Mosquitoland (4 page)

(818 Miles to Go)

Sometimes You Need a Thing

September 1—late afternoon

Dear Isabel,

I am a collection of oddities, a circus of neurons and electrons: my heart is the ringmaster, my soul is the trapeze artist, and the world is my audience. It sounds strange because it is, and it is, because I am strange.

My misplaced epiglottis is Reason #3.

About a year ago, my mother took me to the hospital because I kept throwing up. After running a few tests, the pediatrician told us that my epiglottis was displaced, an uncommon issue, but certainly nothing to lose sleep over. The thing is, when he said
dis
placed, I thought he'd said
mis
placed, which hit me right on the funny bone.
I pictured an absentminded Creator, scratching his head and turning the universe upside down in search of Mim's misplaced epiglottis. The doctor prescribed something, but my infantile esophagus persisted with savage tenacity.

More often than not, I have no control over where and when I throw up, but on rare occasions, I've been able to force the issue. Twice since the move, Dad and Kathy have left me home alone. And both times, I've helped myself to their bedroom. I stood on that horrible Berber carpet and observed their desks bumped up next to each other: a PC for the aspiring political blogger, a Mac for the aspiring romance novelist. Two desk lamps. One unmade bed. Two nightstands, one on either side, both with books and tissues. Half of these things, I recognized, half were foreign. And yet, there they were, mixed together as one, the familiar with the unfamiliar—the family with the unfamily.

That was usually when I threw up. On Kathy's side of the bed. The amount of sanitizer she's gone through, you'd think she was cleaning a gorilla cage.

But as I stated at the beginning of this entry, I am a “collection of oddities,” and one oddity doth not a collection make.

The Great Blinding Eclipse is Reason #4.

A couple years ago, there was a solar eclipse. All the teachers and parents were like,
Whatever you do, don't look directly at the eclipse!
I mean, really, they were just going ape over it. Well, me being the kind of girl I am, I half heard what they said, half thought about it, half processed the information, and half obeyed it. I closed one eye and looked directly at the eclipse with the other.

Now, I'm half blind.

After the initial freak-out, I did what any rational person would do upon discovering a mystery ailment: I went online. Online gave my condition a name (solar retinopathy), a cause (what happens from looking directly into the sun for too long), and a time frame (usually, it doesn't last more than two months). As I mentioned before, this happened a couple of years ago, so I suppose I've made peace with the potential permanency of my condition. (I just realized this paragraph is riddled with parentheses. I suppose I'm just feeling parenthetically inclined right now.)

(Anyway.)

So why do I mention all this? Why are my medical mysteries Reasons? I'm glad you asked. I've developed a theory I like to call the Pain Principle. The gist of it is this: pain makes people who they are.

Look around, Iz. The Generics are everywhere: shiny people with shinier cars, driving fast, talking faster. They use big words to tell fabulous stories in exotic settings. Take this kid at my school, Dustin Somebody-or-other. He talks all the time about his family's “estate.” Not house. Fucking estate. His mother hired a butler/chef named Jean-Claude, who, according to Dustin, gives the entire Somebody-or-other family jujitsu lessons every morning at sunrise. (Followed by pancakes. Dustin never forgets to mention the pancakes.) Now—it would be easy for me to look at Dustin and think,
God, what an interesting life! How I wish it were my own! Woe unto me!

But there's a quality behind Dustin's eyes when he talks, a dimness, like the slow fade of a dying flashlight. Like someone forgot to replace the batteries in Dustin's face. This kind of emptiness can only be filled with heartache and struggle and I-don't-know-what . . . the enormity of things. The shit-stink of life. And neither enormity nor shit-stink can be found in a pancake breakfast. Pain is what matters. Not fast cars or big words or fabulous stories in exotic settings. And certainly not some French-toasted-sunrise-sensei-servant-motherfucker.

I guess what I'm saying is, I've learned to accept my pain as a friend, whatever form it takes. Because I know it's the only thing between me and the most pitiful of all species—the Generics.

One last thing about being half blind, because I'm starting to get on my own nerves about the whole mess: I've never told anyone.

Signing off,

Mary Iris Malone,
the Cycloptic Wonder

ARLENE, WITH HER
wooden box and assorted bouquet of early-bird aromas, and I, with my thoughts bent on the motivations of evil stepmothers, sit by the side of I-55, watching the Greyhound shake. (Carl, after a hasty pull-over, directed us off the bus, then waded shin-deep into what must be a week's worth of sewage.)

I stick my journal in my backpack and dare a glance around. My fellow passengers aren't staring daggers at me, they're staring scimitars: a trendy family of four in matching polos; a painfully ugly blonde, standing at least six-six; two Japanese men in heated argument; Jabba the Gut, his face in a starry sci-fi; the juvenile Brits; a little kid who looks like a Tolkien character; Poncho Man; and dozens of others, jabbering on cell phones, murmuring under their breath, each of them pissed at me for interrupting their super-important journey to Wherever.

“Are you keeping a diary of your travels, dear?”

Sweet Arlene, the Queen Arete of my Odyssey, coils her veiny fingers around that wooden box in a death grip. Her purse, she left on the bus. But not the box.

“Forgive me,” she says, blushing. “I noticed the journal, but I shouldn't pry.”

“No, it's fine. It's a . . . letter, I guess.”

She nods, and for a split second, I think maybe that's the end of it.

“To whom?” she asks.

I sigh and look up at the shaking bus. “You wouldn't believe me if I told you.”

Arlene clears her throat in that way old people do where you can't tell if it's a laugh or a cough or a life-ending gurgle or what. “Would you like to hear where I'm headed?”

Happy for the change of subject, I nod.

“Independence.”

“The land of autonomy,” I whisper, smiling.

She sort of chuckles, but her heart's not in it. “It's a town in Kentucky. My nephew lives up there with his . . . with his boyfriend.”

The way my head whips around, you'd think it was spring-loaded. Not that this is any big thing, but coming from Arlene . . . well, maybe she's not quite as Leave-it-to-Beaver as I thought.

She looks sideways at me now, one corner of her mouth curling up ever so slightly. “His name's Ahab.”

“The boyfriend?” I ask, smile squarely in place.

“No. My nephew. I'm not sure what his . . . boyfriend's name is. I haven't met him yet. They opened a filling station, and it's doing quite well from what Ahab tells me. Though he was a champion swimmer in high school, so I'm not sure why a filling station. But I suppose a man has to make a living.”

This conversation has taken a turn for the surreal. Arlene's gay nephew, a champion swimmer named Ahab, and his unnamed boyfriend, have opened a gas station in Independence, Kentucky, and it's doing quite well from what ole Arlene hears. I don't know what to say. To any of it. I finally land on, “Good for them.”

Arlene looks down at the box, so when she speaks, it looks like she's talking to it. “A while back, my younger sister—that's Ahab's mother—stopped answering his calls. We lived together at the time, and I remember he'd call three, four times a day, but she never answered. When I asked why, she clammed up, started crying. So I called Ahab myself. Asked him what he'd done to make his own mother stop answering his calls. And do you know what he said?”

I shake my head.

“He said, ‘Aunt Arlene, you wouldn't believe me if I told you.'” Arlene's tone changes. “You don't have to tell me about your letters, Mim. They may be private, and if that's the case, you tell me to mind my own business. But don't say I won't believe you. You'd be surprised what I believe these days.”

I consider her story for a moment. “Why'd your sister stop answering Ahab's calls?”

Arlene never takes her eyes off the box. “You know, when I was younger, I thought if I lived long enough, I'd understand things better. But I'm an old woman now, Mim, and I swear, the longer I live, the less things make sense.” She pauses, sets her jaw, continues. “My sister didn't approve. Of the boyfriend. She never said so out loud, but some things speak loud enough on their own.”

For a full minute we sit in silence, watching the bus shake. It takes me that long to process the wisdom of Arlene. “I'll make you a deal,” I say, pointing to the wooden box in her hands. “You tell me what's in there, I'll tell you who I'm writing to.”

Arlene smiles from the box to the bus. “I'm afraid I'd rather not talk about this anymore.”

I'm surprised how disappointed this makes me. And not just because I want to know what's in that box of hers but because I think, deep down, I was ready to tell her about Isabel.

“Yo, missy!” Above the rear tires, Carl's head is sticking out of a little window, his eyes fixed on me. That tuft is looking especially frizzy. “Come on in here,” he says, disappearing back inside the bus.

Every scimitar turns in my direction. I sling my bag over my shoulder, grateful for Arlene's supportive smile, and climb into the belly of the rocking beast.

I've only known two other Carls in my lifetime—an insurgent moonshiner and a record store owner—both of whom taught me important (though very different) life lessons. In my book, Carls are a top-notch species. But easing down the aisle, listening to the grunts and gags of my third Carl, I'm beginning to wonder if the streak has ended. Girding my nostrils, my lungs, my everything else, I poke my head around the corner and gag. The stench isn't terrestrial. It's not even extraterrestrial.

This shit (so to speak) is
mega
terrestrial.

Propped in the corner, a sopping mop leaks unidentified juices into a bucket; Carl's gloves are covered, too, and even though the floor and toilet are pretty well cleaned up, I'd bet all the cash in Kathy's can that this stink isn't going anywhere. It has seeped its way into the very framework of the bus.

I clear my throat, announcing my presence.

Carl's tuft skims the ceiling as he removes his gloves, and tosses them into the mop bucket. “Just wanna make sure you ain't blind.”

My epiglottis flutters. Carl is unaware of the Great Blinding Eclipse, unaware of my solar retinopathy, but . . .

He lights a cigarette, takes a drag, and points to the sign above the sink. “Read that for me, will you?”

Relieved, I read the sign aloud. “Use trash can for paper towels and feminine products. Do not flush.”

“You notice those last three words?” He sticks the cigarette out the window, taps off the ashes, and takes another puff. “They big 'n' bold, ain't they? So. I'm forced to ask . . . you blind?”

In the movie of my life, I flick that cigarette out of his mouth and educate him on the effects of secondhand smoke. Also, how to be nice. Carl is played by Samuel L. Jackson, and I, of course, am portrayed by Madam Kate Winslet.

Okay, Zooey Deschanel, then.

Fine. A young Ellen Page.

“I'm not blind,” I say.

He nods, takes one last drag, and tosses the stub out the window, thus confirming my suspicions: not all Carls are created equal.

After stuffing the mops into a pygmy closet, he leaves me alone in the bathroom.

I stare at my face in the tiny mirror and wish a thousand things. I wish we'd never left Ashland. I wish Mom wasn't sick. I wish we hadn't gone to Denny's that day. I wish Kathy would jump off a cliff. I wish I hadn't thrown away those letters. I wish I hadn't squandered my proof. I wish I still had a tangible I-don't-know-what . . . thing.

I wish wishing were enough, but it's not.

Sometimes you need a thing.

A Metamorphosis Begun

“MIND IF I
sit here?”

A familiar smile shines down on me, sending my epiglottis into orbit. And like that, Poncho Man sits in Arlene's spot.
My
Arlene. He leans over, removes a pair of penny loafers—with actual pennies tucked in the front flaps—and slides them under his chair. (Next to
my
Arlene's purse.) Turning to me with jack-in-the-box enthusiasm, he offers a hand.

“I never properly introduced myself,” he says. “I'm Joe.”

Think quick, Malone.
I point to my right ear and shake my head. “I'm deaf.”

He drops his hand, but his smile goes nowhere. “We talked. In Jackson.”

The old Malone stick-to-itiveness kicks in; I turn to look out the window, pretending not to have heard.

The rest of the passengers file into their seats, the engine rumbles to life, and the bus slowly gains momentum. Wherever Arlene ended up sitting, she'll be getting a purse delivery pronto. I might just camp out in the aisle next to her.

“I've been watching you,” says Poncho Man.

If there are four creepier words in the English language, color me a monkey's uncle.

I watch the slowly passing trees out the window.
You can't hear him, Mary. You're deaf and you can't hear him
.

“Chitchatting with the old lady and the bus driver,” he continues.

If there were sand, I would bury my head in it.

“I know you can hear me.”

If there were wet concrete, I would bury
his
head in it.

“Antoine,” I whisper, still looking out the window.

“What's that?”

“My name.” I turn to look at him. I want to see that phony smile wiped off his face. “It's Antoine.”

Poncho Man (I will not call him
Joe
) does not relinquish his grin. In fact, it's wider than ever. “Not a very good liar, are you?” he says.

“Better than you, I bet.”

He sighs, sits back, and pulls a book out of his poncho. I didn't even know ponchos had pockets. “That's doubtful.”

“Oh yeah, why's that?”

“Because I'm an attorney.”

While I look for his off switch, he goes on and on about his practice in southern Louisiana, which he runs out of a small condo, one he shares with his ex-secretary, now wife, and blah, blah, blah, blah, shoot me now.

“You wanna hear about my latest case?”

I open my mouth into a wide, fake yawn, look directly at him, and blink slowly.

“A while back,” he starts, “one of our biggest clients, you may have heard of them . . .”

I pretend to search for something in my backpack for a full minute.

“. . . and not only that, they wanted to sue for—get this—fraudulent roofing! Hand to God, I can't make this stuff up. So anyway . . .”

I sigh as loud as humanly possible.

“. . . here's the best part—it was the
mother's
company! Can you believe that?”

In the face of Poncho Man's unyielding torrent of absurd babble, I raise my hand.

“Yes?” he says, looking somewhat amused.

“I'm sorry, but you seem to have missed the indicators.”

“Indicators?”

He's smiling again, just like under the canopy back in Mosquitoland. God, this guy's a creep. I can't quite place the why, but I know the what: there's something there, something more than just your run-of-the-mill obnoxious bozo. Either way, it's time to dole out a heavy-handed serving of honesty. Brutal and bold, Mim-style.

“Yeah, listen, I really don't have the energy to point out each of the ways you've shirked the social cues of . . . well, society, so I'm just gonna say this:
I don't care, man
. I've fake yawned, slow blinked, loud sighed, and pretend searched. I considered murdering you, as well as a variety of suicides. Now I'm going to put this in a way I know you'll understand: you stole my friend's seat, and I'd rather die than listen to you speak. My case, counselor, is airtight.”

He's not smiling anymore. “And my sentence,
Your Honor
?” he asks.

I lean my head against the chilly window just in time to watch the sun finish its descent. “A conversational restraining order.”

ARLENE IS, UNWITTINGLY,
one hell of a saboteur. A few minutes after I issued Poncho Man's restraining order, the old gal stopped by to get her purse. Which would have been fine, except she used my name. About a dozen times. Mim this, Mim that, even a couple
How do you spell Mim again
s, which I was just like,
Really?
Needless to say, after she returned to her seat, my case for silence crumbled.

“You a big reader, Mim?” asks Poncho Man, flipping the page of his book. “Food for the brain and the soul.”

The sun set a while ago; most passengers are asleep, but a few, like the idiot next to me, are reading with their overhead spotlights. It's raining again, even harder than before, which makes for an unnerving ride. The windshield wipers on a Greyhound are hypnotic, completely different from those on a car or a truck—like sandpaper on tile.

“So delusional,” whispers Poncho Man. His voice trails off, hangs in the air like a feather. For the first time since my closing argument, I look in his direction. The book he's reading is thin, the binding strung with a loose red yarn, frayed at the top and bottom of the spine.

“What did you say?” I whisper, still staring at the book.

He flips the cover closed, and I see the title:
Individualism Old and New
.

“It's this philosopher,” he says, “John Dewey. The guy is really chappin' my ass.”

It's not the same book. It's not the same book. It's not the same book.

He holds the book toward me. “You interested? Happy to loan.”

Ignoring his offer, I turn to the window and search for the blurred landscape—but it's nighttime now, too dark outside, too light inside. All I can see is my own face, the sharpened lines of my jutting features, my long dark hair. I am more opaque than ever.

I shut my eyes, and in the pure nothingness, Poncho Man's book scrapes a vague childhood memory from the inner rim of my brain. Traveling through synapses and neurotransmitters, the memory is whisked into a delectable roux, now ready to serve: My mother is sitting in her yellow Victorian reading Dickens. I am a tender age, seven, maybe eight, walking around with a milk crate, pretending to buy groceries from our living room.
“And how much for the generic pine nuts?”
I ask in a feminine voice.
“Those are on sale for eighty-two dollars
,
”
I answer myself gruffly. Dad, sitting at his rolltop, assuming I hear nothing because of my age, peers over his Truman biography and frowns.
“You're not worried, Evie?”
he asks.
“About what, Barry?”
says Mom.
“I mean, look at her,”
whispers Dad, closing his book.
“She's acting like a . . .”
His voice trails off, but Mom gets the gist.
“She has no siblings, Barry. What do you expect?”
Dad again, his frown more pronounced, his whisper more intense:
“This is exactly how it started with Iz. Voices and whatnot. Just like this.”
Mom closes her book now.
“Mary is nothing like Isabel.”
My father opens his book again, buries his head in it.
“Your lips to God's ears.”

“Mim?” Poncho Man's voice pulls me back to the present.

“What?”

He raises an eyebrow and half smiles, apparently amused. “You sort of went all . . . catatonic on me. You okay?”

I nod.

“You sure? I could . . . I dunno, maybe there's a doctor on board, or something.” He twists in his seat, as if a man with a stethoscope dangling from his neck might happen to be sitting behind us.

“I said I'm fine.”

Poncho Man licks his thumb, leafs through his book. “Well good, because I was just getting to the good part. You're not going to believe what Dewey says next.”

“I was just getting to the good part, Eve. Here, listen—‘Thought echo, voices heard arguing, voices heard commenting on one's actions, delusions of control, thought withdrawal—'”
My mother interrupts him.
“What are you reading?”
I hear the sound of Dad flipping to the front cover.
“I got it from the library. It's called
Clinical Psychopathology
.”
I am fourteen now, pressing my ear against my parents' bedroom door.
“That thing is bloody ancient, Barry. Is that yarn? It's falling apart at the binding.”
Dad breathes heavily through his nostrils.
“That doesn't make it any less
relevant
, Evie. This guy who wrote it, Kurt Schneider, he's brilliant. Could probably think circles around Makundi. See, look, he's provided a way to differentiate between psychotic behavior and psycho
pathic
behavior.”
I lower my head to peek under the crack of their door. Mom's ratty slippers shuffle across the room.
“Psychopathic behavior? Jesus, Barry.”
Dad sighs.
“I'm just telling you what I saw this afternoon.”
This afternoon, Erik-with-a-kay broke up with me at lunch. Later, when Dad picked me up, I noticed he was acting weird. “
What you saw was our daughter upset over a boy
,” says Mom. It's quiet for a moment. And then—“
Evie 
. . .” Dad's voice is desperate, sad, soft.
“She was asking herself questions, then answering them. Just like Isabel used to.”

“Okay, now I'm worried,” says Poncho Man.

My misplaced epiglottis flutters, then calms, then flutters again. I pull my travel-sized makeup remover from my bag and push past his knees.

I can wait no longer.

Walking down the center aisle, I hear the endless line of massive semis speeding by outside, kicking up giant bursts of rain. In the second to last row, Arlene is passed out on Jabba the Gut's shoulder. He's reading a Philip K. Dick novel, unfazed by his seatmate's baby head.

Inside the bathroom, I slide the latch to
OCCUPIED
.
The light comes on automatically, flooding the tiny room with a sickly yellow tint, as if everything were suddenly jaundiced. In the grimy mirror, I watch as my dead eye closes. This still freaks me out, as my actual perception is unchanged. The only way I know my bad eye is closed is that my good one sees it shut in the mirror.

Mom used to say how pretty I was, but I knew better. Still do. My features, independent of one another, might be considered enviable: strong jaw, full lips, dark eyes and hair, olive-brown skin. The attractive pieces are all there, but jumbled somehow. As if each facial feature stopped just short of its proper destination. I act like I don't care, but I do. I always have. And my God, what wouldn't I give to put the pieces together?

But I'm a Picasso, not a Vermeer.

From my pocket, I pull out my mother's lipstick—my war paint. It's a black tube with a shiny silver ring around the middle. I try my best not to use it in public. Even with a heavy dose of makeup remover, a reddish hue is noticeable around the cheeks, like a manufactured blush. But hue or no, I need this now.

I start with the left cheek, always. This habit is king, and it must be exactly the same, line for line. The first stroke is a two-sided arrow, the point of which touches the bridge of my nose. Then, a broad horizontal line across the forehead. The third stroke is an arrow on my right cheek, mirroring the first one. Next, a thick line down the middle of my face, from the top of my forehead to the bottom of my chin. And lastly, a dot inside both arrows.

“Even Picasso used a little rouge,” I whisper.

And then it happens . . .