Patricia Geary - Strange Toys

Yet, even though it made me look fat and the baggage was cumbersome, I felt majestic in my supplemented garment. Dauphine’s bag, for instance, had held a rubber eraser painted like the flag of Turkey, a tiny plastic frying pan with two little eggs, a red glass bead from one of Linwood’s favorite necklaces, which had burst one night as they were on their way out to dinner and a play, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof , I think, a wiggle picture from the Cheerios package—Goofy and Pluto—and a slightly chipped seashell. Tying that bunch of stuff together filled me with a sense of peace, and energy, and bliss. Bag after bag of merchandise, gathered together in two big pockets… well, I felt gratified. As though this were what things were for, after all.

I hung my coat back in the niche. “Look,” I told June, “thanks a lot…”

But she was already sound asleep, her even breathing a testimony to her clear conscience.

My heart was too restless for sleep. The deep-night air blew in from the window. I crossed over and then saw that there was a kind of shallow ledge outside the sill. Gingerly, cold in my thin nightgown, I eased myself out and hunkered down.

The black of the sky was weirdly dispersed by the bright moon, which rose like a Woolworth’s pumpkin. How could you forget Halloween on a night like this? Once my eyes adjusted to the dimness, they saw the pale crescents of whitecaps far, far below.

What if you jumped? How long would it take to land? Did you die from fear before you actually touched water or craggy rock?

Or did you think you were flying? Was this the only time you could imagine yourself free?

I sighed, my breath making fog in the chill. I wasn’t going to jump, even though my wickedness was spreading like a kind of infection. Sammy was sure to find me a third time.

And this time I’d be ready.

“Don’t you girls care how your sister is?” Linwood’s voice was disappointed but not surprised.

June and I exchanged looks in the backseat. We were somewhere in Nevada or Oklahoma or the Texas Panhandle or someplace. Who could keep track? She gave me her yarney-yarney-yarney expression.

“Your sister might be joining us soon.”

Stan made that snorting sound that June had perfected. In a way, after constantly being together for almost a month, we were beginning to resemble each other. Or maybe only they were.

“Well, she might…” Linwood trailed off, lamely.

“Great,” June said. “Then she can ruin our new home for us. If we ever get a new home.”

Firm silence from the front seat.

“Florida would be a nice place to live,” Stan suggested conversationally. Out of nowhere, they had come up with the idea of Thanksgiving in Miami. That was exactly their kind of an idea.

“Florida oranges?” June sneered.

Stan and Linwood couldn’t understand that Florida was like Russia for us. The California school system indoctrinated you to resent the citrus crop, the sandy white beaches, and the tourist trade of our chief competitor.

“Where would you girls like to live?” He was trying.

“Vermont,” June said.

“Hawaii,” I said.

“Alaska,” June said.

“Paris,” I said.

“Canada,” June said.

“Paris,” Linwood agreed.

“Rio de Janeiro,” I said.

“The Riviera,” Linwood said.

“In a bank,” said Stan. “The Federal Reserve.”

“Anyplace with horses,” June said. “And cows and goats. A real farm.”

Linwood groaned.

“In coffeehouses, with beatniks,” I said. “I want to wear black sweaters and write poetry.”

“Me too,” said Stan.

Linwood groaned again.

We all smiled and let it rest. Every now and then, you could tell we were a family. We had our jokes; we were loved. It was even rather pretty out the windows, in a chilly mid-November way. The cornfields we were passing through had been harvested. The sheaves of stalks were tied together, just like in picture books. There was a kind of rosy center to my chest. Life could be very simple and very pleasant. You didn’t have to have bad men and strange rides and magic necklaces.

If only things were always simple.

But they never would be, not for me. In the last week or so, I had carried my burden of crime and secrecy. Today , I’d think, will be Sammy-day . But every place we went that looked like his sort of place was closed.

“Anyhoo,” said Stan.

What an obnoxious expression.

“Anyhoo, in a week, we’ll be drinking rum punches and watching the marlin leap in the Gulf.”

“Pet and I get to drink rum punches?”

“Deane,” Linwood said dreamily, “always loved Ernest Hemingway.”

Actually, I loved Hemingway too. I’d only read parts of The Sun Also Rises , snuck from their bookshelf, but if I couldn’t be a beatnik, I wanted to have short hair and wear men’s hats. Those Paris cafés. And poor old Jake. He got around okay for a man with one leg.

“I’m sure she still does.” Stan was annoyed. “She isn’t dead, you know.”

Not yet , I thought.

“Snake-A-Torium!”

June was shouting in my ear.

Was that supposed to be a word?

“There’s a Snake-A-Torium up ahead!”

My head was thick, my brain groggy. I must have nodded off, as usual. The day had moved from early to mid-afternoon.

“Snake-A-Torium!” June shoved my shoulder, hard.

Sure enough, a dingy billboard advertised:

Terrible turtles? I thought about Rose and Pansy, released into Gaylin’s safekeeping.

“I need to send Gaylin a card,” I said, to no one in particular.

So nobody answered.

“Are we stopping?” June demanded.

“Why break our record now?” said Stan. “We’ve hit every grisly roadside stand between here and L.A. We wouldn’t want to miss one.”

“I hate snakes,” said Linwood.

“But you wouldn’t want to deprive the girls, after all I’ve made them suffer.”

Deep silence.

I started to point out that I wasn’t especially keen on snakes either, when I remembered—Sammy! Of course. Where was my mind, anyway?

Clearly, this was his sort of place.

Without any further negotiation, Stan parked in the gravel lot in front of the Snake-A-Torium. For a moment, no one moved. In the thin late-autumn sunshine, the spectacle before us was especially depressing.

A wooden fence, presumably surrounding the gift shop, the snake pit, and the outdoor animals, was painted with all kinds of cartoons. A man fell into a cluster of alligators, and the largest one snapped, “Glad you could drop in for a bite to eat!” Something about the clumsiness of the drawings and the way they were streaked with rain gave you that uh-oh feeling. Already you wanted to wash your hands.

“Well?” Stan asked.

“Let’s go!” June’s voice sounded false.

We climbed out, staring, but we tried not to, at the other drawings. Naked women with snakes wrapped about their waists, children without hands or feet. One particularly lifelike drawing—the “best”—had a big, fat gator smacking his chops, with drips of blood.

“I don’t know, Stan….”

“Girls?”

“I want to go in.”

Everyone was surprised at me. They stopped and looked. Linwood placed her cool palm on my forehead.

“Life’s supposed to be an adventure, right?”