The Accidental Siren (13 page)

As an adult, I think of that scar often to
remind myself that a cut was still a cut and blood was still blood.
Mara Lynn’s appearance may have been otherworldly, but that ring of
torn flesh would always serve as a memento of her mortality.

5.
FAIRYTALE, PART I: THE GIRL

To prepare for this descent into my past, I
took a weekend vacation to my childhood home. I stooped in my
closet and unhinged–with a crowbar because of the nails–the hatch
to my childhood lair. Dismembered limbs from a fake tree expanded
from the open square like a wrung sponge. I removed the branches
one by one, piled them beside the dismantled bed frame, and coughed
in a plume of spray-on snow.

I was taller than the boy who wrote stories
in that narrow hole, but I was thinner too. Inside, my legs were
crossed and my chin could rest on the lowest pipe. The smell was
unfamiliar–like soot and wet newspaper–but the memories were
bountiful.

Mickey’s bulb was broken, confirmed by the
rattling noise when I shook it, so I relied on the thin beam from
the hatch to navigate the cavern. My comic books were still intact
and I made a mental note to check the going rate for Batman
memorabilia on eBay. My yearbooks–dating from 1991 to 2002–were in
various stages of disrepair. I scanned the pages of my freshman
year and found on the twenty-first page a smushed piece of paper
like a pressed flower:
“Idea!”
it said.
“Maybe I Should
See His Emergency Room!”

The real treasures were those christened by
little Mara; a zebra-print snap bracelet, a plastic VHS case that
boasted
Disney’s Beauty and the Beast
but contained no tape,
Dorothy’s collar, a blue diary with a broken lock, and a statuette
of Saint Michael, wings ablaze and poised to fight. I placed the
statue by the exit, then cracked the diary’s spine and flipped to
the last entry: August 26, 1994. It was the night of the carnival.
The night when everything changed.

A dead mosquito laid upside down on the lid
to a particularly heavy storage bin. As I swiped it away, I
recalled the time when Mara swatted a dozen flies around the
playroom, then left the squished bodies as a warning to the other
bugs that she was serious.

A Play-Dough sculpture sat at the bottom of
the bin. I removed the colorful slab and admired Mara’s
fingerprints preserved for ten years in the petrified clay. It had
a flat bottom and round top; a model of a hill–
Mara’s
hill
–with trees etched meticulously around the base and bluff
like a crest of male-pattern baldness. A stout water tower had been
whittled out of red clay and smushed on the plateau like a
miniature Shriner hat. The hair on my neck stiffened as I studied
the sculpture; a reminder that even Mara had her obsessions.

Her costume was bundled in the corner by the
library exit. I unfolded the light-green fabric as if it was the
Shroud of Turin. I examined the neat folds and perfect stitching
where Mom demonstrated her sewing machine, then the lopsided gnarls
of thread when I took over. The corset top was lashed with leather
shoelaces, slack since the completion of her final scene. There was
a blouse too, yellowed from years in hiding, flared sleeves, a hole
on the left shoulder, and grass stains on each elbow.

Beneath the costume was a forgotten box–meant
for a rock collection–that contained trinkets slipped into Mara’s
pockets by the twins. There were crayons, a headless G.I. Joe, a
tube of toothpaste, little green army men, and a slip of lined
paper that read,
“MARA”
in big, crooked letters. One item
was missing, and I recalled The Panty Incident when Bobby stole a
pair of my mother’s underwear and slipped them under Mara’s pillow.
Mara knew the culprit immediately and returned the undies to their
owner. Mom and Bobby had a talk after the incident which put an end
to the giving of secret gifts.

Hidden in a bin of Christmas ornaments was
the reason for my visit; the complete “Fairytale” screenplay with
twenty-six pages, golden brackets, the distinct spacing of my
father’s word processor, and a title page:

FAIRYTALE

BY JAMES PARKER

WITH HELP FROM MARA LYNN

AND WHITNEY CONRAD THE 3RD

I scanned the text, marveled at our
grade-school ambition, and made the decision to supplement “The
Accidental Siren” with unmodified excerpts from several key scenes.
I hope these descriptions set a humorous tone while providing a
peek into the collective creativity of a boy and his pals.

* * *

06 INT. THE RED ROOM - NIGHT

THE GIRL WALKS IN A VERY INVITING ROOM WITH
LOST OF RED IN THE DESIGN. A BIG BED IS IN THE ROOM. IT HAS RED AND
WHITE PILLOWS. A TABLE IS IN THE MIDDLE AND COVERED WITH A
MYSTERIOUS WHITE SHEET. WHITE CANDLES ARE LIT AND SIT ON OTHER
SMALL TABLES.

TWO GIRLS STAND ALONG THE WALL IN SCARY POSES
BUT THEY DON’T MOVE. A SCARY-SOUNDING LULLABY PLAYS IN THE
BACKGROUND. THE RIBBON ON THE GIRL’S FINGER LEADS HER TO A COOL
LOOKING BOX WITH FRUIT IN IT. THE GIRL LOOKS AWFULLY HUNGRY. SHE
REACHES FOR A STRAWBERRY BUT A SCARY VOICE MAKES HER STOP.

“Who goes there!” Dad said with a mischievous
cackle.

Mara jerked her hand away from the fruit.
“Who are you?” she stammered. “
Where
are you?”

Dad emerged from burgundy drapes. His body
was wrapped in a crimson cloak, his face was plastered from hair to
chin with white silicon, and his head was crowned with a tiara of
black feathers. He wore pendants and chains around his neck and
gloves like a butler. “I’m here,” he said in his most despicable
voice.

Mom chuckled from the doorway and I shushed
her immediately; the basement guest room was my set, and I wouldn’t
tolerate unnecessary noise. She respected my authority and made a
zipping gesture across her pinched lips. I put my eye back to the
viewfinder and panned to Dad.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you, little girl,”
he continued. “Why don’t you come inside and relax? I’m not going
to hurt you.”

“Maybe just for a minute,” Mara said. She
removed the ribbon from her finger, then plucked a strawberry from
Mom’s fancy cigar box.

My elaborate production design included
wrought-iron trinkets from around the castle, bottles from the
beach, Mara’s candles (saints facing away), crystal glasses, and
red curtains borrowed from Mrs. Greenfield’s antique booth in Grand
Rapids. Above the bed hung a bowl of dry ice–frothing with bouts of
heavy smoke–inspired by my alter boy friend.

“I’m very hungry,” Mara said.

Dad stepped forward. “Hungry, you sayyy?”

I signaled Jake with a frantic wave. He
nodded, then pulled the string that raised a sheet that magically
revealed a table of food.

“Whoa!” Mara said. “Is that for me?”

Dad rapped his gloved fingers together,
lowered his head, and grinned. “Yes, child.
It’s all for
you.
”

“Annnd cut!” I yelled.

Mom nearly lost it. She grabbed her knees,
snorted once, but kept it in. Whit lowered the boom pole and
laughed, then Mara and Jake joined in. Dad looked at me–his face
like a confused hobo clown–and I couldn’t help but crack a
smile.

“I don’t know what’s so funny,” Livy said,
dropping her arms to her side and shaking flour from her hair.
“It’s the middle of July and there’s no AC down here. I get to put
cute makeup on Mara, and I hafta make myself look like a dead
Pinocchio.”

Mom covered her mouth to suppress the
laughter. It wasn’t working.

Kimmy unhinged her pose and slapped flour
from her gown. “What are we supposed to be, anyways?”

“Victims,” Whit said. “Victims of the evil
monster...”

Dad raised his gloves like cat claws and
snarled.

“This scene was my idea,” Whit said.

Livy sighed. “Haven’t heard
that
ten
times in the last hour.”

Mara fanned her torso with her medieval
blouse. “I think I need to pee.”

“And I need the bedazzler,” Dad said, running
his fingers over the hem of his cloak. “These darned rhinestones
keep falling off.”

Dad’s dry sense of humor ended Mom’s struggle
for composure; she laughed until mascara drenched her face.

I shut off the camera, pulled off my
headphones, and raised my hands. “Alright everybody, take
five.”

* * *

14 EXT. BOAT SUNSET

THE CAPTAIN OF DEATH ROWS THE ROW BOAT ACROSS
THE SEA. THE GIRL DOESN’T HAVE HER PIGTAILS ANYMORE AND HER MAKEUP
IS ALMOST GONE. SHE’S WORRIED.

ALL OF A SUDDEN THE CASTLE APPEARS IN THE
DISTANCE AND THE GIRL IS RELIEVED.

“There it is!” Mara shouted from the boat,
pointing past the camera to the castle behind me.

Whit nodded and pulled the black cloak
tightly around his skeleton face. He had dialogue, but the
microphone cord didn’t reach from my camera to the actors in the
boat. We would add his lines in post.

In last year’s zombie movie, I wrote too many
characters that were required to walk. Whit–being my one and only
friend–played every role, but his handicap posed some obvious
problems. With a little movie magic, I kept the camera above his
chest and chair and made him bounce his shoulders as he “walked.”
The quick fix made him look more like a Muppet than a leading man,
though he wasn’t exactly Harrison Ford to begin with.

This time around, I wrote more characters who
remain seated; hence, the Captain of Death.

“Cut!” I shouted. “Bring it in!”

Mara waved.

Whit lowered his hood, pulled the mask to the
top of his head, dipped the paddles in the water, and began rowing
home.

Mom was on crowd-control duty and split her
attention between the sporadic tourists on evening strolls, her
twin boys digging a hole to China with plastic shovels, and the two
kids in the dilapidated rowboat who never learned to swim. When a
bystander tried to cross the frame, Mom caught them and quietly
asked them to walk behind the camera.

It wasn’t until I began directing films that
I realized how swiftly the sun sets. I had one last shot, but the
shadowless glow of magic hour was quickly fading to black. I
replaced the tape, set the camera to face the castle, and beckoned
my friends a second time.

They were talking.
Lollygagging
. And
Mara was smiling.

“Hey guys!” I called. “Hurry it up!”

Mara looked and nodded. Whit was telling a
story but I couldn’t hear.

I checked the castle in the viewfinder. The
lighting was perfect. Squinting, I could just make out Dad’s murky
form in the tower window. Apparently, his friend at the firm
spotted the coveted eagles over the State Park last weekend. As I
watched my father’s motionless shadow, I sensed his
disappointment.

Mara’s laugh refocused my attention. The boat
was beached. Mom and a stranger helped Whit transition from the
boat to a lawn chair. He was laughing too.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

He shook his head in that “had-to-be-there”
kinda way. His smile made me cringe.

I looked to Mara but she was busy admiring
the twins’ hole.

I huffed, scratched furiously at the back of
my head, and jogged to the boat. “Give me a hand, Ma?” I asked.

“Grumpy, grumpy,” she said and lifted the
bow.

“I’m not grumpy but I’m losing light and I
got sand in the tripod legs and I don’t know what they think is so
funny.” I bent my knees and heaved the stern.

“Whit and Mara are allowed to talk, hon. You
don’t need to be a part of every conversation.”

We carried the hunk of tin inland twenty feet
and dropped it between the camera and castle. I brushed my hands on
my swim trunks. “I need the castle in the background, but I can’t
risk my camera in the lake. When I say ‘action,’ I need you to rock
the boat like it’s on the water.” I crossed my arms. “Think you can
handle that?”

“Don’t get snippy with me, sweetie, or your
friend’ll go right back home.”

I grumbled, finalized the shot, then called
for the actors.

As Mom and Mara eased Whit back into the
boat, I noticed three figures a hundred yards down the shore. They
were standing on the dune where the woods met the sand. They were
boys... I was sure of it. And they were watching us.

A hand on my shoulder. A voice in my ear.
“I’m proud of you.”
With only four words, Mara nullified my
jealousy over the inside joke, belittled the bullies on the hill,
and made the sun stand still.

She squeezed my arm. “Just thought you should
know.”

* * *

01 EXT. HAPPY WOODS - DAY

IT’S A PRETTY DAY. A YOUNG, ATTRACTIVE GIRL
WALKS HAPPILY THROUGH THE FOREST CARRYING A BASKET FILLED TO THE
RIM WITH FOOD AND A KITTEN. SHE PAUSES TO PLUCK A YELLOW DAISY FROM
THE GROUND AND CONTINUES HER TRIP.

THE GIRL SITS BY HERSELF IN A PATCH OF
FLOWERS AND TALKS TO HER LITTLE CAT.

“Good morning Dorothy! Isn’t it a beautiful
day? Maybe the most beautiful day I’ve ever seen!”

I stopped Mara. She was perfect, but I asked
her to stop and I gave her direction. “Try it like this,” I said,
or, “Put your hand here.”

“Dorothy, you look so sad. Your fur is all
messed up, your paws are all muddy, and you must be so hungry.”

Dorothy really was as ratty as my screenplay
suggested; possibly the ugliest cat I’ve ever seen. The shelter had
rescued the kitten after a skirmish with a pissed-off Pinscher. She
had one and a half ears, three and a half paws, and her coat was a
patchwork quilt of grey fur and flesh where hair would never grow.
I called her “Franken-kitty” the day we got her; Mara scowled and
named her Dorothy.