Are you ok?

a chapter from LOOPHOLE

Papa exits the camper a few minutes later, the folding table in hand. It looks like a huge white suitcase with a handle attached to it. Papa opens the table and I help him with the legs, stretching them until the legs lock into place. In Papa’s other hand, the bag with all the accoutrements, as Papa says, explaining what each big word means. You are smarter than a thousand souls your age, my son. Papa reaches into the camper and pulls one of the webbed folding chairs from under the dinner table bed Mama is lying on. Their bed is our dinner table. It’s hard to explain unless you see it. I unfold the chair and prop it behind the table, so I can see people as they approach. I already know, wearing shorts, that the webbing will pinch my legs. I move back and forth to keep the webbing from eating me. Papa helps me properly set up everything, making the display as enticing as possible (another word Papa taught me). I put out one of my Matchbox cars I’ve grown bored with, a DeLorean I found at Goodwill. Why are you selling your car, son? Well Papa, you’re always saying I can’t keep gifts, and anyways I’m bored with it. Alright son, if that’s how you feel. Papa disappears back inside the camper, then comes out a moment later with his manbag and his metal detector, the device that brought Gabby and Mateo to us… perhaps the machine will bring them back, so I can be whole again. Alright son, sell everything but the table, Papa says, winking at me. I’ll be down on the beach if you need me. Mama will be up in a bit, don’t wake her. Papa says this to me like he’s totally unaware of what’s going on in my loft at night. I suspend Mama’s sign, PERSONALIZATION AVAILABLE, from the sales table with fresh Scotch tape. Before me, handmade necklaces, surfer bracelets, rose quartz necklaces, and refrigerator magnets carefully laid out, along with shiny rocks, shells, and sand dollars I have found on the beach, and of course, one sad DeLorean. I have Mama’s letter beads near my feet in a plastic tackle box under the table, in case someone wants me to make a personalized necklace or surfer bracelet for them. Hidden in the tackle box is money to make change. I am reading the great ghost stories book with the cool purple skull on the cover when a young woman, I can’t tell how old she is, maybe 20 or so, approaches the sales table. She looks like she’s maybe Gabby’s age, maybe a little younger. She isn’t old, that’s all I’m sure of. Hi, she says. Hi. Is everything for sale? Yes, everything but the table, I say, laughing. She is brown sun blonde, her hair long and curly, falling over her forehead like an electrified mop, her face angular, mysteriously closed, almost like a boy’s. She’s wearing a dress but it’s not old-fashioned, it hangs off her neck with two thin straps that disappear behind her, the print looks like feathers laid next to each other going down the entire length of the dress. When she moves, I can see her boobs, barely hidden by the dress. They are small but firm, unlike Mama’s. There’s something strange about her, like she’s dangerous, or unwell. She has a large mole on her left shoulder, but it doesn’t detract from her Satanic beauty. She laughs when she picks up the sand dollar. I squirm in my chair, the magnetism of her body giving me an erection. I lean forward and quickly pull at the tent of my peach-colored Old Navy shorts to hide it. How much is this, a dollar, she asks, laughing. It’s 5 dollars, I say, looking beyond her to see if I can see Papa. He is nowhere in sight. The young woman leans forward, her forearms on the table. How old are you? 14 (a lie) Fourteen? You’re very small for fourteen. I’m bigger than you think, I say, dismissing her. I’m sure you are. Let me see your hands. What? Let me see your hands, palms out, like this. I obey. The young woman takes my hands in hers, reading them. The scent of coconut shampoo comes from the explosion of her hair. It smells expensive, not like the cheap Suave shampoo Mama buys at Walmart. Ooh, you have a nice heart line, it’s really curved. What does that mean? I ask. It means you’re really affectionate. When the young woman massages both her thumbs in the center of my palms, the heat gathering in my groin threatens to explode. Your lifeline is broken. See this here, she asks, tracing the valley around the base of my thumb with a black fingernail. Yes. That means you’ll have a lot of changes in your life. Is that bad? It depends. Are you ok? You’re not in some kind of trouble, are you? She continues kneading the center of my palms with her thumbs, the movement hypnotic. Unnnnhhhhhh is all I can manage. When the camper door explodes, the young woman quickly drops my hands. What the fuck are you doing? Mama asks, coming down the step, moving towards us. I was reading his hands, the young woman nervously offers. You’re touching my son? I was just reading his hands. Get the fuck out of here before you get hurt, Mama says, the shock of it knocking me from my flesh trance. The young woman quickly disappears into the parking lot, moving between cars like a ghost until the ocean eats her up. What the hell are you doing, Nico? Nothing, Mama! She said she wanted to buy the sand dollar. I stand, not wanting to be trapped in a precarious position. Look what she’s done to you, Mama says, pointing at my shorts, a wet spot glazing the fabric. She’s a succubus! Mama, I didn’t do anything! If you entertain the devil, Nico, you will get burned. Papa comes up, huffing and puffing after being on the sand, his manbag slung across his shoulder, the metal detector in his hand, held before him. He shakes his bag when I run to him and embrace him. Treasure, he says, shaking the bag. I found a few goodies for the sales table, son. Papa, Mama is mad at me! She’s saying I’m entertaining the devil! Papa embraces me, the sweat from his effort on the beach moistening my body. He’s wearing a paper-thin Bob Seger tour shirt. What’s all this about, Papa directs at Mama. He had some whore practically giving him a hand job at the table. Ahh, so Nico’s little hook caught a fish? I resent the word little and immediately drop my embrace. Ahh come on son, I’m just teasing you, Papa says, laughing. I’m gonna take a walk I say to the adults as I move through the parking lot towards the beach, secretly hoping the young woman is out there somewhere. If I’m going to be in trouble, shouldn’t I get something out of it? What about the table, Mama calls after me. I don’t care, sell it yourself, I scream towards the waves, knowing I’ll pay for it later. I scan the horizon, gingerly moving down the trail towards the water, thankful for my new Birkenstocks. At the lip of the ocean, a family runs against the water, taunting it. I see a couple kids my age and wave, they wave back. I run towards them. Why didn’t I tell the lady I needed help? With one word, I could have changed everything, but still, I am here. The sand kicks up behind my Birkenstocks, and I imagine someone is making a movie of my life, an operator with a Steadicam recording every detail, the sand flying at the camera as if this were the first day of my life.