Patricia Geary - Strange Toys

But in the dark—well, nothing is quite certain. It seems to me, from what my senses perceive, that this spot is halfway along, which would have taken ten minutes at the most, not nearly an hour.

Slipping off the snakeskin pumps and the silk stockings, I step out of the jeep into the night air, simultaneously sweet and foul. Swamp air isn’t fresh: it’s rich. At any given moment, some animals are feeding on other animals, death occurring every second, constant slithering and tension; since the land is neither earth nor water, all life is amphibious, peculiarly adapted in the way that creatures from two different worlds must learn in order to survive.

I decide to get back in the jeep. The wind is cold and my feet aren’t too crazy about the slimy pavement.

But what is that thing over there?

My heart twitches a little bit, beating down the fear. Something discordant is cradled in the curve of a cypress root. In the moonlight your eye can see that this something is out of place because it was made by human hands; the light strikes this object differently.

I walk over, thinking tough , and lean over to see what the three-foot item is.

It’s a kind of a boat, fashioned from palm fronds, and my first reaction is familiarity, yet I can’t say that I’ve ever seen anything like this before. Inside is a jumble of stuff, unarticulated in the dim light, so I rush back to the jeep and retrieve my lighter.

The first thing my hand touches is a white silk scarf with something squishy inside. Flick of the Bic: inside the white scarf is the head of a chicken.

Gross!

But my curiosity won’t let it alone, so after a moment to regain composure and stomach, the Bic flicks on again.

The scarf with the chicken head is tied to a small white pole with another white scarf. Also inside the boat are shells, mostly broken, and rotten fruit with God-knows-what grisly insects snacking away. There are also many pieces of colored string arranged in deliberate patterns and several small mud figures.

You might think this was a child’s toy. But you’d be a fool to assume that.

Being extra careful not to disturb anything, I try to get a closer look at the tiny mud statues. Their minute features are meticulous: two men and two women. Oh, and a little bird—tiny, it has slipped slightly behind a molding orange, fragrant and revolting.

With a little imagination, you could say that one of the women was me and one of the men Barnett. But the other woman is very bizarre. Old and shabby and tired, the mud figure is holding miniature shopping bags, no bigger than raisins. Thick ankles swell over shabby tennis shoes. Her hair is a mass of wire designed to resemble diminutive dreadlocks.

The other man has no face at all.

Is this what has become of Deane?

Or is this what will become of me.

Obscurely annoyed, I leave the scene of the crime and get back into the safety of the jeep. The edge of some realization is there, but it recedes automatically like the tide. Personal power, the getting of it and the keeping of it .

I gun the motor and away we go. Within five minutes, the road takes me to the curving stretch of crushed shells. Soon the drive to my houseboat will appear.

Reality is only the taut feel of your muscles after a strenuous workout.

I slip the jeep into its lean-to and grab my bag of sweaty gym clothes. The houseboat sways at the touch of my foot.

Dominique is the first to yowl at the sound of arrival, shortly followed by Clive, Mud, Norman, and Wendy. No doubt the rest will be along momentarily, leaping up on the galley table, weaving frantically in and out between my legs as I try to navigate the distance from cat food cans to can opener.

After lighting the galley lantern, I prepare the cat trough. And the kitties fall into their rigidly observed pecking order, now that they have stopped harassing me. Wendy, the oldest female, is at the head of the line, with the youngest male, Norman, bringing up the rear.

Once their food is set, they lose interest in me. Eventually, gorged from their repast, they will come lap-seeking, desiring the scratch on the ear and chin and the smoothing of their glossy coats. But for the moment they are scant comfort.

I pour myself a glass of half rose-hip tea, half unfiltered grape juice and flip on the cassette player: one of Franck’s piano and violin duets, sad as this time of night, fills the air. Unzipping my dress, padding across the floor with tired feet, the music surrounding you in a protective bubble, and the barbaric sounds of cats wolfing down tuna—well, it’s home.

I sink into my favorite chair and stare at what lies directly across from it: the Power Altar.

The altar is the center of the houseboat, spiritually and physically.

Each one attired in his or her favorite costume, beaded collar and monogrammed bag filled with toys and matching pillow, the poodles are regally displayed on the highest tier. Mine are on the right and June’s are on the left. Separating the two clusters of battered plush dogs (how clean and fresh childhood toys remain in your mind when you have lost them; how tiny and dirty they seem when you have saved them, especially if, like mine, they’ve survived a car wreck) is a large black urn, for storing various votive candles and herbs. Guarding the urn are a pair of Chinese Fu dogs, guaranteed to scare away evil spirits.

On the next lower tier are African statues, proudly carved and noble. The panther is upright and lean, the warrior man is alert but kindly, and the woman, sturdy and muscular, is purely strong. Other figures mingle in with the Africans: Hawaiian wahines, ceramic rumba dancers, tiny rag dolls.

The next shelf down houses a collection of feathers and bird nests and bones and swamp moss, everything discovered outside. This layer also contains a flat wooden tray with various nostalgia pieces: the silver badge Gaylin sent me from Carlsbad Caverns—HI PET LOVE GAYLIN—the mysterious piece of brick with the single letter P , found one recess on the playground. My beloved cat Marmalade’s torn leather collar.

The bottom shelf holds only one object: a sculpture commissioned from a mediocre artist. A sort of cartoon goddess flexes her biceps, decorated with golden bracelets. Although she has a mane of platinum hair and sports a pink and green polka-dot bikini, she is not entirely humorous. Here is a woman, you tell yourself, who could lift a thousand pounds.

I tip my glass toward Hannah and drink.

After a few minutes I begin to feel peaceful and so get up and light a couple votive candles, for all my loved ones gone from me. After finishing my juice and checking to make sure the cats have enough food—they’ve nearly worked to the bottom ranks, sated cats lolling on their sides like beached whales, and washing themselves—I wander out onto the deck.

In the cool night swamp, strains of poignant Franck violin wafting out, you can watch birds float white on the water, hear the plopping of fish and the random paddling of some beast projecting himself across the murk.

To buy this feeling of isolation and quiet, this luxurious indulgence of my solitude, I used my meager inheritance, which I had shrewdly allowed Aunt Edith to allow a friend to invest. Nothing could be touched until I turned thirty, at which point travel and education were taken care of.

Turn thirty and repair to the bayou. There’s something to be said for that. And now that my goal has been reached, now that the houseboat and the strength are all mine, now what?

Time to farewell?

And where would forward be?

Seems like it’s always just a step ahead of your eyes.

I lean on the railing and stare out over the water. In the distance, walking toward me over the shiny liquid surface, is some sort of glowing shape.