My Mother She Killed Me, My Father He Ate Me: Forty New Fairy Tales - читать бесплатно онлайн полную версию книги автора Kate Bernheimer (SABRINA ORAH MARK. My Brother Gary Made a Movie and This Is What Happened) #29

SABRINA ORAH MARK. My Brother Gary Made a Movie and This Is What Happened

ALTHOUGH HE IS WEARING A PAPER BAG OVER HIS HEAD, I INSTANTLY recognize Gary. Gary is my brother, and he is making a movie. Don’t get me wrong, the eyes were cut out. I mean, Gary could see. “What’s the name of the movie, Gary?” “The name of the moobie,” said Gary, “is My Family.” “You said moobie, Gary.” “No, I didn’t. I said, moobie.”

“You did it again, Gary.”

Gary’s eyes moved very quickly back and forth. Gary was miffed. “I’m going to flip out!” shouted Gary. “I’m sorry, Gary.” Gary had trouble with words. It was his sorest spot. Sometimes he was so tragically far off I wanted to gather him up in my arms, climb a tree, and leave him in the largest nest I could find. He’d mean to say “human” and it would come out “cantaloupe.” He’d mean to say “dad” and it would come out “sock.” Even my name he malapropped. He called me Mouse.

“Did you build that camera yourself, Gary?” The camera was an old tin can with a bunch of leaves pasted to it. Gary held the tin can up in the air. A few leaves fluttered off. “Action?” he whispered. And then, even softer, he whispered, “Cut?” “May I make a suggestion, Gary?” “What is it, Mouse?” “Maybe you want to point the camera at something.” “Like what?” “Maybe like an actor, Gary. Like an actor who is saying words.” “Like these actors?” asked Gary. I was proud of his pronunciation. He led me behind the couch.

The actors groaned in a heap. “Is that Grandpa, Gary?” It was unquestionably Grandpa. He was on the very, very tippy top. “Hi, Grandpa,” I said. “Hello,” said Grandpa. He was not excited to see me. I had married a black man, and he was still ticked off. “This is not about you,” said Grandpa. “This is about Gary, and his burden of dreams.”

“Look!” said Gary. “There’s Sock.” Gary meant our dad. “Hi, Dad.” My father gave a little wave. He was about four actors from the bottom. My eleven other brothers also were there: Eugene, Jack, Sid, Benjamin, Daniel, Saul, Eli, Walter, Adam, Richard, and Gus. They groaned. Aunt Rosa was shoved between my mother and grandmother. A bunch of cousins were balled up at the bottom.

“Hand me that shovel,” said Gary. “What shovel?” I asked. But Gary already was pointing his tin can straight at the heap. “Lights,” said Gary. “Turn off the lights!” I turned off the lights. “Camera,” said Gary. “Action,” said Gary. “Cut,” said Gary.

“May I ask a question, Gary?” “What is it, Mouse?” “Why are you shooting in the dark, Gary?”

“I’ve had it,” yelled my mother. “We’ve been here for six goddamn years.” Aunt Rosa made little clucking sounds. I turned on the lights. Gary went into the kitchen and returned with a large tray filled with tiny cups of water.

“I can’t live in a heap this close to your father,” yelled my mother.

I began to wonder about footage.

“I need a mani-pedi,” yelled my mother. “I need a goddamn blowout.” “You look beautiful,” I said. “This is not about you,” yelled my mother. “This is about Gary and his burden of dreams.” I handed her a cup of water. “This water tastes fake,” yelled my mother. “It is fake,” said Gary.

My father’s beeper went off. His patients were dying.

“Did you know,” asked Grandma, “that the fear of being touched is called aphenphosmphobia?” My mother rolled her eyes.

“What’s the movie about, Gary?” “The moobie’s about the Holocaust,” said Gary.

“Is there a script, Gary?” “Bring me that ladder,” said Gary. I brought him the ladder. He leaned it against the heap, climbed all the way up, and stood on top of Grandpa. Grandpa smiled.

Gary pulled the paper bag off his head. His silver hair tumbled out. The actors oohed and aahed. Gary blushed. He turned the paper bag inside out, and off of it he read the script: “Thou shalt have no other Gods; Thou shalt not make any graven images; Thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in vain; Remember the Sabbath day; Honor thy father and mother; Thou shalt not kill; Thou shalt not commit adultery; Thou shalt not steal; Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor; Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s house. nor anything that is his.”

“Such a good boy,” said Aunt Rosa. “Such a good boy,” said Grandpa. “Such a good boy,” said my father. “Go to hell,” said my mother. My eleven other brothers groaned.

“Did you know,” said Grandma, “that the fear of the skins of animals is called doraphobia?” I began to wonder whose heart was a doomed spoon. Mine or Gary’s.

The best I could do for Gary at this point was hold him, and ask him what he was going to do after.

“After what?” asked Gary. “After shooting,” I said. “I’m going to Barcelona,” said Gary. Now, that really ceiled me. I would’ve said “that really threw me off the heap,” but I wasn’t invited to be on the heap. Wasn’t really sure I ever wanted to be on the heap. “There are these scrambled eggs in Barcelona,” said Gary, “I really need to try.” “Oh, come on, Gary. You know you’ll scream the whole way.” In the States Gary was just fussy. Overseas he screamed.

And then I remembered Gary’s problem with malapropping. “Barcelona?” I asked. “Barcelona,” said Gary. “Scrambled eggs?” I asked. “Scrambled eggs,” said Gary. I looked over at the heap. My mother was halfway out of there. “Six more years,” she yelled, “and then I quit.” My father gave Gary an idealistic thumbs-up. “Did you know,” said Grandma, “that the fear of puppets is called pupaphobia?” “Well,” said Grandpa, “bye.” “I’m not going yet,” I said. I was still holding Gary. I held him as tightly as I hold my breath when I pass the cemetery. “Why do you do that?” asked Gary. “Do what?” “Hold your breath when you pass the cemetery?” I looked over at the heap. Aunt Rosa smacked her hand over her mouth to muffle her laughter, but she wasn’t even laughing. She wasn’t even smiling. “Because I don’t,” I whispered, “want to make the ghosts jealous.” “This isn’t about you,” said Gary.

“This is about me and my burden of dreams.” “I know, Gary.” “I know you know,” said Gary. He picked a few leaves off the tin can and handed them to me. I put them in my mouth, chewed, and swallowed. A month later I was pregnant.

I stayed on the set until my husband, the black man, came to pick me up.

There once was a very old man with large gray eyes who collected all the fairy tales in the whole wide world. He put them in a large sack, and carried the sack from village to village. Some believed the sack to be filled with gold, others bones, but all were too afraid to ask. I know this because the very old man with large gray eyes is my great-great-grandfather. He left me this sack when he died. For many years I would not open it. I hung the sack from a tree in my yard. At first it swung drowsily, but the years turned the sack savage and soon it whipped around even when the air was still. Little yellow teeth began to poke through. It was not until my seventy-seventh birthday that I opened the sack. What was inside will not astonish you: glass coffins, the belly of the big bad wolf, ovens, forests, magic mirrors, men caught inside beasts, and frogs, and cats, hundreds of shoes, and a glittering sea. At the very bottom of the sack was a girl who had once, long, long ago in a land far away, become pregnant by swallowing a rose petal. I asked her who she was. “Before the sack?” she asked. “Yes,” I said, “before the sack.” She told me that before the sack she lived inside a fairy tale called “The Young Slave” by Giambattista Basile. I believed her because she was pretty and sad. “Do you want to know,” she asked, “what all the things inside the sack filled with fairy tales are like?” “Very much,” I said. She brought my hand to her belly. “They are like home.” “Home?” I asked. I felt confused. “Containers,” she said. “Either we are inside or we are outside.” “Who?” I asked. “Us,” she said. “The figures”—she blushed—“of fairy tales. Either we are inside. ” She climbed inside the sack. “Or we are outside.” She climbed back out. “It is like in your story ‘My Brother Gary Made a Movie and This Is What Happened,’ how you are outside the heap.” “It’s not really me,” I said. “Exactly,” she said. “You are outside of you.” I looked at my story. “Gary’s head is inside the paper bag!” “Now you’re catching on,” she said. “Even the moobie is a container,” explained the girl. “Because Gary is trying to capture the Holocaust?” I asked. “Exactly,” said the girl, who was both pretty and sad. “Fairy tales are about questions of belonging, and Mouse does not belong.” “Me?” I asked. “Yes, Mouse,” said the girl, “you.” “Because I married a black man?” I asked. “This is not about you,” said the girl. “Oh, right,” I said. The girl handed me a rose petal. I put it in my mouth, chewed, and swallowed. Nine months later I gave birth to a very old man with large gray eyes.

— SOM