Lizard People (9 page)

“Don't shoot! Don't shoot!” Marco was screaming, and then they were in the alley and roaring north, back toward Marco's house. He rocketed down the narrow gravel lane, shot across the neighborhood street midblock, and slid to a sideways stop just before his own backyard.

“Come on!” he was yelling, running toward the oak tree, diving under its front branches. Gila and Monitor joined him in less than a second. Lizards both! He grabbed their arms and dragged them with him. Maybe it was the scales. Slippery. Or maybe it was the sweat on his palms, but at the last moment, he lost his grip and fell headfirst into the portal without them.

The silence lasted a long time. Marco was cross-legged on his bed, hands together in front, meditation position again. Daylight let me see him more clearly. He was still wearing the same clothes he had on when I first met him in the admitting lobby. The fleecy vest was pilled up like he had been sleeping in it. His shirt was rumpled. Stains on his pant legs. And he was paler, except around his eyes. His breath was rancid and his hair was dirty. I couldn't fit those facts together with how serene he seemed.

“I do the Garvins' lawn,” I said.

He didn't open his eyes.

“Mr. Bellarmine is my neighbor.”

He didn't move.

“I'm going to find out what you're doing,” I said.

“It's simple,” he said, without looking up. “I'm looking for a cure for mental illness.”

Did He Hear Me?

I
had to get some food in me. I stopped at In-and-Out for a triple burger and then drove to the hospital. I waited in the admitting lobby until a woman, a nurse or mental health worker, opened the unit door and leaned out to see what I wanted.

“I need to speak with Mrs. Lasalle,” I told her.

“I'm sorry,” she said, “I cannot say who is on the unit and who is not. Are you someone's family member?”

“Uh, yes,” I said. “I'm Marco Lasalle, her son.”

“No, you're not,” she said.

“Wait! Please. Okay, sorry. I'm Ben Mander. My mom was here for several hours on Tuesday. She must have met Mrs. Lasalle during that time, and I really need to speak to her, just for a second.”

“Why don't you wait here,” she said, “until one of our staff has a few minutes to talk with you?”

I shook my head.

“I can tell you this,” the woman said, “I don't know any Mrs. Lasalle.”

The click of the lock echoed in the empty waiting room.

When Mr. Bellarmine opened his front door, he was smiling. Binoculars hung around his neck on a leather strap. He was holding a clipboard in one hand and a chocolate chip cookie in the other. He handed me the cookie.

“Are you on your way out?” I asked, pointing toward the binocs.

“No,” he said, “just keeping an eye on the local wildlife.” He smiled. “I got it,” he said. “7 BBN 219.” He pulled a yellow sticky note off the clipboard and handed that to me.

“His license?” I asked.

He nodded. “Black Monte Carlo with those silver wheels.”

“Like spinners or mags?”

“Spinners,” he confirmed. He looked me over. “Did that man hit you?”

“Him?” I gestured at the car. “No.” I didn't want Mr. B. worrying about me. “I got hit with a ball in gym class.”

He frowned. “Want to get a restraining order?” he asked.

Dad's car was parked in front of his room at the motel. I thought it might be. Saturdays and Sundays he liked to lay in a supply of beer and watch sports and doze all day long.

It took him a while to answer when I knocked.

“An ex-con is giving Mom speed in exchange for sleeping with her.”

“Found me again,” Dad said. Flat.

Did he hear me?

“Yeah, I've known where you were for a few days, but I needed to get this last piece of information so you could do something.”

“Like what?”

“Track this guy down. Threaten him. Tell the police.”

“You want a beer?” he said, opening the door wider.

I could hear a basketball game on the TV. I didn't see anyone behind him in the room. “No,” I said. “I don't want a drink, and I don't want to come in. I just want you to do something.”

He left the doorway for a moment and came back, handing me two twenty-dollar bills. “Not happening,” he said. “Catch you later.” He closed the door.

I stood there wondering if I would start the car and drive it into his room.

A Pitch to Team Ludlow

Hubie
had a small private space carved out of the flotsam and jetsam in his basement. In the corner farthest from the furnace, he had strung curtains, like screens, made of thin bedspreads. He had a bookcase and stereo on one side, a ratty couch opposite, with an end table and lamp beside it so he could read and relax and listen to music away from the rest of his family. In the middle he had a table and two chairs where we sometimes played chess or, once in a great while, actually did our homework together.

I told him the whole story: Mom, Vinnie, Dad.

“What's the deal with your dad?”

“Dad's, uh, okay, I guess, or he used to be. He'll give me money but he won't help with Mom. I think he's still working but I'm not sure. I don't really think he's a bad guy. He's just selfish and lazy, drinking and using pain meds all the time. Hiding out. Can't cope.” Was I defending him too much?

“Well, then, he never should have had any kids!” Hubie said, disgusted.

I wondered if there were a lot of parents like that.

I told him about Marco. Right away his eyebrows went up. Skeptical.

He snorted when I said Dr. Gila's name. “This is a joke, right?”

I felt my face flush. Yeah, they were stupid names. Maybe they were pseudonyms. I don't know. I hadn't given it that much thought, compared to the rest of the story. Other things like the coincidences with my own family had bothered me more. I guess I'd been living with this Lizard stuff too long. Was it a joke? It didn't feel like one. It felt too dumb to be a joke. And Marco didn't seem either brainless or cruel.

“I think you should run this by my mom,” Hubie said. “You mind telling her?”

I had to think about that. Why did I keep coming to Hubie's? I coughed, so I had an excuse to turn away for a second. I needed help and I knew it.

“No,” I said, my voice scratchy. “Go ahead.”

“Another thing,” he said. “You're looking pretty gnarly. Before we go upstairs, comb your hair or something.”

His parents were in their living room. His dad was watching some sepia-colored movie on the History Channel and his mom was reading on the couch. I sat on the end away from her. Hubie sat on the floor and leaned against the couch, close enough to hear.

His mom listened without comment, just glanced at me a couple of times during the Vinnie part and the Marco story.

When I stopped talking, Mrs. Ludlow stood and looked me over carefully. I couldn't read her expression.

“Are you okay, Ben?” she asked. Even tone.

I wondered how I seemed to her. “Sure. I mean, I'm probably a little tired, with this stuff and all.” I wasn't comfortable with her worrying about me. Huh. Isn't that what I wanted? Isn't that what I came here for?

“You should stay with us for a couple of weeks,” she said, reaching out to touch me briefly on the shoulder.

“My mom,” I said, shaking my head.

She nodded, understanding. “Let me think about your mom,” she said.

“We're supposed to be getting help from a county caseworker, but I haven't seen her,” I said.

“Who?” she asked.

“Betty Lou somebody.”

She nodded again, like she knew the woman. “This Marco, what do you know about him for sure?”

“He lives in a house across the freeway, on the northeast side. His mom was on the unit at the same time as my mom. That's where I met him,” I said. “In the lobby, uh, the admitting area. I tried to ask about his mom at the unit today, but they wouldn't tell me anything.”

“Honey, does Winona still work in the psychiatric hospital?” she asked Mr. Ludlow.

He shrugged. Went back to watching his program.

“Tomorrow, I'll make some calls,” she said. “I went to nursing school with Winona.” She rubbed her chin with the knuckle of her thumb. Thinking. “Might even check in with Mrs. Swenson, Betty Lou, with your permission.”

She looked at me. “How about having a snack and sleeping here tonight?” she asked again. She glanced at my clothes. “Want me to do some laundry for you and your mom?”

I said no and thanked her. Told her I sincerely appreciated her help. Said I'd come by tomorrow afternoon and visit, but that I needed to get home and make sure everything was okay.

When I headed out, I saw that Z was standing just inside their front door.

“I'll walk you to your car.”

“I didn't drive,” I told her.

“I'll walk you to the street.”

When we got to the sidewalk, she said, “Seems like things might be getting a little trippy.”

“Yeah, well, you know. A lot going on. But hey, how are you doing? You're looking really great today.”

She was. Short black dress, blood-red scarf around her hips, high-top Doc Martens, white Laplander cap with a red snowflake design.

I smiled.

She didn't. She didn't say anything. Rubbed one hand with the other. Looked at me. Took her bottom lip between her teeth.

I was happy just standing there, looking at her.

“Hulk Human,” she said, like Hulk Hogan, but not in her usual teasing voice. “You're looking a little raggedy. Things taking a toll? Who hurt you?”

“Yeah,” I said, “physically or mentally?”

She waited me out.

“Well, I got to me first by drinking a hole in my brain.”

She nodded, silent.

“Then Mom's new crackster boyfriend busted me up a little. I'm working on getting rid of him.” Should I keep going? “Uh, Dad pretty much wrote me off. He's definitely not going to help me with Mom.”

I decided not to mention Marco's story. What if she laughed? Worse, what if she thought … “I don't know,” I finished, “things just seem so crazy sometimes. You know?”

She reached out and touched my elbow for a second or two. “You tell me if things get stranger,” she said.

My home was quiet. Living room cleaned up. Mom in bed. Alone. I tried not to make any noise as I bagged the bottles in my room and took them outside to the recycling bin.

In the bathroom I saw myself in the mirror. I didn't look like a wrestler. Or a fisherman. Or a student. I looked more like a cadaver. Night of the Living Teenager.

Betty Lou Weighs In

The
doorbell rang while I was rummaging in the fridge for breakfast.

“Betty Lou! What are you doing here? It's Sunday. Where were you all week?”

“Which question do you want me to answer first—Ben, isn't it? Yes, well, I've come by Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday afternoons, knocked till I have calluses, and nobody's come to the door. Your mom still here?”

“Yeah, uh, yes. I've been at school a lot. I don't know why nobody let you in. Mom pretty much stays in her room.”

“So, how's your mother doing?”

“Not too well, it doesn't seem like. A guy's been spending time with her. Giving her drugs, meth or coke, I think.”

“Son, you can't let that happen!”

“I tried to stop it. He hit me. I think he's an ex-con.”

“Well, let's get rid of that piece of garbage. Your mom home now?”

“I think so. Get rid of him how?”

“Why do you think he's a con?”

“He's got those tattoos all down each arm.”

“Sleeves,” she said. “They call them prison sleeves.”

“He has these scars on his face, like from fighting. Bad teeth. He talks like a punk, makes threats.”

“That describes a lot of the people I work with. Is he buff? Has he been lifting?”

“No. He's got a pot gut. But he's mean.”

“I'll check him out. What's his name?”

“Mom calls him Vinnie. I really only have his car license.”

“Are you sure it's his car?”

That question deflated me. “No.”

“You told Dullborne?”

“Not yet.”

“When does the guy come around?”

“Midday, I think. Stays awhile. He may be kind of like Mom's new boyfriend.”

“Oh, for Sam Hill! No wonder they didn't let me in. Well, write his license down. I'm going to go see your mother.”

I watched her walk past. She was way overweight, had a limp, looked at least seventy. Seemed like she wore black pants, white shirt, and the same black tennies whenever she worked, even if it was on a weekend. Something my dad used to say came to mind: “Tough old bird.” I wrote down the license number and waited for her in the living room.

When she came out, she had a grim look on her face. “She's only been taking about half of her meds. You know that?”

I shook my head.

“She's doubled or tripled up on her benzos. I think that's why she hasn't erupted yet. Can't anyone see that she takes her pills right?”

“I'm at school. What do you expect?”

“You're seventeen?”

I nodded.

“That's too old. Child Protective won't pull you out. They got their hands full with younger kids. Hell of a situation.” She paused like she was thinking. Tugged at her pants, tucked the back of her shirt in. “Looks like I'm the best you got. Get me that license and I'll get hold of Dull. Maybe he can do something from his end.”

She left while I was still thinking that over. She calls him Dull? To his face?

I went to the neighborhood market and got some milk and cereal and bananas, yogurt and pudding, ready-made coleslaw, seedless grapes.