Black Helicopters (4 page)

Then Da leads us on, out of the canyons of clothes to a wall full of books.

“Bo, you get to pick a new book.”

Bo points to a book with a shiny green cover and red words. He doesn’t touch it. He waits for Da to touch it. Da picks it up and reads,
“Tarzan of the Apes.”
He opens it and looks at the pages. “You sure this is the one you want? There are some big words in here: carcass, barbaric ornaments, dexterity. This isn’t an easy book.”

Bo just nods. Yes, this is the book he wants.

Da puts the book in his hand. Bo can see it close now and so can I. There’s a guy wearing underpants and a knife. He has a monkey. I want this book too. Bo made a good decision. I like that book way more than I like this stupid dress.

Then we walk on past glass bluebirds and cups and things-I-don’t-know-what-they-are. Da picks a clock up from the shelf; he turns it over and looks inside. “Batteries,” he says. “All the clocks got batteries now. Got to go to a damn antique store to get a decent windup.” He puts the clock back on the shelf and leads us back toward the door.

There is a woman waiting at the counter.

Da says, “Put the stuff up here.”

She picks it up and smiles. “Did you find everything you needed?”

Da nods and gives her money. I know Da would have liked a different kind of clock. I know I would have liked a different kind of dress.

“Your children have such good manners,” says the woman. “Can I give them a little present?”

“Yes,” says Da. “They are good kids.”

The woman hands me a plastic woman no bigger than a hammer handle. “You can make her some clothes.” The plastic woman is totally naked. Her hair — she has a lot hair — is a fuzzy yellow clump.

“This is for you,” she says to Bo. “Oh, I’m sorry. . . . Do you let him play with guns? I know some folks now they don’t want their kids playing with toy guns.”

“Not a problem,” says Da. Then the woman smiles and puts the gun into Bo’s hand.

“You all come back again,” says the woman, then she turns to the next customer, who has an armful of clothes she wants to buy. She is carrying more clothes than we got in our whole family.

We learn how to use light switches and flush the toilet at the motel. We learn about TV there too. TV is like a window. Push the button: see another window, but sometimes the window changes even if you don’t push the button. A shark is banging against a cage, trying to eat the man inside. That’s interesting, but then the window changes.

“I want the shark!” I slap the TV with my hand.

“Stop that!” says Da. “TV isn’t like books. It has commercials. Wait a minute and the shark and the man will be back. See, there it is.”

And the shark
is
back, and it’s biting the bars of the cage just like before, but the story doesn’t get more interesting. The shark never gets the man. And the commercials keep interrupting it at the good parts. I don’t like TV much.

Bo has his new book, and I try to peek at the story, but he can read faster than me and he turns the page before I’m ready. I pick up a book I found when I was looking in the drawers. The drawers were all empty, except for that one book.

“No, Valley,” says Da. “Not that one. That book’s all full of what you oughta do and what you can’t do. It’s not a book for free people, Valley. A motel nightstand book is not for us. You shoulda brought your own book. You do that next time.”

I don’t feel very much like a free people. I’m not supposed to play with the light switches. I’m not supposed to duck under the curtains and look out. I can’t make the TV do what I want. I’m in a room that smells like other people with a book I shouldn’t read. I don’t feel free, not one bit at all.

We are at a playground. Bo’s mission is to go and play. My mission is to need Da.

He hardly looks like my Da. He shaved off his whiskers. That is part of the mission, too.

Da puts me on the swing and gives me an underdog push. I am high up in the sky. I wish I had my valkyrie hat, but Da says that’s for home. Here, on the playground, I need to wear this pink dress that flutters. The valkyries wear dresses, I think, but not like this one. Da says never mind about what valkyries wear; little girls wear this kind of clothes, and I need you to be a little girl on this mission.

Then it’s time for us to eat lunch. We sit on the bench and Da gives us food to eat from a paper bag. We have practiced eating this food before. I think it is good. Bo thinks the green food is disgusting, so Da has to say, “No lettuce. No pickle.”

Da points to a woman on a bench. She is talking to another woman. They call to their children: “Be careful! Come here! That’s great!”

Da says, “Watch her. See what she does.”

She calls to her children, “Time to go!”

She walks across the playground to them. They aren’t listening to her. She picks up an empty bottle. She picks up a paper bag. “Come on! Time to go! I’m going home!” She puts the garbage in a trash can.

“What do you see?” asks Da.

“A woman. She is going home,” says Bo.

“She picks things up,” I say.

“Yes! That’s it, Valley! You saw it,” says Da. “That lady is a judge. My customers are angry with her because she legislates from the bench. They want to send her a message, but she doesn’t open unexpected mail anymore. But we know how to make sure she gets the message, don’t we, Valley? We know how to put it into her hands.”

I’m not sure I do understand, but I pretend I do. “Bo, you should eat lettuce. Then your eyes would work better,” I say.

“Be nice, Valley!” says Da. “We all have our expertise. Bo will help me build the message for the lady. Bo is very good with his hands. You are good with your eyes, Valley. You notice how people are. Both are good. Together, great.”

A judge was severely injured Thursday morning when a bomb exploded in a parking garage adjacent to the courthouse.

Using a robot, authorities searched for a possible second device, but by midafternoon had not found another bomb.

Investigators from the Federal Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms were dispatched to investigate the blast and determine if it might be linked to a series of bombings during the last three years.

In the wake of Thursday’s bombing, local authorities have increased security for public buildings. The National Terrorism Advisory has not issued an elevated or imminent threat alert at this time but encourages citizens to maintain a heightened level of vigilance.

I need to find a mailbox so I can take my letter, my last message, out of my pocket and slide it into the slot. It will be postmarked from this place, and that matters. My blood connects the past and today. It connects all Da’s work with my moment. Today is a very important day. It is exactly one year since I went home and it wasn’t there anymore. It is exactly one year since the last time I saw my Da.

I need a mailbox, and I need water.

As long as I’m not dead, there are going to be problems like this.

I’m going to need to drink and eat and sleep.

And I’m going to need to get rid of these stupid silver shoes. Whatever the purpose of shoes like this, walking is not part of it. I had blisters before I made it halfway to town. Now the blisters are broken and turned into little, bloody patches of hurt. So I have to ignore that. It’s important not to limp, because limping is something people notice. It’s important not to visit convenience stores — not even to use the toilet. Those People have surveillance cameras. And it’s really important to find water.

There’s a school, and little kids are streaming out of it like chickens out of a pen. Schools have bathrooms. Schools are not quite as surveillance-oriented as convenience stores. I wait until the playground is nearly empty before I go forward and test a door. It is locked. But there are still children leaving, the slow ones. I just catch the door before it closes and I’m inside. I could blow this place up. There are probably still teachers in here. And slow kids. It’s an opportunity worth considering, but first I’m going to find water.

When I look up from the water fountain, there is another straggler trying to figure out how to get out the door. This one has his jacket in his teeth and a backpack drooping down to his butt. I could probably stuff the kid into his own pack and zip him up, safe as a turtle. But the burden preventing his escape is the thing he’s cradling in his arms. It looks like a dolphin with a circular saw blade stuck in its jaw. Standing on its tail, it’s a couple of inches taller than the kid. Since his hands are full, the kid is trying to push the door open with his forehead. It isn’t a good plan.

“Need help with that?” I say.

“Yeah, kinda,” says the kid.

“It can’t be easy to carry a monster like that around.”

“It’s not a monster. It’s a Hee-lee-o-koe-pry-on. It’s a real thing.”

“Sorry. I just never saw one before. It looks like a fish eating a circular saw blade.”

“It’s not eating a saw. Those are its own teeth. They grow like that.”

I reach out and touch the teeth, which are pointy triangles of plastic — maybe from a milk jug. “You made this? You’ve got a good imagination.”

“I made it. But it’s real.”

“I haven’t seen any around. Where do they live?”

“It’s extinct. Like a dinosaur.”

“It’s a dolphin dinosaur?”

“Not a dolphin. Not a dinosaur. A shark. A prehistoric shark.”

“Can I help you with it? Your helicopter shark?”

“Hee-lee-o-koe-pry-on,” says the kid, and he lets me take it. It isn’t heavy. It’s hollow, nothing but air covered up with paper and glue and paint. It has marbles for eyes, shiny and black as the eyes of a frozen mouse. “My brother is going to pick me up in the parking lot. So I just have to get that far.”

“Do you think your brother could give me a ride, too?”

“Eric likes to drive,” says the kid.

“Works for me,” I say, and then I follow him, carrying his real shark thing in my arms like an ugly baby. I can read my new friend’s name on his backpack. He’s Corbin.

“Hi, Corbin,” I say. “I’m Valley.”

Tarzan is just a little boy, little as us, but he discovers how to open the door to the cabin. He’s the strange white ape, the only one smart enough to understand, the only one curious enough to try. Tarzan proves you can be little and still be strong. He doesn’t care about the dead bones, not even the baby ones in the cradle. Dead bones just don’t matter to Tarzan.