Wolf Bells, page 4
THE ROOM IN WHICH THIS DREAM HAD HAPPENED waited now for Vara to unlock it, to roll in and wash her hands and turn the computer on.
The mosquitoes were hatching at higher elevations. Why did her mind cling to it?
She carefully pressed RECORD on her phone and said:
“Chart notes, November first.
“Mr. Rudd presented with UTI again. Problem unclear at first because did not want to disclose. Was angry and ashamed. Quote, The damn stream is splitting. Or sometimes it’s just driblets, unquote. Wanted to know if it could be a sign of cancer.
“Caz reported visual disturbance, twenty-five minutes, followed by headache, two hours, and general poor feeling. No nausea. Daily caffeine intake less than eight hundred milligrams. Elevated anxiety levels. BP one thirty-nine over eighty-nine. Admin Excedrin four hundred milligrams.
“Finally managed to get some calendula on James’s welts. Also five-millimeter cut on his right index finger, superficial. Iodine on wound, tried a Band-Aid but he keeps pulling it off. My lord, what a cutie. Gives you this secret sideways look.”
Vara sprayed disinfectant at the counter. Puff, wipe. You would’ve made a fine doctor, she used to be told. Puff, puff, wipe, wipe. Her hands ached. She’d never met a doctor she liked. Most were unbearable people. Barely people. The room needed mopping, but Ant was too busy with their dissertation. Was that blood on the floor? A dark smear. Dried, at least. In nursing school, other students had been bothered by things that didn’t bother Vara at all—ablative procedures, defunctive smells. A short film on nystagmus had given one classmate a panic attack.
Gloves. Pink tray. Into plastic cups went the capsules and tablets. They were getting low on Davey’s extended-release bupropion.
Caz, from the doorway: “Trick or treat! Trick or treat!”
“The bitter and the sweet,” Vara answered, rubbing the coarse tread of her chair’s right wheel.
“I’m heading to school—I can’t access the database from here. You okay keeping an eye on the kids?”
“They won’t think it’s strange you’re showing up on a day off?”
“Oh, nobody cares. I’ll just pop on the computer and get James’s mom’s number.”
“Call her from one of the school phones,” Vara said, “not your cell. Once the kids are reported missing, they’ll put surveillance on her.”
“Um, this isn’t Midsomer Murders.”
“Just in case.”
“It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. And it could’ve been a foster family who did that to James, not the caseworkers. Maybe the kids were at the hotel for their own safety.”
“You think Nola’s lying?”
“I wouldn’t blame her. She probably just wanted to get out of there. I’ll talk to Stell and see what she wants us to do.”
“Why did she lose custody?” Vara said.
“What are you, chief of the virtue police?”
“It’s a relevant question, I think.”
“I have no idea,” Caz said. “She’s a good mother.”
Vara felt her face heat up. “Good mother is a bullshit term.”
“But you know what I mean.”
“It’s a marketing ploy.”
“Fine, then,” Caz said, “she’s … a decent person.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I have talked to her, lots of times. At pickup, you know, and parent/teacher night type of shit.” Caz took off her glasses, breathed on the lenses, and wiped the condensation with her sweatshirt sleeve. “Regardless, I’m definitely calling her before I call anyone else.”
“I just don’t want you getting in trouble.”
“Well, I won’t. Fear of failure, fear of reprimand.”
“Two big problems I never had,” Vara finished, with the old scratch of envy. Those lyrics were sometimes true for Caz, but they’d never applied to her.
Front Hall
“HELLO,” SAID THE ONE with the scraped-velvet voice.
James looked up at her—not far, she wasn’t much taller—then back at his shoelace.
“Does that leaf taste good?” she said.
Her body was tiny and electricity poured from her dark little eyes. She had a smile that resembled his mama’s, but her voice was lower and had scars that clicked. Scraped places. His mama was soft and big and loved him forever plus three minutes. Billy goats gruff, brothers three. Who’s that trip-trapping over my bridge? Mama did the troll’s voice with no scrapes. When could he be with her? Soon! she’d said last time. Soon, little bear. But when was soon?
He stomped hard with one foot for the pleasure of feeling the floor.
“Well, Iwillleaveyoutoit,” she said.
He had ripped a long ringlet off the fern and was considering its taste, which didn’t please him. Too crackly. He dropped the fern and twirled his shoelace. His eyes wanted the motion of his dancing hand. Nobody here had tried—yet—to make him stop moving his hands. He wanted Mama to squirt strawberry bubbles into his bath, Mama to wrap him tight in the striped towel, Mama to pull back the bedcovers (“Pop in, little fin”) and tuck them firmly around him. All was quiet in the deep dark wood. The mouse found a nut and the nut was good. When would he see her? When was soon? He hated not knowing, hated it, and was furious at Nola for not knowing either; or, if she knew, not telling him. But he didn’t think she knew.
Dining Room
HIGH CEILINGS, GREEN WALLS, round tables, weird smell. Stupefied from the nap, Nola was answering Vara’s questions less politely than she usually would have.
“And you were both living with James’s mother?”
“Yeah, my aunt Stell.”
“Was it just the three of you?”
“Yeah.”
“And how was that?”
“Fine. Good.”
“Would James like a whole-wheat scone, do you think?”
Nola shrugged.
“James, do you want this?” Vara held out the scone, which he ignored, instead running to a window and banging on the pane.
“He might not be hungry, he ate a lot of crackers before.”
“That’s fine,” Vara said, watching him wrap himself in the mustard-colored curtain.
“Could I have it, though?”
“Oh, of course! Sorry.” Vara set it in front of Nola. “How long have you been—away from your aunt?”
“A while,” Nola said. Need-to-know basis was one of Stell’s rules. She watched Vara think about pressing for more. The scone was dry as hell. Would they notice James’s teeth?
“What kinds of things does James like to do?”
“Go to Safeway.”
“Okay. What else?”
“And the McDonald’s drive-through.”
“I mean, what does he like to play with? What kinds of toys?”
Nola yawned. “He likes to hang out.”
“What about you?”
“What toys do I play with?”
“Well, more as in—what do you like? Books? Movies? When my daughter was your age, she loved to draw.”
“I’m an avid reader,” Nola said. This was not true, but adults tended to relax when they heard it.
“Oh, do you know”—and she said the title of a book Nola’s teacher had read aloud to them last year, which was narrated by a ten-year-old with a photographic memory who solved a mystery while using long vocabulary words. This kid was nothing like Nola, nothing like James. If Nola ever wrote a book, it would star a protagonist who was not gifted. Someone who made mistakes and didn’t learn from them.
“There she is! Hey, Miss Nola.” Caz sat down next to her. “How’re you doing? How’s James managing?”
Nola heard in her voice the over-niceness that often precedes disappointment. She held in her stomach so that her body wouldn’t move if there was bad news. “Fine, thank you.”
Fiddling with the remains of the scone, Caz said, “So, here’s the deal. I talked to James’s mom.”
“Okay.”
“She’ll come get you tomorrow,” Caz said. “Her car’s in the shop. She’ll pick it up in the morning. So you guys will stay here tonight, yeah?”
Need-to-know basis. There was no reason for Caz to know that Stell didn’t have a car. Nola kept her smile small, but the relief was massive. Her own part was done. Stell could take over now. And yet, Stell didn’t have a car.
“My cousin’s gonna run out of diapers soon,” she said.
“Oh. Okay.” Caz looked stumped.
“Davey can buy some on his way home from work,” Vara said.
“Thank you. Pull-ups, size M. They’re in the baby aisle but they’re not regular diapers.”
Caz pulled out her phone. “I’ll text him.”
“Also I couldn’t bring his medications, and he’ll need them tonight.”
“What does he take?”
“Point five milligram risperidone, point two milligram clonidine, one milligram lorazepam.”
“I don’t have risperidone in stock,” Vara said. “The other two, yes.”
James’s meds were in the bag with their toothbrushes—they were the first thing Nola had packed—but they might as well get some for free.
“It won’t hurt him to miss a dose or two,” Vara said. “I don’t think there’s a risk of withdrawal symptoms from risperidone.”
“He won’t swallow pills, though. You’ll have to dissolve them and use an oral syringe.”
Vara smiled. “I can do that. I’m an actual nurse, you know.”
“Ghee-ah ghee-ah ghee-ah!” James called from his post by the kitchen doors.
“Are you stoked to skip school?” Caz said.
“I guess.” Nola’s absences were piling up. She was almost fourteen but still in seventh grade because she had missed so many days of fifth they made her repeat it. Her first time through fifth was the year her mother had gone away and Stell became her guardian.
“What about James? You think he’ll mind missing a day?”
“Definitely not.”
James went to the Resource room, which had kids from all the grades and wasn’t in the same building as the regular classrooms. It was in a white trailer by the soccer field. Once, when he kept yelling and trying to leave the trailer, Nola had been summoned to the school office to calm him down. She had heard the principal and James’s teacher talking on the other side of the door. “They expect us to work miracles. What are we, a magic compost pile?” Nola had stared out the window at the soccer field circled by the spongy red track where, after rainstorms, tiny penises lay scattered, all the worms come out to drink.
James padded over to lean against Nola’s shoulder, twirling his shoelace.
“Hey, buddy, how’s it going?” Caz said.
“Mama,” James said.
“We’ll be with her soon,” Nola said, mechanically.
THE MUNICIPAL ELEVATOR in town did not technically need someone to operate it, but the job existed—a pity job, as Davey saw it, arranged by the VA, a government bone for any vet who could press UP and DOWN. Nevertheless, he got spruced for it. Hair combed, shirt with buttons, work boots instead of the shower slides. He lowered himself stiffly into the sixteen-year-old Spectra that was his most faithful companion, the car he’d slept in for weeks after the hospital until his patient advocate told him about the House. Now it took him to work every Friday and also, whenever he felt skittery, along the cliff road above the river, just driving and driving. He and Caz hadn’t fucked in it—yet.
The town was split into Upper and Lower. On the bluff were chain stores and drive-throughs and houses; down along the riverbank were bars, coffee shops, a small regional museum. The municipal elevator had been built to join the two parts. The town didn’t get many tourists, but the ones who did come, the fanny-packed couples from neighboring states, wanted to ride the elevator. In the observation deck at the top, educational posters told of Area Points of Interest, one of which was Davey’s own home. He felt proud when he saw people looking at the black-and-white photo of the House from decades ago. I wake up there every morning! His lair for now. Maybe even for a while. Actually he could see himself staying forever.
“Is there a security camera on this thing?”
Most of the tourists had the same kind of face: eager and uptight.
“Not that I know of,” Davey said.
“Well, there should be.” The man crossed his arms and looked at his wife, who nodded in a You tell him, Brian! kind of way. “For your safety,” the man added, “as much as anyone else’s.”
“I carry a knife at all times.”
“Ah, so you’re prepared!” the man said, anxious-jolly.
Davey watched their fleece vests and wide, flat butts hurry out onto the observation deck. He used the knife for shaving pills. The 200 mg tabs had a pink coating that smelled disgusting, and the smell didn’t totally fade even after the coating was scraped off, but it was less disgusting than if you sniffed the crushed pill unscraped. The coating couldn’t legally be poisonous—people swallowed it—although certain substances came up right to the edge of poison. The 150 mgs didn’t smell. There might have been a 300 but he’d never been prescribed it. When you had DRUG SEEKING in your chart it was hard to steer doctors into higher doses, even for antidepressants, which weren’t even drugs. He was only drug-seeking compared with, like, Mrs. Quimbee. True addicts OD’d by twenty-seven, and Davey was almost twenty-nine.
He made a list in his mind:
Lawn mower
Cashier
Drayage truck driver
Aquarium security officer
Soldier
Elevator operator
Attorney-at-love
Of all his jobs, the aquarium had been the best one. Whenever kids were banging on the tanks, he’d yell, “You break that glass, little octopus gonna run out and kill you!”
Aside from bad-mood Rudd and Adeline who hallucinated black chickens, the people at the House weren’t that bad. Caz, obviously, but also the Dragon: all tiny and shriveled yet fierce. Nobody fucked with her. She reminded him of his Aunt McClung, who used to sit around in her bathrobe yelling at people. When she’d had some wine she would say, “It’s not your fault, David,” and he knew she meant his whole life. Last week, when he showed the Dragon his Glock 19, she hadn’t batted a single eyelash. Didn’t give him any gun-control guff. She’d simply held it in her hands and stared.
Front Yard
SIXTY-TWO FEET FROM THE CAPTAIN’S wife’s grave, shivering in her purple windbreaker, Nola stared up at the House. It would have made a decent horror-movie location, the way it leaned all bleak and grim against the tall evergreens, and how the boxy little tower at the top could be a place to keep prisoners. Less horror-movie-ish was the sign sticking up beside the gravel path.
all welcome
όλοι ευπρόσδεκτοι
ongi etorri
onse olandilidwa
都欢迎
zoo siab tos txais txhua leej txhua tus
tena koutou katoa
t’áá ájíłtso hóshdéii’
qof walba waa la soo dhaweyn ayaa
todos bienvenidos
Did all welcome, she wondered, have the same meaning in every language? What meaning did it even actually have in English? A washed-out phrase, like nice to meet you or thank you for being a friend.
James was on the gravel, dancing the shoelace in his fingers, testing the little sharp rocks with his bare toes. The dinosaur skull T-shirt was too big for him. It was even colder today—she could see goose bumps on his skinny forearms—but he didn’t like wearing jackets.
“No more hotel,” she told him. “We hate the hotel.”
He twirled and twirled.
“No more hotels ever,” she said, touching his earlobe.
“Ah-eee,” James said.
Smelling poop, she pulled at the waistband of his sweatpants to peer inside the diaper. “Okay, bear. We need to change you.” She tickled his armpit and he giggled, pushed her away. “Go inside, okay? I’ll be there in one minute.”
She wouldn’t lose him.
But she wanted one minute.
She watched him go into the House. There were too many people in there for him to get up to any true mischief. It wasn’t like at home, where, if Stell was at work, anything bad that happened would be Nola’s fault.
“Well hi there!” said a voice behind her.
It was a man so handsome he could’ve been an actor. Salt-and-pepper hair short on the sides, ragged-long on top; silver hoop earrings; tight black sweater. His smile was packed with enormous white teeth.
“I’m a neighbor,” he said.
“Okay,” she said.
“You know that church up the road? I’m Pastor Jeff. What’s your name?”
“Dorothy,” she said.
He was carrying a tote bag that proclaimed: Boldly Inclusive. Joyfully Christian. Your Best Life.
“Well it’s nice to meet you, Dorothy. Are you visiting one of the residents?”
“Are you a pastor as in you do sermons?”
“That I am, that I am.” His gaze flicked to the House, then back to Nola. “You’re invited to come hear me on Sunday, if you’re still visiting.”
“Okay,” she said. He might be a pervert.
“Hey, hey, hello!” Lasko came running down the asphalt path. “Time to go inside.” He put his palm on Nola’s head. “You head on in, all right? Marika needs you for something.” To the pastor he said, “This is Marika’s great-granddaughter.”
“Dorothy,” Nola added loudly.
“I didn’t know Ms. Dragoumanos had family.”
“Go inside, okay, Dorothy?” Lasko widened his eyes at Nola, just the tiniest bit, and it delighted her to share this moment of deception with him, to belong to a household that protected its facts.
Library
HER COUSIN WAS LYING on his belly on the leather couch. “Time to change you,” Nola said, but instead of heading for the bathroom, she went to the window. Only the upper part was stained glass; you could see through the lower part into the front yard. The pastor was holding out his tote bag, and Lasko, arms crossed, was shaking his head.
