s playful banter. Her silly impersonation of the cat evoked our connection the morning she played dress-up for me. Jealousy burned in my chest like the coil of an electric stove; I longed to strangle Ryan Brosh with the same passion that longed to touch Mara.
“She looks more healthy every day,” he said. “You must be a good mommy.”
A bell jangled; an audible indication he was petting the cat. “It’s nice having a furry animal around when bad things happen.”
“Bad things?” Mara asked.
“Your parents. I heard about the accident.”
“Oh.”
“If you ever need somebody to lean on...” This kid was one rotten cliché after another.
“You’re sweet,” she said. “I’m just glad I learned about it here. The Parkers are super supportive.”
I sensed Ryan’s internal debate: I don’t want Mara to think I’m obsessive. How long have I been down here? Livy’ll think I’m pooping. Maybe just a minute longer? I should really go back upstairs... But walking away from Mara was like breaking your ankle to escape a bear trap. Ryan wasn’t the only kid battling urges, my knuckles were white around the overhead pipe.
“How are– and Whit?”
Mara and Ryan were moving deeper into the guest room and away from my bug. I twisted the volume knob to catch Mara’s reply, but she sounded like she was talking into a plastic jug. “–ood, I –uess.”
Dangit, darnit, son of a bitch!
“Those boys– perverts,” Ryan said.
Mara laughed. “Why?”
“Whenever we –ang out, they’re always talkin–”
Static. I shook the monitor.
“–if they had you all to themselves.”
“–doesn’t sound like them. What did–”
“–really shouldn’t say. –words I would never say in front of a girl. Let’s just say– be normal if they were– high school.”
I let go of the pipe, dropped the monitor to the cardboard control panel, and sat up so quickly that I bashed my head on the pipe I just released. Ryan was a liar!
But I couldn’t tell Mara the truth or she’d know I was spying.
“On– night of the party, James– bragging– read your diary. –guess– pretty desperate.”
Ryan crossed the line. I couldn’t fix the damage, but I could make sure he never did it again.
I wiggled through the tunnel of pink insulation. Just as my hand touched the bedroom hatch, my mother’s voice broke loud and clear over the dining-room walkie.
“That was Norma on the phone.”
Norma was Mrs. Greenfield. My palm froze on the smooth wood as I considered my options.
“I suppose you told her,” Dad replied.
“She thinks we need a restraining order.”
I twirled around on all fours, crawled back to the cardboard box, and grabbed the headset. I could exact my revenge later.
“Against three old ladies?” Dad said. “Sounds a little drastic.”
“Norma overreacts, but how do you think we should handle this?”
“For now, we keep her inside and stick to the original plan. If the demented Golden Girls come back, we call the police and let them handle it.”
“They’re despicable,” Mom said. “Born-again psychos.”
“Now who’s overreacting?”
“You didn’t see the film reel.”
“We don’t know they were the same women.”
I held the monitor to my left ear and the walkie to my right. Despite my efforts to separate the conversations in my mind, the words merged and mingled into a disorienting poem like watching TV with the radio on.
“–didn’t know you could draw.” Ryan’s voice was still choppy.
Mara replied, “I like to doodle.”
“Something’s wrong, David,” Mom said in my right ear.
“Beth?” Dad replied. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know... I can’t describe it.”
Ryan said, “–totally rad,” and shuffled noisily through a pile of paper. “Why– drawing– over and over again?”
“I just like it, silly,” Mara replied.
“What a weirdo. In a good way of course.”
“Honey?” Dad prodded Mom. “Did something happen?”
“I took her to the mall after we found out about her parents... thought it would be a nice distraction...”
“That was sweet.”
“No,” she said. “It wasn’t.”
“–just like basketball!” Mara said in my other ear. “Don’t you– the same shot over and– to get it right?”
“Good point,” Ryan replied. “–not a weirdo!”
Mom continued. “Every store we went to–every boutique and jewelry kiosk–I kept asking her if I could buy her anything. Over and over I pictured her in a certain dress, a special necklace, the perfect pair of high-heels... and she had to talk me out of it every time.”
“You just wanted to make her feel better–”
“If she didn’t stop me, I would have bought the mall.”
Ryan spoke again in my left ear. “Maybe I can give you a ride in my car sometime.”
“Aren’t you– Livy now?” asked Mara.
“Where do you think the urges came from?” asked Dad.
“Doesn’t mean– can’t hang together,” Ryan replied.
Livy’s voice joined the fray. “There you are, sneaky boy.”
“Hey there, cutie,” Ryan replied. “Just coming back up! Wanna chill with us, Mara?”
“I only know one thing for certain...” Mom’s voice trailed off.
“I should stay downstairs,” said Mara. “I need to change Dorothy’s litter box.”
“What is it, hon?” asked Dad.
“Your loss, weirdo!” said Ryan.
“Those women...” said Mom, “they’ll never stop.”
* * *
I was supposed to be editing.
Outside my window, the moon hung like a Christmas ornament behind the branches of a dead tree, painting my tapes, TV, and the tangle of cords in soft white light.
Editing was already a tedious process: studying the shot log, loading the corresponding tape, fast-forwarding to the moment of the first cut, pressing “play” on the camera and “record” on the VCR, watching the same take for the hundredth time, and pressing “stop” on both machines with careful timing. If I made a mistake, I had to rewind the VHS to the end of the previous shot, rewind the camera to the beginning of the botched shot, and start the process over again.
Thanks to Ryan Brosh, my mind had its own thirteen-inch TV, tangle of wires, and spastic rewind button as I processed both conversations again and again and again.
Liar. Perverts. Ferrets. Diary. She knew! What would she say?
Oddly, the bit of dialogue that bothered me most was Ryan’s fascination with Mara’s artwork. Although it was brief, Ryan had glimpsed a part of Mara that I had never seen before. His advantage was frustrating... but maybe I could level the playing field.
I waited until the parlor light vanished from the crack beneath my door, then tugged my nightshirt to cover my undies and abandoned my work in the moonlit room.
The basement was black. Something jabbed the arch of my foot and I swore. It was a Lego–a relic from the twins–and I swept it beneath the couch with my heel.
I tiptoed past the dumbwaiter and exercise equipment to the unfinished guest room. There wasn’t a door, only brass hinges and a burgundy curtain left over from the Red Room scene. Inside, a potpourri of cat turds and citrus spray tickled my nose. I found the pull-string, jerked it, and a twenty-five-watt bulb barely illuminated the white brick wa
lls, concrete floor, and stack of moldy ceiling panels in the far corner. The burgundy curtain was actually a bed sheet we stapled to the rafters. It covered the door frame and half the guest-room wall. A bucket of crayons provided a welcome burst of color. Ten years old at least, their paper sheaths had been stripped by a hundred tiny hands; their brilliant colors defiled by specks of other hues.
Dorothy’s litter box was on the opposite side of the room. Beside it: a naked green cot with Mara’s artwork piled neatly in the center.
I snatched the pages. On top was a drawing of the hill. I flipped to the next page and there it was again, picture after picture of the ominous mound that I first discovered polluting Mara’s diary.
The curtain shifted and Dorothy slunk in. She meandered to the box, squatted, and watched me while she peed.
Some of the drawings depicted a stick figure beside the water tower. Sometimes there were two figures, a boy and a girl, arms reaching toward a blue line at the top of the page that represented sky. (Ryan told Mara the drawings were good. Either he was lying, or beauty was truly in the eye of the beholder.) In one picture, a flying saucer hovered above the hill. In another, an angel.
I was moderately shocked by the repetition of the drawings and Mara’s inherent obsession, though the concept was nothing new. Whit and I rented The Shining last year and covered our eyes as Mrs. Torrance scanned her husband’s repetitive novel, and Close Encounters was one of my all-time-favorite flicks. But there was darker than obsession in Mara’s drawings. For the first time, I realized the disconnect between the girl’s cheery personality and her inner turmoil. I missed it when I read her diary. I missed it when she so easily accepted the news of her parents death. But I saw it now–repressed outrage–evident in the hard-pressed lines of colorful wax.
Dorothy crossed the room, collar jingling with every off-beat step of her mangled paw, and rubbed her side against the curtain. As she pranced away, the hem of the fabric clung to a tuft of fur and revealed–for a split second–crayon on the hidden wall.
I dropped the pages on the cot, took five steps across the room, and peeled back the sheet. A blue ribbon of Crayola sky weaved above my head. Below it: a massive tapestry of Mara’s hill so large that I had to step back to take it all in. I jerked the curtain hard, popping the staples from the rafter. It billowed, then drifted to a puddle at my feet.
The stick-figure girl had been re-imagined on the wall. Her hair was a row of squiggly lines the same shade of yellow as the sun. Her legs were misshapen and disproportional to her awkward torso. Her arms were thrusting upward, beckoning what appeared to be a horse-drawn wagon among the clouds, swooping toward the girl with brilliant orange zig-zags blasting from the sleigh.
I backed up again and Dorothy shrieked when my heel caught the tip of her tail.
“Scat, kitty-cat!” I lifted my foot and she charged through the open door.
“Mara...” I muttered as I pondered the mural, “What the heck is going on.”
* * *
Mara Lynn was in my bed when I returned to my room. The moon that had been illuminating my workspace only minutes ago was now highlighting the summer-brown cheek of a twelve-year-old girl. The rest of her face and body blended in with the shadows and sheets. Her knees hugged her chest and stretched her cotton nightshirt.
A faint click and her finger glowed red. She was holding the baby monitor. I looked to the far wall. The hatch had been opened.
“Scat, kitty-cat?” she said.
The accusation barely sunk in; I was still reeling from the girl sitting on my bed; in the middle of the night; naked beneath that shirt.
“Shouldn’t you be editing?” she asked.
I released my grip from the doorframe and stepped inside. “Why were you going through my stuff?”
“There’s kids in the trees,” she said. “You weren’t in your bed, so I checked the Batcave. Then I heard the baby monitor and listened.” She turned off the device and tossed it to the floor.
I didn’t know which to address first, the zombie-ferrets outside our windows, the drawing of the hill and fiery wagon, or the possibility that Mara knew I was just as ferrety as the rest. “I didn’t read your diary,” I said.
“You think I’m crazy.”
“Huh?”
“You saw my drawings.”
I shrugged, grateful she wasn’t ticked about the bug or Ryan’s claim. “You’ve always been a little crazy,” I joked.
Mara didn’t respond, but hugged her knees and wiggled her toes.
My eyes were still adjusting to the darkness. As Mara’s face became clearer, I saw that her forehead was wet. Drenched. Instinctively, I touched her cheek with the back of my hand. She didn’t flinch, but her eyes found mine and I knew she was afraid.
“You’re burning up,” I said, a phrase stolen from my mom. “Do you feel cold?”
“I’m kinda hot.”
“Probably not a fever, then.” I rolled over, reached into the bottom drawer of my nightstand and pulled out a miniature, battery-powered fan. I flipped the switch and held it to her face.
Mara’s head rose from her kneecaps. Loose strands of hair danced in the mild breeze.
“You think I’m crazy,” she said again.
I put my lips to the fan blades. My words sounded buzzy like a robot. “Maaaraaa, I don’t think you’re craaazyyy.”
She smiled. She leaned to the fan and spoke with adorable, buzzing words. “Great Lakes Faaaaaaaaaamily Diner!”
We laughed until Mara released her knees and toppled to her back. She pinched her nightshirt at the chest and fanned herself with the fabric. I turned off the fan, but she scowled, so I turned it back on and held it to her face.
“It’s from my dream,” she said.
“Huh?”
“The picture, silly goose.”
“You had a dream about a wagon in the sky?”
She rolled her head and faced me. Her hand was still cooling her torso with her nightshirt. “Promise you won’t tell anybody?”
“Promise.”
Mara studied my eyes. She was probably wondering if she could trust me after the escapade with the baby monitor. “Pinky promise?” she asked, then held out her fist and wiggled her pinky.
I nodded. Our pinkies shook.
“Lay down,” she said.
I obeyed. Our bodies didn’t touch, but I felt the warm electrical charge of nearby girl.
“It always starts the same. I’m running through the woods away from the castle.” Mara’s words were so close I could feel her breath. “And I get this excited feeling in my chest and I start to run faster. Then the trees are all around me and I can’t see the house anymore and my heart feels like it might explode right out of my shirt.”
“Were you running to the hill?”
“Always to the hill.”
“What happens when you get there?”
“I climb it. It’s all trees at first. Then sand. There’s this round building at the top–”
“A water tower?”
“Maybe. But when I get there, it’s just me an’ the tower so I wait. Sometimes I wait so long that Livy wakes me up and I tell her to let me sleep just a little longer so I can find out–”
“Find what out?”
“What’s coming.”
My little fan wasn’t helping; the perspiration on Mara’s brow was thicker and the loose strands of hair were wet and matting with the others.
“Sometimes it’s a chariot,” she said. ”All hot and white with flames zipping out the wheels, just like Elijah in the bible.”
I didn’t know the story.
“Sometimes it’s a UFO. Sometimes a ray of light comes out of the clouds and I float right up inside them.”
“Whoa.”
“One time, a bright red hand came out of the dune grass and grabbed my ankle and pulled me under the sand.”
I thought of the scene in Beetlejuice where the claws come out of the dessert and grabs the people’s faces. “Holy Hann
ah,” I muttered.
“I wasn’t afraid,” she said. “Not by any of it.”
“Where do they take you?”
Mara stopped fanning her chest. “I never find out. I wake up and the dream’s over.”
A twig snapped outside my window. Mara rolled her eyes. I dropped the fan, jumped up, bounced across my mattress, and set my chin on the windowsill. Even with a full moon, I could only see branches swaying ever-so-slightly in the wind.
“Forget about ‘em James.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I think they’re–”
From the blackness came a burst of color; a boys face lit for a split second by a flashlight. His eyes were watching me–level with me–so close I could hit him with a rock if I had one to throw. “Who the heck–”
“Ignore them,” Mara said.
I dropped to my bed and scooched to the foot. “I’m gonna tell Dad.”
“No,” she said and sat up. “Not yet.” Mara worked her knees back into her oversized shirt. Her eyes pleaded with mine as her hands rubbed her bare ankles. She was shivering.
“How did they find you?” I asked.
“They’re different. Not the boys from auntie’s house...”
“But we live in the boonies! If you’re not singing anymore, why are they outside your window?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think someone from the party told them?”
“James!” she said. “Cut it out and warm me up.”
I pulled the covers around her body and touched her shoulder.
“I just don’t wanna think about it anymore tonight.” A minute later, the shivering stopped.
I imagine there are only two ways a boy can sleep in the same bed as Mara Lynn: either fully awake–pondering her dreams, relishing every heartbeat and innocent twitch, inching closer and closer until she stirs–or sound asleep, dreamless, as in a womb.
I did the latter.
“James?” she said before I fell asleep.
“Yeah, Mara?”
“The hill...”
“What about it?”
She yawned and snuggled her face in my pillow. “It’s not just a dream.”
* * *
TINK.
I awoke to sunlight and Mara asleep in my bed. She was on her side, facing me, and breathing through her nose.
I kissed her temple. I couldn’t help it.
TINK.
Crap! I thought. What time is it? Do my parents know Mara’s in my bed? “Mara!” I whispered. “Hey, Mara!”