Eleven years ago today Little Girl With Popsicle vanished. This morning someone killed my birds. Maybe these two things don’t have anything to do with each other. The world is full of stuff that doesn’t make sense. But maybe they are connected. How did the Murderer know that so many birds feed in my yard at dawn? Do they know the neighbourhood? These thoughts do not make me feel good.
I make a list. I write at the top: The Murderer. It is not a very long list.
Orange-Juice-Hair Man
Chihuahua Lady
A Stranger
I suck the end of my pencil. Trouble is, I don’t know the neighbours so well. Mommy did. That was her thing, charming people. But they walk in the other direction when they see me coming. I have seen them actually turn around and hurry away. So the Murderer could be out there right now, a couple of houses down, eating pizza or whatever and laughing at me. I add to the list:
The Otter man or His wife or their Children
Men who live in Blue house together
Lady who Smells like Doughnuts
That is almost all the people on the street.
I don’t really think any of them are the Murderer. Some, like the otter family, are on vacation right now.
Our street has a strange name. Sometimes people stop and take pictures of the dented street sign out front. Then they go away, because there’s nothing but the woods beyond.
Slowly I add another name to the list. Ted Bannerman. You never know.
I unlock the closet where I keep the art supplies, and I hide the list carefully under an old box of chalk that Lauren never uses.
I judge people two ways – on how they treat animals, and on what they like to eat. If their favourite food is some kind of salad, they are definitely a bad person. Anything with cheese, they are probably OK.
It is not yet 10 a.m. – I can tell by how the sun shines in at the peepholes in the plywood, throwing coins of light across the floor – and it has been a very bad day already. So I decide to make myself an early lunch. It is my favourite lunch, the best in the world. OK, I should get the recording thingy for this.
Because I’ve been thinking – why shouldn’t I use the tape recorder for my recipes? (Mommy wouldn’t like it, I know. I have that hot feeling on the back of my neck which tells me I am about to be what she used to call a nuisance.)
I unwrap a fresh pack of cassettes. They smell good. I put a new one in the machine. I always wanted to play with it when I was little. The recorder has a big red button like a piano key, which makes a loud click when I press it. Now, I don’t know what to do with Mommy’s old tape, and that upsets me. I can’t throw it away or destroy it – that’s out of the question – but I don’t want to keep it with my nice new cassettes. So I put it back in the closet under the stairs, slide it in there under the newspapers, under Little Girl With Popsicle. OK, ready!
Recipe for Cheese and Honey Sandwich, by Ted Bannerman. Heat oil in a frying pan until it smokes. Butter two slices of bread on both sides. Take some cheddar, I prefer the sliced kind, but you should use whatever you like best. It’s your lunch. Take some honey and spread it over both pieces of bread on one side. Put the cheddar on top of the honey. Put slices of banana on top of the cheddar. Now close the sandwich and fry it in the pan until it’s golden on both sides. When it’s ready shake salt, pepper and chilli sauce all over. Cut it in half. Watch the cheese and honey ooze out. It’s almost a shame to eat it. Ha, ha – almost.
My voice is horrible! Like a weird child with a frog in its belly. Well, I’ll record the recipes but I definitely won’t listen to them again unless I have to.
Recording stuff is the bug man’s idea. He told me to keep a ‘feelings diary’. Those words make me feel alarmed. He made it sound simple. Talk about what happens and how it affects you. Well, that’s out of the question. But it’s good to do the recipes in case I disappear one day and there is no one left to remember them. I’ll do the vinegar and strawberry sandwich tomorrow.
Mommy had certain views on food, but I love it. Once I thought I could be a chef, run a lunch place, maybe. Ted’s – imagine! Or write recipe books. I can’t do any of that because of Lauren and Olivia. They can’t be left alone.
It would be good to talk about these things with someone. (Not the bug man, obviously. It’s very important I don’t show the bug man who I am.) I’d like to share my recipes with a friend but I don’t have any.
I sit on the couch with my sandwich and watch monster trucks. Monster trucks are great. They are loud and they go over things and through things. Nothing stops them. Cheese and trucks. I should be happy. But my mind is full of feathers and beaks. What if I get stuck on a glue trap? What if I just disappear? There is no one to be my witness.
I feel a gentle touch along my side. Olivia pushes her head into my hand then steps up onto my lap with her heavy little velvet feet. She turns and turns again, before settling on my knee. She always knows when I’m upset. Her purr shakes the couch.
‘Come on, kitten,’ I say to her. ‘Time to go to your crate. Lauren is coming.’ Her eyes close and her body goes limp with relaxation.
