LITMIR.BIZ

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of Leonardo’s flying machines, paste it into my scrapbook, and glue strips of Mom’s “ratty old mink stole” to its wings. Then I turn to the centerfold of The Last Supper and trace that scene into my scrapbook too. I give the table a long tablecloth painted with stars and planets, and fill the windows behind it with comets. I’ve seen the picture at Gramma Frieda’s church and I know that Jesus’s hand is raised (Dad says He’s asking for the check), but when I look closer this time, I see powdered doughnuts on the table.

      And powdered sugar on Jesus’s face.

      I slam the book shut and look at my watch.

      Mom says I’m good at entertaining myself. She says my imagination is a work of art. The Last Supper is a work of art. Maybe my imagination is on the next page; I saw something like that on The Twilight Zone once.

      When I dare to look at Jesus again, He raises an eyebrow and shrugs.

      “Stop it!” I yell. Mrs. Wiggins moans and briefly raises her head.

      On TV, people who hallucinate famous dead people (like Jesus) are taken to the hospital where they put jumper cables on their heads. They wear diapers and pajamas all day, and cry all night because they want to go home.

      * * *

      “Crawford Quarry is perfect viewing,” Dad told us earlier. He knows all about the planets and stars, but he still calls Mom his “favorite heavenly body.” He checked out books from the Multnomah County Library and drew star charts that we’ll look at when we get to the pit. He bought us each a flashlight too.

      Lauren and I’ve never been to Crawford Quarry, but when our parents told us about the huge pit where people dig rocks out of the ground with big Flintstone-style steam shovels, my little sister giggled. She loves The Flintstones.

      At 23:00 (11:00 p.m. exactly), we meet in the kitchen. Lauren’s been sleeping and she’s hard to wake up, but I’ve been watching the clock—listening to the little ticks inside each tock and matching them to my heartbeats; visualizing every step between here and the entrance to Crawford Woods.

      “Okay, kidlets,” Dad says, pulling on his windbreaker,“it’s time to go.” Mrs. Wiggins looks up from the floor in the family room and wags her tail. “People are sleeping, but their windows will be open, so no talking. And Lily? Leave your watch at home.”

      “Why?”

      “Because you look at it all the time, dummy,” Lauren says.

      “And none of that, girls, or we’ll turn right around and come home. Got it?”

      Lauren and I draw zippers across our mouths.

      I grab Mrs. Wiggins’s leash. “Not this time, honey,” Dad says. The star charts crinkle when he pulls a rubber band over them. “Mrs. Wiggins is too sick to go with us. She can watch the house while we’re gone.”

      “But what if we need her? Her breed is strong enough to pull people out of snowdrifts. Besides, she’s used to babysitting us. She wants to go.” Mrs. Wiggins wags her tail but doesn’t lift her head.

      “You’re being selfish, Lily,” Dad says. His words pierce my heart. “She’s old and sick. You wouldn’t want to be dragged around if you were her.”

      “I won’t drag her around.”

      The cold water faucet whistles when Mom fills a glass for her evening “happy pill,” and we all turn around to watch. Mom gets unhappy faster than Speedy Gonzales and the pill “gives her balance,” Dad says. “We’re lucky to live in a pharmaceutical age.”

      He puts his hands on his hips. “Okay, Asher family. Are we ready to roll?”

      Mom smiles; Lauren claps.

      “Home no later than three a.m.,” he says. He also says something about the bogeyman and carriages turning into pumpkins too, but Lauren and Mom are already out the door.

      I tuck my wristwatch in Mrs. Wiggins’s bed, say a prayer, and draw a pie chart over her, blessing her the way a priest would. “I love you,” I say in Pig Latin.

      Dad puts his hand on my shoulder, but I shrug it off.

      * * *

      It’s a twenty-minute walk from our home on Aiken Street, uphill past the fancy houses in Crawford Heights, to the entrance of Crawford Butte. As we pass the big houses, Mom points out her favorites. Against the dark blue sky, they look like outlines of giant ships. In daytime, they’re all the same: big and white with used brick trim, bay windows, and fake columns, some in the Greek Ionic tradition, some in the Doric. Other columns look like Lincoln Logs or upside-down umbrella stands.

      I’d like to build a table-sized Acropolis, paint scenes on the inside, then spin it like a zoetrope. Aunt Jamie said she’d help.

      It’s a beautiful night.

      My family’s quiet, though inside people’s houses, dogs bark at us anyway. It’s late but televisions light up most living rooms. Jack Paar was Mom’s favorite late-night host but Johnny Carson’s on now. Tonight’s guests are Woody Allen and Ed Ames.

      We finally arrive at the dark woodsy path leading to the quarry pit and Dad double-checks our flashlights. He checks that we’re each still carrying a blanket too, and asks after the hot chocolate, tin cups, sandwiches, and powdered doughnuts in Mom’s picnic basket. When he also asks if I zipped my windbreaker, I don’t answer. I’ll be fourteen in two months; I’m not a baby.

      Trying to be funny, Dad runs his new binoculars up and down Mom’s legs. “Ooga, ooga,” he jokes. Judy says he bought them with money he won at the horse track, but how does she know?

      Dad walks ahead of us, kicking an empty can out of his way. It’s motor oil, probably for the motorcycles that tear through Crawford Woods all hours of the day and night. There’s an empty wine bottle in the bushes too, old yellowed newspaper, and dirty Dixie Cups.

      “Litterbugs,” Lauren says, leaning into me. Messes make her nervous.

      Mom and Dad stop where the trees begin to darken and blur and I stop too. “Wait a minute,” Dad says, turning around. He sniffs. “What’s that?” It’s his teasing voice. “Does anyone else smell it?”

      Mom turns her flashlight beam on him. “Paul,” she warns.

      He sniffs again. “Is that . . . carrion?”

      “What’s carrion?” Laura asks.

      “Come on, Paul. No ghost stories. You promised.”

      “All right, all right.” He smiles, and taking Mom’s hand finally leads the way into Crawford Woods. When they slip out of view, my sister and I hurry up behind them. Every five steps, I stop and listen.

      “Mom?” Lauren calls out. “Lily’s—”

      “Use your flashlights if you need them,” she interrupts.

      The dirt trail is soft and dusty, and except for the picnic basket bumping against Mom’s leg, Dad’s crinkly star charts, and Lauren’s heavy breathing (Mom says she needs her adenoids out), it’s a quiet walk through Crawford Woods.

      Up ahead is the basalt quarry, the bombed-out crater, the hole all the way to China. Up ahead is the giant mouth of the pit and the meteor-filled sky.

      The path narrows and widens, narrows and widens, like the giant walk-through lung at the science museum. Where the trees disappear, the woods become a wall of black. I want to be brave like the Indians on TV, to ride into battle screaming my head off and eat the hearts of my enemies. I want to stop walking and look into the shadows where the shark curtain lives but I’m afraid. I’m afraid of places like the blurry landscapes in Mom’s art book, where angry elves keep escaped circus bears as slaves, or gargoyles sit in the bushes watching me stumble by.

      My fingers twitch as I “pretend type” a prayer on Frieda’s typewriter. God bless Aunt Jamie

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