Just J (8 page)

“Where's the garlic?” I ask him.

“In the potatoes. Do you like garlic?”

“Mom used to cook with a lot of garlic.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“I guess,” I respond. I try and remain indifferent when–ever possible. It makes it easier for me to change my mind without risking ridicule.

“Art, do you…?” I want to ask if being called an albino bothers him. I want to ask what it's like. I want to ask a lot of things, but all the words are stuck at the bottom of my throat, arguing with each other as to who's going to go first, all terrified of what they may face.

“Nothing,” I finally say.

He smiles and checks the potatoes with a fork. “Okay.”

“I mean…never mind.”

“When words become land mines, even your allies have to watch their step. I assure you that this field has been swept.”

“Do you mind being called an albino?” I blurt out.

“It all depends on which adjective is attached,” he says, smiling. “It's not the word that offends, or at least it shouldn't be. It's the sentiment behind it.”

“That's kind of what he said.”

“Who?”

“The boy in the dunes.”

“A boy in the dunes, eh?” he says, his smile now telling me there are more uncomfortable questions on the way— this time directed at me.

“There you are,” Aunt Guin says, just in the nick of time. She's balancing a bottle of wine and a Coke on some plates. I jump up to help her.

“I was starting to get worried,” she says.

“I thought you had too much faith to ever worry,” Art says playfully.

“It's not faith that saves me but a complete lack of understanding,” Aunt Guin says.

“Knowing you know nothing is the greatest under–standing of all,” Art replies.

“So you're saying that by knowing I know nothing, I know everything there is to know. That's quite a paradox,”

Aunt Guin says.

“It'd have to be. One duck would never be enough.”

Aunt Guin looks over to the grill. “I see you're having bull tonight.”

“You can say that again,” I say under my breath, but not far enough under, and they both look over at me, then back at each other.

“She may have a point,” Art says.

“There's no way of knowing,” Aunt Guin replies, and I catch them smiling.

Chapter Fourteen

A
fter dinner we sit around the campfire. It hypnotizes me as I watch the flames closest to the wood sway gently while those farthest from the embers reach desper–ately for the sky. The occasional spark actually breaks away into the night to become one of the billions of stars that decorate the hemisphere.

I've never seen so many stars, and I find their infinity intimidating. Whenever I watch a movie that shows the night sky in the country, I always think it's digitally enhanced. Now that I see it, it could almost make you believe in heaven. It could almost make you believe in any–thing.

“J—J!” I hear a voice in the distance and turn to find Aunt Guin sitting right beside me. “Art's going to bed.”

“What?” I ask as I slowly return from space.

I look over to see Art standing up and waving at me. I get the feeling that he's been trying to say goodnight for some time.

Dazed, I watch as a friendly smile crosses his ghostly face. He almost glows in the firelight, and his eyes, framed by the flames' dancing reflection in his round wire glasses, look positively mystical. I find myself staring at him, not out of curiosity but wonder. His expression shows that he doesn't mind, he can sense the sentiment behind my gaze.

“Good night,” he says, breaking the spell.

“Night,” I reply.

He turns to Aunt Guin. “You're sure you don't want the van? I don't mind.”

“No,” she assures him. “We'll be fine out here.”

The idea of sleeping outdoors should bother me, but it doesn't.

The warmth of the fire embraces me while the stars watch over me from far overhead. The crackle of the fire–wood keeps time for a lullaby of crickets and frogs. Waves roll in and the lake massages the sand. The world stops spinning and begins to gently rock back and forth. I want to stay right here—as long as it's not for more than one night, maybe two. There's only so much nature a girl can take.

With Art gone, Aunt Guin and I just stare at the fire in silence. Images start to appear in the flames, and the longer I stare, the clearer they become. Faces form, then bodies and then whole scenes start to play out. Some with Mom and they're not nice, they're… “

So, where's the washroom?” I ask, breaking my self-induced trance. Guin looks away from the fire and toward me. Her face is relaxed and she's glowing, but not from the flames. Not directly anyway. Whatever she saw in that fire must have been better than what I saw.

“Inside,” she says calmly.

I look back at the house, where a light is on. Electricity, that's a surprise. But with or without light, the thought of what might be hiding or growing in the bathroom sends shivers through my body despite the fire's warmth. The sheer panic must show on my face.

“Don't worry,” Aunt Guin says comfortingly, “I cleaned it.”

I smile nervously, unwilling to believe anything in that house could ever become clean or even close to it. But I haven't used a washroom in ages, so I'm forced by my mor–tality to find a toilet—and fast.

“Where is it?” The fear in my voice makes Aunt Guin smile. I'm glad I can be such a constant source of entertain–ment.

“Right across from the living room. Just follow the clean smell.”

I give a strained smile at her attempt at humor while cau–tiously making my way to the screened-in back porch that is eerily lit by a single yellow bulb.

My pace is set by a strange combination of fear, which holds me back, and a bursting bladder, which drives me forth. I think this was a tactic the British used to send troops into battle. They'd load them up on rum and tell them that the only washrooms were in enemy hands. Not that I'd had any rum. Just Coke.

I look up and see a small round attic window, which makes the house look like a Cyclops daring me to enter.

Unlike the stars, it isn't comforting. The closer I get to the house, the more I like nature.

Inside the screened-in back porch, I give my eyes a moment to adjust. The darkness in the country is so much darker than the darkness at home. Down the hall I see a sliver of light—my target. As my eyes refocus, I can see that the path between me and my goal is clear. I dash toward it. Once in the washroom, I close and lock the door. The bath–room is large, bright and spotless, judging by my thorough check of the toilet. No matter how badly I need to go, it's never bad enough to put my butt on a disgusting bowl. You could end up with an infection or something. But this bowl doesn't even require toilet tissue on the seat, and there is no need to hover.

While enjoying the release, I look around the room. Aunt Guin seems to have gotten into every crevice on the white tile floor and the blue tile walls. Both look clean despite the cracks and missing chips. The tub is long and deep; its sturdy feet look as if they could hold you up while you soak for hours. There's no shower.

In the corner of the room, a white washbasin and pitcher sit on a square, well-worn wooden table. The sink is a half-moon that's mounted on the wall, without a counter. There's a mirror above it but no medicine cabinet; there is no cup–board. I wonder where the people who lived here before kept their towels and stuff. I picture a tall cabinet next to the table, made from the same kind of wood in a similar design. As I finish up, panic sets in with the realization that there isn't a toilet-paper holder on the wall.

“Perfect, just perfect.”

Looking up, I see a roll on the windowsill. I hate windows in washrooms; they make me nervous. Perhaps it could be changed to stained glass, with frosted glass put in the door to make up for the light that would be lost. While wiping, the picture of a multicolored, spiral-patterned mosaic floor comes to me. And then I flush.

As I open the bathroom door, I can see a flickering light coming from the living room. I must have been too con–cerned with peeing to notice it before. I go to investigate.

A fire sways beneath a cherrywood mantel. The hard–wood floors are perfectly polished and reflect the flames, bringing the whole room to life. Burgundy walls set off the maple trim. A grand piano dominates the corner by the window. In front of the fire I see a brown leather chair with a matching couch next to it. The chair is large, and its arms invite you to curl up in it with a book and drift effortlessly into another world. There are framed classic-movie posters and paintings on the walls. There's no way all this could have been done today.

“Are you all right?” Aunt Guin calls from the outside door.

“How did you do that so quickly?” I turn to her to begin my interrogation. She won't get away with telling me that I wasn't paying attention this time.

“What?” she asks.

“The room.”

“Just some bleach and elbow grease. Art helped.”

I pause, trying to figure out her game. “I don't mean the bathroom.”

“What then?”

“The…” I stop and turn back to the living room, but there is no fire, no cherrywood mantel, no furniture. It's just as it was when I first saw it, smell and all.

“J, what room?”

“Nothing,” I yell back. “I'll be right out.”

“You're sure you're all right?”

“I'll be right out,” I repeat. The door closes while I stare into the empty room. It's lit by a vague trace of moonlight and bathroom light spillover. I think of the roaring fire and I wonder out loud, “Did she do that? Or was it the house?”

And then a third possibility crosses my mind.

“Or was it me?”

Chapter Fifteen

I
awake shivering and run my hand down my clammy arm. The only blanket that covers me is the morning dew. Although the sun is high enough to wake me, it has yet to become hot enough to dry me out.

Aunt Guin walks toward me, holding my salvation in her outstretched hand. I get up to meet her and take the towel.

“I feel like a fish,” I say.

“Good time to go swimming then,” she replies, removing her dress to reveal a forties-style bathing suit. She runs and jumps into the water, carrying something in her hand. As she goes under, whatever she was carrying comes bobbing to the surface. I dry myself off.

“Well, come on,” Aunt Guin says when she surfaces.

“That's all right. Don't much care for a swim first thing,” I tell her as she grabs the unidentified floating object.

“What about a bath?” she says, rubbing her head. As the foam appears, I realize the ufo was nothing more than a bottle of shampoo.

“Isn't that bad for the environment?” I ask.

“It's all natural; so is the soap,” she says, grabbing a bar of soap out of a little mesh bag that was floating beside the bottle.

“I think I'll just use the tub.”

“You can't. Not yet anyway. We have to let the water run for a while first.”

“How long's a while?”

“Day or two anyway.”

“Why?”

“Water's like the mind. If it's not used it becomes stagnant, even poisonous. It has to stay active to be kept healthy and clean.”

“So, no drinking water?” Not that I don't appreciate the philosophy.

“I brought some with us. It's in the fridge.”

I turn and walk toward the house.

“Aren't you coming in?”

“I think I'll skip it.”

“You should start every day fresh,” she says, rubbing her arms with the soap and watching the lather with great fasci–nation.

I decide to share a little of my own wisdom.

“Just so you know, I'm never fresh first thing in the morning, especially when the morning starts first thing.”

That being said, I turn and walk into the house. I can feel her smile on my back.

The fridge looks to be from the fifties, but it's clean, in an off-white, well-aged sort of way. I open the door to find that, aside from an assortment of fruits and vegetables and the half-dozen liter-sized bottles of water, the fridge is empty. I grab one of the bottles and take three nice big refreshing gulps.

I didn't see Mom this morning. Apparently when you sleep outside there is no place between being asleep and being awake; you're either one or the other. I turn and look out the window. Aunt Guin's still playing around in the water. I hear the house door open.

“Mom?” I don't know why I say it, it just comes out. For a second, a split second, I forget.

As Art enters the kitchen, I feel tears form in the corners of my eyes, but I hold onto them with all I've got.

He comes in carrying a basket. He stops at the door and looks at me with a sympathetic smile, but there's no pity in it, for which I'm grateful.

“You okay?”

I nod, holding my breath to help with the tears.

“I got some fresh-baked rolls at the shop down the road. I think they're Pillsbury, but it's the thought, right?”

I force a smile.

“Guin swimming?”

I nod, biting my lower lip.

“I'll go out and see her,” he says awkwardly. He's not really sure what to do, and I can't open my mouth to tell him to go.

Mercifully, he leaves, but on his way out he rubs my back and knocks a couple of the tears loose, sending them tum–bling down my face and into my mouth, filling it with the salty taste of the chips Mom used to buy me.

The second memory-ambush breaks through my weak–ened defenses, crippling me. My own body uses chemical warfare against me as the salt drains the moisture from my mouth. I'm choking, struggling for a new breath. I force myself to inhale deeply. The sweet smell of early summer comes through the open kitchen window, passing through my nose and filling my lungs. The smell almost rescues me, but then I am assaulted with a scent that destroys any thought of a healthy, living Mom and replaces it with the smell of the funeral parlor. I really hate lilies.