Heads of the Colored People(28)
Where would they go anyway? There was only Lisbeth’s mother, temporarily. He could use Inedia as barter, but then what? The last time he saw Eileen, when Inedia was only a month or two old, she’d cried, looking at Lisbeth’s and Inedia’s respective small frames, and said, “Such a shame, so much wasted.” She hovered over the baby carrier, hesitating as though she feared she might break the tiny child.
The pictures of Lisbeth on her parents’ mantel in Nebraska looked like they were from a badly written independent film. In each she wore a variation of her Catholic school uniform accented by evidence of her latest fad. In ninth grade, heavy eyeliner, caked-on ghoulish powder, and dark purple lipstick; in tenth, a groover’s candy necklace layered over a plastic child’s necklace, Barbie earrings, and a thick hemp head scarf. Her twelfth-grade photo showed a Lisbeth closest to her present appearance, the gaunt bones in her face hinting at what Lisbeth called an “intentional experiment with anorexia.” There was no eleventh-grade picture; “Lisbeth had decided she could not be photographed,” not because it would steal her soul, but “for reasons she couldn’t pronounce,” her mother had said, walking Ryan through the collection. “Such a shame there’s no picture. She had gotten rid of the blue highlights and taken to wearing Victorian gowns around the house.”
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RYAN PICKED AT the flat hamburger and focused on the fries. What if Lisbeth picked up breatharianism, Inedia’s namesake, next? They’d have to give up the fruit-based diet and be sustained solely by their prana and sunlight, no food. His prana hadn’t increased on the fruit or with a daughter as it was; all his prana was wasted on grazing and making poop and worrying about Lisbeth and the money.
He knew of Lisbeth’s tendencies toward a kind of all-or-nothing fanaticism. Though she would never admit it, Lisbeth had enjoyed Catholic school, despite her stated principles of anarchy and atheism. As her mother put it, “Lizzie would tell you she hated that school, but at public school she would have only blended in; she needed something to rebel against. And anyway, she’s always been into rituals. She may not believe in God, but she liked praying at the same time every day; she liked crossing herself. There was no middle ground with her, even as a young girl. One summer she wouldn’t step on any cracks; the next, she went out of her way to step on all of them, probably to kill me.” Eileen giggled.
There was something about Lisbeth’s hatred of her mother that Ryan could never justify. Lisbeth had told her mother about her assault in a fit of anger one day, screamed it as though Eileen were the rapist. “You don’t get to cry over my body, Mother,” Lisbeth had said. Her mother, as far as she was concerned, had no part in the grief. Ryan couldn’t understand how Lisbeth came out so damaged when her parents were, by all appearances, loving and stable. It was as if the more she had, the more reasons she found to criticize it. Lisbeth had never been to therapy, but she toyed with the idea of getting certified to provide “lifestyle support” to like-minded families. There was no way she would accept an intervention, though that might make for a better reality series.
To Inedia, Ryan said, “Let’s go over some of your vocabulary words so we can say you did some of your lessons today. What’s”—he didn’t know why he chose the word—“consumption?”
Inedia tucked a two-inch piece of bread into her mouth and said, without looking up from the empty plate, “to eat, or get eaten.”
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“I can talk about my polyamory.” Lisbeth’s voice sounded high pitched and desperate as the crew packed the equipment. “I can call Ben, my newest lover, and have him come over. He’s only eighteen. I mean, he’s almost eighteen. Actually, he’s still seventeen. He’s underage. And he’s black. Most of them are black!” she called over to the men moving into the truck. “You guys aren’t going to find another polyamorous, detached mother in an interracial family of fruitarians.”
“Liz, it’s okay,” Mike said, blowing smoke over his right shoulder. It was after five, early to end a shoot, but he was tired of stalling. He should give up, start a new career, listen to his mother and settle down with a nice man, but he said, “We’ll schedule a day to come back, when everyone’s here. I’m just gonna grab the paperwork I need you to sign.” He headed toward the van.
A car pulled into the driveway. Ryan, seeing the van and Lisbeth outside, said, “Stay in the car, Inedia.”
Lisbeth ran toward him, her performance for Mike uneven. “What do you think you’re doing? You could have just cost us everything.” She whispered, “The money.”
Ryan brushed past her toward the house. He wanted to grab some clothes for Inedia.
“He’s here, Mike.” The relief showed through Lisbeth’s tense smile. “Guys, we can get started again. They’re here.”
Ryan turned back from the house and walked onto the lawn, carrying a super-size carton of french fries. “Right, I’m here, Mike.” He barely raised his voice, looking at no one in particular. Then he bent over as if observing something in the grass. Lisbeth grabbed Ryan’s arm, turning him to face Mike, who puffed, silent, sensing something was about to change. The analogy he was searching for to describe Lisbeth, Mike realized, was Little Edie twirling, or maybe Gloria in They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?