Flash Cards and Pinky Fingers
The television set swells the living room with the sound of falling anvils and hysterical laughing so loud I can barely sleep through it. The twins fight in the hall, outside my door.
“Give it back!”
“I got it, so its mine, not yours, cause you don’t have one, so’s its all mine.”
“Is not, you just found it under my bed, so its—
“Its mine fairs fair.”
I could hear my mother intervene.
“Boys, give me that—Oh!”
“It’s mine mamma, he stoled it from under my—
“What in the world was that doing under your…is it dead?”
I put Monday, or any other day, at the top of my notepad, then threw it on the floor and lost myself in the fluff of my pillows.
“Lucy, wake up, it’s already past noon! You’re gonna sleep the whole day away!”
My mother appeared through the slit of my left eye.
“Oooh, look at the ridge…someone’s trying to climb it.”
Rolling over, I struggled against the light to see the face of the mountain a couple of miles away through my bedroom window; there was a person about halfway up. My mother frowned at the room around her through crossed arms, “You know, you really should pick up this mess, papers and clothes everywhere.”
I slammed my head back into the bed, “Tell me if that climber falls.”
“Lucy, honestly.”
I could feel her eyes; I pulled the dirty brown afghan up close to my ears. “You certainly are a lazy twelve year old,” she sighed, “All of this around you and you just sleep all day.”
All this heat melting the rocks and killing the trees and everywhere cow shit and rattlesnakes and scorpions and junk. What crap. The door creaked closed and I sat up again. Outside, I could see the climber, almost to the top. Grabbing my notebook, I put a little asterisk: Why in the world would someone want to do something like that? Underneath, I drew a snake biting an elephant.
The twins ate hot dogs at the kitchen table while my mother quizzed them with math flash cards.
“OK, Devan, what’s this one?”
She has a candy sweet something about her voice that she uses whenever she pulls out those flash cards. This card read two times seven.
“Twenty-seven.” He says through a mouth packed with bread and processed meat.
“Well, I guess they aren’t going to be brain surgeons.”
“Lucy, they’re only five. Now Dexter, what’s this one.” She holds up another card, four times two.
“Twenty-seven.” He replies without looking up.
“Oh, I give up…look, sweetie, that climber is just lying up there, he hasn’t moved since he reached the top.”
“Cool,” I got myself a hot dog and spread relish over the top.
“I wonder—
“Wonder what? He’s probably just tired.”
“Well, maybe your Dad should go up there.”
“If they got themselves up there they should probably know how to get down,” I took a big bite out of my dog, “Unless they’re some kind of idiot.”
“Oh, Lucy…still, I hope they’re alright.”
She put the cards down on the table and stared out the window. The sun beat down on the valley and reflected off of some of the red rock, rays of light shooting back up to the sky.
“Isn’t it nice outside?” She said to herself.
Sometimes, I think she just says stuff like that to convince herself that she likes it here. This was my grandpa’s ranch, but he died three years ago and gave it to her. I guess it sort of reminds her of him. She didn’t change it much, the outside has cracking white paint and rusted nails, and a front porch with those stupid rocking chairs that don’t have any seats in them—but the inside is alright. There are a bunch of leather easy chairs and big thick rugs with blotches of white in them to look like cowhide. And there are some dead animals on the walls (We had to get rid of the ones that gave the twins nightmares, like the spotted owl and javelina head) and some paintings of the mountains, usually during a sunset or sunrise or something, done in watercolor. It was just the kind of thing you expect to find out here, but it belonged to my grandpa and now it belongs to her.
The door swung open and my father came in, sweating everywhere.
“It’s a hot one today.” He said, shutting the door behind him.
It’s his job to watch the cows and sheep for the week. My grandpa has workers, who still help with the animals, but it was their week off, and only my father and an old Indian named Joe were feeding them and keeping them in line. My father wore blue jeans and some old cowboy boots that belonged to my grandpa. They were too big for him, and kind of made him look funny.
“Honey,” My mother looked over his sunburned face, “That climber hasn’t moved in almost two hours. I thought that if you were done with your work today…you could go and see what was the matter.”
Looking down at the oversized boots he said, “Well, look sweetheart, I still have a little bit to do with the—
“I’ll go,” I said, taking a gulp of milk.
“Really?” My father gave me a funny look.
“Well, Lucy, I don’t know if—
“Let her, sweetheart, it’ll be good for her.”
I knew he didn’t care if it was good for me or not, just that he was tired and could care less about he climber.
“Yeah, really.”
I finished lunch and got ready for my trip, they made me wear this really stupid floppy, pink hat that my mother wears when she works outside. It was too big and sort of covered my head and shoulders like a messed up umbrella. I had one of the twins’ Batman thermoses and a first aid kit in my backpack along with a little map that my father drew so that I could find the trail; and I had my notebook. The map was a bunch of squiggly lines doodled across a piece of construction paper—now I know where the twins get it. I squinted at the outline of the mountain from the porch, but couldn’t see the climber; the sun was far too bright behind me. I could only see the shape of the ridge rising massively from the ground.
“Watch out for snakes, Lucy!” the door slammed shut behind me. The sundial on the front porch had a shadow over the five.
The mountain range makes a crescent shape around my Grandpa’s ranch and a valley in the center of the moon will take you straight to the top. Trekking over the red earth, kicking stones at the cacti, watching for snake holes and occasionally taking a gulp of kool-aid out of the thermos, I felt the ground beneath me get steeper and my breath got heavy. I was right at the tree line, where the valley edges up for about half a mile to the top of the ridge, but to get there you have to find the trail, otherwise you get stuck in all of these trees. They weren’t so much trees, though, as they were scraggly white branches. The spring made them bloom, but the summer burned them dead, baking them into sharp thorns that can put deep scratches on your arms and tear your shirt wide open; and they’re thick, and they are everywhere. I pulled out the map, and could see the squiggly lines point toward the East edge of the ridge where the trail was supposed to lead me up to the climber. The sun lessened its glare on the mountain, and I could again see the place occupied by whoever it was. But they were gone.
“See,” I thought to myself, “Stupid climber.” I sat down and dug into my backpack, pulling out my notebook.
Why did I come? Just to get out of the house, away from the twins, away from my mother—my mother and those flash cards, she never did that for me. ‘You were already too advanced for those cards, Lucy,’ she would say in that candy wrapper voice; I don’t care about those things anyway, they’re just for kids, just like the dumb twins.
On the ground a spider darted from rock to rock, his little legs moved so fast. I drew a little spider next to the elephant.
I wish my legs moved that fast. Everyone is faster than me, except for the retarded kids, those kids with weird eyes and little hands who have recess with us. They usually stay on the swings, but sometimes they want to play with everyone else. I’m glad I’m faster than them, I guess.
I drew a retarded person.
“FUCK!”
It came from somewhere behind me, somewhere on the ridge. I heard it right; my father says it all the time. I pushed the floppy hat down on my head, shoved my notebook back into my bag and turned to the mountain running into the trees. I crouched down and crawled underneath the scratchy branches on my hands and knees being careful for the fire ant piles that were everywhere. The little white fingers caught my backpack and tried to rip my shirt, but I got through, and eventually the path cleared and I could stand again. Dirt covered my clothes and broken twigs were caught up in my hair and hat. I shook them off and wiped my hands over my knees, but my skin was stained by the rusty ground. In front of me there was a small clearing and a little irrigation stream that the ranch used for the livestock. I sat down next to it and took off my shoes and socks. The water was warm. I washed my knees and splashed my face, drenching the front of my shirt. The mountain covered the sun by this time, and I could finally see the mountain face completely. Lying next to the stream I could see the climber coming down the big stair steps cut into the rock. From here, I could tell that the climber was a man. One of his hands was close to his body and he used the other to guide himself down. He moved very slowly, holding on to tree roots and lowering himself to the ledge by ledge covered in gravel and dirt. I thought he might fall.
“Hey,” I yelled, “You’re gonna fall!”
He was still too far away. He lost his footing and slid hard, landing with an angry ‘thwack’ about ten feet down. I shot up to see where he was, but he had fallen all the way into the dead branches. I told him he was going to fall; I should have told him that only an idiot would climb a mountain if he didn’t know how to get down. He was only a little ways off from the stream now, but I couldn’t see him anywhere. I took out my thermos; the kool-aid was warm. “Nothing to do but wait, I guess.” My notebook was bent and all of the pages were messed up from my backpack, so I smoothed it out against a rock and opened it to a fresh page.
I wonder what he looks like up close. He’s probably a lot older. I bet he could buy me cigarettes. Maybe, if I help him, he’ll buy me cigarettes. I wonder if he’s cute, maybe he’s cute, Roy McNeil is cute. I saw him in the pool changing room through a crack in the boy’s restroom door—his little thing was hanging there between his legs, it looked like a pinky finger.
A brown lizard crawled out onto one of the larger rocks; he just laid there absorbing the heat. I drew him perched with his mouth open and his tongue flopped out. His neck puffed into a red and yellow Adam’s apple when he sucked in the hot air.
A crashing sound erupted from the trees in front of me; it sounded like a wild beast charging, like a javelina. I grabbed my things, and leapt behind the lizard’s rock. The storm grew nearer and I raised my head like an alligator’s out of water over the top of the red stone.
The first thing I could see were massive arms swinging through the dense brush to make way for the man’s head, covered in a stained blue bandana. Plowing through the brush he fell to the ground. His arms and legs were spewing black blood, as he crawled towards the water. I heard his breathing scrape the inside of his throat. He pulled off his shirt and unfastened his belt, taking off his shorts; he rolled into the stream naked. His thing was much bigger than Roy McNeil’s pinky finger. He lay there for a while without moving, and I watched it wash him clean; thin red streams floated through the water like tails off of a kite. I crept across the desert floor until I was right above his head. His eyes were closed. He had a short black beard and a thin face. His hair was long and swam in the water.
I poked him right in the middle of his forehead, “Hey.”
His eyes opened under thick brown eyebrows the same color as the hair on his chest.
“You’re wearing a funny hat,” he said to me still wheezing softly.
“You said fuck.” I returned, “I’m here to save you.”
“Oh, is that right,” he closed his eyes again and rolled over onto his side away from me, “Well, I think…I’ll be fine.”
His right hand was swelled and his entire body seemed littered with bruises and scrapes.
“I think you’re kind of an idiot.” I sat back on the bank of the stream and put my hands behind me to lean on.
“How old are you?” He turned his head back to me.
“Do you have any cigarettes?”
“Heh,” he laughed softly, “I don’t even have pants on.”
I reached over and threw his shorts to the other side of the stream. He pulled them over his wet legs.
“I didn’t think anyone was out here.”
“So, how come you went up there if you couldn’t get down?”
His back was to me and his head in his hands.
“Do you have any water?”
I got my backpack from behind the rock and pulled out my thermos.
“The kool-aid is warm.”
He drank the rest, then lay back down dropping his head in the water. My first aid kit had ten band-aids; I used all of them on his legs. He didn’t move. The sun was all the way behind the ridge by now, and the air started to feel nicer. I turned over my notebook and drew a picture of the man on the brown cardboard. I drew his mouth open and his arms and legs cut up. I drew the band-aids, too.
I could see my Grandpa’s house down the valley, the lights were on. My mother was making dinner, the twins were watching television, and I bet my father and Joe were drinking beer.
“Do you live down there?”
He sat up from the stream and pointed at the house.
“Sometimes.”
“You never said how old you were.”
I still stared at the house, “I’m twelve—I’ll be thirteen in two months. How old are you?”
“Oh, about forty.”
I turned back, “Liar.”
“Ha, well, you caught me.”
He stood up and walked over the stream. “I am glad you came up here,” he said pulling his shirt over his head.
“My mom sent me; you were just laying up there.”
“A damn scorpion stung me.” He raised his hand, “That’s when I got up.”
I gave him the first-aid kit and he rubbed antiseptic all over the back of his hand then wrapped it up in his bandana.
“It was too big.”
“What?” I asked.
“The ridge—it was too big.”
“That’s why you couldn’t—
“That’s why.” He sat down next to me, “So, who are you?”
His name was Charlie and he was twenty-four and had family in Texas and didn’t know that he was trespassing on my Grandpa’s land and he said he was sorry for that; I didn’t mind. He liked my picture of the lizard and said that it wasn’t so nice to draw retarded people. I didn’t let him see any more. The crickets hummed around us and the shade grew darker on the inside of the crescent.
“Well, kiddo, how do we get out of this mess?”
“How good are you at reading maps?” I asked handing over my father’s construction paper. He flipped it twice then pointed left. The squigglies made sense to him. We elbowed through the brush and found the trail.
“See over there,” he pointed, “That’s where I started.”
“Looks steep.”
“Well, one step at a time, little by little.”
“You got to the top.”
“What’s that?”
“You got to the top, so it wasn’t too big for you.”
“Yeah, well it’s not looking so friendly right now.”
I pushed the hat down on my head, the air breezed soft and warm over my face. The sky was burning orange, outlining the clouds like a neon sign. Charlie asked me about my school and my brothers and I told him about grandpa and the chairs on the front porch without any seats in them, then he asked about mother.
“She’s doing flashcards or something with the twins. Or else she’s watching the Family Feud on TV.”
“The Family Feud, huh.”
“Yeah, I think it’s a stupid show.” I dug my hands into my pockets.
“So why did you come all the way up here, just for me?” He asked.
We were getting close to the house; the mountain and the tree line were far behind us. Charlie stopped.
“Well, kiddo, my camp is over this way.”
I saw a small tent pitched against an oak tree near the dirt road back to the highway.
“Yeah, well, I’ve got to get dinner.”
He looked down at me underneath those brown eyebrows. The darkness sat in his wrinkles and made him look handsome. “Charlie,” I said, “Find a smaller mountain next time.”
“Little by little, kiddo. Thanks for the hospitality.” He smirked and spun around trotting down to his camp.
“Charlie!” I threw down my backpack and dug inside. I tore out the lizard picture from my notebook and signed it “Lucy.” Running down to him, I held it up, “Here.”
He looked at my lizard and chuckled. “Thanks, kiddo.” He folded it and put it in his pocket. “Take care.” He looked as though he weren’t sure if I would or not. I said OK.
Walking back to the house I pulled off the pink floppy hat and shook my hair out. The sun was down, but the watercolors still stained the sky. I could see the kitchen window and could make out my mother holding up those white cards. Little by little, I thought. I heard a backfire and turned around. The tent was gone and dust spit up behind a jeep pulling down the dirt road.
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