Dickens came for me with a pocketful of bullets, and I thought he was the squirrel at first. I was upstairs and heard him stomping around below. And because I’d opened the front door that afternoon -- letting in fresh air, clearing out some of my father’s stink -- I was sure it was the squirrel in the living room, rummaging about, searching for crackers and peanut butter.
But when going downstairs to investigate, I found Dickens -- shirtless, in jeans and flip-flops -- standing in front of my father, gazing with the blue goggles on.
'Hi,' I said, stepping up behind the leather chair.
He glanced at me, flinching. And I expected him to start hugging himself. But he didn”t.
'I’m sorry,” he began. 'I better go -- I didn’t knock and that’s rude -- and it’s getting late already -- so I’ll go, okay?'
His fists tightened. He seemed like the squirrel, jittery and ready to dash for the door.
'You don’t have to go,” I told him.
'Oh,' he said, nodding, 'that’s good -- ’cause I was thinking you should play with me today, okay?”
'Okay,” I said.
And just then I wanted to ask if he’d rescue Classique. I was about to say that his skinny arms could stretch deep inside any hole in the world. But before I had the chance, he said, 'Your daddy sleeps a lot. My momma does too. That’s all she ever does these days.'
I tried imagining Dickens' mom, but Dell filled my mind instead; she was sleeping somewhere in that dim house, or sitting still in a chair, the hood and helmet resting on her lap.
Where was his mother?
'Is she a ghost?'
He shook his head.
'Not anymore, not really -- she’s just a dozer. She’s isn’t as pretty as your daddy. Her hair isn’t nice like his is.”
'It’s only fake,” I said. 'Look-”
I reached over the chair and tugged on the bonnet and blond wig, lifting them a bit.
'That’s funny,” he said, flatly. 'You fooled me ‘cause I didn’t know.”
'Not supposed to be funny,' I replied, straightening the wig, smoothing the coils. 'It was Classique’s idea anyway, it wasn’t my idea. And now she’s in the hole and I can’t get her.”
Dickens pinched his nostrils, fanned the air with a hand.
'He’s spoiled,” he said, his voice sounding nasally. 'He must’ve been sleeping forever.'
'He’s cuttin’ muffins is all.'
'Oh. I guess that’s what it is, I guess. Whatever it is-'
Then he dug in a pocket, removing six bullets. He held them in his palm for me to see.
'I can feed the shark these,' he said. 'If you want, you can help me too. We can’t catch the shark with these but we can lure it. '
He let me hold one; -- gold-colored, rounded at the tip, longer than my fingers. I rubbed the bottom of the shell, remembering how Dell made the hunters unload their rifles. I figured she’d given the bullets to Dickens -- or maybe he stole them when she wasn’t looking.
'All right,” I said, 'I'll help you, but you have to help me later. You have to rescue my friend.”
'I don’t know,” he said. 'I probably can’t do it.'
'It won’t be hard, I promise. She’s in trouble. She’ll get l hurt bad if you can’t save her.”
'Maybe she’s hurt already.'
'Or she’s dying. She’s farther than the ocean, I think.”
'Uh-oh,” he said. 'That’s farther than the moon.'
'And you’re better than a stick or a rake -- you’re the captain!”
'Yeah, I am. I’ve got my own submarine.'
'I know.'
'Her name is Lisa.'
'I know. Will you help me?'
'Can we feed the shark? I’d like to do that. I’d like to play with you too.'
'Then you’ll rescue my friend.'
Dickens shrugged.
'If you’ll show me what to do,' he said, 'in case I don’t understand everything about it. '
'Yes.'
He popped his knuckles and sucked his lip and tilted his head and sighed.
'Okay,” he finally said, moving toward me. 'Okay,” putting his slender hand in my hand.
And off we went -- through the front door, along the porch -- escaping the flatulence of What Rocks. Across the yard. Into the sorghum. Swishing among the grass. Climbing to the tracks. Moving into the tideland, going underwater. Dickens couldn’t have known this -- I was an octopus, he was swimming like a dolphin. If I told him, he might’ve panicked. Then he’d drown for certain and Classique would never be saved. So I didn’t mention that we were beneath the sea, or that there were men miles above us fishing.
Dickens said, 'You get three.'
Three bullets, clanking in my palm.
We crouched on the tracks, downwind from Lisa and the flattened pennies.
'Put them here this way-”
He carefully set each of his bullets on the rail, crosswise, spacing them apart by a foot or so. Then he watched as I did the same on the opposite rail.
'What’ll happen?” I asked.
Dickens puffed his cheeks. He made an erupting noise and clapped his hands together.
'The end of the world,” he said.
'The monster shark will die?'
'No. The shark never dies. It eats bullets like candy, I think.'
I thought of bullets shooting in the shark’s mouth, exploding, a snack.
'If we had a gun we could kill it,” I said.
'No way,” he said. 'l can’t use guns. I can’t or I’ll get walloped.”
Walloped?
'What’s that?'
'Like this-”
Dickens slapped his chin, twice, striking himself so hard the second time that he nearly lost his balance. Then his skin turned bright pink, burning with the imprint of his fingers, and he rubbed his chin, frowning.
'I got walloped plenty, ” I told him. 'At least a thousand.”
'Me too,” he said. 'It’s big business, my sister says. She only does it when I'm wrong -- which is a lot, I guess.'
Dell hit Dickens. She was a walloper, like my mother.
'You miserable creep,' I heard her telling him. 'What good are you? Explain that to me. I never liked you, I never did, you know.”
And there was Dickens -- hugging himself, cowering in a corner of their house -- talking in his spooked voice, 'I’m sorry, I’m sorry, don’t-'
He took my hand.
'We better go. Monster shark catches us here and we’re doomed. We better hide.”
Off we went again; Dickens leading the way, me wondering if he massaged Dell’s legs at night. All I could think of was flesh being grabbed and pressed-and an arm raised, ready to swing, poised for the slightest of transgressions.
'Bad dog!'
That’s what my mother often said, what she’d call me; sometimes she was joking, mostly she was serious.
'Bad dog! Bad dog!”
What had I done now? Massaged too hard? Massaged too soft? Massaged in one place too long?
