Her name was Ms. Grisham and she answered my knock through the two-inch seam that the chain allowed. “You know the rules, little boy. Off my porch or I'll eat your fingers for dinner.”
“Ma'am!” I said before she could slam the door. “I'm James Parker! I called you about the camera!”
Her colorless eye studied me through the crack, then she removed the chain with cautious enthusiasm, checked the street over my shoulder, allowed me in, and bolted the door three times behind us. “Jaaaames?” she said. “I mistook your voice for a woman’s. Silly me!” She was old; a-hundred-and-two I assumed at the time, but probably closer to sixty-five. She wore a strapless dress with a pattern like bathroom wallpaper, cream and blue flowers, sagging low enough to expose pursed, overly tan cleavage with a melanoma-worthy mole that danced on her right breast with every word. “My you're a big boy! Have a seat on the couch and I'll find you that camera.”
“Thanks,” I said, still a bit shaken from the absurdity of the evening. The couch was pink velvet with pleats, buttons, ruffles, pillows, and hose marks from a vacuum. I sat.
The living room was an ecosystem of pastel kitsch; resin and porcelain figurines that probably came to life at night, kept alive by a compressed atmosphere of bitter perfume that dizzied my senses. There were shelves on every wall lavished with doilies and candles and frilly dolls with lifeless eyes. The room was like a haunted antique store with peacock feathers, torn pages from a coloring book, collectable cards with saints instead of baseball players, frames with yellowed photographs, a row of encyclopedias, jade animals, rosary beads, angels, birdhouses, clowns, lamps, silverware, crucified Christs and more, all spotless and painfully free of dust.
The woman hummed an unfamiliar tune as she rummaged through a pile of junk on a game table. Behind her, a light-green stairwell ascended into plush darkness. On the third step, a discarded bandaid.
The room's centerpiece was not a TV, but one of those ancient phonographs with a brass crank and a speaker like a tuba. Was that the source of the beautiful song? An odd and intrusive platform stood beside the record player. It was narrow--only two feet wide and three from the ground--and draped in blood-red velour. Protruding from the center of the fabric square was a single, silver eye-hook.
“You say you want to make motion pictures,” asked Ms. Grisham.
“Yes, Ma'am. I--”
“I found it strange when you told me that on the telephone; filmmaking is not usually a woman's pursuit. But you're not a woman, are you Jaaames?”
“No, Ma'am.”
“I met Liz Taylor working reception at Turnberry Isle. Grey roots, she had. Can you imagine? A famous actress and roots as grey as an elephant's trunk.”
Before I could prove my ignorance for old film stars, the woman's head snapped around and her eyes locked on mine. “Is this a ploy?”
“I'm sorry?”
“Are you a sneaky little brat? Did you see my ad in the paper and get a perverted little idea in your perverted little brain? To sound like a woman to sneak your way in? I saw you eyeing the stairs, boy. Is there something you were looking for? Something more than a camera? Show me your money!”
“I-- I'm sorry?” I muttered again.
Her body twisted to align with her head. Her back arched like a hyena.
I suddenly recalled the scene from The Goonies where that old hag nearly shoves the fat boy's hand in the blender. I began to panic.
“Show me that you're serious, little boy,” she growled. “Prove that you're here for my camera!”
I jammed my hand in my pocket and rustled the forty bucks (thirty from allowances; ten from Whit's candy sales). I held out the crummy wad for the woman's scrutiny while trying to get a grasp on my breathing.
She looked at the cash, then shook her head and waved her hand. “Bah. I won't have your money.” She returned to the table and gathered the camera, a case, and two sealed rolls of film.
I pocketed the cash and fingered my neck for a pulse.
“You're a good kid,” she said and released the armful of beautiful components to the cushion beside me. “And that's a good camera. Hate to see her go, but I purchased a nicer model last week. Hi-8. Records on tape. How things change.”
I was jealous. Super-8 film had a really neat look, but it would be terribly impractical. But I had to make my fairytale somehow...
“Test it out. Make sure I didn't forget some fancy component.”
“Sure will.” My eyes glistened and I forgot about the woman's moment of insanity. “Thank you, Ma'am.”
As I inspected the dials and triggers and reels, Ms. Grisham walked to a Lazy-Boy against the back wall. She brushed the seat and eased into it, then used the back of her hand to part thick, paisley curtains. She peered into the lamplit forest.
“I saw some boys in the woods behind your house,” I blurted. “I think they might be spying but I'm not with them, I swear. I'm just here for the camera so I can make my movie.”
“Mmm.” A lamp with a dim canary shade was the only source of light where the woman sat. Basking in the glow atop a swatch of frayed lace was a frame with gold flakes and a photograph--torn in half--of a woman in a wedding dress. A sterling-silver chain adorned the photo as if the frame was a lady's neck; at its center hung a ring with a thick gold band and six prongs that once carried a diamond. “Have you been baptized, child?” she purred.
I unzipped the bag--more like a pouch--and slipped the camera inside. “The camera's perfect, Ma'am. I'm staying at a friend's house tonight and he's probably getting worried--”
“Little boys should be baptized. Especially little boys. Flushes out the perversions. Makes you pure in the name of Jesus Christ.” She pulled her hand from the curtain and crossed herself.
Whit’s never gonna believe this. I stood.
“How old are you, Jaaames?” she asked.
“Twelve, Ma'am.”
“Sixth grade, is it?”
“Tomorrow's the last day of class. That's why I really should be getting--”
“You're not popular, are you Jaaames?”
I hugged the camera to my breasts and shook my head. “I'm going to leave the money on the--”
“I don't want your money, boy.” Her gaze drifted to my face. She looked through me. “Boy...” she whispered to herself. “Boy boy boy boyyy...”
“Ma'am, I--”
“A glass of water! A drink before you go. Then I'll send you on your way.” She saw my hesitation. “I'm an old woman, Jaaames, and I just gave you a free camera. Your friend can wait two more minutes, don't you think?”
I nodded.
She plucked a silver bell from the side table. She stared at me again, then her penciled eyebrows tightened, her lips thinned, and her smile hardened. She jangled the bell.
Upstairs, a door slammed. Padded footfalls trampled above me and I knew for certain that the beautiful song didn't come from a record player. The moment the girl realized my presence, her childish gallop turned into a graceful stride down the last three steps. A subtle swipe of her left foot brushed the bandaid aside, and when she finally landed on the ground level, her face emerged from the shadows...
(Forgive me as I ease into the labyrinth of my mind and attempt to recall--vainly, in both meanings of the word--my first encounter with Mara. Forgive any unnecessary adjectives, for the girl I'm about to describe could personify the minutia of every pleasant connotation of every overused, archaic or pretentious adjective in our desperately lacking lexicon.)
She had a woman's swagger at twelve-and-a-half. Hair: strawberry-blonde, and I vaguely recall a daisy in the crook of her ear. She was an inch taller than me, two with the ponytail; smooth cheeks and darling brown eyes that marbled in luscious contrast with her magnolia skin; cream, melting to peach, melting to pink. She beamed like a cherub without the baby fat; a tender neck; pristine lips that would never part for a dirty word. Her body--of no interest to me at the time--was wrapped from neck to toes with home-made footie pajamas, the kind they make for toddlers, but I didn't laugh; the girl filled that silly one-piece ensemble as if it were couture.
Dear Jesus on that cross, what have you done?
Ms. Grisham sneered at the lovely girl. “Why is your hair up?”
“I'm sorry, Auntie.” She tugged the blue ribbon and released fine, un-crimped strands of woven gold.
“What happened to your blush?”
“I thought it was time for bed.”
“Did you say hello to the boy?”
She turned her head a fraction of a degree. “Hello, boy.”
(My knees became balls of play-dough and the girl's direct address reminded me that I was an active player in this scene. I had been consumed in her appearance as if life was a movie and she was an actress. Dangit, James, I thought. SPEAK!) “Hey,” I replied with a nerdy half wave.
The woman's eyes darted between us as she analyzed our interactions. The corner of her lip lifted. “Get the boy a glass of water.”
The girl nodded, turned up her chin as she passed me, and walked to the kitchen.
I knew it! My senses had betrayed me! This girl was still a girl; aloof, snobby, and totally weird like the rest of 'em. My brain searched for her faults because--despite the tingling in my heart, the hallelujah chorus in my ears, and the fireworks in my head--She. Was. A. Girl. Prolly had that curly cursive that teachers adore; prolly never laughed at fart jokes; prolly scoffed at kids who wanna make movies with killer monsters and evil princes. She was probably just like Livy, stewing with girlfriends in her bedroom, finding love in the folds of a cootie-catcher, fretting about ridiculous things like bad hair and pimples and boys and S-E-X.
I have no recollection of the time between “get the boy some water” and the feeling of a moist plastic cup between my fingers. I can only imagine how awkward I appeared to Ms. Grisham, standing like a fat porcelain doll in her living room while the pretty girl retrieved my drink.
The adorable little snob stood beside me. We faced Ms. Grisham together. Thoughts of her haughtiness began to subside and my heart swayed back toward infatuation. I really did need to leave--Whit was probably furious--but I couldn't move.
“What do you think of my niece?” asked the woman.
I forced a gulp of water. “She's very pretty.”
“Did you hear her sing?”
“Yes, Ma'am.”
“And her voice?”
“Beautiful.”
“Will you think of her when you lay in bed tonight?”
“I don't know, Ma'am.”
“If you were of the appropriate age, would you marry such a pretty girl?”
“I don't know.”
“Mmm.” She looked to her niece. “And what do you think of our guest?”
The girl barely gave me the courtesy of a second glance. “His face is red and chubby,” she said. “He has little hands.”
Ms. Grisham leaned forward and rested her elbows on the arm of her chair. She flicked the wedding ring that dangled against the torn photograph. “Do you think he'll dream of you tonight?”
“Probably.”
“Why?”
“Because boys are perverts.”
“Will you dream of him?”
“No.”
“Mmm.” The woman rolled the ring in her fingers. “Go to bed. I'll be up soon.”
The girl nodded. She turned away and didn't look back.
I was glad to see her leave, but at the same time, I wanted to grab her hand and never let go.
“I'll ask you again, Jaaames,” said the woman. “What do you think of my niece?”
“I think she's rotten.”
“Do you feel a sickness in your chest?”
“Yes.” I meant it.
The corners of her smile crept through a murk of liver marks. “Good. Enjoy your new camera.”