Tideland

everyone.

When we arrived, their house seemed as unknowable and forsaken as ever. On either side of the gravel walkway, the beds that once fostered tomatoes and squash were now barren, just upturned soil and withering vines. The dirt yard was littered with bootprints and twigs. And moving onto the porch, I noticed that the yellow floodlight no longer glowed above the front door; the imagined queen mother of all fireflies was defunct.

I knocked -- quietly at first, three soft raps with my knuckles.

'Hello,' I said, addressing the door. 'It’s me.'

I paused, expecting Dell or Dickens to answer. But neither came.

'It’s Jeliza-Rose.”

I knocked harder -- knock knock knock -- then paused again.

'It’s really a nice day for a tea party so me and Cut ’N Style are here in case you’re not too busy.'

I put an ear against the door, held my breath, and listened; nothing -- not a creak or a bump or the clomp of flip-flops

'Maybe they’re sleeping,' I told Cut ’N Style. 'Maybe they're in town.”

Maybe they’re hiding, she thought. Maybe they’re at What Rocks looking for us.

'Maybe.”

After that, we tramped from the porch and went alongside the house. And ignoring the sudden pangs in my stomach, I skipped toward the backyard, heading where the weeds and foxtails thrived, where the Ford pickup with the cracked windshield sat. But the Ford was gone.

Stopping near the house, I stood between the curvy ruts left by the pickup’s tires, and spotted Dickens -- out of his captain’s uniform, dressed like a farmer -- unlocking the padlock on the storage shed door.

Tell him, Cut 'N Style was thinking. Tell him you’ve got a baby and he’ll show you his secret. He said he would.

Dickens pushed the door open and entered the shed. So I hurried across the backyard, running over the beaten trail, hoping to surprise him. I wanted to tell him that I loved him so much and that Classique was coming back as my Barbie baby. I planned on surprising him with -- Sweet prince, Classique is on her way; and those words would’ve sailed past the shed doorway had I not seen the squirrel -- if I hadn’t hesitated before the shady doorway, gazing to my right at a wooden hutch, puzzled by the tufts of gray fur bulging through the chicken wire, the puffy tail curling in on itself.

Was he dead? No. Asleep? No. Wide awake -- lying still with his paws on his muzzle, breathing deeply, watching me with black eyes. See what she's done to me, Jeliza-Rose. See what happens when you’re small and hungry all the time. You get trapped and stuck in a cage. I’m a prisoner. I'm doomed.

I felt sad for him. He wasn’t a monster or a nasty thing, only a squirrel, and now he didn’t seem so mean. But I didn't dare stick my fingers in the hutch to pet him; if I did, he might bite me. He might confuse me for Dell and chomp my fingers off.

Know what she’ll do to me? Go in the shed and you’ll understand. Look for yourself Thats right, go on-

And what did I find when stepping beyond the doorway? A long folding table and wide shelves, each surface crammed with Dell’s handiwork, novelties and what-nots, some finished, some in progress. On and around the table - lamps with deer antlers for a base, an antler hat rack, foot stools (the legs formed by two pairs of antlers), deer foot lamps, a dozen or so deer foot thermometers. But it was the shelves that held my attention -- a fierce-looking tabby cat ready to pounce on a coiled rattlesnake, squirrels clutching acorns, three rabbits huddled together, a raccoon with a trout in its paws, another tabby biting into the head of a bat, an upside-down armadillo, a convincing jackalope sitting upright; all glassy-eyed creatures, inanimate and posed, mounted like trophies on varnished flat cuts of wood. This was where Dell kept Death at bay, where she saved silent souls from going into the ground. But I didn’t want to end up like those creatures-frozen and on a shelf; I didn’t want to be stuck like that forever. Might as well go into the ground, I thought. If you can’t run around and yell and cut muffins, you might as well be dead.

And there was Dickens, in a corner, his backside to me, unloading a duffel bag, removing paper towels and rubber gloves.

'It’s a zoo room,” I said.

Upon hearing my voice, his body rigored and he shrieked -- dropping the paper towels and gloves, turning sharply with a hand clamped to his mouth; the shrill continued, passing his fingers, filling the shed. So terrifying and startling was his scream that I began yelling too. And for a moment the two of us faced one another, bellowing as if we were being murdered, until the air escaped our lungs.

Then he slumped down on the duffel bag, breathless and hugging himself. My hands trembled. Cut ’N Style quivered on my finger. Outside the squirrel was chattering in the hutch, no doubt aroused by our screams.

'Not fair,” Dickens was saying, 'not fair.'

'You scared me good,' I said.

'No, you did that to me, you did. That’s not fair.”

He was rocking, staring at his boots, mumbling something.

'But it was an accident,” I told him. 'I just saw this zoo and I was coming to tell you the news but the zoo made me forget everything and I was wondering if they’re dead - they’re froze and napping, I guess. I guess that’s why we got scared because they’re pretty spooky like that.'

Dickens head came up, his eyes glaring, as he exclaimed, 'That’s not right ‘cause Dell makes them alive again. That’s what she does. And people are so happy they bring old dead dogs and old dead kitties and she’s Jesus how she makes them alive. And she does those-' He thrust out a hand, pointing at the lamps and foot stools and thermometers on the table. 'And that’s what she sells in town when she goes to town. She’s an artist -- she says so -- and a healer.” He nodded at the shelved animals. 'And they’re not spooky, they’re friends -- and you scared me and that’s not fair. I think I fainted.”

'I’m sorry,' I said, crossing to where he sat.

'Don’t do that again or I’ll die, okay?”

''Okay.”

I hugged him, wrapping my arms about his shoulders, patting his neck with Cut ’N Style.

'I think I’rn sorry too,” he said. 'I think so.”

Tell him, Cut ’N Style thought. Tell him.

And with my lips near his ear, I mentioned the baby. I said that he was my husband now, and that Classique would appear soon; she’d be our Barbie baby.

'We can build a castle, and Dell can marry my daddy. But you have to show me your dynamite first.”

He went rigid.

'I don’t know. That baby sounds like a strange thing -- and I can’t build a castle. I don’t know how, I don’t know.”

So I whispered, 'If you show me your secret, I’ll love you forever.'

He leaned his head against mine. Our cheeks brushed.

'I’ll show you,' he said. 'Just once only. Except not yet ‘cause I need to unpack this bag before Dell gets in. Then I’ll show you my room in Momma’s house, okay? But if I can’t unpack this bag I won’t eat tonight. So you wait, okay? But don’t touch nothing. You’re not supposed to be in here. This place is Dell’s place.”

'All right,” I said, withdrawing myself, 'I’ll wait for my cutie. You’re my kisser.'

Then I watched him slowly rise, turn, and bend over the bag. His movements were sluggish and clumsy, his awkwardness suggesting a lack of coordination, his boot heels veering outward from the tips. And after a while I got bored and snuck outside, creeping below Dell’s creatures on my way, mindful of the rattlesnake poised to strike.

Going from the shed, the sunlight blinded me; I squinted before the hutches, putting a hand above my eyes.

I'm a prisoner.

The squirrel was chattering. He paced nervously, regarding me with surreptitious looks.

'Dell will freeze you alive,” I said. 'You could eat a bat or a fish.”

But she’ll have to kill me -- then she' ll freeze me alive. I'm not old dead dogs and old dead kitties. I'm a hungry squirrel.