Mosquitoland (22 page)

It's love.

I don't say any of this, but not because I'm afraid. Wrapped up in Beck, I might never know fear again. I don't say it because I don't have to. Beck sees what it is.

I feel his weight shift on the bed; he rolls sideways, toward me, his face hovering over mine. We stare at each other for a second, silent, unmoving. I drink his green eyes, shiner and all. I drink his sharp nose, his jaw covered in desert-island stubble. I drink his eyebrows, thick and just the right amount of wild.

And I sense the move before it comes.

Beck leans in, slowly, and kisses my forehead. It isn't brief, but it's gentle, and full of sadness and gladness and everything in between. The sensation of his stubble lingers long after his lips are gone. His breath is robust and pleasant, how I imagine a ski lodge might smell, or a late-night jazz club. And just as I'm wondering how it would smell-taste-feel to have his lips pressed against my own, to feel his weight on top of me, to forever reunite Madagascar with Africa—he whispers the answer to last night's question.

“I'm too old for you, Mim.”

Another kiss on the forehead, lighter this time, and he's gone. He pushes himself off the bed. In the semidarkness, I watch him step over to the couch and lie down. That's that. Game over. My fortress of passion crumbles around me, the most ruined of ruins.

And then, with nothing but two soft words from across a stained room, Beck rebuilds it. “For now.”

Olfactory Lane

September 5—morning

Dear Isabel,

In my very first letter to you, I declared myself incapable of fluff. And it's true. On a typical day, you might even say I'm unfluffable. (Oh God, will you please?) But I'm not quite myself this morning, which is to say I'm feeling spry. Peppy. Full of morning-person stuff, and yes, even a little fluff. So, taking advantage of this rare a.m. energy, I reread some of my previous letters, and would like to, hereforthwith, attach a few amendments. I hope you don't mind. Actually . . .

Amendment, the First
—In reference to these amendments, I just said, “
I hope you don't mind
.” I really don't give a rip one way or the other. Until delivered, the letter belongs to the author. I will attach amendments, as it is my right to do so, and whether you mind or not. (
Le
Boom.)

Amendment, the Second
—On September 1, I wrote this about pain: “
. . . I know it's the only thing between me and the most pitiful of all species—the Generics.
” While it's true that pain will keep you from becoming a Generic, I take back what I said about that particular group being “the most pitiful of all species.” Make no mistake, of all the despicable qualities available to a person, trying to be something you're not is by far the most pitiful. (I would know.)

Amendment, the Third
—On September 2, I wrote,
“
I don't think a vivid imagination is all it's cracked up to be
.” I went even further, lamenting the burden of having such an imagination. I've thought about it, and in light of a few recent developments, would like for you to ignore everything I've written as it relates to imaginations. I wouldn't trade mine for a single ounce of practicality.

Amendment, the Fourth
—In my last letter, I wrote, “
. . . most people are egotistical, neurotic, self-absorbed peons, insistent on wearing near-sighted glasses in a far-sighted world
.” Ha-ha. How very Mim of me. Chock-full of cutting cynicism and wit, no? Well. While I hold to this general sentiment, it's possible I've underrepresented a certain demographic: Good People. There are a few out there. And, okay, I promise not to go on and on about this (lest you think I'm a card-carrying member of the Generics), but if I don't tell you about one of these Good People, my head might explode. It won't be all,
dear diary, I met this boy and he's like, so totally hott, and now my life has, like, total value and stuff! Lol
.

Instant nausea, right? Right. Still though . . .

I met a boy. And he is, like, so totally hott. And stuff. Laugh out loud.

My fetching photog. My heroically flawed Knight in Navy Nylon. My New Pangaea. His name is Beck, and he's beautiful, intelligent, and kind. He challenges my spirit while comforting my everything else. Beck is teaching me how to be a better person, and when you find someone who inspires you like that, you hold on for dear life.

The last thing I'll say about him is that he's my friend. I know it sounds cheesy, but I'd rather have that than all the rest. I've made some royal mistakes in this life, but one in particular trumps the rest. The remedy for this mistake is so simple it's maddening, so important, I'm going to underline, capitalize, and cursify.

Ready?

Here it is.

DO NOT UNDERESTIMATE THE VALUE OF FRIENDS
.

Any elaboration, I fear, will only serve to detract from the powerful simplicity of the statement. So we'll leave it at that for now.

Signing Off,

Mary Iris Malone,
Part-time Morning Person

*****

THERE ARE FEW
things more depressing than seeing your childhood home gutted. The coffee table with a thousand ringlets of stained condensation—gone. The watercolors purchased from, literally, a scam
artiste
on the streets of Paris—gone. The stained love seat no one could remember purchasing, yet everyone insisted on keeping—gone. No furniture. No lights. No life.

“I don't think anyone's here,” says Beck, shaking the digital lock attached to the doorknob.

I pull my face away from the front bay window of a darkened 18 Meadow Lane and swallow through the knot in my throat. “I mean it's a great house, what's the holdup?”

Beck walks over to the
FOR SALE
sign, sticks his hands in one pocket, then another. “Shit.”

“What?”

He jogs up to the truck and digs around in his duffel bag. “I must have left my phone at the motel.”

I pull my own phone out of my bag and walk over to the sign. “Beck, Beck, Beck. You'd lose your head if it wasn't attached.”

“You mean my arm?”

We smile at each other, recalling one of our first conversations. I'd never tell Beck this, but I've come to think of that as our first date, complete with dinner (apples) and a show (Walt's Rubik's jig).

I dial the number on the sign, but no one answers. Lying over the phone is hard enough, but a voice-mail lie . . . I don't think I have that kind of prowess in me right now. I turn up the ringer and check my call log. I only cleared it once, back in Nashville. Since then, Kathy has called sixty-eight times. (Stevie Wonder must be developing inflamed throat nodules.)

Walt is humming to himself, walking around, and staring intently at the ground.

“Walt,” says Beck, “you okay?”

He doesn't answer. By the driveway now, he's walking in figure eights, humming, looking down at his feet, and just when I wonder if he's sick again, he stops dead in his tracks, and throws a finger up in the air. “Got it!”

Beck and I glance at each other as Walt picks up a stone the size of a softball.

“Walt?” says Beck. “What're you doing, man?”

Suddenly, in an all-out sprint, Walt charges the front door.

“Walt, wait!”

But it's too late. In one fluid motion, he swings the rock down on the handle, knocking the digital lock, along with the doorknob, clean off. Looking back toward me with, no kidding, the winningest grin ever, he bows low to the ground, then gestures for me to enter. “Ladies first,” he says.

Beck smiles at me as I pass. “Kid's full of surprises.”

Inside my old house, a wave of musky familiarity rushes into my nostrils, and like that, I'm home. I feel Beck's hand in mine, and while I'm beyond grateful for his presence, his touch, I need to do this alone. As if reading my mind, he gives a little squeeze, and lets go. “We're gonna drive back to the motel real quick. See if they have my phone. You okay?”

I nod. “You'll be back?”

“Definitely.” He gives me a little hug, throws his arm around Walt, and disappears out the front door.

I REMEMBER HEARING
once that the section of the brain that triggers sense of smell is located next to the section where memories are stored. In this way, a person can literally smell a memory. (Maybe Beck is right. Maybe the body, in its enigmatic miraculousness, truly is of the divine.)

Standing alone in the middle of my old living room, I suddenly find myself craving cashews and bloody video games. I remember . . .

One Christmas, years ago, Mom went through something of an eighteenth-century kick and decided to decorate our Christmas tree with real candles instead of electric lights. The tree burned down, scorching the carpet and leaving behind a peculiar, not altogether unpleasant, musky pine scent. That was also the Christmas I received a new PlayStation and discovered the delicious cashew.

I push aside my bangs, then stick my hand in my pocket and grip the war paint. As an afterthought, I touch my dead eye to make sure it's open. I may not be able to see the difference, but sometimes, it's just nice to know everything is in its right place. Inhaling the musk, the tree ash, the happier times, I put my head down and let my strappy high-tops lead the way.

In the dining room now, the smell of musk gives way to a different kind of smokiness. Across the room, I open a window; my nose burns and the back of my tongue goes numb. I remember . . .

I couldn't have been more than nine years old when I discovered Dad smoking in secret. I guess Mom knew, but it was a secret from me. He was right here, blowing smoke out the window when I asked if I could try one. He held out the pack with a grin on his face. “
Sure
,” he said. I studied him suspiciously. “
What's the catch?
” I asked. “
No catch. Go ahead.
” I pulled out a cigarette, surprised by how light it felt in my fingers. Dad lit the end, then told me to breathe in deep. I followed his instructions and inhaled deeply, deciding Dad was way cooler than I'd given him credit for. This was immediately followed by my hacking my lungs out, then throwing up on my mother's favorite Venetian blinds. I couldn't taste anything for a week. It was my first and last cigarette.

Out on the back deck, I take in the fragrant yard: the chrysanthemums, the slight sweetness of fertilizer, the fall mastery of dying summer dirt. Instinctively, I look around for lightning bugs and feel unending loneliness. I remember . . .

Hot summer nights, at dusk, Dad would shove a Wiffle ball bat in my hands and show me how to smack the hell out of lightning bugs. A direct hit, he said, was rewarded with a splattering of neon goo. He called it Goo Ball. I always knew he wanted a son, but it was never more obvious than on Goo Ball nights. (I usually missed on purpose, poor things.)

And there—on the far right-hand side of the yard—the detached garage. I smell cheap beer and turtle wax. So many memories of my father washing and rewashing his precious, never-used motorcycle while Mom and I listened to records. And the old College Couch, which, like me, has been hauled south. I turn back to the house, thinking about the last conversation I had on that couch. I wouldn't be one bit surprised to find more mischief than cotton tucked inside those plaid cushions.

Back inside, I peer at the door to the basement: tall and weighty, like a prison gate in some medieval movie. And its lock, forever broken, hanging there like nothing ever happened. Like my whole world didn't fall apart down in that basement. Beyond that door, there will be no aromatic reminiscing.

Deep breath. And again. Now walk.

I head for the other staircase, the safe one, the one going up. Fourteen steps, just like I remember. At the top landing, I duck to avoid the slanted ceiling, pass the crawl space/storage closet (a nook I once sleep-pissed in), and walk straight into my old bedroom. I absorb the curled edges of the wallpaper, and the browned bloodstain in the corner (my first period). My unnecessary bunk bed is gone. My debauched
Titanic
poster is gone. My typewriter, my futon, my vinyl collection, my lava lamp—all the
stuff
is gone, but the essence of the room is the same. At least, to me it is. I saunter, I ponder, I inhale. The scented recipe of my room is equal parts Neutrogena, salty tears, and awkward self-discovery. I remember . . .

In eighth grade, Tommy McDougal dumped me by the tetherball pole. (The one with no tetherball.) He said I looked like a boy. He said I didn't have breasts. He said I was a nerd. He said he didn't want to go out with someone who used bigger words than he did. I said I hoped he was prepared to copulate himself for the rest of his life, which I'd hoped would work on a number of levels, but as he didn't understand the word, only worked on one: making me feel even worse. That night I locked myself in this room and sobbed, alternating between Elvis (circa
Heartbreak Hotel
) and Elliott Smith (circa
Either/Or
). I did the same thing when Erik-with-a-kay dumped me, and the same thing when the fights got loud, and the same thing when I just needed noise to drown out the factory of my insides. It's sad really. I poured out a lifetime of tears in the springtime of my life with no one but my musical anomalies to feel my pain.

Moving on.

Down the hall, I walk inside my parents' bedroom. It is potpourri. It is perfume. It is ratty slippers. Like a lost little orphan, Mom's vanity sits alone in the far corner, the only piece of furniture left in the house. Impulses screaming, I walk over and pull the war paint from my pocket.

This is it.

Ground Zero.

My mother's lipstick. My mother's bedroom. My mother's vanity.

I wonder: What would it be like if she walked in the room right now? If she found me painting my face like some politically incorrect Cherokee chieftess? What would I tell her? The truth, I hope. That in my longing for originality and relational honesty and a hundred other I-don't-know-whats, this action, while strange and socially awkward, makes more sense than just about anything else in my world. And even though it's cryptic and more than a little odd, sometimes cryptic and odd are better than lying down for the Man. Maybe I would tell her how the war paint helped get me through a time when I felt like no one else cared about what I wanted, or who I was. Maybe I could muster the courage to speak those words so few people are able to say:
I don't know why I do the things I do. It's like that sometimes.