Julie says, trembling slightly. “What do we shoot at?”
“Come outside and I’ll show you. What’s your name, sister?”
“Julie.”
“I’m Cliffort Manwaring-Troutwig. Old baseball family. Unfortunately, I wasn’t cut out for the game, not with these hands. Worse than a foghorn for reminding me.”
He holds up his hands. It is true, there are webs between each finger, connecting thumb to index finger, index to middle and so on. Julie winces. “You kids live around here?” he asks.
“Yeah, down de block. Dis is our clubhouse.”
Manwaring-Troutwig
“I was wondering. I stayed here last night. I’m trying to get to New York City, I ran out of food and money. Fell asleep in my van at a rest stop and was robbed. Ran out of sugar-petromalt, can’t find any for sale because of the shortages and I haven’t eaten for two days.”
“Oh, dat’s terrible. I guess. Tahnee, do we have some food we could bring him from de house?” It may not be love at first sight, but at least it is an Awakening of Desire. Or something. Indeed their love may date back to a previous incarnation, judging from the shy stares and nervous trembling shimmering the air. Perhaps one was once Gertrude Stein and the other Alice B. Toklas; Clark Gable and Carol Lombard; Wallace Simpson and the Duke of Windsor, a binding love so strong it endures through many lifetimes, until the two involved are sick of the whole thing.
“I don’t know.” Tahnee shrugs. “I guess. Here, you wanna steet?” She throws the jar in Cliffort’s direction. Julie winces again. Tahnee knows the stuff can explode if it hits the ground the wrong way. “It definitely takes away your appetite.”
“Naw, I don’t like that stuff. I’m going out to shoot this thing with your little friend –”
“My sister –”
“Your sister? You two don’t look alike –”
“We have different dads.”
“Is that right? And what’s your name?”
“Tahnee.”
“Tahnee, come out when you’re ready to try out this Michiko Kamikaze. You gals ever shoot a Kamikaze before? It’s not very accurate and it’s pretty stupid but that’s what makes it entertaining. Julie, think you can handle it?”
“How loud?”
“For a minute you can’t hear anything. And it’s not like what you see in movies, you know. This Kamikaze is made of extrudo, not metal, but even so there’s a kickback on it. I want you to hold it with both hands – you want to watch me first?”
“I guess so.”
On the far side of the dead grass, a football field length away, Cliffort has set up a paper target. When he shoots the Kamikaze it is so loud Julie nearly has a change of heart. “It sounds like a bomb or a rocket launcher or something!” Cliffort misses the paper target completely; he shoots too low and the bullet explodes into the marsh, spewing a twelve-foot high cloud of grass, dirt and marshland muck.
“You see, it’s not so easy. Now you gonna try?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, you gotta try or you’ll never be good at it.”
Tahnee shrugs and winks at Julie; she knows how good she is. “Come on, Julie, like Dad always says, It’ll be like throwing loaves to the fishes!” Julie is surprised that Tahnee is calling Slawa “Dad”, something she has rarely done.
A huge plane is almost overhead. The planes fly over in the morning, and in the afternoon and into the night. All the time, planes are coming in overhead or taking off. The housing development is directly under the flight path to the airport. Cliffort stands behind her and puts his arms around her from behind to show her how to hold the Kamikaze. His hands are moist. “Right. Remember what I said, use both hands because when you pull the trigger it’s going to come back at you so don’t be scared.”
Julie isn’t prepared for Cliffort to actually push her fingers down on the trigger. Or does he? Certainly it seems like something is squeezing her hand and pulling the weapon up at the same time. Maybe there’s a gyroscope inside. The force of the explosion propels her backward and the noise is so loud for a minute she thinks she is not just deafened but blinded.
When she looks up, about to chastise Cliffort, she sees he is nowhere near. High above, a glinting light coming off the airplane catches her eye. “Holy Shi’ite!” says Cliffort. “You got a hit!” It is true. What she thinks at first is merely sunlight glancing on the plane is actually a fire, spreading rapidly.
Within seconds there is another explosion as the fuel tanks go up, and then a vast black cloud, followed by things falling out of the sky: sheets of metal and twisting bits of melting plastic, glass and foam and trays and electrical wiring; suitcases are hitting the ground now and exploding as they hit into flowers of underwear and umbrellas, shoes like seed pods, clouds of talcum powder pollen.
It’s all happening slowly – or perhaps quickly – a rain of hot blood and mucous; teeth and iceberg lettuce; plastic trays of hot creamy chicken and green beans mixed with entrails and chocolate-vanilla ice cream, the kind that comes in little paper tubes with an attached imbibing device. The fire is huge. Not as much falls as Julie might have thought – had she ever thought of such a thing happening – black handkerchiefs are waving everywhere until Julie realizes these are charred… things on fire, or just burning out, maybe newspaper, safety instructions, foam seat cushions or plastic toilet seats.
Drifts of blackened skin still attached to hairs waft across the sky, dander reduced to pepper falling from a grinder. They are immobile, paralyzed by the sight. Something wallops Julie on the head. “Hey, look!” Tahnee yells, darting down to pick it up. Something glints, gold and ruby-red. “A finger! Wid de ring still attached!”
“Are you crazy?” shouts Cliffort Manwaring-Troutwig, “Run! Get out of here! Run for your lives!”
By the time school starts, Julie is quite ill. She may have made herself sick with worry; or it may be physical. Her hands have swollen to twice their normal size, blistering from within as if they have been in a microwave oven. She still works in the lab after school; at least this way there is no time to brood about the tragic accident and how she has only herself to blame. But how can she not think about it? My gosh, hundreds of people died, nine houses were destroyed, should she confess and tell the police? She can’t believe it: she alone is responsible for the tragedy, children now without parents, parents without children, insurance companies who were supposed to provide for the widows and orphans going under.
She is evil, and probably evil incarnate, evil personified, even though she had no intention of ever doing anything wrong. Her head hurts all the time, she has inhaled the terrible fumes and now her hands are blistered and getting blacker almost like she has frostbite or gangrene. She has cried so much her eyes are
