The Accidental Siren (4 page)

I wasn’t ready because girls still left
cooties on my juice-box straw. Girls were know-it-alls and
brown-nosers and tattle-tales. Girls were scared of bugs–especially
bugs with wings–and they screamed like sissies whenever a beetle
clung to their skirts.

But I was beginning to realize that girls
play beneath a mysterious shroud of whispered secrets, of notebooks
brimming with rainbow hieroglyphics, of exchanged glances between
mothers and friends who knew something that I didn’t. Words like
“love,” “menstrual,” “change,” “going out,” “
Ryan Ryan
Ryan,
” or “bra;” hushed ramblings of exclusive “learning
experiences” between Livy and our mother or Livy and her friends;
words from conversations so exclusive that I was asked to leave the
room; words I deciphered in bits and pieces with an ear glued to my
sister’s bedroom door.

Apparently, girls were different...
special...
delicate
... but nobody would tell me why. To a
flubbery sixth-grade boy who didn’t know his penis from a
pogo-stick, girls were like poems: weird, incomprehensible and
boring, but those “in the know” assured me that they were
beautiful.

“What’s so beautiful about girls?” I would
implore.

And the secret society of adults would reply
with a smirk and wink as if I was merely
a
boy who couldn’t
possibly have the mental maturity to comprehend such grown-up
concepts as love and bleeding vaginas;
“You’ll understand
someday, James.”

2. MARA

“
She’s almost done.”

“What?” I asked. “Who?”

“
Mara.”

I dismounted my bike and propped it against a
moth-haloed lamppost. I keeled forward with my hands on my knees,
panting from the half-mile ride from Whit’s house to the opposite
end of his suburb. I checked my watch, I was five minutes
early.

Why is there a lamp in the woods
, my
subconscious asked, but I was too fixated on the boy beside me and
the home before me to care. A row of tightly-sculpted bushes stood
belly-to-belly against the entire perimeter of the house and heavy
curtains created a sliver of light in every window of the first
floor. The boy was no older than fourteen, but already sported a
patch of dark whiskers above his lip. “Do you live here?” I
asked.

“
Shhh!”
hissed the boy, then another
behind me.

I looked back. Four boys, still as
headstones, peeked from behind the tree trunks. Their eyes were
glazed and focused on the back of the two-story home.

I reached in my pocket, pulled out the
newspaper clipping and held it to the lamplight.
“Super-8 camera
for sale. Like new. Bag, lens, two rolls of film included. $40.
Call 616-555-9088 for details.”
I had scribbled the address
below the number in blocky, boyish handwriting:
“557 Sycamore
Ave. Whit’s suburb. 8:30 PM.”

I shoved the paper back in my pocket and
addressed the mustached boy as quietly as possible. “Is this
five-five-seven, Sycamore?”

“
Shut the fuck up.”

I reeled at the nasty language. My neck
prickled and my palms began to sweat. I nearly leapt on my bike and
flew back to Whit’s, but I noticed a small tape recorder in the
boy’s outstretched hand as if he was making an offering to the
home.

I almost asked him what the heck he was
recording–
but then I heard it;
a song so subtle that it
took the boy’s tape player to prioritize my senses. A girl’s voice;
a child
. Sweet; high like a songbird without the shrill. It
was a church song. It came from the house.

“T’was grace that taught my heart to
fear,

And grace my fears relieved.

How precious did that grace appear,

The hour I first believed.”

The tiny voice was unencumbered with falsetto
or an overzealous vibrato; gentle, unwavering, innocent...
crystalline
.

“The Lord has promised good to me.

His word my hope secures.

He will my shield and portion be,

As long as life endures.”

The melody didn’t pierce the night, but
dissolved into it,
giving warmth to the darkness and calming
my racing heart. I found myself in reverent submission after only
two verses, and when a twig snapped behind me, I hissed,
“Shh!”

“Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,

That saved a wretch like me.

I once was lost but now am found,

Was blind, but now I see.”

Silence. I waited.
We all waited.
But
the song was over.

The night seemed suddenly defiled by the
absence of music, as if the silence itself was injecting a sickness
that only another song could cure.

The mustached boy snapped out of his trance.
He stopped the recording, held down the rewind button, then pressed
“play” and brought the device to his ear.

I careened my head and watched as he
meandered past the other four boys. There was movement deeper in
the woods–shadows–as if the trees were slowly multiplying. As my
eyes adjusted to the new darkness, I saw them,
all of them
,
aimless, ghostly, like faceless children lost in Limbo.

I squinted to find my friend. He was twenty
steps away and facing a tree. Again, I narrowed my brow and
attempted to distinguish bodies from branches... then I saw them:
wooden planks nailed like ladder rungs to the trunks of a dozen
trees. The mustached boy began to climb, a spindly, monotonous
silhouette, until he disappeared into the canopy of leaves.

One by one the others followed, and when they
reached the top, they spread sideways along the thickest limbs.

Branches rustled and someone screamed.
“No!”

“
Move over!”

“
Get your own dang–”

“
Hey, shut the hell up!”

“
Shhh!”

“
But he–”

“
Son of a–”
Then a branch snapped and
a boy fell–knees and palms first–into a patch of ferns.

I watched him stand. I watched him slap dust
off his pants. Then he grabbed a wooden rung on a different tree
and climbed back to the top.

I looked at the house. In a second-story
window–eye-level with the boys–a light turned on.

* * *

Her name was Ms. Grisham and she answered my
knock through the two-inch seam that the chain allowed. “You know
the rules, little boy. Off my porch or I’ll eat your fingers for
dinner.”

“Ma’am!” I said before she could slam the
door. “I’m James Parker! I called you about the camera!”

Her colorless eye studied me through the
crack, then she removed the chain with cautious enthusiasm, checked
the street over my shoulder, allowed me in, and bolted the door
three times behind us. “Jaaames?” she said. “I mistook your voice
for a woman’s. Silly me!” She was old; a-hundred-and-two I assumed
at the time, but probably closer to sixty-five. She wore a
strapless dress with a pattern like bathroom wallpaper, cream and
blue flowers, sagging low enough to expose pursed, overly tan
cleavage with a melanoma-worthy mole that danced on her right
breast with every word. “My you’re a big boy! Have a seat on the
couch and I’ll find you that camera.”

“Thanks,” I said, still a bit shaken from the
absurdity of the evening. The couch was pink velvet with pleats,
buttons, ruffles, pillows, and hose marks from a vacuum. I sat.

The living room was an ecosystem of pastel
kitsch; resin and porcelain figurines that probably came to life at
night, kept alive by a compressed atmosphere of bitter perfume that
dizzied my senses. There were shelves on every wall lavished with
doilies and candles and frilly dolls with lifeless eyes. The room
was like a haunted antique store with peacock feathers, torn pages
from a coloring book, collectable cards with saints instead of
baseball players, frames with yellowed photographs, a row of
encyclopedias, jade animals, rosary beads, angels, birdhouses,
clowns, lamps, silverware, crucified Christs and more, all spotless
and painfully free of dust.

The woman hummed an unfamiliar tune as she
rummaged through a pile of junk on a game table. Behind her, a
light-green stairwell ascended into plush darkness. On the third
step, a discarded bandaid.

The room’s centerpiece was not a TV, but one
of those ancient phonographs with a brass crank and a speaker like
a tuba.
Was that the source of the beautiful song?
An odd
and intrusive platform stood beside the record player. It was
narrow–only two feet wide and three from the ground–and draped in
blood-red velour. Protruding from the center of the fabric square
was a single, silver eye-hook.

“You say you want to make motion pictures,”
asked Ms. Grisham.

“Yes, Ma’am. I–”

“I found it strange when you told me that on
the telephone; filmmaking is not usually a woman’s pursuit. But
you’re not a woman, are you Jaaames?”

“No, Ma’am.”

“I met Liz Taylor working reception at
Turnberry Isle.
Grey roots
, she had. Can you imagine? A
famous actress and roots as grey as an elephant’s trunk.”

Before I could prove my ignorance for old
film stars, the woman’s head snapped around and her eyes locked on
mine. “Is this a ploy?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Are you a sneaky little brat? Did you see my
ad in the paper and get a perverted little idea in your perverted
little brain? To sound like a woman to sneak your way in? I saw you
eyeing the stairs,
boy
. Is there something you were looking
for? Something more than a
camera
? Show me your money!”

“I– I’m sorry?” I muttered again.

Her body twisted to align with her head. Her
back arched like a hyena.

I suddenly recalled the scene from
The
Goonies
where that old hag nearly shoves the fat boy’s hand in
the blender. I began to panic.

“Show me that you’re serious,
little
boy
,” she growled. “Prove that you’re here for my camera!”

I jammed my hand in my pocket and rustled the
forty bucks (thirty from allowances; ten from Whit’s candy sales).
I held out the crummy wad for the woman’s scrutiny while trying to
get a grasp on my breathing.

She looked at the cash, then shook her head
and waved her hand. “Bah. I won’t have your money.” She returned to
the table and gathered the camera, a case, and two sealed rolls of
film.

I pocketed the cash and fingered my neck for
a pulse.

“You’re a good kid,” she said and released
the armful of beautiful components to the cushion beside me. “And
that’s a good camera. Hate to see her go, but I purchased a nicer
model last week. Hi-8. Records on tape. How things change.”

I was jealous. Super-8 film had a really neat
look, but it would be terribly impractical. But I had to make my
fairytale somehow...

“Test it out. Make sure I didn’t forget some
fancy component.”

“Sure will.” My eyes glistened and I forgot
about the woman’s moment of insanity. “Thank you, Ma’am.”

As I inspected the dials and triggers and
reels, Ms. Grisham walked to a Lazy-Boy against the back wall. She
brushed the seat and eased into it, then used the back of her hand
to part thick, paisley curtains. She peered into the lamplit
forest.

“I saw some boys in the woods behind your
house,” I blurted. “I think they might be spying but I’m not with
them, I swear. I’m just here for the camera so I can make my
movie.”

“Mmm.” A lamp with a dim canary shade was the
only source of light where the woman sat. Basking in the glow atop
a swatch of frayed lace was a frame with gold flakes and a
photograph–torn in half–of a woman in a wedding dress. A
sterling-silver chain adorned the photo as if the frame was a
lady’s neck; at its center hung a ring with a thick gold band and
six prongs that once carried a diamond. “Have you been baptized,
child?” she purred.

I unzipped the bag–more like a pouch–and
slipped the camera inside. “The camera’s perfect, Ma’am. I’m
staying at a friend’s house tonight and he’s probably getting
worried–”

“Little boys should be baptized.
Especially
little boys. Flushes out the perversions. Makes
you pure in the name of Jesus Christ.” She pulled her hand from the
curtain and crossed herself.

Whit’s never gonna believe this.
I
stood.

“How old are you, Jaaames?” she asked.

“Twelve, Ma’am.”

“Sixth grade, is it?”

“Tomorrow’s the last day of class. That’s why
I really should be getting–”

“You’re not popular, are you Jaaames?”

I hugged the camera to my breasts and shook
my head. “I’m going to leave the money on the–”

“I don’t want your money,
boy
.” Her
gaze drifted to my face. She looked through me.
“Boy...”
she
whispered to herself.
“Boy boy boy boyyy...”

“Ma’am, I–”

“A glass of water! A drink before you go.
Then I’ll send you on your way.” She saw my hesitation. “I’m an old
woman, Jaaames, and I just gave you a free camera. Your friend can
wait two more minutes, don’t you think?”

I nodded.

She plucked a silver bell from the side
table. She stared at me again, then her penciled eyebrows
tightened, her lips thinned, and her smile hardened. She jangled
the bell.

Upstairs, a door slammed. Padded footfalls
trampled above me and I knew for certain that the beautiful song
didn’t come from a record player. The moment the girl realized my
presence, her childish gallop turned into a graceful stride down
the last three steps. A subtle swipe of her left foot brushed the
bandaid aside, and when she finally landed on the ground level, her
face emerged from the shadows...