Jaimy Gordon - Bogeywoman

Now she turned her attention to the girlgoyles on the bathroom floor. Actually I might as well not have been there for all the attention the woman paid to me. She took over. She knelt down to O with a decisive squeak of her high-heeled sandals.

“This is very lovely girl,” she said, with thrilling irrelevance for a dreambox mechanic, looking curiously at the face she found between her hands. Her hands were ugly, clean and square, with gnawed-down fingernails and no rings. “Too much maquillage around the eyes, I show you better way later, my dear, if you remind me. How in hell you got here anyway,” she murmured, but uninterrogatively, and parted the hair a little with her fingertips to look. “These-are-nothing, little punchholes all under hair, except here maybe could use one stitch, later will be just little white star at hairline, quite pretty I think.”

Haven’t we gone about far enough with the royal commentary on the mental patient’s beauté? “Say, are you a dreambox adjustor or what?” I blurted. “Why you want to know that, my dear?” she said without turning around, “a minute ago you are glad to see me, no? You want to help?-find me soap. How you gorgeous stupid youths live without soap?”

It was true we Bug Motels were a by and large soapless society, but I flew to my private bathroom and pried away, from the center of the mirror, a hockey puck of orange Dial I had stuck there long ago so I wouldn’t have to look at my nose. “Here it is,” I panted. “Is good work.” She let go of O’s dreambox, which banged against the pipe. “Sufferin cheeses,” O said through her teeth, “get me outa here.” “I’ll hold her headbone,” I offered, “I’m strong as a little French horse and I got experience.” At that the woman stopped dead on her way to the sink and looked over, not at O, at me, at me! with sudden interest, her face at an odd tilt, one eye asquint. Involuntarily my hand stole to my nose. Maybe sumpm was hanging off it. “You are Ursula Koderer,” she divined. “Um, er, uh…” But why prevaricate? Some little bit of fame had evidently stuck to me behind my back. “Yeah,” I said, slitting my eyes at her, feeling a happy, cozy little glow of suspicion, “so what if I am?”

But already she was at the sink with her back to me, rubbing up a lather, and I eyeballed the busy jiggle of her muscular buttocks with conscious impudence. “Sufferin cheeses, hurry up,” O croaked. I crawled over to the toilet and took her dreambox by the ears, without even seeing, this time, how bloody, how pretty-that quick, the silver weasel had taken over.

And then that personage herself elbowed me out of the way, carrying mounds of foam. “O yeah, the old soap trick, why didn’t I think of that?” I muttered. “Because is too easy. You are heroical type,” she explained in that scratchy, ironical contralto that, as long as I knew her, refused to hurry itself for any calamity. “You climb pear tree, leap over wall, maybe break neck, without first to try gate. Charming, I know this type well.” “Whaddaya mean? What do you know about me,” I said, unable to give her up so soon, but she had gone on to more important stuff and steadfastly ignored me.

I studied her from behind. She was more tall than short, more fleshy than boney, and she seemed to be as fit as a soldier in the field, though with those gnarled hands and that gray spiky pelt on her head you could say she looked her age, whatever her age was-sumpm between thirty and sixty. Only the Abominable Snowman could have put his hands around that waist but she was long and lithe in the spine and the back of the neck, with a sturdy compact derrière that worked up and down like twin pistons as she energetically lathered O’s ears, and again I thought of the elegant and voracious lines of a winter weasel or a mink that for the sheer fun of it kills ten times as much as it eats. You might suppose I would take this as a caution, but I felt only hungry wonder at sumpm new in the usually boring line of grownups-to be exact, a grown-up woman who had none of the martyred flab and grizzle about her of somebody’s wife, somebody’s ninth-grade teacher, or somebody’s mother.

Bossy as hump, though-you could tell that already. And another thing I noticed right away as I took in the soft gray drapery from her throat to her knees, and the glinting pearl stockings along the blades of the shins and over the curve of the soleus, which was developed like a soccer player’s. As the Bogeywoman, as Merlin’s daughter, as apprentice to the wood wizardess and a slob all my life, I had never paid any attention to clothes. But hers I could tell were beautiful and, sumpm else, they meant money. Her money-it was printed on her whole air like NABISCO on a cracker-a certain kind of authority-yes, a lady dreambox mechanic rolled in her own dough. And for the first time I realized that one day, or not, if I didn’t off myself, I’d have to have some too. Not clothes. Money.

So. Her hands piled with lather, she sat down on O like a kayaker to hold her in place, reached all business through the hole between fill pipe and toilet and soaped the small ears. “Ouch, sufferin cheeses,” O whined and pulled this way and that way. “Relax head,” commanded the weasel, sinking hard fingers in the blond clouds of Mary Hartline hair, and O instantly sort of broke at the stalk of her neck and the headbone dangled there, with the doctor’s other hand guiding the chin, but it was still stuck. “Ch-ch-choleria!” doctor weasel snarled; it was the most terrible curse I had ever heard, and afterwards I could see little beads of her spit pearling O’s forelock. Angrily she got up again, filled her hands with more foam, roughly sideburned O’s cheeks and chin, pompadoured the bloody brow with pinkening scum, screwed the whole head a little bit east like turning a globe and gave it a jerk not altogether gentle. The head popped free. “Sufferin cheeses Emily where’d you find this brutal bitch,” O muttered ungratefully, rubbing her ears and neck, “who da hump is she anyhow?”

There was a thunder of fuddies’ hooves: Bertie and Dion were cheesing it out of the closet and down the hall, in exact accord with Bug Motels’ operational principles, leaving me and O holding the bag. The weasel showed a commendable lack of interest in their existence. She didn’t even look round. I recalled that my Bug Motel’s duty, now that O was free, was to slink out while the slinking was good. O all by herself was famous for stonewalling cops, and royals. I backed gluily towards the door, but thank godzilla, doctor weasel clamped a hand around my ankle in time. “You,” she said, rising up into my face. “Miss Koderer. Please to explain me what is happened.” I blinked. I couldn’t squeal right in front of two other Bug Motels. But I didn’t want the weasel talking to anybody else either. She was no ordinary dreambox mechanic-if she was a dreambox mechanic-and I was just about to ask her again exactly what she was, when old dying hence ethically exempt Emily piped up: “O had a grandma fizzy fit on the floor, she even had whip cream in her mouth like when a dog bites a frog or sumpm.” The weasel turned to O, who sat hunched and rubbing her neck inside the icy billows of her hair, a lit Lucky hanging from her dry lips. “Miss O’Day?” O shrugged and showed the weasel her back. So it came back to me.

“Miss Koderer. This object. You can explain me please for what you want it?” Her voice thrummed lazily on its low string and she touched with a pointed toe the H of laughing gas, then the clown’s nose lying in its loops of red rubber tubing. “I…” I stammered, glad to have her eye on me, but embarrassed to look like a mastermind of dreambox oils powders and gasses in front of her, for I had a hunch what she would think of that. I mean, she was a mysterious, grown-up woman of the world, next to whom even the wood wizardess, Willis Marie Bundgus, looked like a bucktoothed rube. I gasped at my own disloyalty to my first love and for a moment I hated the woman, for how could she ever love my kind, my potato-shaped nose bulb, lips of wornout underpants elastic, body straight as a pencil, rusty hair, hun manners?