Praise for Jaimy Gordon and

BOGEYWOMAN

“A book of great risk and humor and beauty, but above all it is a book of enormous generosity.”

—Beth Nugent, author of City of Boys

“Extraordinary.… Gordon’s verbal technique evokes Ulysses, Lolita , Salinger, David Foster Wallace.”

— Publishers Weekly

“The quicksilver narrative voice and plucky intransigence of Ursie Koderer … make this coming-out novel … one of the more memorable of its genre.”

— Bookforum

“A vernacular unto itself.”

— Library Journal

“Gordon’s writing will grab and pull you in.”

— Bloomberg News

Jaimy Gordon

BOGEYWOMAN

Jaimy Gordon’s Lord of Misrule won the National Book Award in 2010, and was also a finalist for the Pen/Faulkner Award. Bogeywoman, her third novel, was on the Los Angeles Times list of Best Books for 2000. Her second novel, She Drove Without Stopping, brought her an Academy Institute Award for her fiction from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. She has been a fellow of the Fine Arts Work Center, Provincetown, and the Bunting (now Radcliffe) Institute at Harvard. She teaches at Western Michigan University in Kalamazoo and in the Prague Summer Program for Writers.

ALSO BY JAIMY GORDON

Circumspections from an Equestrian Statue

The Bend, The Lip, The Kid: Real-Life Stories

She Drove Without Stopping

Shamp of the City-Solo

Lord of Misrule

FIRST VINTAGE CONTEMPORARIES EDITION, SEPTEMBER 2011

Copyright © 1999 by Jaimy Gordon

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published in paperback in the United States by Sun & Moon Press, Los Angeles, in 1999.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Portions of this work originally appeared in the Notre Dame Review, Gargoyle, and Cape Discovery: The Provincetown Fine Arts Work Center Anthology.

The author wishes to thank the American Academy of Arts and Letters, The National Endowment for the Arts, and the Arts Foundation of Michigan for generous support while she was working on this book.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Gordon, Jaimy.

Bogeywoman / by Jaimy Gordon. —1st Vintage Contemporaries ed.

p. cm.

eISBN: 978-0-307-94690-4

1. Coming out (Sexual orientation)—Fiction. 2. Lesbians—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3557.O668B64 2011

813′.54—dc22

2011025915

Cover design by John Gall

Cover image © Hana Haley

www.vintagebooks.com

v3.1

This book is for

Karen, Hilry, Adam and Spencer

and in memory of Marion Gordon

1922–1993

Mere life, with its mere hunger.

— KEITH WALDROP

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Other Books by This Author

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

1. Tough Paradise for Girls

2. Buggywoman

3. Miles from Madame Zuk

4. Fallen Among Ayrabbers

5. A Quietroom of One’s Own

6. I Blab to Foofer

7. Flight to Caramel-Creamistan

8. How Love Got Me Out of There

Also Available from Jaimy Gordon

1

Tough Paradise for Girls

HOW LOVE GOT ME OUT OF THE BUGHOUSE

I’m the Bogeywoman. Maybe I belonged in the bughouse. Anyway it was Doctor Zuk who got me out, and then the fuddy dreambox mechanics kicked her out right behind me. But first she saved me, and that’s when I lost her—if I ever had her—unless I am her. Am I Zuk?

HOW LOVE GOT ME INTO THE BUGHOUSE

I mean how I ended up at the age of sixteen in the loonie bin, when I wasn’t even buggy.

It happened at Camp Chunkagunk, Tough Paradise for Girls. At camp I was always the Bogeywoman, but the true meaning of Bogeywoman only came to me in my sixteenth year, and that’s how I landed in the bughouse. It was a good camp that Merlin found for me and Margaret, a rare camp, a tough camp, but what normal girl goes to camp for nine summers? (Margaret had had it in four.) I was out beyond the White Caps’ rope, doing the dead man’s float, stringbean style. Dangling straight down, I mean. So I was staring not at the sky but at a certain girl also doing the dead man’s float—my Lake Twinny, Yvette Deaux was her name, one of those tall, broad-shouldered French girls from up around Sourhunk Lake, with a small head like an ostrich, handsome, strong, kinda dumb, I didn’t even like her much. I was seeing how her thighs were filaments of neon-green electricity under the lake, and all at once I got the idea I wanted to slide my hand between them. From that moment I saw everything in a different light, murky, as through a dark lake. From then on I was a Unbeknownst To Everybody, and that was the meaning of Bogeywoman.

At Camp Chunkagunk I had been the Bogeywoman ever since I dropped a black snake, during Quiet Hour, through the roof of the counselors’ cabin. I’m the Bogeywoman I rumbled in the chimney hole. I was just a Chipmunk then, age seven. And they had come rushing out into the dappled light, uttering pleased shrieks. See up there! on the roof! It’s that Ursie, Ursie Koderer. And I did not disappoint. I was their toy bad guy, their boygirl, their bogeygirl, no front teeth, smudge on the edge of every camp snapshot, always tearing around under a cracked, white-hot roof of blond hair. I was the Bogeywoman from that day on, even to the Big Bears.

(Big Bears wore their bathing suits strapless—their smooth-muscled shoulders gleamed, their slim rib cages held up their heads like bud vases over those shiny “latex” bathing suits we all wore, one-piece and boned like girdles, the opaline grosgrain plate of them cut mysteriously straight across the upper thigh, the knoll of coochie hidden under that ledge, in deep shadow.)

Then at sixteen I found out my love of Camp Chunkagunk was a hunger. And always had been, I guess, only in the beginning I ate like a bird. Now I saw the same things I had always seen, but I was afraid to leave them alone with me.

(They already had some fluting there, the Big Bears, at the clavicle—and that sunny prickle, a rash like eensy roses climbing up the throat, and half of them had a pigtail, soaked black by lake water, wrapped around it, and drops of water rolling drunkenly into the baby-oiled gulley between their momps under the latex, the iridescent breastplate slipping down just slightly.)

I was a Big Bear now myself. I was an older girl and a so I did not. Was mad to but would not. Lemme die first. Yvette Deaux never even knew. I have always been the boss of my hunger, the chef of my starvation, so to speak. I can read the sign. Does it say DO NOT TOUCH? I don’t touch. I have never (except that once) driven away a scared girl with a stray hand across the border. She’s gotta put a hand on me first.

And she does. That’s why my luck is good. That’s why I’ve had nothing, well, almost nothing, to do with craggy-jawed bus station hags, broken-toothed gym teachers with whistles around their necks, or crewcut WACs. I prefer ladies—like Margaret, my first love. Margaret loved me. Margaret, you might say, trained me to be loved. But I am seldom as shocked by the sheer piggery behind fine fingers and fluted hipbones as anybody would be with old Margaret. Ladies are prone to first touches and second thoughts. I am not a lesbo, they announce, and I say, a ?! Whaddaya mean? Me neither—I, er, just kinda like you.

Yes, it’s a tracker’s nightmare, girlgoyle sex, and naturally the great wood wizardess, Willis Marie Bundgus, forgot to leave me a map. A girl floods, to her own surprise, in some forbidden place (like my mouth) and ducks underground. A lizardly muscle, a girl’s love, strong but small. Small but strong. How to get her back? I try to know where she is even when she isn’t here, isn’t mine, that’s wood wiz, but I never was the wood wizardess. Still, there must be sumpm about me, at least at first. At first I had sumpm—even if it put me in the bughouse—with Lou Rae Greenrule.

So. That last summer at camp. The girlgoyle in question. To start with, her hair. Her hair was the kind that requires an engineer of a mother in the wings, or so I had always thought. At P.S. 149, a few girls came to school day after day with heads piled in ringlets sky-high—jiggling towers of them that ambitious moms had whipped up. This mother had taste Merlin regarded as sugary, it is true. We, motherless, were raised to despise that, and so were only distantly covetous—compared to girls in boiled-icing ringlets, Margaret and me were of some third sex and we knew it. Us Merlin’s Suzette swept off to the barbershop once a season, got rid of the stuff. But Lou Rae Greenrule had hair a hundred times more done than any of those girls, and yet her mother was a cockroach of a person in a hard-shell permanent wave and slacks, no ass and a sad little potbelly in front, one shoulder permanently lower than the other from going everywhere she went with her right hand hooked in a six-pack.

Besides the hair she did herself, Lou Rae had amazing breasts for such a small girl, not only real but hard as babies’ heads. You’ll want to know how I found that out. I’m getting to that—how I found out.

Camp Chunkagunk, Tough Paradise for Girls, had no cabins but double rows of army tents set on high wooden platforms weathered to pearl. Their green tent flaps swung wide of them like wings. You could sit on the spars and yardarms with a sense of nothing under you. Even your swinging feet were too high to kick weeds. Lou Rae dangled here that day on the Big Bear tentline with a stack of flat green leaves like pancakes on her head and a masque of gray mud on her cheeks.

“For the complexion,” she explained, as if there was just one complexion for everybody. “All the Indian maids wore chunkagunk—for the complexion.” “The lost chunkagunk was a food, not a mud,” I objected. “So what?” Lou Rae smiled, “some people eat dirt and anyhow you wash your hair with egg and honey don’t ya? My aunt Lola uses puréed artichokes on her bosom. La beauté’s gotta eat too.” I didn’t answer since I washed my hair with nothing, just steeped it in lake water twice a day. Even now it smelled like a swamp and was a swamp, or anyway the weight of it lay like a wet plaster on the back of my neck.

Lou Rae was holding a mud-smeared bandaid box. I could see where she had dug the dirt out of the packed ground between the tents with a pencil. She was a small, serious person with wine-dark hair and wide lips that looked pale pink next to the dark gray mud.

“But who’s gonna see you?” I asked. I meant we’re at girls’ camp, NO BOYS ALLOWED, for godzillas sake. “Who is seeing me?” said Lou Rae, tipping up one surprisingly thatchy eyebrow. Then my scalp shrank under its wet fur and my ears boiled because she was right. I was a Unbeknownst To Everybody. Probably she’d seen herself in the big round pies of my eyes. I was plop in love with her. She had those green leaves scalloping her brow and looked faintly blurry, like an elf maid enlarged by a microscope.

Lou Rae’s mother always brought her and her trunk to camp a couple days late in a Veteran’s Cab all the way from Bangor. Lou Rae went to some second-rate boarding school in Freeport where everyone smoked cigarettes, starting in fourth grade. There was a story around that her father, a Bangor florist, was in jail for burning down his greenhouse, and for taxes. So probably Lou Rae’s brain like mine was some kinda swiss cheese from bugs of worry crawling in and out. But she wasn’t a famously bad girl like me. I mean at Chunkagunk I had my own spot: I was the Bogeywoman, sort of like Frankenstein, but tamed by kind treatment. Unlike Lou Rae I was no beauty at sixteen. I still had those eaves of blond hair, those white-hot roof sheets, but now they hung down in rusty flaps. In my last Upside Down Day camp picture, my smile was only half a smile, because it swung left. I had grated my voice down and pushed it out the side of my mouth, and my big tough talk had left the bag a little torn, which it still is. My nose bulb had bumps like a potato, and a black dot from some KP ketchup fight made a bull’s-eye out of my Adam’s apple.

Yes, it was a good camp that Merlin and Suzette had the sense to send us to. There were no baths so you went in that arctic lake every morning at nine, long before the sun had fought its way through the porridge of clouds. Chunkagunk was cheap and tough, which took care of all the girls you really couldn’t have stomached, and disguised the rest in their beautiful new toughness (except for Lou Rae Greenrule, who had her own kind of toughness). Anyway the girls who went there were Maine girls, innocent and strong, who had no idea that camp was corny. Nothing like the girls at home, club-formers and plotters from the earliest age. Margaret and me were not so clean, both of us being the type who joined girls’ clubs but got kicked out of them. So we were happy among the innocents, at least at first. We were the only Jews: which was nothing new from Merlin and his Suzette. When I think of all the places where we were the only Jews!—Meadowbottom Pool and that Brownie camp on the Magothy where the tidewater river was so thick with sea nettles it looked like egg drop soup, the Ploy Street Children’s Theater, the Cockeysville Equestrian Academy …

I loved Camp Chunkagunk, although I knew that camp was corn. But now I was a Unbeknownst To Everybody. My love had a face with sumpm smeared on it. Camp was full of girls. I was the Bogeywoman. How could I just go on braiding gimp lanyards for the girl of my choice?

But Lou Rae loved camp too, for all its corn. If Maine girls were corny without knowing it, Lou Rae Greenrule was exempt from corn, in its midst. In her cheerful serious way, with her nuggety black, unblinking, rather unhuman stare, she dared old Mrs. Doggett to throw her out of camp for not showing up at Lake Sci and Wood Wiz and Evening Pro. Even plunked on a rock in a campfire ring, even in Chunkagunk middy and baggy shorts, Lou Rae was on a whole nuther planet from corn, and she liked it there.

They tented us together, in the last tent of the tentline. Maybe they hoped the Bogeywoman’s fanatical love of camp would suck Lou Rae along behind it, and at first I tried. “Hey, you wouldn’t mooch Evening Pro when Old Doggett is in the middle of the Chunkagunk legend, would ya?”

“Well I already missed part one,” Lou Rae yawned.

“Never mind, I got part one by heart,” said I, “here’s how it goes. The wily rabbit Ableemooch has always been the wily giant Gooskuk’s wood wizard, but far from getting his hoped-for reward of a hundred wampum’s worth of beans and carrots for guiding Gooskuk through the forest, he gets shaken down day after day for his lunch. Every day around noon Gooskuk roars ‘How about some lunch’ and when Ableemooch pipes ‘Me too’ and takes out his little brown bag of sassafras bark, Gooskuk swipes it and gulps it down, and when he’s done he belches gutabervenig, which in Chunkagunk means pretty good. So Ableemooch, thoroughly fed up with this unequal division of mooching, goes to see wily Grandmother Bearsquaw, who agrees to help.

“Grandmother Bearsquaw goes into her cave for a while and knocks around and strains and groans and says hocus pocus in Chunkagunk and comes out again with a ball of sumpm truly disgusting. ‘Ugh, what is it?’ Ableemooch asks. ‘Never mind,’ says Grandmother Bearsquaw, ‘just take it and tomorrow night bring me back what’s left and tell me all that’s happened.’ ‘What do I owe you?’ ‘Nuttin,’ says Grandmother Bearsquaw, ‘there’s plenty more where that came from.’ Ableemooch wonders about that. Maybe it’s a trick, he thinks, usually Grandmother Bearsquaw wants a hundred wampums’ worth of fish or berries or sumpm. Even Gooskuk’ll never eat sumpm so disgusting, and then I’ll probably have to eat it myself, Ableemooch mutters, but he takes it anyway.

“So next day when Gooskuk yells, ‘How about some lunch,’ Ableemooch pulls the small ball of sumpm disgusting out of his pocket … And that’s where Doggett left off. To hear part two, you gotta come to Evening Pro.”

Lou Rae smiled her mysterious smile at me in which her wide lips curved up stealthily at their ends like a canoe and no teeth showed. She sat Indian fashion on her cot, with green Old Maid cards spread all around her like lily pads. “Unh-unh,” she said. “Why not?” “I like having nothing to do.” “Godzillas sake, don’t you want to find out what happens?” “I like it better when you tell me,” Lou Rae said, “after taps. In bed. In the dark.” “What the hump it isn’t even scary,” I said. Lou Rae turned over an Old Maid without saying anything. “What kinda nothing do you do?” I asked. “I count stars.”

When I got back from Evening Pro, Lou Rae was reading Little Lulu under her bedspread with a flashlight. Then that crackly record came on the PA system, it hissed and popped and we covered our ears, then came taps, then somebody grabbed the record off with a screek and it was dark with a hurrying, hard-boiled egg yolk moon high between the tent flaps.

“So next day,” I whispered, “when Gooskuk yells, ‘How about some lunch,’ Ableemooch takes out the small ball of sumpm disgusting. Gooskuk says, ‘Ugh, what’s that?’ ‘It’s my lunch,’ Ableemooch replies and raises his four big upper choppers like he’s gonna eat it, when Gooskuk snatches the ball of sumpm disgusting and takes a little bite. ‘Ugh,’ he says but he chews it and swallows it and pretty soon he takes another bite. And then another and another and another but, funny thing, the ball isn’t getting any smaller. And Gooskuk says, ‘Ugh, ugh, that’s the most disgusting stuff I ever ate, but I can’t stop eating it. Better finish it off.’ And he eats and he eats but the ball never gets any smaller. Finally his belly is about to burst and he says, ‘Please, take it away, Ableemooch, I’ll never swipe your lunch again, I swear.’ So Ableemooch takes it away.

“That night Ableemooch heads for Grandmother Bearsquaw’s den with the ball of sumpm disgusting. Ableemooch is in a good mood and hungry and he thinks to himself, ‘That little ball of food looks disgusting, but it must be kinda good if Gooskuk liked it so much. I’ll take a tiny bite.’ So he does and then he takes another and another and he can’t stop eating it. The ball doesn’t get any smaller and Ableemooch thinks pretty soon his belly is gonna burst. But he knows that Grandmother Bearsquaw will make him pay a million wampums’ worth of corn or berries or sumpm to take the ball of sumpm disgusting away.

“Just then Gooskuk comes walking along and Ableemooch says, ‘Gooskuk, if you’ll take this ball away you can swipe my lunch whenever you want.’ ‘Okay,’ Gooskuk says, and he does it. And that’s where Doggett left off.” I waited for Lou Rae to say o rats, but she didn’t. “So I figure tomorrow night Gooskuk probably gets hungry and takes a bite of the ball of sumpm disgusting and on and on and back and forth … What do you think?”

The hard-boiled egg yolk moon ploughed into a blue cloud and turned into a pirate ship. Lou Rae sighed desolately and whispered back, “I despise those boring Chunkagunk legends that go on and on and around and around and refuse to end.” “Well, like Gooskuk says, to a silly rabbit the world is what it is, gunk for lunch, over and over. That’s why a brave girlgoyle has to fast someday, to find out what’s for dinner, that is, if she ever wants to eat anything but stewed worms.” “I fast between candy bars,” Lou Rae murmured. It was true she was the pickiest eater at Chunka Chow, and, except for her amazingly big momps, as thin as a birdleg. “Anyway that is the legend of the lost chunkagunk, the magic food of Gooskuk that never runs out or gets any less.” “How repulsive,” said Lou Rae. “Well, yeah, course it is. If it was any good they’d run out of it. But this way nobody starves, not even if they want to.”

The moon hurried on, always in the same place, a whippoorwill sang and we thought this over. “So how does Grandmother Bearsquaw get her ball of food back?” Lou Rae asked. “She doesn’t. There’s always more of that where that came from,” I reminded her. “I know where the lost chunkagunk got lost,” Lou Rae mumbled sleepily. “Where?” I asked, then I heard her lacy snore.

So Doggett tented us together and probably hoped I would drag Lou Rae behind me to Evening Pro and Chunka Chow and Wood Wiz and Lake Sci (and by now I was thinking grimly: Why these bleached-bra Christian girls from Maine have to cuten the entire world with nicknames I don’t know) but exactly the opposite happened. Pretty soon I was a Unbeknownst To Everybody and I wanted to be near Lou Rae. Pretty soon I would rather hang around Lou Rae than please Mrs. Doggett, the excellent old dame with a meringue of white hair on top who ran Camp Chunkagunk from the turret of the lodge. Mrs. Doggett was rarely seen, but she knew everything that went on, and she had shown me her favor. She was top queen and I was bottom girl, I mean I was the Bogeywoman, once wild but now tame. She picked me to be herself on Upside Down Day, let me rule the camp with her long old-fashioned spyglass for a scepter and even dressed me in her lilac crepe, measly in the shoulders, baggy at the waist—she stuffed a towel in the widow’s hump herself. And she went around with a bowl-cut mophead on her head and blue-veined legs sticking out of my camp shorts like columns of Roquefort cheese.

But now I was a Unbeknownst To Everybody. All at once camp, which had always been swampy with life for me, thick with acts, canoeing the rich dark lake, tracking the amorous woods, trying to get the eye of the older girls—all at once camp seemed busy and in the way.

This was that morning I had been doing the dead man’s float and suddenly wanted to put my hand between my Lake Twinny’s long green legs, and so found out what a Bogeywoman really was. I was out beyond the White Caps’ rope, swimming with the other White Caps around and around the float farthest out in the cold white lake, careful like never before, lemme drown first, not even to brush another girl’s toe with my finger tips. I thought of Lou Rae: way in, out of sight, Lou Rae was dog-paddling through oyster-purple shallows, tearing them shaggy with her fellow Red Caps, all on the verge of panic, most of them little girls half her age. Then thank godzilla a whistle blew. Lake Sci ended. Our little cove of Missionary Lake emptied. The water flattened to a mirror. A double file of campers snaked slowly up the steep stair cut into the bluff, and at the top two counselors, two older girls as tall as priestesses, let go two drops of alcohol into the ears of two girls one step down. The holes in your ears would open as you walked away, with a furry and satisfying pop.

I looked around for Lou Rae. Usually we met here at the bottom, went up the stairs together and got our ears popped together, but she was gone. I knew she couldn’t have drowned. No Red Cap, however in love with death, could tangle herself in the duck lettuce and drown, for her Lake Twinny would holler and older girls would blow their whistles and in a moment she would be spotted in the cold brown tea washing about everybody’s shins. And even if she had thrown away her Red Cap they would haul her up by her yard of hair. I let go of this beautiful nightmare: No, Lou Rae hadn’t drowned but had given me the slip before I could talk her into going to Wood Wiz. She figured me for some kind of enforcer for Doggett and the wood wizardess—which maybe I was. I felt the blood swarm in my cheeks. I tried to head for the Wood Wiz tracking sand pit but my feet bent like dowsing rods towards Lou Rae. I went to our tent at the end of the tentline.

And that was how I found her, sitting on a spar under a green tent flap with her feet dangling above the weeds. Tell me she wasn’t trying to cook my goose: There wasn’t a blessed thread on her front, except for the grapey bunches of her hair. On her head was that pancake stack of maple leaves, fixed on with bobby pins, and she had two silver dollars of gray mud on her pink cheeks.

Today I knew what I was—to get the eye of the older girls, I ran the fastest when I was watched; when all those eyeballs lightened the air, my feet vibrated like violins. And now my fingers buzzed to find the fairy body under that hair. I put one bitten nail to the mud on her face instead.

“For the complexion,” she explained, in that honking contralto that always took me by surprise—there’s sumpm so touching in a beauty who thinks she needs to be funny. “Even Indian princesses wear the lost chunkagunk—for the complexion.” “Er—are you a princess?” (I wanted to kiss her bare brown foot with the chipped Revlon Candy Apple polish still clinging in patches to three of its five toes. I wanted her to say she’d run the world if I would give it to her, since I could give it to her if she wanted it. I mean, she did run it. She ran mine.)

“No,” she said sadly. She was holding that white metal bandaid box full of mud, with a pencil sticking out of it. We had the last tent in the tentline, miles from any water. I suspected she had spit in the dry dirt in the can or probably even peed in it, half out of laziness, half to ripen its powers. Lou Rae made up religion as she went along.

“You could be my princess,” I said shyly. She looked up at me with curiosity and I saw, the size of a flea, a blond-bearded long-faced billy goat totter on spindly hind legs across the amber clearings of her eyes, chewing a tin can—was that what she saw in me? I shrank into my shoulders. I wished my neck would eat my head, so I could disappear.

“Okay,” she said. “I’m Princess Isabella and you’re my loyal handmaiden Mademoiselle, er, Flotilla. Remember when we sailed our pinnace down Missionary Lake to claim the lost chunkagunk for—for la beauté?”

“O yeah,” I humored her, “that was when we, er, brought torah to the red women.”

“That was the missionary part. This was the cosmetic part.”

“So I forget, did we find the lost chunkagunk?”

“Did we find the lost chunkagunk! Well suppose I tell you this dump was the capital of la beauté, under the czars! Or anyway near it.” And now her voice slid low in her throat and she leaned towards my ear, so that her cascading ringlets and the bare breasts under them grazed my shoulder. “Want me to show you where?”

And that was it, never mind Wood Wiz, off we were going to find the site of the lost chunkagunk. I didn’t even think what dank bower Lou Rae might lead me to, only that we would be alone. If I had known that I would end up losing camp, I might have dragged my feet. Lou Rae had a red bedspread. She cinched it around her with a yellow cinch belt and clapped on a pair of sixty-wrapper white Mr. Peanut sunglasses, and held on tight to her bandaid box (“for samples”) and tucked the pencil bobbing behind her ear. I followed her onto the beaten path between tentlines. Far off at its dusty fork I saw girls doing normal stuff in green camp shorts, but Lou Rae suddenly struck off into the zigzag pine forest on no trail at all. Hot-cheeked, I watched her red bedspread decapitate saplings, drag leaves and sticks, snag on ferns and lasso blackberry spurs with its tendrils.

We went on so long I knew that Wood Wiz must be over. The woods thinned out. We came to a barbed wire fence sagging off a wormy fencepost. On the wrong side (wrong because I knew at once that this was the end of camp) were cows, cows of a pale brown the exact tint of used tea bags, with the same dark melancholy shadings along their edges, ringing their ears and their great brown eyes. I stood and stared at them. They were the most beautiful, the most womanly, cows I had ever seen, and not only because I knew the gnawed-down pasture they stood in could not be camp. It was a forbidden place, and it looked it: the crust was lunar, the cows slender and agile, like enchanted girls, the cattle of some sorceress.

I had never before gone off camp grounds, and of all the rules of Camp Chunkagunk, Tough Paradise for Girls, this was the strictest: she who left camp and got caught would never be let back in. It was a funny feeling even to stand inside camp looking out, as I did every morning waiting for the bugle for Lake Sci, staring across the slate of cold lake at houses the size of dice along its far shore, knowing there were regular people in them, grownups with jobs and diseases, dully eating breakfast. When it finally came, Get in the water you dirty bums on that same scratchy record, the icewater lake was a relief.

Now again I stood looking out: in front of me was a waste dotted with womanly cows, a floodplain toothed with debris and leached down to rock ribs, sharp stumps and gray broken things, and everything thrumming—earth and sky—with a smoky, mossy luster. “Cheese,” I whispered in awe, “what is this place?” “Better get a sample,” said Lou Rae, and bent at my feet to scratch it with her pencil. One maple leaf still dangled from a bobby pin at her forehead. Suppose I had been my sister Margaret, I might have run a hand right then down the long purplish ruffles of her hair, so that she looked up in—pleased or not—surprise just as it slipped past her throat and found the weight of her breasts in their red wrapper.

But I’m not Margaret. Already Lou Rae was prying up the barbed wire on top, and I was holding flat to earth the barbed wire on the bottom. We pushed through. The bedspread signed its name on a barb in a long, lazy red thread. We crossed the meadow, and there on a rise I saw the castle for me and my princess. It was a hollow half-tree as big as a cave, as gray as death, and no dirtier than a kiosk at a city bus stop. Where the core of the stump was rotted away, the pulp had washed out and there was a kind of ledge you could sit on, the two of you pressed in each other’s face like halves of a fruit hacked open but not sliced clean through.

I climbed in. Naturally I never said you come too, but she did and then I could smell her breath, feel the warm twin gusts of her nostrils on my lips. Between my legs came a soft lurch as of a bubble breaking free in the windowed cavity of a carpenter’s level. And my nipples and a hot bull’s-eye around my belly button turned into magnets from the nearness of her, stuck on me and trying to stick on her as well. I decided if she didn’t touch me I would die of it. She said sumpm and I only saw the melted pink jewel of her tongue. I didn’t dare hear her, I was afraid she would ask me why I was blinking my eyes in that stuttering way, yes I was sort of trying to hypnotize her, come to me come to me. “What did you say?” You have to understand how she looked at that moment: wood nymph, her throat and shoulders so greeny white under the grapey bunches of her hair, the round momps so distinct, tiny as she was, inside the split red peel of that damn bedspread, and the big green leaf rakishly starring her forehead. I had to kiss her, and if I were Margaret, I would have, I would have felt myself beaming and believed that her hidden coneyhole was as loud with me as a radio. I would have kissed her and then if she had pushed me away I would have merely hated her and an end to it. But if Margaret loved her, she would have been a boy, and small loss.

Here I was in my tough paradise for girls—no, just now I had crashed or bumbled out of the barbed wire fence of it, on the track of girls who until this summer had been pure as scenery. Nothing you would think of touching, they were, taken together, and this was exactly their spell, so complete, so perfect without me—those Maine girls, their wet ponytails black as tornados and dripping like perfume funnels. And let us not forget, they loved me back. So going to them every summer was dying and going to heaven for me, chaste as a ghost, only I didn’t know I was dead until now, when I came to life on the wrong side of the fence, ugly, starving thing that I was. Fitting that I should be curled in a dead tree like a claw, like a grub, a trilobite.

But I knew my way back. Didn’t I? After all, nobody knew. I wasn’t kicked out of camp just like that. Was I? It wasn’t too late? What did you say? My princess? “I said we’ve lost chunkagunk.” “Not again?” I choked out. “Alas, yes, Flotilla.” It went without saying that she was princess, I horse-faced mademoiselle. Very well, I agree to anything, come to me, kiss me, press your doll-faced momps, those broken-off upside-down champagne glasses, against me or I’ll

She laid a finger on the back of my trembling hand and I thought it safe in a hurry to pick up two of the long chocolate scraps of her hair pooling in my lap and place them in my mouth, for this could only amuse her. I could play I was a walrus, all right I was a walrus and I could eat her hair, which tasted like fried flowers. And it did amuse her, cowbells bouncing down a glass staircase, that was her laughter. “We’ve lost chunkagunk,” she repeated with a tragic sob and I dared to hold her eye with mine, well I may have crossed my eyes a bit to be safe, and muttered around my walrus mustaches: “How shall we make it up to ourselves?” Then her face, already so near, blurred into mine and her pink tongue, which I had been looking at before, slid into my mouth, poked in there surprisingly long and small and alive—

Then I was lost, o a thousand times more lost than she was. Good godzilla the nothing I knew when I was a Unbeknownst To Everybody! Nowadays I know how a girl like Lou Rae operates: Being wooed is meat and drink to the girlgoyle, and sex just spoils her appetite, so she keeps her orders small as sparrows, and if you ask for more—yes, in short, that dirty rotten Lou Rae, she loved me and left me.

But first I carried her away. I had no thoughts, only rose waves, oceans of muscle, she weighed nothing, I carried her off and she let me, and I laid her down between the rock ribs of the clammy meadow whose little grass the cows had gnawed to the bone and I threw myself on top of her. I had no idea what I was doing. I just tore open the red wrapper, my paws sank in up to the elbow and had at her pretty breasts by the handful. Which is how I know how hard they were: hard but alive, hard as a baby’s head. These were the first I ever touched, outside of my own spongy bags, and they were some immortal nymph’s on their way to becoming Elgin marbles. Dayenu! if I had only been content with that, o lord! but I wasn’t, I wasn’t thinking—nowadays I think but back then I wasn’t—so maybe if I had never lifted my fingers from her momps and crossed her belly to the pink nylon panties, her wetness wrapped there like a mouth in cellophane, like suffocating—I peeled that away and my pinky I only wish went up inside her but in fact just brushed the little fin standing there at attention knee-deep in her pond. She screamed bloody murder and of course I froze and remembered where I was. But just then, sumpm slapped me. How can I describe it? A pink thing, a grimy, scratchy, gray-pink thing exactly like a wet seat cushion from a 99-cent movie theater, slapped me softly across the face. Those womanly cows had come over and taken a front seat at my wooing and were getting their tongues in too.

Which is more than I can say for Lou Rae, whose legs had snapped back together like the prongs of a clothespin. She sat upright, just as if a spring had popped somewhere. She was scared, I can see that now, and it wasn’t those cows that had scared her, though she was never one to talk levelly about things of this world and there was a yearling bull in the pasture. She was looking at him, he was looking at us, I was looking at her and she was wearing red—for she had wrapped back up in her red thing as fast as she could yank it out from under me. And now she was rolled in her bedspread tight as a red cigar. “I think we better go back to camp,” she said.

From the hard ground I stared at her, knowing I had lost camp for good now, and would not even have Lou Rae Greenrule for five whole minutes to make good my loss.

I hoped the bull would perforate us both! or maybe at the last moment I would save her: “Come on, Ferdinand,” I encouraged him, “do your worst,” but his fuddy maleness just gave me a cross-eyed look, and turned and walked away. Even if she never told anybody—and what could she tell, in that Venusian Pig Latin she talked, full of lost beauté, ensorcelled princesses and wandering serving maids, that anybody would understand? But I could never believe in my love of camp again: my love was out to get some girl, I was a wolf in evergreen camp shorts and gimp lanyard, looking for live feed I could catch.

Lou Rae had asked me once, as we lay on our cots one starry night waiting for the mosquitos to wail: Did you usta want to be a princess when you grew up? Er, sort of, I said, knowing she had, wanting to draw her nearer to me, though that was Sister Margaret who had had the royal girlgoyle ambitions, not me. But not to boss people, I added sweetly, meanwhile thinking: they want to be princesses, and not even to boss people, what’s wrong with you girls! Did you? said I, and was shocked when I heard a suspicious noise and turned on my flashlight and sure enough her eyes began to puddle up with tears.

She blurted: “I won’t be able to stand it if everything is ugly around me. When I’m a grownup I won’t be able to wear those dogface shoes my mother wears, or look down at my slacks and think wow that belly belongs to me, it’s like an anthill in Africa, and I’ll never be able to sleep in the same bed with some pee-smelling half-dead gramps scribbled all over with iron hair … I couldn’t, I couldn’t!” So she was that kind of girl ya see, mortally afraid of everyday rot, and if I had known what I know now I would have said: Come with me and I’ll never let anything that smells mortal or perishable—certainly not a fuddy male—come near you. But of course I didn’t know it and she wouldn’t have come with me if I had. Probably she had to pass through any number of pretty, feckless boys who went downhill before she became, o, let’s see, what I find in my crystal ball is a one-girl condo cleaning service in Maui in later life, gold lamé smocks she finds at St. Vincent de Paul, paisley slippers and fantastical babushkas:

What is your fortune, my Magic Maid?

My face is my fortune, sir, she said.

Then I can’t marry you, my Magic Maid.

Nobody asked you, sir, she said.

But just now in a cow pasture in Maine, she was flouncing back towards the boundary of Camp Chunkagunk, Tough Paradise for Girls, in that maddening bedspread, springing lightly over the barbed wire fence back into camp, and I followed in a fog, in pig-iron grief. I could hardly lift my cannonball knees, my head lolled on a broken spring, but she was fully recovered. She looked back at me over her shoulder, across her red train, and said: “Bogeywoman—you know what?” “No, what?” I growled. “I know—don’t ask me how I know but I know—you were my wood wizard in another life.”

I narrowed my eyes at her red back. I understood she was throwing me a bone and at the same time explaining away her mysterious but passing attraction to me. O yeah? what life was that? I wanted to sneer. Back when we were both lumpy funguses and nobody had a coneyhole or a frog dangle? I never was one to go for that girlgoyle slumber party drivel about reincarnation—everybody’s souls flying around in beans with bus transfers until they find a new body to land in.

All the same there was sumpm in what she said that made the sweat pop out in oily beads on my forehead. You were my wood wizard in some other life—in other words, her spirit guide from one world to another. And even though she had it upside down, and obviously the red-ragged little hussy was leading me, still she was right about that, I had wound up in some other world than I’d ever meant to. Things only looked the same. I dragged on behind her. I dragged my feet through the blackened leaves of the forest bottom, trying not to track or even see her huge and ridiculous spoor in the stringy humus. But I couldn’t shake the habit of camp so easily. I ached with disgusted, stale hunger. I sensed all hope of her had been marooned on this isle of the lost chunkagunk in a golden past, and now instead of showing me her pretty coochie slick and pink like a little wing of bubblegum, with the spit of expectation sparkling on it, she would reminisce. Of ancient travels with her wood wizard, that wily giant rabbit-hole, the Bogeywoman. Yes I saw it coming, more and more mystical twaddle like this, with her pink Lollipop underpants back on.

I didn’t go crazy yet, that was tomorrow or the next day. First I tried to be back in camp, to love Wood Wiz and Lake Sci, zealously to scrape plates for hog slops in KP and buck up for seconds in raspberry cuss and play my ukulele for Chunka Talent Parade and sing alto in Evening Pro up at the Wig:

She rolls along like a cannonball,

Like a star in its heavenly flight,

And the train I’m on,

She’s the queen of them all,

She’s the streamlined cannonball.

HOW LOVE GOT ME OUT OF THERE

Now here’s when I really went flooey, broke the dreambox but good. It was Wood Wiz, Tracking—tracking up at the sand pit on the southern edge of camp.

Tracking was the domain of Willis Marie Bundgus, a six-foot Yankee maiden and true wood wizardess, with a great ruffled headpiece of palomino hair like pinewood shavings, and breasts like horns, and a behind as big as a wheelbarrow, which had led me through hemlock forest and cranberry bog and over the Camel’s Needle. Camp is corn, camp is the corniest, but you know you know sumpm when you can look at a few random scratches in dirty rain-pocked sand and see in your mind’s eye not only what small lives have cruised by here in their endless foraging but what dog ate what dog when. Willis Bundgus knew all this and taught me what she could. And therefore I loved Willis Bundgus with a love pure and true, the love of a pilgrim for her saint of perfect action, the love of a slave for the broad back of Harriet Tubman moving through the swamp on a moonless night. But also, I admit it—though I didn’t know it myself yet, it must have been there—with the ace-in-the-hole love of a boygirl, a bogeygirl, for a real woman. It started with Margaret: a big woman, bigger than me, not fat but grand in all her architecture, with a big scary cliff of bosom and a big solid county seat at the bottom of it, has always been my ideal. To be up to a woman like that! Not to go on forever flitting through the underbrush, a skinny wood elf weighed down by virtually no secondaries in the sexual traits department, but menschlike to inherit the world, towns, factories, the fertile plain. Well, that was Willis Bundgus. Not that I saw, at the time, any more than her fine flanks stretching the denim shiny in great twin lobes when she bent over the sand pit and said:

“There was war to the grim death here. Tell us about it, Koderer.”

And I got down on my hands and knees in the sand like she had taught me, and squinted at a few dumb gashes with the low sun buttering them from the other side.

“A pregnant mouse galloped through here and disappeared, but I don’t think anything ate it.”

“Good,” she said in a bored voice.

“Ooooo look here it veered off—probably a chicken hawk passed over—but nothing happened. The sand’s not torn up.”

“Hmmm.”

“Wait—a raccoon—” I crawled around the pit in a spilled alphabet font of starry feet, which had sunk deep. “The old male swung through here and ate up, uh-oh, looks like somebody’s pink dry cleaning ticket.”

“You call that a fight to the bitter end?” Willis drawled.

“Well, somebody didn’t get their dress slacks back.”

“Koderer, Koderer, put your beady eyes on the ground, let the dead talk to you.”

Dead? dead? but then I screwed down my nose and saw the corpses all over the place, everywhere I looked: crumbs of green lacewing, two links, then three more, of a salamander spine, tiny teeth, dry eggs, claws, half a beetle carapace, rust-red frass of the hornworm, a lone whisker sticking out of a bit of snout leather—all that was left of some least weasel the hawk ate—a whole skull the size of a freckle: all this carnage epochs beyond its original disturbance, part of the calm sand itself. You just had to get down there to see from the wreckage what a twenty-table grange hall ham & oyster supper that sand was, what a feast run amok the whole earth was, only how could you tell the eater from the eats? You couldn’t. And what but your own greedy appetite led you out there on the bonewhite tablecloth in the first place, where every passing turkey buzzard could get an eyeful of you? It was a wonder anything ever came out of its hole—and suddenly I saw this: Only merciful hunger blanks out death.

“The whole sand pit’s an oinking boneyard,” I said.

“Good stuff, eh, Bogeywoman?” said Willis, pleased to see my nose touching the ground. The moniker showed I was back in her favor again, and living up to my reputation as girl guide to snakes and snails and puppy dogs’ tails—her heiress in short.

She had a thing for me, I know she did, and she was woman enough to dish up sumpm for everybody, even if she was supposedly pinned to some carburetorhead from East Millinocket at the time, no doubt the only abner from her high school tall enough to look her in the eye. Wherever she is, I’ll bet by now Willis Marie Bundgus has shucked the denim from those flanks for any number of girlgoyles, though fuddies too of course. She had appetites—I could tell.

This was the second day after that terrible afternoon when Lou Rae Greenrule loved me for twelve and a half minutes and left me, and now I was awake at camp with my blood a-quarrel, with my once sleepy appetites whistling on their haunches like a metropolis of prairie dogs. After lunch, during Quiet Hour, while Lou Rae sat Indian fashion on her red bedspread, playing Old Maid of the Klondike, I lay on my cot, eyes bulging; I swear I could hear the cold and scheming blood swish by my ears, and suddenly I had the idea to go and visit Willis Bundgus.

She was always easy to find, and I knew she wouldn’t turn me away. She would be at the Wood Wiz Wigwam, an old one-room smokehouse with some dusty specimens on the ledges, or at the tracking pit just beyond, near the southern edge of camp—in fact a warning wire just touched its far edge. No-woman’s-land. Thirty yards into it a small and dented blue trailer sat on concrete blocks in the woods. I had never been there, of course, but once or twice I had seen Willis talking through its porthole. The camp handyman lived there, Ottie Grayson.

Ottie was six foot four or five and homely. What he looked like was a long fork. He grinned his rubbery face into deep grooves, grinned all day every day, though practically all the work he did about the place required a shovel. True, with that face, as soon as he squinted into the sunlight, he seemed to be yuk-yukking even when he wasn’t. There would be a fresh trench around, say, Nurse’s Bungalow, and Ottie’s head sticking out of it with that smile and big red sunburnt ears under his flat-top, and worst of all, his Adam’s apple jumping around in his neck like a finger trying to poke through a curtain. His ugliness was legendary, even to him: He liked to tell about a blind date he’d once had where he’d whispered to the girl he was a werewolf and at midnight she panicked and threw her shoe at him. Everyone liked him, including me.

Anyhow sometimes Willis talked through the window of Ottie Grayson’s trailer, sometimes Ottie squatted by Willis’s sand pit. Willis Bundgus liked Ottie, too, but I wasn’t jealous. Ottie was cute-ugly and popular as the camp dog. Mostly he wasn’t around, Ottie; mostly he was down the bottom of some hole with his shovel. But once I had found the two of them belly-flopped in the sand pit, heads together, watching a mud dauber and a grass spider fight to the finish, with Ottie coaching the underdog spider and Willis coolly fixing the terrible odds. “Whatcha guys doing?” I squatted right down between them, never thinking I might be in the way.

When it was all over Willis showed us the paper cell in the eaves of the smokehouse where the wasp was bricking up the numb spider with one of her eggs.

“Ouch. Poor chump,” Ottie said. “You wouldn’t do that to your worst enemy, would you, Bogeywoman?”

“She’s not mad at him,” Willis pointed out.

“She eats him alive and he gets to watch,” Ottie winced.

“A restful end,” Willis said, “but not for the squeamish.”

“Maybe he doesn’t even know it’s him,” I chimed in. “Maybe he feels lighter and lighter and all at once he feels like nothing, I mean he turns into her and that’s what he is, her.”

I remember the two of them looked at me queerly.

But today Willis was missing, though right away I found a fresh print of her big potato foot—as wood wizardess she was the only one at Camp Chunkagunk who was allowed to go barefoot. Behind the print was a crater as though she had braked suddenly and peered at sumpm in the distance and then lost heart and plunked down on her bum and bawled, except that the wood wizardess would never bawl. A few seconds later she had scrambled back up and I could see, from the wrung necks of a couple spurges, that was the way she went. In a hurry. Which gave me the idea—I would track her. She had scrambled up the back of the sand pit and come out in no-woman’s-land outside of camp. What the hump—this time it was too easy. I resolved to track the great tracker, praying she would be glad to see me. After all she was on the wrong side herself. That I might intrude never even occurred to me.

I kicked off my sneakers and picked up in no time her trademark silent hundred-and-sixty-pound pigeon-toe. Sure enough, she was tracking. Here she tunneled through bearberry, here she made herself small as a pocketbook, all at once—we were even with Grayson’s trailer—she stretched up on her toes and peered in the porthole. Now I began to see a second set of tracks, maybe they’d been there all along but so like hers in the mass of weight they carried and the bassoon-key toeworks I hadn’t noticed. A fuddy’s foot. Ottie. On she padded after him, swifter and swifter now, away from the lake, over a rise and down into a snake’s nest of bramble whips where all I had to do was navigate the channel their hips had already brush-hogged. Here came a broad bank of raspberries she hadn’t even stopped to eat. But—wait—sumpm else had stopped to eat, sumpm more a berry’s size, with dinky fingerjoints born to close fast around the hairy red brain lobes of raspberries. And now I picked up a third track, fairy-footed, girly, its tread hardly denting the ground. Here a small female lounged, stuffing herself with berries, swatting briars out of her long ringletty hair, then all at once fell down on peach-pit kneecaps and tunneled into the bush, and if I was not mistaken—didn’t the red berries tremble?—she was still in there. I saw with a thrill that Willis Marie Bundgus had never detected this party, for just here the wood wizardess had spotted what she was looking for, here she had gone crashing like a rhino through the briars to get to it. Myself I climbed a scabrous old apple tree on the edge of the trail, and clung there looking down on all three.

I bet you think I was buggy with jealousy. You’ve got it all wrong: at first I was dying to catch those two, Willis and Ottie, in the act, I was ready to crash their picnic and eat the crumbs with the ants, I’d take what I could get. I wanted to be sure that everybody was doing it as soon as they had the chance—those Maine girls most of all, with their sturdy legs, smooth hair and strong teeth, their glass-clear voices singing Old Hundredth and I never saw a moor in three-part harmony.

I rubbernecked for a better view. In my dream their shirts had already unwrapped them like a picnic, fluttered down and flattened puffily underneath them. She lay on her back on this billowing tablecloth and clutched Ottie’s ugly head to this nuzzy and that nuzzy, passionately imprisoning his bubblegum ears in her big strong hands, her bare biceps glittering with sweat. He kissed and struggled and all of a sudden gasped for air and sat back on his heels. And in my dream there they were, her wizardly breasts, two lovely round custards, wet and slick, with their brown nipples pointing up like fuses. And, dayenu! stop right there, lord. I swear I would have been satisfied.

But no. The two were doing nothing. They sat on a low stump, not even side by side though their shoulders bumped. All their zippers were zippered and snaps snapped and laces laced. I heard Ottie’s voice:

“I mean whatsername, you know the one, sounds like a national park?” he was saying, and he turned kinda boiled pink, then light dove into the woof of his flat-top—he looked sheepishly down at his feet. “The one with the hair? The fairy princess about four foot tall but with real jugs, from the Lower Big Bear line?” (That’s where I close to fell out of my apple tree, for that could only be one person he was describing. Now I knew who it was in the raspberry bush. Blood surged into my face and it’s a wonder I didn’t jump someone right then.)

“The one with the hair, I mean hair like hot fudge pouring all the way down to her little ice-cream scoop butt, you know the one? The one who thinks she’s in the Land of Nod or Cockayne or somewhere?” I saw sumpm flash in his hands—he was carving a peg with a jackknife. Willis’s hands were tucked away, out of trouble, under her big thighs. “Whose dad’s supposed to be in jail? who lives on Platform 92 with the Bogeywoman and the red bedspread? I think she’s gonna be the one …”

“The one?” Willis said. She glanced up at him and I was shocked at her shipwrecked face—but Ottie was studying his feet.

“Ya mean the only one? For me? Heck, no, I mean the first one,” he said, and laughed, but bashfully, not like a cad, and his ugly-cute face lit up with that thought and the queer greeny light of the woods. “I always figured one of these days even a ugly guy like me would stumble across one of those nymphos you hear about. So I been bracing myself for somebody old and scary, probably one of my buddies’ mothers with cottage cheese thighs and lard lumps hanging out of her girdle, I’d take anything—and who comes along but this little number, whatsername. She’s like a movie star who ate a eat-me pill and shrank down in perfect proportion—you know?” Willis mumbled sumpm or other. “Cheese I’m glad I can talk to you, Bundgus”—he gave her a gentle punch in the shoulder, which was larger than his own, and she smiled a closed smile with a greenish cast.

“What I mean is,” Ottie went on, “for five years now I been wondering if I was ever going to … I’m not the kind who could push a girl to … I’m nineteen years old, I got big ears, a Howdy Doody face, all the girls want to be my pal and nobody wants to, you know. Only this one, I think she really likes to—anyway, she was sposed to meet me here and—I hope she didn’t get pinched.” “I’ll haul her in myself,” Willis growled. “Aw cmon.” “You could get in a lot of trouble.” “She’s not the type who’d ever tell,” Ottie said, “—ya know I used to think she and the Bogeywoman had some kinda private club together, NO BOYS ALLOWED. But yesterday she led me out here when she was sposed to be shooting targets with the Chunkagunk Bowwomen and I got the poison ivy to prove it.” He started fussing with his floppy overalls but then pointed, to my relief, at his bare ankles. There they were, fat crusty white clouds of calamine lotion.

“She said we were looking for some kind of dirt from the lost chunkagunk—what the heck you think she had in mind? Anyhow we were crawling around in the briars, scratching up dirt, and something told me I could kiss her.” Dirty rotten double-timing Lou Rae, I wanted to shout. “I swear I could have gone as far as I wanted with her,” Ottie added, “I think,”—and Willis asked in a small voice, smiling faintly though the color of white asparagus, “So why didn’t you, Turkeyneck?” “Hey, Bundgus, you’re not mad, are you?” Ottie asked with a hiccup of pleased laughter. “Well—I didn’t push it. Later I coulda kicked myself. Anyhow she promised to meet me here—” “So where is she?” Bundgus inquired. I wanted to rat to the wood wizardess—I was on her side—but of course I said nothing (lemme die first).

“Don’t worry,” Ottie mumbled, “a girl that young, I’m waiting for her to ask me, well not exactly ask but, you know, put a hand on me first, something like that …” He stretched out his long legs in their puffy green overalls and stood up to go. “Hey, I got hogs.” (He meant his KP duty.) “So what brings you out here anyway, Willie?” Willis shook her head miserably and he kicked off through the grass polls and leaf trash, whistling up the trail.

And that’s where I went buggy, right there in the pleasingly anatomical forks of the apple tree, variety Northern Spy. My blood was singing like a chain saw. Never mind that Ottie’s courtship of Lou Rae had come to nothing, like my own, and that I had, from experience, cause to hope that her scissory legs would cut off his plans at the root. He was after Lou Rae, the fuddy. And he’d broken the wood wizardess’s heart, the cad. O he was popular, Ottie, a walking barbeque fork with a clutch of tines for a face, ha ha, ears like two pink diaphragms, and those funny longitudinal rucks around his mouth, ho ho, the sort of face you can hardly look on without bursting out laughing, I told you I liked him, I had nothing against him, I wasn’t jealous, not that jealous, but there was Willis Marie Bundgus, the woman I was saving for when I grew up, with a face as long as the bus ride home, and this comedian with his peg in one hand and his jackknife in the other and his stick legs poking through the brush towards me and Lou Rae—was she going to whistle for him? I went buggy.

I guess I’d watched too many Saturday serials where Hopalong Cassidy drops onto Bullet from the fiery hayloft of the burning livery stable. When Ottie, whistling, passed under the apple tree I uttered a mad gargle—Keep your mitts off her—and without exactly thinking about it I dropped on his shoulders, boxed his bubblegum-pink ears with my fists, got his skinny neck in a death grip with my skinny thighs, hung upside down gasping Keep your mitts off her and pounding his stomach, and finally I let go with my thighs and plunged to earth, tackling him on the way down. “Whoa, whoa,” he was yelling, “cool it, Bogeywoman, you’re right off your noodle, whaddaya mean, off who?” The funny thing is, I wasn’t mad at him, I swear I wasn’t. It was that dirty rotten Lou Rae I was mad at, who had loved me for twelve and a half minutes and left me, but I wasn’t going to put a hand on her, was I? Lemme die first.

“You’re oinking nuts, Bogeywoman,” Ottie shouted. I rolled around and was about to sink my teeth into his ankle when I accidentally got a good look, through his legs, at the wood wizardess, Willis Marie Bundgus. For a second my eyeballs froze in their molds. This whole time I had been sorta dreaming that I was saving the wood wizardess. I must have thought, if you can call it a thought, that she would be impressed. Then one look at her face and I knew I was in disgrace. It was over. Now I had lost camp, really lost camp, for good. Now they would have to throw me out, banish me, point me forth, shaking their heads and mouthing Get help, yes out of those famous wrought-iron gates with CAMP CHUNKAGUNK YMCA embossed on plates on each granite gate post and Tough Paradise for Girls scrolling overhead.

Ottie by now had thrown away whittle-peg and jackknife and was wrestling me back. After I saw Willis’s stony face my heart wasn’t in it. He flipped me over and plunked himself on top of me. He got hold of my arms (by then I wasn’t punching or even struggling so it was easy, in fact I held them out to him) and after a bit he let go with one hand, looked over his shoulder at Willis and cranked an invisible pencil sharpener next to his ear, with his finger sticking out for the pencil. “Totally buggy,” he said. “What the heck’s eating her? What’s she doing out here? What’s she got against me?” “You’re on the wrong side, Koderer,” Willis said in a scared, sad voice. “You know what that means.”

IT MEANT EXILE:

(Already in my mind I had fallen back into the world: Upper Meadowbottom Heights Extended, the Jewish suburbs, the girls my age with their panty girdles and orthodontists, sororities and sweet sixteen parties and sanitary belts and beauty salons and college boards—all the girls I knew in Baltimore except the what-went-wrongs, my sister Margaret and me—all those girls rattling their Hutzler’s bags along the white-hot sidewalks of the new shopping centers, moving inside the baffles of their feminine ambitions as their younger selves had traveled in five layers of crinolines or as planets travel in their rings, and no more likely to step out of orbit. Not that I hated those girls. I even saw the possibilities, the tragic possibilities, of some, but they, unlike the Maine girls, shunned me from the outset as no use, in fact a danger, to their own struggles for position. They were Jewish girls, they had programs, they didn’t dare fail. They secreted antibodies for the likes of me, their atomic neutralizers were cut to my shape—if I was stuck among them what would become of me?)

“Why were you spying on us? What’s wrong with you, Koderer, are you sick?” Willis Bundgus reached in and laid a cool hand on my forehead. “Have you been eating or drinking something queer?” God gimme an excuse, Merlin’s Suzette used to say—I almost laughed at the tailor-made excuse my buckskin-fringed goddess was handing me. (Bundgus of course was innocent of the so-called human sciences. She’d probably never even heard of Sigmund Food—none of that sticky stuff for her.) I saw my chance. “I ate a funny-looking mushroom,” I blurted, exploding my chance to atoms by overdoing it—no tracker would ever eat a funny-looking mushroom. “I fell on it with my mouth open,” I tacked on lamely. “My god she tried to kill herself,” Willis hollered, “we have to get her to Nurse’s Bung right away.” Since I was quiet now, Ottie rolled off me to help me to my feet—and I forked up his jackknife out of the tuft of iron grass where it had fallen, and slashing air with it, so he backed off, and making, I seem to recall, some kinda wordless noise—howling, bawling, sumpm along those lines—I ran off into the woods.

It meant exile—and now I hastened to forget what I knew, which wasn’t much, of Wood Wiz Lost-Finding, and I was lost in the woods. I hadn’t stolen Ottie’s knife as essential tool number 3 of emergency wood wizardry, although it was. I had no intention of cutting willow rod stanchions or leafy roofing for a lean-to. No, it was myself I intended to cut—not kill, mind you, only cut—which brings me to the question of

WHY THE BOGEYWOMAN LETS HER OWN BLOOD:

(Note well I was not your typical Badgirl capital B: I was the Bogeywoman, whereas classical Badgirl was Margaret, age fourteen, fifteen, with a Pall Mall usurping the notch of a cherry coke straw in her lips and dangling from her white lipstick at the bus stop [transfer from Meadowbottom Circle to Number 5 Slade Avenue]. Somebody’s bubby in a babushka limps by and sighs, “Oi, so young!” Badgirl doesn’t turn her head, gives her at most a sidewise sullen glance from half-lowered lids. Badgirl got her period at thirteen, threw out the stiffened panties in a park garbage can, thumbed a tampax up there—it was murder for a week—and didn’t tell Suzette, who’d have made it occasion for a boring speech. Badgirl used to carry an abortionist’s telephone number—it was in D.C.—in her wallet, penciled on a corner of her first Social Security card, which she hadn’t lost yet. But this miniature toughgirl has emotions—like me in the woods. This is where Badgirl and Bogeywoman come together, age 14, 15, 16, in that overbubbling cauldron of the heart. So much they have to spill some when they think of—well maybe think isn’t quite the word for it—that I could go crazy was churning in my dreambox, that I was going to die, that everyone was going to die, that the black drain of time was already sucking down my lazy worthless life and I would never possess any more of it than this torn-up, dirty-sudsy, offensive fluid, my eye staring coldly out at the chunk-loaded river going by—waves of hunger and disgust—that I would never love anyone, that no one would ever love me but still I wanted them in my gorge gullet snatch hole craw wanted to eat them alive before they had a chance to eat me or, worse, look at me, see what I was and run)

Ottie kept that jackknife sharp, wouldn’t you know it. I staggered through deep shade on no trail, weeping and slicing a very fine grid as I went, a plan for a good camp, a tough camp, for girls, on the fish-white underbelly of my forearm—so fine it took some time before the Chipmunks’ cottage, the Lower Big Bear line, the Upper Big Bear line, waterfront, archery field and chapel all filled up with blood and ran together. By then rags of pink sky winked at me between branches overhead—twilight over the lake. They were throwing me out—in all my life I had shown for twelve and a half minutes what I really was and already they were throwing me out. Okay I was out of camp but I would never go home, I decided that right then.

And, funny, there was no use hiding in the woods either: old Bundgus was such an ace tracker that she’d find me as soon as she could catch me, for all I had over her draft horse flanks was speed.

I turned west from the lake, shambling in a straight line, leaking blood that I knew she’d see, knowing I should come to a tar road and I did—one that looked squeezed out of a tube and slightly flattened. Its blacktop lay a couple inches above the lips of the ditches and there were queer signs:

PVT RD

PERMIT & FEE REQD

The tar was new and aromatic as the pinewoods. Now the main thing was not to drip or scuff or leave any track. My right arm with the good camp, the tough camp, for girls scratched on the white inside of it was barely tacky now, not dripping, but I couldn’t look at it—not that the smear of blood was so disgusting—more monumentally embarrassing, like that Polaroid Merlin took of me in my crib the first time it dawned on me what my own turds were good for and I worked off my diaper and finger-painted them all over the wall. Her first artistic productions Merlin wrote in the album. Probably I was still whimpering a little. All the same I felt light, light in the head, as though I had bled away a snakebite. I yanked off my Camp Chunkagunk jersey and rolled it around my arm, there, that was better. Stood up straight. Now to go the way my naked momps were pointing me. I looked down at them. They’re kinda duck-footed: one said north, one said south.

Willis Marie Bundgus would expect me to go north, light out for the bog country and the Canada border. Opportunity lay that way; as a schooled tracker I would find sumpm to eat, or if I was really determined to off myself there were funny-looking mushrooms everywhere. In fact hazards abounded, fertile danger a-plenty in the bog country: if a bear didn’t eat me, they might find me in a thousand years, a self-made bog woman—Boggywoman—intact in the peat, forever young though tough and red as a Western saddle. That thought alone would send Bundgus crashing through the cranberry bogs in search of my hide before I sank and the juniper water tanned me forever. Yes, a smart scout would head north. Therefore I could outwit Bundgus (and myself) by turning south. Back to camp. And so I did. I set off south, sobbing from time to time, bare-bosomed, glancing around slyly whenever I remembered to, careful not to kick so much as a stone. Okay, I was buggy. I thought this a reasonable plan.

Though my situation was desperate, I felt better now, no denying it. The blackgreen woods pressed the road between two banks as velvety and private as upholstery. It was falling dark. As long as there was no one to look at me, I kinda liked my bare chest. My arm—I had forgotten that and it wouldn’t hurt one bit tomorrow. The tar under my feet was spicy and warm. Its newness glowed like seal fur. A raccoon turd dotted it here and there and I stopped, as I always did, to admire the harlequin scat of that model omnivore—fishbones, corn, a plug of purple finch feathers, all bound together and tinted with the rosy, seed-speckled pleasure of blackberry—and was it one pearl button winking at me? Perhaps they would take me back at camp after all—perhaps they would simply forget, or Willis Marie Bundgus would relent from duty this once, find it unbecoming to her beautiful flesh to hold as rigid as a tent-pole. God give me, not an excuse—a break, an exemption, a liberty, permit, indulgence, one-of-a-kind. For one-of-a-kind, that’s what I by godzilla am, aren’t I? and, God, you made me, you’re stuck with me, at least I’m not contagious. I’m Bogeywoman, a monster not even reproducible as myself, sterile as a mule in that respect, so how about a permit, you owe me sumpm. Or I’ll kill myself, God, you think I won’t? Let me back in camp Make them take me For some reason I recalled at just that moment that on my way from the appletree-top to the ground I had bitten Ottie on the nose with all my might, and I saw the bright blood spritz down the dam of his upper lip, drowning the furrow the Archangel Michael is said to press with a forefinger to make newborn children forget all they know of heaven. I had bitten his nose half off! I trudged on miserably, for the case was hopeless. Then—probably I was sniveling in some manner—I came over a rise, still walking in the middle of the road, and found myself looking down on the Camp Chunkagunk green woodie in a dirt turnaround on the left, a Caribou County police car tilted into the ditch on the right, and, side by side, slowly advancing, walking towards me up the little hill of blacktop, Ottie Grayson and a tall square-jawed policeman. I clamped my arm across my momps; the Camp Chunkagunk jersey dangled down in front of me like a curtain. Thank godzilla it was almost dark by now. I inched backwards.

“Come on, Bogeywoman,” Ottie coaxed in an amiable zookeeper’s voice, he must have thought I was born yesterday, “we’ll take you back to camp. Chicken papa and strawberry cuss for dinner, and square dancing for Evening Pro …”

The Bogeywoman’s appetite ya see was well known. From now on I hate chicken papa, I was thinking, and if I work at it I’ll soon loathe strawberry cuss too: and for the first time in my life I got a flash of why some girlgoyles say no to whatever they give you to eat. All the same I was getting hungry. I narrowed my eyes at Ottie. His nose was big and red and puffy, and looking bigger and redder and puffier the closer he came. “Nothing bad will happen to you,” he said, “I know you must be hungry by now.” “I ain’t hungry,” I said, “and I swear by godzilla Ottie Grayson if you come one step closer I’ll bite your nose clean off.” He stopped and so did the policeman. I whirled around to run and barged smack into Willis Marie Bundgus. Of course she’d circled around behind me stealthy as a weasel. I saw her big brown feet planted in a wrestler’s ready on the blacktop. The wood wizardess always wore that fringed vest like Annie Oakley. Now its tassels trembled. I would have let her take me. I wasn’t going to sock the great Willis Marie Bundgus, and anyhow she stood a foot above me even in a slight crouch. But she backed off. “Where’s your shirt, Koderer?” she said unhappily.

“I swear I’m not buggy, I’m not,” I cried, and then I could feel the fuddies closing in behind me—I spun and threw them everything I had: Sunday Monday and Tuesday punches, knees to grottos, elbows to jawbones, roundhouses, watertowers and terminals, dungspreaders and haymakers, blueflies, blackflies, letter flies. I got nowhere. They didn’t hurt me, but the boys weren’t even trying. They caught my flailing arms and legs one by one and as the trooper steered my hands together for the handcuffs he turned up my arm and tweeted unmelodiously. “What in sam hill is this?” “It’s a map of Camp Chunkagunk, Tough Paradise for Girls,” I said proudly, “can’t you tell?” “Jesus wept,” the officer said in disgust and packed me into the cruiser.

Since I was half-naked I figured they would throw Willis Marie Bundgus in with me for a chaperone and I could explain. But all I ever saw of her again was one gleam through the back window: Ottie Grayson and Bundgus in the Camp Chunkagunk station wagon, two white faces lit up in the windshield, one a grinning handyman I hereby rub out, one a suffering wood wizardess—I tell you she loved me more than she knew—till they slammed the car door closed.

2

Buggywoman

BUG MOTELS ON MISSION

I was in the bughouse, but I wasn’t hearing angel voices. I wasn’t being bugged by the FBI, through invisible microphones in the toilet. I wasn’t the Virgin Mary. If I found a fat shoelace probably I tied my broken ukulele case together with it instead of trying to dangle from it, by the neck, inside my private closet. And, speaking of that closet, the cockroach I found there, napping in my sad-faced sneaker, was no hallucination but just as real, and just as big, as the Koderer nose on my face. I liked girlgoyles, that was at the bottom of it, but of course I wasn’t telling them that. I liked girls, except for me. And in the wilderness between my hunger and its exception, I sometimes drew maps with no way out on the inside of my forearm with a razor blade. Or anything else sharp I could find. I was seventeen now. I had been in this dump one year, seven months and seven days. I still dreamed of dirty rotten Lou Rae Greenrule, who loved me and left me, and of the wood wizardess, who turned me in. Sometimes I dreamed I was back at Camp Chunkagunk and having a pretty good time, except for those two ripe pimples I was hiding inside my brassiere, so sore and popping full of yellow cheese they made me want to puke.

I was safe in the loonie bin, and to make sure I was safe, I kept my mouth shut. Who knew what a bona fide loonie might have to say? So I gave em the silent treatment, I mean all the dreambox mechanics and especially “my” dreambox mechanic, Foofer. For one year, seven months and seven days—not one word. Right smack in the bughouse I was a Unbeknownst To Everybody, or at least I was until that dirty stoolie Margaret wrote sumpm on the back of a greasy menu that Foofer got his hands on—as she knew he would. (I forgot, says Margaret. Forgot! I’ll say no more. It doesn’t take a Sigmund Food.)

But this was before the menu, before Zuk, before I said a single word. Foofer musta thought he’d heard it all, but one year, seven months and seven days of nothing?—I have reason to think he was impressed.

A state hospital would have rolled me over in a week, but Thomas Hare Rohring and Eugenia O. Rohring Clinic could afford to ponder my case. After all, Merlin was forking over a hundred dollars a day. Merlin felt sick at heart for the mess I was in—he said—but he was having a good year. No way Merlin’s Puppets World Tour could come home from Haiphong, or Penang, or Surabaya, or wherever he was that week, just to nurse me. “And I’d have to nurse you,” he threatened, his voice all thready sizzles and crackles on the phone from the bamboo post office of some island campong, “because I sure wouldn’t have the dough to keep you in Rohring Rohring if I came home.”

I never quite got it how being the wizard of world peace during the Vietnam War turned into money for the old man; there couldn’t have been any dough in those two-donkey village squares where Merlin’s Puppets was always mounting the same old show. But sumpm must have turned into sumpm because here I was. Only famous court cases like O and Emily got scholarships to this dump. Anyhow, the way I looked at it, after all those years of feeling left out of the fame part, here I was doing my bit for history by costing Merlin so many dollars a day that he had to stay in Asia and be the bane of Lyndon Bugbane Johnson himself. Now and then I did wonder just what unsavory republic might be putting up the bucks.

Still, that was a terrifying threat from Merlin: I’d have to nurse you … It meant of course being nursed not by Merlin but by the cadaverous vice puppeteer Suzette, who’d be flown home from Hanoi or Samovarobad or somewhere for the purpose. Which, shudder, could mean that the theatrical vampiress might one day try to touch me with her creepy whisker-thin hands. And also the idea of home starched my will to stay where I was. I had said—in fact I had hollered, pretty inconveniently if I should ever change my mind—that if they threw me out of Camp Chunkagunk I would never go home. And I didn’t. Not that I had a home to go home to, in the usual sense of the word. But this way they wouldn’t slap one together for me, either, with some slave-driving twenty-one-star foster mom out in Harford County, in the pay of the state, with the girls’ dormitory set up in an old chicken house on the family farm and enough “chores” to exhaust an infantry battalion.

Anyway the social worker wouldn’t hear of me going back to Merlin’s house on Ploy Street all alone, to bounce around like the last beebee in a broken puzzle, the only one that hadn’t rolled out the hole yet. Merlin and Suzette were on tour and sister Margaret was off somewhere with that racetrack bum and couldn’t be reached—yes I had given up on old Margaret, for the moment.

To save me from being remanded to the juvenile authorities, a phrase terrifying even to him, Merlin used his connections to get me into Rohring Rohring and sent the cadaverous vice puppeteer Suzette home from I think it was Fiji, for a week. She packed whatever looked like my stuff in spare packing crates from Merlin’s World Tour and was supposedly going to haul it up six floors to the Adolescent Wing of the bughouse all by herself. But as soon as Mr. Nurse’s Aide Reggie Blanchard spotted the skeletal but rich and trashy-looking redhead endangering her fake fingernails on those boxes, he saw fit to saunter out of the supply closet, where he was sneaking a smoke, and carried them for her. And come to think of it that was my first sight of the Regicide, once the crates and I were both upstairs—as he leaned against the supply room door, staring down his Egyptian nose at Suzette’s stony buttocks in a miniskirt, and sliding his hand out of the white pants pocket where he had just stuffed her enormous tip.

I had a private room—we all did. Likewise a private bath and, as I said, a private closet. These lodgings weren’t fancy but neither were they like your common everyday hospital room, nor even like the clean ugly compartments in a new motel. Instead they kinda reminded me of servants’ bedrooms in swanky old Central Park West apartments like Grandma Schapiro’s, or in Monument Street brownstones like Grandpa Koderer’s, square airy rooms, neither small nor large, high-ceilinged, white-walled, with oak woodwork. And one large window, barred in a discreetly ornamental fashion, just like at Grandma’s.

To return to my private closet, its oaken doorframe had been blackened by a thousand coats of shellac, and the cracks in the plaster resembled the queen of spades in deep décolletage, looking at her icy self upside down in the playing card mirror. I had better sense of course than to tell them that. Bertie Stein, who lived next door to me, once whispered to a nurse’s aide that the tangled pipes and cracks and water stains on his ceiling were maps, drawn by trolls, of the royal palace. If Bertie said it, this was nothing but doper’s theater you may be sure, and even so there was sumpm in it: one floor up were the offices of all our dreambox mechanics, traceable by their rotten plumbing, if you left out about the trolls. Bertie got a little pill each morning for that indiscretion, Hollywood Bar blue, Stelazine it was called, which to me sounded just like the name of some babydoll-faced bride whining for a dope (meaning a Coca-Cola) in a Tennessee Williams play. Bertie even kinda looked like Stella Zeen, with his silky page boy, and soft co-cola eyes, and droopy little shoulders. So as usual Bertie got his dope, and took it too. Even if it made his head feel like a cabbage, to him any pill at all was better than no pill.

As for me, as long as I was here, I took my job to heart of being a bughead—for I saw right away that the others were better at it than me. I was a Unbeknownst To Everybody, and I meant to keep it that way. It was like I’d pitched my one-woman igloo at the South Pole, where nobody’d ever see it, and now and then I wondered if I might not as well be dead as be bopping around with the penguins down here.

Course I knew I wasn’t the only in the world. At Girls’ Classical I used to hear the rumors—what the hump, I spread some myself—about those two Popeye-jawed gym teachers Miss Swigart and Miss Dusterhof, in their size 14 lime-green gym-suits and pink eyeglasses, who had oversprung kneecaps bulging out a bit at the back and raucous altos like military macaws. At least Swigart and Dusterhof had each other, or at least they had the same address in the Vineyard Villas Apartments on North Charles Street. I never asked em—lemme die first—but I looked em up in the phonebook. I knew I might grow into a bird like that myself someday. I didn’t want to be in the same club with those gnarled dollies even if it was the only one that would have me for a member.

When I got to Rohring Rohring, my cut-up arms said sumpm loud and clear to the management, but then there were three hours a week with Dr. Foofer left to kill. I treated my dreambox mechanic to the changeless silence of the ice shelf. With all that empty space for interpretation, the old gas bag thought the worst of me, I could tell, and I was pleased. Still, at pharmaceuticals that might seed the brainclouds in my dreambox and really change the weather, I had to draw the line. I mean I didn’t even know what my own real weather was yet. So I tongue-rolled every little green pill and stockpiled them in the hem of my overalls, just in case I might as well be dead.

Then I made it into the Bug Motels (the name of our rock group): which was Bertie, Dion, Emily, O and me. None of us heard voices. None of us thought we were the Virgin Mary or Jesus either. I got asked into the Bug Motels one day when I saw that one more green pill and the bottom of my overalls would sag. So I palmed over to Bertie an M&M’s bag full of the things. “Holy godzilla,” he said, “good stuff. How much?” “Nuttin,” I said, and next thing I knew I was sitting at the Bug Motels’ table in the dayroom, bidding zero at O Hell.

Everybody said that Bertie Stein had had a brilliant mind before it got flattened under the influence of various drugs like a chihuahua under a garbage truck. He had pawned his genius sister’s viola, a Guarneri del Gesù, insured for $50,000, to buy a block of hashish the size of a small pound cake, and had smoked the whole thing himself, and so landed in Rohring Rohring.

Dion Dragoumis had been sent to the bughouse, so the story went, to save him from his old man. His file had come not from Juvenile Justice but from some anti-racketeering office in Washington, where he had begged an agent to hide him.

So how did being in Rohring Rohring hide him? Basil “The Blowfish” Dragoumis still had to pay his bills and knew just where the kid was. Even we could tell Dion wasn’t cut out to be a gangster, and at first we considered this a point in his favor. But soon we kinda wished The Blowfish would apply some muscle to the case.

Dion loved himself all day every day, until sumpm better came along. Then he would drop his old self just like that for his new self. No way he would love anybody else’s self—he could only suck it up and swallow it and make it his self. He took Bertie’s slinky walk for instance, and my skeptical snort. He was so handsome he was ugly, and his tailor would come by the Adolescent Wing with swatches of sharkskin and shantung rippling with silvery light, and ruffled shirts and pointy tasseled shoes. The rest of us dirtballs stared.

The bughouse is no democracy, but in a way the buggy majority rules. To us other Bug Motels Dion was a doomed and laughable sicko in his Liberace clothes: We never realized that he was on his way, we were the flops, until later. Dion was all but useless on mission for the Bug Motels, since he refused to carry anything in his pocket, not even a key or a dollar bill, for fear it would mess up the line of his trousers. But he wasn’t being bugged by the FBI, well maybe he was but he didn’t think he was, and we had to admit he looked like one of the Four Tops, so he qualified for the Bug Motels.

Emily Nix Peabody, refusal was her middle name, was eleven years old, weighed fifty-four pounds and losing, and wouldn’t eat for weeks, maybe months or years. Otherwise she was the pet of the place, Miss Dying Popularity we called her. So that was us on “the Adolescent Wing”—the east end of the sixth floor of Rohring Rohring—except for Mrs. Wilmot.

Why Mrs. Wilmot was still in the Teenage Ward after all these years, nobody knew. Wilmot was a skinny-shanked, potbellied old girl of around sixty, in a buttonless (or she’d have unbuttoned it) pink chemise, with skin like a wet brown bag sliding down her bones. Now that woman was crazy, which, come to think of it, did nothing for her prestige with us Bug Motels. Mostly what she did was sit on the bench just inside the entrance to the Adolescent Wing and pull up her dress and waggle the peapod, yes I mean her graypink coochie in its skimpy ring of grizzled whiskers, in full view of all of us.

Maybe they thought we teenage loonies needed some kinda callous on our sexual eyeballs and maybe it worked, anyhow it wasn’t sex we Bug Motels were conspiring on, at least not with each other, even though we had our beauty, O. And now I gotta tell you about O. Of all the girlgoyles I ever fell for, O was the most ridiculously urgent. She was a cross between Mary Hartline of Super Circus and the kind of drapette who would jump you at the bus stop and kick you in the shins and tear out your hairclips and throw your schoolbooks down the sewer. Her hair was like fiberglass snow in Hutzler’s window at Christmastime, mounds of ratted platinum, about fifteen pounds of it, frizzed on rollers, crackling with white electricity and a million shiny threads flying. She had on ballet slippers with little pink elastic bands over the arch like only a drapette would wear, and a sheath skirt that knocked her knees together so hard she had to scuff along pigeon-toed. Her eyes were big, dark, wet and ringed with blacking. She couldn’t see without glasses, which she didn’t even own, and she could hardly walk in that skirt, but she beamed agile violence, so that somehow I always thought of her walking like Mary Hartline upside down on a pair of jeweled daggers in her hands.

Every man O had known had tried to oink her—anyway she said so, that was her problem, that and working the Pratt Street bars from the age of twelve, for they had all tried and a lot of them had succeeded. And somewhere along the way she started to charge for it. And then, sumpm else happened, sumpm with a knife. O was a police case too. Probably everything she said was true, certainly she was the belle of the bughouse, where the dreambox mechanics told her: she had to stop thinking of men that way. Anyhow no suitor was too lowly for her chill, calm, slightly cross-eyed smile. Not even me.

You could go buggy from boredom in the bughouse, if you weren’t buggy already. But at least from fall to spring all five of us Bug Motels from East Six went to school. We really went, almost the way normal teenagers get on the bus and ride to school. And yes it was queer going to Girls’ Classical from the loonie bin, and even queerer to go from Girls’ Classical back to the bughouse every afternoon, but everything about a ritzy dreambox hospital like Rohring Rohring makes for strange combos.

A little yellow school bus just our size picked us up every weekday morning on the traffic island between trolley tracks at the Broadway entrance. If Mr. Nurse’s Aide Reginald Blanchard was the one sent to watch us off, and usually he was, we’d be smoking down the line of us like five twigs of kindling. Behind us loomed the ruby brick hospital, frilled with black iron lace like the fin de siècle society matron she was, and across six lanes of traffic was the livery stable of all the fruit and junk wagons left in the city, where a few late-sleeping ayrabbers (the lowest of the low except for us mental peons) were still straggling out the wide-open barn doors one by one behind their seen-it-all nags. Then the bus pulled up and we were off to our separate lyceums, Park School for Bertie, Mount St. Agnes for O, Faith Bible for Emily, Calvert Hall for Dion—I was the only one in public school, since Merlin wouldn’t have us think ourselves so grand, not even from the bughouse.

And at 4:45 we were all back on the traffic island, with tall red Reggie firing up our Luckies again, bending down the row of us with his lighter like a mother bird loaded with worm purée. And as we eyed that swanky Dunhill, inlaid with pearls and engraved not RB but lmcl, obviously cadged from some female ex-patient for favors large or small, we thought uneasily of all the ways Reggie wasn’t like a mother to us, for, all things being equal, he would rather please you than thwart you, but he had his price. Now he let us smoke, backs to the wind, while he turned up his own collar, and when we were through he delivered us safely back to Rohring Rohring, sixth floor, east end, the Adolescent Wing, and, wherever we had left it, our mission.

Even when you live in the bughouse, life needs a mission. Especially when you live in the bughouse. After all, here you’ve got no field hockey team, no terrarium for your reptile collection, no Broncos Marching Band, no Future Lawyers of America. We called ourselves the Bug Motels because we were a rock band, but we hadn’t gotten around to learning instruments yet. Junk food couldn’t be a project here. This wasn’t Camp Chunkagunk where you got a candy bar every two weeks when you turned in your laundry. We Bug Motels had pocket money and charge accounts, two restaurants, a snack bar and a gift shop with a six-foot-long candy counter in the basement. We rolled in malted milk balls, canned potato sticks, cheese and peanut butter crackers, pretzel rods, you name it. For a while we had the use of the doctors’ tennis courts in the afternoons and huffed around the sunless courtyard in parkas and gloves, but then it got too cold even for us. We needed a doper to refine and complicate our appetites and godzilla gave us Bertie Stein, not only an experienced dope fiend but a mastermind. Bertie funneled us into the Manhattan Project, the H Bottle, the Big Blue Bomb.

You know that quaint sort of old bomb that falls, like it’s raining lipsticks, out of bulky white airplanes in The World at War? Under the main hospital next door were a huge pharmacy and the fabulously rumored morgue, but Rohring Rohring’s eight stories sat on a warehouse, an underground dump for big stuff, distillation urns and sterilizer boilers and hundred-pound drums of industrial cleanser, and royal blue size H cylinders of laughing gas that looked just like those bombs. It was one of them, fixed nicely next to its twin H of oxygen in Robinhood green on a cart like you’d use to bus a cafeteria, that souled our mission.

Bertie Stein was featherweight and restless and sifted about the corridors of Rohring Rohring all day long in roachlike silence, slipping through cracked doors if he found any, trying every lock and tuning his junkie’s x-ray eyes on blank walls and dead-end corridors. One day he saw a silver cart loaded with nitrous oxide roll off the third floor elevator and take its place in a row of rolling bins of soiled linens, waiting for some dutiful flunky to wheel them over the catwalk to the laundry chute in the main hospital. Bertie crawled on his hands and knees between laundry bins and from the moment he goosenecked up for a closer look at that cart with its copper tubes and gauges and mixers and regulators, the funny gray enema bag of a gas reservoir dangling down and the dear little red clown’s nose of a mask with two horny valves sticking out of it, he had to have one for his own. For our own. And pretty soon that was our mission.

He reported to the Bug Motels: “The nature of this gas,” drawling it out farcically, gazzz, “is a cartoon with the picture gone. You know, like, Tom the Cat falls through the roof of the opera house and bounces around the orchestra on his rubber stamp head. He gets spitted on a cello bow, sucked up a flute, digested by a bassoon, ha ha ha, tenderized by a marimba mallet, hee hee hee, and finally he gargles the tenor’s high C by swinging from his tonsil. Ho ho ho, except there’s no picture so why am I laughing. I’m laughing cause I weigh nuttin and I got these pink and blue bubbles popping in my veins. And now I’m crying cause I just tasted the tragedy deep in the pillowy fizz. Good stuff you’re gonna say. So how come such good stuff is legal for totally square tooth mechanics? Cause they’re gonna torture you anyway so you’ll never know you had any fun, but we’ll cop us a tank before our teeth are rotten.” The picturesque logic of the bughouse—how could any self-disrespecting Bug Motel argue with that?

Bertie ya see had three traits which made him a great maestro of missions: all that Stein moolah, a mind bent on one thing only, and no fear of the consequences, so that if someone had to take a fall, why shouldn’t it be Bertie? And that’s how he had landed on the funny farm in the first place, by juvenile court order. He had seen the inside of every crumbling smelly youth joint in Maryland and the District of Columbia, and at least had breakfast there before his parents fished him out, over and over, and redeposited him in Rohring Rohring. This scary exposure had only hardened in his dreambox the wish to be changed from itself, by any substance obtainable.

For a week we had been sending Emily down there five times every afternoon in a bin of dirty hospital gowns to scope the landing, since at (presently) fifty-three pounds she made the least dent in its canvas bottom. Of course she couldn’t roll herself off the elevator much less back onto it. She had to peer out through holes we had poked in the side for the ten seconds the elevator doors were open, while up on the sixth floor we pushed the down button frantically to summon her back to the Adolescent Wing before anything funny happened. “Bombs away?” we’d whisper in code into the bin of pale blue bathrobes and sterilizer towels, when it reappeared. “Nuh-uh,” she squeaked back every time from her nest. And on like that for six days and then on the seventh the elevator came back empty. “Uh-oh.” Sumpm funny had happened. We looked at one another and shuddered and ran down the hall to play ping-pong. We had to look innocent—and besides, Dion pointed out, for once we had just the right number for mixed doubles.

“Three to two, my serve,” Bertie hollered, so the whole bughouse would believe in our alibi. “Is she dead?” O whispered. “Who da hump knows,” Dion said. “It depends if she went down the chute headfirst or sideways,” I whispered back. “Sideways … oooo,” O echoed in her spooky-flute voice; you could tell from the queer crook of her chin she was picturing Emily stuck between the third and second floors, with her head wedged at an uncomfortable angle. “Say, does it hurt to be paralyzed?” I asked.

“Aaanh, she was only fifty-three pounds away from disappearing anyhow,” Dion said, “she wants to die, ain’t it?” “She was waiting for the birds to feed her,” I said, “least that’s what she told Dolores, who told Reggie, who told me.” “That’s a very beautiful idea,” sighed O, “that Emily is a saint, I’d never think of nuttin like that.” “Ya know, certain girls love death like I love D.O.A.P.,” Bertie observed, “like O here—you can tell from the eye makeup. To her every day is a funeral.” “Just cause you have to die before you get to wear makeup, Hebrew school creepo,” sneered O, glacially. “I don’t care if I do die. That’s why I’m here,” Bertie bragged, “and I won’t be wearing makeup either, I’m getting smoked, man, cause I figure I’ll be 98 percent tetra-hydrocannabinol by then.”

“Aaay, don’t worry, da stuff looks good on you,” Dion told O, “ladylike, I mean. Koderer don’t wear no black on her eyes, and she looks like Oliver Twist. In the movie, ya know.” “Ursie’s queer,” Bertie explained. I froze and O gasped. “Get oinked,” she said loyally, for she was a friend of mine, and as I was wildly in love with her I had never even let my hand brush her hand by mistake (lemme die first).

“I wear a little Clearasil over da zits now and then,” Dion said, “but nuttin on the eyes. Nino don’t recommend it.” Nino was his tailor. “I wonder if they’ll put any makeup on Emily,” O worried—meaning on her little dead white face. “Aaanh, Emily was a strange-looking bird at best. Makeup wouldn’t do nuttin for her,” said Dion. “I think Emily was cute, in a ugly sort of way,” O almost sobbed, in her spooky-flute. [Whap!] “Ace,” she added. O had a devastating serve. We volleyed on gloomily.

We had played three whole games—by now we had just about given up on ever seeing Emily alive again—when they rolled her onto the ward on a gurney, trailing white linens like a dead infanta. It all looked like a weird dream: Dr. Hamburger and Dr. Beasley running behind like footmen, or pilgrims, in tunics of elfin green. The last of the day slanted through the tall windows of the dayroom in banks, forming six mirages in the shapes of pyramids. As her body passed through them, the dust, like shrimps and scorpions of pure light, made way for the princess in worshipful agitation. The turban of gauze on her head pushed her face up at us, her open eyes glimmered drily in death through the mashed lace of her eyelashes—but then she blinked and smiled a little.

“What happened? What happened?” everyone asked, and we ran alongside the palankeen too. “Oooo my neck. It was kind of fun. Ursie …” I bent down to her, and she whispered: “… they think I tried to kill myself …” She giggled. “So what else is new,” Bertie panted, and I jerked his ponytail and stuck out a Ked so he fell splat on his face. “… and listen, Bug Motels—bombs away,” Emily said in code, “Big Blue on three … just standing there …”

Dr. Buzzey (Emily’s friendly but useless dreambox mechanic) met Dr. Beasley and Dr. Hamburger, the medical residents, in her doorway. Then her private room sucked in all three, along with a coupla nosy nurses, Hageboom, if I remember right, and Mursch, and the door flapped shut behind them. Fluorescence streamed from its little square window. Somebody clicked shut the louvers. We stood there staring at the nothing of it.

“Ursie,” Bertie said, tenderly pinching his nose to make sure it wasn’t broken, “get down to three before they move that thing.”

“Me!” I said. Bertie after all was my height, had subsisted on tablets, syringe squirts and aromas for five and a half years and was skinny as a Yeshiva boy from Ruthenia. “I weigh one twenty-five,” I argued pointedly, knowing his own weight couldn’t be over a hundred. Even O was fatter than he was. “But girls aren’t as noticeable for being up to sumpm,” he said, an insight which didn’t quite hold up in the bughouse, but I was pleased that he clumped me with girls, it meant my cover was working. “And if the bomb is a heavy motha,” he went on, “who else but you can carry it?” He had a point there. Now ya see how Bertie got to be a mastermind: He knew his henchwoman, just which body part was headquarters of all her vanity, and mine was my muscles.

So I said yes but I stuck at going downstairs in a canvas laundry cart as long as some unknown unbribed nurse’s aide was still on the loose on three, zealously dumping the laundry bins down the chute without even checking them for mental patients. “And besides, we got no cart,” Dion reminded us. It was true, Emily had been launched from the one laundry bin we’d purloined. We were stuck. But all at once Emily’s door opened a brilliant crack—I caught sight of Dr. Beasley leaning down to her face like a strangler—and the empty gurney popped out. The linens on top of it had been whipped into peaks and gulleys, alarming as a meringue pie. Forty seconds later we had a new plan. Big Blue … just standing there, Emily had said, which sounded like that H, big as ya motha (Bertie’s charred old doper’s eyes glowed like furnace doors), wasn’t even on a cart—so we needed all the muscle we could get.

Bertie faded around the corner, came back in a minute with two surgeon’s tops he had pinched during some other caper, two pale green blouses with only a few smears of sumpm liverbrown and crusty down the front. He handed one to Dion. “Cheese, cool,” Dion said, and waltzed off down the hall with the thing. “No, man, keep away from that mirror!” Bertie called after him but Dion was already turning into his own room. “That’s the last we’ll see of him,” Bertie sighed, and it was. “Hey, what the hump, I guess I can push the thing by myself, it’s got wheels. Okay, girls, climb aboard.” O and I stared at each other while Bertie pulled his own green top over his head. It was big as a bank lobby on him but the smears of ancient gore and baggy fit looked touching on his haggardness, as though he were in med school at the age of twelve, a boy genius whom dissection of dead bodies had shocked out of his growth. I mean he looked plausible in a certain way. Fact was even Dr. Beasley and Dr. Hamburger looked kinda babyish, big-eared and simian in those green smocks. And by the way, what were they doing in there with Emily so long, I wondered. Bertie must have had the same thought. “Is she stand-up?” he asked, squinting at her blank door. “As a fuk in a phone booth,” O replied, in the voice of vast experience. She and I still stared at each other and I saw her heart beating fast in the faint blue fork under her temple. Climb aboard, Bertie had said. Did that mean—lie down together on top?

“Okay, you two, lie down together on top and I’ll wrap you.” To my amazement, she nodded. She was wearing a pilly pink orlon V-neck sweater, sumpm only a drapette would wear, and a black bra you could see through the pink, and the V-neck almost down to her pupik. And so it came about that O and me, the Bogeywoman, lay body to body, or more specifically her lovely head stuck out the top and my bulby nose was pressed to the washboard of bone between her momps, so that I almost swooned for real from hyperventilating while Bertie tucked and patted and sculpted us, under that froth of used sheets, into one improbably thick beauty. “How do we look,” I muttered, for an excuse to move my lips. “Don’t talk, it tickles,” O spooky-fluted. But at least she didn’t say don’t breathe. I turned my chin up a little so my breath was mossing her throat. “Calm,” said Bertie, “you look calm,” for O always did, and down we went to the third floor landing with Bertie pushing.

Of course every hair of me waved like a sailor at the nearness of her. She was the shikseh oxymoron personified, she was the highest girl and the lowest girl and nothing in between: She was a drapette but also Mary Hartline of Super Circus, she had that public gorgeosity, she could be famous right now, a star, a TV star at least, and at the same time she was that sullen teenage underbitch calling you a jew, goading you in her peroxide hair and trashy clothes, then beating you up for looking at her funny. She reeked of the last cheap perfume tester she had boosted from Read’s, probably My Sin. I felt my heart budge against her and knew she could feel it too—like a mole under a tent floor. But then, was I right? she swiveled the tiniest bit, toward me not away, and my lips were quivering like a rabbit’s in the gulley between her momps, kinda folded into the dunes that swelled out of her bra and actually quivering, I would just need to stick out my tongue—and all would be lost lost lost! She might even knife me. I pulled myself together. I stayed where I was. I was almost happy: I was on mission, but at the same time I was a snouty cub who’d fallen asleep at the teat and woken up again in sweet milky darkness. Then suddenly her hand pressed the back of my head, her nuzzy pressed my lips and I knew she’d let me do whatever I

The elevator doors shuffled open and Bertie sang, “Oink me, it is an H. Holy godzilla, look at that motha.”

And I peeked out of our sheets at the thing. It sat on a stainless steel dolly in a row of dowdy linen bins, a Nike among Miss Muffets. It had been many times slicked over with paint but still had a rough, psoriatic crumb to its blue enamel that made me loath to touch it. It was like sumpm left to rust in a marine junkyard because it might explode—and yet it did resemble somebody’s mother: five feet high, all the power in the bosom and shoulders, some sort of undersized glass-faced gauge where the head should be—a meter instead of a dreambox, isn’t that just like a mother? Well what do I know, never having had one since I was two.

“Come on, Ursie. O, you stay put—make like you’re paralyzed or sumpm. Perfect.” Bertie and I stood side by side, looking down fascinated at O’s big eyes wide open and fixed on the ceiling—two Caribbean portholes ringed with stove black, in each of which a blind dab of fluorescent light floated. “I do a good coma, don’t I,” she said, and we both jumped.

Bertie grabbed the H around the waist, tipped but couldn’t lift the thing. I laughed. “Okay, Koderer, you do it,” he grunted. Then panic whited out his face: “Cheese it—the Regicide!” And suddenly the H was rocking like a bowling pin on its heel. Bertie dove into one laundry bin and I took the next one down the line, and pretty soon we heard the swat, swat of Reggie Blanchard’s tennis-racket-sized white rubber-soled hospital loafers on the linoleum.

“Lady O! How ya doing. You be up here scouting again for that doper cat? What did that eight ball ever do for you?”

Comatose. Not a blink. A drapette of the highest principles was O, stand-up to the final hour, a stone stoic even though we both knew that Bertie would have swapped either one of us, or both, to the hoods or the cops in a minute for eight ounces of Saigon gage or anything else really hard to get.

Our Reginald was an artistic-looking tea-colored negro whose beautifully molded lips had ambiguous and unsettling punctuation marks at the corners of them. He wore a little W.E.B. Du Bois goatee as sharp as a tack, and his poison-honey eyes were cruel. I mean it was the way he saw the world. Really he’d rather save you than sell you, but first he checked the price.

“What’s your hustle today, sweetheart? Coma! All dummied up! Ain’t talking to the Reg! Ain’t you the one,” he saxophoned. “Old O, if she can’t say sumpm nice, she don’t say nothing, is that it? I hear you! Been had your messed-up brain taken right out, huh? Well it was nothing but trouble anyway. Tell you this, sweetheart. You the best-looking empty they ever had up here, you know that? And as I know you are a schooled young lady, down with all games, and I desire a word with you, Ima give that coma my special cure—scope the gangway first, make sure nobody ain’t coming—okay now Ima turn that coma over to Doctor Blanchard for his patented guaranteed coma process—”

Things went quiet, too quiet, and, since my laundry bin had no peephole, I had to periscope up through the twisted towels and damp pajamas to see what was going on—and got my head up just in time to see the dirty dog lying on top of her.

With my record I bet you think I jumped right in there on top of them, punching and kicking. Well, I was a Bug Motel now, and not only a Bug Motel, a Bug Motel on mission. I stayed put. Over Reggie’s shoulder, O narrowed her eyes at me warningly, and I obeyed. O half growled, half giggled, and finally she clawed Reggie’s back with her black raspberry fingernails. “Hey, Lady O, there you is. This coma is defunct, you cured, I Dr. Reggie done cured your bug-eyed self, or was you shucking the whole time? You? Not you! But anyhow you back with the living. I missed you, baby. Now sit up. Gimme some sugar.”

O sat up with a sigh and swung her legs side-saddle off the gurney so her gold lamé ballet slippers dangled. She patted her big hair, curled back her bony shoulders, planted hands on hips, pointed her nuzzies professionally and said: “Hey Reg. What’s uptown?”

“Welcome back, baby. Nothing much. Same old three-six-nine. Say, what yall crazies looking for down here on three? Wyncha let me take cay it for yall? I wear a white suit but I ain’t the heat. I knew you from the world, don’t forget that, sweetheart. What was you prospecting for?”

The Blue Bomb stood fifteen feet from them, but Reg had no interest in dentist D.O.A.P.

“You,” she said. “Unh-huh. Huckly buck,” Reg said, pleased just the same. “Let’s you and me go somewhere. Outasight,” O spooky-fluted in his ear, and her scuffed-up gold lamé ballet slippers plinked onto the linoleum. He forgot about our mission. “Hey, baby, I hear you,” and next their assorted big and little soft shoes slapped away together down the corridor. I surfaced among the towels in time to see Reginald poke his keys into some door marked NO ADMITTANCE halfway down the hall. And the two of them disappeared behind it.

I wished on Reggie Blanchard all the violent deaths of Pennsylvania Avenue whence he had come. Like I said, he’d sooner save you than sell you, though he looked at the price tag first. But here he was, a royal, well anyway a royal flunky, oinking a mental peon—for an old-time street hustler like himself he had no mercy. He didn’t think O could be harmed by doing it in a mop closet. And neither did O. I smelled sumpm rotten in the whole deal, but after all, we were in the bughouse. To be mentally hygienic or even nosily parental was just not done among the mental patients, and especially not among the Bug Motels. Besides, oinking on her feet, for small change or even in swap for that good old dreamboxoline, in barroom toilets and phone booths and back entrances, was O’s official problem: she had to stop thinking of men that way. We Bug Motels had a hands-off nose-out policy towards all official problems, and as for what we really thought—we didn’t think it.

It did flash on me that O was about to peddle herself in a broom closet for us, the Bug Motels on mission: that is, just to clear the coast for a giant tank of laughing gas—and I resolved then and there not to sniff one sniff or laugh one laugh of the stuff, at least not until O forgave me for letting her. Then again I never believed for a minute that O might not forgive me for letting her. And another thing: none of us, not even Bertie, put that old dreamboxoline—by which I mean assorted dreambox oils, drops, gasses and powders—higher on the list of daily necessaries than O did, although she herself might go easy on the purple dots or the mushrooms—never on the bottle, however. Already I could picture her holding that red clown’s nose of an N_2O mask, with its nostrils-of-pig outvalve, to one of our faces after another, while she swigged from her own little half-pint of peppermint schnapps. The feast of sumpm for everybody, that was what O liked when she was Mary Hartline, that and the clear swill she was swilling, vodka or schnapps, screech or moonshine, whatever one of her boyfriends had organized for her that day. Now she was Mary Hartline on Super Circus holding out those goldfish bowls full of coins to our fat fists, only the pennies nickels and quarters had turned into laughing gas, and never mind where she got it (really she had to stop thinking of men that way).

Well, anyhow, from here on, with O and the Regicide taken up elsewhere, it was easy. Though the thing must have weighed two hundred pounds, all I had to do was tip that great mother H up against the gurney while Bertie held the cart rollers in place, and hoist her with one big hoist, and tuck her in, and climb back into bed with her. In the dark, under the covers, she was buxom and stately and cold. She had no nipples to her iron bosom, she was wearing a funny hat, and I had a feeling that just when I needed a girl more than I needed life itself, I had traded in my lovely O for a bust of Queen Victoria.

HOW LOVE GOT ME OUT OF THERE

The stuff made cute white clouds float up out of the black, the black of Bertie’s private closet and the black at the back of my head, where brain cells must be popping like popcorn. “Why is this fun?” I wondered out loud. “I mean I could be eating popcorn instead of hallucinating it.”

“You’re a grownup now, Ursula,” explained Bertie, who was always magnanimous when the dope was enough for a banquet. “Grownups need visions of beauty, little kids just wanna eat.” O yeah? I have every low intention of eating beauty, I thought but didn’t say—lemme die first. My blood sprouted pillows and now I lay back on them. What was the use of talking?

“Maybe it iddn’t so fun,” said Emily Nix Peabody. Refusal, you will recall, was her middle name. Each time the gas nozzle came to her she would merely graze her olfactory bulb, which was the size of a cocktail onion, across the clown’s nose and pass it on to the next mental patient. And truth was by now she looked a little better than the rest of us. She weighed fifty-three pounds this week and was yellow as candle wax, but we were gray, except O, who was blue.

It’s a funny thing how people pour that dreamboxoline onto their broken hearts, squirt it in the black veins of their crooked elbows, douche their gratings with it, breathe it, lap it up, suck it up, meanwhile staring slit-eyed at the heartbreaker as though that dirty rotten so-and-so was working the plunger. And this was when I found that out. That’s how O was looking at me now. She wasn’t forgiving me for letting her, as easily as I thought.

Ten minutes ago Bertie and me had rocked and dragged the H bomb into Bertie’s private closet and shut ourselves in after it. A second later Dion slid in, fanning a hand like his fingernail polish was wet, and just as the three of us were getting good and uncomfy on top of Bertie’s smelly socks, Keds and doo-wop 45’s, O appeared.

Right away I could see sumpm was wrong. She looked normal, except that her knee-knocking shiny black sheath skirt had a wet spot on the back and the zipper was a couple degrees off course. She hadn’t stayed five whole minutes with the Regicide, but she had stopped somewhere to paint fresh rings around her eyes and white lipstick on her mouth. She looked calm, she specialized in that. But there was sumpm funny about her eyes besides their being a little crossed, so that you wondered if they weren’t a hair closer together than they ought to be. They looked sore, scheming and goofy all at the same time, like Ol’ Witch Hazel’s niece Little Itch in Little Lulu.

“Could I talk personal to you?” O said, squinting into my face. “You mean me?” I said. I had dreamed she would come to me and say that, but this had the feel of a grenade under her clothes and I scrunched back in the corner against a tennis racket. Suddenly I remembered O was in the bughouse like all the rest of us. And there was some story, sumpm scary, sumpm with love and a knife.

“Aaaay, you made it, ace bad job, Sidekickette,” said Bertie. She just stood there, looking up at him from the bottoms of her black-ringed eyes. “Don’t call me Sidekickette,” she said, and Bertie scratched his chin, thinking. “Hey Dion, who was that bleach-blond sidekickette on the tube who walked on knives? Busting through that paper ring with her flaming batons? Bowls of nickels pennies and quarters, right? She was a ringer for O, maybe she was O, did you maybe used to walk on knives, O, besides throwing em?” “Mary Hartline, Super Circus,” I muttered. “Hey yeah—Mary Hartline. So have a huff, Mary Hartline. We haven’t done any yet. We were, er, like, waiting for you.” “You were?” “Sure.” Just then Emily leaned around the door jamb, looking like a cross between a virgin picked for sacrifice and a unicorn, her long white hospital gown dragging on the floor and a big dab of purple merthiolate on her forehead, with the lump of unicorn horn beginning to stick out of it. “Aaaay—boss good deed, Sidekickette. Mission accomplished. We were waiting for you. How’s the dreambox?” “Don’t call her Sidekickette,” O spooky-fluted, but then they both sat down. “You start, Mary Hartline.”

But O passed and anyhow Bertie never quite opened his hand to leggo the apparatus—instead he gave a lecture demonstration. He impaled the red nose mask on a pinky and pointed to the tube the laughing gas went through. He fingered in a nasty way a little red nub of valve hanging next to it: “Know what this is for? Huh? Everybody listening? No, you don’t know what this is for. Oxygen which we don’t have, sidekicks, so don’t go too long without breathing.” And then he showed us, and Dion tried it, and Emily touched her little nose to it, and Bertie showed us again. And while he was busy showing us, O leaned over to me:

“I ain’t no bull dagger,” she whispered.

It’s a good thing I didn’t know what a bull dagger was, I mean I was the Bogeywoman, the toughest girl possible, but I’d never talked knowingly to another in my life, and Bull Dagger sounded to me sort of like a character from Oliver Twist, so I figured it was sumpm to do with parting fuddies from their bankrolls and I said, “That’s okay. I know you’re not,” although I knew she was. “I’d do it for you, though,” she let go a hot gust of some kind of spirits in my ear. I stared at her. Now I thought she was saying she had oinked Reggie for me and I was scared it might be true. “Don’t you do sumpm like that for me.” She squinted back suspiciously out of her huge, raccoony eyes and said, “Ain’t you one?” “Hump no.” “So how come you did me like that?” “Huh?” “Under the sheets.”

I was beginning to see my mistake and I felt the sweat glittering on my temples, which was sheer fear of being found out. “I didn’t do you like that,” I hissed, “you did me like that.” She thought this over. She didn’t go for it. “I oughta kill you for lying,” she spooky-fluted, “but I’d still do it for you,” she offered again, sorta fiercely, “because I like you better, you ain’t like a fuddy, you ain’t like nobody, but then you have to be mine, you colly?” “Yours?” “Mine. All mine. M-I-N-E mine.”

I was looking, just looking, at that gleaming, half-cracked, poison bait in her slightly crossed eyes, and Bertie put the red pig mask in my hand and I buried my nose in it just to get away from that look. I needed her so bad, or let’s say I needed someone so bad, I was going to say yes now and pay later whatever the bill was, I mean who cared, I was in the bughouse, what worse could happen. She could kill me lit up my dreambox, and I almost remembered that story about just how O got into Rohring Rohring, but even so I was going to say yes if what happened next hadn’t happened—I mean if Zuk hadn’t come out of nowhere to save me.

Anyhow those giant popcorn balls were sailing by, ball by huge slow ball, and I said I wonder why this is fun and Emily, refusal was her middle name, said Maybe it’s not fun, and O, who’d been skipping the gas and pulling now and then on a little two-ounce snort bottle of white rum I think it was or maybe peppermint schnapps, snatched the red gas mask and stared at me balefully and buried her nose in the thing like it was the last rose of summer. And never came up for air again. We all looked at each other, helpless doomed looks were going around like yawns, and the next thing we knew she was thrashing about in Bertie’s tennis rackets and shoes and Marvel comics and 45’s, having a convulsion.

“Cheese, what are we gonna do?” cried Emily. (Because she was eleven years old and Miss Dying Popularity, Emily was exempt from the laissez faire of Bug Motels in trouble.) The rest of us looked blank. “Aaaannh, she’ll come out of it,” Bertie crooned at last, delicately unhooking O’s fine blue fingers from the red rubber mask and hose and ferrying the appliance from her small nose to his big one, a princely triangle, shiny and freckled like a blintz.

O’s teeth were still chattering but some little bubbles that stuck to her lips showed me she was breathing, or trying to, and I remembered from Lake Sci at Camp Chunkagunk that you’re supposed to make sure the girl’s tongue isn’t stuck in her throat and there’s no plug of Double Bubble in there and she didn’t go down chewing her noseclips. (As if any tough girl in paradise, any girl whose life was worth saving, would wear noseclips!) And so I leaned over and slid two fingers through her lips, and felt around the wet satin of her mouth and over the faint callous of her tongue—which was a lot like kissing, kissing without being kissed first, and right in front of the Bug Motels too. And then I bumped along the backs of her teeth and the ridges of her palate—it seemed like everything was where it ought to be, but somehow I couldn’t stop.

And wherever she was, maybe she thought it was kissing too. (Maybe O dreamed she was lying washed up on the scratchy pebble beach at Fort Smallwood, where she once saw a drowned black girl whose bathing suit was gone, and her raspberry lips wrinkled up like a kiss that hurt, and somebody had draped a white towel across her crotch like a label they forgot to fill out.) Anyhow all of a sudden her teeth clamped down hard, so hard on my fingers I wanted to howl out loud and I could hear myself howling, far far away. But I didn’t want to scare her and of course I wasn’t howling in front of the Bug Motels, lemme die first. Finally her eyes popped wide open inside their blackened portholes and maybe she saw me, maybe she didn’t—“Sufferin cheeses,” she shrieked, at least spitting out my fingers, and leaped halfway up and threw herself with one great hand-puppet flop out of Bertie’s private closet and into Bertie’s private bathroom, and somehow her head got stuck fast, face up, between the toilet and the lead pipe that filled the tank.

And now she screamed bloody murder, and soon she really was bleeding from banging her head over and over against that pipe, bong bong bong. Emily superfluously screeched: “She’s bleeding, she’s bleeding, can’t none of you guys see she’s B-L-E-A-T-I-N-G bleeding”—I’ll never forget her spelling it like a lamb. “I’m getting a royal,” she threatened. “Don’t do that,” said Bertie smoothly, “we can take care of this—hey, easy, O, easy, be cool, don’t jump around.”

Dion tried to hold O steady—for after her shriek I wouldn’t have laid a hand on her again for a million dollars, lemme die first—and I stared at her long white throat and the flawless prow of her chin underneath (where I had a coupla black wires even then) and those flying drops of blood spattering the wall where she kept banging her forehead on the bolt that holds the tank to the toilet. Finally she held still.

Her neck stiff, her eyeballs swiveling around the room, she spooky-fluted: “Sufferin cheeses, Ursie! What the hump happened?” She looked at me pleadingly. “Could I please talk to O in private?” I said. “Like dat’s gonna help!” objected Dion delicately, “like you can muscle her dreambox outa dere all by yourself.” “Get out,” I shrieked and they finally went. After all they only had eight feet to travel back to Bertie’s private closet, where they had the whole H bomb of laughing gas to console them—and I kicked the door shut between us and the boys and said into O’s ear:

“We shouldna fed you to the Regicide.” “Aaaa who gives a gum wrapper,” she muttered. She wouldn’t meet my eye and suddenly I could tell she’d lost her way for love—didn’t I know the signs?—and of all people, right now it was me she loved. She loved me a little, that automatically put me above her, made me her boss or was it her pimp—I mean she’d take from the others and give to me—that was the way she thought. The tears were sliding backwards down her temples into her hair. And I was even more scared of her, like hanging by my fingernails, but kinda touched. “Gimme a smoke out my pocket, would ya?” she spooky-fluted. “Reggie gave me his Luckies, ya want one?” I thought it would be, er, unchristian, not that I pass myself off as a christian, not to smoke her swag, I mean the half a battered pack she’d picked up for herself, feeding herself to the Regicide. I stuck a coupla towels behind her head, pronged two fingers into the side pocket of her skirt—her hipbone stuck up like a rock in a harbor—and worked the Luckies out. I lit one for each of us. We smoked in worried silence. I mean, her head was still stuck all this time in the toilet pipe. Brown blood matted the pale floss at her hairline.

I thought I could smell the hot blue smoke on her that blows in your gills whenever you even kiss, never mind oink, somebody for a practical reason. I was trying to think of a way to artistically make her feel better, feel sumpm, when I was almost too scared to touch her. “Er, is it any fun, oinking a guy like the Regicide?” She shrugged. “Reggie ain’t so bad,” she said. “Him and me go way back. A lot of these fuddies won’t give you carfare to welfare. Reg, if he’s got two dollars you got one.” I smiled half-heartedly. She had to stop thinking of men that way. “Here’s the hump about Reginald,” she went on, “you never come first with him, ya see. You’re one bitch, he’s probly got five or six bitches, maybe even ten or a dozen bitches. He’s like the mayor of the bitches of Reggieville and you just get one vote. He’ll even tell you that very reasonable: He’ll run your life for you if you want him to, but you’re only gonna get one vote in Reggieville. The general good of Reggieville comes first, he says. He’s gotta keep peace among the bitches, ya see.” I nodded.

“Say, Ursie. You’re the only girl I’d do it with. But I don’t exactly think of you as a girl.” Again I smiled crookedly. I didn’t dare ask her what, exactly, she thought of me as. “I don’t want to run your life,” I said. “Hey, why not?” she spooky-fluted with a spooky smile, “ain’t it fun to run somebody’s life?” “I don’t even like to run the vacuum cleaner,” I hastily lied. For I wouldn’t mind one bit running everyone’s life, and then I could tell them to run the vacuum cleaner. It was just O poisonally I was scared to boss around. Frankly I didn’t think she’d listen.

“Let’s kiss, Ursie.” She closed her eyes halfway and stuck out her tongue a little. Her head was nicely framed in the toilet pipe, wreathed in and out with tongues of platinum hair. My heart started to gong Charlie Chan style, but I thought twice. I mean her forehead was still bleeding a little and the other three Bug Motels, who were probably listening, might throw open the door—it was quiet in there, too quiet, but every now and then Dion yelled out Hurry up in there you lesbos with a whoop of goofy laughter.

So I thought twice. But I had been starving too long. She waggled that pink goldfish of a tongue and said, “Come on, Ursie. Kiss.” “Right now?” I said. “Sure.” “You got nowhere to put your head.” “So lie down on top of me.” Wincing for her, but panting like a guilty dog I lay down on top of her body in its tight peel of black and pink. And since I was literally wincing, my lips curling back in animal dread from my teeth, in went her tongue as smooth as a letter opener. O my oasis—silk crossed the border, pepper oil, dried apricots, olives, tokay, how long we went on trading like this at the water hole I don’t know, not long, when

“Gorgeous, stupid youths—perhaps you can explain me what is the difficulty?” Came into my ears for the first time that voice, that slow, scraping violoncello of a voice, melodious against the smoke of a hundred thousand Gypsygirl cigarettes. I pitched a bit to the right to see who it was, my hand still on O’s keel-puncturing hipbone. The door had opened above us, and here was Emily dragging help by the arm after all—a stranger, a woman, probably a doctor, long necked, muscular, her gray springy hair convict-cropped, her handsome face not young. No spring chicken but a silvery winter weasel—right away I thought of Mustela erminea.

I should have been horrified, considering that I was still a Unbeknownst To Everybody. Above all no dreambox mechanic should get wind—the nerve of these royals, butting into my private life, not to mention my death, if I should choose to off myself, with the rent here as steep as it was and the grub just eatable—and if any royal should ask me flat out, I’d never talk (lemme die first). Well, the woman observing me was clearly a royal, but of some novel and dazzling subspecies that mixed me up—and I ask myself, could I have been falling in love with Zuk already?

But she was a royal, so an excuse for lying on top of O could not be far away, here it was: “Thank godzilla you came,” I panted, with Camp Chunkagunk earnest. “I couldn’t have held up her head another minute. I got her loose as far as her ears,” and I bent out those small translucent cockleshells like a medical exhibit. “Maybe we could vaseline em.”

The newcomer stood between the two open doors of Bertie’s private bathroom and private closet, running her fingers through her spiky hair, looking back and forth from the H of laughing gas to the two shrimpy and sheepish boy worshippers kneeling at its foot among the smelly shoes and tennis balls, and on to the two girlgoyles lying en sandwich with their tongues lately in each other’s mouths, one of them with her head wrapped in the toilet pipe. She wore a soft and clinging dress of sumpm pearly gray—coulda been weasel pelt. And now she began laughing, slowly, low in her throat, in a kind of disbelief. “From where you kids organize this thing?”—pointing at the H. No one said anything for a rather long time, then Bertie: “Found it.” “Where you found it?” Shifty eyes, skating round and round behind his round little-boy tortoiseshell eyeglasses, no reply. “Come, tell me, what room you got it? I don’t punish, I want be sure you don’t screw up anesthesia of somebody.” “It was loose,” Bertie assured her. She snorted. “Yes, I believe you—far too much loose articles around this rich like Rockefeller hospital. So. You gave it good home. And job. But you are sure it wasn’t already employed and you liberated …?” “It was down on three. On the landing.” She nodded her approval.

Now she turned her attention to the girlgoyles on the bathroom floor. Actually I might as well not have been there for all the attention the woman paid to me. She took over. She knelt down to O with a decisive squeak of her high-heeled sandals.

“This is very lovely girl,” she said, with thrilling irrelevance for a dreambox mechanic, looking curiously at the face she found between her hands. Her hands were ugly, clean and square, with gnawed-down fingernails and no rings. “Too much maquillage around the eyes, I show you better way later, my dear, if you remind me. How in hell you got here anyway,” she murmured, but uninterrogatively, and parted the hair a little with her fingertips to look. “These—are—nothing, little punchholes all under hair, except here maybe could use one stitch, later will be just little white star at hairline, quite pretty I think.”

Haven’t we gone about far enough with the royal commentary on the mental patient’s beauté? “Say, are you a dreambox adjustor or what?” I blurted. “Why you want to know that, my dear?” she said without turning around, “a minute ago you are glad to see me, no? You want to help?—find me soap. How you gorgeous stupid youths live without soap?”

It was true we Bug Motels were a by and large soapless society, but I flew to my private bathroom and pried away, from the center of the mirror, a hockey puck of orange Dial I had stuck there long ago so I wouldn’t have to look at my nose. “Here it is,” I panted. “Is good work.” She let go of O’s dreambox, which banged against the pipe. “Sufferin cheeses,” O said through her teeth, “get me outa here.” “I’ll hold her headbone,” I offered, “I’m strong as a little French horse and I got experience.” At that the woman stopped dead on her way to the sink and looked over, not at O, at me, at me! with sudden interest, her face at an odd tilt, one eye asquint. Involuntarily my hand stole to my nose. Maybe sumpm was hanging off it. “You are Ursula Koderer,” she divined. “Um, er, uh …” But why prevaricate? Some little bit of fame had evidently stuck to me behind my back. “Yeah,” I said, slitting my eyes at her, feeling a happy, cozy little glow of suspicion, “so what if I am?”

But already she was at the sink with her back to me, rubbing up a lather, and I eyeballed the busy jiggle of her muscular buttocks with conscious impudence. “Sufferin cheeses, hurry up,” O croaked. I crawled over to the toilet and took her dreambox by the ears, without even seeing, this time, how bloody, how pretty—that quick, the silver weasel had taken over.

And then that personage herself elbowed me out of the way, carrying mounds of foam. “O yeah, the old soap trick, why didn’t I think of that?” I muttered. “Because is too easy. You are heroical type,” she explained in that scratchy, ironical contralto that, as long as I knew her, refused to hurry itself for any calamity. “You climb pear tree, leap over wall, maybe break neck, without first to try gate. Charming, I know this type well.” “Whaddaya mean? What do you know about me,” I said, unable to give her up so soon, but she had gone on to more important stuff and steadfastly ignored me.

I studied her from behind. She was more tall than short, more fleshy than boney, and she seemed to be as fit as a soldier in the field, though with those gnarled hands and that gray spiky pelt on her head you could say she looked her age, whatever her age was—sumpm between thirty and sixty. Only the Abominable Snowman could have put his hands around that waist but she was long and lithe in the spine and the back of the neck, with a sturdy compact derrière that worked up and down like twin pistons as she energetically lathered O’s ears, and again I thought of the elegant and voracious lines of a winter weasel or a mink that for the sheer fun of it kills ten times as much as it eats. You might suppose I would take this as a caution, but I felt only hungry wonder at sumpm new in the usually boring line of grownups—to be exact, a grown-up woman who had none of the martyred flab and grizzle about her of somebody’s wife, somebody’s ninth-grade teacher, or somebody’s mother.

Bossy as hump, though—you could tell that already. And another thing I noticed right away as I took in the soft gray drapery from her throat to her knees, and the glinting pearl stockings along the blades of the shins and over the curve of the soleus, which was developed like a soccer player’s. As the Bogeywoman, as Merlin’s daughter, as apprentice to the wood wizardess and a slob all my life, I had never paid any attention to clothes. But hers I could tell were beautiful and, sumpm else, they meant money. Her money—it was printed on her whole air like NABISCO on a cracker—a certain kind of authority—yes, a lady dreambox mechanic rolled in her own dough. And for the first time I realized that one day, or not, if I didn’t off myself, I’d have to have some too. Not clothes. Money.

So. Her hands piled with lather, she sat down on O like a kayaker to hold her in place, reached all business through the hole between fill pipe and toilet and soaped the small ears. “Ouch, sufferin cheeses,” O whined and pulled this way and that way. “Relax head,” commanded the weasel, sinking hard fingers in the blond clouds of Mary Hartline hair, and O instantly sort of broke at the stalk of her neck and the headbone dangled there, with the doctor’s other hand guiding the chin, but it was still stuck. “Ch-ch-choleria!” doctor weasel snarled; it was the most terrible curse I had ever heard, and afterwards I could see little beads of her spit pearling O’s forelock. Angrily she got up again, filled her hands with more foam, roughly sideburned O’s cheeks and chin, pompadoured the bloody brow with pinkening scum, screwed the whole head a little bit east like turning a globe and gave it a jerk not altogether gentle. The head popped free. “Sufferin cheeses Emily where’d you find this brutal bitch,” O muttered ungratefully, rubbing her ears and neck, “who da hump is she anyhow?”

There was a thunder of fuddies’ hooves: Bertie and Dion were cheesing it out of the closet and down the hall, in exact accord with Bug Motels’ operational principles, leaving me and O holding the bag. The weasel showed a commendable lack of interest in their existence. She didn’t even look round. I recalled that my Bug Motel’s duty, now that O was free, was to slink out while the slinking was good. O all by herself was famous for stonewalling cops, and royals. I backed gluily towards the door, but thank godzilla, doctor weasel clamped a hand around my ankle in time. “You,” she said, rising up into my face. “Miss Koderer. Please to explain me what is happened.” I blinked. I couldn’t squeal right in front of two other Bug Motels. But I didn’t want the weasel talking to anybody else either. She was no ordinary dreambox mechanic—if she was a dreambox mechanic—and I was just about to ask her again exactly what she was, when old dying hence ethically exempt Emily piped up: “O had a grandma fizzy fit on the floor, she even had whip cream in her mouth like when a dog bites a frog or sumpm.” The weasel turned to O, who sat hunched and rubbing her neck inside the icy billows of her hair, a lit Lucky hanging from her dry lips. “Miss O’Day?” O shrugged and showed the weasel her back. So it came back to me.

“Miss Koderer. This object. You can explain me please for what you want it?” Her voice thrummed lazily on its low string and she touched with a pointed toe the H of laughing gas, then the clown’s nose lying in its loops of red rubber tubing. “I …” I stammered, glad to have her eye on me, but embarrassed to look like a mastermind of dreambox oils powders and gasses in front of her, for I had a hunch what she would think of that. I mean, she was a mysterious, grown-up woman of the world, next to whom even the wood wizardess, Willis Marie Bundgus, looked like a bucktoothed rube. I gasped at my own disloyalty to my first love and for a moment I hated the woman, for how could she ever love my kind, my potato-shaped nose bulb, lips of wornout underpants elastic, body straight as a pencil, rusty hair, hun manners?

“I … had to have sumpm to do in this dump,” I whispered. Until I saw you, I thought. She didn’t smile. I felt her peer through my buggy disguise as through a glass pane; one of her eyebrows arched up mockingly. “How you are called, my dear?” “Bogeywoman,” I said, and O and Emily tittered, because I had never let a dreambox mechanic in on my moniker before. Doctor weasel put out her ugly hand. “Is pleasure,” she said. I stared at the hand floating between us. Then I remembered to take it.

“How … how you are called?” I mimicked her, not only to be fresh to a dreambox adjustor in front of the Bug Motels, though I knew they would be impressed. No, I must have sensed I would have to haggle and track and scheme and beg for every crumb of truth about her as long as I knew her. She narrowed her eyes at me. “Zuk,” she finally said, in her peculiar, salivary accent, sumpm between shook and zook. “Doctor Zuk?” “Zuk,” she repeated, her voice loud and bored, as if she regretted having said so much.

She leaned into Bertie’s closet and laid a finger on the cold pebbly cylinder of laughing gas. “Pfui,” she exclaimed, “unpleasant feeling like skin of dead hairless animal. Here is interesting fact: human beings despise everything hairless—at least I think is true. Pig, snake, legs of chicken, wing of bat, bald head of man, tail of opossum and rat, I wonder why is this? Why they would hate everything bald like themselves?”

“Cause they got taste,” I said—talk about an easy question!

She didn’t answer, but her silvery eyes lit on me for maybe five seconds as though I were the most interesting animal on earth. Then she turned and walked away. And I remember her sleek behind flexing like a fist under the velour, and the pinprick her champagne-flute heels made across my forehead as she went—that was as close as I came to taking her in.

Bertie came creeping back as soon as she was gone. “They didn’t even call the cops,” he said in a hurt voice. “Well, maybe they still will,” I consoled him, “she just left.” “Did she look mad?” “Er, not exactly.” Of course we were too nervous now either to sniff the H or to leave it alone, but a few minutes later Mr. Nurse’s Aide Reggie Blanchard came in without a word—just shot us a scornful look, kiddie D.O.A.P. it said, like the time we five choked down a whole McCormick’s tin of nutmeg between us and all of us puked for an hour but nothing else happened—and rolled the H bomb away. But two minutes later he left in its place a modest little E cylinder on a cart with its twin oxygen tank and gauges and valves and other appurtenances, all in working order, and said, “Yall damn fool huff-heads got fi-teen minutes with this baby and that’s it, so get to work.” We dutifully sat down and huffed, but all the fun had gone out of that mission. I didn’t see any more giant popcorn. Instead I had a vision of Zuk, the international doctor weasel, skiing in her high-heeled sandals on a sort of slag heap of stars. A great dust of stars flew up all around her—she was brilliant, but she was dust, and she was skidding down down down.

3

Miles from Madame Zuk

She was too many stories above me. Love is a girlgoyle’s proper food, or so Margaret always claimed—the other stuff just plumps up your bra size. And O used to say with a yawn that love at least gave a girl a reason to get out of bed in the morning. Well, I met Zuk and the next morning I woke up out of the tar with a seasick lurch and didn’t care whether I lived or died. So she hadn’t worn any rings—so what—no rings is a quirk of fashion, for godzillas sake, not a marital status. Of course she was married, they all were, probably she had, gag, cute children too. And why did I have to snoop around to find out what she had and didn’t have in the nuptial department, bribe Reggie to check for the dreaded family photos on the desk? Because she had pulled cheap rank on me like a prison matron, firing off poisonal questions and not answering any herself. This offended my mental patient’s democratic principles. Was Zuk a better woman than I was? Well, obviously. But for how long? Just for today? Dream on, Bogeywoman—just for today until the end of time.

The logic is always corrupt which answers the question should I live or should I off myself? Other people hang around in it, audible voices in the wall, as if it were a cheap hotel—snoring in its lobby, shaving at its flatulent sinks, smoking in its bed. The figures lie when I weigh in the girlgoyles who’ve turned me down, since, gone as they are, they weigh nothing. On the one hand I know quite well that life is a dream and every face in it nothing but a lesson for the real world to come, I mean the real world that lies wrapped up in this one like a cheese in cheesecloth. All the same, for every mental patient there comes a moment when this world is ante for every other. The game boils down to you and your dreambox mechanic. Together you argue it out if you should live or die. Gimme somebody I can love or else, you say. Your dreambox mechanic replies you should be whole unto yourself, but she has a date every Saturday night, you’re sure of it.

So shouldn’t they make it illegal? Shouldn’t it be therapeutically incorrect to have a dreambox mechanic like her, Doctor Zuk, Madame Zuk, that disgustingly complete and out of reach? No bughouse doctor too beautiful, no, wait, beauty isn’t exactly the problem—well then, no dreambox mechanic too beautiful on her horse, I mean too sure of her seat, too haloed in round white savoir-vivre like a circus equestrienne in her spotlight. She gallops by, she maybe lets a few circus monkeys cling to her mane as she goes, and maybe I’m one of them. But surely Zuk is too favored from birth to be trusted with cripples? How can she have the proper sympathy? So that the message she throws to the mental patient like her garter, never mind the soothing talk from her mere voicebox, is Try, try in vain, you shall never have me or be me. I mean, after that, when you’ve already lost the game, and for good, why get better? What for?

And that’s a queer phrase right there—get better—as though repairing your dreambox had all the morality of a shopping trip, you have to get sumpm along the way, track it down, pick it up, steal it, beg for it, somehow add it to your equipment or you’re done for. Then here comes Zuk, dreambox mechanic, one of the royals, you gotta have her and worse yet, she isn’t even your dreambox mechanic—you can’t beg, buy or blackmail an appointment with her.

I hated my doctor. Reinhold Feuffer, M.D. Foofer. Especially Foofer, but in fact I despised all the doctors in Rohring Rohring—who were they, the royals, ha ha, to think they could tell what was wrong, really wrong, with a mental peon, especially me? And although at seventeen I was generally more crude than rude, I used to mock any Bug Motel who had a crush on a fuddy of that line. Emily worshipped her doctor, but she was dying and he wasn’t saving her. “Better you should hate old Buzzey and live than love him and croak,” I ragged her. “It iddn’t Dr. Buzzey’s fault I won’t eat,” she said, with plain South Baltimore logic that might have sounded sensible in a fatter person. “Yeah, well if he cooked you anything really good …” I said. (It’s true there was sumpm about not being able to eat I just couldn’t grasp; when I’d taken it up, it was a wrestling match with every chicken leg and pretzel rod, and in the end I cried uncle and fell on the stuff.)

Dr. Marks was O’s new dreambox adjustor; she liked his sturdy buttocks and blond mustache and thought he would be a good oink, which shows how far the royals were getting with her. Bertie hated the nurses, who for some reason were suspicious killjoys about pills, and they cold-shouldered him right back, but he kinda liked the dreambox mechanics. He claimed they thought alike. “Hey, forget about flapping those gums, man,” he said. “Tell em you’re too depressed to talk, five minutes later it’s out with the ballpoint. And then you get air balls or goofers, though the quality is weak, very weak with these pipe suckers, that’s the sad truth.”

“Cheese,” I said, “the bill to Merlin, that’s my old man, is seven hundred a week, and the only one these fuddy dreambox mechanics can save is Jefferson on a nickel, if that.” “They aren’t sposed to save you,” Emily said patiently, and Dion said: “They maintain you, man. Maintain, maintain.” “They’re tryna show you how to get used to stuff the way it is,” Emily elaborated. “Get used to living on these crumbs?” I said, “never! If this is all I’m going to get I want my money back.” “Maybe you could jew em down to five hundred a week,” Dion suggested, “I think my old man got a deal through da guy who put in the basement vending machines.” “I’m talking about life, not the bughouse.” “Aaay,” Dion persisted, looking around in vain for a well-fed person to support him, “the chow here’s okay, whaddaya expect, the Park Plaza?”

Because they were professionally mysterious, rumors flew about the private lives of our dreambox mechanics as if they had been movie stars. What had I heard lately? Dr. Hellwig, who wore a wedding ring, had been seen by the whole school bus walking arm in arm on Charles Street with a tall moon-breasted champagne blonde who by our comic book standards couldn’t be anybody’s wife. Haughty Dr. Dannenberg had been spotted at Pimlico Lanes in a turquoise satin bowling team jacket—someone on weekend furlough had seen him and though we knew it couldn’t be true, the idea was too enchanting: his stock of face plummeted. Dr. Dewey might have got the sack, we liked to think he had, but for sure he left suddenly in the middle of April.

Sometimes we tried to put Emily on the case. We all knew that dear departing Emily could get an answer, maybe not a yes answer but some kind of answer, to anything she asked. By now they had told Emily her organs were rotting inside her and in fact her breath smelled like nail polish remover, not bad but strange. Her dying gave a certain power, a last quality, to all her requests. Everybody felt it. The Bug Motels hated to see it go to waste: “Hey Emily. Ask Dr. Hellwig if he has a girlfriend, ask Doughy Dewey if he got canned, ask Foofer if he’s oinking Miss Hageboom.” But Emily Nix Peabody, refusal was her middle name, never asked anything she didn’t really want to know.

Doctor Zuk, I speculated, might be Doughy Dewey’s replacement. I fumed that I couldn’t ask one of the royals straight out. And wouldn’t that be just like the bughouse—to replace the nadir of fudd with the apex of glamour and pretend it was irrelevant to treatment, though an hour with Zuk was as likely to ransack your dreambox as to repair it. No, no, no, no dreambox mechanic too beautiful on her horse, I decreed, though it didn’t help either for a dreambox mechanic to be too ugly—I mean, how far would you get in this life if you thought this mug was the only one who ever loved you? I always figured that was why they’d assigned Doughy Dewey to O, who had been loved or at least oinked by ballplayers and even rock stars of the lower magnitudes. She had to get over thinking about men that way. Dewey had a fat lineless face, skin the color of Gouda cheese, his only whiskers grew out of pink moles and his fat little legs dangled an inch or two above the floor under his leather armchair. O said she used to sit there mostly feeling sorry for him.

“I always wanted to ask him if he had sumpm screwed up in his glands, you know, maybe his nuts never came down or sumpm.” “Why didn’t you?” we asked, to make trouble. “I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.” “Let’s get Emily to ask him.” But Emily Nix Peabody wouldn’t ask him, because that wasn’t one of the things she really wanted to know.

Chastely I marveled at my see-through princess Emily. And yet what was so all-fired pure about her, come to think of it? I never asked my doctor anything I didn’t want to know. I never asked him anything I did want to know either. I didn’t make idle conversation with the thinkbox adjustor. Ever since he had first farted through the door of the green office where I sat waiting for him on a farty leather couch of oxblood Morocco with brass upholstery nails (which I was always trying, on the side he couldn’t see, to pry out with my fingernails)—one year, seven months and eight days ago—I hadn’t said a word to Foofer. Not a single word. (Well, for the first couple days I had asked him over and over how soon I could go back to Camp Chunkagunk, since nothing was wrong with me except could I please go back to Camp Chunkagunk. “Miss Koderer, vy don’t you tell me vot happened to you at zis camp?” “Whaddaya mean what happened to me, nuttin happened.” “I know you were expelled from a camp where you have gone for many years, a place you liked. I would like to know in your own words how zis came about.” “Nuttin happened, I just got lost one day and accidentally left camp, make them take me back …”)

So how did I land this professional? Merlin picked him out. He was—Merlin still insists (on the phone last week he was telling me this again)—a world-famous diagnostician, whatever that means. “Internationally known, Ursie. I mean, think about it—you got accepted into Rohring Rohring by a world-famous diagnostician of disturbed adolescents.”

That accepted burned me up. “Accepted,” I fumed, “you’d think it was Harvard. And for godzillas sake, it didn’t take a Sigmund Food. What adolescent isn’t disturbed? They oughta lock up the ones who think they’re having a good time.” “You weren’t just in a bad mood, Ursie. You were cutting yourself and all that.” “I can’t believe he told you I was a hopeless case,” I seethed, “how the hump would he know, I never even talked to him.” Merlin read me the letter. It took him awhile to unfold the wretched thing out of his wallet; he’d been carrying it around with him from Haiphong to Upper Samovarobad to Outer Hotzeplotz all this time:

… might someday successfully dress herself and see to her own meals and possibly manage some unstressful employment, but in all likelihood you must be prepared to support her for the rest of both of your lives …

Foofer! For the first time I thought he deserved what he got. “And you my own father believed it.” “A world-famous diagnostician, Ursie. I mean you had a mother too. Those Schapiros, they were always a little strange …”

Not that I’m letting him off, but I gotta admit that after Mama died in a trainwreck (and so hangs on to her little round blue hatbox forever in blessed memory, like a passenger saint by Lionel), maybe Merlin wasn’t thinking that clearly where care and feeding were concerned, not even the care and feeding of himself. I was small but I was hungry and I had eyes. When I think of the would-be savioresses who came bustling around for the next seven years, earth mother types, and rich! That swelling bodice Karoline von Etzen, for instance, who wrote the Alsatian cookbook—what a stepmother she would have made. To think Merlin chose the cadaverous vice-puppeteer Suzette, who couldn’t cook, handle money, or even act! Thereafter Merlin had to mother Suzette. Margaret and me had to mother ourselves, after our fashion, and Suzette was left to file her nails and answer the telephone. So I guess tracking down redeemers, or redeemeresses, was never Merlin’s strong point.

Anyhow, in Rohring Rohring I became a legend: Not to speak to my dreambox mechanic for nineteen months, almost twenty, fifty minutes, three times a week, not a single word—it took a will, I won’t say of steel, steel being totally dead, of beech then or even mahogany, a mahogany will, if I do say so myself. It helped that I could never think of Foofer without thinking of farts, which started with his name—and there’s another thing that won’t be allowed when I run the bug hospitals, doctors with funny names, especially those old classical strong-and-silent-type dreambox analysts whose names send you secret messages, scaring the crap out of you—like Dr. Schock, Dr. Ante, Dr. Paradiso and Dr. Hellwig, all names on the table of offices at Rohring Rohring.

Dr. Foofer was the old-fashioned kind himself. He made it easy not to talk; he didn’t talk either. He would fart on in, another hopeless case in the department of la beauté since the first and last chance of a body is in the walk, if you know what I mean—sort of spreading through the door like a farty dollop of batter because of his bottom-heavy duckfooted walk. He wasn’t a glandular case like Dewey—just a round middle-aged guy with a gleaming bald spot, in an itchy-looking brown three-piece suit that he must have brought with him from Germany or somewhere, since no American would wear one, and a gold watch chain. From there on it was his silence against my silence, but I could tell I unnerved him by the light zissing of the watch chain under his thumbnail as he rubbed it back and forth, no more than an inch or so each way but tenser and tenser, I could hear it.

You know what he had? (and that’s why I had to get him): Dignity, Foofer had dignity, that scratchy thick brown wool suit though full of farts looked like it was sewn to last two hundred years, matching vest, heavy flesh, gravity, reserve, an amber silk pocket handkerchief. He had dignity, he had rank like somebody else has a Buick or other big stuff you palpably own. I think those European guys whose brains are cultured from the start in a broth of big Sie and little du, vous and tu, ty and pan and Usted and all those other upstairs and downstairs degrees of you every single day radiate that stuff no matter what they think they think and never mind what they say. Foofer had an air of thinking he was, not exactly better but more, in every way more than me, weightier, and coming down at me from an Alpine height. So naturally it was my job to get him.

Was it my job to live or to off myself? When I no longer knew my job, I became a mental patient with my little menu of behaviors, for example I had purloined the Wilkinson blade from Dion’s razor this morning and graphed the logical debate I was having with the mysterious Madame Zuk, in her absence, over whether I should live or die, on the inside of both arms. They were now stuck solid to the lint inside my sweatshirt. Nobody had noticed anything yet. For cutting myself I had arrived at Rohring Rohring with a little natural talent and some amateur performance history, as mentioned. Under that, I had bedrock, I had the primitive but working machinery set on the rock, to wit: I would never, ever tell Merlin I was a Lemme die first! Or anybody else, certainly not Foofer.

Doctor Zuk, on the other hand. Somehow I knew it right off—Zuk I didn’t even have to tell. Zuk could see without my telling, because she was going to like it. I don’t mean she would rub her hands together over it the way Foofer would, heh heh heh, meaning to snitch to Merlin. No, Zuk would like it as a person likes cadmium yellow, licorice or swimming. Not that I would tell her—no more than she was telling me. Then again, if she wouldn’t tell me, I could track her. Old Emily knew Zuk—hadn’t she pulled her into Bertie’s private bathroom by her silvery dress front? I could find out plenty. And I would. It was spring, I was in the bughouse. What else did I have to do?

MY SEE-THROUGH PRINCESS

I decided to start with my see-through princess and went looking for her. But Emily wasn’t playing O Hell (favorite card game of the Bug Motels) with O, Bertie and Dion down in the dayroom. I walked into the cavernous morning light of the place and her empty chair suddenly made me afraid. “Where’s old Emily?” Bertie jerked his thumb over his shoulder. The door to 607, Emily’s room, was shut, the little window in the door had its louvers down.

I sashayed carelessly as possible down to the nurse’s station and asked Miss Roper, “Where’s Emily?” “Emily is in seclusion today.” “How come?” “I’m sorry that is not public information,” she rat-nibbled without looking up from some card she was filling out, then suddenly caught me full in the pink zeros of her glasses: “Anyhow it’s none of your beeswax, Koderer.”

I could tell right away they didn’t like me today in the nurses’ room. There was accusation in Miss Roper’s mouth, fallen sideways like a twisted swing on a playground, and in Miss Hageboom’s hard squint—even downright disgust with the Bug Motels who had mooched their own canister of N_2O yesterday, really, the discipline in this so-called bug hospital! Anyhow nurses have their pets. If they take you as their mascot, look out, you’re probably dying—so I could read it in Miss Hageboom’s slitted eyes, What did you juvenile delinquents who belong in reform school not a hospital do to my little Emily yesterday besides put her down the laundry chute, she’s totally beat this morning, throws up when she even looks at the nice piece of cake I brought her and has a great big egg on her forehead.

Well, I knew what to do in cases like this, go ask the Regicide. I found him at the far end of the dayroom, with a mop in his hands for once. It’s true he kept mopping the same four square feet since the TV was on to his favorite story. “Hey Reg.” He glanced up slowly and when he saw who it was, even his eye went cold. “Hey Reg. I can’t find Emily.” He leaned on his mop and chewed his lip, but then he decided to tell me.

“LIT-TA EMILY,” he announced, entitling his report. “Litta Emily has lost again. Two pound. And they ain’t lettin her out her bed till she eat. She gotta put em back. She look terrible. Not that yall buddies who put her down the laundry chute needs to know anything about where she done been ended up at. Oughta be shamed of yall selves.” “Nobody put her down the laundry chute. She … got emptied in. By accident.” “Sho is! Sho is! And I’m Mayor Goldstein, this just my weekend gig.” “Say Reg, you couldn’t get me in there?” “Way at?” “To see Emily.” “Huh! In her room! You must think I’m foolish—let yall murdous crazies in there with that nice litta gal! I ain’t crazy.” And he walked away. So Nurse’s Aide Reggie was mad at me too.

In Crazyland the craziest is queen, in Rohring Rohring Adolescent Wing everybody loved the see-through princess best, including me. And not just because Emily was Miss Dying Popularity. Talk about ugly-cute—she was the ugly-cutest of all the world’s cute-uglies, sumpm between a bug and a baby bird, with those thready limbs and great big eyes shining out of their bone-holes, a no-nose with yellow freckles on it and bucked teeth that pushed the short upper lip out of her tight face like a little beak. The starving whiteness around her freckles made her skin sort of shine, and I never detected in her—it takes one to know one, so believe me I looked—one flyspeck of showmanship in her sincere desire to disappear. She was more like the embarrassed usherette at her own buggy play, or sumpm even lower than the usherette, the candy seller or the hatcheck girl. Artless is what she was. I call her my see-through princess because you sort of had the feeling you could gaze into her and see every lump and bubble, see all the organs where they lay and the heart where it clenched and relaxed, clenched and gave up the fight again. Every coupla months they carried her off to her bed and locked her in there for a week or two and fed her through a tube. She was patient with this treatment.

She was brave and good, old Emily, and though refusal was her middle name, her starved muscles somehow held up their end when we Bug Motels went on mission. She was like Joan of Arc compared to the fuddy boys in our set. She had only this one problem, that food so disgusted her she was doomed to starve herself to death. And when they rolled her off to bed to force-feed her, her limbs hung over the edge of the gurney like long wax tapers that had been left too long in the heat. The first time I ever saw her, they were rolling her through the dayroom and I stood on my chair to get a good look. She glowed in the dark, the white and yellow curls nodded around her small face like petals of some ragged compositae, and though her neck was too weak to hold up her head, the little beak in her cute-ugly bug face opened and she smiled at me. She smiled at me I can only say hopefully, though we hadn’t been introduced. For some reason old Emily loved me at first sight. And she didn’t even need me—she had cooing nurses to throw away.

So I knew she wouldn’t scream or rat or throw me out. Still it wasn’t that easy to get in to her, if the Regicide wouldn’t help. I stood behind my door, holding a potted cactus that Suzette had accidentally brought with my stuff—I hadn’t watered it in nineteen months but it wouldn’t die and now I was glad I’d kept the thing. I peeped through the crack until the nurse’s aide, Delilah not Reggie, came out of Emily’s room pushing the big rattly-bones housekeeping cart with the dirty linen bin trailing behind it, and turned east. I winged the cactus in a perfect blooper pitch over her head so it crashed in front of her, went rolling off in three prickly balls and she froze and stared up at the ceiling—and meanwhile I ran like hump (in my silent tracker’s moccasins) to slip through Emily’s door before its hydraulic moan came to an end.

HOW LOVE GOT ME OUT OF THERE

She lay there exactly like a wasting princess in some fairy tale, right down to the snowy counterpane with her pipecleaner elbows on it. Her bottom half, where it went under the crackling sheets, made hardly a bump, and under the bunched-around skirt of her quilted pink I CHOCOLATE bathrobe (a present from the nurses) she was like one of those half-dollies that housewives freakish for chintz use to cover the toaster—I mean she was there to the waist and nothing underneath, not even the blank crotch that drives you to distraction in a plastic dolly when you finally get alone with her and take a look. So let it be declared that, from the first time I saw Emily, who I believe had a strong crush on me, mine was a respectfully crotchless love for her crotchless self, you’d be afraid of breaking that popsicle stick body just by jiggling the bed next to it, let alone lying down on top of it. True, I had designs on Emily, but they were on her mind not her body. I mean she wasn’t quite twelve, her bug face was more ugly than cute when you looked into its caves, and her body was not even there. All the same she glowed, and I wanted to finger the wolfram filament of her incandescence, wanted to know to its hot wire core her amazing lack of appetite. I admit I’ve licked out the pig trough to its dregs, from time to time, in the famine of sex, but what do I know of that other thing, the pure want of hunger, a click in the throat and disgusted blank in the gut of a caterpillar who, unless it lands on a muskmelon leaf, doesn’t even know the world is food?

“Hey Em, how you doing?” I whispered as the door whooshed shut behind me. “Ursie!” she peeped, her beak opened up a crack and I could tell she was glad to see me. “Say Em, want me to sneak you up sumpm? How bout a comic or, uh, a Three Musketeers or sumpm?” I whispered. I would have been glad to crawl through enemy fire on my belly to the card and candy shop in the lobby and give up my last nickel to see her fall; I didn’t want to believe in her purity unless I absolutely had to. But she was as ashamed of not eating as I was jealous of it, which gave me a funny feeling it might be true.

Emily’s face crumpled in a smile that pulled the pale freckles even wider over her little bulb of a nose. “That would be nice since it was from you but I prolly couldn’t eat it,” she said sheepishly, and the tops of her ears pinked up, which was sumpm to see, against the yahrzeit candle color of the rest of her. “They’re going to keep you here till you eat. You better eat. How come you don’t eat?” “It looks good but then it don’t go down,” she explained, “at first it tastes like a hamburger or whatever it is, but then it gets sticky, real sticky like I’m eating …” Her voice got thin as a piece of spaghetti just talking about it and then I heard a soft click—her throat closed, her lips pulled back and I could see all her rotten little teeth. “And I got to spit it out,” she finally said, “or throw up.”

I shouldn’t have asked, but I couldn’t help it: “Like you’re eating what?” “Like I’m eating B.M.,” she whispered. “Oooo,” I said. I saw a human dumpling glowing on a plate where a hamburger just had sat, and, like that, her case looked hopeless. But then I recognized the object I was staring at. “A Baby Ruth could be a poop,” I said, “and nuttin looks better than that. Hey, that’s what makes you want to eat it—cause it looks like a nice piece of poop.” Emily laughed, her big eyes widened like happy clams in their red rims and I thought I was getting somewhere.

“Sure,” I argued, “you know it’s true. O’Henrys too. Must be everybody wants to eat sumpm that looks like poop. You better not tell Foofer I said that.” “I wouldn’t never,” Emily said. She stared up at me and got that grave little soap flake of light in each eye like Joan of Arc in the Classic Comic. “Tootsie Rolls too,” I pursued. “And Mounds.” Emily nodded. “And Fifth Avenue.” Emily twisted her nose bulb and shook her head—“Not so poopy,” she said. She never ever went along with a queer idea for the sake of the conversation, not even to save her skinny life. “O come on—if it’s chocolate in a bar it’s poop. You gotta admit.” Her head was still fanning stubbornly back and forth on its baby bird neck but she was grinning a little.

“Come on, say it. When I eat a Clark Bar I’m thinking poop, umm good, and so are you, so is everybody. Now listen, Emily, never mind Foofer, if you tell any dreambox mechanic in this whole dump I said that, I’ll never speak to you again.” “I wouldn’t never.” “Cause I’m getting a new one.” Emily blinked at me. “A new dreambox mechanic. Well, anyhow I’m going to ask for her.” I waited for Emily to wonder who, but she didn’t. “You know, the one you brought to Bertie’s bathroom when O got her head stuck. What was her name.” Emily didn’t choose to tell me. “Er, Doctor Zuk,” I craftily answered myself.

“You can’t just ask for somebody,” Emily said. “Why not?” “You’re sposed to work with what you got. Like in O Hell.” Meaning our card game. “Besides I think Doctor Zuk don’t have no regular patients.” “How come?” “She just goes around talking to you and writing stuff down. I think maybe she’s famous.” No dreambox adjustor too beautiful on her horse—she was famous. Why do they say My head swam—my head drowned, wave-dragged, glug glug, over stone shoals of hunger, sodden sponges of disgust. She was famous. I was never going to get her or be her. Her swirling bluegreen atmospheres of confidence, that equestrienne spotlight she rode in, the mermaid spangles on her brassiere—it all made sense now that she was famous. I double-drowned for envy: she was famous, and she was studying other people, not me.

“How d’you know all that?” “I ast.” My head swam—my dreambox bobbed emptily on the waves, like a bait float. “Why’d you ask?” (Emily Nix Peabody, refusal was her middle name, never asked anything she didn’t really want to know.) “She’s old but she’s so purty. I never saw anyone like her before.” “What’s she famous for? Is she a dreambox mechanic?” “I din’t ask.” “Didn’t ask!” I stared at Emily so severely that she added, “Prolly,” in a small scared voice. “She’s from Europe,” Emily recollected, “… or somewheres …” I suddenly recalled, for my part, I was here to save my see-through princess, not to bully her. My ears itched hotly for shame.

Yes I was here to feed my fifty-one-pound princess as well as to milk her. I loved her, I always meant to fatten her up, no mistake about that. “Hey Em. Don’t you ever want to put sumpm in your mouth?” I asked, “just to suck it? not to eat it?” She wrinkled her little spotty-toadstool nose. “Sure,” I said, “like some things just say put me in your mouth as soon as you look at em. You don’t know what I mean? Honest?”

I looked around the room for the perfect thing. Kitchens are good for suckable stuff, bakelite spoon handles and pyrex thermometers and marble pestles. Even a writing desk has silky pens and crunchy pencils, but a room in the bughouse is a desert to the mouth, everything fixed down or flimsy white plastic made to throw away. All I saw were the maraschino cherry buttons of Emily’s I CHOCOLATE bathrobe—thank godzilla nurses have pets, I thought, though it’s kind of awkward to suck another girl’s bathrobe buttons, even if you’re a Unbeknownst to her—especially when she’s wearing the thing. Emily and me, we weren’t that close, but we weren’t that innocent either, I couldn’t just suck her buttons I mean.

And all of a sudden I saw it, just what I needed: Emily’s pink pearl plastic three-piece toilet set, maybe the one thing she had from home, with a shoehorn of suckable handle on the hairbrush, an ordinary L-shaped comb, and a mirror like a wreath of pinky lips that twisted to a pink scepter, positively mouthwatering, at one end. “Yum,” I said, picking up the pink comb and smoking it rakishly. I handed the hairbrush to Emily. I wanted her to notice that mirror handle herself and ask for it. But no, refusal was her middle name. “I wanna smoke like you,” she piped up. “Sure, okay,” I shrugged, and gave her the comb and took back the hairbrush, but then I smoked its fat handle like a big pink cigar. Use your imagination, Peabody, I was trying to say. We smoked her hair set peacefully for a time. Two little kites of spit started glinting in Emily’s mouth corners and I thought I was onto sumpm big.

“Next you gotta try bubblegum,” I said, since it’s pink and you don’t swallow it. I mean, Emily was all of eleven years old. I poisonally despise bubblegum. “Hey,” Emily whispered, “let’s smoke real cigarettes.” “Real cigarettes?” I echoed uneasily. What could I say?—my Pall Malls and matches were in plain view, squaring the front of my overalls. “Real cigarettes? What for?”

I repeat: we teenage mental patients weren’t given to foiling each other’s stupid schemes. Heads were for dreambox mechanics to fix. We were young and set in our ways; it was our job to be crazy, not to be fixed. Time would change us, not our doctors in their wildest dreams, if we were in their wildest dreams, which I doubt. I mean, mental patience is a culture like the one it’s wrapped in; insanity is like sanity, it can’t stay the same or it rots. Fresh bad ideas were not to be sniffed at. And anyhow, everybody smokes in a mental hospital; it’s like drinking wine in France. If my see-through princess wanted a cigarette, it was my job to whip out the smokes, but I didn’t. Not just yet.

“You’re not even twelve years old,” I said. “You’re gonna puke if you smoke. You puke all the time anyway. That’s why you’re here. You can’t afford to lose even one more calorie or you’ll croak.” “I smoked awready,” Emily said, “my brother Barney showed me.” “Brother Barney,” I sneered, “what an example. When was this?” “They let him home for Christmas when I was ten.” (Barney was in reform school.) “I bet he pushed one in your mouth and made you smoke.” Emily was no snitch, but she didn’t deny it. Instead she said proudly: “We smoked Kools.” “Okay, I’ll give you a cigarette if you promise not to throw up.” “Okay.” “Swear.” “I swear.”

I believed her. In fact, suddenly I was afraid she would choke back her puke or die trying, for this was another way of being pure. Things were getting out of hand, it was like she was going down the laundry chute headfirst again, and this was not what I’d had in mind for my see-through princess at all.

“Also, you have to eat a coddy,” I stipulated. “I’ll throw up.” “So smoke and eat a coddy and you won’t throw up. You swore.”

There was a nub of logic there and you could see her circling it, circling it, looking for a place to land. Luckily I had a coddy on me as I often did in those days. I took a puck of damp white napkin out of my pocket and spread it open and there was my rusty round coddy, fifteen cents at the snack bar in the lobby, and next to it I laid a cellophane two-pack of saltines, a squirt-tube of mustard, a Pall Mall and my 250-wrapper Mr. Peanut lighter, not available in any store.

“You gotta eat, Peabody, or you’ll never get out of here,” I said. No, that argument was lame, for none of us Bug Motels exactly wanted out of here. “I mean out of this room,” I added. “Okay.” “Swear.” “I swear.” She took up the coddy in one hand and the cigarette in the other, and I picked up my lighter.

And now I ignited and she nibbled and puffed, gulped and hacked and fizzed and choked. The cigarette smoke steamed out of the yellow baby-bird angles of her beak, curled like chicken feathers around those agonized calluses where the rough little lips came together, and all at once two worms of sumpm worm-white gleamed in the corners of her mouth, regurgitated coddy I guess—

I turned my back on her and grabbed the first thing that stuck out—which turned out to be the most disgusting object a person could bump into, an old dry sink on the wall that could have been a urinal, that’s how it looked. I threw back my head and gasped for air and accidentally caught sight of Emily in the mirror over the sink. She was waxier white than the pillow behind her, a little cloud of smoke floated over her face and her ugly-cute forehead was dented with worry.

“You don’t have to eat anything,” I gave in, “I can’t save you if you’re gonna do like that.” “S’purty good,” she said meekly, “kinda dry.” “Aw spit it out,” I said, “or I might puke myself.” “S’kinda sharp. I mean it tastes kinda sharp, when I’m chewing and the smoke goes up my nose. Like chewing needles or sumpm.” “Oooo, that does sound good. Much better than poop,” I said bitterly. “I thought you liked poop,” Emily said. “I said everybody liked poop, not me.” “Ain’t you everybody? One of em I mean?” “I guess so,” I sighed.

“You could still save me,” Emily said plaintively, the way a kid wheedles you to keep playing. Only, old Emily would never say I could save her just to keep me playing. I sneaked a glance at her in the mirror. Her cute-ugly mug was peaceful against the white pillow. The back of her hand smeared over her mouth in an almost satisfied way. “Whatcha do with that coddy?” I demanded. “I eat it.” “Aw come on, Emily!” “Yeah. Honest. It was good.”

I squinted at her suspiciously. Her fingers, as short and skinny as birthday candles, lay on the coverlet and half a cigarette still stuck up from them, fuming. There were ashes in every direction: black smears on the pillowcases, pale gray drifts down the front of her I CHOCOLATE bathrobe. But nothing worse.

“You didn’t puke?” “Unh-unh. I swore.” “You’re not really going to smoke that thing to the end, are you, Emily?” “I like it with a coddy.” “You swear you ate that coddy? I’m going to get you another one and see.” “Don’t go. Pretty please don’t go. Let’s play Old Maid.”

Old Maid! I remembered the last time Margaret and me played Old Maid: when Merlin got called before the House Un-American Activities Committee, and they put us on the B&O to New York all by ourselves. Grandpa Koderer gave the porter five dollars to keep an eye on us but everyone forgot we would be alone on the ferry. We were thrilled. First we exhausted our quarters in the car-deck candy machine. The water looked heavy and black like motor oil and when we were staring into it, eating Caramel Creams, Margaret’s hat fell in. This was so pleasant that some of our cards “blew away” too. At last we watched the Old Maid’s pruny face float, curl, sink. So the deck was ruined. On Central Park West we had colds and Aunt Henrietta Schapiro sat on the bed and taught us Hearts and that was the end of Old Maid. Poor dears. You’re more than half orphans now.

“Don’t go. Let’s play Old Maid.” Why couldn’t I stop? “Only if you eat a coddy,” I bullied. “I ain’t hungry no more. Don’t go.” “Swear you’ll eat a coddy and I’ll come right back.” “I swear. But don’t go. They won’t let you in,” she said, and the bottom lip of her little buggy mouth trembled.

“Don’t worry, I can get in anytime I want. I’ll stay till you stop eating coddies, I swear. Hey, wanna split a Hollywood Bar?” She gave me a sickish smile—her lip curled back on her bucked bad teeth in friendly, bashful disgust. “Unh-unh. Too—maybe,” she said.

HOW LOVE GOT ME OUT OF THERE

The door hadn’t quite hissed shut behind me when I hit the dayroom, running. “Gimme fifteen cents,” I panted at the Bug Motels’ card table, “I got her to eat a coddy.” The whole place was smoking like an Indian encampment. There were around ninety little aluminum foil ashtrays in that room, and every ashtray had its mental patient. O, Bertie and Dion sat together in the whirly, cobwebby light, in a rubble of gum wrappers and potato chip bags, slapping their cards against the table. “Come on, gimme fifteen cents,” I repeated, “she ate a coddy, the whole thing.” Laughter burped out of the TV.

Bertie lazily shoved a dollar at me. “Who ya talking about—Emily? She ate?” “She ate a coddy.” “So what do you need fifteen cents for?” “Another coddy.” “You think she’s gonna eat another one?” “She swore.” “Cheese, Koderer, you’re doing better than Buzzey, maybe you should open up your own bughouse,” Bertie said with a smile. I squinted at him to see if he meant it. Probably not, but I didn’t care. I was Sigmund Food crossed with Margaret Meat, maybe I’d be Doctor Zuk someday after all.

“So how’d you do it?” O spooky-fluted, one eye narrowing at me in suspicion, the other hidden under the blueblack dip of her forelock. I wondered then, I wonder now, why a dark billow of hair over one eye makes a woman look dangerous, like a pirate’s eye-patch, but beautiful too. O watched me with her other smudgy eye that was telling me, Walk the plank. “How’d you get her to eat?” she asked again, without smiling. She was bristling mad, I could tell, and suddenly I didn’t care to go into that just now. “Tell you later,” I huffed, snatching up the dollar.

“Hey, pick me up a coddy too,” Dion said, “while you’re down there. And a pack of Tareytons.” Another dollar fluttered to the table. “Get me a coddy and a chocolate snowball and ten pieces of Bazooka,” someone else chimed in. “Five pretzels. And a strawberry turkish taffy for Mrs. Wilmot.” “A dime’s worth of banana BB bats and a pack of peanut butter crackers.” Pretty soon half the nuts in the dayroom were putting in their orders. “Forget it,” I shouted, “I’m just buying for the Bug Motels.” “Yeah, all you grown-up mental patients ever do is sit on your fat asses and watch TV and fart,” Bertie tactfully assisted me, “go get your own stuff.” “That doesn’t represent my views,” I announced to the dayroom, since I was Sigmund Food crossed with Margaret Meat, “I just have an urgent mission to execute.” Under my breath: “Damn you, Bertie, don’t stir up the mental patients, I’m in a hurry and this could be a matter of life or death.” Bertie laughed. “We might grow up into mental patients ourselves,” I hissed. “We are mental patients,” O reminded me. “Yeah, well we’re not hopeless cases yet,” I said.

I started for the sixth-floor landing where the elevators were, put my hand on the ward door, and all at once I felt O’s pirate eye pegleg it up my back. You’re not loving me and me alone the way you promised, it told me telepathically. You’re no beauty but you’ll pay. I looked around reluctantly. This was when I figured it out that O was insanely jealous (I do not speak figuratively, we were in the bughouse), and like all insanely jealous people she was clairvoyant. It didn’t take a Sigmund Food—I mean everybody’s dreambox is a cellar full of the stuff, hungers half and whole, lost loves, unobtainable oinks, etc. Now she was peering into my dreambox and sniffing another woman in my life and I was making haste to cut Doctor Zuk out of my thoughts with a can opener. “Emily’s organs are rotting,” I said weakly—but everybody knew that already. “Er, how bout you, O?” “What about me?” she echoed spookily. “You want anything from downstairs?” She didn’t even answer. “How bout a Hollywood Bar?” “I can get what I want myself,” she replied. She was scary but—well I’ll bring her up a cherry snowball I thought—just lemme feed old Emily first.

SNOWBALLS SWEATING IN A cardboard six-pack, pretzel rods marching across breast pocket like a squadron of cigars, candy bars crackling low in my overalls, soft warm coddies swinging in a small white bag from my teeth. And one of Dion’s Tareytons fuming away between my knuckles. I had had to ask an intern for a light. Wouldn’t you know, when Emily was ready to eat, it was the world’s lunchtime; the line had stretched from the snack bar to the newspaper kiosk all the way across the lobby. Where had I left my own cigarettes and my 250-wrapper Mr. Peanut lighter? Godzillas sakes—on Emily’s bed—fifty-three minutes ago. The first floor, the second floor sank away, beaten-looking people, broken-off chunks of families, got on and off. Yes I’d lost my perfect fix on Emily’s rescue by funding this expedition with Bug Motels’ candy money, that was a mistake, my fault for flouncing around pretending I was Margaret Meat, but now I was on my way back to her cute-ugly, spindly self.

Then the elevator jerked to perfect blackness and stillness and stopped dead and right away I started to be very very sorry just like O had telepathically said I would. I knew O was at the bottom of it, she had the power—some electrician or maintenance guy or orderly she had oinked, or who was praying to oink her next week—she had to stop thinking of men that way. There was an emergency phone in all these elevators. When I felt around for the receiver and pressed it to my ear, O spooky-fluted out of the earpiece: “You ate my heart with ketchup, jewgirl, and now you’re gonna pay,” and hung up. In the black elevator, sweat started to trickle under my dirty bangs. My armpits itched madly. That was when it came back to me, the queer story I’d heard about how O first got to Rohring Rohring. The same old stuff about working the Pratt Street bars from the age of twelve, and busting out her stepfather’s bathroom window where they had locked her in and climbing down the garage roof and never coming back, and ten foster homes and fifteen shows in juvenile court and three years’ probation later—but what I now remembered was the judge finally kicking her case to Rohring Rohring after she nailed her little foster sister, who she liked better than anybody, that was the part I particularly remembered, to the kitchen door with an oyster knife. The little sister had been trying to slip away … Had O thrown the knife like Mary Hartline on Super Circus? I wondered uneasily—Mary Hartline who walked upside down on the knives in her hands, her back arched like a bow.

Just then the elevator lurched back into motion, seemed to sink more floors than the hospital had floors, into the sewers beneath Broadway. It grounded like a submarine; I heard it scrape gravel. The doors sprang open, some kind of spotlight beamed into my eyes and I couldn’t see a thing—and then sumpm boinked against the wall behind me. I turned around. The spotlight picked out its edges. A jeweled dagger (probably it was just a garish letter opener filched from one of the royals) stuck there in the padding a second or two and fell to the floor, clunk. I leaned down and picked it up and squinted into the black. “What do you want, O?” “I don’t want nuttin from you,” she spooky-fluted, from a few feet away. “Well, cheese,” I said—I was impressed; the sweat rolled steadily, copiously out of my armpits—“if you don’t end up in the bughouse for life, you could get a job in a circus. Maybe Merlin would even hire you.” I thought better of that. “But for Merlin’s World Tour you’d have to be nonviolent. I don’t think you qualify.” “I could plead insanity if I killed you,” O trilled darkly, out of the darkness. “Besides, I’m still a juvenile. I betcha I’d get off,” she speculated. I tried my best to ignore this line of thought.

“Ain’t you gonna ask me what you did wrong?” O spooky-fluted. “No,” I replied, but on she went. “You said you’d be mine all mine. I oughta cut your nose right off, you dirty jew bull dagger.” I stared into the blackness, found the gauzy glow of her ratted hair like a frozen eddy in a stream, and imagined her wild raccoony eyes ringed with black, sparkling over my death. This was a side of beauty I’d never seen. Could you sink your face between her momps after she called you that, even if she asked you to? Of course I didn’t know yet exactly what a bull dagger was. “Takes one to know one,” I ventured recklessly, “and anyhow I never said I’d be yours all yours.” “I oughta cut your lying lips off too. You love that skeleton baby—you love her more than me. You sneaked into Emily’s room, you dirty liar.” “You love Emily as much as I do,” I pointed out, gesturing into the blind dark with my bag of coddies, for O was deeply sentimental when she wasn’t throwing knives. “That don’t make me no bull dagger,” she growled. “Maybe you wouldn’t mind telling me,” I croaked out carefully, “what a bull dagger is?”

Sumpm about that was going too far: O bloomed out of darkness, furious, grabbing at my hair and throat and shedding great wet sobs: “Go eat yourself, you jew jasper—” She could throw a knife but not a punch I guess. Or maybe she didn’t really want to hurt me. I held the jeweled letter opener firmly behind my back and let her bite and scratch. Toothmarks on my neck might make Doctor Zuk … vaporized that idea, think of Emily, Emily! My poor see-through princess who even ate for me, I had to see that she truly loved me, loved me more than she loved any of them, and now where was I when she needed me? I had been gone over an hour. Suddenly the lights came up, with a lurch we started to move, 3B, 2B, 1B, through the basements. O’s face was still in my face, but now we were drenched with fluorescent light. You’d think I wouldn’t be able to see beauty so close up, just hair roots and blackheads and tiny red threads in the eyeballs, but tears webbed her gunky eyelashes like dew in the grass at night and even her sweat was flowers. When the kiss came it was hot and dry, then hot and wet, it sucked in all bodily terrains, a southwestern national park of a kiss and I forgot to notice if it was any different because the other one kissing had just called me a dirty jew.

We hit L for Lobby and the buttonboard came back to life, flashing red and green and buzzing from every floor, a throttled ping ping ping came from the speaker box and “… Buzzey, Dr. Buzzey, code green, six-o-seven, stat. Repeat, Personnel, code red, code red, six-o-seven, stat. Dr. Beasley, Doctor Zuk, code green, six-o-seven, stat”—over and over. We stopped kissing. We stared at each other. We had been in Rohring Rohring long enough to read this sort of audio minestrone with our ears closed. It was trouble with a patient and the patient was Emily, it was fire, fire, fire and the fire was in Emily’s room.

The elevator stopped, the doors rumbled apart and a bunch of emergency guys of a type I had never seen before, in khaki with long schnozzes of gas masks dangling from their shoulders, trooped on like D-Day and pushed us off and went zooming up the shaft, as we stood there in the lobby blinking at each other. The buttons down the sides of all four elevators were pulsing colors like the dashboard of a spaceship, and so many pings pinging at once I thought death death and busted out crying and so did O. “I bet she’s okay,” O said, changing her mind a second later, her eyes huge in their smutty rings, violently sniffing down a sob, for I guess to see me, the Bogeywoman, bawling was almost as scary as death. “She ate a coddy today, innit?—she ain’t ready to die. Just a little smoke in the quipment or sumpm, I betcha.” “I did it, O, it’s my fault—I left my cigs up there with her,” I said, “and my Mr. Peanut lighter.” “Sufferin cheeses,” O said, her face grave, and didn’t even try to say sumpm to make me feel better. “The stairs,” we both blurted, and ran up them two at a time.

Outside Emily’s room was one of those mob scenes like you always see at a downtown Baltimore fire, where the official standers-around, with their uniforms on and their official autos blocking the street, fold their arms and squint sternly at the unofficial standers-around and make sure the nobodies don’t get close enough to see anything good. The nurses were part of this inner circle—all three Corny Norns, Miss Roper, Miss Mursch, Miss Hageboom. O and I ducked behind a medications cart that somebody had abandoned and lay on our bellies and peered between the shelves of snort-sized dixie cups and through the holes between the nurses. Those gas mask emergency guys were gone, which could be a good sign, but Emily was in trouble or this whole crowd of royals would have drained away in two seconds flat.

Now someone rolled one of those portable curtains around the bed, and looking at this was like watching some pitiful amateur puppet show trying to start, elbows dispiritedly punching cloth, flat rubber soles shuffling at the bottom of the curtain, and now and then some big thing accidentally sticking out, bald head of Dr. Buzzey, muscled bicep in green sleeve of Dr. Beasley, potato-shaped butt of Dr. Schock in her sack dress. Then I heard an exotic, familiar squinch, and taking my chin to the floor I saw, on the far side of the bed, the silver sandals of Doctor Zuk, who had just heavily shifted her weight. I heard, illegibly vibrating, the low tobacco-cured C-string of her voice. She was sort of crooning sumpm. My heart drowned.

“You smell any smoke? See any fire?” I whispered to O. “I see nuttin. I don’t even see Emily. Is she here?” “Sure she’s here, she’s in the bed or all the royals wouldn’t be crowding around.” “Sumpm smells funny,” O said, and I smelled it too, like a plastic wading pool lying too long in the sun, or the inside of some cheap toy. “That could make you sick to your stomach. Uh-oh, look.” We saw it glint for a second above the curtain—the delicate boom of one of those rolling IV stands, a bit of the bubbling flask.

“O my godzilla,” I said, “sumpm really bad happened.” “At least she ain’t dead,” O said. “Maybe not, but you don’t get six royals including two regular doctors for a sick stomach.” “I don’t see nuttin black from a fire. Maybe it was a false alarm,” O whispered. “Maybe she did get sick from that coddy,” I agreed, suddenly wanting to be optimistic, “I mean real sick, like toe-main poison sick, I had that coddy two days. I always wondered how they can leave those coddies out like that on the counter, no frigerator no nuttin, little fish things on a metal tray no matter how hot it gets, with the flies and that, right in the hospital snack bar, it’s kinda disgusting if you think about it.” “Aw come on, coddies can’t rot, there’s not even no food in them,” O hissed, “well maybe a little potato or sumpm and just the smell of the grease from fried fish but no fish, that’s why they’re so good.” “They could rot,” I said, “one I forgot to eat rotted in my pocket once. Wooo it stunk.” “Nobody never died from eating no coddy,” O whispered firmly. “What’d you leave her your cigarettes for anyway?”

I looked at O. She was lifting the blueblack dip out of her eye as if to stress the clear sound reason of this question. I shook my head. My scheme for getting Emily to eat sounded so dumb to me now I hated to say. But then I remembered she had smoked and had eaten. My see-through princess loved me best, there was no explaining that. And I knew it was my not coming back that had done this, whatever it was. I shouldn’t have left her sumpm of mine she could hurt herself with, some flammable dreamboxoline, some poison present. I should have made it back to her somehow—I gazed at O—the trashy pirate’s eye-patch of a dip had slipped down over her eye again—I had to admit I had not just been waylaid, I had fallen. I was too starved to be trusted. I moaned to think of the kiss in the elevator and just then Emily moaned from behind the curtain. My moan died and hers, reedy and quavering, was in the air, rising, faraway but clear, like one wolf howling to another on the next mountain top.

I distinctly heard Doctor Zuk say, “Courage, dear, only little bit more,” and then sumpm sailed out of the curtain and flopped on the linoleum. It was pink, brown, black; charred and wet—I stared, my eyes refused to tell me what it was. “Sufferin cheeses, it’s that ugly thing the nurses give her,” O whispered, and then I recognized it, the I CHOCOLATE bathrobe they had just peeled away from her burned skin like skin. My eyes fixed on the maraschino cherry buttons. They weren’t melted. They looked the same as ever, good enough to eat. “She musta set herself on fire,” O said, deeply impressed, “you think she done it on purpose?”

“Listen. I gotta go in there,” I said, “I promised her I’d come back—with these—” I pulled the oil-spotted bag of coddies out of the bib of my overalls. I’d been lying on them. “I gotta show her. I told her I could get in there anytime and I always could.” I gave O a deep, deep look, all the way to the black bottoms of her black-ringed eyes, sorta trying to hypnotize her to come around. I mean, I fell and was a half-baked person but she fell too and was a dangerous person, and she wasn’t even truly buggy, no more than I was. “I’ll help you,” she said.

And without waiting another second, she did—jumped up and sleepwalked (I do a good coma, don’t I?) in her gold lamé ballet slippers, straight for the doorway of Emily’s room, sticking her arms out in front of her like the night of the living dead and chanting “High rat a dreambutton flirty eat a job” or some other line of comic-book buggy. It wouldn’t have convinced a Bug Motel or anyone who really knew her, but the nurses, Hageboom, Roper and Mursch, swooped down on her like buzzards and flapped away with her and I belly-crawled across the hall to Emily’s door and ducked under the curtain with the coddy bag in my teeth.

They grabbed me as soon as I jumped up but I was ready for them and wrapped my arms and legs around the metal bed corner and yelled, “Look, Em, I got it.” But of course as soon as I opened my mouth the coddy bag fell onto Emily with a plump. I can only thank godzilla she didn’t scream when the coddy bag touched her or I’d have died of shame. Why didn’t she scream? She looked so strange, so shiny, such an odd waxed paper color, but what did I expect? She was naked I think but lay in a sort of black rubber wrapper full of foam, like a spittlebug in a leaf, with her little white throat just showing. She must have had plenty of morphine or sumpm. I guess they were getting ready to move her. She looked up dreamily, she was awake, half-awake, she saw me and smiled that queer bug smile on top of her rotten bucked teeth and I’m ashamed to say I cared more about that than if she would live. “It’s me, the Bogeywoman. I was here,” I said, “don’t forget.”

All this while the royals had been pulling on the back of my overalls and now my arms and legs turned gimp and let go of the bed. I slumped down on the floor and bawled. It was too steep a fall. I had barely had time to conceive of myself as a dreambox mechanic before I had as good as killed somebody. Besides, I loved my see-through princess and was afraid I would never see her again. How much could one little body take? I buried my face in my hands, but in the dark I kept seeing old Emily resolutely igniting the bottom of that cheesy I CHOCOLATE bathrobe, so I opened my eyes again. After a moment I became aware I was looking at sumpm dreadfully familiar. It was my Mr. Peanut cigarette lighter, lying in the wrinkled, venous hand of Doctor Zuk. (Her hands were pretty shockingly decrepit, the one part of her that looked her age.)

She was holding it so only I would see it, but see it I must, since it was all of five inches from my nose. In fact in my first operatic rush of recognition I feared she would set my hair on fire, or singe my face. I knew I deserved it. She towered above me, peering down at me with an undetached queenly rigor that was totally untypical of the average dreambox mechanic at Rohring Rohring, and besides setting off a little alarm in the covert conservatism that’s a part of every mental patient, she was scaring me to death. Her nylons glowed electrically on top of those soccer player’s shins and calves. I had the sensation I was clinging to her chiseled kneecaps, although I was just kneeling there, doing no such thing, and nobody else would have even noticed except—I was convinced—Doctor Zuk—Madame Zuk—herself. Her I clearly saw considering whether to kick me off of her ankles into the gutter. “What you think you are doing?” she hissed, and if Emily hadn’t been lying there, I could tell she would be shouting. “What you can mean with this unacceptable behavior that might further injure your friend? Unacceptable! Unacceptable!” she spat. “Please will you be my dreambox mechanic?” I blurted. “I know it’s my fault that Emily lit herself on fire. I don’t care if I live or die, in fact I hope I do die if you won’t be my dreambox mechanic.” She stared down at me. She was not as tall as she looked, but now she seemed to duck her head to keep from butting the ceiling. “You are thinking to kill yourself? The world will go on without you, you know, Miss Bogeywoman. Now, please to get out immediately,” she said. Her ugly, ringless hand pointed me to the door.

4

Fallen Among Ayrabbers

It wasn’t a daring escape. O well, daring would have been wasted on Rohring Rohring, which was as leaky as a kitchen colander. Hypothetically, the lobby guards knew us mental patients by sight and were ready to nab us if we made a run for it. In fact Lopes was watching me as I dashed past his desk but made up his mind—I saw a movement of his lower jaw like someone setting down a grocery bag with a plump—that this was nothing to risk a heart attack for. After all we Bug Motels were always running around wild. We had the liberty of the lobby and the elevators, the cafeteria, gift shop and snack bar, and of the courtyard where we played tennis on the doctors’ courts. And although we were supposed to wait for our pint-sized school bus in the morning and get off it again at night only on that little yellow-striped island of concrete on Broadway, next to the trolley tracks and across from the ayrabbers’ barn, still Lopes knew we had nobody but wicked Reginald to guide us, out there on the wickedest of wicked streets. And in fact every day we surveyed the whores and pimps, junkies, stewies, smokies and stuffies who treaded by for any new faces, and meanwhile we longed to be the ayrabbers who came jingling out of the barn across the way behind their swayback nags. Small wonder Lopes had given us up for lost.

As for these horses, even if they were the world’s ugliest, with feet like laundry irons and drooping underlips as hairy as catfish, still they were horses and even to the seen-it-all Bug Motels, such an ancient career as horse and wagon and a load of vegetables seemed a romantic occupation, even movie starry—where else but the movies did you see a horse and wagon nowadays? The ayrabbers’ horses clopped up one street and down another with the frail rigidity of elderly mental patients. They knew the way. If the way changed, say, the street was torn away down to its brick sewer line, old Broomstick wouldn’t pull the wagon straight into the hole—he wasn’t blind—but he would stand there till tomorrow. Till he starved. Till somebody saved him, led him home to his bucket of oats and flake of hay. We could tell the horses were low beasts and the ayrabbers the lowest of the low, lower even than mental patients—dusty black wretches with caved-in chests and a few mossy crooked tombstones for teeth, even the young ones.

All the same we Bug Motels put ayrabbers, not that we knew any poisonally, up there with movie stars—in a way one end of the social ladder was as good as the other. The important thing was to live at the far end, where one more step and you fell off into nothing. Like the ayrabbers’ nags, we Bug Motels knew the way. We saw that yawning hole, the grownup world of work we weren’t ready for. For all our separate frenzies we were standing at the edge of it staring in, until we starved.

And funny how the Bug Motels, city slickers one and all, each dreamed themselves into movies of some kinda golden days gone by. Sometimes Dion got sick of Nino, his tailor, running his life and he said: “Who I really wanna be is the wild man of Druid Hill Park, hide in the bushes all day and let the lions and monkeys out of their cages at night and run around wit em.” “Ya mean naked?” “Nuttin but my hairy legs and froggies, man.” Emily was a saint in some Dark Ages nunnery living on communion wafers and dew, Bertie loved hashish because he wanted to wander around in humble disguise all night like the Caliph of Baghdad and his trusty wazir whassizname in The Arabian Nights, O was the beautiful slave girl who walked upside down on the golden daggers in her hands. And I always had this pipe dream of trekking with Broomstick, my nag, up the grassy median strip of the New Jersey Turnpike. Not that I wished to show off in my buckskins to the millions who travel that road. No, it was the only way I knew to get to New York City, which in turn was the only way I more or less knew to get to Camp Chunkagunk. I figured I could sleep over at Grandma Schapiro’s and tie Broomstick up in Central Park. After that I wasn’t so sure of the road.

I had probably killed my see-through princess, and Doctor Zuk, Madame Zuk, had bawled out my monster carelessness from high up on her horse—snorting greengold sparks from her nostrils, bareback, spume of silvery hair, spangled brassiere. And had refused to be my dreambox mechanic—would not even look down my rabbit hole, though I had clung to her ankles and begged. And now I would never have her or be her. My face hot as a frying pan for shame, swearing never to return, I bolted out the main entrance of Rohring Rohring, right under the bored nose of Lopes, the PM guard, and—maybe I was dreaming of Broomstick—ran across six lanes of traffic and four silver staves of trolley tracks, to the wide-open doors of the ayrabbers’ barn.

It was cool, dark and dusty inside, the dust dancing in great blocks in front of the open doors, and the perfume of horse manure lifting the air like a leaven, rich and tingling. Still halfblind from sunlight I walked in deeper and peered into the stalls one after the other. I was looking for Broomstick, for a nose to stroke, for some dumb creature to love me, but the cubicles were all empty though they reeked of horse piss that never dried. The straw bedding, what little there was of it on the wet cement, clung to itself in sweaty cowlicks. When I stuck my head over each gate, no Broomstick but a sharp slap of ammonia—tears sprang into my eyes. The water buckets were oily swamps of whatever had fallen in them. They stank.

Well it ain’t the Rohring Rohring of horse hospitals, I mumbled to myself—more like some horror behind the workhouse in a Dickens novel. To think old Broomstick shlepped all day, up street down street, to come home to this. The workhouse loomed blackly in front of me as it often had, the world of grownups: Doing what you didn’t like from one end of the day to the other, then shoving some unappetizing thing in your mouth, then falling exhausted into the sack. This made grownups mean and ugly before they got old, and they took it out on the young, except for Merlin of course and the rare other escapee like madame-too-beautiful-on-her-horse. I knew I would not escape. I might as well weep on the neck of some pitiful nag, some circus reject like myself. Or I might become an ayrabber. If I were an ayrabber, a movie star yet the lowest of the low, I’d be good to my Broomstick, we’d be a legendary pair, known the length and breadth of Monument Street if not the New Jersey Turnpike. So where was Broomstick when I needed him? Didn’t these beasts get a day or a week off, to say nothing of a year seven months eight days, when they were sick or lame? No—one stumble and straight to the knacker. Of course you could hardly say with some of these fruit-wagon horses what was walking and what was stumbling. With some you would have said, to look at them and their eyes full of flies, they had died in their traces.

It was sumpm like being a Unbeknownst To Everybody all your life: was it life if you didn’t notice when you died, and went right on shlepping? I was a higher being: I could know my own misery, ergo I could off myself.

And just then I came to the last stall and found myself eye to eye with an animal after all. She was a big brown mare, and filthy, great clots of hairy manure hanging in her mane and crosshatching her rump, and besides that, the meanest-looking equine I ever hope to see. Not that I discerned behind her sneering lips, as yet, those teeth as long and playful as piano keys—all right at first I wasn’t properly wary, never mind that face, I still hoped to love her and scratch between her ears—but I did note that she wasn’t the dull resigned workhorse I was expecting, head drooping from withers like a soup spoon in a tired hand. I did note the possibly sinister intent with which she looked down the long brown barrel of her nose at me, as if using the thug’s bump in the middle of it as a sight.

“Probably I got sumpm in here you could eat,” I mumbled, feeling through my overall pockets for a Sugar Baby or a Pez or sumpm. She arched her neck, tucked her chin and rolled her cough-syrup-colored eyes. I found a linty green lifesaver, put it on the palm of my hand and thought about sticking it out. “So, how come you’re off work today?” I asked her cautiously. “Sick? Lame? Tired of it all? Heh-heh. Er, not confined to the quietroom for any … violent acts I hope?” She eyed me from those lowered pools of Robitussin. For some reason she seemed to be hissing. And suddenly she did a strange and hideous thing: she reared a little, the lips rolled up on those yellow piano key teeth and they crashed down hard against the gate of her stall. She made a noise like dishwater down a drainpipe, a sort of backwards belch, the air rushing in, not out, with a great froggy croak. Then she just stood there, gazing out of the bottoms of her eyes, looking bad, dazed and satisfied—like a mental patient who’s thinking she’s really done it this time with that old dreamboxoline, while she’s still vaporously elated and just a little wild and woozy, before she pukes up her guts or jumps out the window.

Cheese maybe you’re sick after all I said, and that was when I so unwisely put out my hand. She swooped around sideways and bull-dogged the meat of my right bicep right through my Camp Chunkagunk Tough Paradise for Girls sweatshirt. Then either I jumped four feet in the air, or she threw back her head with her teeth still clamped in my shoulder and yanked me off the ground. Anyway I remember dangling as if from a nail. I’m the Bogeywoman, needless to say on the way down I gave her a left hook to the right eye that sent her scrabbling to the back of her stall, where she sort of crouched, as much as a horse can crouch.

I realized that this of a drayhorse, this imposter vegetarian, was only coiling for her next strike and I stepped back as it came. I felt the mighty snap of her long teeth against my breastbone but as it happened only my sweatshirt and the brass-buttoned bib of my overalls got caught. I heard them rip. This time as she sawed away at my duds, I brought my two fists down on her ears, and when she lurched away, Tough Paradise For Girls flapping from her jaws, I felt a sickening relief. I was free but I was also naked, or anyway half-naked: my momps were open to the world. I was alive, but what if I ever cared to leave this dump? I could hardly stay in an ayrabbers’ barn for the rest of my life.

Not only was my chest bare, there was also that small matter of the graph inscribed by razor blade, in claustrophobic detail, on my forearms this morning, the complete record in blood of my debate with Madame Zuk—in her absence, of course—on whether I should live or die. Now that my sweatshirt was kaput, it was out in the open—what excitable people might take for a botched suicide—as if the Bogeywoman, once bent on offing herself, would ever use a technique so merely artistic and irresolute, as if I hadn’t long ago mapped out all the fifth-floor windows without bars and unscreened balconies on my daily and weekly rounds. I liked for example the mezzanine in the sky-painted dome of the Enoch Pratt Free Central Library, a straight shot to the stone floor, though for a sure thing you’d have to put your hands in your pockets and dive headfirst. I liked the long gullet of stairwell of the Mathieson Building, thirty-four vertiginous stories. The Washington Monument, 228 steps up, had an iron grating, but in ninth grade I could still wiggle by it and probably I could even now, if I lost ten pounds.

I stood well back from the stall door, my overalls down around my ankles, breathing hard and locked in a staring duel with this monster to whom I’d offered only love. The ears I’d boxed were still flattened in fury against her head. In a way I liked her all the more now that I saw in her a marooned and exasperated individualist like myself. What ungettable thing was she hungry for, I wondered, and blushed for my puny and insulting green lifesaver. I cringed to think I’d had to punch her in the eye, the great rolling right eye which she was winking now like a boxer in need of a plaster. I knew how she felt. Tough titty that she couldn’t know me … Then again, who knew what she knew? “I’m the Bogeywoman,” I whispered, and, to help her over any gaps in her education, I pointed at myself. I was a sight to make a mother weep, good thing I had no mother. On the round pad of my bicep was a full equine dental impression in red and blue, four inches across; farther down, my forearms were crusted with brown blood, and fuzzy on top of that with a pale gray fungal growth of sweatshirt fleece.

Broomstick was unimpressed, or anyway she relapsed into that queer sewing motion from foreleg to foreleg, full of crammed-in violence. Then suddenly down they came again like a clanging portcullis, the piano key teeth on the stall gate and the belch of a drainpipe sucking air in the wrong direction. “Godzillas sake what’s eating you girl!” I asked her, and heard from above me a weird juicy chortle in reply, “She-e-e-e, she-e-e-e, she-e-e-e,” somebody’s laugh that slimied up the feminine pronoun by sucking it over bare wet gums—an embarrassing noise that seemed in the family with Broomstick’s belch, but human. I looked up and saw a face sniggering down at me from a hayloft. I yanked up my overalls and tried to make out this person.

It was a fuddy in a mustache, primly clipped. He was undersized down to his bones, and he had all over a kind of fallen-in spruceness and good looks, of the finger-artist type—piano tuner, radio repairman, or pickpocket. A miniature, dandefied, mahogany brown fuddy, then, but old: When he sniggered, his jaw had that collapsed frogginess at the corners, like an old doctor’s bag, that comes of having no teeth, or hardly any. He leaned on an elbow at the edge of the hayloft, his chin in his hand, his shirt-cuff shiny black with gold threads in it, one foot dangling over the edge in a glittering black reptile pump, with a rhinestone horseshoe over the toes.

“Ahem, is this your horse?” “Maybe this my horse and maybe she ain’t, what you gimme to know?” The big brown mare banged her teeth on the gate again and sucked in air with a fearsome croak. “What’s wrong with her?” “She common.” “Excuse me?” “She hungry.” “Hungry! Why don’t you give her sumpm to eat?” The fellow stared down at me, like who was I to ask. “Ain’t feel like it,” he finally said. “What! Why not?” “What she ever did for me, that old cow Cowpea, she-e-e-e, she-e-e-e, she-e-e-e,” he chortled to himself, and now I saw he had two gold teeth left in his mouth.

“What’s so funny?” I had to ask after a time. “Has I said sumpm was funny? I never hear nobody round here say nothing was funny, young woman, lessen maybe you mean Cowpea here be acting like she seent a ghost cause you done show her your ugly chest. What you wanna scare my horse for? Oughta call the po-lice on you, bare nekkid like you is. But I take pity on you, I do bidness with you, for a nucka note I give you some very fine threads …”

He was fixing me in his little eyes and right away I got this queer feeling that I was turning into a five-dollar bill, with the face of Abraham Lincoln printed on my belly button. Some people have noses that can find a crumb of cheese in the dark, a Bushman’s eyes can pick out the lost sisters of the Pleiades without a telescope, and I got that magical mercury in my veins for detecting whatever somebody thinks I am, especially when it’s nothing. Sumpm about that grin with its ravaged neatness and two gold teeth in front told me this fuddy was more indifferent to me poisonally than anyone I’d ever met. Not that I was a Unbeknownst to him, I was Unbeknownst to him, period; when he looked at me he saw a bill, a five-dollar bill, or nothing. I was transfixed.

“Say, are you an ayrabber?” “Maybe I is and maybe I ain’t. Who want to know?” “I bet she works like a dog for you—the horse I mean.” “Maybe she do and maybe she don’t.” “She tried to take a bite outa me. You oughta feed her.” “I feed her. I feed her if you gimme a nucka. Gimme a nucka to feed her, young woman, I take cay it.” “A nickel?” “Fi dollar. You got fi dollar on you?” “I, er, uh, I forgot my wallet,” I muttered, “but … I can get it. You feed her and I’ll, er, pay you later.” “Later! What you ever did for me, young woman? You come in here and tell me who I be and what I feed, you thank you better’n somebody, muss be rich, muss be the mayor’s daughter. I tell you what. You gimme fi dolla to feed Cowpea here and I give you sumpm to cover up that ugly chest. You so ugly my glass eye broke, she-e-e-e, she-e-e-e, she-e-e-e. Wonder could it make a poor man blind looking at sumpm like that. You need sumpm to cover yourself up, for the good of the public. That could scare a rattlesnake off a rock, looking at sumpm like that …”

“So quit staring at em if they’re so ugly,” I said. “They comical, that’s why I look at em, wooo, them is bad enough but say what is that white cottony mess sticking on you arms, look like some kinda mold that grow on dead people …” “None of your beeswax,” I said through my teeth, “anyhow you got a nerve, what’s your name?”—borrowing Merlin’s voice for zeroing in on cheeky menials, bellhops who won’t hop, private secretaries who blab all over. The ayrabber stared me down sideways again: “My name bop de bop,” he said, “where your money at? Check yourself, young woman, you ain’t decent. Gimme a nucka I get you a nice pink dress and stomps to go with it.”

Now, one of my ancient beefs with fuddies, from rubes to slickers, from Merlin to Foofer to this ayrabber here, has been the tendency of this brotherhood to advise me on my clothes. “You owe me that pitiful dress,” I therefore hollered, “cause your horse ate my shirt. I’ll take it for nuttin! which is what I got, nuttin … cause you owe me … though I’d … er … prefer a pair of pants … if you got em …” I trailed off at the sight of his lip curling back from his two gold teeth in a sneer.

“O you would like a pair of pawnties,” he echoed in falsetto. “O you would like some nice silk draws … Well I fancies eye-talian vines myself but I don’t get em. Who is you to get em? Muss be the mayor’s daughter. What you gimme for a nice pair green work pants hardly broke in seffa little old bloodstain in the, er, uh, groin era?” “You peeled em off somebody’s dead body I bet,” I said, beginning to understand the type of person I was dealing with. “She-e-e-e, she-e-e-e, she-e-e-e, nemmind where I got em, that’s a professional secret,” and just then Cowpea brought her choppers down, thwack, on the wooden gate again and sucked air with the noise of a python being throttled. And after she was through doing that she tossed herself like a banana peel on the cement floor and paddled her legs in the air. Come to think of it, I don’t remember any slinky ribs sticking out of Cowpea, or protruding clothes-hanger haunches either, in fact she looked pretty well fed. All the same:

“Are you gonna feed this horse and gimme some clothes?” “Soon’s you good for a nucka.” “What was that name?” I asked haughtily (Merlin’s voice). “You been forgot my name already, young woman?” (Had he told me his name? I racked my dreambox.) “Who you thank you is? Muss be the mayor’s daughter or somebody.” “Well, I’ll tell you what. I’ll tell you my name if you tell me yours.” “You do what? You gimme what? What you want my name for? Way you leave your name at? Muss thank you somebody, thank Ima give you my name. What you ever did for me, young woman? Muss be the mayor’s daughter or somebody.”

“Ahem, I am … er … the Princessa Abrahama Lincona. And you sir are …?

“Mr. Tuney T. Turpentine, Escrow. Where my nucka, young woman?”

“Charmed I’m sure.” I sank down on a gray straw bale in exhaustion. He was stronger than me, this little ayrabber, I would have liked to cheat him out of his name or beat him for the pink dress or make him feed his horse or sumpm, anything, but because of his indifference to me I was stymied. He had the most complete immunity to me of any human I’d met who had actually bothered to spoon me to his lips—

And that’s how I knew what I had fallen into here, a humble soup that was boiling me down to a five-dollar bill, to pay God back for Emily, whether she lived or died. “Say,” I said, “gimme a pair of pants, I don’t care how big, I’ll roll em up, or even a dress and I’ll leave you my shoes, see, and I’ll be back in five minutes with five dollars, I swear I will.” Tuney peered down at my shoes. “I wouldn’t touch them raggedy shoes if you gave me fi dolla, go head, gimme fi dolla and find out. Fi dolla on the barrelhead, young woman, ante up or I never tell you who you is. Say, you ain’t have to buy a pig in a poke”—he crawled off into the darkness of the loft—“I show you what I got.” He dragged into view a box overbrimming with clothes, marked in red letters:

UNLAWFUL TO TAMPER WITH THIS BOX

PROPERTY OF THE SALVATION ARMY

—and hung over the edge wrinkled green work pants, and a purple satin warmup jacket from Carlin’s Park Ice Rink, lavishly ripped in the armpit. “They you is, mayor’s daughter, one nucka note buy you all that.” “You stole that stuff,” I pointed out, “why should I give you good money for it?” “I ain’t the one walking round nekkid,” Tuney pointed out. “You better give me sumpm out of that box,” I threatened, “or I’ll … I’ll rat to the Salvation Army. And the SPAC. And the cops, and tell em your horse ate my duds …” “Say, I invite you in this barn, young woman? I guess you bettern somebody, you the mayor’s daughter, can go any way-at you want. Well I got news for you, you trespassing, ain’t you see that sign on the door, NO WOMENS ALLOWED? Why you thank they ain’t no womens in this barn? Case you ignorant, which I see you is, lemme tell you it’s certain places way-at for science reasons it ain’t right for womens to go. Can’t have no stanky womens in no horse barn, horses sniff that stank and they go wild, what happens then be your own lookout, she-e-e-e, she-e-e-e, she-e-e-e.” “Whaddaya mean, Cowpea’s a girlgoyle just like me,” I barked, feeling all the same the blood rise in my cheeks, “and what was that highly suspicious last name again?” I asked frostily (Merlin’s voice). “What you gimme to know that?” he said but then he announced proudly: “Turpentine. Tuney T. Turpentine, Escrow.” “Turpentine? What the hump kinda name is that?”

“Cause that alley rat so starved he eat the paint off you wall, ho ho ho,” came another voice, and I turned to see a stockier, fuddier man standing there, dusty black like a noon shadow on a dirt road, bald head not very well lidded in a pinchfront houndstooth stingy brim a bit too small for it, and heavy jowls hanging down under. Also a straight dense mustache across his upper lip like a piece of electrical tape. “Say there, Chug, what’s kicking,” Tuney asked him, and he replied: “Same old same old, just like yesday. This your new partner? She do you any good?” “Sho is, sho is, she do everything for me, and very tasty too.” “What yall got for me today? Cash for your trash.” “Ain’t been out, Chug. Can’t pay the nut and you know that Itchy so tight, he scream he so tight. He want to see fi dolla or no horse, no wagon.” “Aw Itchy front you a horse if he think you square. You musta stiffed him. You back drankin that screech?” “Unh-unh,” Tuney said. Chug shook his head in puzzlement. “Well I know you ain’t tomcatting,” he sighed.

Now it all fell into place. “I get it—he’s a homo,” I said, pottishly calling the kettle black. “Naw, what it is, Tuney too cheap to run after wimmins,” Chug said, “this sucka so cheap he steal the nuckas from his dead gramma’s eyes, ho ho ho.” “She-e-e-e, she-e-e-e, she-e-e-e,” Tuney joined in, “I don’t waste no wimmins on my lowdown self. I ain’t one of you hoppagrass here-today niggers. Soon’s I have a old lady I sublet her ass.” “Ain’t you say this young lady do everything for you?” “Everything I let her. Right now I ain’t got fi dolla for a wagon and she for rent.” “What you say to that, young lady?” “Well …” I cleared my throat, not exactly sure what I was getting into here. “Five dollars, some clothes and feed Cowpea,” I said without conviction. “Who Cowpea?” Chug said, looking at me strangely. “This Cowpea,” Tuney explained, “my horse, you know how hungry she get—this young woman taken pity on her.” “This horse here? This Ugga! Ugga be hungry all right. Hungry for human blood …”

“So what you say, Chug? This all I got today—a nucka-note to you, brother, she-e-e-e, she-e-e-e, she-e-e-e,” Tuney pointed down at me, and Chug joined right in, a long, slow, sticky “Ho ho ho ho. This lamb? Where her mother? I don’t know if I can trim a gal that skinny. She go long with it?” “Sho is, sho is. She want to see old Cowpea greasing, don’t you, young woman? Her mama far far away,” Tuney said, “in Californ-eye-ay.” “My mother’s dead,” I corrected, “I’m … without funds at the moment.” “Cheap,” Tuney pointed out, “fi dolla to you and she can have these dry goods here, she owe me a Abe for the lot.”

“Are you two ayrabbers?” I asked Chug. Compared to Tuney, he seemed like an honest sort. “We junkers,” Chug replied. “We junk.”

But then he was looking hard at me, blinking his heavy-lidded honey-yellow eyes. “Say, this a he-she?” he asked suddenly. “Aw who can say with these june-eye delinquents, all them got that greasy straight hair in a ponytail and no chest up front. She ain’t far long enough yet to tell. What difference do it make?” “You sho this down with you, young lady?” “I’m ready,” I said. “Ima give you fi dolla, you hear?” Chug said kindly, “you do what you want with it, pay this fool or not, don’t make me no nemmind.” “It’s a old mattress over they in stall nine,” Tuney assisted discreetly. I closed my eyes and followed Chug’s slow scraping step through the straw.

I was ready to swap guessing for knowing and to join O in the pot where teenage girls get hard-boiled, to expose my flesh on that cold Alp where Heidi herself grows hard as a year-old kaiser roll and learns to think of all men, even her dear old fuddy Opa, in that way. I deserved it for burning Emily, I’d have said yes to anything, even five cents. But I didn’t want to look around, for fear of busting out in hives and puking. After I stumbled over a concrete block and like to busted my shin I opened my eyes a crack and then it wasn’t so bad: a bum’s hideout, the mattress an old navigational map of stains, seasick archipelagos of bodily effluvia on blue-ticking latitudes and longitudes, a pink plastic portable radio with chipped case in the straw, a bucket in the corner to pee in, haybales for a living room suite.

After four or five minutes Tuney piped up: “Well, bro? What’s going on?” “Not much,” Chug growled. “What’s wrong? Your wagon done broke down?” “Can’t get in her.” “Aw go on, Chug, she ugly but she ain’t that ugly. I guarantee it, under them stank clothes it’s as good a thang as ever said good morning to a slop jar.” “She froze up like a bad drain, that’s what.” “She-e-e-e, she-e-e-e, she-e-e-e, you not the man you was, Chug, they it is.”

“You inex-spare-inced?” Chug whispered to me, “you got your cherry?” “Never mind, it’s just in the way,” I hissed back. I had thought this would be easy, all I had to do was hold my nose and jump, gravity or sumpm would do the rest and tomorrow or next week I could tell O I was as lost as she was. “That’s okay, baby, I don’t want it,” Chug said, rearing back so his wide gingerdough belly rose over me like a moon and his open brown work pants made like a bread-basket in his lap. “Wait, gimme a chance,” I started to protest, when I felt his big, dry, warm hand at the back of my neck. And next I knew my eye was going down and that thing was coming up, that thing sticking out of the bottom of his belly like a cute-ugly valve, or not so much cute-ugly as an eighth world wonder of ugliness, and I opened my mouth and resolved to be Marie Splendini walking over Niagara Falls on a tightrope and not lose my nerve or gag.

Well—that’s what I was worth, now that I had burned up Emily. Back in Rohring Rohring I had cost a hundred dollars a day—anyhow that’s what Merlin had to pay the dreambox mechanics to keep me there, and I got my candy and coddy allowance on top of that. Out here I was worth five bucks, and I’d have taken five cents and a bucket of oats for Cowpea. I was low as a cockroach now, as a cockroach I saw the world as food, and I was food myself. Five bucks’ worth—a cockroach doesn’t finick. I ate what I saw, what saw me ate me. Where the tablecloth never relents, you eat till you die. I ate. I gagged. I ate.

Chug pulled his pants up and at the sound of the zipper, Tuney called out from his loft: “How you like that?” “She all right,” Chug said gallantly, “onliest thing I can’t figga what she want with a mean old ugly old mose like you.” “She-e-e-e, she-e-e-e, she-e-e-e …” Tuney liked that. My new clothes came flying over the top of the stall: like-new green work pants, just that one egg-sized bloodstain near the fly, and the torn purple satin warmup jacket from the burned-down old ice rink at Carlin’s Park, whose red lining hung out of the armpit like a tongue. Chug was counting dollars off a frayed roll. “Don’t give that slicka more’n a dolla for that mess, y’hear?” Chug whispered. “You find this here young lady sumpm better than them old rags.” “I got better,” Tuney squeaked, “I got better for her right here, yessir”—a plastic bag came lofting over the stall wall. “It’s a pink party dress in they and high-heel stomps, but if I’s yall I wait till yall’s quit of them crabs yall taking home from that mattress, she-e-e-e, she-e-e-e, she-e-e-e, praise jesus! How you like your friend Turpentine? I done turn out the mayor’s daughter and give old Chug the crabs too,” and he exploded in phlegmy snorts of mirth. “You best be jiving bout them crabs,” Chug said without smiling. “Tomorrow will tell, yes it will, yes it will,” Tuney hissed joyously. “I hope you only jiving, nigger, I know way you live at if I pass my old lady crabs.” “Just what exactly are crabs?” I asked, a diadem of cold sweat tightening on my forehead. “You find out,” Tuney promised, “tomorrow will tell.”

“That’s about enough of that,” Chug said, getting to his feet and pulling me to mine with his warm heavy hand. “Whatever home you got, young lady, you best get on home to it. I be sorry for you but now I tell you. You in the wrong line of work. You the sorriest-looking raggedy-ass girl-boy ho I ever see and that white fuzz on you arms scare a hound dog off a gut wagon. Now gone home. Get.”

I waded into those green work pants, rolled the trouser bottoms over four times. Zipped up the jacket. I wasn’t talking to either of these fuddies one word more. It was too hot out for a jacket but at least the sleeves hid my bloody arms and their coating of lint, arms so ugly they had offended these ayrabbers who did not even ayrab—they junked. I was too disgusting for the rubbish dealers of the city themselves. I took up my plastic bag and prepared to depart.

Where was I going? Now I had five bucks and it worried me that Tuney didn’t try to nail down a single dollar of it, just perched up in his loft spluttering those gumfarts that were his toothless laughter. Probably I was going to get a social disease like he said. I put hardly any stock in doctors or dreambox mechanics anymore, but now there went my faith in brochures out the window right after them—brochures like WHO SHOULD I TELL ABOUT MY SEXUALLY TRANSMITTED DISEASE, and VAGINITIS—WHY ME????—that you found in the office at Girls’ Classical and the lobby at Rohring Rohring and on a rack in Emergency at the hospital next door. How many times had I read in brochures that you couldn’t get a social disease from stuff, no matter how disgusting, not even from waiting-room chairs that were vomiting their batting or pee-sprinkled toilet seats in bus stations—and now suddenly an old mattress was enough to give you crabs. And what the hump was crabs? It sounded worse than a germ, sumpm alive and malevolently aware of you and walking at you sideways, in armies, from city sewers or the junk-choked tidal swamps beyond the harbor.

What was worse, this news made it impossible even to think of going back to the bughouse. Tell them I had a social disease at Rohring Rohring? Inform Foofer, Mursch and Hageboom, and Doctor Zuk? Lemme die first.

“Say there, mayor’s daughter. You got nothing gone on? I take you junkin, for fi dolla.” I could have kissed him. How contagious could I be if Tuney would have me on his junk wagon? The next thing I hear is Cowpea peacefully grinding oats on the other side of the wall, then a bell-studded horse collar jingling. “Fi dolla,” Chug protested, “what she get out of it?” “Ima learn this young woman junking, show her my M.O., ain’t that worth fi dolla? Maybe aft awhile she drag in sumpm good and she make back that fin.” “You oughta leave that child in peace,” Chug grumbled, “you done showed her enough M.O. already.”

Tuney and Cowpea came around the corner and peaceful is not the word for Cowpea once attached to that junk wagon. The devil mare had died in her traces. There were zombie x’s where her red eyeballs used to be. Her head bobbed a little at the bottom of the sliding board of her neck. Somehow her knees went up and down like crude pistons mechanically raising the weight of her feet. “What happened to her?” I said, figuring they had pumped some kinda dope in her. “She just like to go,” Chug said slowly.

I practically bounded into that wagon myself. I was a cockroach and a Unbeknownst To Everybody, a murderer and a disgrace, but I wasn’t dead to the glamour of ayrabbing. It was sumpm like going in the French Foreign Legion. Tuney piled the reins in his lap but didn’t bother to hold them. He slouched down under his fedora, leaned back and whistled around his two gold teeth. Cowpea clopped off towards the great blocks of dust-swimming sunlight up front. Chug walked alongside the wagon advising me: “Don’t you be giving this alley rat one nucka that money, you hear? You gone need that money.” “Tomorrow will tell,” Tuney piped down from the wagon, “you thank you somebody cause you oink the mayor’s daughter. Just remember who turn her out.”

Up front at the Broadway entrance a loiterer leaned in the doorway. The long pencil-thin legs said it was a fuddy; he was wearing white like an intern, or a busboy, but the evening sun behind him turned him black. To this sightseer I would be a junker, a white orphan fallen among ayrabbers and raised by them as their own child. I slouched down next to Tuney and whatever he did I did. I got set to hawk that sidewalk for anything loose like I’d been in a junk wagon all my life.

Then the wagon stopped. “Say there, Nurse Blanchard. How them loonies today? How all them Napoleons and Virgin Marys over there cross the road?” “I about to ask you the same question, Tuney, seeing as the top loonie be over here this afternoon, visiting you.” And a hard hand closed around my upper arm. It was the Regicide, who appeared to be well known in the ayrabbers’ barn. With one swift jerk, he pulled me off the wagon and straightened me on my feet. He was not as gentle as usual and I could tell he was displeased. “This litta Miss Razorblade,” Reggie introduced me to Tuney and Chug with a shake of my arm. “Yall look out she don’t push yall down no third-floor laundry chute. Course she only do her friends like that. Seein as yall strangers, maybe you safe.” Then he said to me with grim cheer: “Ready, Miss Razorblade?”

Chug burst out laughing, ho ho ho. “Way the joke at?” Reginald asked. Chug said: “This slick nigger Turpentine bragging bout how he turn out the mayor’s daughter. Come to find out he turned out a half-growed he-she lunatic from cross the street who only want to feed his horse, ho ho ho. Wait till Itchie hear that.” “So? You the one oinked her,” Tuney said sullenly, “you know I don’t mess with no wimmins.” “I seriously hope yall gentlemens have not taken advantage of this mentally sick teenager,” the Regicide exclaimed, “my, my, how many years yall get for that, with yalls records?”

“I never oink her,” said Chug, “this he-she? It take another kind of freak to figga out how to oink sumpm like that. I never oink her. I pity her.” “That’s what you call that? pitying? I never know you do that pitying with your pants down round your ankles, she-e-e-e, she-e-e-e, she-e-e-e,” Tuney commented. “I never oink her,” Chug insisted. “I never oink her either,” said Tuney. “You can take her to a doctor,” Chug went on, “she as cherry as Suburban Club Almond Smash, no lie.” “Don’t worry, you guys, I was seventeen in April,” I put in, “I can oink anybody I want.” “You a lie, Princess Razorblade,” Reginald said, shaking me by the arm again, “you know you ain’t but fi’teen years old. Why you want to drag these boys down?” “I’m seventeen and I never said I was princess razorblade either and you know it.” “She say she be princess sumbuddy sumbuddy,” Tunie reported, the dirty snitch. “Them paranoids be the toughest nuts to crack,” Reginald explained, “seeing as they not only think they Jesus, they know how to fake like they don’t think it.” “She thank she Jesus?” Chug asked in alarm. “Well … in her case, Moses,” Reg said. “How about you just oink yourself, Regicide,” I hissed, “I’m going junking with these guys and don’t try to talk me out of it.” “You maybe probly like to go junking with these fools,” Reg said softly, “I don’t put it past you, but I tell you, Princess Razorblade, I don’t figga these gentlemens will take you. I think they done took back. I think they changed they mind.”

I stared at the traitors and my mouth fell open in an O. Yes, here was the O face, the terrible face of a woman wronged, and in some wonderment I felt myself wearing it. In the privacy of my dreambox, I always used to sneer a little when girlgoyles wept over their boyfriends, believing, secretly, that all the girls, and especially my sister Margaret, got what they deserved for putting up with these bullies and fuddies. Now suddenly it dawned on me that the O look went with the territory—you got cow drek on your shoes if you lived in Holland, sand in your shoes if you lived in Arabia, and an O paper-punched on your face if you pinned your hopes to fuddy men and were forever thinking of men that way. For the first time to be a Unbeknownst To Everybody seemed to me a stroke of fortune, even of good fortune, or at least I could see how a girl like O might sometimes envy a freak like me.

Meanwhile, “Unh-unh,” “No sir,” “No way,” “No Princess Moses Razorblade on my junk wagon,” Tuney and Chug were muttering. “Cheese, you guys are scared of a measly mental patient? When I was the mayor’s daughter you weren’t backing out.” Chug and Tuney looked at each other. “Mayor’s daughter sumpm different,” Chug announced gravely. “Mayor’s daughter can cay for herself,” Tuney agreed. “Anyhow I don’t got to worry bout the mayor’s daughter,” Chug continued. “No more’n she worry bout me,” Tuney added.

“I’m never speaking to either of you again,” I said.

Chug and Tuney looked at each other again and, “She-e-e-e, she-e-e-e, she-e-e-e,” “Ho ho ho ho,” laughed a little sheepishly. “You just make that a promise and we be satisfied,” Tuney said.

“Come on now, litta Miss Razorblade.” I wrenched my arm away from Reggie but followed him toward the street.

HOW LOVE GOT ME OUT OF THERE

“Them is two raidin lootin thievin evildoin niggers through and through, what got no more civilization between the two of em than a pair of wrong-matched snakes,” Reggie fussed as soon as we were out of hearing. “You really lay your body down for them two?” He shuddered. “Your taste so low you could mine coal in it.” “What’s wrong with coal?” I replied testily, “I needed the money. Besides, what’s good enough for O is good enough for me. I can be as hard as O, you watch”—and I cut him a richly signifying look. But he didn’t catch the poisonal tilt of my remark. “That girl got to stop thinking bout menfolks that way,” he observed piously. “Not counting you I guess,” I said. “Huh? what you said?” “I know you oinked her in the broom closet, you hypocrite. I shoulda snitched on you.” “I never oinked no mental patient, and if I did she was sane at the time,” Reg said blandly.

We were crossing the yellow-striped traffic isle on Broadway where we Bug Motels waited for our dinky school bus every morning, and out of habit Reginald reached in his pocket, pulled us each out a Lucky and flashed his pearl-encrusted Madame Dunhill lighter, and there we loitered and smoked in the purplish haze of evening. Reggie was awfully quiet, for him—not a word about my see-through princess, which made me sure the news was bad. “I guess Emily’s dead, isn’t she,” I finally asked. “No, she still hanging on by that litta bitty thread she specialize in.” “Will she be okay?” “Depend what you mean by okay. They say she probly live awhile.” “She’ll have bad scars, won’t she.” “Hmmmm. I reckon this won’t improve her looks none. Won’t mess up her social life, though, since she never had no social life.” “What do you mean?” I said uneasily, “everybody loves Emily.” “You blee that, I sell you the B&O, cheap.” “I’ll take it,” I said. “I bet you do, you hard-head know-it-all.

“You know,” Reg said, “I use to think you smarter than them everyday nuts, but now I see you worse than all them others. You want to do what everybody here do, only worser. You tryna make like them damn fools who can’t help theyself. This here a hospital, girl, not a nut contest. Why you don’t get with the program stead of copycatting them genu-wine coo-yanns who don’t know no better?” “All the same you oinked her,” I said. “What you talking bout? I know O from the corner. We come up together. O like a sister to me.” “Yeah, well, plenty of guys oink their sister,” I observed, “that’s the main thing you hear around this rotten bughouse, about all the girls whose brothers oinked them, in fact O didn’t need any more brothers to oink her, she already had two or three or I forget how many.” “I see you gone twist every subject round back to me like I was the one in the bughouse. I see you gone do just what you want to anyhow, you hard-head ragmop. If you want to oink them two lowdown dirty street pirates for a bag of rags, a bucket of oats and a pony ride, you belong in this place.”

“I wish I was with those ayrabbers right now,” I said, sticking my chin out. “Them ain’t ayrabbers,” Reggie said, “they junkers. You just junk to them, you understand me? It ain’t personal. You shut the door on they kind, they take your doorknob and the bricks out your wall, they take the marble off your stoop till you got no stoop, if your dog bark they take your dog, and if you get a fence, they take your fence and sell it at the scrap yard and the padlock with it. They a plague of locusts, you hear me?” I laughed. “I wish I was with them,” I said. “Go on, go with them. Next time they get popped they be glad to let you take the rap.” “So? How much worse can jail be than the bughouse?” “Even simple as you is, you know better’n that.” And I did: If I went to jail there would be no gamboling by the sleepy guard at the front entrance, for instance, just because old Lopes wasn’t in the mood that day to shake up his mashed potato and gravy lunch.

Then again I wondered if jail might not be a less embarrassing place than Rohring Rohring to come down with a social disease. And all at once I pictured what I’d done today, remembered that warm heavy hand at the back of my neck, and felt a strange sensation at the bottom of my gut, sumpm like a hot green wind in the kishkes.

“Say, you’re not going to snitch on me to Foofer for the sex part, are you?” I asked Reggie, “you know I can’t talk about sumpm private like sex with these farty old dreambox mechanics.” Reg shook his head sadly at me. His eyes said, Am I a rat and they ain’t even no money in it? He was not a rat for fun. But having been reminded he said: “You lucky if you ain’t pick up some vanilla disease from them junkers. You know them don’t bath from year to year and they ladyfriends is the fi dolla stand-up kind in the men’s toilet.”

Sickness swept over me then, rose like a cloud of pea-green smoke from my stomach to my head, probably the first symptom of a social disease, and dizzily, cigarette in hand, I sat down on the pavement of the traffic isle, hard. “If that happen you won’t need me to snitch to no Foofer, you be running to that sawbones so fast to beat your nose from falling off in your cheerios.” Reginald smiled down at me. “I don’t care,” I snapped, “lemme die before I tell Foofer.” “If your nose fall off, he figga it out for hisself.” The Regicide squatted down beside me but I turned my back on him and blew smoke out my nose angrily like a dragon. “Anyhow they say the brain go first. Probably you won’t even know by then who you telling what.” “Then I won’t care anyway, will I,” I seethed.

“Say, you lookin sick, Bogeywoman,” Reg observed. “You got them little balls of sweat all over your forehead. Why you ain’t taken off that fool hotdog jacket from Carlin’s Park? You ain’t sawed up them arms again, is it?”

I didn’t answer. I sprawled there on strike with my legs sticking out in front of me and the plastic bag with the pink party dress in it on my lap. Since I wasn’t going to look at either Reg, or Rohring Rohring, or the ayrabbers’ stable, I had to hold my neck at a funny angle, from which all I could see was the combed-out skeins of streetcar and electric wires, bouncing like circus tightropes when the pigeons landed on them. “Why’d you come looking for me anyway?” I whined, “you don’t even like me as compared say to Emily or O.” Yes I was fishing, I hate to admit it, but in my weakened condition I was sentimental. After Tuney T. Turpentine, Escrow, indifference to my person had temporarily lost its charm. The Regicide put me squarely in my place: “Yeah, I prefer the womens, you got that right,” he agreed. “They say I have a certain professional touch with the female mental patients. Anyhow I do like them girls, young ones, old ones, long, small, all.”

“I’m a girlgoyle, I mean I got just as many x chromosomes as the rest of em,” I growled. “Sho is, sho is. Sho you a girl, Ursie,” he said carefully, like talking to a mental patient, “sho you a girl but you got the manners of a chained-up dog. Like you ain’t had nothing but pencils to eat for a week. It ain’t personal, I seen worse, you just not my type.” “So why didn’t you leave me with the ayrabbers?” I said bitterly, “that Chug guy would’ve been glad to oink me.” “Hell’s bells, girl, I find somebody better than that to oink you if that’s what you want, come to that, I oink you myself. Maybe I don’t like you but I don’t hate you.” “Just keep your hands off the mental patients,” I hissed. “That’s what I’m talking bout, girl, that’s what you is, a mental patient. I use to think you smart but now I see you don’t have the sense to come in out the rain. You don’t know how many pea beans make five. You don’t have the sense God gave a nanny goat. You the type climb on the metal clothesline pole to see which way the storm be passing. You ain’t got the motherwit to track a rhino in four foot of snow. You don’t know which way you at, girl. You couldn’t get there if I put you there.” “I’m glad O and Emily are models of common sense,” I said. “No but they got they certain little girly ways.”

I decided never to speak to this fuddy again. However, there are slanders that cannot be passed over in silence. I added icily: “As a matter of fact I’m an expert tracker, thank you.” This was an empty brag when you thought of someone like the wood wizardess, but I was sure I was the best they had around here. “Yeah? Then how come you can’t find nobody in this whole wide world to love and kiss your smart-ass self?” “How do you know I can’t?” I said, and we snarled at each other, all pretense of mutual regard temporarily laid aside.

“How’d you find me, anyway?” I asked, “why’d you bother?” “I ain’t find you. That Rooski dreambox fixer, whassaname, we call her the ice queen, she see you. Musta been pinking out the window and see you run across Broadway to the ayrabbers’ barn.” “You mean Zuk?” “Shook, Zook, sumpm like that.” “She sent you?” I asked in rapture.

Reginald shook his head disgustedly. “Ain’t East Six a locked ward, she want to know? I tell her it is and it ain’t. What means is and what means ain’t, answer to me immediately, she say. Must think she the queen or sumpm. I tell her all the wards is officially closed, only in the daytime we don’t lock but East Five and the quietrooms. She holla back, Ain’t we spose to keep track of these patients? And her nose joint jump so high, like it’s walking on her eyebrows. I see a patient disappear in that stable over there, she say, this a very troubled young woman who don’t have the brains of a pissant.” “She said that?” “Sumpm like that. Custody—ain’t that your lookout, Mr. Blanchard? she say. What I’m gonna say? It ain’t my lookout? So I come get you.”

“She was worried about me,” I whispered in a moony daze. The hot gray city and the red brick bughouse disappeared; I seemed to be gazing into the crystal ball of my fate. “I ain’t said that. I never see her go down and play in no Broadway traffic to haul your ass back here her hinkty self.” “There’s probably some law against dreambox mechanics crossing the street to chase after patients,” I said dreamily. “Hmmm, I don’t think the Rooski dreambox fixer got patients like the regular docs in this joint. She like a VIP. She writing a book or sumpm. They give her the keys to the castle. I tell you what! She turn up everywhere like ants at a all-day picnic. Think she the queen or sumpm. Answer to me immediately. Don’t they have no democracy down they in Costa Rica?” “I thought you said Russia.” “Russia, Costa Rica, some cockamamie place where they talk funny and think the homeboys got bones in they noses.” “She is the queen,” I said, “I call her madame-too-beautiful-on-her-horse.” “You see a hoss under that old bird? You best tell Foofer.” Reggie slitted his eyes at me, but I smiled back sweetly. Now that Doctor Zuk was worried about me, I could afford to be generous. “She ain’t no queen of mine,” he grumbled, “this a free country.”

AMONG THE ROYALS

Reggie opened royal office number 709—DR. DEWEY, it said, though Doughy Dewey was long gone—and gave me a little shove from behind. Then the door closed at my back, didn’t slam exactly but fell shut with the dreadful huff of absolute monarchy, followed by a small digestive munch of hardware. The door had locked itself behind me. In my honor? And there she sat under her crown of spiky hair, twirling a golden pencil on the blotter. At last it was just the two of us, face to face: I, the Bogeywoman, and she, Doctor Zuk—Madame Zuk. She rose on her high-heeled sandals, tilted her head and gazed at me but said nothing for some minutes. I believe she was taking in my outfit.

It was the same old office of all the royals, long as a railroad flat, with a jute doormat like a penal haircut and a gray umbrella stand, an ancient desk up front and a couch and two easy chairs in back by the windows. The windows, I could see from here, looked out over Broadway all right, down to the ayrabbers’ barn. But the office had been purged of its last resident, Dr. Dewey. (I had seen Doughy Dewey on tennis court matters once—he had owned a set of botanical etchings.) The nakedness of the place supported the foreign guest theory of Zuk—where in Outer Hotzeplotz was she from, with that accent?—as did, in a way, the desk shaggy with papers, as though she had to erupt into emptiness somewhere. O, there was one mysterious object: a pair of what looked like genuine Eskimo mukluks, fixed to a base and bronzed over, squaw-chewed leather, slumping ankles, crisscross thongs and all. This object sat in one corner like a trashcan, and as I stared at it, a cockroach the size of a Tonka toy poked its head out of the left shin and looked around.

I stared at the mukluks, Zuk stared at me and finally she asked me: “You are iceskater or bricklayer? Or fire swallower is also possible?” “Er, uh, I’m a brick swallower, if you wish to know the truth,” I said. She smiled at that, so I bumbled on: “May I please ask where the hump you’re from?” You may not. Her smile flattened to glass, she stared down at me with the remote grandeur of the pyramids until I shrank to a coolie and pretended I didn’t know myself.

“Please to roll up your sleeves, Miss Bogeywoman,” she directed. “Do I have to?” “Not at all. I telephone for medical emergency.” She placed her hand on the phone, I hastily pushed up my sleeves. She took hold of my two wrists, turned them up and surveyed their undersides, the rusty cuts furred by sweatshirt lint, with a look of mild distaste.

“For why you are drawing these pictures in blood?” she asked, pronouncing it bla-a-a-a-d, like someone in a vampire movie. “It’s a graph,” I reported sheepishly, “the columns got sorta messed up.” “Why you don’t use copybook if you are interested for mathematics?” Doctor Zuk inquired crisply, “this way three weeks go by, you have no record, nothing, well, very ugly arm of course, but nothing useful for science.” “Don’t worry, I got a record—up here,” I said, tapping my greasy forehead with my finger.

“A record of what, if you please?” Zuk asked. “A kinda debate I was having with myself and, and”—I knew better than to get poisonal—“and a higher being, so to speak—about whether a person should be, er, uh, sumpm or nuttin … that is, live or die.” “Ah. And who is win this debate?” “Well, see, that’s where I got stuck. If she wins I’m sumpm, but only if I turn into her. If I win, I stay me and then I end up nuttin. Either way I’m nuttin … It doesn’t seem right.” “Why it doesn’t seem right? You don’t feel you are nothing?” “That’s one thing about being a mess. All those slimy organs in the soup, everything sloshing around like too many matzo balls—I get the urge to spill sumpm …” “So. You spill your bla-a-a-a-d.” I nodded. “After you have spilled your bla-a-a-a-d, then what you feel?” I thought this over. “Seasick,” I said, “but lighter. And then I am the Bogeywoman.” “Seasick I understand,” Zuk said, “but help me, Bogeywoman I am not follow.” “So people just look at me and think, cheese, if she did that to herself—! Better not get her in a corner. Probably she’d eat me alive.”

“Ah.” She drew down my purple satin sleeves with a snap. I remembered her soaping O’s head, when it was stuck in the toilet pipe, in a manner roughly maternal. How much tenderness could I hope to corner for my bush league self-mutilations?

“You will have ugly scars from this.” “Cheese,” I said, “how much uglier can I get?” “Take care, your mouth to god’s ear,” Doctor Zuk said, “you should see some monsters I have seen in villages where no doctor comes, and all of them pretty children once, loved by their mothers. Besides, you are not ugly. This is rubbish and you know is rubbish. You look like, like Greek boy, perhaps.” The aspect was in the air, buzzing like the fluorescent lights. “I ain’t no fuddy boy,” I said, “lemme die first.”

Doctor Zuk suddenly held out to me my 250-wrapper Mr. Peanut lighter. I took it and put it in my pocket. “Why you have run away?” she asked. I shrugged. Life will go on without you she had kindly pointed out, and offing myself had lost its charm for another day. Anyhow if I croaked I might have to lie in the hospital morgue next to Emily, which would scare a person to death if they weren’t dead already. I thought of Emily’s drinking-water-blue, unaccusing eyes, not quite closed but fixed forever in disappointment because Ursie never came back—“It’s just I thought I’d killed her,” I muttered. “You will be glad to hear it: Miss Peabody is not good, but life,” Zuk said, in a clucking, practical tone that almost made me laugh. “This is most I can tell you. Anyhow we have something else to talk, yes?” “We do?” I wished to get it over with so I said: “I guess you mean what I did to Emily.” “No. Not Miss Peabody.” Zuk was patient; her gnarled fingers moved like a spider over every inch of her pale throat as if counting the tiny wrinkles. She wanted me to guess again, but I was stumped. “Miss Bogeywoman—you like if I call you Miss Bogeywoman?” “Just Bogeywoman,” I said, but that was too democratic for her.

“Miss Bogeywoman, I want you should explain me something. Let us sit down.” She led me to the chairs in the back of the room. She lit a Gitane. “Now. Why you want I should be your psychiatrist?” she asked in a gravelly voice. “What put this idea in your head?”

So that was it. How had I ever had the nerve to ask? “You look like somebody who’d be interesting to talk to, that’s all,” I mumbled. “I think you are saying you want to talk. Yes? That is what I hear?” “Well, not to just anybody,” I said. Didn’t she see the pressure I was under? If I had a claim to fame in this dump it was my one year, seven months and eight days of silence—going on nine. And my dreambox mechanic was Foofer, the world-famous diagnostician—probably the best known doc in the place. Word of this had gotten around, we all knew the royals had case supervisions and case retreats, case manhattans, case hardenings and case bakeoffs, case jousts, summits, progresses and councils of war. I narrowed my eyes at her: Could she be Foofer’s Injun scout? The thought that they might be in cahoots, that her special interest in me might be for Foofer’s sake, filled me with such bilious jealousy I almost puked.

“I’m never going to talk to Foofer, in case that’s what you’re after. You might as well forget it, I ain’t talking to that fuddy till I buy my frozen Milky Ways in hell. In other words never ever.” “Good. Okay. Then please, Miss Bogeywoman, you will explain me the difference between somebody you want for talk and somebody you will never ever talk?”

I curled a chunk of oily hair on a finger. “Ahem. I got certain private business which I would never discuss with a fuddy dreambox mechanic. Hey, it’s none of his beeswax, he’d just tell Merlin and don’t tell me he wouldn’t, I know he would. Merlin chose him and I know these famous fuddies, they’re all in the same club.” “So it is nothing that Dr. Feuffer has done or said, but whom he will tell?” “It’s nuttin he said cause he hardly says nuttin.” “Maybe you are angry at him he doesn’t say more?” I just shrugged. “What you would like him to say?” I glared at her. “I have get the feel,” Zuk said, “you don’t like Dr. Feuffer no matter what he says. Is fair to call this a pree-judice?” I stared at Zuk and suddenly I saw straight into her dreambox, as through the peephole of a diorama. I wouldn’t talk to Foofer cause Foofer was a fuddy—that’s what she was driving at—cause Foofer was a hairy-onions, a grizzle-bearded, frog-dangled male. She was right of course, but I wasn’t telling them that—lemme die first.

“You think it’s cause he’s a fuddy—well you’re wrong. Even if he was Margaret Meat I wouldn’t like him,” I sneered, “under the circumstances.” “Ah! Not even … Margaret …!” she exploded softly, as if she knew Margaret Meat poisonally. (Suddenly I was sure—my heart drowned—she did know Margaret Meat poisonally.) “Why do we have to talk about Foofer, anyway?” I muttered, “like I said, all these famous fuddies play in the same band, and speaking of bands, that’s the main reason: Even if I wanted to say sumpm to Foofer, now I never could, because my rock band, I mean the Bug Motels, is watching me. I’m famous for not talking to my dreambox mechanic. So now the only way I can talk is if I get a brand-new dreambox mechanic. And soon’s I saw you I knew it oughta be you.”

Doctor Zuk sank her fingers into her spiky hair and scratched energetically. “So—is important for you to be famous for something, like your father is famous,” she said. “How do you know he’s famous?” Her eyebrows flew up. “You have just said so!” “Yeah well I thought you might at least have to ask who the hump Merlin is …” “I can ask, if you wish me …?” I narrowed my eyes at her. Of course she knew who Merlin was, they all did: wasn’t he one of Baltimore’s three television ambassadors to the world, along with Miss Sally of Romper Room and Doctor Tom the chimpanzee from This Is Your Zoo? Of course she knew! Even in the steaming borscht jungles of Russian Costa Rica, the village TV set was tuned to Merlin’s World. And he was the tragic one of the trio, the one with the wife who died in the trainwreck—probably Zuk knew that too—and she was famous herself—good godzilla they were all in on it!

“Let’s just drop it about Merlin,” I fumed, “I’m not talking to Foofer and that’s it.” “Good, is okay,” Zuk said, with a sly smile, “only explain me, if you can, what is big difference between Dr. Zuk and Dr. Feuffer? Listen, my dear, I tell you big secret. Dr. Feuffer is famous doctor, not me. I come many thousand miles for work and study with Dr. Feuffer. Every psychiatrist of adolescence wants to be Dr. Feuffer. I want to be Dr. Feuffer. What is big bloody difference between me and Dr. Feuffer?” “Maybe you need glasses,” I suggested. “Ach! So that is big difference—how I look?” she gushed—because of course madame-too-beautiful-on-her-horse knew exactly that she was beautiful and more than beautiful, she was counting on that. “This is the answer? I am look different from Dr. Feuffer, and this is why you want me, not him?”

“Cheese,” I said, staring hard at the floor for this lie, “you don’t look that different from Foofer. You’re both old.” There, that shut her up. I stole a glance at her. Her crackly old lips were pursed. But then I had to come crawling back or maybe lose her altogether. “Course, you do got sumpm on Foofer. A little sumpm that everybody needs every once in a while. I mean a little of, er, uh, la beauté. Not much,” I added carefully, “but that’s what I need, some old person who’s got la beauté. Some old person to talk to who’s got la beauté like, like a piece of the lost chunkagunk, so I can stand to live to be old—cause what the hump, maybe, just maybe, I’ll turn out to be her not me.”

“The lost—excuse me, what it is?” Like I said, Doctor Zuk had a thousand cracks around her lips—she was beautiful but she looked maybe forty fifty years old—and they all cracked deeper on contact with the lost chunkagunk. “You have make up this word?” “Not exactly,” I said. “Choleria, English already has water from seventy-two valleys,” she muttered, “how I will learn if patients make up words as they go …”

“All I mean is, that’s why I need you instead of Foofer. Cause he reminds me of a fart, his walk is a fart for instance, his itchy brown suit is all puffy with hot farts and, and—” (Doctor Zuk’s face turned oddly stony and I saw she was getting disgusted with me) “—and farts are good, you need farts I know but I already got plenty of farts,” I hurried on weakly. “Enough,” she cut me off, “I am not interested to hear insults of Dr. Feuffer. These are matters to talk to Dr. Feuffer himself.” “But, see, you remind me of … of a silver weasel, which is sumpm I don’t have and never was …” “Weasel,” she said suspiciously, “please explain me what is weasel?”

This time I thought I knew my way through the woods. “It’s an animal, their spines are very elastic, you notice that right away. They look long on account of their backs though none of em are all that big—and they always seem like girlgoyles to me probably cause they’re so graceful and agile, but they’re ferocious. Give her a chance, a weasel kills lots more than she could ever eat—like the wood wizardess used to say, A weasel is a catastrophe in a henhouse!”—(this had gone all wrong; I could see I had better say sumpm to fix it)—“and—and she has a really nice coat—that turns silver in the winter.”

After a time Zuk said drily: “Is possibly true I am, what you say, catastrophe in henhouse.” “Don’t worry,” I said, sweating, “plenty of henhouses need a catastrophe.” “And who is, excuse me, wood wizardess?” “Course you wouldn’t know the wood wizardess—the greatest tracker of all time, Willis Marie Bundgus,” I cleared my throat, for somehow this name alone didn’t sound sufficient to her greatness, “of, er, Millinocket Falls, Maine.” Doctor Zuk acknowledged her fame—a slight bow with the chin—and then I saw to my amazement a faint twitch in the pond-green irises—could she be … jealous?

“So you want me for psychiatrist—and weasel.” She smiled a little coldly. “Have you never thought maybe the right one to ask for this, even if you don’t like—is Dr. Feuffer?” “I can’t believe you’re still trying to get me to talk to that old fart.” “Listen and maybe you understand, little bird with big mouth. Why I should care if you talk to Dr. Feuffer, if you don’t care? Now I make advice to you because you are grown-up woman. First you will have big problem because you are run away and cut your arms again. Big problem, but even big problem will pass. Then, if is something you want, talk to Feuffer, give him that—you want go back to school? You want neighborhood pass? city-solo? You want me for psychiatrist? This place is howyousay pushover for intelligent nut like you.”

My heart was thudding cause now I saw she wanted me for a patient. “I don’t know,” I said, “they might throw me outa the Bug Motels …” “That is rubbish and you know is rubbish.” “Anyhow I already talked to Foofer,” I hastened to add, “I’ve said around, lemme see, two hundred words to Foofer by now—depends if you count hello good bye as two words or three. Once he said: Ursie, I don’t think you like yourself much. I thought that was pretty smart. Hey, he’s not such a farty old fart after all, that was my first idea, but then I realized godzillas sake you could say that to anybody in the whole rotten bughouse or even the whole world and it would be true. If that’s all there is to being a dreambox mechanic, sign me up.”

“You are saying you would like to be a psychiatrist?” I stared at her. I had never thought of this possibility before, somehow I figured once you landed in the bughouse that disqualified you from ever running the dump, but suddenly I saw it in a different light, like rising to royalty the democratic way, from the bughouse up: “Cheese, why not? I guess so. Sure,” I said.

“Why you would like to be psychiatrist?” “It isn’t exactly that,” I said. “It’s more like—I’d like to be a particular dreambox mechanic. You. I’d like to be you.” “Ah.” I saw the light shift in her eyes, another backswimmer’s twitch in the green pond scum, and then—nothing—the pond froze over, just like that. “We see about that,” she said, “when I am your psychiatrist and sit many hours in front of you and say you what I think, soon I will not be cute weasel anymore, this I promise you.” I looked down at my feet, for certainly this much was true: already she was not as beautiful on her horse as she once had been, she had come down a great way already, or she would not be sitting here throwing her time away on the likes of me.

Had I lost her? She was staring over my head into the night sky as if she were bored, and suddenly she got up, looked at her watch and went to her desk. Had the end already come? Had she become my dreambox mechanic and quit the job again before I ever knew she was mine? In truth I couldn’t even be sure she was a dreambox mechanic. Maybe she was a reporter, or a novelist, or a commissar on mission from some foreign country that was just whipping up bughouses of its own. In which case she was probably that backward land’s most eminent dreambox mechanic, a sort of gypsy queen of the mind—that sounded right, yes, I was sure I’d hit it. “Just tell me one thing, Doctor Zuk, are you a bigwheel dreambox mechanic in Outer Hotzeplotz or what?” I blurted.

With every word she was further away from me. She picked up a pair of tortoiseshell glasses from her desk and balanced them halfway down her nose. “Why it matters for you to know this?” she said coldly. “Already you have foolishly asked me to be your psychiatrist. Now is too late to ask for resume.” “You mean you’re gonna be my dreambox mechanic?” “Come now, Miss Bogeywoman. You know is quite impossible. You have psychiatrist. You have heard of patient changing one psychiatrist for other like used hospital pajama?” “But I’ll see you, won’t I?” She peered at me over the tops of her glasses as if I were very small print. I wanted to swallow myself for asking another bald-headed question, since I knew she never answered one. She stared at me until a cold beam of fear settled in my gizzard—I could tell she was sick to death of me—but in my rotten hand I found one more ace to play.

“I’ll talk to Foofer,” I said. “Is capital idea,” she said, with a tiny grimace of satisfaction. “And pretend he’s you,” I added. Doctor Zuk very slightly colored. At the time I was too green—too inex-spare-inced, as Chug had correctly put it—to know how often mismatched lovers employ that plan, but I sensed that I had struck a nerve. I was frightened to say anything more, and at first Doctor Zuk too was silent. She did not smile but finally she raised a finger whose fingernail, like mine, was bitten to the quick. “Why not?” she sighed. “As people like to say in old country where I come from, when water cannot be found, washing with dirt is permitted. I wish you luck of it.” And she gave me a little nod, then picked up a paper on her desk.

Uneasily I discerned that the interview was at an end, that she was finished with me, wished me out of her sight, in fact, but she didn’t dismiss me. Why not? I thought of backing out the door, remembered that telltale gnash of hardware. I wasn’t going to make a fool of myself by rattling a locked door. But maybe I could hurl myself right through it—that would wake her up. I glanced at it—never mind—ugly arms were one thing, I wasn’t gonna bust my dreambox by bouncing it off a steel plate. My eye fell on the bronze mukluks and all at once I knew, don’t ask me how I knew, she had worn them herself.

There came a knock. I heard a key scrape round the barrel, the door opened a little and Miss Roper and Miss Hageboom put their long faces in the crack. At once I snapped to the whole operation. “Dr. Feuffer is ready for her now,” Miss Roper rat-nibbled. “You were just keeping me busy!” I shouted at Zuk, “I hate your guts!” Doctor Zuk smiled. “Poor poor Miss Bogeywoman,” she said with an odd lilt. “Down there on rocky beach like orphan that seven seas vomit up. Is true no one in wide world wants you? Sob! sob!” “Liar. You like me whether you admit it or not,” I said, “I can tell.” She laughed. “Of course I like you. I even write book about you—My Kid Was Teenage Frankenstein—maybe you like to read?” Then she stepped out of the way and watched the two nurses lead me out, each buzzarding an arm.

5

A Quietroom of One’s Own

East Five was the mirror image of East Six, with one big difference: it was uninhabited. Or so it looked on its steely face. O there were loonies there all right, maybe on the average loonier loons than any of the Bug Motels, but they were hidden behind locked doors most of the time, just like me. The rooms were quietrooms. No ping-pong balls flew.

Now that I had lost the society of the better-than-nothing Bug Motels, I noticed, sister Margaret, how cleanly you had deserted me. And for that blueblack-mustachioed horse trainer, yet!—Tod Novio, Boyfriend Death, the scary hustler with torn silk shirts and English boots, rugged neck and squeaky voice, face like a charming rake in a Classic Comic. I radioed you, for want of other conversation. Hey Margaret, here’s the latest: The lamebrain dreambox mechanics think I tried to off myself and now look where I am, in a quietroom on Semi-Suicidal Observation. Or is it Suicidal Semi-Observation? Either way the fun has gone out of this place, and where the hump are you when I need you Margaret, I radioed you via the radio crystal in my posterior nose bulb. Come get me get me get me outa here, forget that fuddy libertine and get me outa here Margaret. When the medications cart rolled by me and my keeper Gloria, I palmed a little pleated dixie cup with a green pill in it. The green pill I let bounce off across the floor, and back in my quietroom I tried to cry into my paper cup, no luck. Finally I spit and spit in it until it was full, and in the exact center of the padded floor I poured a slimy libation. Come to me come to me get me outa here. Margaret! You were always easy to radio—but now who knew? That fuddy racetrack tout had captured your tower.

Anyhow for me, for now, the dinky old school bus was over—o well it was summer anyway—and likewise I was missing the latest caper of the Bug Motels, which, I reflected sadly, was going to be its best ever. We were starting up a Rohring Rohring rock band with one hundred percent medical instruments, I mean we were about to execute the real, original mission of the Bug Motels—to play bughouse music. We weren’t going to dress in matching sequined uniforms, either, even supposing we could get em in this dump. Though of course we practiced kicking together like the Four Tops, we saw a band as a loose confederation of eternally solo flirters with dementia. In that, we were before our time. The first stage, already under way, was junking around the hospital for anything loose. Next we would whip up five sonorous contraptions of medical parts and work on our numbers, each one starring a different Bug Motel. Then one of these days we’d give a bughouse concert.

But a bughouse band never stays the same or it rots: now one Bug Motel was in the burn unit swathed head to foot in whatever miracle wrap they roll you in after you try to barbecue yourself. And another Bug Motel was on ice in a quietroom—stuck in Suicidal Semi-Observation. The Bug Motels still had their mastermind Bertie, and Dion, and O. But how far could they get without the Bogeywoman for muscle? or Emily loyal-to-the-death-by-starvation for guts?

So here I found myself and was it queer or what, to pace the exact same layout that was in a warped sort of way home to me, only deserted, as though every other member of the Bug Motels had died and gone to a worse place. For that’s what I did for exercise and pastime, whenever they let me—paced the green linoleum halls, past rows of green steel doors, day and night. I had a sort of itch: just keep moving it said and I did. At first I had to have a nurse’s aide with me all the time. Gloria dragged behind, grumbled about her feet, twisted her fingers in the back of my hospital gown and rode me like a hand puppet. She was short and slow, with the build of a sumo wrestler. “I ain’t took this job so I can wear my stems to stumps,” she panted, “hold up, ants-in-you-pants, this ain’t the infantry.” “I can walk by myself,” I told her, “what am I going to do? tear down the walls with my fingernails?”—because the halls were gleaming nude, no furniture, no pictures, no knobs rails hooks sticking out, no nothing. Even the nurses’ station was wrapped in chicken wire, the chicken wire in turn sealed up in (probably) bulletproof glass, everything slick as the glass mountain. “You mine your bidniss, I mine mine,” Gloria huffed and puffed and kept up with me as near as she could, or yanked me backwards when she couldn’t take it anymore.

Once she was beat she slumped against the wall, and then I could get stuff out of her, I mean about the other bugs hidden in quietrooms behind the green steel doors. Behind O’s door lived a soprano twenty years over the hill with petunia-colored spots of rouge on her baggy cheeks and a queenly arch to her baggy throat, which, I found out, she was trying her best to ruff with a noose. Since she was in O’s place I wanted to worship the ruins of beauty in her, surely her gorgeous air required a fan, but on the few occasions we passed in the corridor, she with her keeper, I with mine, she pretended to speak no English, though Gloria told me she was born in Ellicott City.

Dion’s place was filled by a genuine mountain man from Sumpm Sumpm Gap in Allegany County. Mr. Woofter was as dark red, shriveled and dried out as venison jerky, and the one time he managed to speak to me he whispered only “Silky draws? silky draws?” and showed me an evenly corrugated one-dollar bill that must have been pried out of a very small space—a rotten tooth maybe (he had plenty of those). I think he was trying to buy my underpants, but of course I owned nothing but Camp Chunkagunk white cotton at the time, and in my quietroom I had lost track even of those. Here on East Five it was hospital gowns for everybody, even the diva, though somehow she got the rouge pot too. A salesman type with the shakes, wildly boisterous when not weeping, lived in Bertie’s old room. And in Emily’s was—nothing, no one, just emptiness and shade and a pearly sheen on the padded walls from one high small window.

I paced. “Let’s face it you cramp my style,” I sneered mildly to Gloria over my shoulder, “this is cruel and unusual punishment not to let me go by myself, godzilla knows you can watch my every move from the nurses’ station.” “Maybe you right, maybe it is being cruel—to animals,” Gloria agreed, “cause I hear yall animals push that little bitty Emily down the laundry chute. And then she have to burn herself.” “How is Emily?” I asked, even more mildly. Mildness was my new strategy for getting outa here, but Gloria was too obtuse to notice. She didn’t answer about Emily. “I let you go, next thing I know you sawing away on that arm like a turkey drumstick,” she said. “Ya mean with my teeth?” I argued back, “so what if I did? How far would I get before you were out here whaling on me? Not even an hors d’œuvre …”

Finally I wore her down and not a moment too soon, by now I itched so bad I was galloping, my hospital gown billowing out in back of me like a parachute on a jet plane. Gloria roosted massively on a high stool in the nurses’ station, folded her liver-wurst arms and never took her eyes off me. No way I could inveigle a hand under my gown to scratch the pubic triangle under these conditions. At first I had thought nothing of the itch, it seemed I’d always had it, mildly, subterraneously, a faint munching at the roots in the front yard, itch scratch itch. And it still seemed like I’d always had it, but now it was the starving central fact of a life, the little place marked x for the nail that nailed you, the tooth that gnawed you, the hunger that ate you, the itchy spot that souled everything alive. But if that were so, if I’d always had it, then how had I ever managed to stay in one place for five whole minutes? Now I galloped, up and down, up and down. Gloria squinted at me suspiciously through the glass. Dinner came, did I want it in my quietroom? No thank you, I slapped the slop on the white bread and galloped on, bolting down great half-moons.

But finally Gloria’s shift was done. I never thought I’d be sorry to see her linebacker’s shoulders sway off down the hall until the night nurse, Miss Kniffin, led me to my quietroom, took away my gown and whanged the steel door home behind me. Wait don’t leave me! Just lemme (Blam. Clank—the outer door guard. Then nothing.) Not that I couldn’t pace in my quietroom, that was one good thing about emptiness, you could pace it off, round and round and round the padded hole. But now I had to face it, live alone with it, stark naked. I did have a social disease, I mean my coochie was not itself, could not be itself although it appeared to be itself, in fact looked exactly like its usual hideous self, scraggy black hair pasted to white skin like swamp grass sucked tight against a clay bank when the water drops.

I threw myself on the soft floor, peered into that darkness between my thighs and everything looked the same in the bad light, no there was some kind of brown trash down there where the whips of hair rooted in skin, I scratched at it with the bitty edge I had left of one fingernail and managed to pry some off and hold it up to the gray twilight—good godzilla! it walked across my fingertip. I saw, just barely, its lacy nippers waving. Crab was no figure of ayrabber speech, then, these were crustaceans of some microscopic universe whose entire Chesapeake shore could fit between my legs. I scrambled to my feet and paced even more wildly, for the yellowed old padding I was lying on looked a lot like the ancient mattress in the ayrabbers’ stall. I had to get rid of these bugs before I infested this place, if I hadn’t already—I couldn’t lie down—no one could know—lemme die first. But what was the cure for crabs if you couldn’t tell a doctor? And even supposing you could find a doc who wouldn’t rat on you to your dreambox adjustor, how were you to collar this expert unless they let you out of here?

I made a wild leap for the quietroom window. It was five feet above the spot where I bounced off the wall, and probably too small for my head, even if I could hold on tight enough to butt a hole in the glass. Still it felt good to bounce off the wall and I did it again, and again. Satisfying noise of my little pieces rearranging themselves, like a sack of potatoes thrown down from a barn loft. Then suddenly I found myself dangling from the padding three feet up—how was I doing this? It must be that superhuman strength of mental patients you hear about: I was four feet up, then five—godzilla knew what my toes and fingers were sticking to, but somehow I stayed up. And six and nine and finally I squinted through the woozy glass.

Seventy feet down, at the bottom of so many fathoms of clear black jelly, streetlights came on like burning heads of hair, and at their feet, the tops of cars bulged silently in and out of view. The ayrabbers’ barn doors were still open; under the jelly of night the hole behind them was lit up like a palace. I pressed my forehead to the cool glass—Lemme outa here I screamed—reared back a little, getting ready to butt it. The door opened behind me and I let go.

“Ow … ow …” Naked and flat on my back. “You are hurt?” “Cheese … what gives you that idea?” “You fall.” “Hump no, I jumped.” “How you get up there? What you are holding on?” That voice dried and cured in the smoke of five hundred thousand Gypsygirl cigarettes was at last a little impressed. “It’s that old, ouch, superhuman strength of the mental patient,” I croaked, and rolled back my head until I could see as far as the door. Could it really be madame-too-beautiful-on-her-horse? It was. “What are you doing here!” I growled. Because of the crabs I wasn’t even glad to see her. Thank godzilla there was no more light than the undersea glow from the green linoleum corridor, all the same I bunched myself in a sitting position, pulled my infested thighs discreetly together, threw an arm across my nuzzies. Sumpm hit me softly in the shoulder. A hospital gown. I got up and tied it on. “How come you’re here at night?” I mumbled rudely, not even caring anymore that she never answered a question from a mental peon—and then to my amazement she replied: “I like night duty. I’m not so crazy for sleep like some people. I like to watch sun come up. For a week, maybe two, I will do it …” I hardly dared read the message I could see so clearly between her words, but there it was: Because you are here, Miss Bogeywoman. She’s here because of me. Of me!

“So,” said Doctor Zuk. “Maybe you would like a little to talk?” “Sure,” I said uneasily. I must say the whole thing struck me as highly irregular. Yes there was that furtive conservatism of the mental patient setting in, and then I was in a rotten mood on account of that itch, that itch at the x spot sucking everything down to its level. To think that just last week I’d thrown myself at her feet for this chance, kissed her imaginary ankles, and she’d kicked me into the imaginary gutter. Next she had betrayed me to the fuddies, landed me in a quietroom, I’ll never speak to that Zuk hag again I’d been thinking. And now here she was, inviting me—to talk!

“Could we, er, walk and talk?” I proposed, “I got this restlessness.” “Ach, choleria, in these shoes?” She pointed at her silver sandals. She wore no nylons under her dress. It was the middle of summer but this seemed raw to me, even nasty. I stared at the erosion cracks along her heels. There too she looked her age, as old as the hills and crags. “O all right,” I mumbled, and followed her down the hall. We ended up in a converted broom closet where nurse’s aides sometimes played cards. It was the usual Rohring Rohring hole in the wall, cracked plaster, exposed pipes, distant guts gurgling, roaches traversing the woodwork. She twisted a key in the lock behind us and we were alone. The first thing she did was toss her key ring on the rickety tabletop in a heap. When her knee touched it, the table tilted down two inches on its gimpy legs and the keys slid to one edge. I pulled my chair closer. I tried to keep my shifty eyes off those keys. One hand pressed my itchy crotch, hard.

HOW LOVE GOT ME OUT OF THERE

“So, er, uh, any hope of getting back to East Six? Lemme outa here! I been Quiet long enough,” I blurted, like a common ordinary mental patient. She tilted her spiky head and shrugged. “Why you are telling me this? Don’t get funny idea like I am your dreambox mechanic. You want something? Be grown-up woman. Talk to Dr. Feuffer.” “You kept me busy for the fuddies,” I accused. She smiled a little, as at a charming memory. “Ach, you have beg for it. And your face! How you like it when that iron door gets shut the first time, BOOMS! However, like people say in country where I come from, God he fastens one gate and opens a thousand. Perhaps there is open gate someplace and you don’t see?”

“I might have to push one open with that superhuman strength of the mental patient,” I grumbled. “Is all for your education, my dear,” she said blandly, “you are talented person, a thousand gates, where is the sport? For you, God closes a thousand gates and opens one.”

I was in no mood for the inscrutable god of the East. I eyeballed her keys. I was thinking how most of the people who ever lived probably itched like mad at their x. I wondered if that made it easier to die—a half million soldiers scratching away all night in the trenches, never any peace, or latrine detail in some prison camp, ten females shaved to their skulls, shoveling shit and still scratching. “God doesn’t even know I’m in this bughouse,” I said. “He’s still tryna find the six million Jews he lost, and the one million Gypsies and the five million Poles and the fifteen million Russkis, what does he care about one mental peon in a dump like this …”

Funny how all that itching and death composed me as good as any little red or blue pill. I almost smiled, but Zuk didn’t smile. She was staring at the tabletop, her face hard. I was scared I had bumbled over some line, I mean who knew what she was—a Jew, a Gypsy, a Pole or a Russki, she looked like all of em mixed up together. But then I saw what she was seeing. Never mind the corpses at Auschwitz, she was waiting to see if I’d grab those keys, maybe even—hoping? Possibly … even … suggesting? Finally she got bored, leaned back in her chair, folded her arms and looked me in the eye.

“What you are doing in this hospital, Miss Bogeywoman?” she asked. “You are not so crazy. You know in old country where I come from people don’t run so fast to psychiatrist. Somebody think she has djinn in head, somebody say she is Fatima bride of Mohammed, then maybe yes. Why are you here?” “Whaddaya mean?” I said, feeling my citizenship called in question, “I’m not just in the bughouse, I’m in the bughouse bughouse. And I don’t have a key either, well, now I do,” I added, suddenly plunging a finger through the O of her keyring. Five matching silver keys marked DO NOT DUPLICATE. I played them like a castanet. “Somebody thinks I’m buggy,” I said.

She made no move to snatch them back but pressed her ugly fingertips together. “With you, Miss Bogeywoman, is all game. Is funny hunger for craziness, itch for crazy,” she said, and I almost fainted—dropped her keys and snatched them up again—Charlie Chan gong in the nervous system, the shock of being found out. But then I saw I wasn’t found out. This was accidental telepathy out of the hot-wired air. She knew not what she said. “Don’t worry, I tell no one. You are crazy like hare in March, like weasel in henhouse maybe. You want to be crazy. Is some kind mating dance with you.”

What cheek! “Ahem, more like an anti-mating dance,” I replied truthfully, but she ploughed ahead. “You work at crazy. You are artist of crazy. It comes natural for you but you are not damage by this like the others. I think you are fanfaron of crazy, actor of comedy of crazy, and most of all you do not like if they send you away from here. You like this ugly hotel.”

“I hate this place.” I jangled her keys in her face. “Where else you would go?” she mocked. I said nothing. “Hah! you see? You are stuck. Stuck.” “That’s what you think.” I jumped to my feet, so my chair sorta fell over behind me (it didn’t have room to fall all the way down in this hole), and stumbled to the door, where I kneaded tremulously through the ring for the master key. “What! this is not funny joke, Miss Bogey …” “I guess you know you’ll have to stay here awhile,” I panted, “sorry about that part …” “What! Return me those keys immed—ach—choleria—” She was kicking at my collapsed chair with her soccer player’s legs and silver sandals. Maybe she had not been inviting me to leave as unequivocally as I thought, her mouth was a ragged O and when she finally got by the chair she snatched at the handful of keys but too late, they were already through the crack in the door and I was halfway through behind them. “There was only one gate … sorry …” I explained as I tugged the door closed. She was tugging on her side but that’s where my Bogeywoman strength has always been, in pulling things toward me. “How far you think you get in big city in this thing?” she cried, giving up on the keys and grabbing for one floppy tail of my hospital gown; it ripped and left a big Pepto-Bismol pink flap of itself in the door lock. Which nevertheless turned with a chunk once I got Doctor Zuk’s key in. “Sorry,” I whispered through the keyhole. You’d think she’d be hollering. But I didn’t hear a thing.

By now it must have been midnight and I had a sense of flying down half-lit halls and up the stairs in my half of a hospital gown, barefoot, with a handful of magic keys. In the stairwell I heard rubber soles slapping the stone steps below me, but I clung to the wall and waited and soon they sank away. On the landing, an elevator flew by, pinging. I saw a white face in its square window. I fell to my knees and touched, just touched, the bottom of the ward door to East Six. On the oiliest, most lubricious of hinges it swung open without a squeak. Even in the middle of the night they didn’t lock the thing! Just as I always suspected, any nut could break into this rotten bughouse, even easier than any bugbrain could break out.

On my hands and knees I went by the green-glowing nurses’ station. Down the hall, into O’s room. Crawled by the delicate escarpment of O under white sheeting, snowfield from elbow to hipbone, arm flung over her eyes and, dangling down to the floor beside me, the golden climber’s rope of her hair. Crawled into her bathroom. Pulled the door to.

No locks on these temples of offing yourself of course, with their bloody bathtubs, noosy towel racks and ghostly cabinets of pills. Wedged two Creepy Comix from the back of the toilet under the door. Squeezed on the light to see, since O’s makeup case was the size of a doctor’s bag and stuffed to its froggy hinges. Pawed blind through the tubes and bottles, quarter pound of bobby pins on the bottom, dimes nickels quarters, bottle caps, two bullets of different calibers, tornado-shaped shard of mirror, cannabis-smeared pipecleaner, some scary gadget that looked like a corkscrew but wasn’t and at last, it, the tweezer, two little silver bowlegs encircled with golden garters. I climbed into the gleaming bathtub and went to work.

It took hardly any time at all to open up a little bald spot, but from there on out it was rotten sameness, progress invisible, would it ever end? One by one, out they came, the hairs and the doomed crustaceans at the root of them, and finally they all lay in one big thin eyebrow around the drain at the far end of the tub, to be washed down at the end in one loud burst when I soaped and scrubbed and made my getaway. I had to keep my tracker’s eye on them of course, who knew if the crabs couldn’t smell me, a kind of mother to them, and come trooping back to me over the porcelain? And the longer I looked, the more the skimpy fringe around the drain looked like writing, a sentence in the round, a motto in some kind of letters I couldn’t understand. What could they have to say to me? I eyeballed the secret message around the drain and by and by it was like those crackles in the closet walls of Rohring Rohring where the queen of spades, or Margaret Meat or Karen Honey or Mahalia Chicken or Ruth Beandip, put in their appearances. Or any other dame I wished to summon, so long as she was grande. Suddenly I got this oracle: SHE IS A LEVIATHAN, EVEN HER KISS IS LIKE A HOUSE FELL ON ME. I blinked in the white light.

I was almost done. I mean I was only seventeen, maybe I wasn’t the grizzled she-gorilla I thought I was. By now where black hairs once grew there was only a rather raw pink heart, faintly perforated with tiny red dots. And inside it, that crack I hadn’t seen since I was twelve. Did it hurt? Did and didn’t. Of all pains, after all, the most agreeable is to pluck out a part of the body that offends, thus millions dine on cuticles and fingernails and a Haitian lady on West Four, one Mrs. Yib, had landed in Rohring Rohring after polishing off her own chignon, a whole bowlful, with a fork and Thousand Island dressing. Bored parrots sometimes beak out their green-and-gold breasts feather by feather, and if you aren’t getting any, it must be tempting to hold the starving member to anything that whirls, even a whetstone. Anyhow the more the V between my thighs puffed and pinked, the goner the vermin seemed, and I was almost happy. I eyed the ring around the drain. It said Who knows? She who eats, knows not, but she who plucks the chicken, knows.

HOW LOVE GOT ME OUT OF THERE

I began to think I might make it back to East Five in time to let out Doctor Zuk before she yelled for help. No sign of a Code Green yet, no little bells pinging and elevators whirring and rubber shoes slapping, though maybe they handled these crises differently in the middle of the night, maybe they were less eager to wake up the tamely snoring mental peons than to give them nightmares in broad day with technicians in beekeeper’s hats thundering by the ward doors. Anyhow there’d been none of those yet, and now that I was cured I imagined getting back to East Five, and me and madame-too-beautiful-on-her-horse sitting down to talk. Yes, I was clean as a whistle and ready for philosophy. No one would ever know.

Standing clear I stuffed the hairs in the drain and opened the HOT faucet for one short blast, and was answered by one of those serenades for bass ophicleide the old plumbing was prone to. At such times, the pipes boomed like Judgment Day clear down to Pathology, so that all the stiffs banged their foreheads trying to sit up in their refrigerator drawers. I screwed the HOT faucet off again, but too late. Creepy Comix noodged scratchily along the floor, the door creaked open. There stood O, blinking through her Mary Hartline hair. Those long platinum strands were all she was wearing. She gazed sleepily at my nakedness and suddenly said, “Coooool.” Slowly I understood what she was admiring. The tweezer was still in my fingers.

“Let’s do me too,” she yawned. “Why?” “It looks so mean and nasty.” “Yours won’t look mean and nasty. You gotta be ugly at the bottom for that.” “I don’t care. I wanna see my crack.” Reluctantly, I held out the tweezer to her. “No, you do it,” she said coyly, “I’m chicken.” What was I supposed to say to her?—I have an appointment? “I gotta go,” I said. “Hey, whatcha doing in my bathroom?” she finally woke up and remembered to ask, “ain’t you down on East Five? stuck in a quietroom?” “I ran away,” I said, “that’s why I gotta get back. Before they see I’m gone.” “You escaped and you’re going back? Are you nuts or sumpm?” “I, er, uh, try to be,” I mumbled, thinking of Doctor Zuk. Zuk! Panic tightened on my forehead like plaster. I had left her locked in a broom closet on East Five. I had to get back to her right now.

“What kinda checks you on?” O asked. “Fifteen-minute but mostly they don’t come till twenty.” “Then you’re too late already, it don’t matter, stay with me.” “No I’m not, if I leave right now.” “First pluck me.” “It takes too long and anyhow you don’t need it. Yours is … really really … okay the way it is.” And it was. I dared to look straight at it—an escutcheon of pinkish rosettes, as dainty as the Girl Scout badge for venery. But O was mad. Her eyes pinched to slits and she angrily plunked herself on the toilet seat, folded her arms and peed. The pee boiled in the bowl. Her cotton candy hair vined in and out of her arms. She glared at me. “Who ya going with? Down there on East Five?” “Huh? Nobody. I’m stuck in a quietroom for godzillas sake.” “Who else is there?” “No one. Some old bag opera singer’s in the room under your room, I don’t even know her name.” “You love her, ain’t it, you cheatin jew bulldyke,” she spooky-fluted, sitting all cramped together on the throne like some Old Witch Anti-Birth. “I only even noticed her cause she was in your room,” I said. She softened slightly but softness made her even scarier, squeezed her spooky-flute down to a snaky hiss. Her eyes glowed at the bottom of gratings that were half-erasures of their usual blacking. In a way she had never looked so beautiful. “What’d you come here for?” she wanted to know and I could hardly say To borrow your tweezer, now could I? “I was gonna surprise you,” I mumbled.

She got up and turned to flush the pot and when she turned back around, to my amazement she was wreathed in smiles as well as hair. She draped her long black fingernails about my neck, she could do that of course since I was still standing in the bathtub and therefore half a foot off the floor, otherwise I’d have been no taller than she was—and looked up into my face at its ersatz fuddy altitude and kissed me. “You did,” she said. “So, er, uh, do you like me with a bald coochie like five years old?” She stepped back a little and gazed. “Wooo,” she said. What did that mean? She patted the edge of the bathtub, hinting I should stand up there to get a look at myself (legless, headless) in the mirror over the sink. I climbed up. Well it was terrible, and nuttin like five years old. The halves of the knoll of coochie fit together swollenly, like lips that had been punched, and that once preverbal slit looked deep and dangerous, ready to curse, or spit. “Cheese,” I said, and shuddered. “Now do me,” she commanded.

I got down on my knees, tweezer shaking between my fingers, but she pulled me back up. Led me to her bed and spread herself out on the edge of it, with one bare foot on the floor. I began. I began with a sense of ruin, of pulling apart some secret of nature like a birdsnest that no human could build or rebuild, but soon I got into it, nibbling my tweezer along the border, making the shield perfectly symmetrical, dexter like sinister, the raw cooked. All the same my hand shook. It was her coochie after all. I tried not to look at the curtained, bubblegum-pink tunnel at the center of it. Neatly I heaped the questionmarky hairs to one side on the hospital sheet. Stepped back to view my work. “It looks like a perfect little keyhole—sumpm from a lady’s writing desk. Lemme leave it like that.” “No, all of it.” “I’m the artiste in this salon and I refuse.” “Sufferin cheeses.” She scrambled up on the side of the bathtub, craned her neck at herself and sniffed: “Take the rest.” And she rearranged herself on the bed.

But now when I knelt to the work I saw a sort of candle glint in the pink tumblers and before I could think she pressed my hand against the wetness there. Somehow I got rid of the tweezer and finally, finally, sank a finger into the dark center of some beauty, felt along the satin muscle banks to her blind end and felt her burst around me. Implode, shudder, dissolve. Her skinny arms flew around my neck and wrenched me to her nuzzies but when I opened my mouth to taste them, she shoved me mightily away. “I ain’t no bull dagger,” she panted, and at last I deduced what this must mean. “I know,” I politicly replied. I rolled away from her, closed my eyes, only now the darkness organized itself around the wet pink jewel of

“Finish me,” she whispered in my ear. She was pressing the tweezer into my fingers but I made a fist against it. “Don’t wanna,” I said, staring into the black, half expecting one of her knives in the gut. “Come on,” she spooky-fluted. “Don’t wanna and anyhow you don’t need it. You’re too pretty down there already.” “Pretty? Cheeses.” To my surprise her hand folded around my hand. Her thumb made lazy circles on my palm. I felt the quick length of her against me, soft swellings and concavities, fluted bones. “I got a joke for you,” she breathed in my ear. “This guy’s walking down the avenue, right? Joe. On the corner he runs into his old friend. Joe, what’s wrong, you look awful. I do? Well I feel good, Joe says, and he keeps going and sees this other old friend. Are you sick, Joe, the other friend says, cheese, you look bad! Well I feel good, Joe says, and walks on and soon he comes across his third old friend. Joe, what happened to you, this one says, you look terrible. But I feel good, says Joe, and he decides he better see a doctor. Doc examines him and shakes his head and says, I don’t know, Joe, I never seen a case like this. He opens this big black book and runs his finger down the column, Hmmm, looks good and feels good, that’s not you, Joe. Looks terrible, feels terrible, that’s not you either. Wait a minute, here it is, looks terrible and feels good. Say, Joe, you’re a vagina!” We snickered, helplessly.

The city glowed at the window bars and its glow pooled on the bed. I dared to look in O’s face. She was unearthly beautiful in that light. She was crude and bloodthirsty, and under her icy billows of hair and fake calm she had turned out to be one of those menstrual fantod types strung tight as a toy violin, but I kind of loved her. “Guess who told me,” she whispered. “Reggie.” “How’d you know?” “Who else?” We laughed into each other’s hair. “I can’t figure out if the Regicide likes girls or hates girls,” I said. O sighed. “What’s the difference? He’s the best we got in here, I mean think of the dreambox mechanics, what a buncha nuttins.”

I did. I sat up like one of those stiffs in their refrigerator drawers, bonk. “I gotta go,” I said. “You better not leave me now,” O spooky-fluted, sinking her black nails into my hand. “I gotta. I told you.” “How come,” she said, “for who?” She peered at me and I bit down hard to heat up the fat between my ears, tried to fry away Zuk, knowing O could see right through my headbone when she got in this state. “For who?” “I gotta get off East Five,” I said, “I’m going buggy up there.” That much was the truth. “I gotta make em think I’m getting better.” “Sufferin cheeses, you left more’n an hour ago. Don’t you think they found out by now? They’ll throw you in leg irons or sumpm.” “I gotta go.” “Don’t go,” she sing-sang warningly, “you can hide in my closet.” “I gotta.” I stood on my feet. “You two-timing jew oink, I hate you.” At this I lifted her up by her skinny shoulders and shook her a bit, so that her dark nuzzies trembled. Now that we knew each other down to our coneyholes, I wasn’t going to stand for this kind of talk. “You can call me Jew if you want, that’s not even a cuss word ya know, but if you call me a this jew or a that jew anymore I’ll punch you right in your popey nose. It’s not ladylike.”

Naturally I wouldn’t have done anything to her unless completely necessary, but I was way stronger than she was and people from her side of town understand that kind of thing. She lay there blinking up at me and I took the opportunity to run. On my way I snatched a fuzzy robe from the hook on her bathroom door. I knew that first she would puzzle on that queer pheenom, a Hebrew toughgirl, and next she would come looking for me, maybe throwing knives and maybe not.

HOW LOVE GOT ME OUT OF THERE

No I did not forget the keys and a very good thing I didn’t. By now the ward doors on East Six and East Five were locked inside and out, and this change of policy, which had rolled over in a single midnight hour, was not a good sign. They had found me out. They were upping the security in my wake. Outside East Five I hunched down below the little porthole, thumbed through the keys and tried them one after the other. Finally a key worked and there I was, back on that gleaming green hall of glassed-in chicken wire and locked steel doors.

Only the broom closet was slightly ajar. I peered into its darkness. No one. Nothing. Crawled by the nurse’s station to my quietroom, unlocked it and left it open just a crack. Hands and knees back to the broom closet, set the lock to lock, and lost the keys and fuzzy robe inside. Then back to my quietroom. Took a deep breath. Okay, I was a grown-up woman, starting right now. It wasn’t going to be easy to shut myself into that void stark naked, without even the diversion of an itch, but then I saw a little white thing flickering from the exact center of the padded floor. There on the x spot of libations was a torn-off corner of paper. I ran to it in time to see it had a phone number written on it. Then the door closed.

6

I Blab to Foofer

AND HE BLABS BACK

“So, er, uh,” I inquired, “just exactly what is that Doctor Zuk person, anyhow?” Foofer looked pained. He took off his glasses, laid them carefully in his lap, and touched the shiny bulges under each eye with a green silk handkerchief. “Vot do you mean by vot?” he asked. “Unh-unh, Doc,” I wagged a finger at him, “still my question.” “You must narrow your question. I cannot answer a question the size of seven worlds.” “O all right,” said I.

For, whatever I meant by vot, this is how we proceeded now: by the fishiest bughouse decorums. Even I was scandalized by what the dreambox mechanics were letting me get away with these days. I had a good mind to write myself a letter about it, alerting me to the dark clinical consequences, but perhaps I wouldn’t have understood. And then I’d have had the trouble, for nothing, of smuggling the thing into Rohring Rohring, where of course the mental patients’ mail got read. (Somewhere Royal Censors were busily at work.)

So what the hump. I went along with it. I was a grown-up woman now. I had sniffed the truth: The rewards for playing ball with the royals were not bobkes. This way I could see Doctor Zuk when I wanted, even though it gave me a kind of spongy feeling in my guts to see her, to say nothing of calling her up at the number she had given me, turned out it was a little cellophane square at the top of one of those new medical residences that tower over the old hospital dome like a bunch of giant Krispies boxes. I could see her window from my window, and the candid little eyebrow of her naked balcony. She could have seen my bars, if she had looked.

And listen to this, for two weeks we even had walky-talkies. For my birthday I charged a pair to Merlin at Charlie Rudo’s, fifty dollars. Madame-too-beautiful-on-her-horse took one “for experiment” and we talked in the middle of the night when she was on call in some distant part of the bughouse. The static was terrible, like talking through a tunnel of hair on fire, and the whole time I could hear my gopher brain cells popping up and whistling alarms. Who are you and what do you want with me, I shouted into the airwaves when they whited out everything and I was sure she couldn’t hear me. We roared back and forth about the mushrooms in the courtyard, qu. whether poisonous or hallucinogenic, more Weird Tales of the Nurses and the serious prospect of spying as a future profession. (Bad for character, Zuk shouted. What did she know about spies? But somehow I wasn’t surprised.) Who are you, who made you, why are you here? I hollered. Then thank godzilla they broke—those mustard-yellow rubber walky-talkies from Charlie Rudo’s I mean. All I can say is, if I’d been at the big case pow-wows the royals were having about Zuk and me and our “special friendship,” I’d have planted my feet and said no way.

“What I mean by what—well, like, what does that Zuk person do for a living? Is she a genuine dreambox mechanic or not?”

Foofer’s thumbnail zissed along his watch chain. His baggy jaw faintly shook. His eye slid towards the door, against resistance, like a grape swimming in jello. I knew he was glad no classical dreambox analyst was listening in, outside of himself, of course. “You would like to zink she is not a genuine psychiatrist?” he finally hissed. “Unh-unh, Doc, you get a question, I get a question,” I said, for that was our deal. Of course he didn’t have to answer and if I asked sumpm way out of bounds, like about another mental patient, he stared into air and the question wafted away, forfeit. But Doctor Zuk was a striped area, not a mental patient. Also, she was the one thing I wanted to talk about. The hope to talk to Zuk, or about Zuk, was the reason I was talking to Foofer at all.

“May I compliment you to your hair, Ursula?” Foofer said, and his eye drifted to his watch, but this was not a question. He was stalling for time. “How gold it shines.” I smiled. I had begun to wash my hair—after four or five times it had come out lighter than I had any right to expect. I had even attempted to wash my overalls, but they disintegrated upon contact with water. For the three hours it took me to scare up a city-solo pass and shop for new ones, I had had to put on the pink party dress that Tuney had thrown in for nothing, which, even worn with hospital flip-flops, went down in case history as the first sighting of my progress.

For we were progressing, Foofer and I, by unkosher byways and rules not according to Hoyle, but we were progressing. Anyone could see it, I was getting better. I put on shoes. I practiced sedulously on my pilfered surgical catgut and leg-brace-plus-puke-basin ukulele, with others and alone. I began to talk to Foofer—so what if every other thing I said curled up at the end in a question mark? Still I was getting better; therefore, the classical types went along with it, even as they exchanged dark looks. Some of it made my own furtively conservative mental patient’s pencil-straight hair stand on end, but I really couldn’t blame them. The silent treatment had worked on Foofer, beyond I was going to say my wildest hopes, except that back then I had no hopes. A hopeless case, that was just it, everyone had said so—even the famous Foofer could do nothing. Therefore I was nobody’s fault. They looked away. They went along with the experiment, once they were sure nothing would work. But then it did work.

I was getting better, so much better they were all taken in, royals and peons alike. I was a mental peon myself, of course, but a little less mental, now, than before. All at once I had about me, no denying it, some little smack of royalty. I had progressed. As Zuk put it: “Who you think you are now? You are so full of yourself and for why? Because czar’s horse looked at you. So what! Big deal! So Zuk likes you a little! You are still greedy dirty baby, not so, Miss Bogey?” All the same I could tell she was proud.

I cleared my throat and began again. “So is Doctor Zuk a dreambox mechanic or a writer or a foreign bigwig on some kinda mission or what is she?” I asked, and Foofer settled himself like a sandbag, looking down from his plump dignity upon the swirling waters: “Vy is zis woman of interest to you?” he prefaced hopelessly. It was not a question. We were off at last.

“Z’case of Zuk is unique in many, perhaps in all, respects …” he began. “She is z’chief professional in her field in the country where she is coming from, but, ennhh,” his pudgy white hands clasped one another this way and that way, “ennhh, it is a country in which mental science after Sigmund Food, that is, mental science as one knows it in z’Vest, is looked on wiz—?—” he shrugged “utmost suspicion? fear? So trained professionals are few, very few … She is z’chief … not only z’chief … I believe the only …” He sank into his chair, he could not go on. “What country?” I whispered. He was silent. State secret, I inferred. We exchanged what I took for a meaning glance. “Your question, Doc,” I reminded him, and he instantly blurted out again, startling me: “Vy is zis woman of interest to you?” “I … like her hair,” I lied weakly. I had been caught unprepared. But then I was off right behind him.

(You are grown-up woman, Zuk had said, talk to Feuffer, give him that—you want neighborhood pass? You want me for psychiatrist? This place is howyousay pushover for intelligent nut like you … At first, since blab to Foofer I must, I lied. The world-famous diagnostician set to work; he improvised: Let us suppose you may be any zing but human, Ursie, any zing at all you like, vot do you choose? I stared at the fluorescent light sizzling like an egg on his bald crown. I couldn’t think of a single thing. I’d want to be your hair oil, Doc, to be on top of you and go all around with you and see down inside the dreambox what you’re really thinking. And hear what you say about me when I’m not there, especially to Zuk, and then to jump over and be her hair oil—good godzilla what was I saying—but that was how it always went. I’d think I was telling the biggest whopper in the world and as soon as I said it, it had that telltale ruby glow of truth in its belly, like a snake that swallowed a flashlight. I’d try some fancy mouthwork to hide it, just choking, Doc, er, I mean, joking—caught even more red-bellied. Ah what the hump I thought, in that case pile it on, let er fly, serve it up steaming, that’s what I did, and by godzilla I saw that every confession had Jughead ears, I mean those telltale handles of a lie sticking out, even when it was gospel. So shoot! what the hump! From then on, anything went …)

“I like her hedgehoggy titanium hair, you know how it looks, not too mothery, kinda concentration camp chic, with spokes sticking out like the Statue of Liberty, only made out of gray matter, like some idea she had just blew her brains out from the inside …” “You are saying you admire Doktor Zuk for her beauty? Or for that she is a woman of ideas?” “My question,” I reminded him. “Is she famous?” “Hah!” Foofer exploded. (Sometimes these days I honestly feared for his senses.) “Vot is fame? If you alone are dreambox repair in a hundred and sixty thousand square kilometers, that is fame? If you are commissar of mental science, and nomad chieftains who hid you during the purge bring you white Gamaschen and call you daughter of moon, that is fame?” “Is that a question?” I asked, my heart banging in my throat. “No,” he growled. I stared out the window. A fly-sized airplane zipped noiselessly across the sky. “A hundred and sixty thousand kilometers … daughter of moon,” I whispered, tasting them on my tongue. “Why z’devil you don’t ask her yourself, if you are such good friends?” he burst out. I looked at him curiously. “I do ask her, she won’t answer anything,” I said. Grrr his knuckles went up into his teeth, but then he petted his amber cravat, composing himself.

HELP! MY CHILD IS A TEENAGE FRANKENSTEIN

Of course as soon as I knew there was a book by Zuk, especially a book with a title like that, I schemed to get hold of it. Fact was, sneaking into the royal library at Rohring Rohring and pilfering books with weird pictures was one of the oldest missions of the Bug Motels, and one of the easiest. The door stood always open, the “librarian” was a fogbound old lady from the hospital auxiliary, and the stacks made ideal tunnels for alien penetration.

All the same I could tell after reading one page it was a rotten book, with nothing good to say about anybody, not teenagers, not fathers, not mothers, not dreambox mechanics, nobody—and no story, no heroine, no freaks of nature, definitely no weird pictures. What a letdown after a title like that! I’d have asked for my money back if I’d paid for the thing.

As it turned out I only got to read one page—page 63, the one I’d torn out because it had THOMAS HARE ROHRING AND EUGENIA O. ROHRING PSYCHIATRIC CLINIC STAFF LIBRARY stamped on it. I had just been crumpling it up in a ball to get rid of it when Foofer came around the corner of Youth and Adolescence and snatched the book out of my hands. “Why is zis woman of interest to you?” he spluttered, and chased me out of the library.

I remember a phrase or two. It went sumpm like this:

doing exactly what their age requires of them in turning into monsters, that is to say, unbearable people or their parents would never have the courage to wish them gone, and they themselves would never have the stupidity who have never worked a day in their lives and haven’t any real fired in ten minutes for slacking exactly as it should be they are right to loathe their parents equally right to loathe them

Well! that’s about enough of that, I thought, considered lining the sound hole of my brand-new pukelele with the thing, but on second thought, threw it the oink away.

BUG MOTELS IN CONCERT

Pipette, test-tube & beaker glockenspiel,

bed-panioforte ……………………………

Egbert Stein

(President)

Vocals,

catgut puke basin & leg brace ukulele ………………

Ursie “The Bogeywoman” Koderer

(Secretary)

Vocals,

speculum castanets,

breathometer pings,

sterilizer-top steel drum,

toilet-bowl float mariachis,

other assorted noise …………………

O

(Treasurer)

Vocals,

scrub tub bass……………

Dion

(Sergeant-at-Arms)

Vocals,

PVC pipe kazoo,

penny whistle…………………

Emily Nix Peabody

(Vice President in absentia)

Screeches,

mumbles,

falsetto,

sirens,

miscellaneous industrial sound effects………………

Mrs. Wilmot

(Member ad libitum)

HOW LOVE GOT US OUT OF THERE

Though behind ourselves in every other way, as rockers we Bug Motels were ahead of ourselves, or our time, or at least far out in front of the sagging royals, and we intended to stay there, up around the bend where they had found us, or sent us. We were getting better, every one of us, at least there were signs. Long ago on his druggie’s endless wanderings, when he used to pace the corridors beaming every deadend wall and locked door with his x-ray eyeballs, Bertie had found the Bug Motels a clubhouse, NO ROYALS ALLOWED it said on the door—we had taped that over the old sign that said NEUROPATHOLOGY. Bertie, now happily reunited to his legal moniker Egbert since (he thought) it had a certain musical ton, had turned up this weensy surgical amphitheater on the second floor, locked up tight so no mental patient of our day would even think of the kind of procedure that probably went on there once upon a time. But we liked it exactly because of that, because of the sick dream of skull tops sawed off like the ends of hairy coconuts and ice-cream scoop brains glistening wetly under their lids. Center stage down front was a dusty American flag and, in front of it, no lie-down table but a sit-up chair like a barber chair; here the poor wretch must have sat with the top of her head flipped open; here (we shuddered) must have clicked the doctors’ knives, forks and spoons to put an end to that mental peon’s troubles for good. And so after Bertie organized us a key we sneaked downstairs and took turns sitting in the barber chair, playing medical experiment, tongues hanging out, x’s in our eyes. We sat in the student desks around the barber chair and rested our medical instruments on the stomach-shaped desktops and played bughouse music. We were trying to fool around as much as we could before the royals threw us out. But they never did throw us out.

“Keeps yall off the street,” Reggie Blanchard joked and that was more or less the line the royals took on the Bug Motels and their “funny-farmyard noises,” which were, in fact, to the surprise of everyone, us as much as them, eerily beautiful and as light-fingered and sparsely knotted one to the other as audible cobwebs.

Then everybody got into it. By now hardly a day passed without somebody’s nurse escort or dreambox mechanic smuggling us a peculiarly melodious surgical instrument or scrap of hospital plumbing. But we Bug Motels didn’t take just anything. Love will get us out of here, we sang, but how to know it was love when we heard it tinkle or hiss? We had to listen hard. O had charge of a fleet of noisemakers not one of which percussed above a violent whisper.

O in song had a slow gluey quaver to her spooky-flute, a faintly wobbling vibrato deep in the gut of it like near-boiling gumbo, and, maybe to go along with the speculum castanets, she dug up a mantilla you could have sung Carmen in, webbed herself in red and black fishnet, stuck sequin beauty spots on her face and, not exactly flounced, more like lurked, lurked darkly around in this getup, staring at all of us unforgivingly out of the bottoms of her eyes. Her song, written by me, Bogeywoman, went:

O’S SONG

Doobee doobee dubio

Doowop welladay

Hugga bugga yumma yum

How do you like your buggers done

Boiled in bug juice, boiled in rum

Says the Queen of the Cannibal Islands

Love love

Love will get you out of here.

Who were we Bug Motels now? Come to find out inside our old confusion was fusion, anyway Egbert said so—fusion and conk. “They drop the k cause it reminds every mental patient that he is king, king of his own conk. Conk ya see is an old American negro word for the dreambox or a hairdo on top of it,” Egbert explained. This was the missionary Egbert at the peak of his conk-version. “You probably noticed, Bug Motels, how we are getting our heads together playing this music? We are conk-neck-ting our conks to our bodies like yesterday we connected our gut strings to our instruments and, whaddaya know, come to find out Love will get you outa here. Like it says in the weird kinda tunes the Bogeywoman writes for us.” (Egbert gave my shoulder a fond little punch, and I saw that O saw. I smiled weakly at her.)

Out of the bottoms of her eyes O peered at Egbert when he talked of love, to find out if he meant her. He didn’t, but still he was the one she looked at whenever she sang. She was off into labyrinths of twisted love for this bughouse Orpheus and his sawed-off-sneaker sandals and the sweaty prongs of dark hair sticking out around his ears and his round little-boy tortoiseshell eyeglasses that bounced on his nose whenever he dabbed at the keys with his hammers. She was staring out of the bottoms of her eyes at Egbert’s skinny, shiny, piecrust-crimper spine where it curled out of his tee shirt. He didn’t know she was there. That’s what she liked in a fuddy, he should be so absorbed in The Importance of what he was doing he didn’t know she was there. When a fuddy started tryna please a girl it got repulsive fast, well that’s what O said anyhow.

I was wondering if she still loved me, loved me at the same time she loved Egbert, and was I any better off if she did. He hunched in that miserly way over his homemade keyboards, plinking out tiny unearthly bug trails of notes, microscopic music-box rolls, jerky tunes, spastic countertunes, faint and far far away. Dion nodded to the beat. He went for all that love stuff and moreover couldn’t wait to love himself in a baby-blue spangled tux and kick in unison, if he could get anybody else to kick with him. His baritone was best bopping up and down the stave in round monosyllables like bum and boo. His song, composed by himself, went:

DION’S SONG

There was a bug lived in a zoo

It bugged him havin nuttin to do

bum bum bum di boo boo boo

Love will get you out of there

Reggie helped him with the second verse:

Fee fi fo fee fi fo fo

Hello? Say who? Don’t live here no mo.

Love has got him outahere

Outahere.

Rich bug poor bug buggerman thief

Bug mechanic Winnebuggo chief

Love will get you out of there

Only love will get you out

of

there.

The Regicide hung with us down in our surgical amphitheater as often as he could get off the mop. He fronted as our chaperone, as usual, but nowadays we prized his counsel, for his street corner doo-wop experience went deep. The refrain of course was from me, Bogeywoman.

You could see it in the scared respectful eyes of our dreambox mechanics: our music had made it beyond their usual categories, maybe even come bubbling up from someplace prior to them—the tar pits or the mysteries or sumpm. Anyhow they shoved over, the royals. Weren’t we getting better?

I liked Egbert myself, now that he was getting better. His skinny body looked good hunching over his bed-panioforte like a man overboard clambering onto a life buoy. As a Bug Motel, I admired him. After fifteen minutes fooling with the object, he could play anything, beef bones, bottle caps, orthodontic braces, PVC pipe with the plumbing code still on it. He sang the song I rustled up for him, although it was square as a barn door and old as the itch and he suspected it was filched from somewhere, which it was.

EGBERT’S SONG

And this will pass for music when nobuggy else is near,

The bug song for singing, the bug song to hear!

That only I remember, that only you admire,

Of the bughouse that screeches and the bughouse choir.

“Where you come up with them complexicated vocabules, Bogeywoman?” the Regicide, who was visiting, wished to know. “She has plagiarized Mother Goose and God and a few other bigwigs,” Egbert explained smoothly, “chops em up and conk-nects em all together. Don’t let it go to your conk,” he warned me.

I wondered where Egbert had gotten that love idea all of a sudden and it was easy to ask him because we two were the grinds among the Bug Motels. All the livelong summer’s day the two of us were plinking and strumming down the clubhouse when pretty soon the rest of em got sick of it and went back to playing O Hell for dimes and quarters at their old table in the dayroom. Egbert and me saw The Importance. Of course O didn’t see The Importance, but she saw us seeing it. She gazed and gazed at the pair of us out of the bottoms of her eyes.

Still, even O had to be alone sometimes; first thing every morning she had to make up her eyes to their usual mine disaster hugeness and scariness, and that took maybe an hour. At nine o’clock in the morning, Egbert and me were already plucking and twanging away in our clubhouse that had NO ROYALS ALLOWED taped over NEUROPATHOLOGY on the door. Our snack bar coffees were steaming, our Kools lay fuming on our armrests, and I asked Egbert: “Where’s this love stuff coming from? Used to be it was all D.O.A.P. with you, Egbert, and now it’s love.” Naturally I suspected that he, like me, had a Doctor Zuk behind it all, a secret passion moving everything it wasn’t crushing. Come to think of it—I narrowed my eyes at him—maybe he’d fallen for Zuk himself. Of course it had to be madame-too-beautiful-on-her-horse! I mean, who else in this fuddy bughouse was worth it?

“Naw, it was always love,” Egbert smiled up at me from tightening the endpin on some soundboard. “I just didn’t know back then what I was hungry for. I used to chase all day after D.O.A.P. and now I run after—better stuff. Higher stuff.” “Like—royal stuff?” I asked. “Royal stuff?” he echoed, looking at me conk-fusedly. He lifted the drain pan manjocello or gourdolin or whatever it was he was tuning, laid it on his desktop and stroked it sweetly. “See, when you track that D.O.A.P. all over the city it’s love, Ursie, but when you cop that D.O.A.P. and shoot that D.O.A.P., it’s nowhere, man, you’re right back where you started. But real love,” he turned his smiling face up at me and the fluorescent lighting starred all his very straight teeth, “love takes you up a level.” “Ya mean like—to the seventh floor?” That’s where the royals had their offices. “Hump no, Ursie. You don’t get it, do you?” I shook my head. Who cared what love was? Who do you love, that’s what I wanted to know, but I hadn’t figured out how to put the question.

“You know, I was a doper before I was even born and I still am and that’s how I wound up in the bughouse and got in the Bug Motels and met you,” Egbert said. “My Unkie Jerry told my old man and old lady to put me in this place and I cussed the hump out of all of em but now I see they were right. My Unkie Jerry’s an obstetrician. He’s the one who was always telling me, Bertie, get off that shit! Be a producer not a consumer! But you know, since he delivered me, he was the first one pumping it in.” “Um, er, uh, pumping what in? Whaddaya mean you were a doper before you were even born?” I inquired, half curious half squeamish to hear this story. “Pinky, that’s my mom, when she’s pregnant with me she has to be the hippest thing in motherdom, the most in the know, so she goes through La Mayonnaise or however you call that training, but when the day came, no matter how natural she breathed I wouldn’t come out until they put some D.O.A.P. in her. So there you are, that’s why I say I was a junkie before the Steins ever got hold of me.” “Aw quit bragging,” I laughed. “No, man, I mean it, this sounds funny but I swear I can sorta remember it. I’m squinting down the rabbit-hole and see Unkie Jerry standing there in the light at the end of the tunnel, in his white coat. Come on, son! he says, Be a producer. Not a consumer! He’s got this little blue starter pistol sticking straight up in the air, and it goes BANG! Sumpm about him got on my nerves, man. I wouldn’t budge.” “You remember all that?” I said doubtfully. “Sure! Then in comes this beautiful toasted-almond-color nurse carrying a little ampule and a big syringe. Hello junior, she says, I got sumpm here I bet you like, and shoots up Pinky, and bingo, I came, soon as the stuff was in her, see? So I figure if it was just me I didn’t even want to be born. Only the idea there was D.O.A.P. out there could move me.”

“I dig,” I said. I liked Egbert. I mean, we were in the bughouse, where they’re always tryna get you to rat on your parents. I had to admire him for stealing the blame for his own bughood, even if he had to sneak back into the womb to do it. “Say, are you rolling in dough, Egbert?” I asked. I remembered that the concert house across from the B&O was the Stein, the third floor where Emily got wedged in the laundry chute was the Stein Otolaryn-gological Institute, the Stein Cartography Collection on the high mezzanine of the downtown library was a hot contender in my search for the primo launching pad in the city for offing myself to a greasespot, all the most tubercular-looking blue period funambules were in the Stein Wing at the art museum—“You met Egbert and Pinky,” Egbert said, “if they ate their dough with a knife and fork it still wouldn’t run out. They’re so godzilla rich they don’t do anything. They run the foundation, that’s about it.” “The foundation?” “For draining off the family money … But I think I’m more like Unkie Jerry, I gotta do sumpm.

“You know, Ursie, some people—not you—” he waved his hand, breezily exempting me, “need sumpm to chase after, and I’m one of em. I need sumpm to do, some kinda thing outside of a person. D.O.A.P. takes care of all that. When you’re a junkie you know what you’re looking for all day long—you’re looking for stuff. That’s why love is the same as D.O.A.P., it gives you some kinda half a reason to get out of bed in the morning,” he added—where had I heard that before?

“Hey, that’s what O says about love,” I snuck in. “Does she?” Egbert yawned. Not that I was trying to sic her on him, I even kinda missed the life-or-death thrills and chills of her amorous persecution, but it came down to this: better him than me. “Speaking of O …” I said. “Back off, it’s hopeless, Ursie,” Bertie said gently, “I’m in love already. Hey, I know the one I love is, er, funny about fuddies, but we’re both in the Bug Motels and that’s love too. Draining music out of death supplies is a high form of love, man. That’s what we do. She sees The Importance …”

He didn’t dare look up from his bed-panioforte. I felt the heat rush up to my ears, for that could only be me he was describing. So he knew I was funny about fuddies. If he had divined, who else was hot on my trail? I didn’t mind his love so much: Like I said he looked kind of sweet hunched over his keyboards, and not much of a fuddy at all, maybe a hundred and five girly pounds with sharp little hipbones barely holding up his pants. He looked like a stiff breeze would flatten him, I mean I couldn’t see him and O at all, but, who knows, these musical wizards have fingering, and they see The Importance. If he had to love a Bug Motel, it came down to this: better her than me.

“O …” I opened my mouth. “O … O …” I shut it again and looked hard at the flagpole, that little tent of stars and stripes behind the barber chair, for I had just spotted a pair of gold lamé ballet slippers at the bottom of it. O was among us. Egbert followed the dotted line of my gaze and I saw he saw. What had we said that might egg on a murderess? It seemed like every word of love could have stuck to O as well as to me. Was O funny about fuddies?—well who wasn’t? And O of all people had to stop thinking about men that way. Was O in the Bug Motels? Did O make bughouse music? I had the words but she had the tubes, the spooky-flute and the gumbo wobble. And as for who saw The Importance: what girlgoyle thinks herself a lightweight? not even Tinkerbell. We ought to be safe, Egbert and me, but the American flag was muttering under its breath.

There was one way out of this fix: “… a three and a four and a …” I burst into song.

Shananah so what shazaam

Ma nishtanah hullo whozat?

Meeka mooka boppaloo adonoy

So what shazaam bray pree hagofen

The words were pure foam off the top of my head, but I knew I had never sung so well. Egbert outdid himself falling in with this doggerel. His double-jointed thumbs on the bed-panioforte dribbled out their usual tender monkey dissonances, his pinkies whisked the jingles on a distant tambourine.

And then I caught wind of sumpm else: O oowooing from inside the Stars and Stripes, not mad anymore but sobbing like the lost soul of America she really was. How come she hadn’t jumped me on the general suspicion, as was her habit? I gazed at the flag in perplexity, and right away I saw a certain roundness behind the thirteen colonies where her belly was. Yes, O had been unusually zaftig lately, her momps as a matter of fact had left even Mary Hartline’s in the dust, good godzilla could she be

“You are angels from heaven for the world! My god, where you have learned to make music like that, what nobody can teach—”

In rolled Doctor Zuk, and not only Doctor Zuk, for she had in her hands the wheelchair handles of Emily Nix Peabody.

It was the first I had seen of my see-through princess in months. So much had happened since I burned her up in her I CHOCOLATE bathrobe that a different me struggled to my feet to get a look at her. And of course it was a different Emily. Fatter, way fatter, and it wasn’t just the padding she was wrapped in. Her arms stuck out over the sides of her wheelchair like a blow-up doll’s, each one ending in five gauze sausages. Her thighs were mummied up too and propped wide, but on the other side of her knees her regular old shins and feet dangled, in her regular old dirty white socks and scabby Mary Janes. Her face was puffy, still Emily but too tired to be ugly-cute anymore. She looked plain and sad. When she saw me her beaky little top lip poked out in the old way and her bucked teeth showed, but I wasn’t so sure she was glad to see me. “Hey Em, how ya doing,” I whispered. “Not so good,” she whispered back, the colorless fringes of her tapwater-blue eyes gummed up with tears, and she looked away.

Lemme tell you, such a negative report of herself from Miss Dying Popularity, the nurses’ pet, the Bug Motel most prized for her guts, was a shock and my jaw dropped and I didn’t know what to say. “You look fatter,” I finally observed, “that ain’t bad.” “Miss Peabody is doing better in highest degree,” Doctor Zuk announced. “She will soon be well.” Emily sniffed mightily. “What is wrong, my dear?” Zuk asked, peering into Emily’s face; now even she seemed puzzled. “They played so purty,” Emily said. “Yes indeed, and so shall you,” Zuk said heartily, “what I have promised? why are we here?” But Emily didn’t answer and in a moment madame-too-beautiful-on-her-horse leaned over with a handkerchief and wiped her nose, from which a curtain of green snot had descended. “What I have promised, eh?” she soothed, polishing Emily’s little freckled cocktail onion of a nose, flashing her eyes angrily at me over Emily’s head. What did I do, I almost asked, but what kinda question was that, when Emily sat there like Europe in ruins? “You shall sing, you shall play,” Zuk boomed like a prophetess.

All the same I didn’t like that, Zuk telling Emily and all the world that any girl could be a rock star if she only tried. “You could hum along,” I told Emily, and Zuk gave me a look that said Monster, despair, you shall never have me or be me.

But come to think of it Emily could sing, I suddenly recalled, sing, yes, like a little girl, but not just any little girl, the little girl, the fabulous girlgoyle of myth and legend, that is, a high voice straight as a pencil that doesn’t quite land on the blue rule it’s aiming for but pierces to the numbest cochlea … We could use that in the Bug Motels and in fact Emily was a Bug Motel, she had always been a Bug Motel, what was I thinking of?

“Um, er, uh, maybe you can sing after all,” I said. “Soon’s you pick up the tune.” “I couldn’t never make up no wacky words like that,” Emily was sniffling. “Whaddaya mean,” I argued, trying not to look as frog-proud of my word salad as I naturally was, “you just hold your mouth open and the bugs swim out. You’re in the bughouse, right? There’s always some in there.” “Unh-unh, I couldn’t, I couldn’t,” Emily whined. It was like her fabulous girlgoyle nerve had burned up with her fingers.

“Hey, you don’t need a song. I got a song for you, Emily. I got songs for everybody,” I bragged. “Quiet, is enough from you, Miss Bogeywoman,” madame-too-beautiful-on-her-horse had the cheek to cut me off in my own clubhouse, NO ROYALS ALLOWED, and then she turned to Egbert: “Mr. Stein, you have instrument for Miss Peabody?” “It’s around here somewhere,” Bertie mumbled. I could hardly believe my ears—the two of em had schemed behind my back! Bertie bent down and thrashed around in the big black doctor’s bag he used for his music stuff. “Egbert plays even gooder than Ursie,” Emily commented helpfully. She was mad at me, not for setting her on fire of course but for forgetting to save her place in the Bug Motels.

Meanwhile Bertie pulled out this wire thing made of godzilla knows what orthopedic appliances and set it on Emily’s head. It looked like the halo from a Sunday school play, only with one rakish antenna spronging out of it and curling around into Emily’s face—some kinda clear plastic laboratory-pipe kazoo or whistle or sumpm was bobbing there at the end of it. Bla-a-a-at! Wouldn’t you know she got a pure A out of it the first time she tried.

Well I had never felt so rudely put in my place in my life but as it was madame-too-beautiful-on-her-horse who had put me there, I wouldn’t give up so easily. “Hey, Em, wanna hear my song?” I fired off, “even though yours is better?” Emily stopped blowing, the wastewater whistle dangled there patiently in its off-the-eyebrows orbit, and she said with a sick little smile, “Yeah, sure, Ursie.” “We have heard your song,” Zuk intervened coldly, “it is very fine song, like we told you once already, but now is time for somebody else.” Exactly when she put on these democratic airs, Doctor Zuk was the royalest royal of them all. “Ahem, NO ROYALS ALLOWED,” I quoted, pointing to the hand-lettered sign thumbtacked over NEUROPATHOLOGY. “Will you please shut up and let Emily play, Ursie,” Bertie said to me. I stared at him in disbelief. He was a whole new person, he was getting better, he was getting even better than me. I didn’t like that. Now that he was in love with me I could see he meant to jack me up to the highest standards. I stuck out my chin and announced: “That last tune was just an improv. I got my own song, everybody gets a song.” “Give Em a turn now. We all know you’re the best,” Egbert said. Dead silence after that, since everybody knew who was really the best. They all stared at me, waiting for me to be a better person. “I ain’t the best, you are and you know it,” I caved in, and was ready to lay my pukelele down or even play humble backup when Emily said, “I got nuttin to sing yet, honest, all-a-youse. Whyncha let Ursie go first.” They looked at each other, shrugging. What could they do? Hah!

Instead of my own ditty, I tuned up my puke and sang

EMILY’S SONG

Because I couldn’t stop for lunch,

It kindly stopped for me.

The van read PIZZAS BY HASSAN

FAST FREE DELIVERY

It’s two weeks later now and I’m

No fatter than the day

I started eating pizza

To postpone mortality.

It’s two years later now and I’m

Still tryna put away

That eighteen-inch cold pizza

Known as immortality.

“I think I heard that song before,” said O, wrinkling up her nose. She was always poking that nose into some ragged anthology in the dayroom, maybe she really smelled a rat. “Heh-heh, I don’t think so,” I muttered, but then my eye fell on Zuk. Her ugly hands were on her hips and her dark eyes flashed. “You have steal Miss Peabody’s song,” she said, “I am shocked.” “No I didn’t,” I said uncomfortably, “I just borrowed it.” True, I had sung Emily’s words to O Susanna in my sloppy haste. Probably that gave away my larceny even to a dreambox mechanic from Outer Hotzeplotz. Yes, all at once I was sure that even in Outer Hotzeplotz, third graders sang “O Susanna!” the same way we sang “La Cucaracha” and “Song of the Volga Boatmen” at P.S. 149. I turned red. “Greedy, greedy girl,” Doctor Zuk rolled her guttural r’s at me, “what I will do with you? Look what you have done,” and she pointed down at gauze-upholstered little Miss Peabody, refusal was her middle name. Emily had managed to twist her face into her wheelchair so all I could see was the tangled back of her head.

I saw I’d better do sumpm for Emily or Zuk would be disgusted with me for weeks. “Hey Em.” She turned back around and she was a puzzle piece of sad lumps around her face, like all Bug Motels when they wonder how they fit in. But the thing about puzzle pieces is, you can turn them. “Say Em,” I said, “I made up that song just for you and if you don’t like it, I don’t know what I’m gonna do.” And my neck, it’s a pretty long neck, wilted like a strip of bacon. I got so low and depressed that I even banged my chin on my pukelele, which played a weird, going-nowhere, broken-down fence gate of a chord. Then she had to do sumpm for me, see. Then she fit in again. “That ain’t it, Ursie, I love that song,” she said nobly. “It was my best,” I sniffled.

I slid a glance over at Doctor Zuk to see if she bought it. I don’t think so. Her eyes glowed down at me like nuggets of greenblack kryptonite or sumpm. “You are good little horse thief,” she said to me without smiling. “So—what shall be punishment of Bogeywoman, Miss Peabody? She must be punished. You may choose.”

“Whatcha gonna punish her for?” Emily asked in genuine consternation. “For too big will,” Doctor Zuk replied, “she eats too much, she talks too much, she sings too much, she takes whole room and lives only little bit for somebody else.” “She wrote me that purty song,” Emily pointed out. Doctor Zuk smirked knowingly behind Emily, but only for my benefit. “At everything, everything she touches, Miss Bogeywoman is good,” Doctor Zuk agreed, “but she can be better. So what is right punishment for her?” Emily looked around for some kind of help, her grave little Joan of Arc eyes gone watery, almost scared now. “Make her sing her own ugly song,” I whispered in Emily’s ear. “Make her sing her own ugly song,” Emily repeated in relief. “Your song, please,” Doctor Zuk ordered. She was furious. Her eyebrows arched, her eyelids descended; she was imperially bored. “It’s ugly,” I warned em. “I hope is ugly, since you have steal show from Miss Peabody,” Doctor Zuk said, “now please to get it over.”

MY SONG

Bugs Baloney, who’s a phony?

The fat begins to fry

Nobody home but the telephony

Who’d call a goyle like I?

Doowop    dwop dead

The blind eat many a fly

Every slave will have a slave

Why not you and I

It was ugly all right, hungry and repulsive. It was Emily puffed up in her yellow salve and white gauze like a cheese stick, and me trying to save her, and Zuk trying to save her from me, and me showing off and feeling rotten. It was me feeling like kissing somebody, but even more like throwing up.

Egbert caught the smack of gay disgust as only a musical genius could, and gave it a Leprosy Tango beat on the bed-panioforte, and where the eyeball goes into the highball, O oowooed inside the flag with the righteous spookitude of one in whom spookitude is innate. Emily blatted in the classic manner of a fabulous girlgoyle, somewhere in the general vicinity of the beat and just slightly off key. O, she was a Bug Motel all right from the first blat. Now I see it was always Emily who gave us our air of ninny self-confidence, of dumb innocence ploughing on, of infant hope already caught in the jaws of failure but bumping cheerfully over the molars, like a babe bouncing down thickly carpeted stairs.

Just then Dion showed up in the clubhouse and took over the sterilizer-top steel drum, energetically playing pianissimo (it had only one dynamic, pianissimo) so you could thank godzilla hardly hear him. It didn’t matter how he played, for with his black forelock leaping around like Mighty Mouse, he was as handsome as he thought he was, and while we stared at him, he stared entranced at his own spoonified face in the drumhead mirror.

Nobody home but the telephony

Who’d call a goyle like I?

Dwip dwop    dwop dead

Boruch a tweet tweet tweet

ENTER THAT DIRTY STOOLIE, MARGARET KODERER

And this is where you came in. “Ursula?” “Margaret! Godzillas sake what took you so long and where the hump have you been. How’d you find me?” You smiled slyly. “This adroit professional showed me around the hospital and escorted me down here poisonally and even fixed the parking ticket on my pickup truck.” Behind you stood the Regicide in his custom-tapered white orderly’s trousers and three-button white jacket, which, pinkies genteelly extended, he was just now buttoning once, at the breastbone, as was the fashion.

Everybody was waiting to be introduced. O even came out of the flag and got in line. Reginald had a new Polaroid camera, ker-POP, ker-POP, ker-POP—a Great Day in the Bug Hospital. That’s why this famous picture exists. “Doctor Zuk and The Bug Motels: Egbert, Dion, Emily, O and me. May I present my older sister, Margaret Koderer?” “Hi.” “Pleased.” “How ya doin.” “Enchanté.” “Gr-r-r-r-r.” [“Cheese, O, you look all ballooned up, are you pregnant or sumpm?” “None of your beez-wax, what do you care.” “So whose is it?” “Keep your big nose out of it but suppose I tell you my hubby-to-be is here in this room and is a lowdown royal.” “Reggie! You don’t think the Regicide is gonna marry you?” “He better cause I gotta get better fast or they won’t let me keep my baby, I mean I been in the bughouse two years already.” “You wanna keep it? You call that better?” “Oink yourself, Ursie.”]

“So you are Margaret. I have heard very much about you and now is fascinating to see you with own eyes.” “Well don’t look too hard or my legend will crumble.”

How do you do it, Margaret? Even with O in the room, and Emily, and Doctor Zuk herself, the forbidden love of my life—even in that starry group, you were the center of attention, ker-POP, ker-POP, ker-POP. Well, for a minute, anyhow. That certain air of erotic abandon you have—godzilla knows it isn’t your good looks. “Pfui,” Doctor Zuk muttered, sniffing the air, peering around for the reason the whole clubhouse suddenly smelled like a horse barn. They eyed your bristly pigtails tied off with red vegetable-stand rubberbands, and your muck-stiff dungarees, and your yellow-green eyes afloat in big black eyeglasses like two frogs in two ponds. For maybe a minute they eyeballed you, and Reggie snapped shots of you, ker-POP, ker-POP, ker-POP. O thought about cutting your throat, no doubt, but she had to get better now.

Then you broke the spell: “Say, that tune was cooking, Ursula, you got genius like I never knew you had. And you look good, surprisingly good. I don’t know, I was gettin a message on the pineal channel like you’d landed at the end of the world and I’d better swoop in and get you outa there, but I’m beginning to see this joint must have its compensations. For example who woulda thought you had blond hair under all that grease? But long as I’m here and that barber chair is so handy, lemme give you a haircut.” You unrolled the Morning Telegraph you had in your pocket, fanned out sheets of it, produced scissors, waved your hand at the chair. And like a zombie I climbed in, ancient habit.

[“Who are these people?” you whispered in my ear, “I mean, can we talk here?” “Nothing too poisonal,” I hissed back, I mean how was I gonna tell you that I’d changed my mind about leaving?]

“Ahem,” you began, “well who would have picked this dump for the place where the birth of the blues O-riginated? But I’m only a sane person, you bughouse guys are so talented … [Ursula, who is that cute, well sorta cute, little girl wrapped in gauze and what in godzillas name happened to her?” you fizzed in my ear, snip snip snip.]

“Excuse me, we Bug Motels don’t presume to play the real negro blues on our bughouse instruments,” Egbert expounded, trying to collect any little stray crumbs of your attention, and I could see you registering his dimensions, thinking, The glasses are cute but what a squirt, I could wrap my legs around that sardine twice, “we play conk-fusion,” he continued, “which is to say, using whatever hospital stuff we can pinch to play the tinny tiny noises of our own unknown inner machinery, on the notion that love will get us out of here, er, are you doing anything tonight?” (I eyed O, who eyed me. I shrugged. Poisonally I was beginning to wonder what was with all these bugheads? Had every one of them scarfed some love gunk today like in A Midsummer Night’s Dream?)

“Blues was just a manner of speaking,” you smiled serenely, as if this happened to you every day, which it did, snip snip, tinka tinka tinka, “and actually I’m only here to parlay privately with my sister, that is, if I can ever pry her out of this schubertiad, but thanks.”

“Ursie writes all the words for the Bug Motels,” Emily tattled gravely.

[“Who is that child?” you whispered, “does she need a home? Could she be fostered?” “Not by you,” I hissed back, “you live in sin with a racetrack bum for godzillas sake, you think the folks that run this bughouse are crazy?” “So maybe I’ll get married,” you said. “Yeah sure, Margaret, when pigs fly and rivers run uphill. And anyhow I gotta admit he’s not just a racetrack bum. Mr. Tod Novio, alias Boyfriend Death, would be a bum anywhere. The exact face of Lovelace in the Classic Comic! And by the way, on which ten-cent racetrack are we refusing to sully our hairy hands with labor now?” “Indian Mound Downs,” you smirked, “Great Cacapon, West Virginia. I gotta be back to feed by five. Listen Ursula I could fix that little girl, I could fatten her up, I could get her all the way better.” “Better kidnap her then, they’re never letting you have her.”]

“Bertie plays the bestest, but Ursie sings the loudest,” Emily further reported. (Loudness was not a point in your favor with the Bug Motels.) “Regardless,” you said, raising a finger: “I can only say, Ursula, your song is shayn vi die zeeben welten. Honest I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“First learn to talk, then learn to sing, say wise old men of treatment staff, okay I go along with this,” Doctor Zuk recalled, “but when Miss Bogeywoman finally opens her mouth, after twenty-one months silent like grave, song comes out, only song, and what song! like an angel. I wonder what Sigmund Food would say? Surely is something for mental science in all of this?” Doctor Zuk ran her strong ugly hands through her spiky hair and smiled secretively.

And this was the first you must have awakened to the mysterious powers of this beautiful dreambox mechanic or bughouse commissar or whatever exactly she was, from some pre-Foodian oblast east of the Urals: you stepped back from the barber chair and took a long look at her. “You know I knew old Ursula here wouldn’t talk to the dreambox mechanics no matter how much Merlin had to pay for a room in this dump—in fact the more the better. Twenty-one months, eh?” You laughed hysterically.

Doctor Zuk arched an eyebrow at you, possibly she had been indiscreet? But then she continued decisively: “I see you are getting incredibly better, Miss Bogey. You can make songs like that! Why don’t you tell me what you want. You want music lessons? You want go back to school? I talk tonight to Dr. Feuffer.” I stared at her. Sumpm about that I talk tonight to Dr. Feuffer got seriously on my nerves, what was it? “Don’t talk to Foofer tonight. I’ll talk to Foofer myself. Cheese I turned into the creakiest gate in the bughouse while you weren’t looking,” I whined, “and now you’re gonna talk to Foofer!” “What makes you think I was not looking?” Zuk said loftily: “How dare you say this? You think you know me? My dear, you don’t know where I come from, where I go. You must see big, not small, to find me. You must get much more better to know me. You don’t know me at all.”

Sumpm about this speech so crushed my heart I threw myself into my little NEUROPATHOLOGY desk and banged my pukelele on the desktop and sulked right in front of everybody. And it’s a good thing there were no razor blades handy—I looked for the scissors, but they were in your hand. “Hey, Ursula, your haircut’s not done,” you said. “Got a dime?” “Sure.” “Call somebody that gives an oink,” I snarled. “Why you are so evil-tempered when somebody praised your song?” Doctor Zuk inquired, in her most enlightened and dreambox-mechanical voice. I glared at her. You are a leviathan, even your kiss is like a house fell on me.

Finally I tried to save face: “Look, it isn’t just me. Where our music is concerned, all us Bug Motels hate to get our hopes up.” “Bingo,” Egbert said, “don’t make us hope for fame or you’ll spoil everything. We know we could be as good as Chuck Berry and still get nowhere but Neuropathology. Or maybe we get a fifty-dollar gig playing Cousin Freddie’s bar mitzvah now and then, but we don’t care. Only love will get us outa here. Everybody’s a rock star now.”

“Wait—how many rock stars live in the bughouse? I mean dat’s a new angle, ain’t it?” Dion declared. Bla-a-a-at, spla-a-a-t, we all blew raspberries at this childish idea.

[“That is one Adonis of a retard, definitely better than anything else I see around this bughouse, he’s got a genuine Greek cevapcici fattening the pinstripes in those pegged pants and anyhow he’s not so dumb. When you think about it, the publicity angles for a rock band from the bughouse are fantastic,” you hissed in my ear, “what’s he in for anyway?” “Terminal narcissism … go ahead, laugh, he’s so in love with himself he had to go to Emergency one time for trying to oink himself in his own bunghole, in front of the mirror.” “Well, judging by the structure in those trousers it wouldn’t be out of the question …” “Ugh, Margaret, how can you even think of oinking that mooncalf.” “At least I’m just thinking about it,” you smiled.]

“O why can’t you dreambox mechanics leave us the oink alone,” O said gloomily, “we’re the Bug Motels, we don’t play to get famous, we don’t even play for ourselves. We play to forget ourselves, for O … O … O … O … blivion.” “What she means is, we’re kids, we don’t zackly like grownups,” Emily explained. “There you are. That’s why we don’t get our hopes up,” I concluded.

Doctor Zuk blew a great cloud of Turkish smoke in our faces. “Hopes? who talks anything about hopes?” she said. “Who lives on hope dances without music, but who has music lives without hope. You five Bug Hotels have music, this I know. I, I have no music, but I know how to set saddle on right donkey. This is my God-given gift.” And her face filled up with light and looked love, not on us, on me, me alone, for seven straight seconds. Well it was more than five, less than ten, but I could tell it was love—I snuck a glance over at you—you saw it too.

Trouble dented your forehead. Your idled scissors snipped air, tinka tinka tink. Doctor Zuk, having blessed me with that look, was already squinching out the door in her silver sandals. I watched her, the familiar systole diastole of her muscular buttocks, the flickering curves of her soccer player’s calves. All at once my heart opened up like a peacock’s fan, I knew all the colors of love. First red hunger drenched me, hot and disgusting, and I almost choked on my own tongue, so strongly did I want to put all that in my mouth. Then, black shame—you were watching, worried sick, with that dent printed on your forehead. Then I went white, for suddenly I knew why it made me furious, that Tonight I tell Dr. Feuffer. This wasn’t epidemic insomnia among harassed professionals, with late-night telephone calls. It was a dinner date! The scoop on Foofer (via the Regicide, hence you could run trains by it) had him outa here and into Haussner’s for a kirschwasser every afternoon by five on the button. Ergo, cocktails at the very least. They were in cahoots, no, in love, it explained everything. My heart drowned. What else did I expect? She was beautiful, she was famous, I could never get her or be her. Then that hot surf of hunger slapped me around again and ground me into the sand and when I stood up again I was dizzy and seasick, and knew what I had to do: spy on Madame Zuk.

“Hey, how about getting back in this barber chair and letting me finish. You look crazy as a bedbug with your hair half on, half off.” Snip snip. [“It’s not just your hair, Ursula, you got a mad light in your eye, the way you were eyeballing that old dame’s hindparts when she left like you were gonna track her and do bad stuff to her, say, what the hump’s going on here anyway? You’re not really buggy, are you, Ursula?” I suddenly realized I better explain. “Er, uh, you got any dough, Margaret?” “Sure.” “How about you take me down to the Chesapeake Room and feed me?” “The which?” “Glorified cafeteria, ground floor.” “My pleasure.”]

Crabcakes, coleslaw, devil’s food cake, your treat, just like old times. “So whaddaya think?” I finally asked you, wanting your take on Doctor Zuk—I was gonna tell you, I really was.

“Cheese, are you sure you don’t want out of the bughouse, Ursula?” you jumped right in instead, “I mean it may be a private joint and sorta ritzy, and setting Merlin back a yard a day which he deserves for deserting you, but it still smells like industrial solvents and dead people’s farts and it’s kinda like jail.” “That’s just all the overcooked vegetables,” I said, “breathing those farts is better’n eating, I mean there’s a lotta vitamins in em, and besides you deserted me too, Margaret.” I pointed my fork at you.

“I’m not your mother or father,” you said. “Sure you are if the real ones are missing, and anyway you took the job till you got, er, uh, boy-crazy is too weak a word, how about bug-eyed for outlaw fudd of every stripe and color?” You laughed. “I don’t know why,” you sighed, “the respectable type just doesn’t appeal to me …” “So is that con-man-in-a-ragged-silk-shirt doing any work around the farm these days?” “Not a lick.” “What good is he anyway?” I grumbled. “Ahem, you really want the venereal details?” “Some other time maybe …”

“It’s crazy fun on the racetrack, you’ll like it,” you said. “I was gonna come for you, Ursula, I had to fight down the urge … tell you the truth I’m sorta scared if you come to the track you’ll end up in even more trouble than I’m in, you’ll find some way. But are you really getting better in this place, I mean your arms look like two raw meatloafs, godzillas sake what’s that all about …”

“I’m in the hospital aren’t I? I gotta have sumpm wrong, long as I’m here. You wouldn’t want me hearing voices or picking up secret messages from “Louie Louie” or anything really buggy like that.” “You don’t want out? I mean I was sitting in the track kitchen and I got the most urgent flash, Margaret come get me get me get me outa here.” “Well I gotta own up I had one bad day, but that was before I made all these, er, musical friends and”—I whispered—“Zuk gave me her phone number.”

“What?! She’s a dreambox mechanic in this hospital and she gave you her private telephone number? What for? What kinda place is this place?” “Take it easy, don’t go flooey on me, keep your voice down”—Dr. Buzzey and Dr. Beasley were polishing off potato chips two tables to our left—“she’s, er, uh, a special foreign visitor, she lives on the grounds.”

Your forehead got that special dent again, dark blue and V-shaped, the shadow of some doomy bat, or bird. You wanted to tell me no no no but choked it down. Like mental patients we two sisters were not historically in the habit of hollering down each other’s stupider schemes. No squealing, lemme die first, doesn’t quite sum it up. There comes a day when even the other sister’s hair is standing on end, like when I watched you climb into that forty-foot frog-green bus marked Girl Scout Troop No. 49, headed for the Yukon with Mr. Johnny Rico, a car thief on the lam. Shrieking Margaret what is your problem would have been by our standards deplorably impolite. I watched you go. And likewise now I thought I saw your nut-brown hair stirring at the root, getting ready to raise those kinky braids like drawbridges, and your mouth fell open, but not one word did you say, just that bruise-blue dent in the middle of the forehead. “Well, so long, Ursula,” you finally managed, “when you get sick of the bughouse, you know where to find me. I guarantee you the racetrack won’t make you any buggier than this joint.” And you clomped off to feed for Boyfriend Death at 5 PM, on the backside of Indian Mound Downs, in Great Cacapon, West Virginia.

HOW LOVE GOT ME OUT OF THERE

When you’re buggy, there’s nothing like having a mission. Then like a flying bug you shoot through space, short, straight and frictionless. All those crawly bugs that in nightmares perforate your dreambox and riddle your conk with their busy incessant comings and goings have only aerated your machinery for this light-headed zoom. And so it was once I resolved to spy on Doctor Zuk.

I started running in the second floor stairwell and by the time I passed Lopes at the front desk in the lobby, I wasn’t even a blur—a blur might have required interpretation—I was the August heat, a liquid twitch of air between eye and pavement, so that he yawned and shook his head once, and went on picking his teeth.

My sneakers flailed the hot sidewalks up Monument, down Gay, straight to Charlie Rudo’s. It had been lying on a blue satin pillow in a locked display case when I bought my walky-talkies, I had peered at it with longing, and the salesman had let me twirl its knobs and hold its soft rubber bumper to my eye—a Zeiss Model 1-1000, the Field Marshal or should I say Marschallin of all spyglasses, a tool that could pick out the wrinkles around a raccoon’s fingernails in a mulberry top a mile distant, or, more to the point here, find a drop of blood, well it could be a drop of blood, on a girlgoyle’s white shorts and follow it up three escalators. Now I looked underneath at the price tag and reeled: $499.99! O well, for spying as for tracking, cool wits, doggedness, and if you had to have equipment, the best that you could buy or rather charge to Merlin and return tomorrow or the next day. “To the account please of Mr. Melvin P. Koderer, 18 Ploy Street, Baltimore, 2, Maryland.” And then I ran back to Rohring Rohring with this queen of spyglasses in a plain brown wrapper in my arms.

I couldn’t just lie on my bed and spy. Plenty of times, before the Bug Motels had their clubhouse NO ROYALS ALLOWED, I had back-floated there all the summer afternoon and stared at the eensy black domino that was Doctor Zuk’s balcony, and how should the nurses know what I was looking at? What could be more like a mental patient than to stare into empty space? But to lie there with a spyglass would give my staring a purposeful, even a paranoid air, not at all the sort of impression you want to make in the bughouse.

So I whipped up a “bath gate”: this was when you got the bathroom door and the hospital room door to stick together at their latches. Meanwhile you turned on the plumbing full force so that the elephant-trumpet of the bath boomed all the way to the nurses’s station; and you dumped in Her Secret Moments by the pound and threw clothes all around. It took a royal a good twenty seconds to get the doors unstuck and usually they just gave up and yelled through the crack.

I used up all my clothes that way, but what the hump, why not spy on Doctor Zuk stark naked? I lay on my back, my left hand stole to my crack, the sheets were cool, a faint breeze stirred from the harbor, it was almost lovely with my spyglass climbing the balconies rung by rung to Zuk’s altitude …

“Whuzzup, Bogeywoman, you gettin into sumpm you shouldn’t?” It was the Regicide on the half-hour, rattling at the hooked doors. “I’m in the bath,” I hollered. “I never know you to take you no bath before, raggedy as you be. I be back in five minutes.” “I take plenty of baths since I started getting better. You better keep out.” “Five minutes, Bogeywoman, I’m coming in.” “You just wanna see me naked.” “You think so? I see better than that in the buggy old ladies’ ward every day, better tips too. Say! talkin bout better, way your hot sister at?” “Why don’t you oink yourself?” “Fi minutes.”

By now Her Secret Moments had started clouding up the czarina of spyglasses, and the main thing I saw from my back was a big black blur—my own window bars. I sighed and stood up on the bed, threaded the spyglass carefully, carefully through the bars and twirled the knobs and ratcheted up the balconies, flowerpot by flowerpot.

I knew her balcony right away by its nakedness—I mean you couldn’t imagine madame-too-beautiful-on-her-horse angling a watering can over pink petunias, or dangling dingy brassieres from a clothesline. But there was nothing, not even a bent-up chaise longue, and of course she wasn’t there, why was I even doing this? Wait, sumpm flickered, no, glinted, at the sliding screen door, and behind the gray rain of the metal screen, sumpm white floated, I rolled the velvety knobs and sumpm black, a black smudge, a black star, precipitated out of it, good godzilla cold sweat sprang out like horns on my temples it was an islet of black pubic hair I was hanging on, sort of a tropical isle, or like an old scary garden, overgrown, shadowy, sprawling, the arcs to the thighs lightly bearded like trellises, not all neatly edged in its pretty little patch like O’s. I went dizzy—except for Mrs. Wilmot’s scattered bristles I had never seen any but a girlgoyle’s—but maybe it wasn’t Zuk, no, lower, those were definitely her famous soccer player’s calves, I’d know them anywhere. Deep navel, lobes of well-fatted muscle, and suddenly I was looking at her breasts, I almost fell over backwards. So not like mine, so not like a girlgoyle’s, sumpm really hanging there, heavy bosom, weight, heft, I thought of the round provolones always dripping in their pale cloths in Karoline von Etzen’s basement but it was useless to scare up anything merely edible to save me, these were real and naked, I could even see the freckles on them and the big purple nuzzies hung low on their fluid roundness like old dried beach roses. It was scary all right, she was old, beautiful but old as the hills and crags, and slightly sickening like you ate too much Coquilles St. Jacques even if it was your favorite food. All at once I fixed on another black tuft—densely crosshatched armpit, course godzilla knows they don’t shave in Outer Hotzeplotz but it was the ripeness, the more than ripeness of everything that made me woozy like being in an orchard left to rot. And looking at that black thatch and the round arms and the white elbows I realized the breasts were draped in that offering way that breasts fall when arms are raised, saw the spiky hair all around and secretive smile but why couldn’t I see—what was she holding in front of her face—my godzilla it’s a pair of binoculars! She knows perfectly well I am looking, she’s looking too, she laughs, she even waves. The czarina of spyglasses leaps out of my fingers, floats on air, and slowly, slowly, rolls to the—cheese I can’t look—deep squeak and punch of metal, someone screams—

“Psst, hey, Ursie—” “Egbert, what the hump are you doing in my room?” I shriek. “I can’t believe I’m seeing you naked,” he says. “Me neither.” I yanked a sheet up in front of me—behind him I saw gray surf, dirty lace of bathwater inching across the linoleum. “Bertie, go turn off my bathtub”—he did it. “Now what the hump are you doing here,” I snarled ungratefully, for all I saw was my beautiful spyglass rolling over and over, Merlin’s face when he got the bill, the dense grizzled slightly sickening beauty of Madame Zuk, looking at me looking at her and shaking with laughter, I imagined her Red Army binoculars that probably wouldn’t break even if she dropped them thirty stories, I wondered if I’d killed somebody with my own fabulous spyglass and suddenly I saw my hand deep in my crack, o my godzilla how many afternoons and her laughter

“Ursie, I was thinking about maybe we should get married.” “What!” “We can’t stay in this joint forever, we don’t want to be hopeless cases. We could get our own place and still be Bug Motels. Pinky and Egbert would be so glad to get me outa here but not have me with em, they’d give us the money. I could take care of you since you’re sorta an orphan.” “I am not an orphan.” “Half an orphan.” “I’m not that pitiful.” “Well, nobody else wants you.” I thought of Margaret and certain other people and didn’t lower myself to answer him, the fuddy, at least not now.

“Ursie, I know you don’t like fuddies, much …” “You got a nerve to say I don’t like fuddies, what do you know about it, maybe I don’t like anybody”—(I was seeing that wild garden of pubic hair)—“probably I don’t like fuddies or girlgoyles or anything.” “Well I mean you never got a boyfriend, but I don’t exactly consider myself a fuddy,” he said, “… more like a lesbo.” I burst out laughing. “You got a frog dangle don’t you?” He nodded guiltily. “Well then I’m sorry you can’t be a lesbo.” “I didn’t say I liked having it.” “That’s got nuttin to do with it,” I said. “Say, you’re not the grand librarian of the lesbos of the world,” Egbert protested, “you can’t just decide sumpm like that.” I wasn’t going to argue with him. “The way I figure,” he said, “you’re a lesbo if you like girls cause you think you’re more like a girl yourself. What makes you queer is liking the same thing you are.” “Then I guess I’m not queer,” I said, “cause I really am queer, I mean I’m a monster, I don’t know any fuddies who are like me, including you, Egbert, or any girlgoyles either, or any grownups or lesbos or anything.” I was saying the first thing out of my mouth, but I decided I better shut up fast, cause this sounded like it might be true.

Egbert stood there for a while looking at me, feeling those few little blondie whiskerettes on his nice square chin. He was skinny, and his long silky hair lay on his skinny shoulders like a cape, but he was nothing like a girl. “You know, you’re right, you really truly are queer, and that’s what made me love you, Ursie,” he said, and at first he looked surprised and then his face got long as the bus ride home, “so there goes my whole theory out the window.” “It ain’t a bad theory, it just goes upside down,” I said. “I still want to oink you,” he said. Hmmmm, I was thinking about it, thinking about it, I mean all I had to do was drop the sheet, already I had this green and spongy feeling around my liver from my spyglass and Doctor Zuk, I mean, it’s sumpm when the love of your life makes you kinda seasick, like eating six Tastykakes all by yourself, and for a minute I wondered if oinking Bertie might cure me, but I didn’t think so.

“Yall two wouldn’t be about to engage in some of that four-legged bughouse athletics?” asked Reggie Blanchard from the doorway.

“Some five minutes,” I said, “it’s a good thing I wasn’t offing myself.”

“Well if that’s what you had going, I was gonna let you off with a warning,” Reggie said. “But this four-legged bughouse athletics stuff, mercy me, wouldn’t that be a nice change for the Bogeywoman—you know sometimes I thought you was one of those she-he’s.”

“I’m the lesbo here, not her,” Bertie said gravely.

The Regicide looked him over. “That’s what I like about this bughouse gig,” he finally said, “some new divergiation on the human spectacular you never heard of before, every single day. Now what is this?” He had just stepped into two inches of water. “I guess you taken that bath on the floor,” he said to me. “You dusty as a peanut too. I knew you was inexperienced at personal hygiene, but I ain’t expected this—good thing I get off at four—somebody be up here with a mop afta while,” he sighed. “As for that four-legged bughouse athletics, yall have to save it. The Bogeywoman here is already late for her Thursday date with her dreambox mechanic, and which I know cause Dr. Foofer sent me to cay her up there …”

“O my godzilla—”

I blab to Foofer

AND HE BLABS BACK

“I know you can’t name her exact country, Doc, top secret and all that”—

I mushed on with the program, but sumpm was different. To get myself in the right mood for dreambox repair, I had tuned up the scary couple on my crystal ball. Sekt, Madame? To the Koderer adolescent, yes? Stubborn as fungus, but now Gott sei Dank she gets always better and we may at last get rid of her! You want to get rid? I like this greedy baby. Yes, we have noticed. We even fear a little the sorcery of your influence, Doktor Zuk. But we can rely on the authority of your technik, Dr. Feuffer. Na ja! Even so she gets better. Kiss! kiss! Prosit! Nazdravje! Clink clink.

But no, his date with the love of my life seemed to have some way tightened the boilerplate on the world-famous diagnostician. Foofer sat before me more sealed than ever in his sphinx suit full of farts, his notebook closed, his ballpoint nowhere in sight, his baggy cheeks motionless, not even his thumbnail zissing.

“But howsabout we do it this way, Doc: If it’s no, say no, if it’s yes or maybe, say nuttin. Then nuttin’s for sure, but like you put it so succinctly” (I wasn’t above ladling on the shmaltz when he got that trapped look behind his bifocals) “at least then the truth shrinks down to my size, instead of staying as big as seven worlds like it is right now.”

“Ursula,” Foofer creaked, “nuh-zing you can propose, no game, no trick, will make me utter one word more or less than I zink good and right. Is it quite clear?” “It’s quite clear,” I echoed, We’ll see about that I was thinking.

“Okay, Doc, we’re talking Soviet Central Asia here, that narrows it down to six million square miles. I’m on the right track, aren’t I, at Camp Chunkagunk I was always the champ at this kinda thing … We’re talking Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, or Kyrgyzstan—cheese, there can’t be two Foodian dreambox mechanics in the whole six million miles, just try getting your conk fixed in Betpak-Dala!—you can forget it! So once Doctor Zuk let it slip that she grew up in Forty Maidens Feasting—that was the name of this real old fort where they hid her when the bad guys took away her old man. I swear the name’s got fourteen k’s in it—sumpm like—well I’ll know it when I hear it. So I figure all I gotta do is dig up Forty Maidens Feasting in all the languages in Central Asia and I got my Rosetta Stone. Don’t look so surprised, Doc, I was trained by the best! the wood wizardess, namely Willis Marie Bundgus of East Millinocket, Maine.”

(I eyeballed him. Maybe August had put the dew on his wooly eyebrows, but what could explain the wild look under them, the restless irises stranded in bloodshot aspic—and he sat perfectly still—not even his thumbnail zissing—)

“Make it easy for me, Doc! I can tell I’m getting warm. Now the big question is who the hump was her old man and why did they take him. Are we talking Nazis here or Commies—”

“Nuh-zing means nuh-zing,” Foofer suddenly exploded, but quietly, like a dropped grapefruit, with a thud and a fizz, and only afterwards the shiny eyebags under his glasses reddened, “when I say nuh-zing, it needs no dolmetscher, do you understand me, Ursula?” he whispered.

I was shocked. “Hey, I thought that was the main way you dreambox mechanics operated, you say nuttin and we fill in the holes, work the crossword puzzle, stuff the sausage casing—and here for godzillas sakes I thought we were doing better—”

“I object to nuh-zing if you want to talk. I gladly hear all you have to say. I mean that my silence is not to be translated by some, splutter, teenager into confirmation of nonsense concerning another mental scientist and particularly not into cheap romance! Is it quite clear?”

This was stunning news, but as it was not love of Foofer that had set me talking in the first place, I refused to let him hurt my feelings. I drew a breath and ploughed on with the program: “Just tell me this—Doc—I mean it is my question—the old man was a Jew, am I right?”

“Zis Zuk woman is of far too much interest to you. I tell you nuh-zing more about her! nuh-zing! We will have no more questions. This concerns you not a damp chicken dropping, do you understand?” It was my jaw that dropped. “You have scratched up far too much already what is nuh-zing of your affair, Ursula. If you can find Doktor Zuk you may ask her. There is an end of the matter.”

“Sumpm’s different about you today, Doc,” I had to observe, “you used to be more, er, softer. Sumpm more in the overcooked vegetable line—don’t get me wrong—I like overcooked vegetables, they’re real good for you. But used to be I could push with the program and you fell over splat.”

“Yes.” He was recovering the Buick and the Alps before my eyes, I mean his dignity, the height and bulk of it, and to tell you the truth (maybe I really was getting better) he was easier on the eyes this way than when his baggy jowls shook. “Let us say I expect some-zing more of you now,” he said, after a pause, in a perfectly calm, dreadfully slow voice. “I can treat you as … some-zing of a fellow … seeker … now I see you are getting better. And I know from Doktor Zuk you are a young woman of great nerve … and respond to challenge … in fact I change my mind … I honor our bargain. I answer one last time—about Doktor Zuk’s fazzer—if you promise to respond as grown-up woman to some-zing I set before you …” Does it stink like some animal squashed five days ago under a pickup truck? Did I smell what was coming? I gobbled that ripe old catfish-bait hook line and sinker. “It’s a deal.”

Foofer settled himself in his chair with an urbane little kick of his pinstripes and folding of knuckles and liquid sparkle of watch chain that told me this interview was going exactly as he had planned. What did it matter as long as I’d find out about her at last?

“Her fazzer,” he began, in his creakiest, millstoniest voice, “was a writer of, what to say, odd, grotesque tales, in Yiddish. Self-evidently, then, a Jew … but razzer a phantast of z’nowhere … than a portrayer of some-zing very much Jewish. What to call these … promiscuous mystical tendencies …?

“Born in Poland, in Galicia … fled before German troops to Lvov … deported by z’Soviets to Kazakhstan—ah yes, your six million miles narrows it down very nicely. And here he went hungry. Then did some-zing clever … married an Uzbeki woman from a powerful family. They disappeared, and for a while this saved him …

“He was a phantast, but smart, you see, he was simply never seen … His stories appeared, out of nowhere, in z’last Yiddish papers … He signed them The Beetle, the one who lives in dung …

“He was betrayed by a Uigur guide to Stalinist agents, found and liquidated in 1951.

“Certain persons remained interested for z’daughter. She was hidden in the nomad villages, then sent to university … god knows where, some fantastic capital, Tashkent perhaps, or Samovarobad … She had studies in Vienna, in Paris and a little bit here … wrote in French a curious small essay, about, eh, puberty as ephemeral monstrosity that was translated into English and made for her some little passing celebrity in z’field … Before she is invited here she is Commissar of Mental Science in some Soviet Autonomous Republic, nine tenths desert, z’size perhaps of …” He shrugged. “Kansas? … She calls herself a Foodian, if you will ask me she has to z’world of everyday a hinge quite her own, razzer like her fazzer …”

Foofer recrossed his legs, comfortably. “Zis is all I know. He was a little famous, The Beetle. You can look under Der Kaifer in z’bigger Jewish encyclopedias … So.

“And now.” He drew from the inner pocket of his jacket a dirty pink envelope, unfolded a paper and smoothed it in front of me. “What do you say about zis?” It was a mimeographed menu from Stubby’s Seventh Furlong, Track Kitchen No. 2, Indian Mound Downs. I picked it up, turned it over and over in disbelief. On the back were ketchup stains and Margaret’s familiar scrawl:

My dear sister,

It’s not like me to dish out my judgment uninvited, but now that I’ve seen you, I take my greasy pen in hand. Ursie! What in godzillas name are you doing in that bughouse! Not that the joint has nuttin to recommend it, that scrambled Egbert is a genius in his shriveled little way, the Greek noodle is a masterpiece of simple cuisine and I could certainly oink that suave and helpful nurse’s aide Reginald once or twice, but the point is: What the hump are you doing in the bughouse? Godzillas sake I know you’re not buggy, Ursie, just crawling with love for womankind.

There, I said it. For years I’ve kept it to myself. Before, you were too young to know, but now you’re too old not to, especially if you think you’re doomed to spend your life in the loonie bin. What for, to keep the world safe from the Bogeywoman? Just because those chicken-livered Maine girls threw you out of camp, so what, they were only little girlgoyles, they didn’t know any better.

Can’t you see, Ursie, you being you, the banquet will be laid for you wherever you land? Already that beautiful dreambox mechanic in the bughouse is crazy in love with you, anybody could see it, for godzillas sake she gave you her phone number didn’t she? Actually I don’t know about that old broad—okay so it’s the covert prude inside the hussy talking, but I don’t claim to be helping anybody, she does, and besides she’s old enough to be your mother. I mean, isn’t there some kind of Olympus you’re not supposed to descend from if you work in the bughouse, otherwise where’s that big difference between the bughouse and life which costs ninety-six dollars a day? Aaaaah what does it matter who am I to talk, love rules the camp, the grove, the track but who woulda thought the bughouse—just lemme know when you want outa there.

Love,

Margaret

You are in serious hot water now Miss Margaret head-in-the-fog Koderer, I radioed my sister, you won’t live down this verblundjet act of treachery for thirty years at least. Wait’ll I get my hands on you, and don’t try to tell me you thought their royal highnesses would respect the sanctity of the U.S. Mail …

“She’s joking of course,” I said with a feeble snicker, “quite a whipped-cream-pie-in-your-face type, my sister.”

“Why she would joke about your sexuality, I wonder, some-zing we have never talked about?”

“She’d joke about it exactly so this would happen, so I’d have to face a world-famous fuddy dreambox mechanic on a highly poisonal subject which is, to put it mildly, embarrassing to a girlgoyle like me. She’d find that sorta funny.”

“I wonder why zis subject is embarrassing to you?”

“Hey, no use tryna explain to a royal what a normal person finds embarrassing. You fuddies don’t even see sumpm a little raw in sending Nurse Hageboom to butt in on O Hell and ask us Bug Motels one by one did you have a bowel movement today …”

“Ahem. Your sister Margaret. She is the closest person to you?”

“She used to be,” I said.

“May I ask why she thinks you are troubled by sexual feelings for women?”

“I don’t see where she said I was troubled. She said crawling not troubled.”

“You are quite certain there is nuh-zing worth discussing in what your sister says?”

“Nuttin worth discussing with you,” I said, and we shared a moment of unpleasant silence. “I might discuss it with Doctor Zuk, if she was my dreambox mechanic. And by the way, not to hurt your feelings or anything, but I always thought from the first time I saw her that Doctor Zuk oughta be my dreambox mechanic. Why won’t you let her be my dreambox mechanic? I don’t see why somebody shouldn’t choose their own doctor when they know, absolutely know, they’ll be better off with that person.” I had a queasy spongy feeling in my guts that the timing might be all wrong for this argument, but I also had a hunch it was now or never.

“Ursula, I tell you frankly because you are so much better. Such a move is simply out of z’question. Can you zink why I might find this not a good plan?”

“I don’t care,” I said. “Doctor Zuk will go along with it.”

“I’m afraid you are right,” Foofer said gravely.

I stared at him, trying to gather what this might mean. So hard and clear, so amber, so royal was the glue that stuck the royals together fast in their one big royal popcorn ball, so rare, in fact never, were the holes in it that let you see down to the nothing-but-popcorn at its core—I stared and stared and started filling up with dread like a battery with charge. “We’re not all that good buddies, me and Doctor Zuk,” I panted, afraid I had somehow ratted on her, “she wouldn’t tell me her birth date, or her country, or who she was working for, or whether she’s married or a spy or a Red Army dreambox fixer or what kind of perfume she wears or whether she’s ever been in Caracas or any of that private royal stuff.”

“Yes, but I see you have put her all these questions.”

“So what, whaddaya mean,” I said in rising panic, “we all wanna know that stuff about the royals all the time, that’s half of what we talk about in the Bug Motels, you could put out a royal gossip magazine and it would sell like hotcakes—”

“I zink very little of such talk takes place in telephone calls to private residences of psychiatrists.”

“Margaret made that part up!” I shouted.

“Perhaps. Still, plainly it has come to a question of, of far too complicated personal … interest. Perhaps you know I am z’chief of treatment at this clinic. Furzermore, I am one of a staff of fifty-seven treatment personnel including fifteen senior psychiatrists. And I am your psychiatrist. The plan of treatment for every patient in z’Adolescent Wing of Rohring Rohring is discussed regularly before zis whole body. I must tell you that Doktor Zuk has argued long and eloquently in front of zis body for your special friendship, but now, in my judgment and that of many uzzers, it is gone too far and, with my apologies, for I know zis will be difficult for you—it must end.”

“You mean we’re not supposed to talk to each other any more?”

“Nuh-zing.”

“She’ll never put up with that kinda ridiculous game, pretend you don’t know each other and all that!” I said.

“No. She has not.”

“O my godzilla she’s gone—you threw her out …”

Foofer stared at a point just past me on the wall, and his loose cheeks sagged. “For a time, a very little time, Ursula, we place you again on Accompanied status—this means, as you know, under no circumstances you leave z’hospital, I am sure you understand z’reason, and you have an escort wiz you wherever you—”

I never meant to hurt him. It’s true the suit of farts was unappetizing to me and his Buick-sized dignity provoked my mental patience to fury, but he was a gaseous nuisance, basically gaseous, and therefore not quite there. He was just a two-hundred-pound fuddy from Europe, a big bald head I could never speak to again whenever I wanted. I had no reason to hurt him.

But as every mental peon knows, these bug mechanics never close a door behind you without palming alarm buttons up their sleeves or in the kneeholes of their desks, so I had to be fast, whatever I did. I had to get to Doctor Zuk before they locked me up. And if Foofer said escort wiz you wherever, that meant Roper, Mursch or Hageboom starting right now. The three Corny Norns were probably lurking out there in the cholera-green corridor already. Well, clapping a nurse on me again was more than a private person could stand—lemme die first!—and besides I had to get to Doctor Zuk. I had to get out of the bughouse. Damn that Margaret, thanks to her I was now a Lesbo Beknownst To Everybody in this dump, and a buggy, underage, amateur lesbo into the bargain. That was why they had to save me—from myself and Doctor Zuk.

But I wasn’t about to give up the forbidden love of my life. O she was scary all right. Naked she had more of the crone about her than I could look at without sweating. She might even love me, and her love was like a house fell on me. And maybe I could never have her or be her but no mere Foofer could stop me from trying.

So I never meant to hurt him but in front of me was Foofer, then his desk, then the door. The brown worsted suit of farts sat on a leather chair; he was pyramidal in shape, and had a certain comic-book dragon effect owing to the popcorn balls of white smoke rising from his lips where a pipe dangled. I leaped off the couch and in one motion pushed him and his chair over backwards. It was a pretty big chair, with lungs of soft leather on the back that softly hissed as they settled. And that had been so easy, once it was done his still-crossed feet dangled absentmindedly in the air above his head, that I pushed his desk over too. This made a great dust-billowing whump on the old wood floor that was sure to bring the nurses running and shrieking on the double. At the same time out of some secret drawer or bunghole in the desk a file marked KODERER URSULA popped and flapped onto the floor. I should have got my mitts on it and not let go, o a thousand times since then I’ve replayed this scene and made my getaway guarding it with my life, but instead I just snatched it up, wheeled and stuffed it out the window, so that hundreds of pages of me went fluttering down Broadway. Then with the superhuman strength of the mental patient I ripped open the steel door, well maybe it wasn’t locked, probably not, and there was Mursch, here came Roper and Hageboom, whipping around the two corners. I backed into Foofer’s office and holed up fast in the kneehole of the overturned desk, getting ready to spring out like a cornered rat, but the nurses just ran around me and now I saw why. Foofer hadn’t moved. He was knocked out cold, his half-closed eyes were all whites, his face why deny it was blue, his pipe was missing though there seemed to be sumpm round and dark O-ing his bloodless mouth, and his wing-tipped foot still nodded at the point of his trousers abstractly, as a butterfly pants with its wings. O my godzilla I’d probably killed the man! Now I ran and nobody stopped me, and this time when I passed Lopes at the front desk in the lobby I wasn’t even a liquid movement in the air, not quite an itch between his eyes—just a vague, exhausted feeling of having cared more once.

7

Flight to Caramel-Creamistan

HOW LOVE GOT ME OUT OF THERE

I ducked into her lobby around an old fuddy with a grocery cart full of clacking empties and ran up nineteen flights of steps towards Doctor Zuk. I could do that in those days without panting, on account of the superhuman strength of the mental patient, which lasted for the first twelve floors at least. On the thirteenth I slowed up, by the eighteenth I was peeking around every stairwell for guys in white coats or gumshoes of any description. On the twentieth floor, her floor, I was so near to going backwards I had to admit what it was. Cops didn’t scare me—I never had any trouble outrunning a fuddy in uniform—but Zuk was scarier. Probably she’s expecting me, I was thinking, and what if she’s naked.

But when I got there she had all her clothes back on, in fact I had never seen her looking better in duds. Course, this was beyond even her everyday beauté, this short black dress of silky stuff with a great cut-out speech balloon across the front, and a diamond choker for a collar. “What are you doing here, Miss Bogey?” she asked me, and I started to wonder how come she always looked, not like your usual Commie bureaucrat in a blue serge suit from Searsiev and Roebuckovsky and baggy cotton hose, but like a Russian spy in the movies, in clothes by Cecil Beaton. How could she dress like Paris if she was raised in an oasis in Outer Hotzeplotz? Maybe she really was top drawer, worth millions to the Kremlin, but if she was the best-dressed spy between Washington and Philadelphia, what was her interest in me?

“What are you doing here, Miss Bogey? You look red in your face like boiled Maine lobster, and what is this in your hand? Is for Zuk?” I looked down—I was still clutching Margaret’s letter. I stuffed it in my overalls. “You don’t know?” I said. She shook her head, perplexed and amused. She didn’t know. I sank onto the sofa—there was nothing in the room but a white sofa, a white coffee table with a bowl of roses on it, and long curtains of white gauze, like mosquito net, stirring at the windows.

“Godzillas sake you look like a movie star,” I said, “what are you so dressed up for?” The boiled Maine lobster was a flagrant hint. “I am engaged to dinner,” she confessed. I barked out a doomed and cynical laugh. “I already married mine,” I said, “what the hump I won’t be marrying anyone else.” “Grow up now, I tell you the truth, Miss Bogey,” she said, “because the gentleman is also psychiatrist at Rohring Rohring and he is coming any minute.” “Is it Foofer?” I said, “don’t worry about it, he’ll be late, very late, late or maybe never.” “Dr. Feuffer is never late,” she said stiffly. “So it is him!—cheese …” I burrowed into the sofa and she stood over me sternly with her arms crossed—she looked like a vexed pastry cook, except for the elegant billows in the cut-out front of her dress. “Greedy baby!” she scolded, “I am glad to see you. Your face is red like big baby but, yes, I am happy you are come. All same we land in big trouble if Dr. Feuffer finds you here. Then my position in clinic is also kaput, yes? and I see nothing more of you unless maybe you move to Soviet Autonomous Republic of Karamul-Karamistan.”

I felt like slapping her. Here she was forking over her address just like that! If she had told me when I first asked her, I would never have started talking to Foofer, I would never have gotten better, and I wouldn’t be in the fix I was in right now.

“You might be going back to Caramel-Creamistan or wherever the hump it is sooner than you think,” I muttered, “and you might be taking me with you.” “What are you talking about? You must hide yourself right away, Miss Bogey. You want to wait here at my place until I come back, then we can talk, but now I show you where to go when Feuffer comes.” She rose and her black skirt whirled and her diamond collar flashed: she was headed wouldn’t ya know it for the balcony.

“Sumpm terrible happened,” I blurted, “with Foofer. It was an accident. He said we couldn’t see each other anymore. He said he was putting me back on Accompanied until they got you out of the way. I think they’re getting rid of you.”

“My dear Miss Bogey, where you get these crazy ideas,” Doctor Zuk said, whirling back around, “rubbish! is rubbish!” But she didn’t look so sure. After all she had been fighting it out for weeks with the old-style strong and silent type dreambox mechanics. Now her face was still but little gold flecks were churning in her eyes, her nostrils flared and in the cut-out O of her dress her bosom rose and fell. And suddenly she stepped across the line. “All right, Miss Bogey, why you say they get rid of me? What do you know?”

I handed over Margaret’s letter. After a time she looked up with a thoughtful face. “Ha, you could be right I am leaving, leaving even the country.” “Sorry,” I said. “I should never have said sumpm to my sister, but cheese, I never thought she’d squeal.” “And what has happened with Feuffer.” “I didn’t mean to hurt him. I just pushed his chair over backwards on my way out the door. But when I ran away his eyes were rolled up in his head and he was totally blue.” She tipped up an eyebrow, stuck her bottom lip out skeptically: “Come, he is big healthy man, Dr. Feuffer, a little thing like that, how it would kill him?” “I think he swallowed his pipe.” We looked at each other and suddenly both of us were shrieking with laughter. “Possibly you are not joking,” she finally said. “Is seven-fifteen. Reinhold is never late for dinner.”

“So you’re really dating the suit of many farts,” I said, “I hope I did kill him.” “You are jealous baby and besides that you are grob, grob, Miss Bogey,” said Zuk coldly. “Is nothing wrong with digestive tract of Dr. Feuffer. Also he is expert in choosing restaurants. Besides, my dear, you should learn ancient tactic to make hospitality obligations with your enemy. I know what I am doing.”

I stared at her, stared, for once, past her self-confidence straight through the holes in her argument, since these were bigger than manholes. “I dunno,” I said, “maybe back in Caramel-Creamistan a lobster dinner is like the Treaty of Versailles but in the U.S. I never heard of nuttin like that.” “Hm,” Zuk reflected, “you can be right … is true he wants to fuck me …” “What!” And who says Camp Chunkagunk for all its corn teaches you nothing about life? “Just cause you’re his favorite dreambox mechanic doesn’t mean he won’t throw you out,” I whispered, “I betcha if he’s alive he’s throwing you out right now.” “Ach,” Zuk said passionately, “I think you are right! What do not mothers bring forth, in this world! I wish his unhappy mother had given birth to an onion.”

“I’m never going back to the bughouse,” I vowed.

She actually clapped her hands. “For you, my bent little chimney, that is good, very good decision. You are funny-looking queer little chimney but smoke comes out straight.” “Probably they’ll try to make me go back now that I did murder.” “Pooo, this is melodrama. Is not so easy to die like in movies, especially with big bunch of nurses all around. Probably they just pull that pipe out like cork, comes big how you say”—she gagged delicately—“and he is life. Big sore throat but life.” She smiled brilliantly. “I am satisfied you make that decision to quit bughouse, Miss Bogey. My time is not lost. Is not for you, such place—is not spoon of your mouth, my dear.”

But then she gazed away and out the window like a spy or dreambox commissar in big trouble, about to be exposed and disgraced or maybe even deported. I had a seasick flash of a rickety jet plane crossing the Urals, with just her on it. She was staring into space across the bare balcony and all at once I realized I had seen her naked at that very window. “Um, er, uh, just one little question about the, er, you know,” I said. “Binoculars? How long has it been going on?” She blinked at me. “Of course I know nothing of what you are talking about,” she said after a time, examining her ugly fingernails. “And don’t want to know,” she added. “Hey, it’s okay for me to do sumpm buggy like that, I’m a mental peon,” I said, “but you’re sposed to be a lofty dreambox mechanic.” She smiled. “Ah! shoemaker goes barefoot, na? and carpenter ties his door shut with shoelace. You think is perfect balance of mind that draws people to this profession? You must grow up, my dear. Anyhow you are not mental patient—no more than I am.” She pointed a craggy finger at me: “And remember this too, little girl. Who has luck and small hole to see what is going on behind garden wall of beloved, be glad and be silent. As they say where I come from, Eat of this behind closed doors.”

Did this mean I was her beloved? Or she was mine? Maybe from Zuk it meant nothing at all. She left the room, tuneless harp of refrigerator shelf, jiggle of bottles, and was back again carrying two small glasses of pee-colored stuff. “Stolat—may you live a hundred years.” She tossed one down. “Ugh, what is it?” “Is very good vwodka—the best—just drink. Or don’t drink, I don’t care. Come, greedy baby, sit next to me.” And she sat.

I sat at the far end of the white sofa and the lure of her presence came swirling around me like a surf. Then it was all undertow dragging me to her. A hum rose in my ears, my blood rushed by, trying to get to her, and my flesh went hot from resisting her current. Her large face was still, that was a kind of trick with her, she smiled the least smile and it surrounded me, a broth, a sea, a weather. I was a potato in the soup of her, no, a piece of soup flesh with bone. I was essential to her, and at the same time I was dissolving in her. “What you are doing?” she said. I was taking my clothes off piece by piece. There weren’t many pieces. “My god, stop this,” she said, clutching her spiky hair and laughing, “they can come at every minute.” Then I was sitting there naked and evening was all around us, breathing on the mosquito net and purpling the open windows. She gazed at me with as much delight as alarm. Finally she said:

“You are not mental patient and now is good, very good, I never was your psychiatrist. Shall I tell you? All my life I have dreamed of a girl like you, fierce, strong, beautiful and sly. Hungry like young blackbird who eats forty times a day. Nerve like one who hangs from rope and washes windows of skyscrapers. Muscle like girl who flies on trapeze in circus. Awake like bandit. A singer, a player of dombro, she comes, she comes like the fourteenth day of the moon. And then reads secret tracks of wild animals in wood. And all the better, Miss Bogey, that you have no mother or father to lick and pet you and bring you soft things to eat. As they say where I come from: Better to be a fox in the mountains than mother’s darling, I speak now of effect on character. A long time I wish to know a child like you. It is feast to look on you. But self-explanatorizing, my dear, I do not touch you.” “You mean never?” I said. It was true she had never touched me, but we two were outcasts now. “Because I am—because—you are young person,” she said, “very young.”

She had been about to say Because I am psychiatrist, but of course that wouldn’t matter unless I was a mental patient, and she had just said—hadn’t she just said?—I was no more mental patient than she was. “I’m not a mental peon anymore,” I said, “maybe I never really was one. I’m almost eighteen years old and I’m not even buggy, you said it yourself, and you never were my dreambox mechanic even if I needed a dreambox mechanic, and I’m not going back to the bughouse, Merlin won’t make me go back to the bughouse if I have any other place to go, so I figure I’m going to Caramel-Creamistan—with you. What the hump did I get better for if I can never have you or be you?” I think I was almost convincing her. Her hand, which kinda reminded me of an old gray root, floated above my knee, but then, bargaining, it turned over: “Of course,” she explained, “if you first touch me …”

This isn’t a comic book, but the blat of the doorbell came right then. “My god, where to hide you,” she whispered. With me stark naked it was too late for the balcony, and never mind that about not touching me—she yanked me by the elbow to my feet and stuffed me into a closet. In the dark I breathed her perfumed coats. By feel I must be in the chilly, shiny folds of a mink and again doubt overtook me: either she was the top Soviet spy of all Caramel-Creamistan or somewhere along the road to Rohring Rohring she had been some rich fuddy’s concubine, or wife.

“Hey, how ya doin, it’s the Regicide” came crackling out of the speaker system. “I am here to tell yall ladies, if yall still there, that Dr. Foofer has done bought it, correctimento the chief of treatment is no more, he dead as your pockabook, and serious heat is collecting to come in your building and beat the bushes for the Bogeywoman. Lucky for yall they set me to watching the lobby. And I hate to tell you, Doctor Zook, but you is persona niggerata round here. O the things they is saying about yall two. Meanwhile they watching the place, you hear, so if yall want out, Tuney and Chug be by the dumpster in fi minute, got that, fi minute, that’s yall only chance.”

I stuck my head out of the closet. “Ask him why he’s sticking his neck out like this,” I whispered, “he doesn’t like either one of us that much.” “Please explain your interest for us,” Doctor Zuk said into the grating. “Do I hear that hard-head Bogeywoman talking up there?” Reginald crackled back, “sassing everybody who tryna help as usual … O sent me, you hear that, Bogeygirl? She want you out the bughouse before she have to cut you and wind up in trouble her own self.” I pushed past Doctor Zuk and hissed into the grating: “You better be good to O, kotex sniffer, or pretty soon she’ll have your hairy onions on a plate.” “Yeah and I butter em and make your mama lick em.” “My mama’s beyond being riled by fuddy onions,” I said, “say, Reg—are you and O really getting married?” Long pause, then: “Maybe I do and maybe I don’t.” “Cheese, good luck,” I whispered. “I still take your sister’s phone number,” Reginald added. “Eat hump,” I said. “Fi minutes, ladies. You pay Tuney and Chug good, you hear? Be down they in fi minutes, better make that fo.”

HOW LOVE GOT US OUT OF THERE

“My dear Bogey, now we have big adventure before us. You must rely on me, I know what I am doing in this business of fly away fast. With my father the Beetle I spend half my life escaping, you understand me? You must follow me and what I do you also do. You can follow?” If Zuk wanted to be wood wizardess, I would be her half-pint scout. I nodded. “I come right back,” Zuk slightly panted, kicking off her sandals and dropping her silky dress to the floor as she went. I watched the round pale planets of her buttocks recede, the articulate rather nasty wink of her black string bikini.

I nodded like a sleepwalker. I wasn’t even scared, not yet. A kind of gauze, like mosquito net, a white nuptial dream, had settled over everything. I was eloping with Doctor Zuk. They went south, the Bug Motels would say when they heard, hospital parlance for never coming back. Zuk and me, we were turning into one thing. In a white daze, I plunked down in the hall while I waited and buckled on her silver sandals, sumpm I’d always wanted to do. And clomped up and down a bit. I was amazed how comfy they were—a little big.

She came back buttoning up the vest inside a European fuddy’s pinstripe suit a lot like Foofer’s, only gray. And combing her strong ugly fingers through her hair, which lay flat and gleaming under some kinda gunk. And now she unfolded big square black sunglasses across her face. Her exotic face had always been big, now it was big, fuddy and tough. “Cheese,” I said, “you’re a man. Not even short.”

“Don’t get wrong idea. Is not what you think,” she said. “Sometimes you see I like to go at night in places where women don’t go. Boxing match, for instance. With little help”—she held a fan of grizzled mustache against her upper lip—“nobody gives me trouble.” “Doctor Zuk,” I asked sternly, “are you a spy?” She laughed. “Yes, I am spy—I admit is bad for character, but at least I don’t spy for fatherland—I spy for myself alone. Now, Bogey, we must dress you in big hurry—ach—” She saw her silver sandals on my feet. “How they are ugly, your feet—pfui,” she said, “why I never notice this before, like goat feet …”

What a nerve. It was true my fungoid, chewed-down toenails looked like sumpm that grows on dead people, but I was affronted—here I had bit my tongue all this time about her hands—how about a little polite disregard for the ugliness of youth as for the ugliness of age? “Never mind, naked is best disguise—get in.” From a closet by the front door she rolled one of those lidded trash bins marked PROP HOMEWOOD HOSP MEDICAL RES and the apartment number splashed in red—“Get in, Bogey,” she commanded, and though it reeked of rotten citrus and a No way Jose was rising to my lips, I did it. The elevator wheezed and sank and then she was racing the caddy on its squeaky little wheels down some bumpy floor, then Chug was saying slowly over my head: “Nuh-uh, no suh, no way we ain’t taking no marked hospital garbage bin in this here junk wagon, that’s a major heat-thrower right there even if it don’t have no dead body in it, which it probly do.” “No body,” Doctor Zuk barked, “see for self,” and suddenly the lid flopped up over my head and there was Chug blinking at me in the purple twilight. I clapped my hands over my momps but I guess I should have clapped em over my face. Chug said in a scared voice: “Jesus take me home. It’s the mayor’s daughter.” Tuney looked over the edge and went: “She-e-e-e, she-e-e-e, she-e-e-e … How you figga, Chug?” “I don’t know nothing,” Chug muttered.

Then Zuk did the fuddiest thing of all—one offhand flip of a palm by the hip pocket and she showed, just showed, those boys a roll of lettuce under the street lamp, under the eggplant sky. Bills got forked around so fast I couldn’t see. “Okay, man,” Tuney said, “but no damn trash bin.” They lifted me out by the armpits, silver sandals dangling, and as soon as my feet touched the wagon, I scrambled under a smelly green tarp. Zuk said: “Gentlemen, you will drive to harbor. You will take Broadway to Bank Street to Wolfe Street and when you see water you will drive very slow while I look for boat with name of Jenghiz Khan. When I say stop you stop. Is understood?” “Yessuh,” “Yessuh,” Chug and Tuney said.

And Zuk crawled under there with me. She was packing a squat little doctor’s bag not at all her style. Cowpea clopped off, bells jingling. Under the tarpaulin it was black as a cave and between the sweet straw beneath and the tarry reek on top I was dizzy and itched like crazy. All along my naked body I longed to scratch. The straw poked and Doctor Zuk’s wool suit crawled. “This is torture,” I whispered, “cheese I itch. What if we get stopped? What if we roll over?” “Some follower you have turned out to be,” Zuk grumbled. “What if I get killed? Who are you gonna say I am?” “Who are you?” she said. “In dark you are nobody, I am also nobody, if we are nobody I suppose I may kiss nobody.” And her mouth spread over mine like a jelly, maybe I should say a jellyfish, I dunno—some moisty tasty halfway disgusting thing between definite and infinite. Then I was a cave, mammoth and dark, how could I know what was going on in all of my ends? A bat rocketed down my spine. I think she had me on her finger, turning. The rims burned off one after another. You could throw up from this. Seasick down a spiral chalk drops burning ribs of silverware gutter spill

[“Chug?” “Whuzzup.” “In your opinion what exactly is we took up with here?” “I don’t know nothing. That’s what we gets paid a hundred a piece for, to know nothing. We gets paid good to know nothing, Tuney, so I know nothing.” “Chug?” “Huh?” “You thank she the mayor’s daughter?” “Say what? Hell no she ain’t the mayor’s daughter. I seen the mayor’s daughter in a parade one time, she a boney redhead with chopstick legs and a freckle face and that ain’t her. Ain’t you never see the mayor’s daughter, Tuney? All the goings-on she show up at? this soup kitchen here and them new projects there?” “Nope.” “She ugly like the mayor too.” “Yeah? What he look like?” “You shucking? You ain’t never see the mayor of Baltimore?” “How I’m gonna see the mayor? I don’t get invited to that shit.” “On the TV, brother, where else?” “Can’t use no TV, give me a pain in my head.” “Well, this here ain’t the mayor’s daughter. This some kinda he-she we got here, but you right she somebody’s daughter. Some big banana.” “Huh. Could be you right.” “Sho I’m right. What I really like to know: that jeffrey in the grease-gray suit, who he? I thank this jeff from some foreign place like Turkey where they don’t got no mayor. Over there they got sultans, pry ministers, like that. What I like to know: what this he-she out the bughouse doing with some jeffrey from Turkey? What he want with a bughouse he-she? Got me wool-gathered, Tuney.” “Tell you what, this fella thank he somebody. Gentlemans, you will this way, and gentlemans, you will that way.” “Yeah. He used to running something big, what it is. Them hundred-dollar bills, they clean like a Chinese laundry. Hadda peel em apart. That’s brand-new money he holding.” “Say—you thank this sumpm big? sumpm on the gummint level maybe? They is a war on, ain’t they? What you thank, Chug? Them two heading for the harbor, muss be tryna get out the country. That boat, what they call that boat? Sound like a spy boat to me.” “A spy boat … I be dogged.” “That’s it, Chug, I got it now. They a spy from Turkey and some gummint bigwig’s daughter escaped out the bughouse. The he-she done emptied out the big banana’s safe, it’s all war money in they, and they be booking out the country on a spy boat.” “I be dogged, Tuney. That’s it. Must be it.” “What we gone do about it, Chug?” “We ain’t gone do nothin. I don’t cay nothing bout no Vietnam war. We got paid good. That’s all I know.” “Yeah? We ain’t paid that good if that black bag full of new money. Less us get lost in them little alleyways and boatyards yonder end of Broadway and pull up back the harbor po-lice. Then we ask what else that Turkey spy got in the bag, you dig?”]

“Gentlemen, you find out right now what I have got in bag. So. See for self.” Sumpm about Zuk’s big face, the barbarian sweep of the cheekbones—I wasn’t one bit surprised to see it rise like a moon behind a big gun. A squared-off, down-to-business-looking pistol with black pebbly handgrips—“Just don’t shoot em,” I whispered, “or when they catch us I’ll never get out of the bughouse.” “You must give up that mental peon think, always bughouse bughouse bughouse,” Doctor Zuk snapped. “You will drive straight to end of Wolfe Street, gentlemen. When you see water you will drive very slow, and when I say stop you will stop, all this time without you say one word. Or I shoot you, is it clear?”

She sat grimly in the straw behind the coachbox, her head poking up the tarpaulin like a tentpole. With the grainy gray evening around her, with the straw and the horse and the gun and the filthy canvas over her head she looked like a fugitive from some world war, which she was. “You can drive no faster, gentlemen?” “Cowpea already in high gear,” said Tuney, “for her.” We went on itching and bouncing and clattering over the tar-patched brick until I was sick of the ride to the roots of my teeth, so I had my fill of ayrabbing in the end, and horse and wagon into the bargain. We hobbled over a last set of trolley tracks, the street bent right and the next block ended in the harbor, or rather at a seedy marina on its edge, dock lights on poles, flat black ripples turning on their spindles, little white boats bobbing on black sheeny water—and one of them must be ours.

“So,” said Zuk, crawling out from under the tarp. “I think maybe I take you gentlemen along with us on People’s Ship Jenghiz Khan for quiet holiday.” I stuck my head out and looked at her in disbelief. She stood on the wagon, the gun at her waist awkwardly poking out her Foofer-style jacket. “Why you wanna take us with yall?” Tuney inquired, “thank yall get sumpm outa somebody? She-e-e-e, she-e-e-e, she-e-e-e, we so lowdown our own mamas pay yall to take us. If we had mamas.” “Yall be stuck with us,” Chug said gravely.

“It’s sumpm to think about,” I said.

“Good, gentlemen. Then we say farewell.” Madame Zuk was no cheapskate. The black water glittered behind her, the wind buffeted her sideburns, and there sat Chug and Tuney, each turning over, worriedly, another hundred-dollar bill. “For health insurance, is clear?” Zuk patted the bulge under her pinstripe. “We don’t know nothing bout nothing,” Chug and Tuney agreed. Then and only then Zuk crooked a finger at me, I jumped off the wagon and we hoofed it up the gangplank.

FLIGHT TO CARAMEL-CREAMISTAN

Maybe it’s what I should have expected of the navy of a Soviet Autonomous Region of gray grass and red sand, five thousand miles from the sea in any direction. The tub bobbing on ruffles of dirty foam was either a dilapidated yacht or a gussied-up oyster boat. Its scaly white paint job showed up in the dock lights as some mineral strain of psoriasis. The deck in its widest part was so low any wave at all would roll over it. The pilot or swabby was shorter than me and threw back his shoulders at silly attention at the end of the gangplank. Besides Doctor Zuk, who was only half, he was the first Caramel-Creamistani I had ever laid eyes on, so I took a good look. Despite his height he was a ferocious-looking fellow with a white shirt, military epaulettes and black sunglasses, a big round head with glittering hair, massive chest, little bow legs under white shorts, and a mustache draped like a Moghul arch. A cigarette dangled from one side of it, and now and then the harbor lights picked out his big square teeth, as white as chiclets. He seemed to be baring them. Doctor Zuk barked some words at him in Caramel-Creamistani as we passed and he threw his cigarette away. I must say she was worse than Merlin, even, for bossing around cheeky menials.

The engine thudded spongily and we shoved off. I pressed my nose to a porthole but Zuk sat in the dark cabin with her back to me and gazed gloomily into space. We sailed southeast, towards the bay and away from the harbor, and surprisingly fast the garble of factories and shipyards and choked-up strands of lights on bridges and moving traffic was slipping away behind us, and the question arose, where could we be going? Where does the old bay lead? I had a feeling right from the start that Zuk and I were going all the way south, south beyond Annapolis where you walk out a mile and are still in warm salt soup up to your shins, south beyond the Choptank, beyond Fishing Creek and the oyster dumps of Crisfield, south beyond Misty of Chincoteague and Seastar, south beyond Tangier Sound and the Rappahannock, south to the end of the bay. If I’d known how far I could get from humid longing in a single night, how far from dandelions spurting through cracked sidewalks and sickly pigeons pecking the dust in hot parks—if I’d known how far a girlgoyle could get from sticky heartsore Baltimore in one long night on the Chesapeake, I’d have struck out long ago in Merlin’s rubber dinghy. I’d have blown it up and dropped it over the crumbling concrete seawall on Light Street. That’s what I was thinking.

“Where’d you say we were going?” I asked Zuk, though she hadn’t said. And still didn’t say, just sat there in the dark cabin smoking a Gypsygirl and staring at a black porthole. Probably sorry she ever met me. “Er, Madame Zuk—” I said to her back. “You will be so kind to swallow that madame or choke on it,” she growled. “I’m sorry if I lost you your job,” I said, “I’m sorry if I got you deported …” “Why you are saying this? Because I don’t laugh? Because I am sad? Is never wrong to be little bit sad. Every day is wedding day of somebody, funeral of somebody.” She didn’t look round. She was miles away, wearing her distance like a poisonous atmosphere, a lethal perfume. She kept her back to me, as if to turn her eyes on me would kill us both.

I could understand. I’d always known her beauty was the space between us. Now that the space had closed I was stuck with looking at myself. I had nothing but her sandals on, and didn’t like my feet in them any more than she did. I stared with savory disgust at my cheese-white legs, my flaky knees which looked sandpapered, the convict stubble growing in where my pubic hair used to be. “I still don’t get it why naked is the best disguise,” I said. “Why naked is best disguise,” Zuk echoed, “hmmm, is good question. Why did I think this? Naked is best disguise for you not me, but why? So I can’t stop? Yes that is it: So I don’t go back. How I can ever explain to somebody why runaway girl, former mental patient, has no clothes? Is hopeless. Therefore now we go on together to end, no matter what.”

So that explained it. I was her doom. They went south. We were going on, to some end or other. Our engine growled like a bulldog, dragging us down the wrinkled bay, towards the Bay Bridge, under it, beyond. What was down there? I was her doom, how humiliating. “Wait a minute, a famous dreambox mechanic like you, you can get a job anytime, can’t you?—you are famous, aren’tcha?” I needed her to be up there with Margaret Meat, Karen Honey and Ruth Beandip, so I could be sure I couldn’t hurt her in any way. For how could she save me if I had ruined her? And then too, staring into the sun of her glamour I wouldn’t see that black spiderweb strung from thigh to thigh …

“I’m sorry if I ruined your life,” I whispered. “Stop boasting, my dear, and anyhow, my life is not so easy ruined. Ach, choleria, I am a little bored of this Foodian experiment anyway,” she sighed. “In my country is not so bad, you know, since I am Foodian Mental Science Unity Institute of whole Karamul-Karamistan. If I have nose full one day of Eatipus complex I say all right is enough, what it matters? Self-explanatorizing that everybody wants to eat somebody. Tell us something we don’t know, tell us something we don’t see with own eyes, or better yet, gentlemen, don’t tell us nothing! Shut up! Shut your muzzles!” She crushed out one Gitane and briskly lit another.

“Cheese, if you’re so famous and got the top job in Mental Science in Caramel-Creamistan, why’d you ever leave?”

“Don’t be silly girl, everybody wants to leave Karamul-Karamistan. This is why you murder for top job like that, so maybe you can find way out. My uncle Nadir Suleymenov, finance secretary of Mrs. Khazarolova, arrange whole Unity Institute of Foodian Mental Science for me, so I can live. Family of my mother, Suleymenov-Suleymenians, they are not modern people. All same they know better than to give me to husband. They know me from child, they know what I live through with my father the Beetle. They don’t marry me to Karamistani man. They don’t want catastrophe in henhouse.” She smiled. “So they find way for me to live. And also when it comes to new Institute of Mental Science, I think, better Gulaim Zuk than Karamistani psychoanalyst next in line, my cousin Dr. Usman Saidbaevich Suleymenov, supposed orthodox Foodian who made his praktikum on Giant Wheel in Prater with pretty yellow-haired barmaid from Carinthia. Of course so soon as I am Commissar of Mental Science and have little money and diplomatic passport, I want to leave Karamul-Karamistan like everybody else. So I go to Paris and write my little book …”

“Are you gonna write about me now?” I asked. “I have already write about you,” she said, annoyed, “you are monster, no?” “You mean I’m just another teenager …” This was worse, even, than being a Unbeknownst To Everybody. “Lemme die first,” I said. “You want own book like Food’s Dora?” Zuk said wearily. “You must leave this mental peon think behind you. Write your own book, Bogey.

“So. In Paris I write my book …” “It’s a rotten book,” I said. “Even so,” Zuk smiled. “Book gets for me fellowship at Rohring Rohring. And you know from there, yes? At Rohring Rohring, everything doesn’t turn out so good. Supervising psychiatrists don’t like my special relation with Miss Bogey—even though they admit she is getting better. I say to them, so Miss Bogey gets the idea she is something special, so what? What’s so geferlich? Then old-style dreambox analysts like Feuffer yell at me I am naïf, I am careless—I yawn at this. They say, what if everybody did it? I say, what if nobody did it? But what is use of explain. To one who understands not, elephant trumpets in vain. Ach, these power-hungry Foodians, these Cossacks of mental science in Sigmund Food beards, you think if they really understand what is man they are humble like bug inside themselves, but is it so?”

“Cheese, you don’t exactly radiate self-doubt yourself,” I muttered. “Hoopla, I agree, but I am only Zuk. I don’t take any idea so dead serious like that. I don’t hang on for life. Maybe now I try something new—like they say, mouse with one hole is quick snatch”—and one of her ugly hands shot out, pounced on a thing of air and wrung its neck. “I am interested for new career, something with gorgeous clothes maybe, or real Karamistani restaurant. And you know is true, without one lover is kicked out of doors, a new lover comes not to our divan …” She turned her face to me at last and gave me a brilliant smile. Her mood seemed to have reversed. She was buoyant, even giddy. “But you’d be a beginner,” I said uneasily, “just a nobody, when now you’re famous.” “Only little famous,” she shrugged. “You must have realized my family has money—a little money—like yours. I don’t start from nowhere, from nothing.” She put her ugly hand on my hand.

HOW LOVE GOT ME OUT OF THERE

“Um, er, uh, tell me about Caramel-Creamistan. Sumpm. A little,” I stammered. “Later.” Out of the blueblack swimming dark the planes of her large face pointed this way and that like a turban of crossed scimitars, like some kind of opera headdress flashing, sumpm from Aida. My head drowned.

“First I will look at every part of you and not even touch you.”

And now my time was up, here she immaculately rearranged me, I mean I don’t know how she did it, as far as I can remember I never felt those gnarly fingers at all, but I found myself lying flat on the grimy bunk under her hands like a baby being changed, and the dim planchette of her palm drifting, floating, above me. All my beauty was the invisible tracks over desert between us, the rubbed-out thread suddenly shining with the electricity of my baffled hunger. Or was it the thin moonlight of her neglect that picked out the footpaths?

“Desert of Kyzl Kum is beautiful,” she whispered, “if you like empty. No tree, no house. Where does anybody live you ask? Nowhere, nobody, you think, then you come over hill, there is yurta same color as weeds of ground, and another, and another. Red crack sand, pink dust, gray-pink hills, soft rolling, next and next, everything empty. Maybe small bunch pines along top of hill, or little bit thorn, maybe, in fold where spring is, like hair in folds of girl of trouble age. Beautiful if you like hard, beautiful if you like empty. No house, no road, and tomorrow every yurta is vanished away, not even rag or half-burnt lump of dung in grass. And then old people say, in red desert of Kyzl Kum only bones point way to Samovarobad.”

The bones of her face—those crossed scimitars—pointed to outer space, and, I don’t know, maybe I was asleep, the turban fell apart like an eggshell and then it was the boat we rocked in. Going south.

Whereupon sumpm really queer happened, I mean I fell into a hole pitch-blueblack and I was crawling around in my own body, which I knew because of tryna get out, every nerve sat up and pulled on its burnt-out light cord and sparked, and what I saw, it was like everywhere there was some sort of unarrived light running loose in the blue vein dark, spilt skim blue milk of, or moonlight, fingers of, picking out trails up my itchy capillaries, or stringing neon beads up the nerve trunks, shooting pearlized baby-blue plastic popbeads up my privatemost, some coming together with a pop, some popping apart

All this time I’m literally under her hand, without ever landing her white palm clambers like a spy airplane over the corrugations of fat and bone drawing some kinda hot spark, good godzilla I’m lighting up all over, I’m a circuit board, a little hot and seasick I shut my eyes and the queer thing is that’s me I’m seeing, far down below lit up like the twinkling spiderweb of a desert town seen from the air at night. And then I’m prowling myself in a creaking taxi up trashy backstreets or zooming up and down my own lymphatic ducts, my golden noggin light glowing, my meter ticking like crazy

[Where are you Doctor Zuk? I don’t even see your face, just now and then your hands and even they are sumpm else, a plectrum or maybe—a knife and fork?]

“What I should do with boygirl like you, eh? so young, so reckless, unbranded like donkey who knows not the world—so silly, so never-from-home—so shayn.”

Whereupon sumpm even queerer happened, now I’m mining my own tunnels, tracking inside myself for the lost chunkagunk, I’m blipping out of my own miner’s hat, lozenges of light torpedoing down and up the personal plumbing, so many melting pills of exploratory, medicinal light, surging up the gut gutters into the armbone legbone headbone like in the old aspirin ads and now I’m mining myself with baby-blue gunpowder, creepy-crawling up the gulley, pouring a trail out of the chewed-off corner of the TNT sack, and now the little fin of flame hisses over the rocks into the mine anyone still in there o my godzilla I wait BLAM I rain down sizzling

How to get out, follow the lost chunkagunk, track the blue moldy crumb of, through the black woods on my scalp, between my legs, peck them out of the hairy roots shudder of horrified pleasure until all completely hopelessly lost pitch blue black

“Poor dear, you have learned what I know, love is calamity to the head,” Madame Zuk whispers.

You are a leviathan, even your kiss is like a house fell on me

“By the lover’s reckoning,” she hisses, “Samovarobad is not far.”

Who are you, who made you, what do you want with me

“All the same, my dear, love is a command and the heart is khan. Finally I am not spoon of your mouth. But I follow this to end of this. Open your eyes.”

I OPENED THEM. And I guess by the book if there is a book I shoulda made love to her now, I mean she was the scary love of my scary life and I never let on I was yellow if I could help it. So I made up my mind to unbutton her—but what happens is her Foofer suit flops open and whaddaya know she’s opened it all up in there herself. Her gnomy whitegreen hands are spreading out the wings of white shirt and under there she’s naked. I lie there looking up at her, wondering what do I do with this, what do I do now

This isn’t a comic book but kreeech, right then I heard a sickening scrape. Bone on bone. It was our bottom, I mean the bottom of the People’s Ship Jenghiz Khan. “Idiot! donkey!” Zuk exploded, “outcast! What they send me for pestilence, this runaway of wormy camels and sheep’s eyeball soup who knows no more of sea than I know of taxidermy …” I watched Zuk’s soccer player’s calves storm up the gangway stairs two at a time, she pulled her shirt flaps together and buttoned her pants as she went, and there followed more terrible curses—I couldn’t understand a word of course but I stole up the stairs behind her, the better to take this in.

She stomped up and down with her hands on her hips, yelling bloody murder. What a swashbuckler she was with her glinting slaver’s eye, her rose cravat tied for a sweatband around her brow, and the jagged décolletage of her misbuttoned shirt! One word she sneered over and over—fazool, fazool, fazool, as in pasta? I realized the word must mean sumpm disgusting in Caramel-Creamistani—then it dawned on me it was the fellow’s name. He stood at pathetic attention with his mouth fixed in that same tooth-baring grin, then suddenly jumped overboard as if to kill himself, one last obedience to her command.

He came up gasping in black water to his chin, bent to the hull and grunted with all his might, but nothing happened. We were stuck. Run aground. I could see one red glowing channel marker a few feet off our stern, just behind us, and a green one like a cartoon serpent’s eye on a pole just in front of us, and then I put it together. We were smack in the middle of the two, right where we oughta be. It was low water—not even the poor drudge’s fault.

Zuk came up and curled her craggy hand around my shoulder—stood cheerfully beside me, panting a bit from all that theatrical wrath. “Kinda hard on that shnook, aren’tcha?” I whispered. “So what you want, Bogey, maybe we too should jump in water, with frogs and snakes, and push?” she loudly whispered back.

What frogs and snakes did she mean? I looked again at the cartoon serpent’s eye on the channel marker and saw it was no cartoon. A viper, real as my foot, hulaed down the pole and splashed into the wet. I saw its bald little skull periscope away, the point of a fan of ripples, and heard other soft splashes all up and down the—good godzilla, we were in some swamp, you could practically reach out and touch it on either side.

At first I thought we must be stuck in some boggy creek off the Choptank, but what about that endless bulldog growl of the engine and the gyroscopic sense I had that we’d sailed south all night? I knew I’d lost track of time in the cabin of the Jenghiz Khan but surely a night had gone by—and now that I peered into it, the dark did have some of that dusty velvet grain that meant dawn was on the march. What came after Virginia, if you sailed straight down the bay? The ocean, you’d think, but now I saw with my own eyes that the land had closed in rather than opened out. The walls of a channel straight as a blowgun lay ahead and behind. Steep black banks pressed in, flecked with white things like ghostly shoes, and above them jungle treetops on both sides, every hole chinked with vines, even the purple sky overhead crisscrossed with the necklaces of creepers, and from where I sat in my deck chair and gaped, my head tipped back against Zuk’s arm, a thousand little arabesque spit curls dangled from the silhouetted greenery, a thousand living curlicues which could have been water moccasins and probably were.

“Where in godzillas name are we?”

“You see why I must encourage Fazool.”

“I don’t think that little guy will ever get us out of here all by himself,” I whispered to Zuk, “I better get in the water with him and help him push—I mean I’m dressed for it—where the hump are we going anyway?” “Already Fazool wants to know where is your shame—Karamul-Karamistan is exceedingly prudish culture, before he comes here he hardly sees face of woman in his life, never mind pupik. I have ordered him not to look at you, I say you are mad daughter of American vice-president and I am save you, for sake of big foreign aid money for Karamul-Karamistan.” “It’s dark,” I argued, “water’s up to here, he doesn’t have to look, just push.” She sighed: “Very sensible, Bogey, but is too late for sensible. I say him you are mad, mad you must be. Anyway, is not just push. Naked in dark water together, this is kind of union.” We leaned together over the rail, elbow to elbow, peering into the glittering, sucking black. “Ach, I think here is case where water is not to be had, therefore washing with dirt is permitted. I go in swamp with snakes and frogs and I push.” She shuddered.

In the end I wouldn’t let Zuk in the swamp without me and Zuk wouldn’t let me in without her, so she tied her rose cravat around Fazool’s eyes—this saved him from corruption—and all three of us were dragging and shoving the Jenghiz Khan through the thick soup when it got light enough to see that the water was blood red. And it was true what Zuk had said about being naked in dark water together—frankly I was glad for a chaperone. It made you aware there was hardly any real edge to anything in this world. The water was warm as a bathtub—but even bathtubs pucker your toes and fingers into hungry little fish mouths, so bored and restless is your native goo in its home body I guess, so aching to get out, to suck up to some other body, to pour itself down some hole. And look at it this way, pressing all around you at every other moment is nothing, I mean you think it’s nothing, but actually it’s air, a medium of transfer as tight as a wetsuit. Only here, when it wasn’t air but rich red muck, you felt it and saw it.

And this stuff was oinking alive! Sumpm squirmed out from under my footsole with every cringing step, or bulged between my toes, or spiraled fatly between my thighs, or bumped its blind forehead against my blind belly. Sometimes my foot sank down a foot in the gunk at the bottom and the red swamp closed over my head. Cheese, I came up spluttering, cheese, cheese, a wad of brown leaves in my mouth. If I hadna been up to my ears in the stuff, I’d have been sweating for sheer terror.

And yet in the dark back of my mind I remembered the whole time that, as soon as the Jenghiz Khan floated free, it would be me and Madame Zuk alone in the bottom of the boat again, and this time, no getting out of it, it was my turn and nothing but wet skin between us. Her body stretched out before me as wide and brown as Central Asia, as endless and complex, and suddenly swamp water looked okay.

Now and then the Jenghiz Khan bobbed loose for a step or two, only to stick again. It was good there was a whole pack of us—six legs pushing and churning up the bottom and about as adept at our work as a buncha water buffalo—cause the snakes and turtles all knew we were coming. All the same it made my jaw grin up with horror, hearing all those unseen spotted and scaly amphibians slap into the soup with us, kerplopping on every side in the vain frantic hope of getting away from us for good, and the rusty chowder can I had to pry off my foot now and then didn’t butter up my nerves any either. Pop bottles rolled under my arches like rungs of sunken ladders. The ghost shoes turned out to be oyster shells as big as hamburger platters. Under the ruby water we saw the wreck of a zinc garbage can, a yellowed, eaten-out water heater waving pink sponges of insulation, a bit of ornate wrought-iron fence that made me think of a country graveyard, and a whole four-burner Roper stove.

And all of a sudden the channel widened out—there was a broad ditch to our right—and we were all treading water. Fazool, who couldn’t swim, almost drowned until Zuk caught hold of one end of the rose cravat. The Jenghiz Khan came free. Fazool steered her starboard down the feeder ditch and pretty soon Zuk and I stood dripping in the hold, staring at each other in the dusty morning sunlight that came through the portholes, our bodies spotted all over with red peat flecks, black leaf curd and bog dirt, not even cold.

HOW LOVE GOT ME OUT OF THERE

And now, no more dillydallying! Table spread thyself! To the banquet at hand. “Er, I’m starving to death—got anything to eat on this tub?” “A thousand pardons, my dear. How I can forget, you are young person, like weasel who eats twice her weight in day …” She ransacked drawers and cupboards, and, standing together at the sink, our breasts swinging, or anyway her breasts swinging, we ate with our fingers—there wasn’t a fork—cheerios and vienna sausages, sardines and cocoa puffs and smoked oysters swimming in oil.

She lay naked on the bunk, one hand behind her head, and I sat down beside her. This was it. Zuk was demure enough, or exhausted enough, to close her eyes.

Her body was similar to Central Asia, as I have said, and not young, but age hadn’t ruined it, only made it more dramatic, all its tufted crags and escarpments, the muscle walls hung with moss, folds of tough sod between rock ribs, bristly sedges in the clefts, a certain bareness of the underlying tectonic structures. It was grand, awesome, even gorgeous. So why was I scared to death of it?

No I was not scared of dying—I swear despite her age Zuk was further from death than, say, O. O’s rosebud organs and filigreed sheaths, her silk and satin privacies, were clicking knives all over. And thinking of the other little girlgoyles I had loved, filles fatales so to speak: compared to Zuk’s candid Mohawk, Lou Rae Greenrule’s shining snagless bolt of hair from crown to waist had been the glass mountain—go ahead and break your neck on that, Bogeywoman—or once you roll all the way down, go drown yourself in her twat of pale green jello, where no living thing could get a footing. And even my see-through princess Emily, far more than Zuk, was over the hill of no return. Her skeletal purity was way past death, as everybody knew, into Halloween transfiguration.

Unh-unh, it wasn’t death, in Zuk, not prissy choicy maidenly death at all, but coarse old fat old life that was scary. She looked well fed and well used, Doctor Zuk, she looked calloused and grizzled and tough. She looked well manured, like anything would grow in her, and she smelled yeasty, or would have, if she hadn’t cured her hide for thirty years in Byzance, by Rochas. All right, all right, I’d talked myself into it. I’d polished off swamp water, hadn’t I? I was ready. I shut my eyes and held my nose and jumped.

It was easy. By godzilla I should have realized that wild fun for any dolly who’d lived to be as old as Zuk couldn’t be as far away at the end of the labyrinth as mine was. Or she’d be what I was, a raving mental peon until only yesterday, with a gray under-hull of cicatrix, wicker-woven slash by slash, from her elbows to her wrists. (By the way I’ve decided I’m never gonna get these arms fixed. By godzilla I can see it coming: soon I’m gonna be so terrifyingly sane that I’m gonna need some proof I was ever buggy. And you watch, when I’m a dreambox mechanic myself I won’t even wear long sleeves—let em see, the bloodsuckers—well, maybe in January.)

Coming was as easy for Madame Zuk as blinking, or swallowing. Trills like Fats Waller, I’m not lying. That coochie of hers winked at me so hard I thought she was taking my picture with it, and maybe she was. One eerie thing: how her skin was slippery, papery, over the muscle—that was her age I guess—and I swear at times there was no more to making her melt in my fingers than pulling off an ice-cream wrapper.

So madame-too-beautiful-on-her-horse was a better woman than I was after all! Then it set in again, the furtive conservatism of the mental patient. Who the hump did she think she was, this big strong woman, this so-called bug repair expert, running off with a bughead, all right, a former bughead, but still, a former bughead not quite eighteen years old? And this was Dr. Gulaim Zuk, who had earned her fame debugging the dreamboxes of youth. The nerve of her, to write about teenage monsters when she’d never even been one! The kind of ease Zuk had wasn’t sumpm you grew up to. Like scratch it was sumpm you got back to, if at all. Doctor Zuk had been spared adolescence. She’d hidden out with her father The Beetle all through his wondrously weird, unspeakably lonely exile in Caramel-Creamistan. And then the Commies had shot him exactly on time—on the eve of her twelfth birthday—so she never had to grow up in front of him, never had to see his disgusted face.

As for me, adolescent ugliness is my natural state. Bogeywoman I was born, fat and stinky, Bogeywoman is my dowry. Course, I admit it, next to the ease of Zuk, my adolescent repulsiveness suddenly looked like sumpm willful, even to me—gargoyles in the belfry—sticking their nauseous tongues out. All the same I was what I was and could not be saved from myself. For an instant I longed for lobotomy—sure, cut the whole memory bone from the dreambox. Blank me out. But the world had become too beautiful to erase, somehow.

(I could imagine The Beetle first arriving in Caramel-Creamistan—a Yid from the Vistula seeing those camels, asking himself Where the hump have I landed? I lay along her body now and whispered What the hump is this place, I never knew there was a swamp at the end of the bay, tell me where we are or I’ll …)

Her body was similar to Central Asia … well, maybe not, but it was nothing like mine. Dew glazed her throat, her forehead. She had had enough. She stopped my hands. I lay along her side, her head rested on the crook of her arm, and two or three hairs burst out of each calamitous pore of her armpit. Hair too lank and outspoken even to curl, it lay there, black wheat. Now that I saw her up close, I understood how she could look famous—her face was as huge as a movie screen, her eyes, her nose, her mouth all double the size of mine, you could have driven a Cadillac between those Thousand and One Nights’ eyebrows. Never in her life could anyone have called her petite. She was built like a belly dancer, generous, billowing. She had the kind of lobed showy muscle I once read would keep a girl out of the Rockettes—just right for Princess Noor and Her Six Harimettes, however.

Fazool shrieked and we poked our heads above the gangway stairs. We both saw it: a black bear about as tall as me stood up to look at us, then polkaed away across the bog, his fat little bowlegs splashing.

“Say, got any bears up there in Caramel-Creamistan?” I whispered. “And what about disgust? Weren’t you ever, like, sick-to-your-stomach disgusted with love—the whole twenty-dish ham & chicken potpie firehall supper? And where the hump are we anyhow?”

“You know, one thing people know how to do in Karamistan. This is eat. Sit, talk, eat. September in Samovarobad is paradise, thirty degrees and everybody eating melons from morning till night. But most of all, meat. Is meat culture. Twenty kilometers out of city in red hills, is nothing to find but meat. Sit on carpet, soon some woman brings in great bowl or plate: all meat, naked boiled meat. And you see everything of this meat. Is anatomy lab for sheep. You see every part of sheep, whole stomach, testicles, big steaming heap intestines, and from middle of puddle two whole sheep eyeballs look up at you. My god what makes that scream like crazy woman?”

“O that’s an American Barred and Bedraggled Owl. You’ll never see it—it’s probably in that tangle of black gum trees. Before we get there it’ll go flapping off to the next thicket. Ya know what it says?—I mean what everybody says it says—Who who who, who cooks for you?” “Ah! Is very good question. And what is answer?” I shook my head. “Answer of course is You do. Answer every time, You do you do you do.

“Alas, I tire of ever the same dish. The world too stays not in a oneness of changelessness. And who would say which is more beautiful, night unveiling to day? or day unveiling to night? Either way, veiling or unveiling, the world is beautiful as a houri.”

“Say, where the hump are we again?” I asked for the hump-teenth time, “and where’d you say we were going?”

“I eat all foods. I eat meat, fish, kasha, apricots. I particularly like feast dish of Karamul-Karamistan, which is baby camel stuffed with goat, goat stuffed with six hens, each hen stuffed with twelve eggs in nest of parsley, and all this roasted on spit through twenty-four hours …”

“Holy godzilla did you see that? A giant pig just jumped up from the mud bank right there between the cypress knees and trotted into the bush. Cheese, look at the bald spot—that’s where it was wallowing. Where the hump is this place and where are we headed? [Sniff, sniff.] Ya know I know it sounds perverse when there’s water water everywhere, but I swear I smell smoke …”

“Speaking of smoke, speaking of meat, what you suppose is feast day game of men in all Karamul-Karamistan? I tell you. Is kind of crazy polo with carcass of sheep. First they cut throat, like that, kr-r-r-ch. Then they race around like crazy on strong little ponies, and tear sheep apart with bare hands. Who has biggest piece at end, wins.”

“Wins what? Cheese, there goes another pig, with big black spots. You see any farms? See any peanut fields? Must be a pig gone wild, I mean, you know, a feral pig. What the hump is this godzilla forsaken place?”

Outside the portholes, thorny-vine and creepy-briar shot straight up the tree trunks, fifty sixty feet in the air. Bulrushes brushed peacefully by, then, rat-a-tat-tat on the Jenghiz Khan, a canebrake was playing our bottom like a snare drum. Doctor Zuk stuck her head out the gangway. I stuck mine out next to hers. “Where the hump—” “Hush, Bogey. Make like you speak no English. Do like Fazool, whatever he does, you do it too. Hallo-o-o-o!” she shouted. Fazool grinned his square grin and waved. Zuk waved. I waved. A streaky tin roof swam into view, then a Nehi Orange Crush sign, its orange weathered to that shy flamingo that pleases me best of all colors. On the bank a galvanized steel privy sailed by, its door banging in the wind.

“Hey what is this place?” Then I saw sumpm like thick pink cellophane—a bulge of peat water gushing over a slimy spillway. And before I knew it I was tilted back like in a roller coaster. Holy godzilla, a winch was hauling the Jenghiz Khan up a coupla boat rails. A Popeye-looking fuddy in khakis was working it. I read a sign on a shack, UNITED STATES ARMY CORPS OF ENGINEERS. I was on the point of yelling Help me I been kidnapped, when I remembered I hadn’t been kidnapped, I’d been saved. “Where the hump are we or I’ll scream,” I screamed. Luckily the winch chasing over the metal frets was loud as a Gatling gun, and nobody heard me, not even myself.

Then a red lake was opening out in front of us as far as the eye could see. “Wow, how the hump did that get here? What—” “Hush—only little while longer now,” Zuk said. Fazool steered the Jenghiz Khan left along the shore. “You, Bogey, keep eye open like owl for Ditch Number 19. Ditches don’t have signs like streets so is important, very important, you watch and count.”

The lake: red like the bilge that laps the toilet bowl the first day you’re on the rag—and a few cypress knees sticking out of it like hairy upside-down carrots. “So what about The Beetle?” I dared to whisper (I had never asked about her father before.) “I figure he grew up eating kreplach in Plock or somewhere, just like my Zayde Schapiro …”

“Ah, you speak of Mr. Zuk,” she replied stiffly. “What means this—kreplach?” She made a face. “Mr. Zuk was champion fencer at Jagiellonian University. Son of famous doctor of geophysics from Warsaw. He wrote not only in Yiddish—sometimes in Polish, sometimes French. Even before start of war, even before Polish Communists die in Russia, is over with him and communism. He trusted nobody. Karamul-Karamistan you know is never spoon of his mouth. Even in Karamul-Karamistan, for eleven years we are running. He is at home nowhere, and that temporarily saved his neck. Place of safety, place of danger—I am accustomed to flux of this, perhaps I even like it. In Karamul-Karamistan I learn to eat every kind of food. I learn to watch all night from rock in desert while in tent Mr. Zuk write stories which nobody now reads. Mr. Zuk is thin like walking stick. Mr. Zuk never liked much to eat but he eats whatever his benefactor gives to eat. But I—I like to eat.”

“Don’t I smell smoke?” I said, “isn’t that smoke floating in the trees?”

“And now I tell you disgusting. You know what is kumiss? Liquor from mare’s milk. Don’t make ugly face, is good, very good, like vwodka and yogurt mix, and good for you, but sometimes we are in nomad village, kumiss is bring in to drink inside great bag of raw skin, one meter wide, and, Bogey, hair of horse still grows on inside part of bag, and plenty islands of black hair are swimming in kumiss. Pfui. And one time, bag, it bubbles too much inside, and just when we drink, whole thing blows up, bloomps! in hair, nose, eye, everything. Disgusting.” Her creamy laughter.

“That’s the eighteenth little creek we passed …”

“Is good.”

So now we were off the lake and nosing up another skimpier ditch, parting reeds and yellow scum and scraping bottom, and all of a sudden we’re smack in the middle of a big fat smoke ring, tunneling down the tonsils of it, visibility is the hole, that’s all, in this great white doughnut of smoke …

Zuk didn’t seem to notice. “Is not far now,” she murmured. “Hey—” [sniff, sniff] “I don’t just smell fire, I even see it …”

Fazool shrieked again and splashing out of the thick white smoke came a small black cow, with a nose like a wet black charcoal filter, and twisted horns where you looked for antlers. In deerlike arcs the cow launched herself and her freckled udder across the stream, trailing garlands of honeysuckle. “What the hump is this queer place?” I burst out, “I’m no mental peon, I can take it. I can take it if you can take it. We’re almost there, now come on, tell me where we are.”

“You are right, Bogey. We are deep in Great Dismal Swamp. We go to remote hunting lodge of my cousin, Édouard Suleymenian, vice consul for trade in America of Karamul-Karamistan. Édouard will help.”

“Chee-e-e-e-ese, the Dismal Swamp, I always wanted to go there, in a creepy sorta way, try tracking in the ruby-red peat bog, ever since Willis Marie Bundgus, the wood wizardess, told me it was the northern limit of the water moccasin, cheese,” and I began to tremble all over to think I had been wading up to my chin in the snaky soup.

“These little peat fires” [cough, cough] “they are as nothing, they happen every day in low water in August, dark of moon” [cough, cough]. Is very beautiful at night, that red ring of fire in bog, you see? Ranger men come put them out. Now and then, is true, ranger disappears in swamp. Crust falls in, bloomps, like top of meat pie under spoon, yes? and poor fireman falls into burning peat and we never see him no more …”

IN THE HUNGER DESERT

The hunting shack of cousin Édouard, second vice consul (department of sheep exchange) of Caramel-Creamistan to the United States of America, had a warped and wavy tin roof like an old broiler pan, and needed paint. Well, perhaps it didn’t need paint so much as never had any. Paint was a citified notion hardly known in the Dismal, judging by the few dumps we’d passed. The shack was built of silvery planks and stood on not too crooked stilts on the shore of Ditch 19. The sagging front porch screens had a greenish cast, and all around the front door, curious perches for birds seemed to have sprouted—antlers, as it turned out, of every shape, but all kinda pipsqueak, nailed up as they were without the heads they grew on, godzilla be thanked.

All told, an unassuming den of classic fudd, according to your Baedeker. So I wasn’t allowing for much of a spectacle from Cousin Édouard. In fact I was thinking that, after Madame Zuk, a soldierly old fuddy with a firm paunch and grizzled sideburns would be a relief—a modest, dignified sportsman, that was the ticket, given to colorless oaths, politely indifferent to women but a mean hand with a frypan full of fliers—I mean, how many fantasticoes dare we hope, or rather must we dread, from any one family?

Zuk buckled on her silver sandals, I borrowed her shirt, and together we staggered up the dock. The screen door opened and there was Cousin Édouard—I tried not to gape. “My godzilla it’s Yul Brynner in Anastasia,” I whispered in her ear, and she laughed a nervous laugh that caused me to narrow my eyes at her—just what was going on here? I swear I saw it all in one second flat: He was old, maybe thirty, and beautiful, and bald as a mahogany finial, but not as old as Zuk. These cousins knew each other well! I could smell it, they were ancient lovers, and I knew which was which. I figured she had introduced him under the Ottoman Empire to the same black arts she had lately shown me.

In fact he looked like her, the same giant-sized eyes, nose, cheekbones—so beautiful he was grotesque—the same Mongol flash, but with black ficus of body hair at the wrists and throat of his pale green shirt. He was a little shorter than Zuk, and he worried, that was what really made me stare: the bare notion of a worried Zuk. He had her beauty, he was younger and an international playboy to boot, around 16,000 miles out of my league, but his face was nicked here and there with a fretfulness quite unknown to madame-too-beautiful-on-her-horse. Was he scared—scared, possibly, of Zuk? Well, who wasn’t? Maybe her fumy dangers had affected more than his growth. And sumpm else I saw right away: he wasn’t all that glad to see us. He was worried. I saw it before she did, even before he quieted his dogs, two ringletted spaniels, and held out his arms to us and smiled courteously and bowed us in. And said over my head to Zuk: “Very interesting—the blond hair—and soulful, belligerent face, like some orphan boy from a film—some movie of Dickens maybe?—Oliver Twist I think.”

Zuk pushed me firmly forward. I hadn’t realized I’d stopped. As I stumbled by he caught my hand and pressed it to his lips—not some sleazy fakeroo but a real kiss that left a wet spot. His lips were big beautifully molded Levantine numbers, with that sorta blue tattoo of a banished mustache gleaming faintly above them. I noticed he held my hand a little longer than was strictly necessary—could be he was scoping my scars, all bazillion threads of them that looked like carded plastic fishing line in that light. But of course an international playboy doesn’t say a wrong word at a moment like that. “Come in, ladies, sit down …” And then, like Zuk back at her place, he was off and clanking around in the icebox—brought in three little glasses and the vwodka. I choked mine down.

Coupla paragraphs to be filled in later about his guns and knives, a whole wall of em. Bear rugs, raccoon lampshades, ocelot headrests—you get the picture. Ruffs of brown feathers tacked up on the bias—just the wingspreads, no stuffed voodoo turkeys with empty glass eyes. Cousin Édouard ate the meat and didn’t pay the taxidermist, I guess. But there was a sweet smell of violence and rot about the place, as though carcasses were hanging in the guestroom. He did know his way around a frypan full of dead fish: they came out to the front porch headless, cockle-shaped and gritty with golden meal. I ate six or seven. And then, sitting in the rusty lawnchairs, we got down to business.

“Édouard, is good to see you. I need little help from you.” “Tell me, have you two women really sailed all night in that clumsy oyster boat? What nerve you have, Gulaim.” “Why, what is to fear?” He shook his head. “Is very good thing, Édouard, your boat is in Baltimore for paint—sorry to commandeer, but we must stay in front of police.” “Good god, Gulaim …” His hand rose vaguely to his forehead. “Don’t you wish sometimes to live a quiet life? And my god what a genius must be that kokpar player Fazool who until one year ago never saw the sea. It’s a miracle you have not got lost or run aground, Gulaim. Or been stopped by police, or the Coast Guard.” “Actually Fazool must get out and push Jenghiz Khan for one mile of low water at Currigunk Landing—extremely tiresome but then Bogey has beautiful idea we will jump in snake-filled canal and push with him.” Zuk leaned back contentedly, smoking one of Édouard’s cigarettes, wagging a crossed foot in its silver sandal, looking sultry and piratical in sopping rolled-up pinstripe trousers and nothing but the wet pinstripe vest over her momps, with one button buttoned.

“How original … I am glad at last to see Miss Koderer with my own eyes—the famous Bogeywoman, yes?” I couldn’t help smiling at this proof of far report. Zuk smiled too. “And what you think—she is not what I have said?—a charming monster? You have noticed her latissimus dorsi and her strange quick foot like goat foot?”

“Miss Koderer,” Édouard bent towards me, “may I ask to what is owing the prodigious leather of your fingertips?” I opened my mouth to talk but Zuk beat me to it: “She plays every day kidney-shaped hospital utility basin with orthopedic brace for neck, and strings of catgut sutures—she can play as beautiful as the moon. You would like to hear?” “She has pleased the moon,” Édouard said smoothly, “she is under no obligation to the stars.” “Anyhow I didn’t bring my pukelele,” I reminded them.

“Ah! quel dommage! In any event I hope you ladies will be at home in the Dismal. You may want to canoe the ditches—I have a good Wild Duck, consider it at your service. Do take care not to fall through the turf into burning peatholes.” “Fire is bad this year?” “No more than usual,” he shrugged, “only usual is bad enough. Canebrake rattlers are pouring into the ditch all night—do keep your eyes open. You may have the blue room, as soon as Fazool fetches the, ah, hanging game out to the lean-to. Dinner is at nine …

“But perhaps you two will wish to ‘haunt the moonlit bog’, as the poet says, like those tragic lovers of old who met ‘by firefly lamp’ and paddled off ‘through many a fen, where the serpent feeds’—or was that the runaway slave? Saprelotte, I can never keep those two straight—pardon, I’m only a lowly diplomat, not an artiste like you two ladies. Surely one of you knows?”

“What’s he talking about?” I whispered to Zuk, who shook her head. “And I trust you will have a good holiday in my swamp,” he went on, “—until Tuesday. But then, ladies. Then—you see—”

“What, Édouard? What is Tuesday?” Zuk asked casually, but I saw her craggy knuckles whiten on the rust-speckled arms of her chair.

“Tuesday is four days from today, Gulaim. This is the least possible time I calculate it will take certain parties, with gracious but snail-paced help from my consulate, to track you two to my cabin. Before they come, with no margin for mistakes—you must be gone from here,” Cousin Édouard said with sudden firmness, looking from one of us to the other.

“What you mean we must leave from here? But this is what we hope,” Zuk said, “and not for Tuesday—already for today. So soon as you can fix papers we want to fly together to Samovarobad. You understand, Édouard? Bogey is ready for start new life in Karamul-Karamistan.”

“My dear Gulaim, do you realize what you are saying? You propose to kidnap an American child and take her out of the country.” “Kidnap? She has begged me to take her. Bogeywoman is no child,” Zuk said, “in certain ways Bogeywoman is older than I am old.” “I believe you,” said Édouard drily. “Nevertheless: not only a child, that is, a legal minor, but a mentally ill child, and a patient under your care in the hospital that invited you to the United States, after delicate diplomatic proceedings with the Soviet Autonomous Republic of Karamul-Karamistan. And not only a child, Gulaim, but a female child—that is bad—and female as you yourself are female—that is worse. You have perhaps forgotten that you are still a diplomatic representative of a Soviet government and there is a war on. Are you prepared to be an outlaw—and not only an outlaw, Gulaim, but a female degenerate—in an international incident?”

“I care nothing for that,” Zuk said, “I spit at it, I yawn at it, and so does Miss Bogey. You must explain him yourself, Bogey,” she elbowed me, “anyway you know me, Édouard, they cannot make rein for my forehead. I will never leave my Bogeywoman.”

“Gulaim, do you remember when you needed travel permission to the United States and diplomatic portfolio and the rest? I arranged this for you—all of it. Now you want to wreck my good name with yours. Is it right to ask this? Keep in mind, cousin, when the hungry lies with the hungry, a meal is not born. At least, as things are now, should Karamul-Karamistan have troubles—plague or famine or war—we are in a position to, ah, transfer nationality if necessary, as long as we are here, if we have committed no crime. But if you must do this thing, soon neither of us will have liberty or property so much as an onion. You will be as one whom seven seas have vomited up—either a stateless person or in prison.”

“Pfui—Édouard, you are hysterical, like young girl with pimple on nose, eh? You think whole world talks of nothing but your pimple. Where you get this idea that somebody cares so much what happens to Bogeywoman? Who is watching? Her family hears she has vanished forever, maybe they make small fuss but privately we know they dance and make holiday. For god sake, tell him yourself, Bogey.”

Certainly it was high time I said sumpm—I sat there dumb as a goat carcass while they dragged me back and forth, me, a pawn in international affairs and in family politics too, among the Schapiro-Koderers on the one side and the Suleymenov-Suleymenians on the other. Probably I should have felt small, small like one of those Hershey kiss-shaped markers from Sorry or some other game, but to tell you the truth I felt big, bigger than yesterday, bigger all the time. In fact I had never had such a good time in my life and was trying to figure out why.

“Her family,” Édouard replied. “Her family is her father, I believe—Merlin of Merlin’s World Tour, yes? A theatrical personage, famous, some would say notorious, for his antiwar puppet theater. Presently somewhere in Southeast Asia …” “Famous is only big help for us, you see?” Zuk said impatiently, “this is not a mother, to weep and tear hair over girl for reason she has nothing better to do. Here is my point: Her father neglects her, he hardly knows she is life, he lets them keep her prisoner in Rohring Rohring Clinic and she is not buggy, well, no more buggier than she should be, a girl her age …”

“Ahem,” I said weakly, “sorry to interrupt, but it’s an honor to be neglected by Merlin on the grounds of world peace.” “Ah! Thank you for this contribution, Miss Koderer,” Édouard said with a tiny bow, “it is poignant. I wonder if you—either of you—has any idea where Merlin of Merlin’s World Tour is today?—even as we speak?”

Zuk and I looked at each other, dumbfounded and alarmed. I said: “Don’t tell me—just leave it to that wizardly Merlin to be in Caramel-Creamistan right now. Probably staying in the president’s private palace or sumpm. Curses! The Divine Melvin has gotta have all the love in the world for himself and can’t leave two crumbs for somebody else.” I rolled my eyes in disgust. “He is with Mrs. Khazarolova?” Zuk asked, whitening under her mossy tan. I saw that if Zuk’s fantastic past had somehow swallowed me up in the last few days, no less had my ridiculous and clumsy destiny overtaken her, so that she was not even properly skeptical to hear that my old man might have turned up in the mansion of her boss, the premier of Caramel-Creamistan, Mrs. Khazarolova herself. “Choleria—he is with her?” she almost choked.

“No, no—such a coincidence, like something in a storybook, I don’t ask you to credit,” Édouard replied with a smile. “Not quite. All the same!—Merlin is, in fact, a great favorite of Mrs. Khazarolova. Possibly you know that he performed at l’Oase in Samovarobad as her guest last spring?” We didn’t know. Édouard leaned over to offer us a plate of fig newtons. I took five. Zuk stared at the plate without seeing.

“Let me put the entire case in perspective for you,” Édouard went on. “Rohring Rohring Psychiatric Clinic of course contacted Merlin’s American agent as soon as Miss Koderer was missed. The agent reached Merlin somewhere in Cambodia, via Hanoi. Merlin, hearing of the involvement of a Karamul-Karamistani doctor in the case, thought of his great friendship with Mrs. Khazarolova, and wired Mrs. Khazarolova, via Hanoi, requesting her assistance. Ladies, you must bear in mind that Merlin is at this moment the best-loved American in all Soviet Central Asia. What commissar, petty or great, would not fall over her feet to please him?

“And so I have my orders straight from Mrs. Khazarolova, and you, Gulaim, may be sure you have yours as well. Your diplomatic passport is temporarily revoked. You are recalled to Karamul-Karamistan at once.”

“Very good, is exactly what I want, and the rest will be business of nobody but me. You can fix papers for the girl?”

“Gulaim, you cannot think of bringing the child. I must inform you, you are greatly mistaken in the level of interest you attribute to her father. Merlin is at this moment flying to Washington, from Hanoi, via Bangkok, Moscow and New York. He has canceled engagements for a fortnight. This is Friday. I don’t see how he can arrive in Baltimore before Sunday or Monday. He means, of course, to see his daughter Ursula. He presumes she will be back in custody by that time. He sends her a message.” Édouard handed me a yellow consulate teletype. There was a half page of minestrone in some whirly alphabet and then it read: OKAY, URSIE, YOU’VE GOTTEN MY ATTENTION. I’M COMING. MERLIN.

“Of all the cheek!” I said, handing it to Zuk. “He thinks I did it just to roast his oysters, when I’d finally managed to forget his existence completely.”

“Ursula, you must listen carefully,” said Cousin Édouard. “Your father is coming chiefly to shield you from legal responsibility in the matter of the death of internationally known psychiatrist Reinhold Feuffer. You need this protection, do you understand? But as for the other psychiatrist in the case, whom he knows only as Doctor Zuk, the Visiting Youth Psychiatry Fellow from Karamul-Karamistan, who apparently left with his daughter—Merlin says he is ‘studying the situation.’ I believe this means that if you are back in hospital by Tuesday and have done yourself no harm in the meantime, the matter may be overlooked. So you see, dear ladies, for the good of both of you, there can be no question of sustaining this holiday beyond Tuesday next. If you try to enter Karamul-Karamistan together, even supposing you can get papers and a plane, you, my cousin, will be detained, and Miss Koderer returned at once to United States. And both of you will be in a great deal of trouble.”

“Choleria, you think after what I have lived through already in this life I am scared before that little trouble? God he closes one gate and opens a thousand. To get away from Red Army robots and old-style Foodian analysts, nothing is too much. We can come down into desert of Kyzl Kum from Pamirs, or airplane of certain friend of mine can drop us in desert, other old friend can find us with horses in chosen place. I know every rock and water spring, for years we can live like queens with old comrades of my father in Hunger Steppe of Betpak-Dala, where nobody dares even come for look. You think I have hidden in desert all those years with Der Kaifer for nothing? Like you in swamp is Zuk in Hunger Desert.”

Édouard shrugged. “Very well, Gulaim. If you are determined to become the wild woman of Betpak-Dala with your small and lost American friend, two stateless persons running like mice in the desert from rock to rock as long as you last, who am I to say no? When you must flee border police in winter, I hope Der Kaifer’s old comrades will loan you the fleetest of snow camels. And who knows? Border militia are not so assiduous, especially when the bouran is blowing. Or they may be bribed with—for example—a case of Coca-Cola. Of course you may be jailed,” Édouard pointed out, “or shot.”

“Shot!” I whispered. “If I am arrested, if I am lost, dead, kaput, Bogeywoman can hide in this or that aool for short time with old friends. In eleven more months Bogeywoman is grown woman, free, she can do like she wants.” “Dead!” I whispered, “kaput!” “She will return to Baltimore alone by camel, I suppose?” Édouard inquired. “Sure, make joke, have fun,” Zuk said scornfully, “still Bogeywoman does not go back to bughouse on Tuesday.” “Hey, what the hump,” I said uneasily, thinking of Madame Zuk’s buzzard-picked rib cage sticking out of pink sand, “Rohring Rohring ain’t so bad. I can get outa there anytime, you know I can.” “Like you said it yourself,” Zuk reminded me, “now you are dangerous person. Is not so easy to escape from every-fifteen-minute checks in quietroom.” “Merlin won’t leave me stuck in lockup once he sees I’m okay.” “You are sure? He is ready for give up career to watch over you? If not, he must find somebody …”

I had no answer to that. In fact it was just how I’d landed in Rohring Rohring in the first place. I could choose, back then: the ritzy private bughouse or the juvenile authorities. This time, there was a feast of possibilities, by comparison. The Hunger Steppe stretched to the end of the world, relieved only by the shadow of a trudging snow camel. Or—as long as I was here—the Dismal Swamp lay at my feet, trickling and bubbling, soft enough to swallow me up.

“Let the girl go to her father,” Édouard advised, “and fly home, Gulaim. If you do it now, Mrs. Khazarolova can still be managed. Probably she will even send you back to the West. After all, so few Karamul-Karamistanis are known in the great world—you, and that singer of destan who went to Paris, what’s-his-name, and Kurbangaev, the ovine icterologist. I can’t think—good god, Gulaim—”

Zuk had produced the big black gun with the pebbled grips. Her baggy knuckle was hooked around the trigger like serious business and her hand very faintly shook. “Papers,” she said. “You can fix papers, Édouard, I know you can fix.”

“Pull yourself together, my dear,” Édouard said grimly. “You can do what you like! I will arrange tickets and papers, if this is what you choose. I am trying to give you sound counsel, that is all. Perhaps neither of us will work again. But the person with whom you must talk sits next to you. The girl herself! She looks—not so sure, you see? She has forgot to eat her cakes, though she greedily took half a dozen of them. She looks dazed. She is maybe not ready to carry a carbine all day long in saddle and sleep on it by night in a yurt. She hardly knows where she is right now—how will she do in the desert of Kyzl Kum?”

“You make mistake,” Zuk said, “she is expert tracker, and brave like funambule in circus. Bogey, what you say?”

I opened my mouth and closed it again. Must I go to the Hunger Desert with Doctor Zuk? I was afraid so. But it wasn’t exactly the red desert I feared, whose terrors would soon be joys. I saw myself thundering off in the pink dust on a Kazakh pony, my heels flapping. I’d probably get the hang of it soon enough, I thought—if Zuk could do it, I could. No, it was madame-too-beautiful-on-her-horse who worried me: to be so inescapably tied to her at the other end of the world, to be so close to Madame Zuk as to be one thing. I don’t know why: some sort of hunger for difference had set in.

And yet—no joke—I owed her my life! Even she didn’t know how truly in pawn to her I was, right down to my scarred old skin. How could I refuse to let her save it now? But I no longer needed saving. I had never been so happy, not even at Camp Chunkagunk when I didn’t know I loved girls yet, when Lou Rae Greenrule and I used to come out of the lake together and get our ears popped together at the top of the stone stair.

No, even now, when I thought I might end up a heap of bones in the desert of Kyzl Kum, I was never so happy in my life. I had Doctor Zuk. She had thrown away her safety for me, her job, her country, even her fame. I knew I must never leave her, and yet—what could be queerer—I no longer had to have her. I had her. I was her. I had swallowed her. I had become her. True, I didn’t quite have the whole megillah down yet, the beauty, the style, the clothes. But Zuk was inside me, as sure as my liver or spleen. She would give me lessons.

And if I had her, if I was her, I could have anyone, as she could have anyone. And maybe it would even be true to say that now I was, or at least I was becoming, what I had thought she was. Now that I was her, maybe there was really only one of us—me. Now that I had her, I understood she was not quite the woman I had thought she was at first. She was arrogant—sometimes when she scolded Fazool I found myself thinking: the old bag! She was shaky, wild, even a little mad. Definitely mental. After all, she had thrown herself away on me, on me! But I could never leave her—to leave her would be base, unworthy of her, that is, of me. Now that I had her, I had to have her. At least until we’d both had enough.

“So, Bogey. What do you say?” I opened my mouth and closed it again. “She says nothing. No words come out of her. Édouard. Édouard, I think maybe—I think you are right.” Zuk sat up very straight in the rusty lawnchair. The gun banged onto the table. Édouard smoothly lifted it away. “She is not ready for Betpak-Dala,” Zuk announced. “She is young,” he said. “I was young,” Zuk said gloomily, “you were young.” Édouard replied in Caramel-Creamistani I guess, and they went on whispering back and forth, looking at me, and at each other, and back to me, ardent, long-suffering, resigned, like dream parents from some other world—until I felt left out. “I’ll go,” I said. “I need rest,” Zuk said, “I need think,” but then she gathered herself up in her wet trousers and began to pace the porch floor.

“I wanted to fly to Karamul-Karamistan for her. Not for me,” came that voice cured in the smoke of Mongol firepots. “Of course,” Édouard said. “Me I have seen enough face of camel, like huge malignant peanut, for all my life.” “I quite agree.” “I have sat on hairy kilim on floor more than enough. I have eat kprpuz and kavun until I am sick. If I never wear wadded cotton khalat again in life is too soon.” “Much too soon,” Édouard echoed. “But Bogey is monster, not girl: she cares nothing if clothes make her fat like sausage—you should see what she has on for clothes when I first meet her.” “I can imagine,” Édouard said gravely, eyeing my mildewed shirttails.

“For Bogey, everything new is food for mind, so she can forget harsh exile from summer camp, and dead psychiatrist with broken head. I want to give her country where she is daughter of moon and where she can eat karpuz and hundred melons more from dawn to dark, so long as she rides with Zuk and knows no men. And for her I think is easy. But maybe is not so easy.” “It is not so easy,” said Édouard. You are a leviathan, I thought, even your kiss is like a house fell on me. “I can do it,” I said. “I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll go.”

“What you really say,” Zuk observed, looking shrewdly at me with her pond-green eyes—but from a distance, for she was back on a cloud-bonneted peak with Margaret Meat on her left hand and Sigmund Food on her right—“what you really say is I am like some great roc from sky, I have swooped down and take you away and swallow you.” “More like a house fell over on me,” I peeped, trying to make it sound like just a shack, not a house, but then I could see that, as long as the truth was going to come out, maybe a giant roc was best.

“Yes, I am catastrophe in henhouse—like you tell me once,” she said with bitter pride. “You are one hump of a catastrophe, you are,” I admitted, “but you saved my life. You’re the only real monster I know. I wouldn’t have got better for anybody else.” “They will put you back in bughouse, if you don’t come with me,” she warned. “O no they won’t. They’ll try, but I’m never going back to Rohring Rohring—well maybe later when I’m a dreambox mechanic myself. You’re everything to me,” I told her truthfully, “only … only …” “Only you don’t want everything no more,” she said, “you want only little bit.” It was half true, just half, but I didn’t answer. I loved her reproaches and studied to deserve them.

“Now I must think, must find new way,” she panted to Édouard, or to herself, drawing herself clear of me again with a swirl of air and sumpm silver flashing. She paced a couple times more up and down the rotten porch—Édouard’s spaniels, regarding this tumult of legs, shrank away under the table. All at once she banged through the screen door and ran headlong down the dock to shore. Trotted along the mud bank a ways and disappeared into the blackgreen wall of the woods. The last thing I saw was one white calf flickering in the creepers. Then nothing. I jumped up.

“Please sit down. Do not fear for my cousin. God’s gate is her gate,” Édouard assured me, through the snake charmer’s oboe of his large and perfect nose. “Let her go. She knows the swamp. She knows what these woods are.” He raised his two hands, lazily invoking peace, not really caring whether it came or not. I narrowed my eyes at his beautiful-ugly face, but instead of running after her, I listened to him, shifting foot to foot—which was what gave her that fatal headstart.

Édouard said: “Perhaps we all know more than we say—? Even you, Miss Koderer?” (On this interrogative note, the gazelles of his eyebrows leaped, sailed, landed.) “My cousin is a remarkable woman, even great. I myself was one of her devoted, ah, students, at one time. But she has made a grave mistake. I don’t mean merely she has had the bad luck to offend her political patrons. This time she has gone too far.”

“She saved my life,” I said.

“She has made a mistake—not only a mistake—the mistake,” Édouard said, “broken not a rule—the rule.”

“For me she always did the right thing.”

“That is beside the point,” said Cousin Édouard. He gazed at me somberly. “My cousin is in disgrace. She sees that now. She has every right to lose herself,” he went on, “in a swamp well suited to that end, indeed I find it a noble choice, a beautiful choice, if this is what she chooses.”

“You mean you think she—o no—o my godzilla—”

I ran after her. That Édouard might hope to lose me in the Dismal right behind her, to turn us monstrous girlfriends into leather boggywomen with one mild wave of his hand—well, I thought of that later, but even that wouldn’t have stopped me at the time. I tracked the fat exclamation points of her silver sandals in the crusted mud.

Madame Zuk I repeat was no sylph but the length of the intervals amazed me. What strength she had with her belly dancer’s bulk, what spring in her silvery heels! The craters of her passing were as legible as puddles after a day of rain—some of them filled right up with swamp water and I saw them shining like stars. So far the trail was easy as pie, the trail was pie, while it lasted, a soft pumpkin-red custard all along the ditch bank. In the scummy water below, rings shed rings where startled reptiles had belly-flopped, and the air was never still—more buzzing, crackling and humming than the black cavity of a telephone. Once a root caught my bare foot and I almost went into the soup myself—my palms printed red dough. Then I winced to think of her running on those things, and pretty soon there it was, the little broken-off silver cone of the first heel, sticking up like a golf tee, and the hop, hop, hop of the other where she had righted herself. Here she tried to go on with no heel but the little nails were poking up into the pad, here was the deep round pock where she stood on her right foot and rocked and swayed and cursed and unbuckled—I calculated the arc and there it hung high in the smilax, one arched silver left sole with no heel, a sliding board for toads.

On she went and never fell and vaulted over trickling cracks in the peat and bore left, jogging along the ditches. We seemed to be in an ever-curving maze screwing down to some core, some center. The smoke that hung waist-high in the whole bog thickened. I coughed and sneezed and blinked back tears, but galloped on, I hoped, at least as fast as Zuk. I figured she had already horrified the rattlers back into their holes with her stampede so I could run faster, but just in case, contrary to the prescriptions of classical wood wizardry, I thrashed through the clumps of greenbriar and tupelo as loud as I could. Zuk’s white shirt caught on this and that—I tore it off and ran naked. Her tracks were so fresh I could almost see them puffing like dough prodded by a finger, and for a while I thought I might be hearing her. Or was that distant rumbly suck, suck, suck my heart?

I was gasping and soon I began to see that pacing round and round my quietroom in the bughouse or playing pukelele all day long with the Bug Motels was no way to get in shape for a life-or-death chase through the Dismal Swamp. The superhuman strength of the mental patient had deserted me. Doctor Zuk on the other hand must have been running 440 hurdles on the sly. You’d think I’d have been more scared what with turf fires all around but—I realize now I was counting on old Zuk to know I was there and save me, if not herself. She’d never lead me into eaten-away peat bogs whose cores fell in, I thought. Or would she?

On and on, her pegleg track (one bare sole, one high-heeled sandal) never flagged. Not even after I saw the first bright dot of blood under the big toe of her bare left foot—I fell to my knees to look at this up close. I panted like a dog. I touched my tongue to her blood just as a fat drop of sweat fell from my nose and washed it away. I was beginning to doubt I’d ever see her again. I crawled to the next drop of blood and the next. Curses upon her, she hadn’t even slowed down yet. How could she go on like this, hobbling gigantically on one high heel like some Oedipus from Vogue?

Suddenly her footprints were everywhere; there seemed to be twice as many as she could possibly need. Was I seeing double? My heart drowned. At least down here where I crawled the smoke was still thin, and even when her tracks were blurred or smeared I could trace their edges with a finger. What if I lost her? What if I had to find my own way out? I realized I’d just been following, following. Some Wood Wiz lost-finder I’d turned out to be!—I’d given not a thought to north, south, east or west, or wind, or hour of day. In hindsight, prickles of sunlight flashed all over the sky, like lights on a spinning top, spiny blobs here, there and everywhere, piercing through rifts in trees. Where the hump was I? Nowhere but on her trail. But I couldn’t give up so I sobbed and crawled on.

And soon I saw sumpm else that sank my heart. Here was why her footprints were blurred and smeared—another set of feet mixed in with hers. I had no idea how long ago I’d started to see them, only that it was long. And maybe I’d counted them out because there was sumpm so repulsive about them, sumpm frightfully plain, deeply dull, sumpm so familiar and disgusting. What was it? I put my nose to them. A faint stink. They were grub-shaped, reticulated, ordinary. What then? That well-known shiny spot, no whorl left, there under the right first metatarsal where Dr. Beasley had dug the plantar wart out—they were mine! my own feet. Good godzilla this meant she had lapped me, we had gone in a circle and were still going, all three of us, two Madame Zuks and now me.

I loped on in despair, sometimes two-legged, sometimes propping myself like an ape with one hand, sometimes down again on all fours. I would never really have her or be her, I would never be the woman that Zuk was, not even in the woods. She had proved that. She had risen brilliantly back into my sky by reducing me to a crawl—at least I could breathe down here, where I richly deserved to be. But she only made sport of me this way for a short stretch. Now her intervals were less. She might be tiring, or maybe just tired of the race. After all she knew she had me beat. From now on she walked straight up on her one high heel at an easy pace, swinging her hips like a woman going home from a swim in the river. A canebrake crowded the bank and afterwards I discerned in the red mud only the footprints of our two old selves, the wild old Zuk and the scared-stiff young Bogeywoman chasing her. The new Zuk had veered off somewhere. The new Bogeywoman had not yet caught up.

She had struck off into the bog on no trail at all. Right away I sank in up to my ankles behind her, and the blackish red peat water hissed and bubbled around my hucklebones like drippings from a steak. It didn’t take a wood wizard—I saw plainly the hole in the honeysuckle where she’d torn it. Aimless, thin salt-and-pepper mist floated out of it. But on its other side dark smoke boiled in great swirling crepe ribbons and bows, and I heard a low roar. I sank exhausted against a cypress stump and stared at its broiled and twisted boll. It had a face like a gargoyle, where an iridescent beetle was crawling. I climbed onto it and as soon as my feet dangled free, Zuk exploded up from the honeysuckle and, showering red water everywhere, shot past me. Somehow I flew at her and got hold of the one silver sandal. “Sorry, dear Bogey—I never mean to harm—” She kicked me hard in the stomach. A wrench and her wet foot popped free. There I was, bunched over my belly, holding her sandal. I tried to say goodbye—oooof, was all that came out. She leaped over a heap of logs into that black smoke and you know the rest. An amphitheater of sparks, a million crumbs of orange flame, rose up behind her, opened like a cape and ate her. Then white steam everywhere.

8

How Love Got Me Out of There

Tuesday I called Merlin’s loft from a coinbox outside the Red Star Diner on Pulaski Highway, as far from the whitecoats and gumshoes as I could stash myself and still make a ten-cent telephone call. I was exhausted, fried and full of myself, puffed up with hot air and looking for a fall like a cheese soufflé. I mean I had just lost Zuk, and the old man had come halfway around the world to see me. I wasn’t going to insult him by calling long distance. He should at least think I was hearing out his counsel before I refused to go back to the bughouse.

“Good afternoon, Moilin’s Woi-i-ild.” It was the Flatbush mechanical tweetie bird of the cadaverous vice puppeteer Suzette.

“Is my father there?”

“Oi-sula! Where are you?”

“Never mind that, where’s Merlin?”

“He was on his way,” Suzette said, “we had just checked into the Bangkok Imperial Tiger when the most wonderful thing happened—you’ll never guess.”

“No. I won’t.”

“He got a why-uh that he got the Mung—he had to fly right back to Hong Kong for a press conference. He sent me on ahead.”

“The who?”

“The Vogelkuss Mung Prize for International Understanding Through Art.”

“Oh.”

“It’s a fifty-thousand-dollar prize, dear. Think what Moilin can do with that money. The poor man has expenses like you wouldn’t believe.”

“O I believe it,” I said hastily. In fact I saw what was coming around the bend and, hoping to head it off, I added: “Well let him know I’m not one of em. Not anymore. Oink that.” But too late.

“Like that fancy mental hospital for instance—such greed I never saw! And listen to you, Oi-sula, my goodness, what’s happened to your language in that place? It’s gone downhill since you started slumming around with that bunch of juvenile wards of the court. Frankly I’m glad you’re out of there.”

I had all my arguments in a row—why I shouldn’t, why I wouldn’t, why I couldn’t go back to Rohring Rohring—but somehow they seemed superfluous to this conversation.

“That place was fine for a month or two,” Suzette went on, “and, as I recall, the poisonnel—wasn’t his name Reginald?—was extremely kind. So helpful! But for two years, as a sort of sleepover boarding school without the school, the place was a little overpriced, don’t you think? I mean, Oi-sula, the bills are breaking your poor father’s back.”

“Well that’s over,” I said, noticing I was rather superfluous to this conversation myself. I thought I’d better remind her I was a wanted woman. “I’m not going back there even if they say I did murder. It was an accident.”

“O that,” Suzette said with mild surprise, “I forgot about that—it’s all cleared up—didn’t you see it on TV? Turns out the poor doctor died of an aneurysm, I mean they found out some bubble boist under his heart, you know, where it goes into his stomach? Very unfortunate, the loss of a woild-famous diagnostician and that, but the problem was in his organs, dear, it wasn’t you at all.”

“That’s a relief,” I said uncomfortably, feeling like the late summer grit blowing across the highway. So Foofer hadn’t died of a broken head or a swallowed pipe—his heart had drowned, drowned in its own blood—while mine had washed up here, bone dry. Between trucks in the parking lot sat the taxicab I’d come in, BLACK-AND-WHITE CAB CO Lizzy City N.C. At the counter the driver pushed the last kink of a glazed doughnut into a moony jowl and studied the Morning Telegraph. Thank godzilla I had found a coupla hundreds crunched down the bottom of Doctor Zuk’s black bag when I snuck back on the Jenghiz Khan. And Zuk’s long white dress shirt in a tree, only a little soggy. And Fazool’s tire-bottomed flip-flops.

“I should say so,” Suzette replied. “The coppers ransacked this place for a picture of you. Finally they had to settle for some ridiculous four-foot-long megillah with every last girl at Camp Chunkagunk on it. You’re in the back row with some kinda black gunk on your Adam’s apple, what the heck was that stuff? Well anyway dear you were famous. For two days. They blew up that tiny face and plastered it all over the TV screen …”

“I was famous,” I parroted, in a daze.

“… right next to your father’s—as if the poor man didn’t have enough trouble. Oi-sula, you wouldn’t believe the hate mail Moilin’s Woild gets! Two big bags full every day, half of it’s fan mail it’s true but the other half, dear god the things they say! Of course the Mung should help with that.”

“Did you get my Camp Chunkagunk picture back?” I growled.

“Did I what? God knows, dear, I’m sure I never gave it a thought … Oi-sula, Mrs. Kuchmek from the Juvenile Court has been calling. They’ve got to appoint some sort of, er, adult guardian for you if you’re not going back to the hospital. Somebody has to officially receive you.”

“Why not you and Merlin?” I said. “Just sign whatever they hand you, I won’t be any trouble, I promise, you’re never even gonna see me, I’ll disappear, I already disappeared, the taxi’s waiting outside …”

“Mrs. Kuchmek knows I’m flying to Moilin in Manila on Friday, and anyhow your father’s far too well known for you to go around pulling stunts like that. You need an adult to keep an eye on you. What about that woman doctor you ran away from the hospital with, that Zook or Shook or whatever her name was, she seemed interested in you—”

“Cheese it caused an international scandal already my leaving with Zuk, and besides I thought Merlin thought she was dangerous—”

“Politics, dear, politics. Anyway by now that’s all blown ovah,” Suzette purred, “nobody cares, dear, as long as you’re all right. You are all right, aren’t you? Do you need any money?”

“I’m fine,” I muttered.

“I’m glad you’re out of the mental hospital, that’s no place for you. Call Mrs. Kuchmek will you? So how about that Doctor Zook?”

“I’ll look into it,” I said.

“Moilin wants to see you when he’s in Washington in eighteen days.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

“Any messages for your father?”

“Nope.”

“I’ll give him your congratulations.”

“Give him my congratulations.”

On the beltway, heading for Route 70 West to Frederick, the cabbie tuned in WBUG “Afternoon Bandstand” and what do you think I hear?

Bugs Baloney, who’s a phony?

The fat begins to fry

Nobody home but the telephony

Me myself and I.

Doowop    dwop dead

The blind eat many a fly

Every slave will have a slave

Why not you and I?

“Hey, that’s my song,” I shrieked, “pull over.” The cabbie looked at me in mild alarm. She was a buzz-cut old jasper in an A-1 Auto Body tee shirt with a neck like a tree trunk. “There ain’t no shoulder, hon,” she said, “you fixing to get us kilt?” “I mean, turn off at the first ramp with a pay phone,” I said. So along we go, calmly, another two miles. Meanwhile the Frogman comes on: “This little tune,” he grates, “was written by the Bug Motels’ legendary fugitive girl singer-songwriter Ursie ‘The Bogeywoman’ Koderer. It was recorded live at the bughouse on the Regicide label by our own! Balmer! bughouse band, Dion and the Bug Motels! and zoomed overnight to number two on our charts! This is WBUG! Top! Forty! Mad! Mad! Radio-o-o-o-o!”

I dialed East Six. Who should pick up the phone but Reginald carpet-nails-in-honey Blanchard himself? He says: “Bug Motels. How we can help you?” “Cheese, is this a bug hospital or a booking agency?” I spluttered. “Bogeywoman! Izzat you? How fast can yall haul ass back to the bughouse? You is no longer persona niggerata round here. The Bug Motels has debuted, they has busted into the big time, you my songwriter and I am your manager.” “What is this Dion and the Bug Motels stuff?” I asked, “you know that silly peacock can’t sing a note.” “Well—lemme tell you how it is—don’t nobody want to look at O’s big as a house self right now. Egbert and Emily best lay back dead in the looks department. And anyhow Egbert’s bailing out—found some gig in a bookstore coffeehouse on Charles Street—how square can you get? So I figure I can sell that pretty-boy face—hump I done already sold it. We got a TV date on WAAM on Friday. Way you at? I come get you.”

“I’m not coming back.”

“Get the oink outa here—you be back. This your chance for fame and fortune, girl. All you gotta do in this bughouse is eat and sleep—grease and zee and play that pukelele—I take cay the rest.”

“Ain’t coming,” I said, “maybe I’ll send you a song now and then.”

“Aw, you be back afta while. Go on now, take you a bitty vacation. I just glad your ass still kicking. When I hear that Rooski dreambox repair queen come back all alone from that all-night boat ride, I worried you drownded or shot or in the Gulag or sumpm.”

“Excuse me,” I said, trembling, “what Russki dreambox repair queen do you mean?”

“I mean that Zook, that lady doctor you run off with. I hear she pass through and pick up her brass booties …”

I hung up the phone, composed myself and told the cabbie: “Indian Mound Downs. And step on it.”

SO I WAS FAMOUS for two days, but it wasn’t worth living in the bughouse. The Bug Motels didn’t get far on those five same old songs of course. I used to sit around Track Kitchen Number Two with a ballpoint and the backs of a few greasy menus trying to make up words, but I had left my pukelele behind and, it was funny, now that I was out of the bughouse and mucking stalls for a living, when I cocked open my mouth, flies flew into it instead of word salad and other buggy stuff swimming out. The Bug Motels made a little dough on their one almost big hit on the Regicide label, “Because I Couldn’t Stop for Lunch,” which sold like crazy in Baltimore—but come to find out we owed the whole take to our manager, the Regicide, on account of some contract none of us remembered signing. Bertie still plays in clubs around the city, but only Dion ever made a name for himself bigger than the Bug Motels. Probably you saw him as Big Henry the helpful Indian scout in Little Bughouse on the Prairie. Just enough so some people around Baltimore still ask, from time to time, whatever happened to the Bug Motels. O well, at least O got sumpm out of it all. She got a set of twins: boygirl, blackwhite, buggysane.

The Bug Motels lost me and in six more months they lost Emily. If I didn’t see my see-through princess before me as I write—yes I mean loyal-to-the-death-by-starvation Emily Nix Peabody, refusal was her middle name, ex-guts of the Bug Motels, now a fleaweight pony girl galloping thousand-pound horses around the track—I wouldn’t believe it myself. Stranger things haven’t happened, not even to me, although I gotta admit she always held up her end on mission. She was tough even then, in her way, with those little aspirin-tablet muscles already popping up on her pipecleaner arms. Well you should see em now. Margaret kept on saying, “I’ll adopt that little Emily yet. Do you doubt me, Ursula? Don’t you see how an ounce of positive desire is worth a pound of negative regulation in this world? It’ll happen, you watch.” Even so I wouldn’t buy it, not the way I was back then, still dragging around the covert conservatism of the mental patient like a torn wrapper of sticky tinfoil.

But after I was here a month, I came to see how Margaret got to thinking like that. One month more and I was thinking that way myself. Here at the excremental end of the sport of queens and kings, where once classy horses that no longer win at Pimlico get dumped, the bosses of the world rub shoulders with folks as low as the ground—folks like me, a former mental peon, and Margaret, the sloppy sexy girlfriend of sleazy Tod Novio, Boyfriend Death (now actually Husband Death), and Boyfriend Death’s hotwalker, T-Bone Riley. T-Bone, who was beautiful as Belafonte when he was young, used to be Eleanor Ogden’s favorite groom at Breadbasket Farm before he got a bleeding ulcer from the strain on his dreambox of rubbing Hardtack, a horse worth ten times as much every day as T-Bone would earn in his whole life. Boyfriend Death gave T-Bone the little trailer when we moved into the big one, Eleanor Ogden was grateful for old T-Bone’s sake, the Davies Ogdens are cousins to Eugenia Ogden Rohring who endowed Rohring Rohring, and Eleanor Ogden is on the board of the American Dreambox Institute—and in short, six more months and Emily arrived, carrying a round blue overnight case which contained her pink plastic toilet set, a new Cowboys ’n’ Indians bathrobe the nurses had given her, with plastic buckskin fringes, and a pile of Donald Duck comics, all her possessions in the world.

“Er, uh, Emily, do you remember Doctor Zuk?” I asked as soon as I could get her alone. “Sure, she was purty and nice,” Emily said, “she took me to the pitcher gallery in my wheelchair one time and showed me all the horse pitchers and the Gyptian mummy, it was a little king, smaller’n me even. And she said when I got rid of those bandages she was gonna buy me a real dress not just a bathrobe, but then she left.” “Did you ever see her come back after that?” I asked. Emily solemnly shook her head unh-unh. “Not even maybe just for a day or sumpm?” Head wagging slowly nunh-unh. “That wasn’t sumpm you just really didn’t want to know or sumpm, was it?” “Unh-unh. I did wanna know, I even ast.” “What’d you ask?” “I ast if she was ever coming back.” “What’d they say?” “She wasn’t never.” “And you never ever heard nuttin more about her?” “Well … one time Miss Mursch said she thought she seen her. She went someplace on a trip. I … I forget where.” “Now, think, Emily. Where?” “I don’t know where. Miss Mursch went somewheres … It was to see the rich people shop. And … and … she saw Doctor Zuk there … shoppin. Sumpm … New sumpm …” “New York?” “I don’t know. I dint ask.” Her little chin began to quiver and I decided it was sumpm I really didn’t want to know.

I let Emily be. She got the best room in the trailer, the one that looks out over the Cacapon and the horses tripping down the bank to drink. Then she got little black lizard cowboy boots with tooled green lariats and flying yellow pineapples on them, and Margaret gave her our big pony Broomstick, and with her nerve, that was that, stunted anatomy became destiny—she’ll be a jockey before it’s done.

As for me, the former mental peon, this topsy-turvy racetrack world, this dump of queens and tramps, this sometimey escalator of nobodies to the stars, was a good place to land, but I’m only passing through, or that’s the basic idea. Our mother of sainted trainwreck’s alma mater Belcher College turned me down once they saw on my transcript that I had been bussed to Girls’ Classical every day from the bughouse. And maybe somebody there remembered my name from the Foofer wrongful death case—well, damn em to hump, but what could I expect? It won’t be easy to break into dreambox repair from Paw Paw Community College, but that’s what I by godzilla plan to do. If Doctor Zuk could pull it off in Caramel-Creamistan, then I can do it here. Back to the bughouse, that’s my plan! But only as high commissar of the dump. It’ll happen, you watch.

In case you haven’t guessed, I’ve decided to stay a Unbeknownst, or anyway unannounced, for the rest of my life. What’s it anybody’s business, anyway? I am what I am, not what you are or they are. That’s why I have to be one-of-a-kind. I don’t dare be a club, for if I were a club I would soon be kicked out of it. I want someone to love, of course, some big woman with fire and la beauté, who’s never known anyone like me before. I expect to find her soon.

My arms don’t resemble raw meatloaf nowadays. Instead they’re sorta like two slim, egg-dribbled, unbaked loaves of bread—two baguettes of thready, shiny white scar flesh from elbow to pinky. I have to admit they don’t look human. You’d be surprised how few people ask me what happened to them, and when strangers do, either I silently smirk them down, from the dignity of my new mysteriousness, or, practicing to be a dreambox mechanic, I ask them—affecting a vaguely trans-Ural accent—Why is this of interest to you? I think of my arms, in the privacy of my dreambox, as the last sweet vestige of my monsterhood—sorta like the Queen of Sheba’s goose feet, which Solomon glimpsed, to his fright, at the bottom of her gown as she daintily stepped across the floor of mirrors—or the swan-feathered forearm of the sixth brother in the fairy tale, whose left sleeve wasn’t ready when the liberation came. I think of my arms as my monster ticket, you might say, in case the whole world should go the monster way and monstrosity comes into its own. I’ll be there. I’ll be ready.

The more I think about it, the more I’m sure Zuk’s alive somewhere—Not good but life, as she once said about little Miss Peabody. Sometimes I wonder if her downfall was all some sumptuous piece of theater she staged for my education, or rather for my violent graduation, with no going back. And maybe, though the glamorous madame-too-beautiful-on-her-horse could never vulgarly think such a thing, she had had enough of me just when I had had enough of her. Or did we both see that one desert, even one six million square miles, wouldn’t be big enough for the two of us?

So what if she fooled me? Even if she’s in Paris right now, dining at Chez Maxim on cousin Édouard’s tab, taking in Balenciaga, the spring collection, still she disappeared for me, for me—disappeared royally—she did me that favor. Therefore, she loves me to the end of time. Love is a command and the heart is khan.

Sometimes when I’m alone in the trailer late at night, when Novio Stables is running a horse in the tenth race and everybody’s there except for me, the phone rings. I pick it up. I hear nothing, just that faint wild sizzle, deep in the earpiece, of the electrical cosmos brooding on itself—but I listen, I listen, and there comes, in due course, that small sedate roll of surf which is human breath. I know who it is. It’s you, isn’t it, I say, you, you—I don’t call her by name, but then I never knew what name to call her. And what the hump would her name be now? Godzilla knows. Madame Doctor? Commissar? Prisoner X? She never says a word, never hangs up, and once I even laid the phone down, ran to T-Bone’s trailer and dialed her old number in Baltimore. Needless to say—life is a dream—it was busy.

In the cobwebby, dusty old Winnebago, hearing the munching of beasts in the dark through the open portholes, holding the cool receiver in my hand, I felt the small hairs wave on the back of my neck. Then I told myself: this is one last favor she does me, to visit me in this ghostly way, so that I will never want to be with her—to show me, instead of her beautiful face, her other face, deformed, fearful, old—so I’ll be glad I’m on my own. All the same I have her, I am her.

Finally I hang up the phone and think: It can’t be Zuk. Even if she’s alive, how could she possibly know where I am? Where did she get my number? What could she have to say to me?

ALSO BY JAIMY GORDON

“Assured, exotic and uncategorizable.… An incontrovertible winner, a bona fide bolt from the blue.”

—The New York Times

LORD OF MISRULE

Tommy Hansel has a plan: run four horses, all better than they look on paper, at long odds at Indian Mound Downs, then grab the purse—or cash a bet—and get out before anyone’s the wiser. At his side is Maggie Koderer, who finds herself powerfully drawn to the gorgeous, used-up animals of the cheap track. She also lands in the crosshairs of leading trainer Joe Dale Bigg. But as news of Tommy’s plan spreads from veteran groom Medicine Ed to loan shark Two-Tie to Kidstuff the blacksmith, it’s Maggie, not Tommy or the handlers of the legendary stakes horse Lord of Misrule, who will find what’s valuable in a world where everything has a price.

Fiction

VINTAGE CONTEMPORARIES

Available wherever books are sold.

www.randomhouse.com

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Other Books by This Author

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

1. Tough Paradise for Girls

2. Buggywoman

3. Miles from Madame Zuk

4. Fallen Among Ayrabbers

5. A Quietroom of One’s Own

6. I Blab to Foofer

7. Flight to Caramel-Creamistan

8. How Love Got Me Out of There

Also Available from Jaimy Gordon

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Other Books by This Author

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

1. Tough Paradise for Girls

2. Buggywoman

3. Miles from Madame Zuk

4. Fallen Among Ayrabbers

5. A Quietroom of One’s Own

6. I Blab to Foofer

7. Flight to Caramel-Creamistan

8. How Love Got Me Out of There

Also Available from Jaimy Gordon