My Chemical Mountain (18 page)

Charlie disappears into the darkness. He waits till a silent moment and then kicks an aluminum can across the floor. The sound of hollow metal rolling on sawdust is just like the sound of a massive rat attack, and the kids clear out of the mill, terrified. Cat Eyes is crying. Squinty Boy might’ve peed his pants. Long-Hair Girl’s eyes are big and blue with horror.

“No crying,” I tell them.

At the creek, I notice the sludge has thickened. The air smells like wet cement and paint thinner. The drainage pipes leading from Mareno Chem are silent, resting in the daylight. Tonight, they will be barfing up sludge again.

“You think these are just knotted tree roots,” I say, “but you’re wrong. You’re looking at real demon fingers that’ll grab you and
drag you down to a world full of blood rivers and welded steel torture devices. Screaming red ravens; billions of ants with ether-laced feet; monsters made of salt; crabs with razor-blade claws; hot mercury dripping from the sky.”

I think about Viper. Is he done with the rawhide? Is he lonely all alone in my room?

A bird with sludge on its wings writhes around, trying to clean its feathers, but the sludge will dry heavy, like cooling metal. The bird can’t fly, which means a fox will eat it.

“The creek water changes color,” I tell the kids. “Green is alien blood. Red is goblin pee. Black sludge is demon diarrhea. Rainbow sheens are creek monster saliva. Chunky water has goblin snot in it. A strong chemical smell means your flesh will disintegrate if you swim. Black slime in the water has something to do with blind, poisonous snakes.”

I don’t know how we’re doing on time. Charlie forgot to start the stopwatch. I feel like we’ve been walking for hours.

At the field of barrels, I talk about robot battles, metal pieces flying everywhere, dark machines with bombs. I am tempted to show the kids Cornpup’s robot, but I don’t want them to know where we buried it.

At the tracks, Charlie lifts kids into the railcars, where we smash phosphorus rocks until we get sick of watching sparks fly.

At the pond by the incinerator, I point out the dead frogs and a tumor fish, how the water will sometimes steam, all signs that the landfill nymphs will soon return, with long coils of copper wires for hair, their eyes pure gray like an April sky.

We pass the place where Cornpup found the Chinese star, and where white unmarked vans invaded the incinerator on the night I almost died at the fault line. I clasp and unclasp my fists. I still remember how it felt, my knuckles against Dan Benecke’s gut. Raw, uncontrollable rage.

We stop at the cold patch of ground. It’s a dead zone. Not even insects and snakes go here. It’s a hot summer morning, and we’re freezing. Knee Pads and Stupid Shoes roll around on the cool mud. Girl in Turtle Sweatshirt and Cat Eyes hug themselves to stay warm. I wonder what’s buried here, what could possibly make our breath turn smoky white months before the first freeze.

“Violent ice monsters live here in underground villages. They are wart-covered and carnivorous, obese but quick-moving, balding and oily. Sometimes they surface, causing sudden ice storms and a severe drop in temperature.”

Charlie picks up a rock. He throws it over the tracks. It lands with a splash in the pond by the incinerator. A throw that distance shouldn’t even be possible. He has a golden arm, talent he barely even understands. The kids cheer, and I’m pissed off at him for stealing the attention, but when I look at the kids’ faces—Squinty Boy with his big glasses, Long-Hair Girl with a Blow Pop in her mouth, Band-Aid Knee with blood dripping down his leg—I see they’re not watching Charlie anymore.

They’ve gone back to watching me.

Squinty Boy says, “I want to hear about the giant insect warrior who shoots beetles from a golden slingshot in the woods at the other side of the tracks.”

Band-Aid Knee says, “Take us to the footprint by the power lines, the one that belongs to a creepy guy from the abusive traveling circus. Does he really cook squirrels and rats on an open grill? Does he really pick his teeth with twigs?”

We make one last stop, at Chemical Mountain, where I talk about the uranium monster. I give him rough, burnt skin. I give him wicked eyes. I tell them he eats radioactive candy bars. I tell them he lives in the landfill’s belly, and that he takes a long whizz in our drinking water sometimes.

The kids laugh at this, even though I wasn’t really trying to be funny.

At the end of the tour, they clap for me like I’m a movie star.

It almost hurts when we come up on Cornpup’s house, when we slip through the fence that separates this land of legends from our regular lives. I don’t want to stop telling stories.

“Good. Mrs. Schumacher’s not back yet,” says Charlie.

We watch the kids swarm the sidewalks. Squinty Boy has my book tucked into his back pocket. Girl in Turtle Sweatshirt looks back at us and waves. I thought I’d want to take a nap after the tour. I thought I’d feel wiped out and empty. Instead, I feel amped up with energy. I couldn’t sleep now for anything.

We walk down Cardinal Drive. We pass old houses, old cars. I can’t wait till later tonight. I’m gonna tap on Val’s window at midnight. I’m gonna get her to sneak out and come with me to the creek. We’ll take Viper for a long walk. We’ll go swimming in the dark. It’s gonna be awesome.

“So how much money did we make?” I look Charlie in the eye, so he can’t bullshit me.

“Hundred and fifty bucks,” he says. “And I know how we can make even more.”

“Maybe we’ve done enough,” I tell him. “Maybe Cornpup can come up with the rest of the money himself.”

“No. Just listen. We sell tickets for a campout on the banks of Two Mile. Scary stories around the campfire. We can get Molly and Randy to chaperone. We can sell little bags of chips, cans of soda.”

I give him a skeptical look. “I don’t know. A whole entire night with those kids could be annoying.”

Charlie laughs. “It’ll be great. It’ll be cool.” He pauses. “Why is your mom’s van in the driveway? I thought she had to work today.”

My heart beats so fast I think it might detonate. I think even Charlie is afraid now. Because this is serious. She found Viper. I already know it. I can already feel it.

WHEN
we were ten, me and Charlie got trapped in a wrecked car at the junkyard. We climbed inside—Charlie in the driver’s seat, me riding shotgun—and it never occurred to us that getting out would be a problem. It was a hot summer day, and we pretended we were cruising on an open highway, nothing but grazing cows and cherry orchards for miles and miles. Then the sun started heating the car’s interior the way a gas flame heats a saucepan, and I said to Charlie, “This is not good.” He made popping, sizzling sounds with his mouth, like he was an egg frying, but I didn’t laugh. The passenger and driver’s side doors were smashed up and wouldn’t open. We were able to partially roll down one of the windows, but we couldn’t squeeze through. A junkyard employee came to rescue us. He was a limping ogrelike guy who looked exactly—down to the harelip and gnarled fingers and blue veins—like a monster I’d drawn earlier that
same day. Charlie noticed it too. He said, “That guy is your sewer goblin. That guy is not supposed to exist.”

Years later, on a cold January morning, I had to help carry Dad’s coffin. I felt confused, like the funeral couldn’t possibly be real. I was still looking forward to our Sunday night ritual, me and Dad cooking minestrone together while Mom bleached her mustache in the bathroom. I remember Charlie saying, “Your dad can’t be dead. I just saw him eating chicken wings three days ago.”

So it’s not like I don’t know how it feels when unexpected things happen.

We walk into my kitchen and catch Mom eating a salad. Her hand freezes midbite, a forkful of romaine lettuce stopping one inch from her lips. There are tomato seeds on the cutting board. I see splashes of red and pale green and orange and purple—tomatoes and celery and carrots and salad onions. Certain things are
missing
. I don’t see a slab of chuck steak or a frozen pizza. I don’t see two slices of pie or a box of cinnamon rolls. I don’t see greasy napkins or an empty liter of pop or a crumpled-up bag of potato chips in the garbage. The table is empty except for the salad and one tall glass of water with ice cubes in it.

Charlie says, “This is a little strange.”

Viper is under the kitchen table chewing a squeaky toy I didn’t buy him. His tail thumps on the linoleum when he sees me. His bowls have been moved over by the refrigerator. I notice fresh water in one, a real bone and shreds of meat in the other.

“You gave him tenderloin?” I say lamely.

Mom takes another bite and says, “No matter how hard I try, I can’t get used to the feel of leaves in my mouth.”

I reach out and touch the wall, because my legs feel bendy like spark plug wires. Seeing Mom in front of a plate of greens is like seeing Charlie in a ballerina skirt—
impossible
. And what does it mean that she fed good cuts of meat to my dog? Is she welcoming Viper
to the family, telling him he can stay? Or is this like his Last Supper before she dumps him at the kill shelter?

Mom stabs a tomato chunk with her fork. Without looking up she says, “Charlie, go home.”

She is never friendly to him, but today there is something else—agitation, understanding, indifference—I can’t even tell anymore. She caught him spray painting his name on the street last weekend. She took the spray canister away from him and threw it down a nearby storm sewer, which is probably illegal, but whatever.

Charlie opens his eyes real wide and gives me a
Good luck, you’re gonna need it
smile. He lets the screen door slam when he leaves, and Mom winces at the sound.

I hear too much breathing, too much chewing, not enough words.

The pile of groceries on the counter makes me think of Dad, how he used to cook the best meals. I’m not sure Mom even knows what to do with garlic bulbs, boneless chicken breasts, whole wheat pasta, and baby portobellos, but Dad taught me some stuff, so I can teach her. I remember exactly how much basil he used in his sauce.

Mom wears her factory uniform like a man—sweaty armpits, heavy boots, and a roll of fat over the belt. I once saw her clipping her toenails at the table. She blows her nose a lot, mostly at night, and it sounds like a semitruck honking. Now she’s holding her fork all ladylike, and it’s freaking me out.

I hear the clock ticking, canine jaws working at a chew toy, the washing machine squealing through a spin cycle. I notice a buzzing black fly that is trapped between our kitchen window and the screen.

“I found a dog in your room,” she finally says.

“Did you get fired?” I ask her.

She shakes her head.

“Then why are you home early?”

Mom closes her eyes. “There was a bad accident at the plant. A woman—my friend—was injured. She’s in the hospital.”

“Which friend?” I demand without sympathy.

“Jeannie.”

I know
exactly
who she’s talking about. They eat at country buffets together.

“Tell me why there’s a dog in my house,” Mom says in a weary voice. I do things that make her feel exhausted, and she wants me to know it.

“I’m keeping him.”

Mom takes another bite of green leaves. Strange. Very strange. “Fat people are more likely to have work-related accidents. Did you know that?” she says to me.

“No,” I whisper. I didn’t know that at all.

She starts to cry. “It was horrible. She got caught in a machine. Skinny people can slip out of things. Skinny people almost never get caught in machines.”

I get it. When you’re huge, you’re a huge target. It’s easier to shoot a bear than a sparrow. But Jeannie didn’t die or anything, so I don’t understand what the big deal is.

“If I came home and found that dog on any other day …” Her voice trails off. “Oh God. I don’t want to be the fat lady anymore. I want my identity back. Skinny women can be funny or intelligent or
interesting
. Fat women are just fat. That’s always the first word people come up with. I want to be me again, and it should not feel like such an uphill battle.”

“It’s true,” I say honestly. “You don’t act the way you used to act. Sometimes I think you want to live in a chocolate house, so you can eat all the furniture and get diabetes.”

“You’re right. You’re absolutely right. And don’t let anyone ever tell you that it’s only what’s inside that matters. Sometimes you
can
judge a book by its cover. That’s what covers are for. People can take one look at me and know I’m angry, that I lack willpower, and that I don’t try very hard. The extra weight I carry around isn’t just on the outside anymore. It’s starting to sink below the skin. I’m tired. I’m frustrated. I feel defensive and alone. I’m putting my heart and my joints through hell. And I’m one of the lucky ones. We’re in the middle of a recession. I’ve got a good, strong job. What if I get hurt at work and can’t support you? I missed your graduation because I wanted hamburger casserole. I’ll never forgive myself for that. And Jeannie doesn’t have kids. She doesn’t know what it’s like to be a single parent. I’m supposed to be bringing my A game.”

I laugh, because hearing Mom say “A game” is ridiculous. She thinks I’m laughing at her in general.

“Go ahead. Laugh all you want. I tell you how I feel inside, because I trust you; you’re my son. You’re the man of the house now. When you laugh at me, it hurts.”

I’m glad Charlie’s not here, because I wrap my arms around Mom’s doughy shoulders and say, “Don’t cry, Mom. I wasn’t laughing at you. I was laughing at something funny you said.”

“I wasn’t trying to be funny!”

“Mom, trust me. You talking about bringing your ‘A game’ is kind of funny.”

She laughs a little bit. “I don’t know where I picked that up. Maybe watching hockey.”

I can smell her oatmeal-cookie soap. She starts crying uncontrollably, and I’m worried I’ve done the wrong thing, that somehow in hugging her I have made the situation worse, except that can’t be true. I keep my arms wrapped tightly around her for a long time, until she stops trembling, until she’s done crying. “It’s gonna be okay,” I tell her. “Everything’s gonna be okay.”