Patricia Geary - Strange Toys

Blink and it’s gone.

Blink: Greenish, luminous, the phosphorescent body appears to be a slender man with bright, shoulder-length hair. He walks carefully, as though cautious about his ectoplasmic feet.

Blink.

Blink: As he approaches, his resemblance to Barnett is pronounced.

Blink.

Blink: You can see right through him, of course, the moonlight behind.

Blink.

Blink: He puts his arms around you, he kisses you, he promises to guide you through not only this world…

I open my eyes and it’s morning and I’m in bed, naked. Although there’s no trace of sweet stickiness between my thighs, my first impression is last night was hot stuff—but dreams can take you to that same place and leave no evidence.

My eyes close and my body sinks back into pillow—

Bam! Bam! Bam! at the front door.

Refusing to believe that anyone’s out there, or that this is what must have made me open my eyes, I nestle back into my big plump nest.

“Open up, Hulk! I know you’re in there!”

Julie.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

“Okay, okay, hang on to your hat!” I grab an old pink satin bed jacket and a pair of cut-offs, unfortunately catching my pubic hair in the zipper.

Julie’s baby-chicken fuzz hair is plastered to her head, sweat rolling down her athlete’s body. “About time! What’s wrong, you got company?”

“I wish.”

We walk into the galley, where several cats jump up in annoyance, several mew with delight.

Julie opens the fridge and guzzles orange juice straight from the glass container. Her brief blue shorts and T-shirt are drenched, and her lean legs, twitching like a horse’s, run rivers.

“You want a towel?”

She nods, putting the juice back and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Two hours, three minutes, fifteen seconds.” She drapes the terrycloth around her neck.

“That’s great!” I pour myself a Perrier and shoo some cats away to sit down. “Still feel like running with me?”

“You know what I feel like doing?”

“No.”

“Going to New Orleans and getting into trouble!”

This is very tempting. I had planned on running today, and then foolishly agreed to meet Barnett at Roy’s, without stopping to think that there must not be any lifting today. My quadriceps and lats are about as sore as body parts get without bleeding. “I’m supposed to meet this guy at Roy’s around four.”

Julie snorts, sitting down across from me with a package of brown rice cakes and some kefir cheese. “Did he kiss you? Or should I guess rape, considering how you looked.”

“Oh, come on. He wants to be my manager. That’s it.”

She cocks an eyebrow while slathering on the creamy cheese.

“There’s something you could give me your opinion on.” I walk out to the jeep, into the warm midday with a misty layer over the olive-colored trees. The bizarre wooden object is even more peculiar in real light.

And warm, not sun-warm, to the touch.

“What do you think?” The item is so heavy that it makes a very loud sound on the table top.

“Hey!” Julie says, mid-bite. Her fuzzy hair is beginning to dry, swirling into punky stiffness. Beneath the spiky hair, her face is round and cherubic, lips like a kewpie doll’s. Never mind her panther-sleek body: the bee-stung mouth and arched brows tend to flapperize her.

“Well?”

“Well what?” Julie picks the thing up. “Heavy sucker, isn’t it?”

“Don’t you notice something odd about the faces?”

She studies them. “No. What?”

“You don’t think one of them looks like me?”

She squints at the statue, squints at me, squints back at the statue. “Okay, so one of them looks a little like you. So?”

This is how you get to feel like an idiot. “Okay. Never mind.” I take the statue and walk into the next room. There’s only one place to put it, on the bottom level of the altar, next to Hannah. Either there or in the trash, that is.

“So what do you say to New Orleans?” Julie is tucking into the raw cashews.

“Well…”

“Come on, Pet! You lifted a thousand pounds. Let me take you out on the town and celebrate!”

“Give me a minute to think about it.”

“You think. I’m going to shower.” Julie exits the galley.

Idly, I peruse the magazines on the table. Cosmopolitan is full of career tips and articles like this one, “I Was a White Slave for a Chain Gang.” Vogue is slick and smug. There are several photographs in the “View” section about an architect with real fashion flair. She is shown strolling the streets of New York City, looking whimsical: a gray flannel suit and a Mickey Mouse T-shirt, for instance. I’ll just wear something whimsical , she confides to the interviewer, for color, you know. For texture . In another picture she is holding hands with her husband and smiling; he is young and handsome and they are standing in front of the ubiquitous New York fruit-and-flower stand.

What about my life: isn’t it full of texture ? The galley walls are covered with photos of Kay Baxter, Rachel McLish, Pillow, and other female bodybuilders. In addition, there are many bright scarves and plastic knickknacks from the fifties and miniature watercolors and handmade potholders and, especially, local “primitive” paintings by Louisiana women artists: lovely garish oils of revivals, baptisms, and hog butcherings.

The sound of running shower water and a nasty rendition of “Every Breath You Take” wafts into the kitchen.

Once Julie gets into the shower, and singing, she’s likely to stay for half an hour. I get up from the table and walk back into the living room and stare at the altar. Then my feet tap the floor until you can hear where the loose board and the hollow are. Inside the hollow is a series of objects wrapped in velvet. The colors are so pretty and bright that you’d think you’d discovered a nest of flowers. My hands reach for the item swathed in lavender.

I remove it, replace the floorboard, and, after lighting a candle and whispering a brief prayer, sit crosslegged before my power objects and unwrap the flat, square parcel.

Neatly framed by a gold-leaf rim and revealed behind reflection-proof glass is a photograph: the quintessential American Family. The Dad stands in back, handsome and healthy, somewhere in his early forties. Proudly he surveys the bevy of girls before him.

In the front row sit the Mother and the three Daughters, sweet little stairsteps. The Mother is deep-chested and robust; she wears a neatly pressed shirtwaist dress and her arms are spread protectively around the Daughters.

The oldest Daughter is a real charmer, curly brown hair, long lashes, hint of a Bardot pout. Perhaps if you knew that she would turn out to be the “bad” child, you would look more closely at the way she stares straight into the camera, knowing that she will always be the star of the show.

Not so the middle Daughter. This one cannot enjoy herself and you see why: the Baby is sitting on the Mother’s lap. Worse, Baby has been given a toy telephone to play with and she, the middle Daughter, has nothing. Her round face and intense, jealous gaze are so intent on the telephone and the lap of comfort that she does not realize the picture has already been taken.

And the Baby? Why, she nestles into the warm breasts of the Mother, and she tinkers with her toy. Not a care in the world! Isn’t she protected, safe and cuddly, isn’t she the precious darling, the adorable pet?

“Hey, Porko, I’m talking to you!”

For a minute I am confused, convinced that June has come back to life, speaking from the confines of her printed image. But then the voice is only Julie’s. She stands in the doorway wrapped in a towel.