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ÒIt is only the debased state of American letters that is causing my
novel, Girl Patrol, to be ignored. (Not to mention my other works.)Ó
- novelist holy joe, interviewed in holy joe magazine.
Andrew Roller Presents
GIRL PATROL
Chapter Seventeen
The bear was in tatters. One of his button eyes was missing and his
bow tie had unraveled and was trailing behind him, like a dirty leash on a
lost puppy. Chloe had managed to grab her bear back from the children who
had taken it from her. The prize was soiled, but it was still hers. She
hugged it. A tear ran down her cheek as she ran between the clapboard
houses, lit on one side by the setting sun. Somewhere behind her a gaggle
of children was coming, the mob in pursuit of the quarry, in this case the
delightful stuffed bear that had been found floating in the river, amidst
sticks and dead leaves, a rarity that had never been seen before.
Chloe came panting into the house. She shut the door behind her and
put the hook through the ring, on the inside of the door, for the first time
in her life. Then she ran across the dirt floor, to a call from her mother
asking if it were her.
ÒYes, mommie!Ó Chloe cried out. A woman came out of a side room.
She was perhaps 35, though her family had been murdered when she was
young, killed by vampires, and she had never been entirely sure how many
times the seasons had come and gone in the meantime. There werenÕt
really seasons anymore, not at least like some old folks said there once
were. The sun was hot some years, and not hot enough other years, with
no rhyme or reason anymore, an out of control nuclear reactor that was
coming to the end of its lifespan, although ChloeÕs mother wouldnÕt have
quite described it that way. In fact, to her mind, the sun wasnÕt the
problem it was just a light in the sky. The problem was the earth, the
trees and the soil and the way crops grew, or didnÕt, if disease struck.
Holding up her battered prize, Chloe showed her mother the bear.
The womanÕs eyes widened. Gently she touched the thing in her daughterÕs
hand. At first she was going to snap at her daughter, tell her to throw it
away. She shouldnÕt be bringing dead things into the house. Then she
realized it was filled with stuffing; some was falling out of the side of
the creature.
ÒItÕs mine, mommie! The kids tried to take it from me,Ó Chloe said
to her mother, sniffling as she spoke. She lifted a hand to her face and
wiped away a tear. Her mother caressed the bear, old memories flooding
back.
ÒI used to have something like this, only it was a giraffe,Ó ChloeÕs
mother said.
ÒWhatÕs a gaffe?Ó Chloe asked.
ÒA giraffe. It has a long neck.Ó ChloeÕs mother stretched her own
neck and her little daughter laughed, then imitated her.
ÒI can make your friend better,Ó ChloeÕs mother said to her.
ÒÔKay,Ó Chloe answered. The woman turned, and Chloe followed her
mother into the makeshift sitting room that the woman had been in. Her
mother sat down in an ancient rocking chair and the little girl, as was her
custom in this room, plopped down on an old wooden box next to the
rocking chair. Tenderly she gave the bear to her mother. The woman
picked up a needle and thread, that she had been using to darn some
clothes, and went to work on the bear. She sewed the button eye back on.
She re-tied the bow tie around the bearÕs neck.
ÒWhatÕs his name?Ó ChloeÕs mother asked the girl.
ÒBeaver,Ó Chloe said. ÒHe kind of looks like a beaver, donÕt you
think? A fat beaver,Ó she said, and giggled.
ÒHeÕs a bear,Ó ChloeÕs mother said. ÒA bear cub. I havenÕt seen any
of those in many years. I think the vampires killed them all.Ó Realizing
that she had broached an unpleasant subject, she quickly changed it. ÒYour
father will be home soon,Ó she told the little girl.
ÒUm,Ó Chloe answered, swinging her feet as she sat on the box.
ÒThe corn is doing alright this year,Ó ChloeÕs mom told her.
ÒWhat happened to your gaffe?Ó Chloe asked. Her mother thought a
moment, brushing dirt off the bear with her hands. They were veined
hands, aged beyond her years.
ÒHe went away,Ó ChloeÕs mother said. She smiled at her daughter. In
fact, sheÕd lost the stuffed giraffe, when her cousins that she was staying
with had to flee a werewolf pack, but she didnÕt want to tell her daughter
that. ÒHe grew up and went away,Ó ChloeÕs mother smiled.
ÒMy beaverÕs going to stay with me for a long time,Ó Chloe said. She
sat up straight. ÒI still have a lot of growing to do,Ó she told her mother.
The woman laughed. She put her hand on the top of her daughterÕs head, as
if measuring her against the drawing of a cornstalk that her father had put
on the wall to record his daughterÕs height.
ÒYes, you do,Ó ChloeÕs mother assured her. ÒAnd you certainly will,Ó
she added. But then she glanced uncomfortably at the sunlight shafting
through their wax paper window. It was a dying sun, one of the men in the
village was saying now, according to her husband. A sun that might not
live as long as Chloe.
30
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