fool's bells

fooPs bells Also by the author RagTzmeBone sing me no more fooPs bells Lynnette D'anna INSOMNIAC PRESS Copyright...

Author: Lynnette D'anna

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fooPs bells

Also by the author RagTzmeBone sing me no more

fooPs bells Lynnette D'anna

INSOMNIAC PRESS

Copyright © 1999 by Lynnette D'anna. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from CANCOPY (Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency), 1 Yonge St., Suite 1900, Toronto, Ontario, Canada, M5E 1E5. Edited by Beth Follett. Copy edited by Maria Lundin. Designed by Schrodinger's Cat. Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data D'anna, Lynnette, 1955 fool's bells

ISBN 1-895837-90-1 I. Tide. PS8557.A568F661999 C813'.54 PR9199.3.D66F66 1999

C99-931690-7

The publisher gratefully acknowledges die support of the Canada Council and the Ontario Arts Council. Printed and bound in Canada Insomniac Press, 393 Shaw Street, Toronto, Ontario, Canada, M6J 2X4 wvw. imomniacpress. com

ONTARIO ARTS COUNCIL CONSaL OES ARTS DE L'ONTARIO

D

edicated with all my heart to Abra Dueck whose extraordinary vision, clarity, determination & zest for life illuminate my path each day; with affection & appreciation to Audrey McClellan, Colin Smith, Beth Goobie & Beth Follett whose support & friendship helped make this creation possible; to Baby who refused to die & to all the painters who know the risk & beauty of an empty canvas.

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Acknowledgements For affording me the time to create, I extend my most sincere thanks to the Manitoba Arts Council, The Canada Council & the B.C. Arts Council.


The FOOl is the eternal child beginning the journey to enlightenment. It represents the spontaneous mind which contains fantasies, projections, thoughts and understanding but which is uncontrolled and prone to erratic & unpredictable behaviour. It believes too readily and can easily be misled by outer appearances or attractive ideas. The Fool is an empty canvas waiting for a painter who can take risks.

Divination — Childlike enthusiasm; awakening perceptions of the world; mental spontaneity leading either to folly or to wisdom. Beginning an adventure without considering the consequences. from The Elements of the Tarot by A.T. Mann


water symbolizes the unconscious, the source of all life; it is liquid, changeable, formless & powerful.


alpha In olden days when water flowed freely in the Creek, the Monochromes came, shook out the Ragged Ones and built themselves a village. After the Creek dried up, they stayed. Drilled and tapped into artesian wells underground. Constructed themselves a civilization greater than any little stream of water.

The Ragged Ones scattered and it was over before it ever began. When they heard about the Monochromes they fled. "They have weapons," they told each other. "Shoot to kill. It's their way."

14 — Lynnette D'anna

messages In the beginning the Creek flowed full and dense with life. A messenger, a carrier. All throughout it chirped and creaked and babbled. Filled with itself, flushed with itself, it crooned and cavorted and carried on like mad. It wore a giddy parasol in spring, a garish scarf in fall. In winter it turned itself inside out. In summer it grew languid, easy, lush.

Chatter, chatter, chatter, how those Old Ones talk. Covering up all that barren emptiness with their quilted words. "Reva, don't you touch those flowers, don't you dare!" Reva tumbles over and over and over, head over heels, she kicks her dimpled legs high up in the air and giggles. "And pull down your shirt, little girl, how many times do I have to say?" Hans lurks in doorways, watching. Watching and always watching. His inside colour is khaki. Town women stay clear of him. "Look out for Hans," they tell their daughters. "You don't want to get too close." Whispered in the playground, at the candy counter. Poured this way from women into women, girls into girls. That no one should come to any harm.

This is the way the dust gathers. Here is the place.

fool's bells — 15

birthday lira's house is filled with cozy crannies. Surrounded by trees, older even than the ancient house, suckling moisture from the earth. Her mother's kitchen takes up most of the main floor. A stove fed with wood makes heat, an icebox in the corner keeps things cold. Water is brought in from the well out back. An L-shaped stairway leads to the second floor with a window at its bend. Narrow stairs lead up to the third floor where Sra lives. Through her long low window she watches. Birds, clouds, sun and moon, all sliding by. From this attic she can hook her arms around the oak, can hang there from its sturdy limbs. She can scale down it to the earth without stairs or stay cradled by a crooked arm. In this room Sra dreams and spins. Webs of words, colours. Thoughts washing through her body are her body's blood.

Water in her bath, a brisk waterfall that plasters her hair to her scalp. Face cloth sponged across bare shoulders, water trickling down her spine and across the hill of bum.

They play house in the sandy dirt behind the school. Scratch out walls with a sharp-ended twig. "Here's the door," says Sra. "Here's the baby's room," Imp says. "With good strong walls. And this is their kitchen." Bear hides around a corner. When they've finished building their little house, he leaps onto the walls and scuffs them out. The school bell rings.


5ra bends the truth as some see it from time to time, but she never breaks it. Truth as she sees it is spelled differently. Things inside her own head are different from those others seem to see, hear, taste, smell, touch. Feel. "The trouble with you is you don't know where to draw the line," her sister says righteously, "between the truth and your own wild imagination." Sra holds up her scarf. "What colours do you see?" she asks. "I see purple," Syb retorts. "Naturally. So what?" "I see crimson with hues of blue. Who's to say which way of seeing is the Truth?" Syb snorts. "Ninety-nine out of a hundred people would say purple." "Ah," Sra breathes, drawing die splendid scarf back selfishly around her neck.

Thirteen candles will light up her cake this evening. She awakens singing inside her head, birthday, birthday, birthday. "What day is it today?" she asks her sister at breakfast. "It's Tuesday," says Syb. "Eat your porridge." Sra knifes the solid mass in her bowl. "It's really gross," she says, reaching for the sugar. "It wouldn't be, if you ate it when you were supposed to." Syb waves her knife warningly. "Don't you even think about more sugar." She takes her own neatly polished bowl to the sink and rinses it. Milk sits on top of the cold grey lump in Sra's bowl. She tickles it with the tip of her spoon. "Are you sure it's only Tuesday?" "Of course I'm sure. Stop playing with your food." Sra waits for Syb to leave so she can dump her birthday breakfast down the toilet.

Imp comes over after school for party food and Syb joins them for her share of double-chocolate-fudge-brownie cake. She even has a grudging gift, a drawing book with golden stars and moon embossed in a sky-blue cover. "Hey thanks!" says Sra, pleased. "I bet you thought I forgot," Syb giggles, hugging her like some silly storybook sister. "Fooled ya!"

fool's bells — 17

faith Syb bursts through the attic doorway and leaps bouncing onto the bed. "There you are!" she shrieks. "I've been looking all over for you!" Sra picks up her fallen book and smoothes its pages carefully. "Of course I'm here. Where else would I be?" "Put that down!" Syb orders impatiently. "I've got something really important to tell you!" Sra lifts the paperback to her face. "So, talk." "You never listen to anything I have to say," Syb complains. Sra shuffles her hand over a yawn. "I can't help it if you're boring." "But this isn't boring," Syb insists. "Remember Alad?" "That guy you're so nuts about? Captain of the basketball team? That guy?" "Yeah, him! Alad! The most popular guy in school and I get to go on the hayride with him! Mom said I could! I get to go out with Alad!" "Stop your bouncing!" snaps Sra. "It makes my stomach hurt. And so does your creepy love life, aside from it being too boring to waste a breath about." Syb sits up straight. "Sometimes I think you must be made of stone. Why can't you just be like other sisters for a change? Do something normal!" "I'm ecstatic for you." Sra sniffs. "Not that you would recognize ecstasy." "I just told you I'm going out with the hottest guy in all of Stonybrook and that's the only thing you have to say?" "What more do you want from me?" Sra asks. "You never pay the slightest bit of attention to anything that excites me. For example," she gestures to her window, "look out there." "At what?" Syb asks, straining to see despite herself. "Do you see that eaglet in my oak?" Syb sniffs. "There isn't any stupid eagle out there." "You can't see it because your vision is restricted," Sra says. "All you can see are captains and teams. It's not just me; you could try a little harder too." Syb gets up and flounces to the door. She tries to slam it when she leaves and Sra giggles.


"I could hear your whining all the way down the street," says Sra. "Why don't you mind your own business?" yells Syb. "Mom! Make her stop picking on me!" Teasingly Sra sets her hand on her sister's forehead. "Maybe you've got a fever." Syb swats her away. "Don't you dare!" she storms, stomping out of the kitchen.

Jra packs a picnic. Fresh tomatoes, thick slabs of Mom's homemade bread, juice in a thermos. She sets it in her pack and with it she walks to their meeting corner. Dust shimmers lightly in the sun, sprinkles itself around. Imp is already waiting. "It sure is hot today," she complains. "Too hot for hiking." "But we have to go," Sra says, handing her the pack. "I made a special picnic. Here, you take this and I'll lead." "What else is new?" Imp grumbles, but she shoulders the pack and follows Sra to the ditch that used to carry the Creek now weed-grown and bone dry. They walk along it for a while until they've left the town behind. Then Sra stops. "Here," she says. Imp wheezes and drops the pack with a thud. She sprawls down right on a thistle patch then gets up quickly. Sra laughs, uncaps the thermos and leans back on her elbows creasing flat the weeds beneath her. She stares at the creek bed and the dusty sky all around. "There used to be water here," she says dreamily. "This gutter flowed with it. There would be frogs creaking and mosquitos hovering in the air instead of all this dust. There'd be flowers blooming wild, yellows, blues and reds. Just imagine!" Imp sneezes and digs around in her pocket for her inhaler. She squeaks mist into her throat. "This dust is really bad," she croaks, "for my asthma." "Yeah," says Sra. "Now that the water has been stolen." "I don't know about all that." Imp sniffs. "But I do know it's hard for me to breathe." "I found a dead bird this morning. I opened it with my knife and looked its insides over. After I was done, I buried it." "Did you say a prayer?"

fool's bells — 19 "What for? I returned it to the earth. That's all it is you know. If I dig there in a couple of months it will have dissolved. It won't exist except as earth." "I think you should have said a prayer at least. Out of respect." Sra lifts her brows. "For dirt?" "Not just that," Imp says indignantly. "For an Animal of the Kingdom." "You don't really believe in that, do you?" "I didn't say I believed in it. But it couldn't hurt." "Do you know that for sure?" asks Sra. "That calling on a god can't hurt?"

Old Ones in church hunch over hymnbooks. Stained glass sunlight and layers of dark cloth cover them, but they are cold anyway. They are always cold. Imp shivers, tugs her sweater sleeves over her knuckles. Her mother glances down at her and shakes her head. The well-fed man who binds the family sits behind the podium. He holds his Hymnal high. Imp purses her lips and blows him away. On either side of her people rise to sing. She can't help being carried up by their elbows, but she never sings. "I don't want to tell you. You always turn everything I say around." "Trust me," Sra insists. Slowly Imp exhales. "Okay," she says at last. "You win. But just remember that you forced this out of me. What happens is he creeps into her room at night, he crawls into her bed and touches her all over. I watch them from the ceiling. After he leaves I go back into her body. She doesn't like it but he tells her she deserves it. He says that she is dirty. He says he'll kill me if I tell." Sra rests her hand on Imp's trembling shoulder. "We can make him stop," she says. "If we believe. We can blow out all the dust he makes." "But how?" "We'll hold a special ceremony when the moon is right." "If you think it would work," Imp says doubtfully.

5rie stitches a white robe from old lace and makes a crown for Imp from leaves and fresh flowers. When the moon is full, they walk out along the ditch. When they stop, Sra attaches the wreath to Imp's hair with clips and grasps her hand. "You have to help," she says. "We have more power

20 — Lynnette D'anna if it's both of us. And remember, there is no going back. Once it's done, you can't undo it." "Why would I want to go back?" Imp asks indignantly. "Why would you even think that? It's not as if I like it." "I'm just telling you, that's all," says Sra. "Now we concentrate and you should say what you want to have happen." "I'm scared," Imp whispers. She grips Sra's hand and squeezes shut her eyes. "Make him stop," she prays hoarsely. "That is what I want. That's all I want." "These are the days of calling Isis," Sra intones. Her hand becomes a glowing ember; its flame spreads through Imp and heats her up. "Isis," echoes Imp. "Isis," Sra repeats. "We call on You to make him stop." Then she drops Imp's hand and claps briskly. "There!" she says. "That's it! We've done it!" Imp stares up at the moon. "Do you really think it will work?" she asks huskily. "If that's all there is to it? Don't we have to make a sacrifice or something?" The dry ditch curves out into the distance like a dark ribbon with white moon rising over. "If we have faith it will," says Sra. "It's up to us." She thumbs the air. "Look! There used to be water in here. You can see from where this gully twists, you can imagine. But now they say it's gone for good. Sometimes with Nature there can be no turning back." "So you keep telling me," says Imp. "But I'm sick to death of all this dust. It's hard for me to breathe." "Anyway, we should be going. We're all finished here." Imp plucks the crown from her head and discards it in the weeds. "Shouldn't you take off your robe?" she asks. "Anyone could see." "Why are you so worried?" "People will think you're odd." "They think that anyway." Sra giggles. "But they can't hurt me; I'm immune."

"I know what you've been up to," hisses Bear, cornering Imp by the pencil sharpener at school. She jerks away. "Leave me alone!" "I saw you two at the ditch the other night," he says loudly. "So? What's that to you?"

fool's bells — 21

"I'll maybe have to tell someone," he says. "We don't like witches around here you know." From her seat across the room Sra catches Imp's eye and grins and suddenly Bear grunts, doubles over, grabs his stomach. "What's the matter with you?" asks Imp. "Nothing!" he snaps, trying to stand up straight. "Fuck off witch!" "Just leave me alone," she repeats quietly. Then she walks back to her desk, head high, leaving Bear kneading at his belly.

What makes Imp cold makes Sra angry. Anger sits heavy in her body bowl like thick stew. Tip the bowl, out it spills, out pours all that lumpy anger stew. She runs the track alone at sundown. Her breath colours the air ahead, her feet pound packed dirt beneath. Setting sun casts an amber glow over everything: the track, die soccer nets, her own sweaty skin. Runs the infinite oval to her audience of setting sun clinging to the crisp horizon.

Misters and Misses gather in the building for their sunset prayers. Sin among us. Sin inside us. Iêt us pray.


dust This is the way the dust becomes. Through a great wind that churns and spins and loosens up the soil. Through a farmer's plough that furrows, splits and spits it out. Through a heavy wind that spins and boils and hisses dirt into a fine grey mist. Dust settles where there is space, in ditches and in crevices. On rarely used possessions. Gathers in puffs and hides in nooks and crannies. Lurks in corners, under beds, on shelves and around the windowsills.

People shift in their pews while the preacher speaks. Envy is sin. Lust is sin. Greed is sin. All men are sinners. God knows. God sees, inside and out.

The Old Ones have had their skins carefully shellacked with die steely hues of withheld passion, acceptance and humility, but Sra thinks she can see other colours bleeding underneath. She runs thread through canvas to create a tapestry, die way she sees it, a portrait of Stonybrook from die inside out. Imp shudders and pushes it away. "I don't want to look at that," she says. "It's really creepy." "It's not that bad," protests Sra. "It has to do with Truth. You should not be afraid of it." "Your version of it," Imp says. "I think it's ugly." Sra folds the canvas with the picture facing in. "I thought of all people you would understand," she says. "Sometimes Truth is ugly. It just can't be helped. But I'll put it away if it upsets you." "It does!" Imp is angry. "Sometimes I wonder about you."

fool's bells — 23

"We're sisters!" yells Syb at the top of her lungs. "It doesn't make the slightest bit of difference what you think, you can't pretend me away! But talking to you is a total waste of breath." "You have no imagination," Sra says scornfully. "You've got enough for both of us." "I met an albino yesterday," Sra says so suddenly that her sister blinks. "What?" she asks. "He was white," continues Sra. "Except for his eyes he was all white, pure white. White lashes, white skin, long white fingernails. Wild white tangled flowing hair. He wore a wide-bammed hat to protect him from die sun and all our dust, and in his hand he carried a white staff. He told me he was only passing through." "Let's say I believed you," says Syb indignantly. "Let's just say. So tell me, exactly where did you see this white guy? On Main Street? At the post office? In the drugstore? Could anyone besides you see him?" "He handed me a pure white rose, told me he was passing through and then he kept on walking. That was all." "Yeah, right," scoffs Syb. "What rose?" Sra points at her windowsill. On it, a single bud suspended in a clear stemmed glass. Her sister's eyes widen. "Wow!" she sighs.

In the dark of night Albino returns glowing, lighting up her attic room like some Disney ghost. His eyes are pink and puffy and he wheezes when he breathes. I broughtyou something he tells her, stretching out his hand. The something is a jumbled skein of magic thread in a blend of twisted colours. "I could use that for my tapestry." Sra takes the gift from him. "Thanks." Albino doffs his wide-brimmed hat and disappears without another word.

Ever since the tapestry, Imp has been ignoring her. Alad is courting Syb these days so there isn't even anyone to argue with. Sra stitches with her magic thread, weaving herself some lonely stories.


Main Street, Saturday night. Same cars spin round and round, just the boys hunting down a little trouble. "Waiting for someone?" they holler and Imp shrugs. "Hop in," they say. Main Street in Stonybrook, Saturday night.

Albino tells Sra the Prophecy is older even than the dust. A wisp, a memory of memory of memory. A memento, a tongue unused, an ancient ritual. Sra pleads with him to tell it to her but his lips clamp tight. She coaxes him into her bed. Then, when she is certain that he is asleep, she tries to crawl into his brain. Without warning his eyelids open. You thinkyou can learn Prophecy by stealing it? he snarls. / toldjou,you 're not ready! Don 'tyou dare try that again!

Quickly she pulls back. "Okay, okay," she says sheepishly. "There's no need to growl."

She goes out to the ditch alone. Alone in her white robe to the empty ditch at the edge of town where there is silence. Where stillness hears her voice and echoes it back to her. This is how the dust becomes. Hovers. Gathers. Settles. This is the way.

fool's bells — 25

rocks Fire flashes through her body where Albino touches her with knobby fingers. His eyes are red as blood. "Are you a woman or a man?" Sra asks, gathering her breath. He lifts the blanket. Why don't you tellme?\\& teases. She peers along his body, then she shakes her head. "I can't," she says. "Your genitals are too confusing. Some of each, maybe." I am everythingyou want, he says.

"I think you are a horny goat," says Sra. "Or maybe my sister is right after all. Maybe you don't exist. Maybe you are just a figment of my overactive imagination." Albino chuckles and begins to fade. A.syou wish, he sings gaily. "Wait!" she calls. "Don't go!" But as he dissolves, another Being materializes. "Who are you?" gasps Sra. The red-robed Being laughs. I am Creature. You called on me, so here I am.

Albino leads her underground through a maze of tunnels. He says that there are lessons for her to learn in the messages embedded in the rock, but she aches to travel up. The dampness hurts. The darkness blinds. The stone is endless and unyielding. Sra yearns for sun. When she slips and falls he tends to her impatiently with his gnarled magic staff.

While Sra follows Albino underground, Imp goes out with Vince. She is cold and he complains but goes on touching anyway. Syb is making marriage plans while her younger sister stares unmoving through her attic window. "She just sits and sits," Syb complains. "She's gone completely crazy. It's embarrassing. Make her stop it, Mom." "Darling," Mother whispers in her daughter's ear when they are alone. "Please come back now. I need you here. Please."


"I have to go. My mom is calling me." Albino frowns and clamps her elbow with his heavy fingers. But I'm not finished withyouyet. Impatiently she dislodges him. "I can come back," she tells him firmly.

Syb and Alad hold their wedding in the church. Sra limps down the aisle to her pew, nursing bruises only she can see. This building reeks of gaudy flowers and perfume. When she feels Albino's raspy breathing on her shoulder she shoos him quietly away. Back at home in her kitchen Mom tugs off her linen suit one section at a time. In her navy slip and stockinged feet she fills the kettle and sets it on the stove. "Thank heavens it's all over," she exclaims. Sra sets her feet up on the table. "At least you won't have to go through it again." "For now." Mom laughs. "But you'll get married too. Sometime in the future." "I doubt that," Sra says scornfully.

fool's bells — 27

vision At last he leads her out of endless tunnels. "Now am I free to go?" she asks. You still have more to learn.

"Can I learn it in the sunlight?" You have the gift of Vision. Use it asyou choose.

Wheel. Book. Candle. Candle. Wheel. Book. Book. Candle. Wheel. In her attic room Sra searches. Poring through a Book of Fortune, its leaves lit by a single flame. The candlestick is red. Her brain is a wheel in motion. Wind harasses her oak outside while within she snuggles deep beneath her cozy quilt to spin her dreams. Wind moans around the eaves outside while she plots out ways to count the stars.

Wind spreads itself like thick butter over trees, fences and roofs of Stonybrook. In the wind are tunnels. In the tunnels are voices. In the voices are the Prophecy. Gathering is what this wind does best.

As wind gathers over town, Imp colours in her solitary corner of the sky. Red for her anger from the inside out. Violet for her own hot tears. Numbly she rocks herself with blades of glass.


Imp is hanging. Imp is hanging. Imp is hanging.

"Is this something that I did?" Sra asks through cracked white lips. But no one answers. Did. Did not. Did.

Didn't.

Old Ones cut her down. Open up her body to hunt around inside for clues. Sew her skin flaps back together. Put the body into a rectangular container so they can bury it. Once and for all. Monochromes file past. Some touch. Men-of-God stand stiff with tight faces, black suits, crossed arms. Women-of-Men sit still, their kerchiefed heads all bowed. Nothing escapes. Nothing can escape. Hovering in the corner of a ceiling, that is no way to live. Overseeing bodies wrestling on a bed, that isn't any way to live. Tying a noose around your neck, that's just no way to live.

Did. Didn 't do. She calls Albino. "I've been selfish," she tells him. "Concerning myself with Truth and tapestry and mouldy tunnels and your foolish Prophecy. I let you lead me around in circles when I should have been here with her." You did what you had to do. You 've been guided to jour fate as was she.

"I have to take some responsibility. After all, I made her trust and gave her faith and then I left her to fend off evil by herself. And look what's happened to her! How dare you suggest there was no choice?" Don't blameyourself. You 've done no wrong.

"I've wasted time with you!" With a snarl, she evicts him from her grief.

fool's bells — 29

The sky over Stonybrook has opened up. Muddy waters flood the bed where once a creek fed the earth all around. Sometimes with nature there can be no turning back. There isn't any turning back, dead is dead. Dead is dirt. Crawling in her greying gown on her hands and knees through the empty ditch, groping for a Truth.

"Imp's been buried," Mother reports wearily, tugging off black gloves and draping them across a chair. "She was your only friend. You should have been there for the burial. You should have come to say goodbye." With all her might Sra bears down, shoving down boiling rage with all her strength. "It's a good thing for that man," she says through tightly clenched teeth, "there's more where she came from. After all, someone like him can always pick and choose. Unlike her, he has a choice." The woman kneels at her daughter's feet and lays warm hands against her skin. "Honey," she pleads. "Look at me! Please look me in the eye! Tell me what you're saying." "I'm saying it's a good thing for that man he has more children," Sra spits out. "He won't have to go without now that she's been taken." "Darling, I understand your grief. But even you must admit that sometimes you let your imagination get the best of you. You get so lost in it. It's not that I don't believe you, but you must be very careful with such accusations. Especially when they involve men in high places, like Imp's father." "She told me herself!" shouts Sra, shaking off her Mother's timid hands. "She begged for me to help! And now she's gone!"

"Why have you deceived me?" she demands, hands on hips. There was no deception. "No deception! What about all the time I've wasted trying to be worthy of your stupid Prophecy? Even if It does exist, who's to say that It's the Truth?" Albino waves a scornful gnarled hand across tile town. You think theirs is? "There might not be a single path, that's all I am saying. It might not be as simple as just yours or theirs."


As I keep tellingyou,you are not responsible. She met her fate. There was nothing you or anyone could do.

"I might have helped her find another way." Why doyou refuse to understand?

Sra swallows hard. "I order you to leave!" He pulls himself up straight. After all we have been through, you honestly believeyou can simply make me vanish?

"Yes," says Sra. "That is what I think. If I invented you, I can also make you disappear." So you may think. Buf the time for wishing me away has long since passed.

Stubbornly she shakes her head. "I order you to go!"

5he meets Menno at the track. He is curved and soft and coloured like a rainbow. His smile is sweet and washes off her cobwebs. When she whispers in his ear, he giggles. "That tickles!" "Did you hear what I said?" "Something about the rain, I think." "I said let's go to the track and run." They fly around the oval with Sra a lap ahead. "Wait!" he shouts after her but she just laughs. "Catch me!" she calls back. The second time she passes him he stops her with his arm. "I said wait," he complains. She shakes him off. "What's your problem?" "I want to stop running." "So stop." "I want you to stop too." "Why?" "Because we're together." "You can stop and watch me." "I don't want to watch you." "Why not?" "If I stop, you should stop too." "But I want to keep on running." "Fine, then. Do it your own way." "Where are you going?"

fool's bells — 31 "If you want to keep on running, go ahead," he pouts. "I'm leaving." Sra stares after him. He may be soft and curved and real, but that is not enough.

Silver moonlight hits the gravel, bounces back into her eyes. It takes the shape and form of Imp. Albino chortles somewhere distant. No stars tonight, just moon. The full moon of the Equinox.

Then the sky breaks open. Rain spreads mud which covers everything. Like grey moss growing in a rainforest, the murky blanket quickly covers the town. Women clean. What they do best. Men hoist. What they do best. All stalwart and steadsure. Sra's mother washes everything. Sheets. Pillows. Towels. Furniture. Floors and walls, until the whole house gleams. "You could stop," Sra tells her. "I can promise you it isn't going to come in here." "But it feels so dirty," says her mother. "With all this muck around." "You're safe from it." "Your sister tracks it in on her shoes." "Make her keep her mud at her own house." "She is my child. I can't throw her out because she brings in mud." "She could show you some respect. But if you want to keep on cleaning after your muddy daughter, go ahead. I can't stop you. But I swear I'll never understand; she is married now. She's moved on. You should be off the hook." The woman glances at her child. "And you?" she asks. "When will you be moving on?" "I don't even go outside." "I know. That's exactly what I mean. All you do is stare out into space." She dips her mop into the pail, wrings it out and starts to scrub again. "What are you looking at out there? Are you ever coming back? It's not that I'm trying to get rid of you, but normal children do move on."

32 — Lynnette D'anna "Fm sorry to offend you," says Sra stiffly. "Don't ask me to explain. But truly Mother, you can quit your scrubbing."

By the sweat of their brows the Monochromes built walls so strong nothing could ever knock them down. There are no cracks in them. Eat jour peas. We worked hard for those peas. That's good food. Mother ignores her immobile child. Washes around her as though she is another fixture. Like a table lamp, a stool, a window seat. There is nothing she can do for her but wait it out. This too shall pass, she grimly tells herself.

On her ledge, a ragged rose hovering suspended in a glass. Through her window she sees Albino down below walking bent and white, leaning heavily against his staff. Suddenly he spins and waves, a magic silhouette bathed in night. Unbidden, her hand drifts upward in farewell. Between them Imp dances her final black rose dance. Her hand falls. Albino disappears.

fool's bells — 33

whiskey Baby splashes whiskey into her morning coffee. Takes a good clean lick before she dials her white phone, the one she uses every Monday at eleven. A gurgle tells her Mama's listening. "Hi there Mama," she says. When she is done talking she hangs up hard. Imagines voiceless Mama in that room, that sick green room with all the other loonies. Baby could scream, scream and scream, but it would be useless, a useless waste of breath. She tucks herself into her whiskey, wraps her tongue around it, gargles it around in the middle of her throat. Then the phone rings, the red one. It's the new girl, Shadow, the one who works for Baby now. Time to rescue Shadow. And there goes Monday down the drain.

Wheels spit out gravel and salt. Mud cakes on soles. Baby tucks her collar up around her chin and ears. Wednesday night waiting on Anton at the entrance to the Odeon, out of the bitter wind. Mama's worse they said, how can she be any worse? Worse would be if she comes to. Only way out really is for her to die. Where the fuck is Anton? Baby has a fifteen-minute rule, hard and fast, and Anton knows it. She takes a final look around. He pays anyway so it's no skin off her nose. Maybe his wife is in a sexy mood, maybe the kids are sick, maybe he has overtime. Sammy is between sets at Ichabods. She drops onto a stool beside him. "Hey there," she says. "Why aren't you at work?" "I have a bit of time to kill." "I'll be on in just a minute." "Given up the day job yet?" "These days the gigs are paying better." "Better than Myra?" Sammy snorts. "Nothing pays better than Myra. You gonna stick around?" "I got no place else to go." Raoul taps his shoulder. "Hey, kid! You're on." Sammy leaps onto the stage, shoulders his guitar and grabs the micro-

34 — Lynnette D'anna phone. "This here's for Baby," he croons. Grinning, Baby leans back against the bar.

Can't get any rest with that wind clawing at the door. hush little Baby don 't say a word Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird if that mockingbird don't sing Mama's gonna buy you a pearly ring if that pearly ring is brass Mama's gonna buy you a loo king glass Can't shut up that goddamn wind.

Baby flexes Shadow's arm, ties it up, taps a vein with one expert index finger. Checks the syringe for air and then injects. Shadow's hot pink tongue spills from her mouth while Baby steps back. Leaves her lolling on the toilet while she goes to make a call.

In Baby's house there will be bevelled mirrors, fine china vases and the plushest oriental rugs. Crystal and marble statues and deep rich wood. There will be a cedar-lined study filled with books. These things will be in her house. But for now this lousy apartment with the ratty pullout couch for the kids she takes in one at a time when they need a place. "I am not your mother," she instructs each one in turn. Sinking sharp incisors into some John's paying skin, her body mimics passion while her mind does banking. In her house there will be a pure white room in which everyone will be afraid to sit.

Kory's hitting Carmen and she isn't fighting back. She just stands there open-mouthed and lets him mess her up. When she goes down for the third time Baby steps in. Someone lugs Carmen out of the way and Baby gets him good but he keeps coming like some manic pop-up clown. Finally they drag her off, Rory still punching at whatever he can reach.

fool's bells — 35

Mama's bones are thin. Mama's mind is tked. Mama's tear ducts have gone dry. Mama is silent as a stone. Even those blood-red roses Baby brings her every week do not make her talk. '"What does that mean, she's worse?" Baby shrieks into the white phone. "She's barely moved in months. How could she possibly be worse?"

The man on the tango mission takes Mama by the hand and waist, pushes a thorny stem into her mouth. Baby spies on them from her corner at the bend in the stairway, watching him dance Mama down to the end of the room and back. Mama's laughing so hard the rose falls from her mouth and the man has to shove it back. She's laughing so hard the thorn tears the tender inside of her lip. Baby watches blood blend with lipstick. Mama is still laughing. Roseman puts his mouth on top of hers to suck the blood. Now his mouth matches hers and he is laughing too.

Rory has been found dead; everyone says he had it coming. Carmen's gone without a trace, missing since Rory was discovered. Since the death in Family, Baby chooses every word with caution. In my bouse I'll have fresh long-stemmed roses. And no one's ever gonna fuck with me a pain.

No one touches Baby before she gets their money. No one is allowed to break her skin. It's she who does the breaking and they who pay. Pay for Roseman and for Mama and the rainbow-coloured pills, with pop to wash them down, that Mama gave. Her teeth are sharp, her leather supple and her cuffs are gleaming. They're hooked on Baby, every single one.


promises Albino's eyes are misty but it's likely caused by dust. We expected you to call, he wheezes. We knewyou'd miss us. Sra shuts her own burning eyes, an ache welling up from someplace deep inside. "I only called you out of desperation," she protests. Creature lays her down with an urgent heated hand. / understand, she purrs. Girls will be girls. I can help you scratch that nasty itch of yours. "If I let you, will you make me a promise?" Sra demands. Honey, I'll do any little thingyou want!

She shakes him hard until he snorts and grunts and cracks a lazy eye. Just let me stay till dawn, he wheedles. Creature andyou have worn me out with your shenanigans. "What about your promise?" / didn't make you any promise. He yawns. You'll have to take it up with her.

"Then bring her back!" J can'/, he whines. / am not her keeper. 'Leave me be! Her hands fit easily around his scrawny neck. "A promise," she says tightly. "She said she'd take me on a journey and she promised to take care of me." A.II right, you 've made yourpoint! I'll make her keep her word! Let me go! "I should get all your promises in writing," Sra says angrily, releasing him. Albino coughs, sits up, rubs his throat.

fool's bells — 37

comet Creature's map securely tucked inside her pocket, Sra boards the train. Eyes upon the countryside spreading by, fields and cows and crops all sliding past her window. Seeing Imp when she shuts her eyes, she sleeps.

Creature's city is grey and gleaming, made of concrete slabs and massive slabs of tinted glass. Air conditioners spew out mutagens. Bums on sidewalks pleading with their hands mutter as she passes by. They hold up crumbling buildings with their bodies, they fit exactly where they are. Women and men are brisk with purpose and briefcases, hard-sell faces, ideas faces, busy faces. Expensive-sneaker kids with trendy fuck-you haircuts. Screaming arcades, video and music stores. She couldn't hear Albino now if her life depended on it. Good thing, all he's been doing lately is getting on her nerves. Sra hoists her pack onto her back, a voyager in transit, a tourist looking for a site, a traveller seeking out a little Prophecy. This strange stone place may be just another futile journey, but she is where her ticket took her and the ticket took almost all the money she had. Her feet take her to a bridge. The bridge spans a river. This river once fed the Stonybrook Creek when it had the power. Here it rushes mightily. She imagines tiny men in miniature canoes navigating it back in time when the land was bigger and the men were smaller. What she sees now are urban yards, private docks with boats attached and well-groomed trees to the water's edge. This river has been tamed and soiled. She wrestles with a chill. Ragged Ones buried their dead on riverbanks. Cars, trucks and buses weigh down die bridge. Suspended, they wait long impatient moments before crawling forward. Cyclists and pedestrians jostle for their share of space on the walkway. Strip malls and convenience stores, cappuccino bars, tube steak vendors and instant cash machines. On the other side she buys a vegan dog and a can of tea. "What's there to do in this city?" she asks the vendor. "There's the Zoo or the Art Gallery. Tourists like those places. There's Shakespeare on the river every night. Malls, if you're into shopping." Sra grabs a napkin to catch hot peppers sliding from the corners of her mouth. "Thanks," she says. "Maybe I'll just hang out."

38 — Lynnette D'anna Beyond the sizzles of the street, flute music shivers, floats and rises up like helium, way above her head, above the rooftops and the smoke stacks and the humming wires passing messages. Soaring up into the cotton clouds. Captured, she stands stock-still. "Where did you learn?" she asks the flutist when he pauses. "I've always played," he says. "To me it's just like breathing." He lifts the silver tube again to breathe out something sweet. Sra stands and stands while other pedestrians stop, listen, drop money into his case and move on. Eventually he pockets all his coins. "I'd buy you a drink," he offers! "If you wanted." In the tavern down the street he orders draft and Sra shoves out her hand. "Sra," she says. "Caleb." He gulps his beer. "Mighty thirsty work, playing out there in the sun." "You do this for a living?" He laughs. "Not on your life!" he says. "There's no money in it. I teach a little when I can, but flutists are not in big demand. So I sling burgers to pay the rent. What about you?" "I've just arrived from Stonybrook. I took the train." Caleb sets down his empty glass. "I'd like to buy you dinner," he says. "And later, if you don't have anywhere to be, you could come to my place. If you like." His place is a turret at the top of an old house a few blocks along the street on which he plays. "My room is in an attic too," says Sra, sitting cross-legged on his mattress. "Most likely I will miss it." Caleb reaches out to touch her hair. "Why did you leave?" he asks softly. "Why come here?" "I'm looking for something." "For what?" "I don't know exactly." She hesitates. "But I think it has to do with Truth." He chuckles. "What makes you think you'll find Truth here, in this city? And how will you know it if you do?" "My only friend hanged herself," says Sra. "I tried, but I couldn't help her. I see what I think is Truth, but I don't know if I'm seeing right." Caleb leans down, opens his case and lifts out his flute. He positions it against his mouth. "Why did she hang herself?" "She thought that she was bad. Their god told her she deserved it." He frowns. "That's twisted." "Monochromes don't see colour; their world is black and white." "I've met people like that," Caleb says.

fool's bells — 39 "I thought I heard Truth in your music," says Sra. "That's why I stayed." "I don't know about the Truth." He sets the cylinder against his lips. "I just play." Then he breathes out lavender with smoky grey and Sra melts down. Creature giggles but she pushes her away. "Tell me about yourself," Caleb says. "While I play." Imp, Syb, Alad, Mom, Albino, Creature, each slips across her tongue like water but she swallows all of them. "There isn't much to tell." "A mystery." He lays the flute back inside its bed. "Then I'll tell you about myself. I just broke up with my girlfriend Patti. She had a baby. A girl I don't even know why I'm telling you. I've never talked about it." "Your secrets are safe with me. Do you get to see the baby?" "I can't. Patti gave her up." "Are you in love with her?" He holds up his hands. "She's the only one I've ever been with." "I don't mind if you are," says Sra shyly. When he slips his hands beneath her shirt and holds her breasts inside his palms, a white comet blazes through a velvet sky. Tingles sprint through her body to the pulse in Creature's very special touching place. Her mind blinks in a full clear river. Wild water rushing. No bridges and no shrubbery. "I'm swimming now," she whispers. "Take me with you," breathes Caleb, kicking off his shorts. She smoothes his lips with her fingertips. "We can go together." She curls her hand around him where he is eager, stretched and taut. "Our path is clear." "I see," he says and she feels him with her in her river. A trout swims up between her legs, captive, hot and stiff against her body and she shivers, suddenly afraid. "I've never done this before. I'm not sure I can." The fish glides in, then out, then in again and then it jerks and spits. "Oh shit," he mutters. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for that to happen." Sra floats beside him, their faces touching nose to nose, eye to eye, lip to lip. The gentle pressure of his hand moves her through the water sparkling all around them underneath the midnight sky. Caleb rocks her till he is asleep.

The river she sees from his turret window has been soiled by human trash. There is no way to clean it out just as there is no way to refill the creek back home. Sometimes with Nature there can be no turning back.


Creases show on Caleb's skin when he rolls. His hand is curled against his o mouth. "No!" he shouts all at once and then is still. While he sleeps, she explores. There's his flute snuggled in its velvet bed, silent and tucked in for the night. Framed photographs of a boy with tidy hair, trophies, cups and ribbons engraved with Caleb's name from music competitions line a shelf beside the well-thumbed paperbacks by Tolkien, C.S. Lewis and Piers Anthony. Posters of stars and galaxies and the Infinite Beyond paper the walls; in one above the bed a small child tosses silver stars from a sandpail out into a deep blue Universe. The window frames a portrait of the river leading out to Stonybrook. Maybe she should follow it. Maybe her mother misses her loony staring idle daughter after all. Maybe she should leave this room to seek out another vision. Maybe Creature and Albino have plans for her other than being here, maybe this city is just a starting point. All these maybes and there is Caleb sound asleep. Suddenly he bolts upright, grabs his clock and glares at it, then he sighs and sets it down. "Why aren't you in bed?" he croaks. "I couldn't sleep," Sra whispers.

He holds up the blanket. "Come on," he coaxes. "Come here."

What do you think you're doing here, with this? Creature scolds. "I think he almost understands," Sra says defensively. "He swam with me. Anyway I like him." You'll make do with'almost'? "I didn't say forever! I meant for now. He's nice; I like him." Nothing is forever, Creature purrs. At least not in human terms. Soyou may as well haveyour fun. Play with the lad if you must. Sra blinks. "It would help if you could tell me what I am supposed to do." Look around! Creature says as she begins to fade. Your path is right in front of you; all you have to do is see.

She awakens well before his eyes are open. "How long have you been up?" he asks, yawning.

fool's bells — 41

"Long enough to figure something out. I think I'm supposed to hike along the river." "The river? Why?" "I don't know if I can explain. It just came to me." "You want some company?" "What kind of company?" "Me, for instance." "Aren't there other things you have to do?" "Just cleaning grills and busking. They'll make do without me for a bit. A warm body, that's what I'd be. It gets cold out there at night." "I guess you could come." Sra shakes Creature's mocking laughter from her head. "As long as you remember that although I'm not a follower, I'm no leader either."

You 're not taking him, areyou? "I don't think that concerns you." You are my concern. "You and Albino seem overfond of leading me astray." Ir that what you think? That this is some kind of joke? "Well, isn't it? I mean it's silly to think I can find Truth by going underground through tunnels or by coming to a city. Or even by travelling along a river." Every path can be a teacher. It doesn 't really matter if you choose it or it chooses you. "If that's true then this boy might be a teacher too." Might, Creature echoes doubtfully.


respect They find Carmen face down in the alley. Shadow is in junkie jail, detox for kids where social workers hover around like hungry flies. Stubby fingers grope at Baby and she rises stiffly. "Obey the rules," she says sternly. "No one touches Baby."

.Roseman pushes Mama and she falls, caught by her bed and those silver cuffs snapping thin blue wrists. He raises leather, twists and lets it fall. Mama arches up. "Again," she says. "Harder! I thought you were a man." Black satin sheets frame her body. Blood trickles out of her and Baby whimpers, but no one hears. Roseman steps from his pants showing skin all over like a rusted nail. After he is finished, he releases her. Leaves crisp counted dollars on the dressing table before he scuttles out. Baby waits behind the door until he's gone, then creeps in to check on Mama. First the pulse in her neck, the way she was taught, watching for the abdomen to rise and fall. With gauze, tape and antiseptic and a cold cloth to wipe away the excess blood, Baby does her best to fix her up. Then she slides onto the satin sheet beside her. "Goodnight my little Mama," she says softly and she sleeps too. Sometimes Mama gives her rainbow-coloured pills to help her sleep. Your turn tonight, she warbles, handing her the pills with pop to wash them down. Your turn tonight, sings Mama before she turns her back. Later, when she comes to, Baby tends to her own wounds by herself.

Tubes up Mama's nostrils. Tubes tailing from her limbs. Liquid dripping into some and out of others. Tubes are doing all her body's work. "What the fuck is happening to her?" Baby shrieks. The woman doing her job with Mama's body drops something. "You shush!" she scolds. "Show her some respect!" "What the hell's the difference?" Baby scoffs. "Look at her! She can't hear me now."

fool's bells — 43 "Even when they're comatose, they can hear what's being said. They all say that when they come to." "This one isn't ever coming to," says Baby scornfully. "Any fool can see that this is it. Why don't you just let her go? For chrissakes, show a little mercy." The nurse bundles her into the hallway, shuts the door behind them with a click, then shakes her pointed finger at Baby's face. "Yelling in the hospital is not allowed! You'll have to leave! Understand me, missy?" "Remove your fucking hands!" Baby shouts. "That woman is my mother!" A team of doctors pass by and the nurse quickly straightens out her face. "Calm down now, dearie," she says sweetly. "You're just upset." Baby spits. "You don't know the half of it!" "Of course you're right. Poor little thing in there, I never knew her when she was healthy." "But taking care of Mama is my job!" "It's our job now." Stubborn Baby shakes her head. "I have to do it all myself."

A]l she needs to do is to wipe off the blood, make sure Mama's breathing, see the lungs fill up, fill up again. All she needs to do is to make sure Mama is all right. All she needs to do is sleep beside her the rest of all night long, to keep her safe from harm until the morning. All she needs to do is to make sure there is a morning.

Roseman holds nine fingers up in Baby's face. His thumb's cut off on his left hand. On the left hand he can't make a handle. "See that?" he asks and Baby nods. "That's where the bogey man got to me when I was just a stupid kid like you." "Are you my daddy?" she asks. His prickly face gets very close. Ever so slowly he stretches out his long hard tongue, then slowly that tongue spreads itself along her face. One fat soggy swipe, forehead to chin. He cackles like dinosaur eggs splintering. "Do you want me to be your daddy?"

44 — Lynnette D'anna Baby backs away as far as she can. Shakes her head from side to side. "Nah," she says, tough-voiced. "I don't think I really need one. I got my Mama. That's all I really need." "All anyone really needs," he agrees. "A friggin' handful, that one is." Then Mama sashays in dressed to kill. Swathed in black head-to-toe. Spins on her stilettos so Roseman forgets Baby, turns his attention full on Mama.

.Roseman brings her a sled one day after snowfall, bundles her up, takes her out to a steep sledding hill. Other kids scream and laugh and carry on, cheeks and eyes glowing bright. Soon he will get tired. Soon he'll need Mama more. But he takes her down and up and down and then back up until she is half blind from all the snow and ice. He sits first, she behind. He puts her hands around his belly, she hangs on to him for dear life. Up and down and back up and back down. "Can we go now?" she asks at last. "I'm cold." He lifts his bushy brows. "Cold?" "I don't think I like sledding all that much."

"All you ever do is complain." "I don't feel so good, maybe I've got a flu or something." "If I was allowed to be a father to you, you'd learn to show respect!" Kids brush by them where they stand upon the hilltop, each kid scrambling to be the next one down. He twitches his face in all sorts of directions, but finally it just goes soft. Turns his wristwatch with his stub. "I suppose we could leave. It's nearly time for Mama's drink." He cuts her up so bad that night Baby can barely staunch the wounds.

Mama prepares a rainbow cocktail and delivers it to Baby on her favourite silver tray. "Take this," she says. Baby keeps watching television. "Why should I?" "It's for your insomnia." "I sleep just fine without." Mama settles the tray on Baby's lap. "It's time now for your medicine," she says sharply. "I don't want it!"

fool's bells — 45 Mama's mouth is a tight thin line. "If you know what's good for you..." "No." "What was that?" "I said no." "But it's for your own good. Believe me." Baby glances down, shoving at the tablets with the flat edge of her thumb, counting. "Six," she says. "What happens Mama, when I take these?" Mama's voice is sharp. "You go to sleep." "And then what happens?" "Nothing happens," says Mama. "You just sleep." "Someone comes," Baby insists. "For your own good," Mama repeats softly. "Take them. Now." "But why?" "I don't know what's gotten into you," says Mama loudly. "You used to listen to your Mama."

Now Baby delivers the roses personally, arranging them in the vase beside the cot where the woman could see them if she would open up her steely eyes. Wipes around the bruises left by intravenous needles inserting nutrients into the body. Sometimes after she has wiped the skin, she lies beside the woman to catch a little sleep.


crumbs Naomi huddles on her icy kitchen floor. Three in the morning and she is up, smoking in secret. Nothing all around. Light, inhale, tap. Light, inhale, tap. Her husband's snoring fills up the house; Stonybrook out there sleeps.

vSlie has his breakfast ready at seven-fifteen every morning. He eats from seven-seven teen until seven-thirty, three eggs easy-over, two slices of toasted Wonderbread with margarine and jelly, six strips of bacon fried crisp. After eating he buckles his belt and leaves for a day's work at the machine shop. His leaving gives her a whole nine hours of empty house. Naomi stares at the crumbs on the linoleum around his chair. She learned years ago not to say anything. Learned the hard way, a quick fist in the face, don't mention any of his habits. He's a good man. Works hard. Has never strayed from her, not once in eighteen years. So what if he leaves food around his chair, he's a good man. Hasn't had to hit her in years. She scarcely even gives it a thought except when she faces the crumbs. She clears his dishes from the table, sweeps around it. Eight and a half hours left.

After the twins, swift-moving women came to take charge so she wouldn't have to diaper or bathe or even think. But still she nursed the poisons from her body into theirs.

She's been lost again. Where have the hours gone? Jeff's breakfast litter in the sink and not a single thought to getting dinner. Can't serve a thawed meal, not when she's been home all day with nothing but day, nothing but housework with which to explain her life. Her terror makes her fumble, smash a dish. It gives her purpose.

fool's bells — 47

guides Caleb arranges time off and packs his camping gear. They gather supermarket foods sealed in plastic and preserved in cans, a box of long wooden matches, flashlight batteries and rolling papers all loaded in a shopping cart. "I was hoping to be a true explorer," says Sra, ruefully poking at the metal basket. They take the city bus to the outskirts, Caleb loaded down with special camping gear and Sra with her sleeping bag and pack, alight and walk down to the riverbank where the private property ends. They hike awhile in silence before a break for sandwiches. After eating Caleb pulls out rolling papers and makes a reefer. While he swallows smoke, he pulls out his flute. Wrapped in azure sky with water sparkling beside he plays himself a wistful tune.

iSra giggles. "Listen!" she says excitedly. Caleb cocks his head. "I don't hear anything." "There's a Drummer somewhere out there! Can't you hear?" He stands to pack his satchel. "All I hear is water." A light breeze rustles through the leaves above. Birds chatter. The Drummer beats a steady walking rhythm. At dusk Sra and Caleb stop again. While he prepares their meal, she crouches on her haunches watching other creatures seeking out their dinners. She hears knife split into plastic, and shudders. "True explorers forage," she complains. "They don't get sustenance sealed in plastic from a market." "Even true explorers bring supplies from someplace. You don't think all those dukes and earls left Europe empty-handed, do you?" "But we're still tourists." "Of course we are! Anyway, this is a different time. Everything on Earth has already been discovered." He grins. "And when this food runs out, we'll have to find another store." "You know what I mean." After they have eaten, they zip their sleeping bags together. His gentle fingers strut across her skin. "Where are you right now?" he asks softly. "Are you here with me or are you somewhere else again?"

48 — Lynnette D'anna From his spine the great wings of a falcon sprout. "Come fly with me," Sra whispers.

She stumbles through the bracken-scrub at sunrise. Something has drummed her up from sleep but it is a while till Creature shows her scarlet self. I am so pleased you've come, she says, peering across Sra's shoulder. Are you alone? "Of course I am! What other idiot would get up this early to wade wet grass? What are you doing here? I thought you left me on my own." We came to see if you need help. "No. I'm fine." We just wondered. Idly Creature examines her long red talons. Why have you chosen to travel along this water? "No reason." Sra shrugs. "I guess because I felt like it." Nothing happens without reason. "Are you taking credit for all my decisions now?" I'm not taking anything. Creature sniffs delicately. She gestures at the sunrise. Look at that little cloud! Doyou see it?

"I see a lot of clouds. Which one exactly do you mean?" That puff of smoke. The one that looks like dragon's breath. "I see it, so what? Tell me, what about Albino? Is he about to pop up too?" I am not his keeper! Creature snorts. His whereabouts are none of my concern. Sra rises from the rock she has been perching on. "Oh," she says. "Well, I guess I should be off." Creature lifts her hand. Wait! she says. You should know there are a few of us. Drummer, you can't see her but you've heard from her already, she awakened you and led you here. She will guideyou if you pay attention. And there's the Fool, he's always right above you; he'll point outyour way. And, of course, Myself. We are all here to guide you and protect you should the need arise. "But I haven't asked for help," Sra protests. Ourplan is not to interfere; we 're here to follow your instruction. Singing, Sra returns to camp through a mesh of morning dew, following a frisky Fool cavorting in the air ahead and the Drummer's persistent brushing. And despite her defiance, Creature's promise to keep her safe fits inside her snugly.

fool's bells — 49

Pfe hunts through bramble for Sra who slipped away at dawn and will not let herself be found. His sneakers snapping twigs give out a warning to whatever might be in his path. Calling out her name, he hears its eerie echo. Give up, go back. She'll be at camp, waiting. Laughing that crazy lonely laugh of hers. All night long they coiled together in their sleeping bags. He got his as a graduation gift from Baba who teased that no selfrespecting female would ever share it with him. All night long while night birds gossiped, he and she shared skin. Then suddenly at dawn she slid away. Without a word. Now the sun is up and there is still no sign of her. Where can she have gone? Stop searching, go back, she will return. He starts a fire in the butane stove. Perhaps not the way true explorers would have done it but he got this gear as a gift from Baba and has never had a chance to use it. He lights a smoke and watches morning grow. Fire hisses, water curls, sunlight crackles into it like ice.

He sets down his flute. "There you are! At last! I couldn't find you anywhere. I thought you'd left!" "I had some things to do," says Sra. "You needn't worry about me." "But you're stark naked!" "There's not a soul around." "Come here," says Caleb softly. He twines his arms around her and with his finger he traces a long slow line from her collarbone to her nipple, from her nipple to her navel, from her navel to her slit. After he has drawn the line he presses nose, mouth then tongue all the way along it. "What was I this time?" he asks her after. "Fish or fowl?" "You were wind, I was water and you sucked me dry." "Why is it never me you're with?" She digs the fry pan from the pack. "It's time for breakfast now." "Have you found the reason for your journey yet?" "It's just this thing I need to do." "I sometimes wonder if there's anything I need to do. Other than to set down one foot and then the other." "Maybe all I'm seeking out is water." Sra shrugs. "My whole life I've


lived beside an empty ditch. But I think it's more than that. Ever since my best friend went and hanged herself I haven't been able to make any sense out of their world. I only want to understand; I only want to know some Truth." Caleb looks up at her. An Amazon, bare from head to foot, she towers above the tiny stove. Amber flames lick and curl around her, they leap from her mouth when she speaks. He shudders. Creature, Drummer, Fool, stay withme, thinks Sra.

fool's bells — 51

familyilylyly Her mother's death left Naomi motherless at twelve and then her father made her his wife. When she turned sixteen Father took himself another wife and Naomi married Jeff. She thought she knew it all by then. When Jeff was ten he watched his father get chewed up and spit out by the thresher. His baby brother was killed by lightning the summer after their father got eaten. The next year Jeff nearly lost a fight with a bull. The bull gored his left leg leaving him a scarlet scar and limp and he swore to get off the farm if it was the last thing he did. Moved into town to work in his uncle's machine shop. Took it over when the old man died. When Naomi was eighteen and pregnant Jeff stopped touching her. He dreamed about his father and his baby brother. Slept and dreamed that they were in her womb, came to, sweating, with nothing at all to say. He moved onto the couch because he couldn't bear to see her swollen up with those dead ones. Naomi stares at that ragged scar on her husband's thigh while he is asleep or watching television. Her own skin is seamless except for stretch marks from the twins. "Dinner will be a little late," she tells him when he comes in. "Why don't you wash up?" She warbles after dinner as she dries their dishes. "This little light of mi-hi-hine, I'm gonna let it shine." Used to sing it to her runt, used to chant him off to sleep with it. A lullaby, she let the words drift off, or some kind of prayer. "Won't let Satan blow it out!" she hollers.

In the last month of her pregnancy Naomi spends hot afternoons stretched out upon the old tweed couch with a cushion nestled underneath her back. Blinds shut to keep out heat, a fan on the coffee table shuffling air across her hair. Then the screen door squeals and there is Father. She struggles to sit up, but he motions her back down and quickly she obeys, smoothing her smock carefully across the twins and pressing her knees close together. He looks her over with his one good eye. "Dropped my mower at the shop," he drawls. "Jeff says I should check up on you." Naomi avoids his eye, tugs at the neckline of her dress where it's been strangling her. "Never been twins in my family. Chances are one in a million," he says.

52 — Lynnette D'anna "There's twins in Jeff's mother's family," she retorts. "I'll make some tea." His voice slaps her down and she sees he's got his hand on his belt, he's tugging at his fly like something's stuck in there. "He should be home for supper soon," she says weakly. "Jeff." "He's gonna be a little late, he told me." The thing is leaping in his hand now. "Gonna pay them twins a little visit," he says gruffly, pushing apart her thighs with one broad hand. His mouth gets fat and greedy at her breast and he burrows up deep inside her where she can't help being slippery; it's not in welcome, it's just hormones. And there's the black cloud hovering above his shoulder and his too-bright eye and with all her might she wishes it to come down and swallow her. But once again her body is betraying her. The twins are kicking and her breasts are leaking, leaking into his persistent mouth. Pressure builds and builds until she has to let it go, she has no choice, and Father's grinning in her face. No screaming, that's his rule, so she bites his neck instead. Lets go, rolls off, settles on his knees beside the couch looking smug. Naomi pulls her smock down but his hands get in the way all over, furrowing at her silky fur, smoothing her taut belly skin. Spreading kisses along the path his fingers tread, he laughs proudly. "There's my little girl!" "I am not your little girl," she snaps. "I am a married woman with a husband of my own." She smacks his busy fingers. "And you have your own wife now." But his lips follow fingers and there's his tongue suckling at her like a sleepy baby, tongue, lips, tongue, lips, and she is made weak, these nibbles arousing her as though nothing between them has ever changed. Remembering her wedding day when he kissed the bride. "She's yours now, son," he told Jeff after the kiss and she recalls the sharp pain like a kick, a dull thud in the pit of her stomach where grief forms, and also something else. She explodes against her will into his teasing mouth. He's still there after she has showered and she asks him if he's staying on. "Nah," he says. "Jessie has supper waiting. That girl can cook but she's not much use between the sheets, I found out too late." Then the screen door slams and they both look up. "You still here?" Jeff asks. "Is everything okay?" He's asking Father but his worried eyes wash across his wife.

fool's bells — 53 "Everything is fine," she answers quickly. "Father was just leaving." "I'll have that mower running soon. Why don't you bring Jessie over when you come to get it? You could come for dinner. After all, pretty soon you'll be a grandpa." Father chuckles. "Son-of-a-gun! I would never have thought you had it in you! Never been twins in the family. Not that I know of anyway." "Why did he stay so long?" asks Jeff after Father leaves. "We had tea," says Naomi. Jeff shakes his head. "Tea?" he asks, staring at her.

JBut when the twins arrive he's as proud as a farmer with a bumper crop. He passes out cigars to everyone in Stonybrook and brags about his boys while Naomi sleeps and sleeps. Having babies is the hardest work. One look at her insides and the doctor burned her tubes without asking for permission. "You don't have to worry about that again," he says. "I don't want to know what happened to you so don't bother telling me, but I've fixed you up as good as new." Naomi looks down at her sagging flesh. "I guess I should say thank you," she says dully, "but I can't seem to think about what happens next." The doctor walks briskly to the window where he can see out beyond the parking lot to the dry creek bed and its useless cobbled bridge. "Now you are a mother," he says firmly. "And the rest is easy. You just take those boys home and take care of them. It'll sort itself out." Naomi shakes her head. "I can't." "Of course you can!" he says briskly. "There's absolutely nothing to it." "They haven't even got names yet." "Then you just open up that name-your-baby booklet beside your bed and pick out the first two boys' names you see." "I can't read," says Naomi. "Didn't you go to school?" "I always could before," she says. "It's just now, since the birth. I've tried... I opened up this Bible but something is very wrong. Black and white squiggles are what I see. It's not just reading either, it's in everything. I can't see any colour. Everything is black and white, exactly like this Bible." The doctor glances at his watch. "I'm sure it will pass. You could call one of the twins after your father and name the other for your husband."

54 — Lynnette D'anna Naomi's eyelids flutter. "I am just so tired," she says heavily. "Maybe Jeff can handle it."

At last they release her and the babies from the hospital. Her husband carries the big one and she takes the runt. When one cries, the other cries too. "What is it that they want?" she screams while their wailing fills the truck. Her husband keeps on driving straight ahead, his knuckles white and clenched around the steering wheel, his mouth grim. The boys shriek all the way into the house. Then Jeff goes back to work while Naomi dumps them into their cribs and runs herself a bath. When he returns he finds her soaking in the tub and the twins soaking in their beds. He calls his sister. "I think Naomi needs a little help," he tells her. So Nadine comes and other women too but Naomi can't see any of them. The only thing she can really see is her runt. Because Naomi can't, Jeff decides on names. Calls the runt Andrew and the bigger one is Albert. He becomes fond of Albert which leaves the runt to her and that's just fine. Father drops by often to check up on his boys and his only girl. Jeff returns to the marriage bed, his ugly dreams forgotten since she's had the twins. He says he wants her to get pregnant.

Mama never even bothered to give a name to her. Baby, what kind of name is that? Nothing, not a name at all, it's more like some kind of hanger. Nothing anyone ever had to think about and just how old can a Baby get? No second name either or a third, so there's nothing else to choose from. "You can pick your own name when you're older," Mama tells her when she complains. "They let people do that now, but it costs. They issue a new birth certificate." Baby's other name is Smith. Mama claims it's the name of the man who injected the sperm that made her, but she's got no proof of that. Mama's own surname is Peters. "Why didn't you give me your name then? If you knew he wasn't gonna stick around, what's the point?" "Something wrong with Baby Peters," Mama muses. "It don't sound right."

fool's bells — 55 She thinks there's something right with Baby Smith., now there's a thought to curl your toes. It's okay for now but when she buys her house she'll get herself a real name too. Or after Mama dies, which is bound to happen sometime.

Melancholy Caleb staring into fire on some godforsaken river miles from anywhere nodding out from hiking and from smoking reefer. His own baby shimmers in the orange-blue flames and talks to him Hke flesh and blood, she coos and stretches out her arms. It seems as though he could reach out, hold onto her, cradle her against his shoulder just like a real dad might. Orange mist creates a halo on the vision-child and wet tears are building up behind his eyes while their little fire slowly dies.

"I have to go back home," he says. "I know," says Sra. "You want to find your baby." He blinks. "How do you know that?" She shrugs. "It's what you need to do." "Will you come too?" "I can't," says Sra. "I still don't know what I'm looking for." "But I'll worry," he says. "About leaving you alone." "I have my Guides." "Are you sure they'll take care of you?" "If I have faith. They promised." He'll hit the highway and thumb rides out to the city. In terms of automobiles and gasoline, they haven't come that far. When Sra presses her warm lips to his cold cheek she sees a shadow smudge his eyes. "Everything will be just fine," she says. "You'll see." Then she smiles and waves and smiles and waves until he's out of sight. But when she can no longer see him, that place where she's been holding him splits open all at once and takes her breath away. You have to let him go, Creature chides. You have more work to do and you can't be feeling sorry for yours elf.

"But why this pain?" Sra whimpers. "I barely got to know him." Creature sniffs. Self-pity is so unbecoming. It's not a pretty sight and it certainly is not befitting to a Traveller like you.

56 — Lynnette D'anna "Then give me something that will help to ease it." You have to help yourself. You have to learn to carry him the way you carry Imp. They'll always be apart of you.

"Maybe he was right after all!" snaps Sra angrily. "If I have to do everything myself, maybe I really am alone." If you keep on doubting, Creature sniffs, you might well be. Buffor now you still have us. Myself and Drummer and the Fool. We 're all apart of you as well.

fire is the fkst essential form of energy in the universe. It dissolves shapes & eliminates boundaries; it can both create & destroy life.


lullaby First there was the spreading dust, then the rains with their relentless mud and now, fin. Sra winces, shields her eyes while all around the river rages. Fire sweeps along it like a great straw broom whisking a path clear out to Stonybrook and its dust-filled ditch. Fire scorches everything in its way and, as it burns, it cleanses. Water, air and earth. Stonybrook sits inside her head like a dark and heavy rock, stone-still. While fire spreads across the town, the people in it sleep. Except for Mother. In the white flame shooting at the stars she thinks she sees her missing daughter. "Please take care, my precious child," she whispers to it. And, although fire boils all around, Sra remains unscathed. Creature promised she would keep her safe and it seems for once she told the Truth. She still hears Drummer beating skin to mark her course and Fool is up there somewhere, dancing. And then at last her cleansing dream is done and she can rest while Creature croons an ancient lullaby.


desire On Tuesdays Sammy sings at Ichabods. When he sings he's got the whole world by the vulva. After his set he and Baby pick up pizza and take it to his place where they can kick back without bullshit. His place is nicer than hers on account of Myra. Baby sniffs. "I can smell her in here." She flounces on the butterleather sofa. Sammy sits on the floor and rests his head against the couch between her knees. "Actually," he says, "what you smell is her personalized billiondollar scent. A hundred bucks a squirt." Baby taps his head. "Don't mess with me," she scolds. "I've had a shitty day. I spent it at the hospital." "How is she?" "Bad. She's bad. As for me, I'm letting Mama down. As usual." "What do you think she wants from you?" Baby licks stringy cheese from her fingertips. "She wants me to do the job. Finish her off. It's what she's wanted from me ever since I can remember." He threads his skinny arms around her kneecaps. "You just come here," he says softly. "Let Sammy make it better."

Stunning six-foot Myra striding down the street as though she owns the joint. Shops, Lights, people, all belonging just to Myra. When she passes, people miss their steps, ogle her, create a path for her without even knowing that they're doing it. They can't help themselves; her beauty stops them dead. So Baby senses her arrival long before laying eyes on her; she feels the sea of humans parting and smells the hundred-bucks-a-squirt and by then it's much too late to hide. "Where is he?" demands Myra, tapered hands upon her nonexistent hips. Baby won't say who? — she's not that dense. "Why ask me?" she says instead. "You're his friend," says Myra crisply. "He's missed our date. No note, no nothing. Not a word! So tell me where he is!" Baby sees pinpricks behind her eyeballs. "I haven't seen him either," she says at last, voice high and tight like wire. "Not since last night at Ichabods."

fool's bells — 61 Myra's words are husky polished driftwood. "He can't stand me up. I have better things to do than wait for some two-bit hustler punk like him." She spins on her high heel and Baby struggles to catch up. Every head in Ichabods swivels when they enter despite the girl on stage peeled down to her pasties. "Who's in charge of this dump?" Myra barks. "Hey Raoul, have you seen Sammy?" Baby pants. "Last night," grunts Raoul. He slides a drink across the bar. "I seen the kid in here with you last night." "I'll find him." Baby's lips are tight. "If he's alive I swear I'll find him." "A damn good reason," Myra snaps, turning on her heels. "You tell him that!"

5ammy would never miss a date with Myra. Not in a million years. She is far too good to him; Myra spoils him rotten and he knows it. It's thanks to her he has the butter sofa and that snazzy penthouse suite. It's thanks to her that he can take time out to sing. Baby scours town until there isn't any place to look, but no one's seen him. So there is nothing left for her to do but wait. Nothing left but get to work. Nothing left to do but go and visit Mama.

5he watches for those snapping steel-bar eyes to open. "I brought you flowers Mama," she whispers. "Look! Just open up your eyes. Please open them and look!" Carefully she picks up a swab from the tray beside the bed using it to dab at crusty blood dried around the needle in her mama's arm. Teasing fingers, puffy pale blue flesh, prodding at the vein. Waiting for the iron eyes to tell her what to do. The woman doesn't twitch when Baby pulls, she doesn't flinch, she doesn't blink. This endless filling up of tubes to feed the dead. Dead far longer than anyone can know. Dead from way before her pa ripped her open with his fists, long before her ma blew her brains out with a shotgun, long before she buried her firstborn in the trash. Much before she bore the squalling Baby who she couldn't even put a name to. Who she fed the rainbow-coloured cocktails to before she passed her over to whomever she owed the most.


Baby twists and tugs but she can't pull them out. It's her lousy hand not working yet again. This hand that always lets her down when she needs it most. Cut into a muscle by mistake one time, they whisked her to the hospital where they sewed her up as good as new. Asleep the entire time. Came to in her bed, blood-soaked gauze hiding fresh pink stitches. What happened to this hand? Mama said, Something bad happened to you while you were sleeping Baby, an accident, but it's okay they fixed you up as good as new. Who? Doctors silly, at the hospital. What happened? Sweetie you ask toogoldarn many questions. You drink this medicine, there's a good girl, it'll fix you up. Take away the pain. You're so lucky to have a mama who takes care of you. My ma died when I wasfouryears old. Blew her brains out right before my eyes at the breakfast table. All over the Cheerios. Can't get rid of these fucking things no matter how she struggles with them. Little specks of blood are dotting Mama's too-clean sheet. Let the people here take care of it, it's their job now. So they keep on saying. All the hospital alarms go off at once. Fire! The ward is abuzz with everybody scurrying and purposeful with tidy knots of keys, everyone with a job to do, a place to go when there is a fire. Emergency!These people are useful at things like that. They know exactly what to do. It's laid out in the rules, a manual they know by heart. One door slams, another opens. Now go that way, now turn. That's the way the straight world is, neat and tidy, follow all the rules and you will be all right. But Baby hasn't learned the rules. She doesn't have a guide. All she knows to do is find an exit and escape. But what about her mama? She stands stock-still all at once. Carrying her would dislodge the tubes and besides she is much too heavy. Baby couldn't lift the body by herself. There isn't any smoke., she tells hers elf, just those alarm bells screeching, just the noise of bustling people. Baby takes a left then a right and then a right again until she's free. Firefighters try to block her way. Where do you think you're going miss? they bellow. Baby shoves at them. Iêave me a/one/she, screams. I'm just a visitor! I am free to go. Get yourfuckin' hands off me buddy I She escapes and then she starts to run.

fool's bells 63

5he's going hunchbacked from the weight of all these people missing. Raoul still hasn't seen him but he does say Myra's been around to look for Sammy again. "Who is she?" he asks curiously. "What does she want with our boy?" Of course Baby lies. She says that Myra is an agent who wants to make a demo and Raoul whistles, impressed. She has a glass of beer while time ticks by. Gets up and tosses bills on the bar. "Tell him to call," she says harshly. "If he ever bothers to come back." Her head is heavy now from beer and no sleep for the last ten thousand years.

Can't keep her exhausted mind on her business. On this nervous tidy little man. Keep jour hands toyourself! Don't you do that you naughty naughty boy I But all the time she is thinking about Sammy. Sammy, Sammy, Sammy, where the hellhave you gone?'Hon> could you leave without telling me? The man has dressed himself, his pants and tie, his neat white shirt, the jacket and last of all his polished size five shoes. If Sammy's not at Ichabods tonight she'll know for sure. From a block away she sees the fire truck outside her building. "What happened?" she gasps. "Is there a fire?" "Nothing to worry yourself about." The man coils up the hoses. "Just a false alarm." "What are the hoses for?" she asks. "If it's a false alarm." "Precaution, ma'am. Some old gal burned her toast and the smoke set off the warning. You live in there?" "Probably Gertie." Baby sniffs. "Hey man, don't I know you from somewhere?" The firefighter grins. "We guys all look alike in gear." "Yeah right," Baby says. "Hi Bart." "Baby!" says Bart. "I didn't recognize you in those clothes." "Yeah well. You know how it is. We gals all look alike in clothes." "Gotta run," says Bart. "Catch ya later." "Call," says Baby. "You could always start a fire." Bart swings up onto the yellow engine

64 — Lynnette D'anna just like in the movies. "I might just do that." Baby smirks.

"There she is," Mama says. "You lug her up. I'm beat." Baby breathes deep down, pretending. She has tucked those rainbowcoloured pills underneath her tongue and now she is pretending to be asleep. "Too heavy," Roseman grunts. "Heavier sleeping," Mama says. "Billy likes £em smaller." "Billy like-'em fetal." "Well you ain't makin' any more." "Goddamn rights." Mama snorts. "I ain't no baby machine. I don't give a shit who wants what." "You said it a million times." "I'll say it a million more. Just so's everybody hears me." Baby counts inside her head, knowing the exact number of stairs to Mama's room. Eleven twelve there that's it. goin all the way. this is not the time to be awake, counting, footsteps coming up the stairs behind, ten. eleven, swallow fast! never enough time, can't do anything right, so this is billy, fingers fourteen inches long, billy wants a baby. Her brain spins out a kaleidoscope as he flips her over like a flapjack. Comes to later in her own bed with a zillion scratches drooling down her skin. Mama's in the kitchen toasting bread and scrambling eggs for Baby's breakfast. "Up at last sleepyhead," she warbles. Baby peers into the perky morning face. "There's more of those lines around your eyes," she says critically and Mama squints into the shiny toaster prodding at the creases with cautious fingertips. After watching her preen for a while, Baby sniffs. "I think maybe those eggs are burning." Mama grabs the skillet without a glove and there is breakfast on the kitchen tiles. "Just look at what you made me do!" she shrieks, clutching at her hand and sucking on it, trying to fix everything all up, make it good again. Baby lifts her brows. "Aren't you going to make me some more eggs?" she asks sweetly. Mama tosses the skillet at the sink. "Make your own goddamn eggs!"

fool's bells_65 she yells. "I am not your fuckin' servant, no matter what your highness likes to think!" Baby laughs aloud even though it hurts her head. Mama flounces past. Then the front door slams.

Baby, twisting ever-so-gently at the needles feeding Mama then carefully mopping up the mess. In the back of her mind there is always the thought of what Mama wants the most. But what happens after?


weaning Naomi attaches to the runt despite herself, despite her colour blindness and her inability to read. It's hers and it seems to need her. Other people take over with the bigger one. Jeff and his sister and their mother dote on it. Quite often it's taken out of their house for days and nights on end which leaves her and the runt to imprint upon each other. "Call him Andrew," growls Jeff impatiently. "I gave those kids good solid handles to hang their hats on. Use them." So she does when he's around. But when it's just between her and the runt, that is who he is and he doesn't seem to mind at all. She spends a lifetime bending his toes back and forth, rubbing the fuzz on his pink scalp, twitching his tiny fingers and gurgling with him. Takes him into her bed at night so her husband ends up alone again sleeping on the couch. "She doesn't give a shit about Albert, just Andrew. All the time, Andrew, Andrew, Andrew," she hears him complaining to Nadine. But although Naomi strains she can't hear Nadine's reply.

When he appears in the bedroom doorway after talking to his sister, he points the runt out with his fist. "He belongs in his own bed now," he orders. With some effort, Naomi raises herself and picks up the runt to creep out past her scowling husband. "I've still got my rights!" he yells after them. His voice is tight like hard elastic, it stretches down the hallway all the way to Naomi standing at the nursery door. When she goes through it might snap. If it does, it will hit her hard with great force after having been stretched like that. But she enters and it doesn't and she sets the runt down gently in its cradle, coos goodnight, switches on its night lamp. Her husband lies flat upon his back on her side of their bed holding his penis stiff inside his hand and pushing at the baggy skin around it. He gestures and Naomi slides in cautiously watching him work the corners of his slack-lipped mouth, his jaw and all the muscles in his head. Then suddenly and without warning his eyes lock into hers. Something in them snaps. Maybe it's that elastic from before. Whatever it is, he makes his mouth find hers and his hands find something

fool's bells — 67 to do on her body instead of his own. He mutters sweetheart when he comes in her. Afterwards Naomi pulls as far away from him as she can get.

"5"he can't get pregnant if she's nursing," Nadine informs her brother. So he orders her to stop. But she can't do it just like that cold turkey, she slips the runt a little on the sly until Nadine catches her. "What do you think you're doing?" she asks loudly. "You're supposed to be weaning him. Jeff wants you to stop." The surprised runt unclamps her nipple and emits a sharp shrill yelp. "I am weaning him," Naomi says defensively. "A little less each day. It's too hard to just plain stop." "They have drugs to dry you up. This is the twentieth century you know. Ask the doctor. He can give you something." Naomi burps the runt against the folded diaper on her shoulder. He belches, spittle drooling onto flannel. She nods compliantly at her husband's sister. "I will," she says. "I can't figure out what it is with this one and you," says Nadine. "Albert may as well not exist for all you'd notice." Naomi presses her lips against the wispy head. "Albert's got all of you," she answers softly. The runt leans way back against her arms and laughs aloud into her face. "And Andrew's got all of you," retorts Nadine. "You know Jeff won't like this weaning business of yours one bit."

"Don't try to bullshit your way out of it!" he shouts. "Nadine told me! She saw you doing it!" Naomi wraps her arms across her chest and backs away from the angry man.

Father's glass eye sees her all the time, sleeping or awake. There is no place for her to hide from it. He takes it out and makes her keep her own eyes open while he courts her. Sets it on the table while she eats. Leaves it


as a guard when he is away. She wishes she could flush it down the toilet, toss it in the compost, throw it in a river but she knows it wouldn't work. He'd get another or else he'd leave the socket empty just to taunt her. "My eye is always on you," he swears and she sees it's true. Father's camera gives him a whole new way to see. Now he's got his girl in pictures too.

Jeff tells her he won't touch her again until she weans the runt and that suits Naomi fine. The longer he doesn't know about how the doctor fixed up her insides, the better. Because how will she ever explain it to him? She weans him though, not because of her husband but the rash burning up her nipples. The doctor gives her a prescription for ointment to spread on the skin and tells her that it's normal, not to worry. Says he's pleased to see her looking so much better. How are those boys? he asks and she says they're fine. How's that runt? he asks and Naomi beams. His name's A.ndrew, she tells him proudly. A.nd the other one? The bigger one?'he asks. That one's called .Albert, she says stiffly. He's not really mine. The doctor looks strained all of a sudden, tells her to mind her rest, not to overdo. Twins are tough, especially that first year. She nods. Tells her if the rash doesn't clear up in two weeks she should come back. Says she needn't stop nursing, the lotion won't harm the babies. Naomi nods, smiles, nods and says thank you, goodbye in her sweetest voice. Her husband takes to pinching her nipples whenever he is close, when he brushes by her on his way out he pinches and lifts his fingers to his nose and mouth. "I have a rash," she says reluctantly. "That's not milk. It's lotion from the doctor to help clear up the infection. I promise I'm not nursing anymore." He demands to see the ointment and she gets it, shows him the prescription label. Opens it for him to smell. He nods and she sets the bottle on the table. "Let me see," he orders. They are in the kitchen after breakfast. The twins are asleep in bed. When she hesitates he tugs her buttons so she quickly opens them herself before he can rip anything. Shows her sore nipples in the kitchen to her husband and he is satisfied. He leaves her to do up her blouse.

fool's bells — 69 That night he takes her breasts into his mouth, then he goes inside her where she has been sewed up tighter than a virgin, better than new, more virtuous than she's ever been, and sows his seed for something new to grow.

Father often comes to see the twins. In the evenings when Jeff is there they talk man-talk and toss the boys around like footballs and Naomi is a ghost for them to look through. But other times it's she he comes to see, to see and see with his one good eye. He is proud as a peacock because he can make her wet, make her hoarse, he can make her do things no one else will ever make her do, he could bet on it. With hardly any effort at all. "Tell me the truth," he commands staring her down. "Are those boys mine?" "There's no twins in your family," she says. "You said so yourself." He holds her legs apart at the knees and gets at her with his rough tongue flickering rapidly like eyelashes blinking. "You say yes," he orders between licks. She can barely breathe, there is something in her chest and then a stranger's voice sails in from somewhere else and comes rising from her throat. "Yes," it whispers harshly. And he crows triumphantly, raises his head and crows like a wicked old one-eyed barnyard rooster.

Jesus loves me this I know, Naomi mutters.

Three in the morning, the house bone still. Naomi Lights the seven candles she has set around her kitchen to help stave off the darkness. Every pore screaming for her to let it go.

vSra blinks wood smoke from her weary eyes. "I need my sleep," she pleads to Creature. "We can save this vision for another time. Please."


prayers Crazy old Naomi dancing in her lit-up kitchen belting out some stupid Sunday song. Naked dancing, trusting candle flame to hold the dark at bay. Won't let Satan blow it out! she howls.

Baby twisting at the needles feeding Mama, carefully wiping off the mess while smoke bells scream.

vftonybrook engulfed in flame, silent and unheeding as a rock. Please take care my precious darling, Mother whispers to the fire. And in her sleep beside the churning river Sra hears the blessing and, shifting in her sleeping bag, she smiles.

fool's bells — 71

harvest Baby never goes to any school, she learns her lessons on her own. Like royalty, Mama teases, only commoners go to public school. Arithmetic, reading, spelling, she learns them all and soon she leaves her mama far behind. Discovers libraries, good places for finding what you really want to know. Hours spent in silence with books around her, rows and rows, every kind and size and shape. At first when Mama stops giving her the rainbow cocktails, Baby doesn't even notice. A whole month passes. She's been at the library reading up on puberty to find out why there are breasts and pubic hair and stains on her panties not from Mama's friends. In the library a stranger watches her every move. He's still staring when she puts down her book and when she gets up, he gets up too and follows her to the checkout, through the automated doors and out onto the rainy sidewalk. She stops abruptly and she turns and there he is, in her face. "Why have you been following me?" she asks. He lifts a stubby hand onto his beard and rubs; he licks his too-red lips. Sucks each pudgy finger, one at a time. She knows that it's a message. "I'd like to give you a lot of money," he tells her. "What for?" she counters. He points a damp finger at a nearby building. "I have an apartment over there." "So?" "So, I'll pay you to go there with me." "Just go there? That's all?" He licks his soggy mouth again and skims his eyes across her breasts. "I'm pretty sure you know what for," he says at last. "How much money will you give me?" "How much do you think you're worth?" "A hundred," says Baby flatly, counting in her head. He takes her hand. Anyone might think he was her father or a kindly uncle. Even the elevator man does not look twice. They stand together at the back while he takes them to the penthouse where the door glides open. Baby's lunch rolls like Jello in her belly; she lags behind while he slips a key into a door with brass numbers on it. Inside his suite, a telescope is set up against the window with a perfect view of the library.

72 — Lynnette D'anna The man removes his jacket, tie and shirt. Slips off his shoes and socks and undoes his belt. Slides off his pants and in one swift motion he's got them folded on the crease and slung over the back of a chair. There he stands, penis at attention. It's the first one she's seen up close, conscious and in the daylight. It's hairy and stubby to match the fingers she saw him sucking on before. She bites her lip. "I said it's your turn sweetie," he tells her. "Are you deaf? Take off your clothes." "First I want to see my money." He finds his wallet in the neatly folded pants and peels out five twenties. Takes an extra bill and snaps it. "This too," he says, "if you work out." When he leans over, his bum skin stretches tight. When he stands, it hangs in creases. She shrugs off her Mickey t-shirt. Tugs down her Levi's and her holey panties to show her brand new pubic hair to this stranger. He sets the money on the bedside table before lying back upon the sky-blue spread. Then he pulls her down on top of him and the finger-penis glides into her like a sled on ice. "You've done this before," he pants. Baby waits, but nothing worse happens. "How about next Thursday?" he asks after he has done his business in her. He hands her the six twenties. "I could meet you at the library." She calculates. Another hundred would raise her savings to two-twenty. Nearly enough for an apartment of her own. Nothing fancy, but away from Mama. "Sure," she says. At the door, kissing her on the mouth, he shoves his tongue around inside. "See you Thursday," he says gently. She returns to the bus stop knowing he is watching through that telescope. Feels the bills tucked into her underwear and hugs herself. That was not so bad. In fact it wasn't bad at all. She sets out to gather what she needs to get away. Her visits with Jack go on the same except he starts to tell her what to wear. Sometimes it's white kneesocks, sometimes a navy jumper with ruffled panties sticking out. Picking her up at different places adds excitement for him. Places where he might be seen. Places where there could be cops searching for dirty old guys like him. Arcades, music stores, a porno theatre, a nursery school. But it always ends the same, he gives her money and she takes it. Sometimes he doesn't even stick his dick inside, he makes her touch it with her hands or put it in her mouth or he tugs on it himself while she sits

fool's bells — 73 upon his lap in diapers sucking on her thumb. He likes to feel her up while she pees, he makes her shit on him. He pays for clothes and always tells her what to buy. He takes her to the mall pretending he's her dad while copping feels. He takes pictures of her doing stuff. But he always gives exactly what he promises and he never cheats her out of anything. He likes her to call him Daddy.

Sh& finds Mama glued to the TV. This is the day. She has counted up her dollars. Baby stands right in front of the screen. "Move!" Mama orders. "I can't see my show." Baby doesn't move. Instead she says, "Mama, look at me." Mania tips her bottle to her mouth. While she drinks she looks at Baby. "There!" she says. "I looked. Now get away!" "You could at least wish me a happy birthday," Baby says not moving. Mama waves the bottle. "Here," she slurs. "Have a birthday drink. On me." "Thanks," says Baby. "I knew you wouldn't do it, so I got myself a present." "Atta girl." "By the way," says Baby pleasantly. "I noticed you stopped giving me those pills to make me sleep. And I wondered why." Mama strains to see the television. "You got too old," she mumbles. "I'm thirteen today," Baby snaps. "How can that be too old? Too old for Billy, do you mean?" Mama nods. "He likes 'em younger." "So Billy got himself another baby?" "That's the way it goes sometime," says Mama sadly. "Git old. Just like your Mama." "So I guess that means he doesn't pay you anymore." The woman sighs. "Nobody pays me nothin'." "Poor old Mama," says Baby softly. "At least you got those pictures though. You can still get cash for those, can't you?" "Got them pictures. Movies too. Roseman got 'em." Baby's voice is high. "You let him take movies of me Mama?" 'You're in the movies Baby, how's that?" "I told you I got myself a birthday present. I've found another place to

74 — Lynnette D'anna live. Away from here. Starting now. It's permanent. A present to myself. Happy birthday Baby." Then quickly she steps away from the screen so the tube can suck her mama in again.

.Daddy Jack is a married man with babies of his own. That's the reason he needs her, so his own kids can grow up nice and normal and not fucked up like her. That's what he tells her anyway. "I guess I'm akeady fucked," Baby says. "More or less. So what you do to me can't make a lick of difference." But when he gets to know her better he starts to think he loves her and he wants her to be normal too. Thinks she should go to school like other Jdds. But while he's wanting her to be like everybody else, he sets up her apartment so it pleases him. Mirrors where he can watch himself fucking her and little kid things all over. Teddy bears and Barbie dolls and frilly bedding. Lots and lots and lots of baby underwear. "I've never had this kind of stuff before," she tells him and big tears wet his eyes. His crying makes him horny so he screws her from behind while she clutches a white teddy bear. She visits Mama once a week but won't give out her address. She's finding other men like Jack who want to pay her money to be someone who they think they need but cannot have. They're easy enough to find lurking around kids' places like little league, playgrounds, parks, schools, arcades and mails. With drooping eyes they all look hungry in that certain way that has not a thing to do with food. They look for ways to sneak in touching, a jovial papa-push on a swing, a comforting hand on a scraped knee, and they always keep a wary watch for worried overcautious mothers. Soon Baby has a list of them and she starts keeping track in a black book. Jack knows about the others but doesn't mind because he was first. She's making enough to pay her rent and with the extras, the gifts they love to dish out to their little girl, she's doing very well indeed. So well in fact she's making plans. She is saving up to buy herself a house.

fool's bells — 75

matchmaker Scratching out his name in window soot gathering dirt beneath her fingernail: Sammy.

When Baby turns fifteen Mama has a stroke and Roseman totes her to a nursing home to be looked after. Just thirty-six years old. When she hears, Baby crams a fist of Percodan down her throat. Then she takes herself to Mama's house, its cupboards crammed with empty screw-top bottles, each one meticulously sterilized in the dishwasher before storage. She pries the foil off a still-sealed yogurt from the fridge and, sucking sweet cream from her fingers, she glares down all those sparkling bottles filling up the shelves. The only things in Mama's cupboards. Picks up a bottle from Mama's television-watching chair, uncaps and belts it back. Tepid is how she discovered wine. Counting up the stairs as she goes, ten-eleven-twelve, down the hallway to Mania's bedroom. Dried blood upon the sheets, she peels them back and dumps them in the hamper even though there is no one left to wash them. Stained through to the mattress, permanently damaged. I can't help any of it, she tells the mirror and the mirror lips her words right back to her. I'm sorry, she says. Sorry, retorts the mirror. She tugs at the drawer where Mama keeps her toys but the whips and cuffs are gone. Someone has already been here. The photo drawer is cleared out too. All the drawers have been emptied, but the shoebag in the closet is intact, Mama's bright heels in scarlet, grape and jade, a pair for every outfit, all size eight and much too big for Baby. But the red leather dress fits her like a glove.

Sammy. She's scratched the word ten times onto the window glass. Raoul hasn't seen him. He lights a cigarette and shrugs. "Easy come, easy go," he drawls. "C'est la vie." Baby sets a lighted candle on her window ledge. In its flame Mama dances holding a single rose between her teeth. Sammy's in there too. He


opens up his hands to Baby but before she can figure how to pull him out, he disappears in a puff of smoke. Mama waves gaily to her. "Bring him back!" demands Baby. Mama speaks clearly despite the stem. "My hands are tied." "I want those pictures you took of me. Where are they?" Mama laughs. "Those photographs are my insurance." "By rights they're mine," Baby snaps. "Why don't you just die? Just die and get it over with. Put us all out of your misery." Mama's grin disintegrates. "I need your help," she whimpers, her hands upturned and pleading. "You know I can't do it by myself." "I've tried," says Baby. "Not hard enough. Not like I showed you." Baby bites back frightened tears. "No," she says. "No, I can't. It isn't fair to ask. Go away and leave me alone!" She takes a breath to stop her teeth from chattering and blows out the candle with her mama in it. In the dark she sits alone and very still thinking about what her mama taught her. When Mama was a kid she didn't have things so good. When Baby was little, her mama dribbled all her horror stories out on her like fairy tales. Instead of Mother Goose, which Baby learned much later in the library on her own, Mama told her how her mother had looked with a hole where face should be. Of how her papa tortured her. "Be grateful that you never had one," she told Baby. "There isn't any use to it." And probably she was right, just look at Roseman. Look at Billy. Look at Daddy Jack and Uncle Manfred, Leon, Murray and all the rest. There's Sammy, but he is no one's papa. He had his own to run away from. Anything is better than that., he told her. I mean anything.

It's time again for the hospital but Baby doesn't want to go. Argues in her head. All I can do for you is bringyou fucking flowers. I can't giveyou what you want even though you showed me how. Get Roseman to do your dirty work, he likes that sort of thing. She shuts off her phone. The downers in her cabinet are not enough, but she takes them anyway.

fool's bells — 77

Girls spill onto the streets, black and yellow, red and white. Baby can afford to be fussy with her stable because there is more than enough to go around. All Jack wants is to pamper some little white girl. Blood for Manfred, Leon wants a spanking, dark skin works best for Murray. Baby lines them up, then fits each of them together. She gets herself a rep for making perfect matches. Matches made in heaven just by Baby.


souvenirs Albert grows fat in no time from all the food and attention heaped on him. Everyone says he is the spitting image of Naomi's father, only fatter. In Stonybrook every baby born looks like someone else although no one seems too sure who Andrew favours. Most likely it's his mother, probably because she dotes on him. To Naomi they say I guess that little one takes after you. Jeff wonders why she isn't pregnant yet. It's not for any lack of his, of that he's sure. Naomi shrugs and blushes when he asks her straight so maybe it's a woman's thing and not for him to understand. "It's because she's stubborn," Nadine tells him. "She just doesn't want to be." "Nadine says it's you," he reports. "You're not pregnant because you don't want to be." "That sister of yours!" Naomi sniffs. "If women could just will themselves, there would be no babies and the human race would end." 'What do you think it is then?" "I think something inside me went wrong with the twins. I don't think I can have any more. I asked the doctor," she lies, "and he said I could be right." She turns her back and stirs the soup simmering since morning. Lifts the ladle to her lips and slurps. Adds salt. Jeff feels himself stirring too, watching his wife glide around her kitchen. "Would that be so bad?" she asks. He can't see her face, what's written on it. "You're my wife," he says. "And?" "I just want for us to be a family." "We are." "Don't you even want a girl?" Naomi tosses her ladle into the sink. "There is no use for girls," she says tightly. The ladle splatters soup grease as it bounces. Sons are for men, but mothers should want girls. He bites his tongue while she wipes up. He is rising with his woman moving like a dancer through this room. But he's never seen her dance so why he would think of that is a mystery to him. He shakes the thought from his head. '"When will that soup be done?" he asks, remembering how he once heard about a man who took his woman in the kitchen while food was cooking. Right there. But anyone could walk through this door, Nadine or his own mother

fool's bells — 79 or Naomi's father, anyone. Find him with his pants down in their kitchen stuffing his sausage into his wife, now wouldn't that be something? But even the fear of discovery can't quiet his desire. He sidles up behind Naomi cutting bread and rubs his calloused hand around in suggestive circles on her back. Presses his mouth against her neck. Feels her clenched and tense. "What?" she says sharply, pulling back. "I was just thinking..." He clears his throat and moves a little closer. "Maybe the soup could wait a bit." "Why?" she asks stubbornly. Her face is red but not from steam. He rubs the hollow of her back to the swelling cheek below. "I was just thinking. Maybe we could.. .take a little rest." "For heaven's sake!" explodes Naomi. "It's the middle of the day!" "Other people do it," he says sullenly. "How would you know?" His hand falls. "Men talk," he says. Naomi's voice is high. "Bring the boys to the table now," she orders. That leaves nothing out.

They plan a big first birthday celebration. Nadine offers to make the cake but Naomi insists on doing it herself. That sister-in-law of hers always manages to get her hands all over everything. With Naomi doing all the baking and the cooking for eleven, plus the twins, her father, Jessie, Jeff's mother and Nadine, her husband Pete and their four kids, Nadine takes the boys out for the afternoon. Jeff sticks around the house to help. Man's work, like putting extra leaves into the dining table and hunting for chairs. His constant grumbling gets on Naomi's nerves. "I told your sister to bring more chairs," she shouts. "If that table is ready you could come and get the plates." "My old man never set a table in his life," he says counting out the forks. "You could have taken the kids. Then Nadine would be doing this." "Kids are women's work." "Then I guess you're stuck." Jeff glares but takes the dishes. Jessie lags behind Father quiet as a country mouse. She is practically the same age as Naomi but, although she has never even had one baby, she looks used up. Her dress bags at the knees, her hollow cheek is bruised.

80 — Lynnette D'anna Father's iron-grey beard scratches and he's got a new eye in too. Naomi gestures, trying not to get too close. "Supper's ready on the table in the other room," she says. The six kids have had too many sweets which makes it easier for the adults because they don't have to talk to one other. When the meal is done Naomi and Nadine clear the table while Jeff lights candles on two matching cakes. One for Albert, another one for Andrew. Naomi holds Andrew's cake for him while Jeff serves Albert. Father lifts his camera, aims and shoots. "Smile," he coaxes. Then Andrew shoves his finger deep into the pastry and all hell breaks loose.

If women could choose there wouldn't be any babies, or so Naomi says. Andrew as a toddler is tearing up the house, into every blessed thing. She moves things he might break high up and out of reach. Jeff is always yelling. He smacks Andrew's hands, face, bum, any part of him he can get while Naomi does her best to shield the boy from his father's wrath. She's always standing guard between the two. "He's still a baby!" she protests. "He isn't doing bad, he is just curious. It's normal." "Then why isn't Albert like that?" shouts Jeff. "The kid has to learn! Someone has to teach him right from wrong and christ knows you're not doing it!" Andrew parrots Jeff's words back at him. "Don't! Bad boy, Daddy!" he mimics. "Listen to him!" rages Jeff. "No manners!" "He's copying," Naomi says. "He learns it from you." Fat Albert stays on all fours long after his brother stands and walks, but he follows him everywhere very fast on pudgy knees. Andrew tugs pots from the shelves and builds himself a kit of drums, beating them with wooden spoons given him by Mommy while Albert on his haunches watches from his secure perch in the doorway. Andrew hands him spoons. "You too," he coaxes but Albert throws them back. Watching makes him happier and besides, it's safe. Naomi tidies Andrew's messes before their dad gets home. "Daddy's coming! Let's clean up now," she tells die twins and Andrew helps by putting away pots. But while her husband is at work Naomi plays the stereo real loud and pretends to dance, whirling Andrew round and round in her

fool's bells — 81 arms. He laughs and beats out joyous rhythms on her shoulders. For him there are two kinds of time. Daddy-time is hollow, dark and booming like the biggest wooden spoon against the biggest pot, while Mommy-time is high and sweet and dizzy like the shiny spoon against the middle pot. For Albert it's all the same. He does not get twirled but no one hits him either. Eating is nice and everybody feeds him. Mommy gives him carrots, beans and rice, Daddy gives store-bought treats, Auntie Nadine gives creamy stuff and Granny gives out cookies and other crumbly treats. Everyone in Stonybrook knows die boys. Andrew, smart as a whip, has a sharp and wicked tongue, while Albert is soft, round and likes to please. They know Andrew's mouth will get him into trouble soon enough and where he gets that from isn't hard to see. Even though Jeff always has a pleasant word for everyone and Naomi is a proper wife, her father has a temper to behold. Look at his wife Jessie, bruised around the gills whenever anybody sees her, which is not often. After all, the fruit can't fall too far from the branch.

Jeff watches his wife play favourites. She is so busy passing out her love to Andrew and to Father there is not much left over for her husband. One afternoon he sneaks into their house without warning and finds her dancing by herself with the radio turned up real loud. He spies on her for a moment with wildly pounding heart. Her auburn hair spirals down to her waist still slender as a girl's. When she spins around on her bare feet his heart leaps into his throat but he's in luck, she does not see him. The next time she twirls about he slips away, returning to the shop where he removes his Back In Ten Minutes sign from the window. Then he sits heavily behind the counter on the inherited wobbly wooden stool staring at the horse calendar on the wall left there from the year his uncle died. That night he coaxes her to bed early, before the news comes on TV and after the boys have been tucked in. He finds her twisting up her hair in the bathroom. "No," he tells her. "Leave it down." Then he goes to bed, shuts his eyes and waits until the blanket tugging tight between his thighs tells him she has come. When she slides onto the mattress with her back towards him, he rolls onto his side and reaches out to cup her shoulder. He lifts himself onto his elbow and begins to knead her with light fingers. "If you turn over," he says. "I can rub your back with oil. But first you'll have to take your nightgown off."

82 — Lynnette D'anna She sighs, but still she slips the gown over her head with one smooth motion. Then she lies on her stomach. When his hand glides down her hair, she flinches. "It's so thick," he says hoarsely. "You're still so beautiful. As beautiful as the day I married you." "I thought you were going to rub my back," she says. "Why are you playing with my hair?" "I like to feel it," he says. "But you always pin it up." Gently he lifts the mass and drapes it around her neck. He reaches for the oil, pours some onto his palm. Settling astride her hips, he slips greased hands along her skin while nestling his erection in between her buttocks. "Is that all right?" he asks after a few minutes. "It feels so good I think I'll fall asleep." "Not yet," protests Jeff. His penis dribbles. Naomi giggles. "Why not yet?" she teases, wriggling her bum against it. "You know," he says weakly. It's been so long since she's been this way with him, he can't recall the last time. Maybe never. "I'm not done," he says. "Put on more oil," she says. "Your hands are rough." This time he drips it directly on her skin. "Cold?" he asks. "Nice," she says. "Rub it in." Smoothly he glides up and down her back, her shoulders and her bum, her inner thighs. He puts some on himself too so when he straddles her again he slithers in without effort. "How's that?" he asks. Naomi groans and Jeff clenches himself down there trying to make it last, but still, too soon, he comes. "You're finished?" she asks after a while. "I'm waiting. Maybe I can get it up again." She twists around. "Get off me then. You're too heavy." Reluctantly he obeys and Naomi sits clutching her nightgown against her chest. "Where are you going now?" "To wash this grease off me and put up my hair." "I was hoping you'd lie here for a bit." "I have to wash." She walks on tiptoe like a dancer. Why, oh why, has she never danced with him?

Father stands behind her with his fly undone. His breath is on her shoulder. Stubby fingers crawl beneath her skirt, push aside her panties, then pry into her body. Father, in her kitchen. While she is at her sink washing

fool's bells — 83 the breakfast dishes and looking out at the fresh-tilled garden through her window. The tiller is idle where he left it, the dirt still on his hands. "It's ready for you to plant," says Father, fingers busy. "Yes," she answers dreamily. "You'll put in a lot of peas," he orders. "For Albert. They're his favourite." She sinks the porridge pot in suds while Father fits himself inside her. "Keep washing," he commands. "Don't stop. Get it clean." She swishes soap around. While she scrubs, he pinches at her lips down there with his dirty hand. She drops the pot into the rinse water, pulls the plug from the washing sink. He moves with her like a joined twin. "Let me help," he says and, stretching his arm around her, he sets the pot on the draining board. When he presses against her he spurts a bit. "Turn around," he orders. "I want to see your face." She leans heavily against the countertop and squeezes shut her eyes. If all I think about is this. How good it feels, she thinks. But when she opens them up again what she sees is Andrew. He slouches, filling up the doorway, doe-brown eyes clear on her and bright with anger ticking in them like a bomb. "Andrew!" she wails, but he is already gone. "Leave him be!" Father grunts, grabbing her. "It's time he knew." "No one should know, that's what you always say!" "That one's too big for his own britches." "What's that to you?" she shouts. "Be quiet!" Father growls. "Everyone will hear." "What does it matter? Let them all know what you have done!" Father lifts his angry hand and then Naomi crumples in a heap against her kitchen cupboards. "This is all your doing!" He tucks his flaccid flesh into his pants and zips them up. "You and that no-good runt of yours! I should've drowned you both at birth!"

Andrew sees her. Albert sees her. Even Jeff can see her. She goes to church with him the same as always. Like always she sits still and meek beside her husband under the condemning words of hellfire and damnation. Beds with him as usual. It might seem as though nothing at all has changed. Father still sees her when and how he chooses and no one notices that she has disappeared. After finding her with Father in the kitchen, Andrew drops out of church

84 — Lynnette D'anna altogether. Won't tell why, he just stares into space muttering cuss words whenever anyone tries to reach him. Naomi doesn't lift a finger and Jeff can't because by now Andrew towers over him. "Look at that boy of yours gone wild," he complains. "What are you going to do about it?" "Do?" Naomi squeaks in her mysterious new soprano. "That's what I said," he answers angrily. But there is no getting at the inside of her head. He stalks away.

.Here is crazy old Naomi dancing around her lit-up-like-a-birthday kitchen belting out some stupid Sunday song. This little light of mi-hihine! she screeches.

fool's bells — 85

rations 5he travels during daylight hours, swimming when she wants, walking when she wants. But she's running out of food and soon she'll have to find a village. Although Drummer remains invisible she can be heard, and Creature always comes when she is summoned. Fool is mute except for tinkling bells, but he dances up ahead to help direct her journey. Now he gestures wildly and Sra notices docks along the bank which mean there is a town with possible supplies. Kids playing on the shore glare as though she is an alien from some foreign planet. "Hey lady!" shouts the biggest. "Hi there," she calls back. "Nice day, huh?" "Where'd you come from?" "I've been hiking down this river. Can you tell me where I am?" "This town you mean?" "Yes. Has it got a name?" "It's Alviston," says the smaller child. "Got any worms on ya?" "Why would I have worms?" "For fishing!" The girl giggles. "For bait. You know." "Why would I want to bait a fish?" "You kidding right?" "No. Why would I?" "To catch. To eat. Of course." "Not me," says Sra. "Why not? Dontcha eat fish?" The smallest child shuffles sneakers through the gravel. "I don't eat anything that's ever had a face," says Sra. "Including fish. They have mouths and eyes and teeth you know, just like us." The little child nudges the bigger one and they both roll their eyes and laugh. "Where you from anyways? Pluto?" scoffs the bigger one. "No," says Sra. "I come from Stonybrook. Is there a store in Alviston?" "Yeah. We gotta store. Course we gotta store. Whadda ya think anyways? We are not the boonies here, course we got a store." "Let me guess, it's on Main Street right?" "Git that-a-way to the top of this here hill," the big kid says. "What's your name anyway?" "Sra."

86 — Lynnette D'anna "Oh," says the little one. "I gotta cousin Sarah." "Not Sarah. Sra " "That's no name!" "Yes it is. It's my name." "Prove it!" "I can't prove it. It's just my name. It's always been my name." "Why?" "My mother gave it to me when I was born." The child hoots. "Ya mean you gotta mother?" Sra turns from the children laughing themselves silly over nothing and trudges up toward the town. Fool's bells reflect the morning sun but she has no need for directions here. Towns this size are pretty much the same. Main Street leads to Redicopps, a convenience shop with gas pumps and a car wash. Past Redicopps is a restaurant attached to the Alviston Hotel and beyond that is the post office. It might be anywhere, but the kids said that this is Alviston. Fool vaporizes in a flash of light when Sra enters the dusty store, bits of everything on its shelves. Shoe polish, string, candles and sealing wax. Canned goods, dairy products and lock de-icer. A sullen kid behind the register flips idly through a comic book while an old man snores behind the meat counter. There are no other customers. She wanders along aisles with a woven plastic basket. Meatless soup, crackers and some cheese. Unsized brown eggs in undated cardboard cartons, butter and canned milk. Ground coffee, chocolate bars and a plastic jar of crunchy peanut butter. The produce is wilted but she manages to find four sweet red apples and a head of cabbage that looks edible. At the checkout she picks up a box of wooden matches. "Ya gotta place to put this stuff?" the kid asks, putting down her book. "Gotta car?" Sra opens up her pack. "In here." "It won't fit." "Yes it will. Watch." She sets the cans and jar in first, with lighter things on top. "Room to spare. See?" "Where ya from?" She hoists her pack upon her back. "Stonybrook." "Whatcha doin' here?" "Supplies. I've been hiking down the river." 'What for?" "I'm not exactly sure. But I think I'll wind up where I started."

fool's bells — 87 "Are you alone?" Sra points out through the dkt-smeared window. "How's their food?" The kid shrugs. "It ain't McDix." "Do you like living here?" "What are you anyways? Some kinda news reporter?" The kid glares and lifts Archie to her nose again. "This is just a shithole. Ain't fuck all to do." "What about the river?" "What about it?" "Don't you wonder about it?" "Like what?" "I used to hike along our creek with my best friend. There's no water in it, it's gone completely dry, but we went anyway. Just pretending." "Pretending what?" "I don't know. Imagining. Like how it must have been when there was water. How explorers came to be there and why people stayed and built a town. Like that. Don't you ever go to the river just to think?" The kids slaps down the comic. "I don't think about the fuckin' river, man. It's always been there. It'll always be there. It's fuckin' boring. All it is is muddy water." "I think I'll go to that cafe, for a cup of coffee." "Whatever," says the kid. At the diner, she slips into a booth. "I'd like a cup of coffee and a jelly donut," she says. "Where you from?" the waitress asks. "Stonybrook." "Where ya going?" "Probably back to Stonybrook. I've been following the river." "What for?" Sra pours thick cream into her mug and stars in sugar. "What's your name?" "Linda." "Mine's Sra." "Pleased ta meet cha Sarah," Linda says. "Is there more coffee?" Linda sets the pot on Sra's table. "Help yourself. I'll probably just pour it down the drain." "Why is it so quiet here?" "Ain't nobody left," Linda says. "Just a few old diehards like me. Getting to feel almost like a ghost town."

88 — Lynnette D'anna 'Where did everybody go?" 'Trigger towns. Cities. Places with jobs. You know how everybody always wants more than what they got. They think they can find it somewheres else." "Then why are you still here?" Two flies mate in midair above the counter. Linda sighs, watching them. "I got no kids, I got no husband but I got this job so what should I move for?" Sra fingers the donut. "I don't get it." "Get what?" "Why some places live and grow and others shrink and die." Linda squints at the wall clock. "It has to do with team spirit I think." "What do you mean?" "You know, rah-rah-sis-boom-bah. Alviston never had no team spirit. Are you gonna eat that or just roll it around your plate?" "Tell me the truth," says Sra. "How long has this donut been here?" Linda guffaws. "I baked it fresh this morning." After using the washroom, Sra returns to the river. The kids have gone but Fool is up ahead gaily beckoning in crisp sun and Drummer is rapping further on. She has become used to hiking naked except for socks and boots, so when she has left Alviston behind she peels off her jeans, shoulders her pack once more and moves along.

Here there is infinite space, space forever. But to have had the will to survive a winter, that is something else. Monochromes must have come in spring. Stayed the summer and then winter must have hit them like a shovel. Once the water froze there would have been no way out for them. Even so, they would not have expected it to last and last the way it does. Many would have died before first thaw. Of disease, starvation and hypothermia, or they might even have been buried by snow, their breathless mouths full of it with no discovery until the spring. When sun lays thick and flat along the horizon she stops, spreads out her sleeping bag and sits on it to remove her boots. Wind collects against her skin reminding her of Imp. Off in the sunset Drummer thumps a melancholy riff while Fool flops down just up ahead, bells tinkling mournfully. If there was a track she could run. It's been too long, the riverbank is not clear enough for running. Wild running with wind beating through her hair and oxygen filling up her lungs. Much more satisfying than this repeti-

fool's bells — 89 tive plodding, one foot and then the other all the way. Branches crackle and she pivots quickly. Nothing moves, nothing speaks. "Creature!" she calls out sharply. Silence. She stands and stretches, rubbing down her goose flesh. Her boots lie where she kicked them, one crimson sock stuffed into each. Sun is sinking fast. Drummer is still. Can't see Fool anymore. Even the wind stops breathing in her face. Creature doesn't answer. Caleb is back safely in his city and Imp has gone forever. Her attic room is barren now. Maybe Mother's weeping, abandoned, left alone in her rambling house. The sun has set but it is too soon for stars and there will be no moon tonight. She crouches by her pack, feels out her shirt and jeans and eases into them. The flashlight produces a faint glow before it dies. She forgot to buy more batteries back in Alviston. Just a goose walking across her grave, that's all it is, there is nothing in that bramble. "Creature!" she calls again. "Where are you?" The pack is full and she is starving after half a day of hiking. Linda's jelly donuts are at the top and she digs into one, still fresh and gooey. Crackers and cheese will do her nicely, a dinner without fire. Everything is better in the dark. Safer. But where has Creature got to? Wherever has she gone?

After eating, Sra flaps crumbs from her sleeping bag and tries to lie down, but she can't rest. Instead she lurks behind a rock peering into bushes further up the bank. Underneath the moonless sky, the trees take on a sinister intent with sprawling knobby fingers attached to bony elbows attached to scrawny crooked necks. These shrubs are friends, she chides herself wishing madly for a simple splash of light. Can't shut her eyes. Can't face the water. Can't turn her back on what she can't quite see. Crackles, caws and cackles, hoarse whispering and shuffles. Stealthy birds and rabid rodents with grotesque claws and gleaming marble eyes. Can't sleep; can't travel on. These could be tears on her face. With all her might she calls for Creature yet again. Whatever is the matter?

Sra scrubs her cheeks angrily. "Where have you been?" she demands. Are you crying child?

"How could you go and leave me all alone?" You're not the only mortal in need in this world.

90 — Lynnette D'anna "But you can't just leave me without warning. You are supposed to be my safety." Tut-tut, don't cry. Trust me.

"Drummer is silent. I can't see Fool anywhere around." We are all here even thoughyou do not see us;you need to learn to trust.

"You promised you would keep me safe. You said you'd always stay with me." I've toId you and I've toId you to look insideyourself. You have to trust.

"I heard noises. I saw creepy eyes and groping fingers. Promise me you'll never leave again." There mil always be something watching over you. This I can assure.

Sra sighs, slides into her bag and eases shut the zipper. With Creature's caresses, gentle as a wistful breeze, at last she sleeps.

fool's bells — 91

cruising Baby conies out of her downer-nod thinking about Mama, finds herself alive, finds herself thirsty She gets water from the fridge, flicks on the portable TV she keeps on the kitchen counter to find out what day it is, what she has missed. Thursday noon, she scarcely slept at all, only one night lost. One night, she could've been out working, making money. Could've been searching for Sammy although he won't be found unless he wants to be. Could've been visiting the hospital and then maybe she wouldn't feel so bad right now. Comes to, thinking about Mama. Mama is paying for her sins, all of them, being shut up with the living dead like this. Locked up inside herself with no way out. The downers have given her a dream. Mama dancing down a narrow hallway filled with flowers. Not just red roses either but tiger lilies, birds of paradise, magnolias, daisies and babies' breath. Vivid splashing colour surrounded her and she was dancing, truly dancing. Laughing, with her whole face lit up like sunshine, not that hollow ringing sound she used to make. Not her Roseman laugh. Not her whips-and-pain guffaw but a bellyful. On her back she carried a chubby dimpled baby who was also laughing. A fat and happy baby who might have been. The dress she wore was scarlet gauze and it swirled out from her body like the softest summer cloud. Baby fills the kettle, sets it on the stove and turns it on. Opening the canister for two tea bags, dropping them into the teapot. Stringing up their tassels through the handle. Without the career of matchmaking, her days stretch out like unfillable sheets of paper. She's out there selling just herself and it's not enough. The baby business is the only one that's booming and she is much too old. You need a specialty these days. Drawing blood is hers, but she is just so fucking tired. The kettle squeals. She lifts it and switches off the element. Filling the pot, she holds the paper tabs to keep the strings from slipping in. Sets the kettle back. Fits the lid onto the teapot. She could make some toast. The television time is 1:14 p.m., still too early to go out. Can't shake that image of Mama dancing in the hall amid bright blooms and really laughing with that fat and happy baby on her back. Checks the tea by pouring. It's ready and she fills a cup, adds a splash of milk and drizzles in some honey. The milk and honey form an oil slick on

92 — Lynnette D'anna the surface. Taught herself to make tea the same way she learned everything that Mama couldn't teach. Like how to clean. Toilets, windows and appliances, how to do the laundry and wash the floors. Baby always worried about such things because they had to do with being real, but Mama never seemed to care. Toilet stained with shit and vomit never bothered her. She scattered clothes where she felt like dumping them, where they would stay until Baby cleared them up. She had helped herself to Mama's money from the bureau and bought cleaning supplies she recognized from commercials, like Tide and Downy and Mr. Clean. Taught Sammy how to use them too because he had never learned. They used to do their laundry together Tuesdays in the basement in those pre-Myra days when he still lived in her ratty building. She bought him a toilet brush and showed him how to keep the bathroom clean. He got pretty good at all of it, especially the kitchen work. He learned to make his own spaghetti sauce from scratch with fresh onions, garlic, tomato paste and basil. Sammy made a mean spaghetti. Baby pours a second cup of tea. Sets out bread for toast, margarine, jelly, cold cereal and milk. Might as well have a decent breakfast or she'll end up eating Subs all day and drinking Slurpees. Her mind is sharp as always after downers if it weren't for those fuzzy leftovers from her dream. Today she'll visit Mama. If only she could hear her really laugh. Just once.

In front of the 2-for-l pizza place Baby scans the traffic. A gold Mercedes purrs by twice. On the third round it stops. The passenger window rolls down. "Get in," says Myra. Baby doesn't move. "What for?" she asks. "What do you think? What're you out here for?" "You want to do business with me or do you want to look for Sammy?" "Business," Myra barks. Baby lifts her brows. "Same deal as with him?" "Just get in," Myra commands through clenched teeth. So Baby obeys. Myra's skin is chalk-white skin underneath her careful makeup. Her firm calves clench when she shifts. Heels perfecdy match her suit just like Baby's Mama. "You remind me of my mother," she blurts out and then bites her tongue and groans inside. "I suppose that's a start," says Myra grimly.

fool's bells — 93 "You haven't found him, huh?" "I haven't found him." "Is that why you're out cruising?" "Are you an analyst or a hooker?" "Analyst." "All you kids are too mouthy for your own good. You should be more careful; it could cause you grief. You can't be certain what's waiting for you on the other side." "Maybe that's what happened to Sammy," says Baby. "Maybe he just got too mouthy." "Maybe." "Maybe some John decided to shut him up for good. Maybe he is lying dead in some alley and no one's found him yet. It happens all the time." In the hotel room Baby draws her best bump-and-grind for perfect Myra who is shrugging off her blouse to bare those tits that Sammy liked so much. She gestures at her lap and Baby sits. She pokes a rosy nipple into Baby's mouth and Baby nibbles it. She smoothes soft palms down Baby's body and Baby's getting slippery inside, a problem because arousal is against her rules. She pushes herself down hard on Myra's lap and tries to think of something other than what is going on with her body and this woman who is way too much like her Mama. "Wait a minute," Myra says. Then she stands and slithers off her pleated skirt. Underneath her lace-edged slip and in between the hanging garters, Myra has a hard-on. Baby swallows, tries to gather wits about her. This is not the first time she has seen this sort of thing, it's not that she's a virgin. It's just that most of the girl-boys are on her side of the fence, not on Myra's. Myra touches herself there. "Does this bother you?" she asks gently. "Of course not!" Baby answers quickly. "I'm just surprised. I didn't know." "Sammy didn't tell you?" "He never mentioned it," Baby whispers. "But it's okay. I like it fine." So Myra spreads a condom on and takes Baby legs-apart onto her lap again, onto her straight-up prick. After prebooking her for Wednesdays, Myra returns her to the 2-for-l. The Wednesday appointments are only temporary. When Sammy's found she will go back to him. She is loyal, Baby will say that for her, and she's also stinking filthy rich.

94 — Lynnette D'anna Candy's working Baby's corner so Baby makes certain Candy knows she has been seen before leaving for the hospital. No more tricks today, it isn't necessary. As Sammy says, there is no one who pays more than Myra.

Despite the desire of her dreams, Mama is the same. If someone pulled out all those tubes and turned off all the switches she would just stop being. Baby squeezes shut her eyes trying to imagine. It would be so quiet without the racket of forcing this body to take in breath. Mama would be released at last. She could drift down that long spiral toward the peaceful light like being born again, only in reverse. More than anything, Baby wishes Mama peace. She reaches out across the body. Easy as turning off a Hght. Do it! dancing Mama urges deep inside her head. Do it like I showedjou; don't be such a pussy! Baby's fingers ache. "And how are we today?" a voice chirps briskly. Quickly Baby drops her hand. Another second and she might have done it. In her mind Mama sighs impatiently. "We are about the same I think," she answers. The nurse flips quickly through the chart. "Evening shift," she says glancing efficiently from the chart to Baby and then at Mama. "I have to turn her now." "Could I help?" "Sorry but I can't allow it. Policy," says the nurse. "If it were up to me.. .but it's not, alas. You could get a coffee from the cafeteria and come back in half an hour." Baby stabs her thumb at Mama. "How much longer?" "About half an hour," the nurse answers. "No. I meant how much longer does she have to be like this?" The woman raises her arms to tug the curtain. She wears beige lace beneath her uniform. "You'll have to ask the doctor, dearie." "I don't know who her doctor is." "He does his rounds between nine and ten except for weekends. If you were here around that time, you could talk to him." Baby steps out of the U of curtain. She hears sloshing from behind it before she shuts the door. Most of the other doors along the corridor are also closed. Behind them patients are being watered, changed and turned. The cafeteria is full of other displaced guests. It's too early yet for dinner and too late for coffee. In-between time, commuting time, gathering kids

fool's bells — 95 from daycare time, sitcom rerun time. Rush hour, happy hour. A lousy time of day for business with all the proper lying daddies going home to wife and kids, Tuna Helper and Kraft Dinner. In this cafeteria people scan old papers, fill in crosswords, gaze out through the windows at the salmoncoloured brick and wilting plants. This is idle time. Time to fill in space. Baby picks through cellophane-sealed sandwiches. Ham on rye, egg on brown, chicken on a kaiser. Pickle slices stabbed through and held in place with picks, wilted parsley samplers, green tomatoes. Salad: Chef, Greek, Garden, Tomato, Macaroni. Dressings in rectangular plastic identified as Lo Cal, Thousand Island, Creamy French, Oil and Vinegar. The strategic horizontal mirror behind the bar creates the illusion of more food, the fluorescent light turns her bleached hair grey, her face dead white. Suddenly she hears Mama's voice crisp as crystal. You look just like a whore! "That's what you raised me as," says Baby. Mama lifts her glass and Baby tips the bottle to it. "I never raised no whore." "Hold still," scolds Baby. "You'll make me spill." Using both her hands, Mama holds her glass steady while Baby pours. "So what did you raise me as?" she asks after a while. Mama sets down her glass. "I just thought you'd turn out different." "Different from what?" Mama sounds wistful. "You were such a pretty little thing." Baby's voice rises. "Different than what?" she asks again. "Than me." Mama's words sag on the air between them. '"What else could I be? When you is all I've ever known." Baby sucks wine straight from the bottle. "You never gave me a chance. I've never known anything but this." "You were such a good girl," says Mama. "And so smart! You could have been anything you wanted. Put that in the dishwasher before you go." "I know," says Baby tenderly. Mama's head wobbles, then drops onto her shoulder. Baby rises slowly, her world spinning briefly out of focus before it rights itself. She takes the bottle to the kitchen, empties it into the sink and sets it in the washer with the others. She snaps shut the door and turns on the machine. Keeping Mama company, this is how it goes on her days off. She decides against withered salad, egg or ham. Takes her coffee to a seat by the window. A man winks at her and Baby grins, doing business. He gets up and saunters to her table. "I think I know you from somewhere," he says. "Have we met?"

96 — Lynnette D'anna "The name is Baby," Baby says. He shoves a hand to her. "Jim," he sa briskly. "Okay if I join you?" "Sure. Are you a visitor?" "Doctor." He knits his brows, works her with his eyes. "I could swear we've met before." "Maybe you know my friend Candy. People are always saying how much we look alike." "Ah yes," he says. "Candy! How is Candy?" "Same old, same old," says Baby. "You looking for a date?" "I'm a little flat right now." Jim pats his pocket. "But there's a bank machine down the hall." "I'm still working on this coffee." "How about if I join you in, say, ten minutes?" "I'll wait."

In those days Mama lolled around like a broken doll with mashed-up stuffing, even when the Roseman came. He drank with her and 'when she passed out, lugged her up into her bed where he dropped her like a rock. He must have loved her in his way. After all he stuck with her even though there was nothing in it left for him. No more tangos, no more roses, no stilettos and no whips. But still he brought her wine and paid the bills. Cared for her, in his way.

Jim knocks on the window pane behind her and she leaps up. Outside he leads her to his BMW with the MD plates. "Where to?" Baby settles on the plush upholstery and directs him to her Mama's house.

Two days later she arrives on time to catch the morning shift. Outside Mama's room she paces; inside she listens to machines. She dozes on a chair next to the window until someone taps her shoulder. "Dr. Schmidt. This is the daughter. She's waiting to talk to you."

fool's bells — 97 Baby rubs her eyes and sits up straight. "It's you," she says. "So you are Mama's doctor." Jim grins and extends his hand. "Small world, isn't it?" Baby sucks in her breath. "Well," she says. "There are a few things I want to know. Questions that I have. About my mother."


uestions .River sloshe ainst rocks when Sra awakens and the brush waves thin arms goodmorning. Creature is gone but Fool is romping in the sunrise and she hears Drummer in the distance. Caleb's flute whistles on the breeze and all is well. She builds a fire and prepares her breakfast with some silly childhood ditty that her mother used to sing bubbling from her throat. The spying rabid eyes have disappeared and the threatening l bs of last night too. She is safe under sunlight but decides to wear clothing anyway. Something has changed but she can't quite put her finger on it. "Maybe I should go home," she tells the clear crisp air. The butter crackles and she splits eggs into it, laying bread beside to fry. "Or maybe not." She thinks of how Caleb went back to try to find his baby and she thinks of her own search. What is it she is seeking? What is she supposed to find? Other than the visions of other people's misery that haunt her constantly, she isn't sure. The eggs are cooked and with her fingertips she slides them onto toast. Sticky yolk dribbles down her wrist when she lifts her sandwich. Why is she following this river? Is it supposed to lead her back to Stonybrook after all, or is it somewhere else she's meant to be? Home, wherever that is. She dips the pan into the river and then rests a moment, gazing up towards the east.

earth stabilizes, sustains and defines; it represents our relationship with the tangible world and its boundaries


snapshots Naomi looks inside herself at hidden pictures while the old cock takes her. In the garden, in the barn, in the front room of the farmhouse he shares with his wife. These are the places. The pictures are snapshots of her childhood which haunt her now: a silent girl with long brown braids in a too-big plain plaid dress that belonged to Mother when she was alive. Couldn't bury the dresses and anyway there is a girl to fit into them someday. Why throw good money after things that will not last, there is a growing girl to clothe. Then despite herself she grows pretty. Even Father's snapshots show it, those he keeps in that special box in his hideaway. Pictures that burn her cheeks even now. Auburn hair coiling down her back, the girl glances coyly across her shoulder at the two eyes focused on her. Bend over, Father says, I want to giveyou something. As she bends down from the waist, she is Father's proper litde girl. But that is after he takes the photograph she is looking at. You look so much like your mother. And then he names her Helen when he empties into her. Well Naomi loved her too. The next few pictures show a girl's new breasts bursting from a starched white shirt, the smell of starch like potatoes boiling on the stove. But they don't show the head, just the breasts and the cunt, so it's hard to tell where pretty starts and sexy ends. Here's the face. The face that caught Jeff and held him tight. Oval chocolate eyes stained upon the too-white face, nose pointed but not sharp, thick pink lips, teeth bent from sucking fingers, cheeks hollow from refusing

102 — Lynnette D'anna food after Mother dies, mass of permanently waved hair from years of braids clipped off the narrow forehead. This face made Jeff choose her. And those are the breasts, the legs. The flawed remainder of her body he did not discover until it was too late to change his mind, after he had been stuck to her by marriage, although it is all displayed in Father's photographs. Before Father's wedding Naomi cooked and baked for seven solid days. There was no one else to do it with Mother being dead and Jessie having no family of her own. But before Jeff and she were married, it was Nadine who did the cooking. She said it wasn't fitting for the bride to do her own. Still, Naomi helped as much as she'd allow. They bought food too because Jeff intended to show the town how good his lovely fresh-faced bride would have it. Flat on her feet by her wedding night, Naomi dragged herself into the master bedroom of the bungalow Jeff had built for her. She tugged off stiff satins that had been pinching at her waist the whole day long and slipped her naked body underneath the quilt given to them by her husband's mother. Her eyelids closed without her willing them while she thought of Father's kiss and how he passed her over to her husband. "She's yours now son," he told Jeff and she felt an ache, a dull pain like a kick somewhere deep below her belly where she holds her Father and her guilt of being loved by him. When Jeff crawled into bed she could not guess what he wanted from her. Father always told her exactly what to do but this man covered her with silence. Probing with his teeth and tongue and then his penis, not thick nor long as Father's, and after all he wasn't Father and all she wanted was to be allowed to sleep. "Did that hurt?" he asked her when he finished. Naomi shook her head. "Did you like it then?" "It was fine," she said, moving over and away. What she didn't tell him was that he never even touched her. When he started snoring, she rolled over onto her back and stared up at the smooth white ceiling despite her weariness. So many snapshots. Besides Father's, there are her wedding albums and pictures of the twins she took herself. These belong to her. She takes good photographs, maybe it's from being looked at herself so many times when Father had the mood. Maybe she feels more because of it, what's inside the eye. Father loved me most when he took these pictures. Naomi flushes out the betrayal words that rattle like marbles in her head. After their wedding life went on. It was easy to discover what Jeff didn't like and to figure out what he liked from there. Things he didn't like hit the

fool's bells —103 wall. She found out when she made spaghetti. And when he came home to find no supper because she had squandered all her time wandering around the countryside seeking autumn colours with her lens, she nursed her shoulder for a week. Once she found out what he didn't like, she made sure he never had to let her know a second time. "Jeff doesn't like spaghetti," she says casually while helping Nadine dig up carrots from her garden. Nadine sits back on her haunches, six months pregnant once again. On her cheek there is a smudge from swatting a mosquito. She laughs. "He's a meat and potatoes man, that's for sure. And he likes to have his meals on time. He's always been that way." "There's a little streak of dirt, right there." Naomi points and then returns to digging. "I guess you know about men." The smudge becomes a smear from rubbing. "From your mother dying when you were so young." Naomi peers over at Nadine, her broad flat nose, water-blue eyes, stern lips pale and tucked into one another. "I had to learn," she says shortly. "That's the way it is when a mother dies so young," says Nadine. "Girls have to learn. It was different for me because by the time Pa died I was grown-up, akeady married off. But that's not the same as with a mother." Naomi squints along the rows of greens. "My goodness!" she exclaims. "What a lot of carrots you have planted!" "Everybody likes them." Nadine stands, awkward with her swollen belly, and kneads her lower back. "We could take a break." "That would be good," agrees Naomi. "I'll bet your back is killing you." Father takes pictures of Naomi pregnant with the twins when he visits in the afternoons. The skin tight-stretched across her abdomen and the fat brown nipples stiff and anxious. She frowns out at the camera, Father's one good eye, no longer pretty, no longer little, no more \mgirl. Smile, he coaxes.


land .Naomi seeks out Father when she needs to. When she needs his hands on her body to let her know she is alive, to pull her back into herself. She seeks him out when she needs to. In the barn. Sometimes with his own wife right outside in her garden. "I'm talking to you girl!" he screams. "Look at me!" So she stares and stares at his empty socket, refusing to flinch even when he lifts his hand. After that, the ringing in her ears won't let her speak. After the rage and before the loving, he paces, telling her the same old story of his lost eye which she knows by heart from childhood but listening is the price she has to pay. Then he gets himself all over her, into places he does not belong but always goes, calling Helen, Helen, Helen. Rubs himself all over her: breasts, thighs, belly and Naomi's panting, going all the way, it's what she comes here for. Lately he has taken shame in his sagging aging body. "No wonder you don't like to look," he frets, zipping his pants up quickly. Naomi turns to close her buttons. "You're not so young anymore," she mumbles awkwardly. "That's true." "Not that Jessie would notice. But you got others to compare me to. That husband of yours is still young, and those strapping boys you have." Naomi shakes her head. "A mother doesn't see her boys that way. It isn't natural." "Most natural thing on earth," Father says. "If it's so natural, why doesn't everybody do it? Why is what we do together such a great big secret? Why have you always sworn me to never tell another living soul?" Father folds his meaty arms across his chest. "You like it," he says. "I like it. So we keep doing it. But ours is a different way than some. And they tell me it's against the law." "Maybe we could run off together and find some other place to live." "Don't talk silly!" 'Why is one silly if not the other?" asks Naomi. Father stretches out his arms to take in all the property he owns. "This here's my land," he says. "I intend to die right here, on my own dirt that I've worked with my bare hands and paid for with my sweat. You think I'd leave all this for some piece of ass?"

fool's bells— 105

When Jeff reaches for her that night Naomi pushes him away. "I don't want you to," she says sullenly. "Not tonight." He lies back, sighing. "You must've gone out to the farm today," he says. "Didn't you? Never mind, you don't have to answer me. I know. Every solitary time you go out there, you come back to me like this. Closed in. Beat up. He has no right. You're my wife!" "He is my father. That gives him rights." "I never learned it like that." "I guess you and me learned different then." "What you do together is unnatural," her husband says. "Who are you to say?" asks Naomi angrily. "And besides, what is it that you think we do?" Her husband scowls. "I don't know," he says. "That's the problem." "Since you seem to know so much about what is natural, I have a question for you. If a mother were to bed a son, would that be natural do you think?" Jeff bolts upright. "What are you saying?" he shouts. "Have you laid a hand on my boys?" Naomi sits too. "Shush!" she scolds. "Quiet down! Of course I didn't! My own boys, you should wash your brain out mister!" He sags. "Then why ask me such a thing?" "I didn't dream it up myself," Naomi says defensively. "Someone told me." "Well believe me, Naomi, it's not natural. No matter what you heard." "You know that for certain?" Pensively Jeff rubs the stubble on his chin. "What I keep on asking myself," he says, "over and over and over again, what I keep on asking is just what kind of hold that old man has over you? How come you keep going out to visit him time and time again? But I get no answer, not from you and not from him, not in all these years. You don't owe him a goddamn thing, don't you know that? Not after all this time. All your debt is paid but still you give yourself to him. And you dare talk about what's natural!" Naomi shuts her lips. Over her teeth over her tongue over her larynx over her heart over her cunt. She bares nothing to him. In the gleam of porch light through their bedroom window he sees her face is set hard and stiff. "No answer," he says softly. "Not even now."


trust Morning turns to noon which turns to afternoon and then to dusk. With prancing Fool to lead her on, Sra forgets herself and follows without seeing. Her head is bowed to endless questions spooling through it, to the visions she is seeing and all the people she has known. What she needs to do is find another town. She is lonely and despite her careful rationing she is nearly out of food again. The sinking sun leaves her chilly. Although it's only early August, here beside the water and without the heat of other humans, nights feel frosty. She treads on rocks which have appeared suddenly from out of nowhere, then she loses footing, slips and falls. Shivering and injured, she picks up to carry on, jeans soaked through from cuff to thigh. Miles and miles of rock stretch out, a grey blanket spread as far as eyes can see. "Hey!" she calls in sudden panic. "Hey you! Fool! Wait for me!" Up ahead Fool turns and beckons gaily as though there is no danger, but she has frozen to the stone beneath her feet. Moving closer, he offers her his hand but she rejects it. Guiding her through peril is Creature's job. Fool's unused voice is rough as pumice. She left me in charge. "Who gave you a voice?" Sra snaps. You did, Fool answers. Just now. Withyour need. "Then you can tell me where she is. You can bring her back." Creature says it's time for you to trust. Here, take my hand. "So is this another test?" she asks angrily.

What if it is? "It means she has deserted me again. It means her promises mean nothing." Creature would say stop feeling sorry for yourself. Creature would say take what's offered to you. Here, take my hand. I'll help you cross. She feels her anger rising smoky grey to match the rocks. "Why should I trust a Fool?" she scoffs. You might be stranded here forever if you don't. "What do you mean, forever? Are you saying that she won't return?" Fool's jerky limbs have ceased their twitching, his dark eyes are mute. Beyond him she sees the rock, infinite, slippery and treacherous, stretching out. It's entirety your choice, he says calmly. To accept the help that's offered you, or not. "I can't!" shouts Sra ferociously. "Why are you not dancing anymore?"

fool's bells —107

I have my orders. If you refuse to trust, I mil have to leave,

Enraged, she snorts. "So this is what happens when you give a Fool a voice!" she shouts. In a blink Fool vanishes, a vapour trail to mark the space he has just occupied a moment past. The sun hangs low Sunset always happens sooner than you think when you are at its mercy, all at once the light is gone and there is no way to get it back. There is no way she can navigate these rocks on her own, but she can't spend the night in the middle of a churning river and neither can she wait forever. She listens hard for Drummer but there is no sound. Just the boiling water smashing on the everlasting rock. Perching well ahead in its centre, a lonely Beggar stretches scrawny arms towards the sky. His raspy wailing echoes eerily about. Sra could not get to him nor he to her. They are kept apart by miles of slippery stone and by all the water, and Beggars have no power of their own. Now her stomach grumbles. She has not eaten, travelling all day long without a rest. Until she reached this place. Now she realizes she left her pack behind on the shore where she stumbled earlier. That is where the food is, what's left of it. Beggar's selfish moaning is getting on her nerves. Behind her is her pack. To go forward is too dangerous, especially in the dark. You have to learn to trust yourself. Remember whoyou are, Traveller.

Sra stiffens up her back. The tops of the rocks are grainy and flat but one misstep would slide her down and there is no telling what is churning hidden underneath. She clenches her toes and moves cautiously, feeling for her footing stone-to-stone. Pressing back. Once she begins, stepping becomes easier despite the gathering darknesss. There will be an end to her awkward journey after all. Then at long last solid earth meets her toes. Shaking, she tears ravenous into her last supplies. There is an end to everything. There will be another day tomorrow with a different way to see.


misery Safe at last but she can't sleep. Beggar moans his misery upon the rocks, sucking strength from whatever weaknesses he finds. If Fool were here to offer help again she might accept it after all. She thinks about the tapestry tucked safely at the bottom of her pack. If there was light she'd take it out to see. Life, the way she saw it in the distant past, well before her travels. Well before the visions. When she still believed she could travel to the Truth. Restlessly she turns and turns, searching for the magic lullaby of Creature's soothing hands. But beyond Beggar's mournful wailing and the smashing river there is no sound. "Shut up!" she yells, sitting up. "I'm trying to get to sleep!" Suddenly a great wind rises and the sky breaks open. She tugs her sleeping bag around her head but there is no place to crawl to get away. There is no shelter from the hard rain that pounds straight down cutting through her like knives. "Creature," she begs brokenly. "Please help!" But there is no answer. She conjures up a kitchen, safe and warm and dry. When she raps upon the window the woman inside turns, throwing out her open arms. Oh my poor, poor baby, Mother sings. Here! Come in! Never letting go, not even for a single second, she laughs and scolds and folds her child into her warmth. "I can't stay," Sra warns. "I've only come to visit." We 'II dry jour clothes. I'll make some soup. You can get warm. The vision is a gift. Inside it, she feels no cold or hunger, she is neither wet nor frightened nor alone. And when morning bites the sky, she awakens unafraid. Sun peeps through light clouds. Although Beggar has gone, she knows that rocks and danger still lurk ahead. Forward is not the only way to go. She could retrace the steps that led her here. As her mother used to say, there's more than one way to skin a cat. She bundles up her meagre pack. Don't think of this as retreat, she tells herself. Use another way to see.

fool's bells— 109

noise Every day after school Albert helps his dad at the machine shop. All he wants is to drop out, get married and work full-time for his dad. Andrew is busy in the garage with his kit of drums, banging away as though his very life depends on it. Girls from town hang on his every thump as though he is some sort of guru with all the answers to the questions they haven't even thought of asking yet. Three other guys plug in guitars and amps and their noise sends neighbours scurrying with complaints about thejungle music jangling from Naomi's yard. Then his band gets a gig and then another and soon they get to know what it is they're doing and how to be paid for doing it. It's barely enough to cover gas for their beater van, but money is money and even Jeff can't argue with that. What Naomi thinks doesn't count because Andrew has erased her.

Albert and Annie are going steady; they plan to marry when they graduate from high school. During a nocturnal ramble Naomi stumbles on them naked and tussling on the couch. She stands silent for a moment, watching her son satisfy himself. When he grunts and rolls off, she continues to the kitchen. He pokes around her in the fridge. "Coke," he says. "For Annie." "Oh yes," Naomi says. "She must be thirsty. But milk is so much better." He returns with Coke to Annie squirming on her jeans. "Do you think she saw?" she asks anxiously. Albert laughs grimly. "She saw all right," he says. "But it doesn't matter. Mostly I'm invisible to her." By the open fridge Naomi presses cold glass against stiff nipple. Father hasn't paid attention to her recently and Jeff 's attention cannot satisfy. She slips a hand beneath her nightgown up between her thighs and pinches herself raw. Jeff snores, Albert grunts. Annie giggles.

In his dingy hotel room Andrew turns the TV on and off. The

110 — Lynnette D'anna tie picture on the calendar reminds him of his mother. He picks up the receiver, sprawls back on the lumpy bed and dials out. He waits for the connectors to stop clicking, with his finger poised to hang up in case he loses nerve.

"Andrew called," Naomi announces at the breakfast table. Albert belches loudly. "He's so excited. A big record man is going to hear his band." "I heard the band broke up," says Albert. "The other guys came back. They couldn't hack the fact that Andy is a faggot." "I won't tolerate that kind of talk," says Naomi angrily. "Either you apologize this instant, or you will have to leave this house!" "With pleasure!" shouts her son. "I'm sick of playing second fiddle to my brother. You never give me anything!" Naomi rises, shaking. "I've fed you and I've clothed you, same as I did for him. I've done everything I can for both of you." At six-foot-two, Albert towers over her. "Fuck you!" he screams, lifting his thick fist.

La%y girl, get up! Lying abed all day without a stitch of work! But every time she tries to lift herself white stars blister through her head. What's happened here? asks Father.

Naomi and her mother take apart old clothes. As they work, Mother tells a story about Naomi's grandma. Although the story is a sad one, Naomi is feeling happy. Not leap-frog happy but content. Mother's voice lifts and falls with gende melody. Snip! goes a button, dark blue. Naomi picks the thread from its holes while Mother works out the elastic of a piece of underwear. She is saying that marriage is not for everyone. Some would be better off without, she says. Which areyou? Naomi asks. The marrying or not marrying kind? Mo>ther makes a face. This elastic is so frayed it's hardly worth the trouble,shee says. Also the same goesfor making babies. Babies are notfor everyone.

fool's bells —111 Why have them then? Naomi asks. Some can't help it, Mother answers. For myself it was a little yes, a little no. But for jourfather's mother, it was all no. Why do it then? Mother sighs. That is how it is for women.

Naomi's eyelids lift. Someone turns her over, pushes something sharp into her thigh and her eyelids drop once more.

Jeff hovers over her with worry twisting skin into a knot. Father also comes but Albert doesn't. Nor does Andrew.

Mother is the first to worship Father. She serves the meal but doesn't sit till after he has eaten. "Your mother was the best damn woman ever lived," Father tells her. "I know," agrees Naomi. "And you are her spitting image. Come on, give me a little smile." That's the way it is between them after Mother dies.

Mother punches down her dough and spreads a towel across it while Naomi sits humming at the kitchen table stuffing beans into the flannel valentines she is making for her friends at school. Mother, seasoning her stew, glances often through the window above the sink. "What happened to your face?" Naomi asks. Mother's hand shivers to her cheek. "I was clumsy," she explains. "I slipped and fell while standing in the tub." "I never fall," Naomi brags. "You should be more careful." She stuffs the last bean in, picks up her sewing needle and the thick red thread, and holds them up. "Can you help me?" "Atta girl!" Mother says, coming over to the table. She wipes her hands

112 — Lynnette D'anna brisldy on her apron. "You've finished them!" "Do you think Father will like his valentine?" "I'm sure he will," her mother says. "You've done fine work. I'm sure everyone will love them."

"Why didn't you phone me right away?" asks Andrew angrily. "She is my mother too!" "You don't deserve to know," Albert says. "If not for you, none of this would have happened." "How do you figure that?" Andrew asks. "I wasn't even there." "Faggot!" Albert sneers. "Never mind the bullshit. Just tell me how it happened." "She must have fallen and hit her head. Grandpa found her passed out in the kitchen." "According to who?" "Grandpa said." "Maybe it was him who hit her." "Don't bother coming back," says Albert roughly. "All of us are looking out for her. She doesn't need the likes of you around to fuck it up."

In her mother's garden Naomi pokes her pudgy fingers into the wet black dirt. Make a hole, push seed in, cover it all up. She makes a million holes, fills them up with beans, then pats a blanket over each. She is planting beans stolen from the basement pantry. She wonders if anything will grow from them since winter's coming. Mother always plants in spring. Up above geese fly in their alphabet path. Above them a jet plane marks a white smoke line across the sky. Mother is driving herself to town in the truck to see the doctor and Naomi is fending for herself while she is away. Pretty soon she starts grade one. She and Mother have bought crayons and scribblers, new shoes and even pretty underwear. Mother is sewing her a special dress from patterns for first day. Brown cotton printed with white babies' breath. The sailor collar is edged with white bric-a-brac and a piece of the bodice snaps open to make it easier to pull off over her head.

fool's bells— 113 Naomi finishes her careful planting. Wiping her dirty hands upon her jeans, she feels the chill which means the end of summer. She scrunches up her sweater tighter at the neck. "Rock of Ages, cleft for me!" she hollers, racing back to the cozy farmhouse.

There is nothing anyone can do about it, Mother will die. Not someday, but now. Right now. Not all the prayer in Naomi's body, not all the prayer in the entire world can fix her up. Even God Himself and all His Holy Angels can't make the cancer go away. While the doctor speaks to him, Father pinches his round church hat between his fingers. The hospital is very white and very cold, it is no place for children. They tell her that Mother will not hear her voice; they tell her she is sleeping even though her eyes are open. Please, please, please wake up! Please God please! Tears squeeze out from behind her lashes. Now now, hon, says a kindly nurse, leading her away. You might upset your mother. What she needs is peace and quiet. Naomi sits upon the bench in the lobby kicking at the wooden brace with her faded leather shoes. Glaring at the blinking Coke machine, she wishes for a quarter. She can't ask Father because he is busy now. He has no time for Naomi with her selfish little -wants. She is eleven after all, old enough to sit down and shut up and not be a nuisance, old enough not to beg for stupid luxuries like Coca Cola with her mother lying almost dead in the other room. A woman in a fancy lacy dress feeds two quarters to the slot. They clink inside and then she opens up the door to pull out two glass bottles of Orange Crush. She hands one to her little girl and keeps the other for herself. The child pops off the cap with the built-in opener on the cooler. Naomi watches quietly, not to cause a lick of trouble. The girl sucks at the bottle and stares back at her with squinty too-close-together eyes. Embarrassed, Naomi looks away. There is a water fountain at the far end of the hallway. She gets up and walks to it for a drink. It's cold and clear and tastes of Javex. If her mother were awake she could ask her why. Some squirts onto her face and she wipes it off with her ugly hand.


hanging Everyone has something missing. Often what isn't there is all that can be seen. A limb perhaps, or else a slice of face. Sometimes when she is high or just can't get to sleep she takes her mind off for a wander through graveyards filled with missing parts of people she has known. When she meets a John, her practised eye can usually show her right away what part of him is gone and then she tries to make him whole. Sometimes it is easy: a hint of scarlet, a touch of leather, long white gloves or sheer black stockings ending at the thigh. An accessory, a garnish like gleaming handcuffs and the thinnest whips. The smallest detail can help fill in their blanks, at least for a while. Jim has told her that his hands are tied where Mama is concerned. Hippocratic oath and hospital policy say she has to be kept going as long as there is some kind of hope. "If she came to right now, this very minute," Baby argues, "could she function? Would her brain still work?" He shrugs. "I don't indulge in idle speculation." "Could she talk, for example? Go to the bathroom by herself? Watch TV?" "I can't say." "What if you pulled this shit out of her?" "She might last a few hours, days, maybe even weeks. Or she could go on for years." "But she's not even living," protests Baby. Jirn toys with the stethoscope around his neck, pulls his shirt cuffs down and checks his timepiece. "Could we continue this discussion later? Like when I'm off shift? I'd like to spend some time with you tonight." "Oh," says Baby. "You know where I park my car." "What time?"

The taxi drops her at the 2-for-l. "Get a move on," she orders Lottie. "You know this corner's mine." "I heard you was missin' so I taken over man," Lottie says. "Heard from who?" "Everybody say that you ain't comin' back."

fool's bells — 775 "Who says?" "They all says so." "Well they all got it wrong! I'm not missing and this corner's taken." "You betta show yer face so they all shuddup." "I'm here right now. You tell them." "I ain't seen ya neitha, that's why I been hangin' here. Looks like Sammy gone for good man." Baby steps up very close to Lottie, her fists clenched tight. "What do you know about Sammy?" she growls. Lottie's hands fly up like shields to protect her face. "Hey man don't look at me! I don't know nothin' about nothin'!" "You better pray I never catch you here again," threatens Baby, but Lottie has already scampered off. Baby grinds a chip of glass to smithereens with her boot.

Myra's missing part isn't really missing yet, she just wishes that it was. But even though she wishes it were gone it still gives her pleasure. Baby toys with her dick, soft and harmless after sex. "I thought it was the first thing they did, cut it off. I always thought they did that first." "Only after tons and tons of other therapy. Hormone treatments. It can take years." "Did you always know you didn't want to be a man?" "Always." "No offence, but you must be pushing forty. What took so long?" "I thought I could make it. I really tried." "Were you ever a real guy?" "You mean guzzling beer and chasing tail?" "I mean were you ever married?" "Once upon a time," says Myra in a far-off voice. "Did you have kids?" "You ask a lot of questions for a whore." Baby wraps her lips around unwanted flesh and tugs. "If you don't answer me, I'll bite," she warns. "Okay. Yes, I had some kids." "So you're a daddy." "I was."

116 — Lynnette D'anna 'Were you a good one?" "No, I was a lousy daddy. As bad as all the rest." "Do you get to see the kiddies holidays and weekends?" "No." "You don't want to or they don't want to?" "Both." "Why?" "For a whore you ask a lot of questions. Where is Sammy?" "Did he ask questions?" "Never." "So he just sucked cock and minded his own business." "You could take lessons." "Who do you talk to about all this?" "No one." "You must have a shrink." "I bore him." "He should get out of business then, if he's so bored." Myra shrugs. "That's life," she says. "So tell me, where is Sammy?" "I haven't got a clue, do you?" "No, but I've hired a detective." "Will you tell me what happens? If he's found?" "Since you're down there anyway," Myra says, "you could get back to work. After all, you have to earn your keep." "Promise me you'll tell," Baby says. "I promise."

Piece by piece Baby has been moving back into her Mama's house. It's empty now and someone should be taking care of it. She brought her spindly plants and some neighbour kids came by with a homeless starving kitten so now she has another thing to care for. She has taken bottles from, the dishwasher, stuffed them in the bin; she has bleached the tub, sink and toilet; she has had Mama's mattress carted to the dump and replaced it with a four-poster waveless waterbed. Myra likes to come here and it is convenient for Jim. With these two clients Baby is making as much money as she needs. She lets Lottie have her corner for a while.

fool's bells— 117

Before Myra, Sammy was a sugar-baby looking for a daddy like everybody else. He got dumped out of a Caddy by the 2-for-l at her feet like a sliced-up gift and she had no choice. She hauled him in a taxi to her place where she fed him Percodan and Valium and helped put him back together. He said that he was bound to her because she saved his life but Baby only laughed at that. She knew what really held them. "One time ma and pa were on this bender," he told her that first day. "So there's my pa in our kitchen polishing his shotgun. Gonna get some moose today, he tells us. Takes a swig of brew and fiddles with the gun some more. I'm thinking I feel sorry for that moose. Ma was laughing her fool head off. I don't see what's so hilarious but there she is, cackling away, getting in his face. You bedda shuddup ol hoor, he goes, if you know what's good for you. But my old ma she won't let up, she never did, and all of a sudden there's this boom and all I see is red. "I can tell it's cold out 'cause I piss my pants and they're freezing to my legs. I get to Reenie's and I bang on her door till she lets me in. I told her I comefor breakfast. Why you pants wet boy? she asks and I say has she got corn flakes. They eat good at Reenie's. Cops come and shove my ma into a body bag. They haul off pa so I end up staying on at Reenie's. Her old man, he used to be a wresder, he goes psycho-sexy over me so pretty soon I gotta take off, I ain't got no choice. That Caddy was a bad trick, man." "Yeah." Baby grins. "I get it." "Best thing though." Sammy yawns. "Pa showed me how to play guitar. And my ma! Could she ever belt it out! Them two gave me something useful after all." "Better get some sleep," says Baby softly.

More than anything she wants to think Sammy is somewhere out there, dressed up to die nines and singing his heart out. She wants to see his face alive, maybe strutting on a country music video, when she turns on her TV. But all she sees when she shuts her eyes is Sammy with his throat cut open. Sammy with his wrists hacked up. Sammy weighed down at the bottom of the scummy river or dangling by a rope from some dingy warehouse ceiling.


Moon hangs a ghost up there in the daytime sky. Down in Mama's house Baby paces to and fro. In this house rotten things are bound to happen. On these floors grooved in from Mama's tangos, and no matter how much bleach she pours around, the everlasting stench of mouldy roses. What Mama taught was this: finish me off. Whatever happens, I want you to finish me off. She even showed her how. Here, like this. This is how you'll do it. Baby ties her arm to trap the blood for easy shooting. Fix in hand, she checks for air. One mistake can be your last and she still has more mistakes to make. This is just a practice run. This is not forever yet.

fool's bells— 119

caught Walking back alone she hears herself breathing, other creatures and the river thumping noisily about. Every sound is magnified, crisp and crystalclear. She recognizes Alviston by its dock and travels up the hill to Redicopps where she digs out her wallet. She has enough for some food and maybe a cup of Linda's coffee. Inside the store kids stuffing quarters into video machines ogle. "Hi again," Sra says. "Remember me?" The two exchange looks and roll their eyes around. "You been here before," says the little one. "Uh-huh," says Sra. cc You were lookin' at the river." "Yup, that was me." The big one pats his pocket. "Wanna buy a gun?" "No," says Sra. "You don't believe in guns?" "No. I'm here for food." "What about a knife? I gotta good one, see? I'll give it to you for just ten bucks." "I don't need a knife." "You wastin' yer time, man," says the small one. "She's a loser. She ain't got no money." Sra picks out a plastic basket and calculates the cost as she goes. Beans, cheese, soda crackers, powdered milk and more peanut butter. After she has paid for it, she has just enough for coffee. Linda's place is busier today. A few men in a corner and a young woman with a sleeping baby on the bench is sharing French fries with a toddler. Linda beams a welcome. "You came back!" "I'd love a cup of coffee." She bustles with the pot, a mug, a freshly baked donut and a newspaper. "Here ya go," she says cheerily. "I can't chat 'cause I got other orders to take care of so maybe you wanna read the paper." Sra pushes the plate away. "I can only pay for coffee." "You eat that," says Linda briskly "Looks like you could use the calories. It's on the house." She bustles off while Sra bites into the donut, unfolds the paper and spreads it across the table. Who's engaged, who's gotten married, who has

120 — Lynnette D'anna sold their cottage, who has moved. Bake sales, store openings and warnings about thieves who rip off car stereos "Hey there pretty lady, when did you get into town?" What she sees are blackest eyes and thickest hair pulled back into a ponytail wound with string and beads. "Hi," she says. "Mind if I sit? Name's Terry. Could I buy you a coffee?" He slides into the booth when she nods. 'TJnda already has." She thumbs the paper. "Maybe I read about you in here?" He snorts. "I doubt it. I'm the editor." She grins. "You can't be. Editors have inky fingers." "That was precomputer. What's your name?" "Sra." '"An unusual name, I like it. So what brings you to Alviston?" "I've been hiking along the river," Sra says. "I stopped in for supplies but now I'm out of money. I think I need a job." Linda sets a cup down on their table. "Terry's just the man for you," she says. "He's practically the last employer left in town." Terry's black eyes gleam. "We haven't had a traveller in these parts for more than twenty years," he says. "If you don't include those pesky aliens who've abducted half of Alviston." "This coffee is my last red cent." "Linda, toss some eggs and ham for two," says Terry. "There's a love." "I don't eat ham." "Extra ham on mine then, hon. Can you spell?" "Not really." "Can you fake it?" "I guess." "Then I guess you have a job." Sra sniffs her armpit. "I haven't had a bath in quite a while," she says. "I happen to have a fantastic bathtub," he offers. "Which you can use, if you like."

In his suite above the office where he makes the paper, Sra leans against the porcelain with bubbles rising to her chin. Before he left for work he folded down the spare bed quilt and ordered her to get some rest. "I won't need those stellar spelling skills until tomorrow," he said.

fool's bells —121

5he awakes to darkness. The illuminated clock beside the bed shows 10:10 which means she has slept the day away. She gets up to use the toilet and then wanders to the kitchen where she finds him cooking;. o "Great!" he says heartily. "You're just in time for dinner. I have all these fresh-picked vegetables from Mrs. Grant and now I have someone to help me eat them. But you are naked." She looks down. "I forgot," she says. "I could put something on." "Then I wouldn't have the pleasure of dining with a naked alien." But he removes his shirt and proffers it to her. Sra draws fabric around herself. Soft and white, it smells of sun and garlic. "I travel naked," she explains. "There's just me and the river." "Lucky river." Terry grins, then serves up heaping helpings of stir- fried veggies with pasta and they eat in silence. He offers her his hand and in the living room he turns on music, lights candles and pours wine. "Is this a seduction?" Sra asks. "I'd call it sharing. You, me. Food, music, wine. . ." "Clothing..." Soft fingers slip across her cheek. "Exactly," he says hoarsely. "What's mine is yours." Two, Sra thinks. Since Creature has abandoned her she has been lonely She tucks her fingertips inside his shorts where he is hard and waiting. "I don't mind seduction," she whispers, "but you've probably got a wife or two tucked away somewhere, like in a garret." "No wife." He groans. "Don't stop! No garret, I promise you."

vSra stretches in the sunshine like a lazy lizard on a ledge. Terry has gone down to his office. He told her she could join him there when she was ready. Sooner or later she will go. But right now all she wants to do is lie here in the sun on this bed with clean sheets touching her all over. She slides her hands along her skin thinking too good to be true. Something will go wrong. But it is still too early to anticipate disaster. Maybe she could stay a long long time. All winter maybe. Do a bit of spelling, put out a little paper. Or maybe not. Every thought inside her head is wearing fuzzy rabbit slippers and a fluffy yellow housecoat. Most likely the fault of

122 — Lynnette D'anna ing August heat combined with Terry's agile touching. She strokes her palm down her breast and in between her legs where she's still hot. Here there is no noise at all. Only sheets clinging to her body. Only the soft music he left for her to wake up to. Only this bold sun. She shakes her head to clear out lazy cobwebs. If this was all there was, could she be satisfied?

It isn't much spelling after all. More like answering the phone and taking notes. Tomorrow is the paper's deadline and everyone has a bit of gossip to spread around. When the phone rings, Sra answers with her pencil poised. In early evening Terry pulls the plug and takes her out to dinner. Then back to his house where he steers her to the spare room door and pecks her cheek politely before leaving. She stands where she's been planted. Alone again. She thinks she hears Creature giggle. Here I am, alone again, for the millionth time. Half the night she tosses, choking on the feather pillows and the toowarm quilt. Finally she gets up stealthily and sneaks out, carefully closing every door. Passing Redicopps and Linda's to the bottom of the hill. On the riverbank she kneels. Moon spills thick light upon black water. "I came to say I was too proud. I'm sorry. I should have accepted help from Fool when he offered." She lifts her arms towards the sky. "You know how hard this is for me, to admit I have been wrong. You needn't make me beg. Just show yourself!" The dirt is damp and cold beneath her knees gone tender from captivity. There is no answer. No Creature, Fool nor Drummer. Not even a stupid grumbling Beggar. With first light she stands slowly. "I have not forgotten!" she calls out. 'You promised there would be Something always watching over me. Why have you not kept your word?"

air symbolizes communication, the relationship of things to each other & to the higher and lower worlds. Air brings together but also differentiates, criticizes, detaches from & alienates. In this sense it is unpredictable.


proud Naomi chooses the best time to sneak into the ward. Suppertime, when day shift leaves and night shift arrives, no one looks so closely at one lone child sneaking in to see her only dying mother. This woman lying on the bed is mine, she tells herself and just to make absolutely sure she grips the icecold hand. "Please wake up," she whispers urgently. "They won't let me in here because I'm not a grown-up, but I know you're never coming home again and I have to say goodbye. To say I love you and I won't forget you. Ever!" The bleached lips stretch and Naomi moves in closer. "What?" she asks. "I can't hear. You have to talk a little louder." "You be good." Mother uses her creaky morning voice. "Promise me. Say you'll make me proud." "I promise," says Naomi solemnly. She brushes the grey cheek with her lips and then Mother falls upon the pillow quiet. Naomi creeps out just as she crept in.

Father smacks his lips over the sizzling pan. "Fried chicken!" he says approvingly. "I think it's ready." Naomi is proud. She has watched her mother but she's never fried a chicken by herself before. She sets the pan in front of Father and then she seats herself.

126 — Lynnette D'anna He helps himself to a drumstick and bites into it while she waits anxiously. "This is just fine," he pronounces. She brings a wing up to her mouth sssssssssssssand holds it to her lips. Father frowns. "You will wait," he says, "until I say so. Because you are the woman and it is the woman's job to serve the man. Do you understand?" She lowers the wing, sets it down and waits until his plate is clear. Then she brings him coffee. After that he nods and she can eat her own cold meal.

He brushes up against her in her mother's kitchen and names her Helen. "Mother's dead," she tells him. "I'm Naomi." But in the dark is where he really gets a hold of her. Goodgirl\s> what he names her then. With a little imagination she can rearrange the facts inside her head. And she has more than just a little, she has way too much. Teachers always scold her for what they call her daydreams and nobody ever believes a thing she has to say. And sometimes with Father it feels good too. After all, the only thing they have to hold onto is each other.

.Andrew paces miles and miles of city blocks to think about his family.

fool's bells —127

passage Moonlight winks through the window of the room in which Naomi lies. Someone is calling out her name but she can't tell who. She strains to lift her eyelids. Maybe the voice belongs to Mother who always works too hard, forever sewing, cooking, feeding, planting, taking care of things. Naomi is exactly like her with her own everlasting sewing, cooking, feeding, planting, and she is the same age now as Mother was when she escaped her drudgery. Jessie peeks around Father's shoulder. Beside the two of them stands Jeff, holding their twin babies in his arms. Mother, shyly hidden in the corner, keeps her knitting needles busy. Naomi holds her camera steady and takes a picture of them as they are, crowded tight together in her tiny moonlit room. Tonight the ward is still, except for these ghosts. I don't want these burdens anymore, she tells them all and then she turns to Father. What's past is past. Let it go. You've got another wife. He shakes his head disapprovingly. You can never know how terribly I love you. And I you., she replies. Buf this terrible love of ours is killing me. I have done only what you wanted. God my witness, never more nor less.

So you may think, Naomi answers. But I was just a child. I never had a single choice. Angrily Jeff turns to him. I got her used because of you, he says. It's all your fault. She never had the time of day for me. You took everything she had to give and then demanded mre.

You got exactly what you wanted! Father shouts. You got more than me! You got them boys! Stop it! Naomi yells. All of you have taken and you've taken! Christ knows you've each had yourpound of flesh! And nowyou have the nerve to stand here squabbling over scraps! She faces Mother. Why did you tell me to be good? I bore it all without complaint because of you! How couldyou curseyour flesh and blood like that? How dareyou curse and call it blessing? Your job was to protect me! Mother lifts her needles spooled with wool. Remember the scarf set I made you with angora? she asks. Remember howyou loved it?


That fuzzy scarf so long it can be wound a hundred times around her head and throat and still have more for tails. Mother creaks on her rocker by the fireside, a ball of red unravelling between her slippered feet with Naomi so impatient to have it ready by first snow. In the crusty hoarfrost air, breath hangs in puffs and in the garden there are clods of dirt where once were carrots, corn and squash. All those pretty clothes only Mother can create make Naomi better dressed than any other kid in school, even than the snooty townies. She leans her cozy newly-mittened hands against the arm of the rocking chair watching Mother's needles fly. "You're a real good sewer," she says softly. "All the other girls are jealous." "I make do," answers Mother. "It's little enough that I can give to you." "Why does Father hit you?" Naomi asks, cherishing this confidential moment. "He is unhappy," Mother says. "It has nothing to do with me." "But it's you he hits," Naomi says. "So it is." Mother sighs. "I'm almost done. Then you'll have the scarf to go with those red mitts and everyone for miles around will see you coming." The fire crackles while her needles wind and stitch, click and clack, wind and stitch.

You cheated me, Naomi says accusingly. You cheated me of my birthright. There never was a blessing. Quietly Mother passes her the scarf. Here it is, all done. Try it on. Tell me if you like it. Any second now a nurse will come through that door with another shot. Don 't! Naomi will tell her. / can 't afford to sleep my life away.

"Don't give me that!" she croaks. "Oh my goodness!" says the nurse. "You're awake!" "Please don't give me any more." The woman lifts Naomi's wrist and listens, counting. "Don't you worry,"

fool's bells — 129 she says. "I won't. But I'll have to call your doctor." "Tell him I don't want to go back to sleep," Naomi says. The woman works her over with soothing clucking sounds. "You seem to be all right," she says at last. "Is there anything you need?" "I'd like to know what happened to me." "You had a nasty fall which resulted in a concussion. You've been hanging by a thread." "Red wool," Naomi says. "Angora. I saw it in my dream. My mother gave it to me." "Red's a good strong colour." The woman smoothes down sheets. "All done! You're as good as gold!"

Andrew finds her on the promenade in a wheelchair, blinking under sunlight. Impulsively he circles her with his arms and then steps quickly back. "What are you doing out here?" he scolds. "Albert said that you were in a coma." "I'm better now," says Naomi. "You know you can't keep a good horse down." "He made it sound like you were dying." '"You know your brother. Always exaggerating." "He said it was all my fault, what happened to you." Naomi shakes her head. "It has nothing whatsoever to do with you! I had a simple accident, that's all." He looks down at his boots scuffing in the dirt. "Right," he mutters. Naomi's voice is stern. "How could it be your fault? You were miles away. Andrew, look at me! There's a thing I have to tell you now, and I need to know you've heard." "You'll probably regret telling me." "Perhaps. But I feel I have no choice. I have to say it, regardless of the consequences. It's time for truth between us now." "So? Tell." "It wasn't me who asked for it. That old man takes exactly what he wants. He's always been that way." "You and your excuses! To me it looked as though you wanted it. It looked as though you liked it." "What you thought you saw and what was being felt are as far apart as

130 — Lynnette D'anna night and day. Has your own body never done a thing your brain says it shouldn't want?" Andrew bunches up his fist. "I'll kill them all!" he shouts. "My hands are strong you know, from drumming. I'll rip them apart from limb to limb. Rip them up and throw them in the trash where they belong!" "What would that accomplish? It would only add more grief." 'We'd be rid of them for good," says Andrew bitterly. "That's what it would accomplish. But no, you'd rather let them use and use you till you're all used up. What good are you anyway? Tell me that!" "I won't go back to him, not ever. It's over between him and me." "That's what you say now but I know it's not. You've been a doormat far too long to change. For all I know, that's the way you want it." "No!" protests Naomi but her son has turned away from her.

The boy is right, Father tells her in her dreams. You're lying if you say you never liked it. You spreadyour legs apart and begged me for it. I 'm only human after all; I couldn 't help myself. Half the time it was you chasing after me. You're such a braggart, Naomi says. Who of'us can tell the whole entire truth? We each see precisely what we want to see.

fool's bells — 131

keeping Coming down way too hard, Mama lurks in every corner. Baby has spent hours combing through the house but she finds no photographs or videos of a blank-eyed fucking child. Maybe Roseman took them. More likely Mama sold them off for wine and then forgot. The machine keeps taking urgent messages from Myra. If it's about Sammy, Baby doesn't want to hear. All she wants to do is scour, to get rid of Mama's grit. Doesn't want to know how he's been damaged. There is absolutely nothing fair about it.

Jim winces, caressing scabs leftover from their last encounter. "I feel so old today," he tells her. "I feel just like a father." "Lucky you," says Baby. "Most men like that." "I am not most men." She sighs and lies back, passive. "Okay. Today you get to be the boss." Then he gets down on his knees, pushes at her vulva with a long rough tongue. "This can be good too," he says. She holds her thighs together. "No!" she protests but he will not stop. Afterwards, he lays beside her spreading out his arm to hold her head. "I can't allow that," she says angrily. "Please don't do that again." "So you came," says Jim. "Big deal." "It's all too easy for men like you." "There are no other men like me." "Have it your way then!" she snaps. "Men like you always do." "I liked doing it. I could do it again, right now." Baby stands, tugging up the sheet with her. "Over my dead body." "Why are you so angry?" "You could never understand. You could not begin to try. What happens when your yuppie wife sees all those scars you pay me for?" "She doesn't," Jim says.

Every morning Baby goes to the market at the end of Mama's street. She takes to watching television in the evenings. She rakes the lawn and

132 — Lynnette D'anna sweeps the walk. Every afternoon she visits Mama. On Mondays Jim brings wine and deli food and flowers. Mondays Baby wears silky teddies, garters and high heels. Thursdays are for leather, chains and whips. "I want to be exclusive," he says one Monday. "I don't do exclusive," answers Baby. "You know that." He sucks in his cheeks. "What would you say," he asks, "if I told you that I used to know your mama?" "I'd say why not tell me sooner?" "It was long before your birth." "Oh." "I fell in love." 'With Mama?" "I was still in med school. I wanted her to marry me." "Did you know who I was when you picked me up in the cafeteria?" "You look so much alike." "So you did." "I guessed." "And you didn't think I had the right to know?" "I wanted to tell you; I just couldn't." "If you loved her, as you claim, why did you never try to help? She was in trouble. And I was at her mercy." "I sent her money. I kept an eye on her." He touches himself. " Look," he coaxes, "at what I've got for you." "Looks just like the usual. A lousy seven inches." Her voice is sharp. Groaning, he reaches out. "You have no idea how much I need you." Baby slaps him down. Then she takes his seven inches with her teeth.

"I'm taking you to see my place," he tells her Thursday. "I want to show you where I live. I want to fuck you in my house." "Will she be there?" "No. She's in Mexico. On holiday." "So why not wait till she comes back? Then the three of us could get it on together." He takes her in the BMW out to his estate on the riverbank with its dock, tennis courts and maze. Baby steps from the car, stretching out her kinks. "Why live way out here?" she asks.

fool's bells — 133 "Privacy," he says. "Land. Water. Lower taxes. And there's the maze I told you about." "Mazes are for human sacrifice, any fool knows that." She watches across his shoulder while he taps out codes to disarm the house before they enter. "You have to go through that every time?" "You can never be too careful." Jim grins. "Keeping people out. Holding people in. You, for example, you're trapped in here until I choose to let you go." Baby shudders, taking in embossed walls and heavy chandeliers, priceless trinkets and gilt-framed photographs on the gleaming baby grand. "How nice for you," she says. "Welcome to my castle." He palms her elbow. "I thought you'd like it. Now come along." Through the window of the master bedroom she sees the river curling beyond the maze. A life-sized portrait of his wife hangs above the bed. "Take off your clothes," she says. Obediently he shrugs his jacket off onto a wing-tipped chair, struggles with his tie. Naked, he is in her power. Despite the mansion and the car and the maze and the doctorate with its tidy matching wife. Snapping cuffs around his wrists and ankles, he is in her power. Beneath the cowhide and the rigid dildo, he is in her power. When she prods his thighs apart, when she orders him to spread his cheeks, she is in control. When she brings the leather down, when she straddles him, she is in control. It's easier to fuck him when he starts to bleed and he is hard as granite when she checks which means his whimpering is meaningless. He pays extra for this treatment. The moon-faced wife above the bed turns him on and he strains to look at her while Baby grinds her heel into his groin. When at last she takes the shackles off he reaches down to give himself relief, but she raps away his hands, cinches him and forces him to come that way.

She stumbles to the bath. Everything she needs is there, antiseptic, gauze, tape and drugs, and she helps herself. Mirrored walls display a thousand busy Babys spinning round and round. "I'm going to clean you up now," she says, checking his pulse. Knowing she is trapped in here until he lets her go. While he sleeps she finds his den, the only messy room in the house. The papers on his desk reveal nothing. His bookshelves hold journals,

134 — Lynnette D'anna textbooks and paperback detective stories. She finds the safe where she expects it, hidden behind a gaudy painting. The woman of the house has no room except the flawless gym. In the kitchen Baby flicks on the TV while scrounging up a snack. When she is done consuming it, she rinses clean her dishes and sets them in the dishwasher. Finds wine to take into the room where Jim is stirring and offers him a drink. He rises flinching up to his elbow and gulps straight from the bottle. He fumbles for a grin. "Thanks a million for the memories," he croaks. "Any time," Baby says. "It's what you pay me for."

"We're staying," he tells her over dinner. "Exclusive doesn't mean you own me." 'You still refuse to understand," says Jim. "That is precisely what it means."

There's the fucking moon again, razor sharp with icy sprinkled stars around. It lights up the maze below, the endless river like a snake coiling up to strike, the boat moored to the dock, lumbering and ghostlike. Baby shivers. Standing naked all night long at the bedroom window while Jim behind her snores. When at last the moon has set she prods him up. "I have to go," she tells him urgently. "Get up! Now!"


landmarks >5rie bids farewell to Terry and again she packs her bag. At the bottom of the hill she meets the same two kids poking sticks into the river. "Hey lady! Where ya goin this time?" "Home," she tells them. "I feel winter coming on." "Is that old guy goin' with ya?" "I travel by myself." "But whaddabout dat old guy?" "What you find isn't always what you want," says Sra. "Watch out for that." "I never trusted no one." The child scratches herself behind the ear. "Don't get eaten by no bears, you hear?"

Loneliness moves her quickly and soon she sees signs of city dropped around like so much litter. One Way. No Stopping. No Left Turn. She unrolls her bag for a final night with nature, what's left of it, with her mind on edge. Thinking about events, people who have made their mark on her along the way, visions she has seen. Thinks of Stonybrook where she was raised amid the Monochromes worshipping a vengeful god she never understood. She thought she was a Traveller seeking out the Truth, but what she learned instead is how to put one foot before the other when she has to. Plodding on is all she's learned for certain. She has not seen hide nor hair of Albino since starting on this journey. She thinks of calling Creature but dismisses the idea. Begging is really not her style. But when something taps her shoulder she whirls about. She feels a rush of wind, sees a splash of crimson and hears the sweetest laughter. I hear tell you 've been missing me. Sra can't help herself, she laughs with Creature, but she is also angry. "Where were you?" she demands. "You've broken every single promise you ever made to me! You think you can just waltz on back into my life without apology?" Why not? lias something changed? "I don't need you, that's what's changed," Sra snaps. "I can make it on my own. It isn't that I like it, but I know that I can do it."

136 — Lynnette D'anna So you've hit upon a Truth at last! Good for you! "If the Truth is that I don't need anyone, not you or Albino or Fool or Drummer either, then I guess I have. After you deserted me I made my own way. And now I'm going to find Caleb." I could swear I just heardyou say you can make it onyour own. A.nd nowyou say you 're looking for the human. Is this affection talking or is it need?

'"What's that to you?" I'm asking you if you still want me. "All you are is an apparition I've invented, a hallucination. Something I've created in my fertile mind to help me try to make some sense of life." So you don't need me?

"No," says Sra. "I don't." In that case I will go, Creature says demurely. Unless of course you don't want me to. "Are you offering to stay?" Areyou asking! "What can you do for me that I can't do myself?" I can always keep you company. I can holdy our hand when you're afraid and sing to you if you'd like. A.nd asfor what you can dofor me, although you didn 'task, you could tell me stories.

Sra considers Creature's offer. Her last night on the living breathing river, to be alone with all her fantasies, fears and inventions. Now she has a choice. "Okay," she says softly. "All right, I'm asking. Will you stay?"

A simple point of light, it isn't much to ask for in this world. Someone to walk beside, someone to lie with, someone who will answer when they're called. It isn't much to ask for, a simple point of light. When Sra shuts her eyes she can call up anything she chooses. Creature, Albino, Drummer, Fool, even a lowly Beggar or almost anything that she decides to name. Imp's mouth is smiling as she constructs her noose. It's one thing she can do. Looping heavy rope the way she practiced it a hundred times, sometimes even in her sleep. Checking it for hold. She drags the wobbly wooden stool across the floor. Stretches up on tiptoe, straining to fasten cord to beam. Following her own instructions, she thrusts her chin inside the dangling circle. Then she tightens it around her neck. Kicking out the stool, kicking it with all her might, still kicking after it has fallen. Hanged

fool's bells — 13 7 there kicking, the final order her brain gave to her feet and they remember even after her heart has stopped. It's one thing she can do. I think I understand, Sra whispers. You had no other choice. You had to end the pain. There was no turning back.

A simple point of light. I hope you 're better now.


fire Jeff fiddles with his tie, clears his throat. "They tell me you're awake," he says. Through the window Naomi sees the leaves are turning colour. "I brought you flowers. I thought they might cheer you up." His scraping chair sends chasing shivers down her spine. "Who let you in?" she rasps. "Since when do I need permission to see my wife?" "If not for you, I wouldn't even be here." "You're thinking it was me who hit you?" "Who else? There was only you and me and Albert in that kitchen." "There's your answer," Jeff says. "I've kicked him out. He's on his own." "But I thought..." "I saw it coming, I just didn't get to him in time." He sets a calloused hand on the blanket covering her knees. "It's all my fault. I should've stepped in sooner." "I'm done with being shoved around," says Naomi. "By my family. In my own home! It isn't right. Where do you think he learned it from, to yell and hit? It was not from me." Jeff bunches blanket with his fingers. "How can I ever live it down?" he asks. "I know that it's no excuse, but I was just a boy myself. I saw my father do it and so I did it too. But you know I haven't raised a hand to you in years." "Are you telling me you're sorry?" "I don't have a gift for words, but I had hoped someday you would notice how things had changed with me." "I noticed but I didn't really know for sure." Naomi pauses. "I was kept on edge waiting for the next time. Expecting it, you might say." "I guess that can happen too." Naomi pats her husband's hand and then, before she knows it, he is lying on the bed with her and crying. She has never heard him weep but still she pushes him away. "All is not forgiven yet. With these few words." "I was hoping that we could start fresh." "You and me, maybe," Naomi says. "But there's still Father." She reaches for a tissue from the box beside her bed. "There's still all that for me to deal with." Jeff blows into the tissue. "Please tell me what you mean by that. I think it's time for me to know." "What I mean," Naomi says, "is his endless use of me. I mean him

fool's bells — 139 taking me on as a lover when I was a girl. After Mother died. Even now, when the mood strikes him, even under your own roof. Whenever and wherever he fancies taking it." "Am I hearing right?" "Do I have to spell it out?" "I know he lifts his hand to you, I saw evidence aplenty. But I never knew how far it went. You never said. You turned away from me every time I tried to ask." "I couldn't bear to have you know. I was ashamed." "Why tell me now?" "I have nothing more to lose." She tugs the covers up around her face. "I want to have it stopped but I don't think I can do it by myself." "So no one but you and me knows about it?" Naomi's voice breaks. "Andrew too." "How did he find out?" "He caught us once. In the house." Jeff inhales sharply. "You went with him into our bed?" "No," she whispers, flushed with shame, "never, ever in your bed." "Where then?" he asks loudly. "I can't answer that. But not in your bed, believe me." Then everything falls out of Jeff and he sags. "I'm so sorry," Naomi cries.

Jeff seeks out Albert at the machine shop where he's been taking care of things. He flips the Open sign to Closed, then locks the door behind him. Albert eyes his father nervously. "How is she?" "It looks as though she'll be all right, no thanks to you my boy." "I didn't mean for this to happen," Albert whines. "I just didn't stop to think." "It's too late for sorries now," says Jeff. "And anyways, you should say them to your mother, not to me." "She makes me so mad I can't think straight, always going on about my brother. She never gave a shit for me. It's like I don't exist." "She loves you both the same." Albert sighs. "Have it your own way then, if it makes you feel better." "I closed the shop for us to talk. There's something I need to ask and I want the truth. No bullshit."

140 — Lynnette D'anna Albert fiddles with a crescent wrench. "Shoot," he says. "You can ask me anything." "It's about your grandpa. Do you know what I'm getting at? It's about your grandpa and your mother." "You mean how she goes out to the barn with him? I've known ever since I was old enough to know about that kind of shit I used to spy on them. I used to watch them two going at it sometimes just for kicks." "Why did you not tell me?" "I figured that you knew." "I must be the only one in town who didn't. What a fool I am!"

The pictures spooling through Jeff's head remind him of a stag film he saw years ago when he was still a boy. Girls in Chains or something. He twists and turns around his lonely bed while his mind shows his very own Naomi laid out with her legs apart. His heavy-breasted thick-lipped doeeyed woman with that crowing pompous one-eyed prick, pecker thick as any ankle, moving deep inside her. Jeff has seen it when the old man relieves himself anywhere as though the whole stinking world is an outhouse made for him. His own two boys look on scoffing. Everybody knowing what a fool he's been. The red gas can is full and waiting in the barn like it's been set there by god himself. Carefully he lifts it. Carefully he spreads the gasoline around. After he has done his careful soaking he shouts out to the old man to meet him in the barn.

"Mom! Wake up! Mom, Mom!" Naomi's eyes are blurred with sleep. "What?" she asks stupidly. "Please wake up," pleads Andrew at her bedside. "There's been an accident. A bad accident! There was a fire! Grandpa's dead, can you hear me? He's been burned up! He's dead!" "Oh my god!" cries Naomi. "Oh god, oh god, oh my god!" A wail starts deep inside her bowels, tears up through her cunt and her heart. It floods her whole soiled and wicked world.

fool's bells —141

escape Baby rubs sweaty palms on her jeans and picks up the receiver. "I can't see you this week," she tells Jim. "Is something wrong?" "I just can't see you. I need to take a break. It isn't personal." "If it's a break from me, I take it personally." "Please try to understand."

The happy baby on dancing Mama's back waves her chubby arms and giggles but Baby shuts her off. This dream tells lies. That's not the way it was. All the love that Mama didn't give or couldn't, Baby knows the truth but it hasn't set her free. It holds her captive like a slave. The machines keeping Mama hostage hiss and buzz and Baby sits amid them staring through the window. "Hey you!" She turns toward the familiar voice and sees Roseman in the doorway clutching a batch of blood-red sweethearts, moss green ferns and babies' breath with his thumbless hand. "What are you doing here?" Baby shouts, leaping to her feet. "She's as good as dead, can't you see? Are you blind as well as dumb? She can't do anything for you now! There's nothing left! Leave her alone! Get out of here!" He places his bouquet on Mama's chest, upon the sheet. "I didn't realize you were here," he says. "Or I would have waited." "As you should well remember, taking care of Mama is my job. It's the only useful thing I was ever trained to do." "I tried to help out when I could," Roseman says. "In my way, I tried." "To tie her up and beat her senseless, that seems to be your way." "That's what she wanted me to do." "So you claim. But she can't speak for herself, can she? She can't tell the truth of what you did to her." "I loved her. Maybe you don't know about that kind of love." "And what you did to me, was that because of love as well? I want those pictures that you stole from me! I want my childhood back! I want what I deserve!"

142 — Lynnette D'anna Roseman's fingers wind themselves around each other. He backs away, looks afraid She is taller now than he is. He gestures knotting hands at Mama lying still upon the bed. "It's much too late for that," he says. "I can't change the past. But we both know what she wants now. I admit I haven't been any sort of father to you, but maybe I could make it up. Maybe I could help you out with this." Baby shivers. "Father?" she whimpers. "Is that true?" Roseman bends to set a kiss on Mama. Then he straightens up and looks Baby squarely in the eye. "Yes," he says. "And if you can't do this for her, then I have to. We just can't let them hold her like this, against her will, forever. One of us has to help her to let go." On Mama's chest the roses rise and fall with her raspy breath. The crimson sweethearts, the hiss of the machines that keep her trapped in life, which never seemed to want her in the first place. Trapped inside her body along with all that misery. What if she came to? What then? There is nothing for her in this world. Swiftly Roseman slips a pillow out from under Mama's head. He holds it cautiously between his hands. His eyes are blurred and weary. He turns his back on Baby. "You should say goodbye," he tells her softly. Baby edges backwards, nudging the door behind her open with her boot. "I never want to see you again," she says harshly. "You mean less than nothing in the world to me." She escapes into the narrow hallway and then she starts to run. Free, at last.

She treads the city streets endlessly long into the night. These streets she's had as home for all these years. The concrete library where she taught herself how to read and write, to think things through, taught herself what other kids learned in school. She stops at Ichabods where Sammy used to sing. Raoul offers her a whiskey on the house and sticks close by while she drinks it. While she drinks he tells her all about them finding Sammy. Dead. "I thought that record lady would have told you," says Raoul. "She's been looking for you. Have you been away?" "I need another shot." Baby's hands are shaking. "I've been out of touch." At Ichabods she scores enough heroin to get her over to the other side. Outside the 2-for-l, Candy waves her over. Baby mentions Dr. Jim

fool's bells — 143 and Candy says she knows him from before. "He pays real good," she says. "And he don't fuck you up." "I know," says Baby. "You want him back? I think him and me are through." She writes out Jim's number, passes it to Candy, then she hails a taxi cab. "Sun's up early," says the cabbie. "Hot as hell for August." "Sure is," she agrees. He peers at her through his rearview mirror. "How's tricks these days? Recession hit your business yet?" "Can't complain." "I guess some luxuries are harder to let go than others." At Mama's house there is another batch of flowers on the stoop. She scoops them up into her arms to take inside to add to all the others. The house reminds her of a funeral; everyday he sends another batch. She calls his pager and within minutes he calls her back. "Did you get my flowers?" he asks eagerly. "Does this mean you'll see me?" "I order you to stop. It's like a graveyard in here. These plants have sucked up all my oxygen and I can't breathe." "I'm buying you a house. My accountant tells me it'll do me good." "Thanks, but I don't want your yuppie house." He groans. "Baby, Baby! I absolutely have to see you! I'll do anything you say. Now! Today!" She glances at her watch. "I haven't been to sleep," she says, counting hours on her fingers. "So first I'll need a nap. How about later on? How is three o'clock for you?"

Everyone she's ever met is missing something. Sometimes the missing thing is obvious, like Roseman's absent thumb. Other times, it's not. Finding it has been her business. She has done it well enough. The morning sun is brilliant. Too bright for what she has to do. She travels through Mama's house shutting up the blinds to block it out. She paces out the stairs, counting in her head the way she did when she was scared to death of billies and all the otherjacks and////r Mama sold her to. It seems she has always been afraid of something she can't name. In Mama's room old ghosts lie waiting, billy wants a baby, mama wants a

144 — Lynnette D'anna roseman, jack wants, jim wants, daddy wants, silly billy wants. These tunes like nursery rhymes fill her head until she cannot hear herself at all. There has been no stopping anyone from taking what they wanted out of her. The sour stench of rotting wine, blood and roses has crept beneath her skin and lodged itself inside. It's stuck in there for good. She will always stink of it no matter how much bleach she pours around. While she loads her syringe, the tango ghost of Mama prances through the flowers Jim has had delivered to coax her back. // doesn't hurt! croons Mama. It feels so good! So free1. You'll seel Mama!Mama, waitforme!~S>3bj calls. I'm coming too!


confessions First he cleans their house from floor to ceiling. Then he travels to the hospital to see his wife. The nurse tells him she has been sedated to protect her from the shock. Tenderly he gazes down at her. "I've cleaned the house," he says. "And I've taken care of that other business too. It's over now. He can't bother you again."

Naomi dances naked. With candlelight she holds her dark at bay. Won't let Satan blow it out! she howls into the flame.

"I can't do any more for you," Jeff tells his silent wife. "I've done all that I can."

Naomi walks through soggy autumn leaves out to Father's farm. The house still standing where she last saw it, a sole witness to her childhood. Her mother's garden and all its dirt belongs to Jessie now. She has earned it, thinks Naomi. Past the apple trees in the orchard, past the porch swing and onto the veranda. She knocks upon the solid door. "Why hello!" exclaims Jessie. "It's so good to see you up and around! Come in, come in!" Cautiously Naomi steps across the threshold of her Father's house. "I'm not sure what brought me out here like this. I should have called you first." "I'll make some tea," says Jessie quickly. "It's just fine you're here." "I see you've taken in the garden." "With all the rain we had a bumper crop." Father's wife is pouring tea in teacups, milk into the creamer and sugar in the bowl. She sets it all before Naomi like a gift and pulls a chair out for herself. Her cheeks are moist and soft and her eyes are clear. "You're looking good," says Naomi awkwardly.


"You too." They sip their tea in silence until at last Naomi clears her throat. "I want to see," she says. "I need to look at where it happened." "I understand," says Jessie kindly. "After all, you missed the burial." "I can't get myself free of him," Naomi blurts. "You want me to go along?" "I think I should go alone." She hesitates. "I always wanted to be more help to you somehow. I felt so bad, seeing what he did to you. He did the same thing to my mother. It wasn't against you, it was just his way." "He liked my cooking," Jessie says. "And you know he loved you more than life itself." "Did he?" asks Naomi. "Did he really?" Jessie places a cold hand on Naomi's arm. "I think you should forgive yourself," she says simply. "You didn't make him do it."

Naomi paces out the charred space where Father's barn once stood. Where Father himself once stood. This is where he beat me, she thinks. This is where heforced himself on me. And here, this is where we loved. All ashes now. She tries to lay to rest the past.

fool's bells —147

kissed Creature travels with her through the concrete city to the bridge with Caleb on the other side. For a moment they both stare into the soiled water from above. The river should have taken her to Stonybrook but instead it led her in a circle. They find him on the street, flute pressed to his lips. Laughingly she drops a dime into his case. "That's my last coin," she says. "Which means you could be stuck with me." "You came!" he shouts happily, throwing both his arms around her. "Tm thirsty and I need a shower badly." "You can bathe at my place. But first let me take you for a drink." In the bar he shows her photographs of his baby. "It seems like nothing ever goes the way you hope it will," he says. "But here you are after all!" "I told you I'd be back. I try my best to keep my promises." "Is keeping promises the only reason you are here?" "I would've come back anyway. I missed you." "That's cool. So, did you find what you were looking for?" "I was looking for the Truth, but all I got was more questions." "Do any of them have to do with me?" "In a way," says Sra. "It hurt me when you left. Creature calls it love." "Is that the truth?" "Truth is what is here and now. Nothing more and nothing less." "I'm here and now," says wistful Caleb.

Through the turret Sra sees mist rising from the water. "I think autumn has arrived," she says. "Winter is on its way." Caleb sighs. "I'm still waiting for a kiss." He is an image she's been holding in her heart and just for now, for this single moment, she is where she wants to be. Elusive Truth for which she has been searching ever since she first believed in tapestries and Guides, when she believed she could know the Truth like no one else on earth, all that is gone. She no longer believes in anything except for Fate. The way the cookie crumbles. The bouncing of the ball. The bridge you cross if

148-Lynnette D'anna a you can ever get to it. "What does this all mean?" she asks, half asleep in Caleb's arms. But Creature only smiles.

So this is what you've come to, Albino bellows. Creature told me but I just had to see it for myself! "You tracked me down to scold?" asks Sra. "After all this time! What kind of Prophet are you anyway?" His eyes are clear as chlorinated water. He sniffs. After everythingl've done for you, the only thing you've managed to come up with is this boy, a soft pillow under head and four solid walls to hold you in! "All that you have done?" Sra asks coldly. lêave this soft place now, he wheedles. Before it traps you. Come away with me! We'// have such a time! "Perhaps we could return to your mouldy tunnels?" Yes, he croaks. If would be such fun! Her gaze measures him, head to toe. "I'd rather die," she says at last. Enraged, Albino lifts his heavy staff from her legs where he first laid it without a by-your-leave when he arrived in Caleb's turret uninvited. His red eyes blaze. Is that your final word to me? he asks. She nods and with a sudden roar like a crash of rolling thunder and a dramatic swirl of his white cape he vaporizes in a cloud of smoke. Caleb awakens blinking. "Is everything okay?" he asks sleepily. "I thought I heard a noise." "I think it's going to rain. You relax, go back to sleep." Sometimes there can be no turning back.

5ra passes by remembered landmarks like the cobbled bridge that spans the empty creek. Beaming Mother welcomes her. "My prodigal! Pull up a chair and tell me all about your adventures in the world."

fool's bells-149

omega 5ra has had her fill of sewing. She intends to paint. To capture vision as it has been given her. Maybe she will be able to unveil some Truth after all. Seated on a rock with her sketch pad by the ditch where she and Imp once played and dreamed, she scans the vivid sunset stretching out along the flat hori2on. Up above she spots the playful Fool. A sack slung jauntily across his shoulder, in his hand he holds a brilliant red rose. Come with me! he cries, bells glinting in the sun, but Sra just shakes her brush at him. "You stay right there!" she scolds. "Don't you dare disappear! I need to put you in my picture." Off in the distance Drummer taps out her endless marching orders. "Why don't you show your face?" she teases. "I can't draw in thumps you know." Behind her, crimson Creature perches, laughing. We'll never leaveyou Sra, she sings joyously. Wherever you go, we will go too. And that's the simple Truth.


blessing Blessed is she that readeth and they that hear the words and keep these things which are written therein: for the time is at hand. Alpha and Omega, the first and the last: and, what thou seeist, write in a book. Revelation 1:3,11

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