Authors: Mae McCall
24
In August, her parents called. “Cleo! What are you doing
home?” asked her mother. “You should be back at school by now.”
“Yeah, I graduated,” said Cleo. “Thanks for coming.”
This was met with total silence while her parents tried to
figure out how they forgot about their own daughter’s graduation. Finally, Darwin piped up, “Wow, Cleo! We’re really proud of you—I mean, having your child graduate
from high school at only twelve years old is amazing!”
“I’m eleven,” said Cleo. “My birthday was three days ago.
Thanks for the card.” A combination of loneliness and prepubescence had given
Cleo the ability to manufacture large quantities of sarcasm on the spot. Her
parents were not amused. However, they were embarrassed. Four weeks later, a
smudged, multi-stamped padded envelope that was missing a corner, and may or
may not have had a bloody thumbprint on it, arrived at the St. James house. The
card had a picture of a group of aborigines on the front and inside, in her
mother’s handwriting, was
Happy Graduation!
Also, Happy Birthday!
LOVE Mom + Dad
P.S. Go to
college.
The envelope also contained an intricately carved wooden
pendant with some sort of bird on a leather necklace, as well as four shells.
There was also a letter to Vera in a separate, and remarkably clean, envelope,
instructing her in household financial matters, one of which was setting up an
allowance for Cleo and tuition for college. They didn’t say when they were
coming back.
Her parents would have preferred that she go to Harvard, or
Yale, or Oxford, but they weren’t around to participate in the discussion.
Instead, Cleo cried a few fat tears in Vera’s lap, and enrolled in a fully
online program with a university that her parents had probably never heard of.
She really was too young to be sent away to a dorm room, frat house, or
apartment, she said. Vera wholeheartedly agreed.
As much as Cleo rebelled against going back to school (after
her last experience, who could blame her?), it did take up a certain amount of
time that would otherwise have been spent doing…well, not much of anything. The
cannibal family had returned from vacation, Santo was doing eighteen months for
stealing a punchbowl with Hebrew engravings, her parents were dancing around a
campfire somewhere, and Cleo had no friends her own age (and if she did, they
would be in school for six hours a day anyway). After all, there was only so
much that Vera could do to occupy an eleven-year old girl who was
always
underfoot.
***
Cleo took a couple of classes that fall: Art Appreciation I,
and Online Conversational French. She found that she really liked being an
online student. First of all, she didn’t have to interact with her teachers
face-to-face, which was a nice change from the chaos of Harper Valley.
Second, the anonymity was really cool. She could make arguments in her art
analysis papers that nobody would have taken seriously had they known her age.
In the online French course, there were mandatory weekly Skype sessions with
her teacher, during which she could discuss anything she liked, as long as it
was entirely in French. For these sessions, she liked to set the mood: a dark
room, her face in shadow, a wine glass (with grape juice) on the edge of the
desk. A few weeks into the semester, she stole a pack of cigarettes from one of
the gardeners, and although she did try one just to see what it was like, the
hacking cough was enough to convince her that a lit cigarette in an ashtray
would provide enough mood, its smoke curling up into the shadows that hid her
face. In these conversations, she made up stories about places she had been,
things she had done, and her fictional boyfriend named Steve. Some might have
called it lying; Cleo considered it improvisational acting, and she was very
good at it. She got an A in both classes.
Her parents didn’t come home for Christmas, but they did
call on Christmas Eve to ask how her studies were going. The silence that came
after she told them the name of her college was funny, but it couldn’t hold a
candle to the long, long pause that followed her confession that she didn’t
intend to declare a major. Darwin and Helen both started talking, fighting for
anthropology and botany with equal fervor. “I could call an old colleague at
such and such,” said one. “You know they have an excellent program at such and
such,” the other parent would chime in.
“Soooo, what are you guys up to…wherever you are?”
interrupted Cleo. “Any good research happening?”
It was enough to divert their attention. They spent fifteen
minutes excitedly gushing about some tribe and some rare plant and some ritual
that no white man has ever seen before. Cleo carefully carved her name into the
walnut telephone table with her switchblade and only half-listened. Finally,
they ended the call, but not before making Cleo promise that she would consider
her major over the holiday break.
***
It was strange in the St. James house without Darwin and
Helen, especially at Christmastime. Cleo hadn’t realized how comforting it had
been to know that, even if they weren’t in the room with her, even if they
didn’t acknowledge her presence, they were
there
, upstairs in their
studies. Now, with the holidays upon them, it was the first time in Cleo’s life
that they hadn’t done their around-the-world mashup of traditions. Vera had put
up a small tree in the dining room, but Cleo sorely missed the Hanukkah songs
and the swish of the Chinese dragon whiskers. She lit a menorah in her room.
In the spring, she took four classes, leaving her major
undeclared so that she still had the freedom to take whatever sounded
interesting. Online options were more limited than the traditional setting, but
she still found enough to occupy her mind and her time.
She and Vera did venture out more often now, particularly to
go clothes shopping for Cleo after a growth spurt suddenly added inches, as
well as some new curves, to her frame. With the hefty allowance from her
parents, Cleo was able to shop designer stores, which made her the best-dressed
eleven-year-old recluse/college student in California. She liked to prop her
(stolen) Chanel sunglasses on her head over a diaphanous Hermes scarf while
doing her homework. It made her feel Continental (a term she had learned from a
classmate’s discussion post in the French class).
Her life continued this way for another three years—a random
assortment of online classes, shopping, a couple of phone calls from her
parents, more shopping. Oh, and she still liked to break into the little brick
house whenever the family was away. Strangely, she no longer had any interest
in playing with the brother and sister. They were such children, she would
think as she carefully applied Santo’s cherry lipstick. It was so much more
satisfying to absorb their energy from the home when they weren’t around. Plus,
she liked to keep in practice with the lock picks. Then, she would sigh and
think of Santo, now serving five to ten for stabbing a fellow inmate in the eye
during an argument about Susan Lucci’s acting skills.
25
When she was fifteen, Vera tried to teach Cleo how to drive.
Unfortunately, Vera’s nerves couldn’t handle the girl’s inner drag racer (she
liked to floor it and then slam on the brakes), so the head gardener took over
Cleo’s lessons in his ancient Taurus. Helen and Darwin were not happy about
having to buy him a new car, but there was really no salvaging it after Cleo
stomped the brakes and the car behind them did not return the favor. The
gardener was skittish about driving with Cleo now, especially in a new silver
BMW (Cleo had told him to pick out whatever he wanted; Vera nearly had heart
failure when she went to pay for it), but she batted her eyelashes, and cried a
little bit, and he caved.
Around this time, she received a letter from the university informing
her that as a senior, she was required to declare a major so that she could
graduate. She hadn’t even realized how many credits had piled up on her
transcript. Cleo called the school and was put through to her academic advisor,
with whom she had never spoken. The man pulled Cleo’s files up on his computer
and whistled.
“This is quite an array of classes, Cleo,” he said.
“Ummm…where exactly do your professional interests lie?”
“Oh, I don’t plan to work,” said Cleo. “I’m independently
wealthy.”
Silence.
The man started over. “Well, that’s wonderful, but should
you need to get a job, what sort of work speaks to you?”
“Well, I’d kind of like being a cat burglar,” she replied.
“You know—a second-story man?”
Her advisor laughed. “Right, so I see you have a
well-developed sense of humor, and you have taken a broad array of humanities
courses, a few levels of psych, the foreign languages, and that Advanced
Cryptozoology seminar, which is…fine…. Cleo, have you ever considered being a
teacher?”
It was her turn to laugh. “I see you also have a
well-developed sense of humor, sir,” was all she said.
In the end, he decided to designate her as “Liberal
Studies,” which is college code for “indecisive and flaky.” With just a few
more courses, Cleo would be eligible to graduate in the spring.
Yet another Christmas passed without her parents. This time
when they called, she broke the news that she was no longer “undeclared” at
school. They were thrilled, until she told them about the Liberal Studies
designation. Then they were furious. By the time she hung up the telephone,
Cleo’s ears were stinging. She hadn’t been yelled at like that since the great
fountain debacle had sent her to boarding school.
***
She didn’t attend graduation, instead opting to receive her
diploma in the mail. With it came a letter informing her that she was
Valedictorian of her graduating class. A few days later, she received a card
from her parents, this one with a completely naked man holding up a dead tree
kangaroo by its feet. The inside read:
Congratulations,
dear.
We are proud of
you.
Love, Mom + Dad
P.S. Get a
passport.
There was also a package that contained a boomerang, a dozen
polished stones, a bleached lizard skull (which she put in Gally’s terrarium to
keep him company), and a bag of dried, brown plant matter with a note that said
“use sparingly.” In the bottom of the box was an envelope that contained a
round trip plane ticket to Sydney. The flight would be leaving in three weeks.
There was no other information.
Trusting that her parents had a plan, Cleo got an expedited
passport, bought luggage, bought more clothes, and flew to Australia.
At the airport, she spotted a man holding a sign with her name scrawled on it,
so she got in his car and settled in for a four hour drive. They quickly left
civilization behind them, and most of the time was spent driving through a dry,
orange landscape with scrubby bushes and a murderous sun. When the car stopped,
the man got Cleo’s suitcases out of the trunk, opened her door, helped her out
of the back seat, and then got back in and drove away, leaving her choking on a
cloud of hot, terra cotta dust.
When the cloud cleared, another man was standing there. He
gestured for her to follow him and simply walked away. Cleo pulled out the
handles on her suitcases and tried to keep up, cussing every time a wheel got
caught on a rock (which was often). Suddenly, the man climbed onto a boulder
shaped vaguely like a buffalo and whistled three times. Within seconds, they
were surrounded by naked, dusty Aboriginals. It wasn’t until one of them said “Hello,
Cleo!” that she realized both of her parents were among the group.
A lithe, tan woman stepped out of the group, bead necklaces
swaying between her orange and yellow painted breasts. Her brown hair was long,
wildly unkempt, and had streaks of white powder running through it. When she
hugged Cleo, she left colorful splotches all over the girl’s clothes. Then, Darwin
came forward, white spots and curvy lines dotting his face and chest. Cleo
quickly reached out to shake his hand before he had a chance to hug her, which
would have caused his dusty junk to press against her hip. She giggled at the
thought and clapped her free hand over her mouth.
The rest of the group consisted of half a dozen men ranging
in age from twenty to fifty. Two of them picked up Cleo’s bags, they walked
until they reached the village. Cleo stopped short, noting that everyone here
wore at least some type of clothing, which for the most part seemed to be some
sort of diaper-wrap for the men, and tunics and/or skirts for the women. She
turned to her mother with a questioning look. Helen looked sheepish, and
probably blushed, although she was too tan (and dirty) for it to show. “Laundry
day,” was all that she said before escorting Cleo to her quarters.
Which was a rolled up blanket and a vaguely pillow-shaped
rock, about three feet away from a blackened fire pit. “You are fucking kidding
me,” said Cleo. It wasn’t that she was having a diva moment, although she had
grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle as Lady of the Manor back home. It was
that Cleo had never, ever been on vacation, and she had certain
expectations—nothing major, just a swimming pool, a restaurant or two, maybe a
day at a theme park, definitely an actual bed.
“Cleomella St. James,” said Helen in her sternest mom-voice.
“You are an honored guest of this tribe, and as such you will conduct yourself
appropriately and with respect and gratitude.” It was amazing how easily it
came back, despite the years of parental absenteeism. “Now, young lady, you
will greet the elders, you will be demure, and you will do exactly as I say
from this point forward. Do you understand me?”
Cleo shrugged and sighed. “Yes, mother,” was all that she
said, although it was laced with a smidge of sarcasm that had Helen narrowing
her eyes. Cleo smiled angelically and sat on one of her upright suitcases. “I
await your instructions, madam.”
She learned to eat fire-roasted lizard with ants, mashed
plants with ants, and plain ants. After the first couple of days, she shed her
clothes and her inhibitions (not that she ever really had any), and ran around
in a rudimentary skirt like the rest of the women. Aside from one incredibly
awkward moment when her father first saw her like this, it was pretty fun. She
let an old woman paint designs on her chest and throw powder on her hair. She
wore a necklace of shells and clay beads, and learned to dance with the women
while the wind swirled dust around them.
It would sound pretty idyllic, except for the fact that
Australia is one of the deadliest places on the planet. Spiders? Check. Snakes?
Check. Scorpions? Check. It seemed like every ten minutes someone was having
convulsions, or foaming at the mouth, or saying, “Whoops! Looks like Tim’s dead.”
And then her mother would come running with some pouch of powder or dried
leaves, and a shriveled old man would sprinkle it and mumble, and then Tim
would be dusting himself off and reaching for another leg o’ kangaroo with a
side of ants.
“I’ve become an ethnobotanist,” Helen said proudly one
morning, after saving Tim for the third time (he wasn’t the sharpest tool). “Darwin learns their customs, and I’ve been apprenticed to the healer, learning about
medicinal plants. By the way, did you get the packet I sent you?”
“Yeah, what is that?” asked Cleo as she licked honeyed ants
off of a stick. “It just says “use sparingly” on the side.”
“Oh, that’s what we use to get high,” said Helen
conversationally. “It’s strictly recreational, and great for seeing visions in
bonfire smoke. But that’s why you’ve got to use it sparingly. It’s powerful
stuff, and occasionally, somebody overindulges and sort of…falls into the fire.
It smells awful.” She wrinkled her nose with distaste. “Just put a pinch on
your tongue, although if you don’t like the numb sensation that causes, stir it
into a beverage and drink it.”
After one last bonfire party, during which Tim died again,
and was revived again, it was time for Cleo to return to civilization. It felt
strange to put a bra on after two weeks of running around naked, but it was
also nice to reconnect with her designer wardrobe. Her parents and a few others
escorted her back to the giant rock, where her guide waited to take her to
where the taxi was waiting. This time, Cleo hugged both of her parents goodbye
(Darwin was wearing a loincloth this time).
***
During the four hour drive back to the city, she reflected
on her relationship with her parents. It was clear that they loved her, but not
in the deep, all-encompassing way that she had observed in others. Helen and
Darwin would risk their lives to save her from a wild animal, but she didn’t
occupy their thoughts from morning to night. For practical purposes, despite
the fact that she wasn’t quite sixteen, in their eyes, she was an adult, a
college graduate who had not lived under the same roof with them in over four
years. They had moved on, mentally and physically, and so had she.
Cleo had always had more freedom than most children, but now
she realized what that meant. She couldn’t vote yet, or drive a car, but she
could travel internationally, unsupervised. And she was rich.
“Instead of the airport, take me to the nicest hotel in Sydney,” she instructed the driver. It was harder to rent a room than she thought it would
be (some people did care that she was under sixteen and unsupervised, and that her
brown hair was tangled and caked with orange dust), but when she reached into
her bag and extracted the wad of cash that she had brought for emergencies, the
concierge suddenly became very compliant.
She rented a penthouse suite and allowed a bellhop to carry
her bags, tipping him lavishly for his trouble because she had seen it in a
movie once. As soon as he had bowed and disappeared into the elevator, Cleo
stripped, leaving her clothes in a pile, and went to take a shower. It was
heaven.
It took a while to remove the layers of crust from her skin
and hair, as well as the remnants of body paint that hadn’t transferred to the
interior surface of her clothing when she had dressed that morning. She wrapped
the cloud-soft hotel robe around herself and promptly jumped on the king sized
bed until she got dizzy. Then, she ordered room service and enjoyed the
spectacular views from her private balcony while she ate. Cleo was always up
for trying new things, but this time she opted for the traditional comforts of bacon,
eggs, toast, fruit, and coffee, finding that she didn’t miss the texture of
ants at all.
After dressing, she went out to explore the city, doing all
of the touristy things that she had never had the opportunity to do before. She
visited the aquarium, ate at a restaurant (her first ever, as all of the meals
in her life had either come from Vera or a school dining hall), shopped for
ridiculous souvenirs, and even visited an amusement park, where she rode the
same ride repeatedly until she vomited.
The next day, she took a boat tour, went snorkeling along
the reef, and sunbathed on the beach (also a first). She had the hotel
concierge call the airline to reschedule her return flight, giving her one more
day in Sydney before she would need to go home. Cleo spent the last day
shopping and people watching, for the first time feeling a little bit lonely as
she saw parents and children, lovers, spouses, and clumps of tourists grab one
another by the arm and excitedly point to something.
Isn’t that the coolest
thing you’ve ever seen, Mary? Wait ‘til I tell Charlie about that koala. Isn’t
that the funniest story? Ooohh! Let’s go over there!
Cleo had nobody to
share it with, so she wrote it all down in her notebook instead and reread it
on the flight home.