Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 02 Read online

  We cleaned up behind the place, where bushes blocked the line of sight from the road. But since we weren’t in Seattle where our little indiscretion would likely go unnoticed, I had to say, “This isn’t Seattle, you know?” while I picked at my teeth with my pinkie nail.

  “Oh yeah-yeah-yeah … hold on.” Wendy opened her hobo bag and dug around in the bottom, her face twisting and tongue thrusting from the corner with effort. Out came a coupon caddy, garish with neon daisies and a ragged scrunchie barely keeping the bulging thing from an impromptu game of 52-card pick-up. She shuffled through cards, matchbooks and empty condom wrappers with the efficiency of a Vegas dealer until she found the perfect thing for the occasion.

  “Lookie here.” She slipped her arm around me and held the business card up to the streetlight. It had lots of things written on it, but the only thing anyone would see was:

  U.S. DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY

  CITIZENSHIP AND IMMIGRATION SERVICES

  “Nice maguffin.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m just sayin’, people will assume they’re illegal.”

  “But what’s a—”

  “Just toss the goddamn thing and let’s get going.”

  Wendy flicked the card at the wall, where it banked into a puddle of piss still reeking of hops and barley.

  Gil was just around the corner, in an alcove by the garbage and recycling bins, pressed up against a burly homophobe named Gard. Occasionally, but not often, Gil liked to plug his victims before he drained them, if you catch my meaning. Being cursed with the worst man magnet I’d ever seen, Gil seemed to draw out every closeted homosexual within miles of his pres-ence—none of whom were particularly pleasant, yet had no problem grabbing their ankles when their buddies weren’t around.44 Gil gives them the physical release of their dreams, for a price. You can’t blame him—he gets thirsty—as with all tragic relationships, someone’s bound to die. Right?

  Gil tossed it in the dumpster when he finished. Wendy handed him a wet-nap.

  “Did you two forget to say the blessing? Because I’m pretty sure I stepped in poo back there.” He scraped the square-toed black shoe against the curb. The dog feces rolled up like a holiday sponge cake and dropped from the toe.

  Wendy held her palms together in prayer. “We’d like to thank the Lord, Jesus Christ, for minimal tread on Italian loafers.”

  “You’re both going to Hell … and yet I’m amused.” I giggled.

  We all laughed and tramped back to the Win-nebago.45

  By 3:00 A.M. we were rolling along the Interstate, heading east. Next stop, wherever, since we still hadn’t bothered to pick up a road atlas. Gil had chosen to follow in the Volvo, opting for the comfort of the seats. During the previous night, he’d been forced to sleep holding a plank of cardboard over the bathroom window, and complained of a crick in his neck as a result. He insisted heated seats were the cure. And after we’d tin-foiled up the bedroom window in the back of the Winnie for his next hibernation.

  Ingrate.

  By dawn, eastern Washington proved to be nothing to look at. Hills rolled off into flat dusty farmland, already harvested and tilled, like the Evergreen State’s dirty brown secret. There were no trees, very few structures, nothing really to look at; even the few cars, at that time, were stuffed with faces so drawn and exhausted as to be completely uninteresting. Gil locked himself up in the back, Wendy buried her nose in fashion magazines at the table, and Fishhook talked me into driving the Volvo for a while. I didn’t expect that he had anywhere else to go and his social skills pretty much guaranteed he wouldn’t be making many friends, so I went with it.

  The low drone of the engine lulled me into mem-ories.46

  Of Chapstick and diarrhea.

  This is how bad my mother was—probably still is. Oh, who am I kidding? Definitely still is—one year, my father (the real one, not one of Ethel’s scaly substitutions) took us along on one of his trucking routes. It was a cause for celebration, as he’d never brought us before and, thankfully never brought us, again. I was eight at the time and even then into my mother’s makeup, which she loathed.

  “Don’t touch my goddamned mascara, Amanda Shutter. You’ll get germs on it. Do these eyes look like they want germs on ’em?”47

  I didn’t know whether eyes wanted anything, or noses, or ears. But lips—I can tell you—lips want Chap-stick, if for no other reason than to mimic my mother’s lipstick routine. She wasn’t a smearer, nor did she line. Ethel Ellen Frazier was a patter. She’d pat that tube of blood red paste on in the tiniest overlapping circles until her lips were as rosy as a Chinese jewelry box.

  “Dad!” I yelled from the backseat. “Can we pull over and get some Chapstick? My lips are dry.”

  “Sure thing, soon as I see me a 7-Eleven.” Dad’s face was well-lined and tanned, and the cigarette dangling from his lips bobbed with every word. It was a skill.

  “Oh, John. You’re spoiling her, next thing you know, she’ll be hounding us for mini-skirts and alcohol.”

  “She’s eight, woman. She’s not interested in boys or booze.”

  “You keep tellin’ yourself that, Hoss. I know girls. It starts early.” Ethel shot a glance into the back cab, daring me to say something back. She hated backtalk.

  “I’m not interested in—” I began.

  “What? What? What?” She was in one of her moods and normally, I’d acquiesce or she’d come up with some ludicrous punishment like licking hot peppers, or going to the Humane Society on Monday morning, or as she liked to call it Ash Monday.

  “I’m not interested in boys.”

  “What do you know? Nothin’, that’s what.”

  Dad pulled the big rig into a convenience store, and we hopped out. My mother clopped over to a phone booth, lit up a Virginia Slim and sucked at it like a blowgun. My father led me into the store and let me pick out a cherry Chapstick and a Coke-flavored Slush Puppy. He picked up a pack of Winston Kings and when Ethel strode in she flicked her hand in the air and as if she’d spoken, Dad nodded and asked the clerk for a pack of Virginia Slims.

  She came out after us and handed me a chocolate bar. She said, “I’m sorry I’ve been so crabby lately. Here’s a little peace offering.”

  The bar was dark, chewy and rich, but there was a bitter flavor underneath. It wasn’t Hershey’s and I didn’t like it, but I ate a few squares, anyway, because—well— it was chocolate. I rolled it around in my mouth. There was something medicinal about it. Something oily, maybe. Something wrong.

  “How do you like that, back there? Good, huh?” Ethel asked.

  “Mmm hmm.” I spit out the last piece and dropped it into an old McDonald’s bag shoved in the corner.

  Twenty minutes later, the cramps started and then the diarrhea. We pulled over at a truck stop, where I sat on the toilet long enough for both my dangling legs to fall asleep—this made wiping a monumental task. Outside Ethel and Dad were yelling back and forth about something called Ex-Lax.

  See?

  Do you see what it was like?

  No jury would convict me if I just walked into that hospice and put the bitch down. Maybe, we could have her cremated for half price on Ash Monday. I’m sure the Humane Society wouldn’t mind.

  No more quiet moments for me. I needed a distraction. “Wendy!” I yelled. “Get up here and talk to me, the lack of scenery is driving me crazy!”

  “Can we talk about … anything?”

  “Of course. Why do you—”

  “Even the Cosmo sex quiz?” Wendy flopped down in the passenger seat and popped the cover up like a Union banner.

  “Oh God. Except that.”

  “C’mon. It’s been how long since you did it?”

  “Not long, since last month’s edition, anyway.”

  “I’m talking about it.” She bit at the word. I could almost feel the jab of it in my side.

  “Shane was the last time and you know it. I don’t need a man to make me happy. I don’t even think about it. I
don’t.” God I sounded like an idiot. Who was I trying to convince? Not Wendy.

  Shane was the last guy I’d slept with, euphemistically speaking.48 He was a lousy lay and in the end turned out to be a lousy person, so I blew him. Okay, granted that sounded dirty, allow me to reiterate. I mean I blew “the breath” into him. I’ve got this gift. Remember when I said we weren’t like other zombies? Well I’m even more rare.49 I can turn people into zombies with a single exhalation. It’s kind of cool. I only know one other that can do it, and that’s Ricardo. The trick is they’ve got to be alive when it happens. Plus it can be a pretty effective weapon. Vampires like Shane, for instance, can’t handle the pressure in their dead lungs; it kills ’em dead like Raid.

  “Mmm hmm. Question one,” Wendy said. “You meet a guy for a quote coffee date unquote. He’s cute but shy, doesn’t ask questions, or offer anything about himself. You’ve got to do all the work. Do you, ‘A,’ take control of the situation and give him an old-fashioned interrogation, ‘B,’ sit quietly, finish your coffee and thank him for meeting you, quickly quote losing unquote his phone number, or ‘C,’ take him home and fuck the shit out of him, right on your new Egyptian cotton sheets from the French Quarter?”

  “It does not say that.” I snatched at the magazine.

  Wendy pulled it away. “I swear to God it does.”

  “Well, then.” I pretended to consider the options, although there was really only one answer. “A then C and then lose the bastard’s number.”

  Wendy tossed the magazine on the dash. Gwyneth Paltrow or Martin or whatever smiled out of the air-brushed cover. “You’re full of shit. When? When have you ever not strung the guy along? Always confusing sex with a relationship. You totally did that with Shane, and he turned out to be a real monster.”

  “I can be slutty. Is that what you’re asking? I can be slutty.” No I couldn’t. Wendy could be slutty. Totally. But I tended to latch on to people. Which was really new for me, I’d been a loner for so long. but I like to think I was adjusting. “What’s this quiz called anyway?”

  Wendy flipped through the pages. “Are you a man-eater?” she read.

  “Well … duh.”

  We nearly had aneurysms laughing about that one, until a flash of orange shattered our cacklefest. A Ford Mustang, the new kind, the kind that was trying to look old, sped into our lane, causing me to slam on my brakes. The worst of it? The color, of course, it was truly offensive. It’s not the new black, no matter what anyone says. I caught only the slightest glimpse of the driver, a blonde guy. At least his hair coordinated with the car color. It was the nicest thing I could say about the piece of shit.

  I laid on the horn, Wendy leaned forward and flipped a double-bird, and the car sped off. Weaving between a few travelers in the distance. Bastard.

  Wendy’s face was crumpled in concern.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Do you think that was one of the werewolves chasing Gil? I know we haven’t talked about it much, but Markham really seemed to want Gil dead. What if that guy back at the motel was sent to kill him, or worse, all of us.”

  “Maybe you should call Gloria.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I know. It’s possible. Maybe Fishhook’s lie threw them off the scent.”

  “Maybe.” Wendy sucked at her lips.

  An exit was coming up, the signs said Ritzville, though if anything were certain it was that a town in these parts would be anything but ritzy.

  “Pull over. I want to get some Chapstick.”

  “What did you say?”

  “That I need Altoids. I’m out. What’s your damage?” Wendy dug through her purse, tossing out hollow tins and crumpling empty packs of gum.

  “Alright.” This driving was making me crazy. I needed a break, anyway. We pulled off and parked the RV on the road across from a 7-Eleven. Quite a few people were milling around the store. Outside a pretty Asian girl with honey-streaked hair chatted with a ghost-skinned blonde wearing, of all things, white.

  Wendy trod off toward her quarry. Fishhook parked in front of the store and followed her in.

  “Hey!” I cried after them. “Grab a pack of smokes, would ya? All that’s left are these shitty menthols.” I snagged one, crumpled the rest, and tossed the pack in the back of a rusty convertible. I found a spot near the back of the store and lit up, sucking on it like a blowgun.50

  Since the lungs don’t exactly function, smoking has become way more of an oral fixation than when I was living. You’d think I’d garner nothing from the act, since I wasn’t getting any nicotine, and all. But, what can I say? I still enjoyed it. Maybe it was the act itself, the feel of the paper, the curly tendrils of smoke. Who knows? It’s not like it’s bad for me, nor am I recommending brands to children on the schoolyard. So before you start up with your judging, remember, I don’t count your calories, do I?

  Now …

  Here’s how you know you’re in the middle of nowhere: the dust devils are the only movement on the horizon. Such was the case behind the 7-Eleven. It must have been farmland or something, only shit-brown and stretching across eastern Washington like miles of dirty carpet.

  There were three of the swirling miniature tornados, tortured contortionists each. I watched the biggest coil and strike, swirling about and seemingly approaching. Was it actually coming closer? Unfortunately for me, it was. The twister cut a thin line onto the dusty soil, stopped about five feet from me, and slowed to reveal a pale sandy figure, humanish, male and tall, only see-through.

  A ghost.

  The memory of worn stubbly skin stretched across his rugged features. Crow’s feet put him at about forty at the time of his death, or a well-tanned thirty. His eyes barely hung on to a pale blue. Handsome, I supposed, in that intangible, inaccessible, dead kind of way.

  I looked down at my thrift store miracle outfit and noted several flecks of dust on my white shirt. I blew at them and responded appropriately. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Why, I’m comin’ over to say hello, sweetheart, is that a problem?”

  I pointed out the grime on my top. “Uh … yeah. There’s a problem. You’re whipping up manure and chemicals and shit and flinging them at my outfit. I’d say that’s a problem.”

  The ghost perused my shirt, grinning, settling on a long stare at my cleavage. “I am sorry, ma’am, but you’ve got nothin’ to worry about, seein’s this here’s organic soil.”

  “Oh! Well that’s okay then.”

  The ghost moved closer, hands reaching for my chest. “Well maybe I’ll just help you brush those right off.”

  I backed away but collided with the brick wall. I slapped at his hands, but went right through, only succeeding in coating myself with patches of beige grit. His hands found my breasts and passed through Mr. Van Heusen’s hard work. My nipples hardened from the sudden chill.

  “Fucker. You better step back.”

  He giggled. “Or what?”

  “Or … or …” or what, I thought. It’s not like I could hit him. Sure I could take some swings but that wouldn’t do anything. And in the meantime, the spectral bumpkin was deep enough in to scrub out my lungs. “I’ll leave and you’ll have no one that can see or hear you.”

  He withdrew his hands with a jerk leaving two baseball-sized brown spots on the fabric. My outfits were being put through hell. If anyone deserved a shopping spree, it was me.

  “Jesus.” I brushed at the ruined fabric. “You’ve got a lot to learn about courting a woman.”

  “Well, you’re not just any woman, now are you?”

  “You’d know.”

  The ghost eyed his handy work, grinned.

  I crossed my arms across my chest. “So how do you manage to free range? Shouldn’t you be stuck hovering around your grave, or sitting on your tractor or something?”

  He laughed. “I’m a traveler. We’re a pretty rare sort, but you’ll see us around. Spinning, painting these plains, and watching, of course.
My name’s Cort.”

  “I’m Amanda.”

  “Pleasure is all mine.”

  “So does all that spinning make you dizzy?”

  The ghost shoved his fist through the side of his head. “Nope. Not a bit.”

  “Then you’re just normally obnoxious?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And on that note …” I walked off toward the corner of the convenience store and a pair of loafing teens. A greasy-haired youth caged a pale blonde to the wall with his arms, making the kind of snarling open-mouthed gestures that adolescent boys think are sexy. The girl’s skin was as pasty white as an Edward Gorey death.

  Behind me the air began to whistle. The ghost was following. “Where you headed?” he asked after me.

  “None of your business, motherfucker.”

  The boy glanced in my direction. I pretended to search through my purse.

  “Well. If that’s the end of our chat then, I should probably tell you I’ve heard whispers about you.”

  I stopped. “Whispers? What are you talking about?”

  Even the little albino was staring now. But I didn’t care.

  “You travel as much country as I do, you’re bound to hear things here and there. Well, the whispers say trouble’s a-comin’. And from the looks of you, it’s heading your way.”

  “Trouble?” I lowered my voice to a whisper and strolled back to the ashtray.

  “Big trouble.”

  I lit another cigarette. Exhaled through his body. “Care to elaborate?”

  “The word is that you and your friends are drawing a dangerous element to you. Bad energy. That you think you’re running away from evil, but it’s all around you and you’re heading for more.”

  I thought instantly of my mother, thinning out like jerky in the hospice. “You got that right,” I said.

  “You best take care of yourselves. I’ll keep an eye out.”

  “That’s comforting.”

  The air whirred and the dust devil spun off into the field, pulling at the earth until he’d puffed into an impressive funnel. I stepped back from a puff of dust that rolled on the ground like a wave. In the distance, the ghost met up with two other dust devils. They swirled around each other as if in some square dance box step, and then scurried off in opposite directions. Gossip, presumably.