Scorpion Wine
By Etkin Camoglu


It’s night and the crickets rub themselves in the garden under the dippers. Edward looks at planets through the big red telescope. I lay upside down turned around, bare feet hitting the wood wall against the leather love chair. The wall shoots up to the skylights, stained glass tulips, green stems, long bowed leaves, light yellow flowers wrapped up. The moon shines through them, the whole house empty. Nana’s in her room on the other far end past Edward’s blue room. My room is pink but I can’t go in there now because Witch is in my bathroom. She comes at night, stays against my shower wall so that the moonshine and star beams don’t hit and melt her.

Daytime brings the mid-summer hundreds. Coyotes wail in the cool early morning, run past the house gutter where scorpions and spiders and mites are dumped from pesticide. It’s coyote snack, dead insect abdomens and full festered egg sacks. Their sad howls tell Witch to go, it’s sun, a reminder that the desert will always be underneath, seeping through the pipes.

With noon the heat is in full bloom, figs fat, watermelons ready. I like this heat. Unlike Witch who hides, who wasn’t born here anyway. She comes from cold, with her white skin, her faceless face. I put on my bikini, the only one I have, sent last year from Mum Bunny. It has a tutu polka dot skirt and a big bow where my breasts will be.

As long as you sit straight, Nana promises.

I stick out my tummy to see if they’ve come in yet. When I lay out on the grass my wing bones cut through the towel. Yolanda brings mint lemonade. I tell her to make tamales for lunch. Then I hear her smacking around with the broom. When I look up, she’s hitting the wall of the house, up, way up the out door fireplace. Pack pack tack tack smo smo smo. The sound changes on angle.

When she’s finished, a tarantula swings down, slows the hot air as he goes till he’s on the ground. All eight of his legs curl into death. Yolanda sweeps him into the dustpan then takes him inside. I hear the gurgle of the garbage disposal. Chop chop, swoosh, tarantula mutilation.

Now when the black widow beelines down from the tulip moon window to my toes I don’t scream. It’s only fair. I let her lick my toes with her small felt tongue then watch as her eyes go into hippie red and black disco swirl. She tries to hypnotize me. I fill my cheeks puffin style. Ready set go. Her eyes turn back into her head then she flashes her tiny fangs. I see the venom ooze through the dark spaces. She picks my big toe, the one that curls left, starts to inject. She doesn’t go very far, very deep. She bites for only a second, a needle prick of anger.

And I’ve been stung, bitten, before. A bee when I cut down a red rose. Soft daddy long legs kisses underneath bed covers. The lobster snappers living in honeysuckles. Always a bump afterwards, itchy and bubbling beneath skin. But even so, even though she is kind, this time I can’t breathe.

I run off the couch, turn my body back straight from the moon. I want to yell but only air comes out. When I make it to Nana it’s nearly a minute, no air to my body, to my gut. Nana tucks me into herself, under her silk blanket. Her hands feel cool on my wet cheeks.

She sings me her tune, the three-note chord.

Edward stands in the doorway as I start to calm, his magic Tesla space hat on his head. He leaves his door open, lets Nana’s lilac face cream seep from pore to pore. Dawn opens again with coyote. I see Witch leave through the watermelon vines. She is covered in her cape, a shadow against the vegetable garden saguaro. A white triangle of her face, the dead stalk of a jumping cactus.

For breakfast Nana fries runny eggs and lets me watch Mr. Rogers. She makes lemon tea and covers my toe with Vaseline. It’s gotten big and hot and pushes even further left.

Be careful, she says, don’t wear bad fancy shoes or else your toe will always look like this. She promises Yolanda will bake candy cinnamon apples.

I sit for a while on the swing by the fig tree in my bikini and wish that the widow sucked my breast instead to make it grow. I slouch down the way Nana never likes and watch my belly roll into itself. Then I stick out my feet and look at the ugly way the toe makes my feet uneven trolls. It’s gone down by now, mostly gone, but I can still feel the secret pulse. The spider’s liquid throbs the toe every now and then, reminds me of her power.

When they’re ready, Edward and I eat the candy apples, a spoon of vanilla bean each to top. Nana sips iced tea because she never eats before guests.

The Silverthornes are coming, she reminds us.

We lick our fingers of sticky candy glaze. A baby bird splats to the ground. His insides make a small blood mark against the tan slab stone, his furless body grey to his gall bladder. Only an orange triangle of a beak.

Poor bird, says Nana and calls Yolanda.

I watch the ants merge on a highway to flesh. Yolanda sweeps the baby into her dustpan. This time I know it will be coyote snack, the sun leathering it in the gutter to jerky.

After, Edward rides his bike down the road to the pool. He makes paper boat airplanes. I bike with him a bit then go back to my room. They wait for afternoon tea. Samantha wants her red and white dress today and I make sure that Elenora is tucked into her crib. Scarlett and Madame Alexander sit side by side and Toto the monkey dangles from the window ledge. He has his banana in hand ready to shoot but I won’t let him. Then I read the cards from Mum Bunny faraway in the mountains. The envelopes never show where she is, but once Edward told me that she is breathing in snow air till she gets better. Nana won’t say. Every year the cards are in long, thin letters spelling out my name. And it’s your birthday, party, party, don’t be too sweet. Her lips sign lipstick with two floppy ears. I put the cards back under my bed. Nana comes in with the birds in the trees. They start to sing as the sun comes down. She puts a dress on a chair.

When you’ve washed your hair, bring your ribbons for your braids.

Yolanda fills up the bathtub and makes bubbles. The shower behind is already getting dark but there is still time. I start with my feet, go in bit-by-bit, feel the water suction against the toe. I point it out above the surface. The hot water makes it crimson, even more than the other toes. I want to squeeze it. When I do, the flesh pops, oozes out a small yellow worm. The worm is as hard as fingernail. I slide over to the toilet bowl, my body goose bumping out of the water. I flick the worm in, flush, watch it swivel into the house bowels.

Back in the water I take foam and cover my arms, my chin, my eyebrows. Since last summer Edward stopped making Santa Claus with me. It’s only me now and I cover myself with the bubble every time it melts away. When I stand up I plop some on the cut out spot down below, past my belly. I know this is secret too, like Witch, growing out of the same winter place she came from.

After, Nana braids my hair tight, pulling each section away, this then that way, cross, criss, cross. She ties the ends puffing out the loops of the ribbon. Yolanda takes the dryer, makes me hold it on each side till it dries.

One day we’ll get you some perm waves, Nana says.

She clacks her high heels to the kitchen past the love seat. I dry and watch the wall, look up to the tulips, the moon just reaching the sky, still a deep blue on the edges. The tulips quiver. My elbow gets heavy and I switch to the other side.

Keep it straight, Nana yells from the vapors of the stove.

Yolanda peels the potatoes and Nana gives her a stack of green onions from the garden. Dried sage; mint; sun crisped, mini-tomatoes. The vapor starts to drift toward me. I smell the rack of lamb in the oven and see the way the invisible scent wafts. It rainbows the same way that the sunset becomes part of the rock with the red ant hives and rotted magenta cacti fruit.

When the Silverthornes show up I’m dry, braided, tucked in dress. Edward comes out with his Tesla hat. Tonight he says he’s an inventor. The moon tries to cut out from the tulips but I tell it not to. In blackness the Witch can stay away. I follow Nana to the door, hide behind her dress, her heels. When she opens the night I see Mrs. Silverthorne’s silver feet. Behind her is William. William is very little.

Nana says, you remember William, don’t you?

Once when he came to play, I locked him in the garden shed. They got scared that he ran away. Yolanda finally opened the shed. He was asleep on the old cobwebbed lounge chair cushions. After, a hole he never found in the back of the shed got boarded up.

Now Nana takes my hand, pulls me in front of her. William looks up Mrs. Silverthorne’s pastel painted fingers. Nana takes my wrist out and we shake hands. He gives me a play-dough thing supposed to be a butterfly. I let Nana hold it. He has his hair slicked back and his shirt tucked into his pants. They stop at his ankles and show his socks pulled all the way straight. I walk away.

Back in my room the moon hides behind a cloud. Yolanda hasn’t come around to close the curtains. I lower them just barely, reaching to unwind the rope from the hooks, cut out the stars. Samantha snaps her eyes. Scarlett shifts her velvet, makes room for Madame. Elenora blows bubbles. Then I hear Witch scratching the tile paste, the spaces she eats clay from. William and Edward go past into the blue room. Edward tells William he can be the apprentice. The scratching gets faster. I make my way slowly to the bathroom door. Moonbeams start to shoot through curtain spaces. When I reach the tile of the bathroom, Witch is silent. A beam rays down to a spot before the cave opening of the shower. A florescent green scorpion waits, the size of my pinkie nail. The small, almost colorless ones are killers I know. The story of the woman who died stepping into a slipper, the man who drank a glass of white grape juice. The beam shifts in the sky and for a moment it magnifies. I see the pinchers clearly, curled in, still. I slide it onto a tissue, fold it flat to the cupped floor of my dress pocket. As I shut my room, Nana calls out.

Come to dinner, wash your hands, the roast is hot.

The dining room is behind the kitchen, swung open by a swinging door. Mrs. Silverthorne sits at one end of the round table and Nana at the other. Yolanda pours from a bottle into Mrs. Silverthorne’s cup. Nana likes wine with guests.

California sweet wine, a bit of bubble to it. Should we let the little ones have some?

Yolanda pours a drop into the red cups, with water to mix. Mrs. Silverthorne smiles, sips. Her pastel fingers grip the glass stem. Edward and William swing in. William has on the fool cape, white and green jester pattern. He starts to follow me as I circle the table. I feel his feet creeping behind me. There are four seats but I can’t decide. I run out the swinging door into the kitchen. Yolanda is making our wine. I grab two and turn back to face the swinging door. I push open with my knee. William and Edward face each other, William next to his mother. Nana pats the chair next to him.

Come sit. That’s so nice of you to bring William his cup too.

Mrs. Silverthorne smiles and William looks down, his face turning a soft girl flush. Yolanda brings around the mashed potatoes. Mrs. Silverthorne piles peas on William’s plate. He takes a spoonful, looks sideways at me. The peas fall from his mouth onto his lap. Edward rattles off the ingredients he used for a serum. Bee wings, lizard scales, dead wood, onion peels, vinegar, baking soda, fig peels, garlic powder. William keeps missing the peas, his mouth always moving to look at me with each spoon. I flatten out the potatoes and make a frown face. This makes William stop and watch. Then he does the same thing but he can’t even get the eyes right, his hand going limp making his thumb fall, splat out gravy to his shirt. Mrs. Silverthorne smiles and keeps tipping her glass down her throat. I take our red cups and get up, walk fast into the kitchen. Nana’s voice goes low.

More and more like her mother, head strong, head strong.

Yolanda goes out to collect dishes. I see the marble cake slices ready on a plate on the island. The bottle is next to it. I tippy toe to grab its neck. It empties evenly into the two cups. I set them on the ground, pull out the tissue from my pocket. The body has hardened. The legs are fine, even the pointer. So is the bone skin, ribbed or smooth. It’s what’s inside that matters. I take the body upside down, aim for a cup, the pointers facing up and squeeze. There is a pop, the flesh goes down, an old balloon. Two silver drops fall into the cup. I watch the liquid simmer with wine then drop the scorpion remains into the garbage disposal.

When I push open the door with my back I make sure my eye stays on the cup. Edward shows his paper boat diagrams to Mrs. Silverthorne. He keeps them in a pocket book. One day he plans to add panels for heat wave super power.

Who wants special cake? Asks Nana.

William shoots up his hand, kicks his short legs back and forth against his chair, shoes floating above the ground. Each time he kicks I feel the weak force of his plump muscles. The motion moves my skirt. I put the cup in front of him. Yolanda goes back with the dishes to bring the cake. I raise my cup, hope he’ll copy.

At first I think that maybe I switched the cups by mistake, mixed them up. The sweetness is beyond anything I’ve tasted before. Nana always lets us have wine, but really it’s just water. But this is heavy maple syrup, almost the same as for plum pancakes. It slithers slow down my throat. I gulp and wait. And then I remember I put no water, understand why Mrs. Silverthorne and Nana take only sips. I take another. It’s the same sweetness but I’m ready for it. After a few more the surprise is gone. William still hasn’t touched his. I feel him watch me, his small breath hanging open. The marble cake comes out. Witch is inside my slice. She cracks a toothy smile. She makes my fork and spoon do a dance, bump bump bump into each other.

Finally after half the cake is smeared on his face, William’s hand, crusted with gravy, moves toward his cup. He moves it so slow it does a tadpole wiggle across the table, step by step. When he takes the cup up, Witch disappears and the fork and spoon stop. Now it’s my turn to watch. As the wine enters his mouth his eyes open wide. He’s filled his cheeks full brim. Some of it trickles out, down his neck. He’s forced to swallow, glump glump. I wait. Suddenly his face becomes the deepest flush, ten times before. Mrs. Silverthorne stops her sipping in midair. Edward points and says William ate an extraterrestrial. William starts to cough, goes purple. Mrs. Silverthorne slaps his back with her painted hand. He throws up sweet smelling peas mixed with chocolate. Edward runs to get his serum. Yolanda brings water. Tears start to roll down William’s eyes mixing with the pea soup on his plate. More comes out in hiccups. Mrs. Silverthorne shows him how to breathe, taking in and out but still he hacks. Nana comes up and brings William’s cup to her nose.

How could you?

Her voice is mean, each word coming out separate and loud. Then she turns back to William, kneels to wipe his mouth. They are all circled around him and I want to cry now too but can only run. The swinging door hits my legs, my arms. It echoes across the house. The kitchen bounces its island this and that way and I have to make my way around it, bruise my elbows. I run from the rays of the skylights to my room, the tulips flushing out their petals to flap open and close.

On my bed I cocoon, let my tears come out in heaves. When I’m done my body is heavy, tired and washed through. I reach for my toe but there is nothing. It’s the same as ever, flat, not even a tiny pain. I hear Mrs. Silverthorne’s car back up, break the gravel of the driveway. It whizzes slowly away. Then the crickets begin and a daddy long legs taps at a ceiling corner. Toto is slumped on his banana. And Witch too is silent, asleep, her body heaped against the drain, tucked away from the night sky. The smell of the earth, fertile and crawling beneath is her beauty brew. But I’m not scared anymore, of the way she is. Her shapeless black body, her strange lips kissing cracks. The way she prefers dark to light. I trust her magic and let my eyes close. I see Mum Bunny on her mountain, her eyelashes snow. She flutters them on my cheek. And when she puts her lips on my head, she is warm, as warm as the sun. But the snow howls around us, covers her till she is gone and the coyote pack passes toward day.

© 2009 prickofthespindle.com