Poster Boy (12 page)

“I see,” said Nacie. “I can't say about that dioxin thing but we get our meat from Mr. Keefer up the road. He doesn't feed his pigs any drugs or strange things. Though he does dress them up sometimes.” She didn't elaborate.

“Well, maybe just one,” I said.

The patties were so good I ended up eating three more. Then, realizing they used an old cast-iron stove for cooking as well as heating, I felt it my duty to mention that burning wood released PAHs into the atmosphere.

“And what are these PAHs?” asked Nacie.

I'd forgotten what the letters stood for.

“I don't really know the science behind them but they're considered carcinogenic.”

Mr. D. frowned at me and Nacie just nodded.

“Is that a fact?” she said. “We've been doing things a certain way for so long, we've never thought of that, have we, Milan?”

Milan grumbled something I didn't catch and Nacie offered me some brownies.

* * *

That afternoon, Mr. D. gave me the revolting job of mucking chicken crap out of the chicken coop. The smell alone was enough to make me almost toss my patties. I think he was trying to scare me and my makeshift house the hell off his property. Which only made me more determined.

Outside Clarence was running in circles and pecking at the coop walls, insanely pissed that I was in his house. I didn't dare take my eyes off the door in case he flew in and pecked my eyes out. Every so often I'd see his head in the doorway and I'd screech and toss chicken crap at him. Mr. D. kept checking back to see if I was doing a good enough job: getting under the roosts, mucking out the corners, the cobwebs, etc. I worked my butt off and by the end of the day, four-thirty, was sore where I didn't even know I had muscles.

I dragged myself up the hill to my tent. There was a dead mouse on the path. A neighbor's cat must have got it because an owl or hawk would have eaten it. It was lying on its side, so plump and fresh looking it could have been sleeping if it weren't for the blood around its nose and mouth.

The blood made me think of Maggie, and as a fly came and landed on its staring eye, I nudged it into the long grass with the toe of my hiking boot.

I was thirsty as hell, but the two glass jugs Nacie had given me were both empty. I dragged myself back down the hill to the outdoor tap. The farm used well water, no chlorine or ammonia added. It had a rotten-egg smell to it and I had to plug my nose to drink it, but it was clean. I hauled my stinky water and tired ass back up the hill, collapsed onto my stump and thought how good Dad's leather recliner would feel.

I looked out over the view, pretending this was my own wide-screen TV. Maybe there was only one channel, but shit happened, didn't it? Please let something happen.

A minute later, two ducks came in for a landing on the pond, creating two wakes which eventually joined up into one big V. Thank you, God. And a few minutes after that, a serious number of crows lifted up out of the trees in the valley, creating a cawing black cloud that swirled around the sky before coming up the hill toward me. Wings pounding the air overhead, they momentarily darkened the sky and finally disappeared behind the forest.

Better than the IMAX, I thought.

My stomach growled. What to scrounge for dinner?

I heard the shuffle of leaves in the woods behind me and my instincts went on alert. Bird? Chickadees, I'd discovered, were disproportionately noisy in underbrush.

A twig snapped. Deer or human? Then a hiss and a “What the…” Definitely not a deer.

“Davis, hey.”

“Hey.” His hair had snagged on a branch and he whipped his head back and forth, whimpering.

“It's a jungle out here,” I laughed.

“No shit.” He held onto his hair with his free hand — he was carrying stuff — and pulled, leaving strands of hair hanging in the tree. “Afraid I was lost.”

“Some bird's going have a Davis hair nest.”

“Feckin' trees.”

I had to laugh. “How did you get here?”

“Hitched.”

Out of respect for the D.s, I'd asked Davis to come by way of the park and not the road. I didn't want them to think this was going to become some teen party place.

“So this is your new cave, huh? The garden of Gray.”

“Check it out.” I pointed at the so-called tent behind me.

“Pretty sparse,” he said, peering through the net at my bed, a crate for a side table, a hurricane lamp with its half-burned candle, one old pressback chair, a table with hotplate, dishes and a glass bowl for washing, and some concrete blocks and boards that held my clothes, soap, towel and dry goods box.

“Got to start somewhere. What's in the bag?”

“Mom Two made you some banana bread,” he said, handing it over. “No preservatives, organic flour, organic bananas, unpasteurized honey, yada, yada.”

“Hey, say thanks from me.”

“She also sends Jesus's love,” he said in a sticky voice. “She's become ‘Jesufied.'” He pumped quotations into the air. “At dinner a couple nights ago, she announced all teary-eyed that she'd found Jesus at her AA meeting. I said I never knew Jesus was a drunk, and Dad gave me a back hander.” He pushed aside his hair and showed me a neat little cut dissecting one eyebrow and the yellowing bruise. It looked like it hurt.

“Ow.”

“Wedding ring.” Davis shrugged. “Anyway, she's starting up a Jesi collection.”

“Jesi?” I asked.

“Plural of Jesus,” he said with a crooked smile. “She's been putting crucifixes around the house.”

“There was one in the kitchen last time I was — ”

“Now there's one over their bedroom door and one over the toilet in my bathroom. The way his head droops down, I swear he's trying to check out my self.”

I laughed.

“Serious creepage is what it is,” he said. “I may have to move in with you.”

“Acres of room.” I spread my hands, then held the loaf to my nose. It smelled banana good.

“Hey, guess who I ran into in the hall of mediocre learning today?” he said, looking around for a place to sit before he flopped down on the ground.

“Who?”

“That Ciel girl.”

I don't know why, exactly, but my stomach did a little jig.

“She gave me a note addressed to you. A crush, maybe?”

“She hates me.”

He dug an envelope out of his pocket but didn't hand it to me.

“Hey, did you ever hear this Norris joke,” he said, ignoring the fact that I was staring at his hand. “If you have five dollars and Chuck Norris has five dollars…” He slowed down for the punch line. “Chuck Norris has more money.” He laughed his messed-up laugh and slapped his knee with Ciel's letter, bending it in half.

“Good one,” I said, forcing a laugh.

“But here's another. This is like the best one. Ready?”

“Ready.” I forced my eyes off the letter.

“It's a farm joke for you,” he said. “Chuck Norris on the farm.”

“Go on,” I said, impatient.

“Okay, okay. It's about crop circles. You know what those are?”

“I know what they are.”

“All right. Ready?”

I just stared at him.

“Crop circles are Chuck Norris's way of telling the world that sometimes corn just needs to…” His voice turned tough. “…lie the fuck down.”

As Davis was killing himself laughing, I stood up and snatched the letter from his hand. “Give me that.”

“Sometimes corn just needs to lie the fuck down,” he repeated, then rolled up off the ground and did a handstand on my stump.

The envelope looked like homemade paper. The kind made from recycled old paper matted together with glue and water. I wondered if she'd made it herself. On the front, my name was written in perfect textbook script. I got a little rush picturing her bent over a desk and focusing those X-ray eyes of hers on my little name. On the back of the envelope was a stick figure drawing of a girl flying sideways. She wore a triangle skirt, her arms stuck out to the side, four squiggly lines of hair blowing behind her, a small smile on her round head.

Sky dancer, I thought, liking it. I opened the letter.

Gray, How are you? Just wanted to say that I think what you're doing, living off the land and trying not to pollute, is really admirable. I didn't expect it from you. Ciel.

What did she mean she didn't expect it of me? Snooty bitch. Did she think I was some sort of loser making good?

I crumpled up the note and stuffed it in my pocket.

“What did smart girl say?” asked Davis.

“Nothing.”

Davis and I hunted in the forest for these edible ferns I'd read about. We didn't find any. Maybe they didn't come out until later in the spring. A jackrabbit bounded across the path and I couldn't help wonder what wild rabbit tasted like. For dinner we ate the Jesus loaf and drank a bottle of organic goat's milk. I'd bought the milk from a guy up the road who, lamely enough, had a goatee.

“Hey, I almost forgot to ask,” said Davis. He was about to leave so he could hitch back before dark. “My dad's first wife's sister-in-law — ”

“Once removed.”

Davis sneered. “Yeah, anyway, she's a journalist and I told her what you're doing and she thinks it's cool and wants to know if she can come interview you for some high-brow mag she works for. Probably bring a photographer.” He framed the air with his hands. “Gray Fallon,” he said, “Poster Boy for the Generation of Despair.”

I laughed, though I liked the idea of having my face in some mag. Imagined Ciel seeing it. I'd have to think of smart-sounding stuff to say. Make her realize she didn't know me from dick.

“Chuck Norris roundhouse kicks the generation of despair with one foot tied behind his back.” Davis horked out a laugh.

“Tell her sure. Why the hell not?”

15
Maggie

Saturday morning I biked home for the weekend. Mr. D. had me pruning the orchard all day Friday, and I could feel every fiber of every muscle as I pedaled up the hill out of the valley. At this rate, I was going to be Chuck Norris buff in no time. I imagined running into Natalie at the pool this summer, her checking out my six-pack and begging me to take her back. I pictured Dad being a jerk and me shoving him, his eyes widening with fear at my strength. Oh yeah.

The closer I got to the city, the denser the traffic grew and the dirtier the air. Maggie should not be breathing this shit, I thought, angry at the world all over again.

Ten minutes from home, some major clouds moved in and it started pouring. I was soaked to the skin in minutes. I wondered if my “tent” would keep my bed dry, my floor from turning to mud. My sleeping bag was sure to get nailed. Maybe Mom had a wool blanket I could take back.

Dad wasn't home but Mom was. She was all hyper concerned that I take a hot shower, change into dry clothes. She was cutting crustless sandwiches into triangles for a little party she was throwing for Maggie. Seemed so distracted I'm not sure she realized I'd been away all week. She didn't ask me one question about the farm.

“What kind of party?” I asked before going downstairs to shower.

“A surprise. I just want every day to be memory making.”

She looked terrible. Pale and pinch-faced. Her hair was greasy and there was a stain on her shirt the color of urine.

“We're going to silkscreen headbands, play charades, have lunch. High tea, I'm calling it, except there won't be tea but pomegranate juice. Maggie's up to four glasses a day. It's supposed to work wonders. We're having organic cucumber sandwiches on spelt bread, fried tofu with sesame sauce, grapes and macrobiotic carrot cake.” She quick-stepped to the oven to check the cake. “The girls should be here in half an hour.”

“You know you have a stain…” I pointed at her shirt.

“Oh, I'll have to change.” She ran a hand through her hair, adding a streak of macrobiotic mayo to the grease.

I didn't say anything. Hoped she'd find it when she changed her shirt.

“Mag's upstairs?”

“Yes, in bed. Get out of those clothes first. And she's a little tired after last night.”

“Last night?”

“Dad took her out to dinner and a movie.”

He better not have fed her movie food crap, I thought angrily as I went downstairs to shower.

Man, did that water feel good. It was hard but I cut it short, refusing to get sucked into a consumer mentality. As I got dressed, I contrasted my near-empty tent to the load of stuff in my sweet: TV, Xbox 360, DVD player, laptop, iPod, hot tub, drawers full of clothes, a closet full of shoes.

I made a vow that I wouldn't touch any of it. All this stuff contributed to the carcinogens of this world — the electronics were run by coal-fired plants, the clothes grown with pesticides, the shoes made from petroleum, the hot tub littered with chlorine.

I made one exception. The computer. But I'd only use it to do research related to Maggie. Well, and to download pics from my camera. My camera didn't count in my mind. It was too much a part of me and I'd taken some cool shots at the farm I wanted to see. Besides, I was making enough sacrifices. Unlike Dad who couldn't even give up his shampoo.

Back upstairs, I heard talking in the living room and quietly angled myself by the wall. Maggie sat on the couch, slouched so that her head rested against its back. The smile plastered on her face looked like effort. Her three closest friends sat huddled on the other side of the coffee table, as if they were afraid to get too close. Mom, still wearing the same stained shirt, hair no cleaner, was arranging paper and pencils on the table.

“Oh, I forgot my color chart,” she muttered and hurried off.

There were flowers in a jar on the coffee table, a green ribbon around the jar, an Archie mag, some nail polish. Maggie wore a turtleneck even though she hated them, and long pants with socks, hiding her body and its bumps. I hadn't seen her in a week and her head looked bigger to me. I couldn't figure it out at first, then realized that the rest of her must have shrunk. That she must be losing weight.