odor I can't identify that seems endemic to police cars.
The odor of freak-outedness, perhaps. My left eye is swelling shut and the front
of my body is covered with bruises and cuts and dirt from being tackled by the
larger of the two policemen in an empty lot full of broken glass. The policemen
are standing outside the car talking to the neighbors, at least one of whom
evidently saw me trying to break into the yellow and white Victorian house we
are parked in front of. I don't know where I am in time. I've been here for about
an hour, and I have fucked up completely. I'm very hungry. I'm very tired. I'm
supposed to be in Dr. Quarrie's Shakespeare seminar, but I'm sure I've managed
to miss it. Too bad. We're doing Midsummer Night's Dream.
The upside of this police car is: it's warm and I'm not in Chicago. Chicago's
Finest hate me because I keep disappearing while I'm in custody, and they can't
figure it out. Also I refuse to talk to them, so they still don't know who I am, or
where I live. The day they find out, I'm toast because there are several
outstanding warrants for my arrest: breaking and entering, shoplifting, resisting
arrest, breaking arrest, trespassing, indecent exposure, robbery, und so weiter.
From this one might deduce that I am a very inept criminal, but really the main
problem is that it's so hard to be inconspicuous when you're naked. Stealth and
speed are my main assets and so, when I try to burgle houses in broad daylight
stark naked, sometimes it doesn't work out. I've been arrested seven times, and
so far I've always vanished before they can fingerprint me or take a photo.
The neighbors keep peering in the windows of the police car at me. I don't
care. I don't care. This is taking a long time. Fuck, I hate this. I lean back and close
my eyes.
A car door opens. Cold air-my eyes fly open-for an instant I see the metal grid
that separates the front of the car from the back, the cracked vinyl seats, my hands
in the cuffs, my gooseflesh legs, the flat sky through the windshield, the black
visored hat on the dashboard, the clipboard in the officer's hand, his red face,
tufted graying eyebrows and jowls like drapes-everything shimmers, iridescent,
butter fly-wing colors and the policeman says, "Hey, he's having some kinda
fit-" and my teeth are chattering hard and before my eyes the police car vanishes
and I am lying on my back in my own backyard. Yes. Yes! I fill my lungs with the
sweet September night air. I sit up and rub my wrists, still marked where the
handcuffs were.
I laugh and laugh. I have escaped again! Houdini, Prospero, behold me! for I
am a magician, too.
Nausea overcomes me, and I heave bile onto Kimy's mums.
Saturday, May 14, 1983 (Clare is 11 almost 12)
Clare: It's Mary Christina Heppworth's birthday and all the fifth-grade girls from
St. Basil's are sleeping over at her house. We have pizza and Cokes and fruit
salad for dinner, and Mrs. Heppworth made a big cake shaped like a unicorn's
head with Happy Birthday Mary Christina! in red icing and we sing and Mary
Christina blows out all twelve candles in one blow. I think I know what she
wished for; I think she wished not to get any taller. That's what I would wish if I
were her, anyway. Mary Christina is the tallest person in our class. She's 5'9". Her
mom is a little shorter than her, but her dad is really, really tall. Helen asked
Mary Christina once and she said he's 67". She's the only girl in her family. and
her brothers are all older and shave and they're really tall, too. They make a point
of ignoring us and eating a lot of cake and Patty and Ruth especially giggle a lot
whenever they come where we are. It's so embarrassing. Mary Christina opens
her presents. I got her a green sweater just like my blue one that she liked with
the crocheted collar from Laura Ashley. After dinner we watch The Parent Trap on
video and the Heppworth family kind of hangs around watching us until we all
take turns putting on our pajamas in the second floor bathroom and we crowd
into Mary Christina's room that is decorated totally in pink, even the wall-to-wall
carpet. You get the feeling Mary Christina's parents were really glad to finally
have a girl after all those brothers. We have all brought our sleeping bags, but we
pile them against one wall and sit on Mary Christina's bed and on the floor.
Nancy has a bottle of Peppermint Schnapps and we all drink some. It tastes
awful, and it feels like Vicks VapoRub in my chest. We play Truth or Dare. Ruth
dares Wendy to run down the hall without her top on. Wendy asks Francie what
size bra Lexi, Francie's seventeen-year-old sister, wears. (Answer: 38D.) Francie
asks Gayle what she was doing with Michael Planner at the Dairy Queen last
Saturday. (Answer: eating ice cream. Well, duh.) After a while we all get bored
with Truth or Dare, mainly because it's hard to think of good dares that any of us
will actually do, and because we all pretty much know whatever there is to know
about each other, because we've been going to school together since
kindergarten. Mary Christina says, "Let's do Ouija board," and we all agree,
because it's her party and cause Ouija board is cool. She gets it out of her closet.
The box is all mashed, and the little plastic thing that shows the letters is missing
its plastic window. Henry told me once that he went to a séance and the medium
had her appendix burst in the middle of it and they had to call an ambulance.
The board is only really big enough for two people to do it at once, so Mary
Christina and Helen go first. The rule is you have to ask what you want to know
out loud or it won't work. They each put their fingers on the plastic thing. Helen
looks at Mary Christina, who hesitates and Nancy says, "Ask about Bobby," so
Mary Christina asks, "Does Bobby Duxler like me?" Everybody giggles.
The answer is no, but the Ouija says yes, with a little pushing by Helen. Mary
Christina smiles so hugely I can see her braces, top and bottom. Helen asks if any
boys like her. The Ouija circles around for a while, and then stops on D, A, V.
"David Hanley?" says Patty, and everybody laughs. Dave is the only black kid in
our class. He's real shy and small and he's good at math. "Maybe he'll help you
with long division" says Laura, who is also very shy. Helen laughs. She's terrible
at math. "Here, Clare. You and Ruth try." We take Helen and Mary Christina's
places. Ruth looks at me and I shrug. "I don't know what to ask," I say.
Everybody snickers; how many possible questions are there? But there are so
many things I want to know. Is Mama going to be okay? Why was Daddy yelling at
Etta this morning? Is Henry a real person? Where did Mark hide my French homework?
Ruth says, "What boys like Clare?" I give her a mean look, but she just smiles.
"Don't you want to know?"
"No," I say, but I put my fingers on the white plastic anyway. Ruth puts her
fingers on too and nothing moves. We are both touching the thing very lightly,
we are trying to do it right and not push. Then it starts to move, slow. It goes in
circles, and then stops on H. Then it speeds up. E, N, R, Y. "Henry," says Mary
Christina, "who's Henry?" Helen says, "I don't know, but you're blushing, Clare.
Who is Henry?" I just shake my head, like it's a mystery to me, too. "You ask,
Ruth." She asks (big surprise) who likes her; the Ouija spells out R, I, C, K. I can
feel her pushing. Rick is Mr. Malone, our Science teacher, who has a crush on
Miss Engle, the English teacher. Everybody except Patty laughs; Patty has a crush
on Mr. Malone, too. Ruth and I get up and Laura and Nancy sit down. Nancy has
her back to me, so I can't see her face when she asks, "Who is Henry?" Everybody
looks at me and gets real quiet. I watch the board. Nothing. Just as I'm thinking
I'm safe, the plastic thing starts to move. H, it says. I think maybe it will just spell
Henry again; after all, Nancy and Laura don't know anything about Henry. I don't
even know that much about Henry. Then it goes on: U, S, B, A, N, D. They all
look at me. "Well, I'm not married; I'm only eleven."
"But who's Henry?" wonders Laura. "I don't know. Maybe he's somebody I
haven't met yet." She nods. Everyone is weirded out. I'm very weirded out.
Husband? Husband?
Thursday, April 12, 1984 (Henry is 36, Clare is 12)
Henry: Clare and I are playing chess in the fire circle in the woods. It's a beautiful
spring day, and the woods are alive with birds courting and birds nesting. We
are keeping ourselves out of the way of Clare's family, who are out and about
this afternoon. Clare has been stuck on her move for a while; I took her Queen
Three moves ago and now she is doomed but determined to go down fighting.
She looks up, "Henry, who's your favorite Beatle?"
"John. Of course."
"Why 'of course'?"
"Well, Ringo is okay but kind of a sad sack, you know? And George is a little
too New Age for my taste."
"What's 'New Age'?"
"Oddball religions. Sappy boring music. Pathetic attempts to convince oneself
of the superiority of anything connected with Indians. Non-Western medicine."
"But you don't like regular medicine "
"That's because doctors are always trying to tell me I'm crazy. If I had a broken
arm I would be a big fan of Western medicine."
"What about Paul?"
"Paul is for girls."
Clare smiles, shyly. "I like Paul best."
"Well, you're a girl."
"Why is Paul for girls?"
Tread carefully, I tell myself. "Uh, gee. Paul is, like, the Nice Beatle, you know?"
"Is that bad?"
"No, not at all. But guys are more interested in being cool, and John is the
Cool Beatle."
"Oh. But he's dead."
I laugh. "You can still be cool when you're dead. In fact, it's much easier,
because you aren't getting old and fat and losing your hair."
Clare hums the beginning of "When I'm 64." She moves her rook forward five
spaces. I can checkmate her now, and I point this out to her and she hastily 