all the trash and cleaning material had been crammed into the duffel bags, we moved my father upstairs. Or Dell did. She dragged him across the floor, bumped him up the stairs, and then carried him to my bedroom -- not his -- resting him on my mattress.
'The sleep of the just,' she said. And she kissed his varnished forehead. And I did too.
We sat on the edge of the mattress -- Dell by my father’s head, me by his wrapped feet -- saying nothing for a while. She sighed deeply, whistled for a moment, and then asked if I knew my grandmother.
'No. She died when I wasn’t even born yet.'
'I see,' she said. 'Well, you missed a saint. She tended my sorry body after that bee nearly killed me dead. I owe her my life.'
'Oh,' I said.
That’s why you’re scared of bees, I thought. That’s why you have the hood.
'How come you don’t wear the hood anymore?'
And she explained that bees swarmed by day, slept at night.
'Busy beasts,” she said. 'Buzzy beee-stssss!” she hissed.
She removed her glasses, showing me her pirate-eye. I leaned forward, spotting my reflection on the milky pupil.
'Stung in my own garden,” she said. 'Blinded by a filthy bee. Revenge, I say, for destroying Father’s hives. Poured gas on them all, set them ablaze at midnight?
'Why’d you do that?'
'Ah, well, Father loved his bees, you know. And his bees loved him, I’m sure. Jealous creatures though. Hated Mother. Attacked her in the kitchen. Swarmed through the window. Made her a pin cushion, poor dear. Little stingers dotting her head. Did you know a bee tried crawling up her nose? Pure evil. So Mother’s heart stopped and she never finished the dishes. I found her there in the kitchen. Pumped her chest and got her going again. But she wasn’t the same, no, no. Couldn’t leave her bed. And Father went away -- guilt and misery, I tell myself -- forever disowning me and Dickens and Mother -- and his hives. So I set them ablaze, Rose, in the middle of the night. And now there isn’t a bee alive who wouldn’t want me murdered. And this-'
She shut her good eye, leaving the bad one open.
'-this is revenge.”
'A dead peeper,' I said.
She nodded.
'Dreadful, isn’t it? But I see more than most -- even with eyes closed. Do you know this? Birds and rabbits -- they’re in my dreams -- and children hiding behind bushes, everything you can imagine. Of course, children behind bushes sometimes see more than they should. It’s best minding one’s own business, right? Otherwise, Rose, bad bad things might happen under the sun.'
She'd seen me and Classique. She knew we saw her sucking Patrick’s blood. My face turned bright red. I put my head down. For a second, I considered running, but I didn’t know where to go.
'Horrible,” Dell was saying, sniffing. 'Awful. You reek of the devil, Rose. Come with me.'
I followed her to the porch, where she dug a can of Lysol from a duffel bag and had me stand on the steps.
'Seal your mouth and eyes,” she said. 'Extend your arms and hold your breath.”
She sprayed my dress and legs, my arms and hair, my sneakers and back. The Lysol felt sticky on my skin. And when I opened my mouth and inhaled, the disinfectant made me gag and cough.
'Do your panties,' she instructed, handing me the can.
And as I raised my dress with one hand, spraying my panties with the other, Dell went to the duffel bags. She wound the drawstrings around her fingers, two bags in her left hand, two bags in her right hand. Then she squatted, preparing to lift -- but the squirrel caught her attention. He chattered on the roof, creating a racket.
'Monster!” she shouted. 'Nasty thing!”
She upheaved, rising with the bags. The veins in her neck bulged as she trudged toward me.
'I’m going home,” she said, straining, 'while the bees are still napping. Dickens will fetch the basket tonight. He’ll bring you water and food. Tomorrow I’ll come for that nasty creature, that diseased brute.”
She staggered past me, grunting as she ambled through the yard.
'Bye,” I said, waving the Lysol can. 'I’ll guard your spray. And I really like your cake too.'
And the next day, I watched from an upstairs window as Dell readied her ambush. It was like something in a cartoon -- twine tied to a stick in the yard, a stick set vertical -- propped between the ground and an upturned crate -- and the twine ceiling away, stretching into the Johnsongrass, where she now waited to spring her trap. And there on a plate, beneath the half-cocked crate, a carrot or an onion or a chunk of wood? I couldn’t tell. Then scampering over the roof, along the awning, down into the yard--how long did it take? Longer than a cartoon, I suppose, shorter than Romper Room. The squirrel was careful, not too fast, approaching the crate in furtive darts and sudden stops, sniffing as he crept toward the plate.
'Watch out,' I said.
The twine tightened. The stick collapsed. And like a shark engulfing a minnow, the crate swallowed the squirrel in one chomp. But the squirrel fought; he struggled about, almost tipping the crate, resisting so violently that Dell had to run from the Johnsongrass and sit on her trap. She clutched an empty duffel bag, which, eventually, she worked underneath the crate, consuming the trap and the squirrel and the plate. Then she pulled the drawstrings and hoisted her load-the squirrel clawing inside the bag-and hiked to the cattle trail, whistling.
Beer-Braised Squirrel, I thought. That’s what she’ll cook me. That’s what I’ll get.
'Poor squirrel,” I told my father. 'He’s doomed. He never had a chance.'
18
The hospital was inside my father’s belly, a shadowy and grim place smelling of varnish.
'A full recovery is expected,' someone said. And dressed in green johnnies, my mother and Classique lay beside one another on gurneys. Three surgeon Barbies, breathing hard behind white masks, crowded around them with scalpels.
'Fabulous,” said Classique-except she wasn’t quite Classique. She had a human body, long legs, a blond beehive. 'Fantastic, darling, wonderful!'
'Yes, sweety,” my mother concurred, 'wonderful!”
My mother looked like Dell. She wore a cowboy hat and smoked a cigar.
And I was there too, somewhere.
Just then a Barbie nurse appeared. Magic Curl? Or Fashion Jeans? I can’t say for sure. She carried an oversize brain, the size of a turkey, on a silver platter.
'Your dinner is served,” said the nurse. 'Set the table.”
But what I understood her to mean was: 'The brain is ready. Bring the patient.”
And Classique was suddenly whisked away, blowing kisses as she went, telling me or my mother, 'This is it! I’ve never been so happy! I’m alive!”
'Yes,” my mother said, sitting up and exhaling smoke, 'yes, yes!” Her johnny burst into flames.
I awoke, sweating. It was afternoon, and sunlight blazed through my bedroom window, spilling over the mattress, warming me and my father. The varnish glistened like perspiration across his forehead. And I was stretched alongside him, pressed against the quilt, yawning.
'Rise and shine,' Cut ’N Style said.
I’d fallen asleep with her on my finger. Now she hovered in front of my face.
'Classique is alive,' I told her. 'She’s okay and happy.”
'Just a dream,” she replied. 'Trust me, I know. I was there, dear.'
Cut ’N Style sounded different, more like Classique.
She said, 'I know everything.'
'Stop it,' I said. 'Don’t pretend you’re her.”
'That’s silly. I have no idea what you’re talking about-'
