I flicked her from my finger, sent her sailing. She flew to the floor, bounced and rolled, and finally slid to the edge of the stairs. She was knocked out before she could start crying.
'It’s not just a dream,” I said. 'You’re pretty stupid if you can’t see that -- even if you’re blind too!”
Then I put an ear to the quilt, listening at my father’s rib cage, hoping that the operation was well underway, and that the surgeons’ voices could be caught. But I heard nothing.
'Magic Curl,” I said softly, 'Fashion Jeans -- it’s me, Jeliza- Rose. What’s happening in there? You’ll tell me, all right?”
I listened some more, hearing only silence.
Everyone’s sleeping, I thought. They’re still in the dream.
So I tried making myself fall asleep again. I rested my head on the quilt, shut my eyes and began snoring. But it didn’t work. I was wide awake.
'It’s not fair!”
In frustration, I climbed from the mattress and rushed after Cut ’N Style. She was unconscious, probably at the hospital with Classique and my mother. I kicked her down the stairs, saying, 'That’s what you get, you’re a bad dog!'
And later, when Dickens arrived with food, I told him, 'Cut ’N Style ruined my great dream. She woke me up and now I’ll never know.'
I was at the dining room table, and he was removing my meal from a paper sack, arranging each item -- thermos, foil-covered plate, slice of pound cake in a sandwich bag, fork and knife -- neatly before me.
'She’s your friend?' he asked. 'She fell in the hole and disappeared forever and I can’t find her.'
'That’s Classique,” I said, 'not Cut ’N Style. Cut ’N Style is on the floor over there -- but Classique is in the hospital -- I dreamt her -- and I saw her with Mom and Mom was burning.'
Dickens frowned and shrugged. He didn’t understand, so I explained that Classique was no longer a head. She had a woman’s body. And she was getting a real brain.
'Bet it costs a million dollars,' he said. 'I’d like a new brain sometimes -- I think a new one is shiny.'
'Yeah -- and it was a big brain. She was excited and I guess she wasn’t a doll anymore.”
Dickens pulled the foil off the plate -- 'She must be pretty' then unscrewed the thermos cap.
'She is. She’s beautiful.'
He pushed the plate toward me -- greasy meat, two legs, a thigh or a breast.
'Dell says eat what you can and hide the leftovers in this-”
He handed me the foil, which I smoothed in my lap as if it were a napkin. Then I sniffed at the meat, 'Is it the squirrel?'
'No,” he said, shaking his head. 'No squirrel. Dell hates those. She won’t cook those -- she just won’t.'
'Oh,' I said, reaching for the fork, 'that’s good. I don’t think I like squirrel either.”
And while eating, I thought about Classique’s operation. How was the brain put in? Did it hurt? Did she bleed? Is she different?
Why did she need a brain anyway?
Because it’s fabulous, dear. It’s fantastic, darling.
'Fabulous,' I said, picking at the meat. 'Wonderful.'
Dickens glanced at me. He was in the living room, holding my father’s wig, his fingers combing the coils. Then I watched as he planted the wig on his bald head; the coils sank past his ears and forehead, adorning his shoulders. And -- wearing his goggles and swimming trunks and flip- flops, the wig askew -- he looked like a crazy woman, half- naked and loathsome.
'I'm pretty pretty,” he said.
'You’re funny,” I told him. 'You’re weird.”
'No, no,” he whined, 'because I don’t want to be weird, okay? I’d like the red lips and then I’ll be beautiful.'
He needed more than red lips. He needed rouge, maybe mascara.
'All right,' I said, 'I’ll fix your face.'
He clapped.
'Yes, if you fix my face I’ll be happy.”
'I will,” I said. 'Except I better eat Dell’s cake first, better drink all my apple juice.”
'And hide the leftovers.'
'I know that already.”
But there wasn’t going to be any leftovers. I ate every piece of meat, chugged the apple juice, consumed the pound cake in three bites. Then I fetched Grandmother’s cosmetic bag -- my tummy feeling bloated and satiated, my meal swishing around inside, as I sprinted up and back down the stairs.
'Sit still or else you’ll make me do it wrong,” I told Dickens, who fidgeted while I unzipped the bag. He was cross-legged on the living room floor, spine straight, hands squeezing his knees.
'Won’t move a muscle,' he said. 'Don’t have muscles anyway, so I won’t move them.”
I shushed him, and then emptied the cosmetic bag between us, shaking out the lipsticks and mascara and compacts and tweezers and cotton balls. I arranged the six lipsticks into a row.
'Now, which one?'
Scarlet Surrender or Pink Tango or Hyacinth or Sweet Vermilion or Chinese Red or Rose Blush.
'That one,” he said, pointing at Pink Tango.
'This is best,' I said, taking Scarlet Surrender. 'Puff your lips.'
He puckered.
'Get ready-'
It was difficult applying the scarlet evenly. Stay in the lines, I told myself -- but my hand moved too fast when doing his bottom lip, and I smeared lipstick across his chin. His upper lip went smoother; I only overshot once, reddening the end of his nose. But that was his fault. He sniffled and my hand jerked.
'You’re Rudolph,' I said.
‘'You are,” he replied.
Then I dabbed on the rouge, brightening his cheeks, creating rosy circles.
'Almost finished,' I said, shutting the compact.
He was gazing at me, his eyes magnified behind the goggles.
Bug eyes, I thought. Creepy bug eyes.
'I think you’re nice,” he said.
And as I leaned forward, straightening the wig, he kissed my lips -- a nervous peck, which tickled and made me giggle.
'That’s silly,' I said, wiping my lips. 'You got red on me, silly kisser.”
'He glanced at his swimming trunks, embarrassed, and folded his hands over his crotch.
'The old lady was a silly kisser too,' he said. 'She kissed me, but that’s when I was little and she was really old. Sometimes she did this in my mouth-”
He stuck out his tongue and wiggled it.
'--and that was fun. It was a snake, I think, or a goldfish dancing. She was awfully sweet too. Sometimes I’d be here all day just kissing with her. She’s a nice lady, except she’s dead.”
I was both delighted and curious to hear him speak of Grandmother.
'She’s Daddy’s mom,' I said. 'She never kissed me because I didn’t get born yet.” `
'I think I knew that. I think maybe someone told that to me.”
'Dickens, she was your girlfriend -- you were her boyfriend.'
He took his hands from his crotch and assumed an expression of sorrow.
'No, I was her cutie. Her little cutie. Never been a boyfriend. Don’t know what that is, except if I got older I’d be her boyfriend, I suppose. If she didn’t die, you know. If she didn’t fall down the steps. Think she was coming to kiss me when she falled ‘cause I was there in the yard pulling weeds. And I ran away when she did that. But I didn’t know what to do. I was just little, you know. I was scared, I guess. She was nice.'
'She was old,” I told him, envisioning the chest in the attic, the junk stored within. 'How old are you?”
A worried, confused look settled on Dickens’ face.
'I don’t know. I’m not an old man though. Dell says I’m a boy. She says l’m a baby. She says I’ll always be a
