Mosquitoland(4)

Her tone was familiar, like the lyric of some dark-eyed youth singing tragic clichés. But Mom was no youth, and this was no cliché.

“Who?” I said softly. “Dad?”

She never answered. Eventually, she began walking toward our house, toward mediocrity, away from the glorious mutiny. I followed her the rest of the way in silence.

I remember this like it was yesterday.

I remember because it was the last time we held hands.


Signing off,

Mary Iris Malone,

Mutineer Extraordinaire



“NOW THOSE ARE some interesting shoes. Where does a person get shoes like that?”

I guess I’ve held the old lady off for as long as possible. “Goodwill,” I say, stuffing my journal in my backpack.

“Which one?”

“I don’t . . . really remember.”

“Hmm. Very strappy, aren’t they? And colorful.”

The old lady is right. Only the eighties, with its fuchsia-infused electro-pop, could have produced high-top footwear of such dazzling flamboyance. Four Velcro straps apiece, just in case. There’s a whole platoon of unworn sneakers in my closet at home, Kathy’s attempts to replace more pieces of my old life. “My stepmother hates them,” I say, leaning back in my seat.

The old woman wrinkles her forehead, leans over for a better look. “Well, I’m quite taken with them. They’ve got pizzazz, don’t you know.”

“Thanks,” I say, smiling. Who says pizzazz? I look down at her white leather walking shoes, complete with three-inch soles and a wide Velcro band. “Yours are cool, too.”

What starts as a chuckle ends in a deep, hearty laugh. “Oh yes,” she says, lifting both feet off the ground. “Très chic, non?”

I’ll admit, initially, I’d been wary of sitting next to an old lady: the beehive hairdos, the knit turtlenecks, the smell of onion soup and imminent death. But as the bus had been packed, I’d had very limited options when it came to a seatmate; it was either the old lady, the glassy-eyed Poncho Man, or a three-hundred-pound Jabba the Hutt look-alike. So I sat. Beehive hair? Check. Knit turtleneck? Check. Nothing to rile the geriatric gestapo. But her smell . . .

I’ve been trying to place it ever since I sat down. It is decidedly un-geriatric. It’s like . . . potpourri, maybe. Abandoned attics, handmade quilts. Fucking fresh-baked cookies, with . . . a hint of cinnamon. That’s it exactly.

God, I love cinnamon.

The old lady shifts in her seat, accidentally dropping her purse to the floor. In her lap, I see a wooden container no larger than a shoe box. It has a deep red hue and a brass lock, but what stands out most is the way her left hand is holding it: white-knuckled and for dear life.

I pick up her purse and hand it to her. Blushing, she replaces it on top of the wooden box. “Thank you,” she says, offering a handshake. “I’m Arlene, by the way.”

Her crooked fingers point in all directions, withering under a spiderweb of bulging veins and rusty rings. Not surprisingly, her hand is soft in mine; surprisingly, it is quite pleasant.

“I’m Mim.”

She raises the same hand to adjust her beehive. “What an interesting name. Mim. Almost as interesting as those shoes.”

I smile politely. “It’s an acroname, actually.”

“A what?”

“My real name is Mary Iris Malone. Mim is just an acronym, but when I was younger, I thought it was acroname, which made total sense.”

“Acroname. How clever,” says Arlene.

“Mary was my grandmother’s name.”

“It’s quite lovely.”

I shrug. “I guess. It doesn’t really . . .”

“Match the shoes?” she says, nudging me in the ribs.

Arlene is turning out to be a surprise-a-minute, with her Velcro shoes and phraseology, all pizzazz and très chic, non. I wonder if she’d be so likable if I unloaded on her—just told her everything, even the BREAKING NEWS. I could do it, too. Those bright blue, batty eyes are just begging for it.

“So what’s in Cleveland?” she asks, pointing to my backpack. The corner of an envelope is sticking out of a side pocket, its return address clearly visible.

Eve Durham

PO Box 449

Cleveland, OH 44103

I tuck the envelope away. “Nothing. My . . . uncle.”

“Oh?” says Arlene, raising her eyebrows. “Hmm.”

“What?”

“I was just thinking—Eve is an interesting name for a man.”

Like a priest during confession, Arlene doesn’t meet my eyes. She folds her hands across the purse in her lap, looks straight ahead, and waits for me to tell the truth. We’ve only just met, but things like time hardly matter when dealing with a familiar spirit.

I turn, look out the window as the dense forest zooms by in a blur, a thousand trees becoming one. “My parents got divorced three months ago,” I say, just loud enough for her to hear over the hum of the engine. “Dad found a replacement at Denny’s.”

“The restaurant?”

“I know, right? Most people find breakfast.” Arlene doesn’t laugh at my joke, which makes me like her even more. Some jokes aren’t meant to be funny. “The wedding was six weeks ago. They’re married now.” My chest tightens at the sound of my own words. It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud. “Eve is my mother. She lives in Cleveland.”