Mosquitoland(66)

Beck walks over to the FOR SALE sign, sticks his hands in one pocket, then another. “Shit.”

“What?”

He jogs up to the truck and digs around in his duffel bag. “I must have left my phone at the motel.”

I pull my own phone out of my bag and walk over to the sign. “Beck, Beck, Beck. You’d lose your head if it wasn’t attached.”

“You mean my arm?”

We smile at each other, recalling one of our first conversations. I’d never tell Beck this, but I’ve come to think of that as our first date, complete with dinner (apples) and a show (Walt’s Rubik’s jig).

I dial the number on the sign, but no one answers. Lying over the phone is hard enough, but a voice-mail lie . . . I don’t think I have that kind of prowess in me right now. I turn up the ringer and check my call log. I only cleared it once, back in Nashville. Since then, Kathy has called sixty-eight times. (Stevie Wonder must be developing inflamed throat nodules.)

Walt is humming to himself, walking around, and staring intently at the ground.

“Walt,” says Beck, “you okay?”

He doesn’t answer. By the driveway now, he’s walking in figure eights, humming, looking down at his feet, and just when I wonder if he’s sick again, he stops dead in his tracks, and throws a finger up in the air. “Got it!”

Beck and I glance at each other as Walt picks up a stone the size of a softball.

“Walt?” says Beck. “What’re you doing, man?”

Suddenly, in an all-out sprint, Walt charges the front door.

“Walt, wait!”

But it’s too late. In one fluid motion, he swings the rock down on the handle, knocking the digital lock, along with the doorknob, clean off. Looking back toward me with, no kidding, the winningest grin ever, he bows low to the ground, then gestures for me to enter. “Ladies first,” he says.

Beck smiles at me as I pass. “Kid’s full of surprises.”

Inside my old house, a wave of musky familiarity rushes into my nostrils, and like that, I’m home. I feel Beck’s hand in mine, and while I’m beyond grateful for his presence, his touch, I need to do this alone. As if reading my mind, he gives a little squeeze, and lets go. “We’re gonna drive back to the motel real quick. See if they have my phone. You okay?”

I nod. “You’ll be back?”

“Definitely.” He gives me a little hug, throws his arm around Walt, and disappears out the front door.



I REMEMBER HEARING once that the section of the brain that triggers sense of smell is located next to the section where memories are stored. In this way, a person can literally smell a memory. (Maybe Beck is right. Maybe the body, in its enigmatic miraculousness, truly is of the divine.)

Standing alone in the middle of my old living room, I suddenly find myself craving cashews and bloody video games. I remember . . .

One Christmas, years ago, Mom went through something of an eighteenth-century kick and decided to decorate our Christmas tree with real candles instead of electric lights. The tree burned down, scorching the carpet and leaving behind a peculiar, not altogether unpleasant, musky pine scent. That was also the Christmas I received a new PlayStation and discovered the delicious cashew.

I push aside my bangs, then stick my hand in my pocket and grip the war paint. As an afterthought, I touch my dead eye to make sure it’s open. I may not be able to see the difference, but sometimes, it’s just nice to know everything is in its right place. Inhaling the musk, the tree ash, the happier times, I put my head down and let my strappy high-tops lead the way.

In the dining room now, the smell of musk gives way to a different kind of smokiness. Across the room, I open a window; my nose burns and the back of my tongue goes numb. I remember . . .

I couldn’t have been more than nine years old when I discovered Dad smoking in secret. I guess Mom knew, but it was a secret from me. He was right here, blowing smoke out the window when I asked if I could try one. He held out the pack with a grin on his face. “Sure,” he said. I studied him suspiciously. “What’s the catch?” I asked. “No catch. Go ahead.” I pulled out a cigarette, surprised by how light it felt in my fingers. Dad lit the end, then told me to breathe in deep. I followed his instructions and inhaled deeply, deciding Dad was way cooler than I’d given him credit for. This was immediately followed by my hacking my lungs out, then throwing up on my mother’s favorite Venetian blinds. I couldn’t taste anything for a week. It was my first and last cigarette.

Out on the back deck, I take in the fragrant yard: the chrysanthemums, the slight sweetness of fertilizer, the fall mastery of dying summer dirt. Instinctively, I look around for lightning bugs and feel unending loneliness. I remember . . .

Hot summer nights, at dusk, Dad would shove a Wiffle ball bat in my hands and show me how to smack the hell out of lightning bugs. A direct hit, he said, was rewarded with a splattering of neon goo. He called it Goo Ball. I always knew he wanted a son, but it was never more obvious than on Goo Ball nights. (I usually missed on purpose, poor things.)

And there—on the far right-hand side of the yard—the detached garage. I smell cheap beer and turtle wax. So many memories of my father washing and rewashing his precious, never-used motorcycle while Mom and I listened to records. And the old College Couch, which, like me, has been hauled south. I turn back to the house, thinking about the last conversation I had on that couch. I wouldn’t be one bit surprised to find more mischief than cotton tucked inside those plaid cushions.