Maybe he fell and that's
why he was hurting and dangling upside down like a pair of jeans on the
wash line. He hurt and his face was wet with warm milk that got sticky
as it cooled. But it smelled more like swamp mud than milk. Mud, then.
It didn't taste like mud. His lips were covered with it, and his tongue
caught what dribbled up from his chin. Sour juice straight from his mama's
green bottle? He'd always wondered what was in her green bottle. Sour
mudjuice, and now he'd turned the world upside down and made a real mess,
such a bad boy, he hadn't meant to, just as he hadn't really meant to
climb out of the grocery cart back at the store. It was his fault, everything
was his fault, even the cage full of pink and blue bunnies at the end
of the aisle. The bunnies were put there to tempt little kids, and he
was a little kid, so the bunnies were his fault. Get your goddamn ass
down! She couldn't have been madder back at the store. But she always
got as mad as she could be, never just a little mad. He had cried, and
that was his fault, too. He'd cried because if she were really that mad
she might have left him sitting on his ass in the grocery cart and walked
away. If she ever left him it would be his fault. Please don't go! He
hadn't meant to do whatever he'd done and if only she'd give him the chance
he would take it back, make it up, tell her whatever she wanted to hear!
Now up was down, down was up.
He cried because his belly hurt and because his mama had strung him up
like a pair of jeans and left him hanging there. Just left him hanging
there while she slipped off —
Where?
To bum a smoke?
To search for hundred-dollar
bills stuck to the wet road, hoping that she'd find a fortune if only
she kept on looking?
Or maybe she'd gone off to
search for Bo.
"Mama!"
Look at him hanging there,
a small, helpless child dangling upside down, strapped to the seat by
the lap belt. And how quietly it had all happened. You'd think there would
have been clanking, clashing, squealing, an explosion of sound. Instead
they'd spun around and around, the earth had lurched with a series of
dull thuds like the thuds Bo made when he slid under his mama's bed and
kicked the mattress, glass burst into stars, and metal bubbled with a
noise that reminded him of secret laughter. And then the quiet of night
when everyone else was asleep and he lay awake on his own bed wishing
he had the courage to get up and go outside and roam the dark streets.
Mama's little Hobo, she liked
to call him, because he'd wander out the door in his bare feet, down the
front porch steps and up the sidewalk, collecting bottle caps and pinecones
along the way. Sometimes when he was searching the curb for treasures
a car would pull alongside him, and he'd see a shiny brown boy staring
back from the hubcap. He wouldn't answer when the driver called, "Hey,
kid, anybody watching you?" Instead, he'd throw a handful of gravel at
the car, and the driver would drive away.
Don't you ever go off with
a stranger, his mama had said too many times to count, and though he didn't
understand what a stranger was, he did sense that when he wandered up
the street he'd better keep to himself. He didn't mind if neighborhood
kids joined him, unless they tried to steal his treasures — then
Bo would scream and his mama would eventually appear. He'd scream as loud
as he could, and she'd hang up the phone or turn off the TV and come fetch
him, slapping him hard on the side of his head and saying, Get on home!
or scooping him up in her arms, covering him with kisses while she sang
a song about her sweet little Hobo, Ho-bo-bo!
Or else she'd say, You're just
a baby, for God's sakes!
Straight ahead a line of light
cut into the darkness, and he wondered if he'd taken the flashlight from
the kitchen drawer to play with it. Maybe that's why his mama was so mad.
He'd done something terrible, that was for sure. Maybe he'd pulled the
place mat off the table and brought her plate and glass crashing to the
floor — that was something he'd always wanted to do! If he'd actually
done it, well, that would make her plenty mad. Oh, what a bad boy, bad!
But it was about time for her to get over being angry, please. Time for
kisses, please! He called, "Mama mama mama mama mama," kept calling her
until his mouth was too tired to work, then stopped and listened for her
answer.
He became aware of a new sound,
or an old sound that he hadn't noticed before. Tickatickatickatickaticka.
It was the sound of waiting. Tickatickatickatickaticka. It was the sound
of the car when they were waiting to turn right or left, and Bo could
almost imitate it with his tongue: tahdatahdatahdatahdatah. The sound
made him feel better about waiting, made him realize how tired he was,
and wouldn't Mama be happy if he went to sleep without a fuss! He narrowed
his eyes but didn't close them, since he found some comfort in the beam
of light shining across the wet road. The light, the waiting sound, the
rain . . . he let himself drift, felt the scare diminishing as he thought
of things he knew perfectly well. Six dots on a ladybug mean the ladybug
is six years old, salt tastes salty, blue is neither red nor green, a
tower is fun to knock over, snow is cold like a sticker is sticky like
now is right now, Gran and Pop live on Sycamore Street and Gran sings,
"A B C D E F G," sings, "H I J K L M N O P," sings while she makes pancakes,
he likes peanut butter on pancakes but he doesn't like green beans or
hamburgers or eggs.
What kind of kid won't eat
hamburgers?
No no no no no!
Just a bite, sweetpie. One
big bite for your ole grandma, and you can have a Fudgsicle for dessert.
You can have two Fudgsicles! See, I can't help but spoil my babies, and
they know they can do just as they please. Ma, says Kamon, here's my girlfriend
Jenny, don't mind that she's white, okay? So he goes out two months before
his son is born and gets himself killed on the street. I didn't even have
time to understand what I was missing when Jenny says, Mrs. Gilbert, I
got a mall job so can you watch Bo? Sure, I say, and Sam and I feed him
Fudgsicles for lunch and dinner and let him watch television till he falls
asleep on my lap, and when Jenny comes by after work she's so tired she
can hardly stand, but still she insists on stopping first at the grocery
store for her carton of cigarettes and whatever else, powder donuts for
the morning, a quart of milk, she's so tired she can hardly drive, still
she drives like somebody's chasing her, twice the limit, drives like there's
no tomorrow, and all I can say to her is, one of these days, girl, one
of these days.
A B C.
A B C.
A B C.
She was stuck in her song,
and Bo wanted to give her a pinch to help her along. But he couldn't move
his arms because he was shrinking toward the center of himself so there
was hardly space left inside him to draw in air, hardly room in his belly
for the soft rain, the night, the tickatickaticka and his grandma's song.
A B C.
A B C.
Why, it wasn't Gran singing
at all, it was the TV, and Mama had turned the volume up in order to hear
the band music better, she'd started to dance along with the TV dancers
and like them spun around and around so fast Bo could only see a blur
of color, the turquoise streaks of her blouse and jeans, around and around
like the fan that blew hot air into her bedroom all summer long.
A B C.
A B—
Someone, Pop maybe, had turned
the TV off, so Mama stopped dancing, but by then she'd danced herself
to nothing, and when Bo looked for her he saw only the upside-down world
glistening in the flashlight beam.
Voices, the murmur of voices
behind a closed door, voices of grown-ups deciding whether or not he should
be punished for making a mess, then a tap-tap on the window beside him,
the delicate crinkle of glass, and a hand reached in to yank up the handle
on his door.
"We got a kid here!"
Tugging, grunting, creak of
yielding metal, and Bo was eye to eye with the upside-down face of a stranger.
"We got a kid! Take it easy
little fella we got you we're gonna get you out we're gonna give me a
hand there yeah the collar first we're gonna help if you what's taking
so long with that goddamn sneaker I see shit a lady's sneaker shit oh
shit give me that now take it easy take it easy here you go little man."
A stranger. Never go nowhere
with a stranger! As soon as he could he'd start kicking and screaming
and his mama would come to find out what was wrong. Wouldn't she be sorry
when she saw her sweet Bo in the arms of a stranger, arms like chains
of a huge crane lowering him, lowering his aching body, turning him right-side
up and settling him back upon a board as though he were going to be made
into a house, nailed into the frame of a great big house.
With the sky back in its proper
place above him, he decided to scream. He shut his eyes, started flailing
and stamping the air with his heels but gave that up because they'd taped
him to the board and he couldn't move, though he kept on screaming as
loud as he could, drowned out the voices of the strangers with his own
voice while he waited to smell his mama's lemon and cigarette smell —
only when he smelled her close to him would he open his eyes again. Where
was she? He knew that what could happen was always worse than what he
could imagine, and for that reason he never wandered farther than calling
distance away from home. Never, never had he called for his mama and she
hadn't come — except when he was staying with Gran and Pop, and then
one of them would come instead of Mama, which pleased Bo to no end, for
they'd bribe him to stop crying with chocolate kisses and Fudgsicles and
sometimes even a trip to the toy store. No, he wouldn't mind at all if
Gran or Pop showed up right now instead of Mama. Or even Uncle Alcinder
or Aunt Merry or Ashley who lived with her five kids in the other side
of the house or their next-door neighbors Pat and Sonny or Mrs. Kelper
across the street. Anybody who was not a stranger would do just fine.
"Come on, settle down there."
"Get him in, let's go!"
Now he was a key being fit
into the lock of a door, slid in, turned, click.
"Can you tell me where you
hurt? Does it hurt when I press here? Here? Now you're going to feel a
squeeze on your arm. You'll feel this band get tight and then it will
get loose. We want to help you is all. Can you tell me your name? Don't
you have a name?"
He heard a door shut, like
the door to the freezer in Gran's pantry, and he gave up screaming, worked
instead to catch his breath. As long as he didn't open his eyes he wouldn't
have to see the faces of strangers. These people were definitely strangers,
and it was becoming obvious why they should be avoided. Their voices were
as sweet as pudding, but their hands were poisonous snakes. So much made
sense after the upside-down confusion: whatever had happened to him back
there happened because of these strangers. They wanted to get at him and
so had hurt him, then tried to comfort him, and now that they'd succeeded
in separating him from his mama the hurt would only get worse. They squeezed
and pressed and stabbed him in his elbow with pins, pricked the back of
one hand and then the other, swore and cooed — "Damn it what a good
brave boy you are so ah for Christ's sake come on this kid has no veins"
— still trying to pretend that they were going to help him when in
fact they were going to do those things that couldn't be named and so
couldn't be imagined, actions as awful and mysterious as the sea creatures
living at the bottom of the ocean.
Mama's sweet Hobo was sinking
into the realm of the unimaginable, sinking to a place beyond calling
distance, beyond help. It had to be just so — everything that happened
to him now happened for a reason beyond his control, and Bo understood
that it would be useless to resist. An unfamiliar calm replaced the fear.
It was easy to surrender, to give up hope of ever again seeing anyone
he knew and to get used to this bright-dark world, where whirs and clicks
signaled a forward motion so smooth it was almost unnoticeable, where
voices said one thing and hands did another, where no one knew his name,
where he couldn't have told his name even if he'd wanted to, for after
all that had happened he'd completely forgotten how to speak.
Welcome to the world of strangers,
Bo. Welcome to the bottom of the sea.
They traveled along Route 62
at an even fifty miles per hour, lights churning, sirens silent except
for a short clamor of sound at every intersection. A rabbit hunched in
a nearby ditch, waiting for the cold drops of light to fall like hail
upon its head. Budding forsythia scratched at a stone wall. A raccoon
in a driveway caught the glare in its eyes and darted behind a parked
car. A line of poplars watched from the edge of a small field, surprised
by nothing.
Above the treetops to the north,
the darkness was fringed with the city's glow, and at the intersection
with Route 103 the ambulance turned right and continued steadily in this
direction, pulled like a splinter of iron toward a magnet. Cars slowed
obediently and moved to the right lane. A dog on the porch of a decrepit
farmhouse started barking. Behind the plate glass of a diner, a waitress
with no one to serve looked up from her magazine, glanced at the clock,
and continued reading. The ambulance drove on through the drizzle past
a nursery, a gas station, a lot full of new tractors and backhoes, a warehouse,
a stretch of freshly plowed fields, a block of brick ranch houses, another
stretch of fields, more houses, a kennel, an old barn with a side wall
collapsed, an office building, a parking lot, a stretch of woods and a
playground. As the ambulance approached a traffic light at the bottom
of a hill it slowed again, announcing its presence with a wail, and turned
left, climbing up a ramp onto a highway, where it settled into its motion
like a canoe on a river, drifting toward the left lane while other cars
veered away from it. After five miles or so the ambulance moved to the
right again, sliding down the ramp of the next exit as though down a small
cataract, slowing, turning left and then right beyond the overpass, right
at the next light, left and left and right and left in a series of short,
sharp turns, traveling straight on for the last stretch along the avenue
that bordered the huge parking lots of the hospital, turning right down
a side road, right again into the drive of the emergency department, and
coming to a halt at last.
The lights stopped spinning,
and the engine clicked to silence. Nothing moved; no activity interrupted
the stillness. For the briefest of moments, before the paramedic flung
open the rear doors, the scene was made up of concrete, glass, and metal,
without a living thing in sight.
Excerpted from Make Believe © Copyright 2009 by Joanna Scott. Reprinted with permission by Time Warner Books. All rights reserved.
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