33.

The Mapeses picnicked in Bronson Park, downtown Kalamazoo. They spread blankets between two poplars near a poop-spattered cannon honoring the local Civil War dead. Afternoon was becoming evening. The ominous clouds had migrated east, making way for clean, cottony ones. A smattering of college kids, families, and senior citizens strolled around the central fountain, which rushed with watery life. Roast beef sandwiches and pickle spears wrapped in wax paper were served by Misty. Cans of Mister Pibb (Dr Pepper conjured bad memories) were distributed by Murray. Audrey unpacked her own special dinner: a Ziploc bag of buttons; two unopened packs of Topps NHL cards; a ball of twine; a fistful of superballs.

Out of habit, Audrey used her forearm to shield her meal from passersby, bringing her food out into the open only long enough to load it into her mouth. The family members also positioned themselves so that they formed a solid but inconspicuous barrier between Audrey and the sidewalks that traversed the park.

Every move was designed to hide Audrey’s eating. They’d been hiding her for years. It was second nature now. Grandma Pencil was disgusted by any public display of sin. At home, the “bad eating” was relegated to Audrey’s bedroom. At the dinner table, Audrey was forced (read: shamed) into consuming a token portion of “real food” as a way of keeping Grandma Pencil at bay.

Not that Grandma was a total Scrooge. She worked hard to be pleasant; this was obvious in the amount and degree that her face contorted. She had cultivated a rigid tolerance toward Audrey’s gustatory preferences, although she couldn’t help uttering the occasional jab. Such as reminding Audrey that the ultimate consequence of her “unnatural habit” was an eternity of slow-roasting in the pits of Hell.

But Audrey was approaching twelve, approaching teenhood, and Grandma’s jabs had begun to bounce off. Audrey was an avid reader of science fiction, mystery, and World War II history. She shunned the Judy Blume books. Her favorite author was Edgar Allan Poe. McKenna was proud of this. She’d read classics to Audrey for years—London, Poe, Kafka, Gilman. If they hadn’t been library books, McKenna would have fed them to Audrey one page at a time after they’d been read.

Audrey didn’t just read books. She could go almost anywhere, do almost anything, on her crutches. She took walks around the neighborhood, going as far as the Grand River a mile away. She rode the bus to the mall with girlfriends. She inked the names of her crushes in balloon letters on her arms. Mötley Crüe, Ratt, and Poison posters covered the walls of her room. She and her friends toilet-papered houses on Halloween. Her independence was a source of pride but also a source of anxiety for the family. She had cultivated her own tastes, her own personality, her own mind. The years of sneaking, of being called a “devil child” by her own grandmother, had made Audrey numb, even callous, toward other peoples’ opinions. If she’d ever possessed a sweet nature, she was now losing it. She’d been ignored with regularity, maligned with impunity. She’d come to know her boundaries. She’d also learned that Grandma Pencil’s—or anyone’s—judgments couldn’t hurt her any more than a bee sting. She might carry the welt for a few days, but in the end, it was little more than a nuisance.

To McKenna’s dismay, Audrey was becoming a smaller, girlier version of Toby. A smarter, better-looking Toby, but still—the meanness was blooming inside her.

After Audrey’s secret had come out eight years ago, Toby had gradually hijacked the role of her supplier. On grocery day, Toby was in charge of the “Audrey Bud get.” While Misty shopped for the family food, he and Audrey jetted off to various departments of the Meijer Thrifty Acres to gather her nourishment for the week.

McKenna was wrecked by this development. Toby was more forceful, his personality “bigger” than McKenna’s. During the last few years, McKenna had been pushed aside because she didn’t know how to assert herself. There was a charm to Toby’s brutish-ness that Audrey latched onto in the same way so many girls at St. Monica’s had done.

Girls liked to be pursued. They liked to be bullied into love. This fact made McKenna ashamed to be a girl.

As the family picnicked on two ratty blankets, Audrey popped a superball into her mouth. She sat crossed-legged, gazing into the branches above her head. What was she thinking? Her eyes twinkled, suggesting that a fire blazed behind them. But a fire can be used for good or for evil. The fire itself is neutral. We shouldn’t forget this important point. As Audrey’s head tilted back, the superball appeared under the skin of her neck, a round protuberance like an Adam’s apple. For a split second, she was a boy.

The ball worked its way down her throat at a leisurely pace. It reached the base of her neck and paused between her collar bones. Then it began to rise. At the top of her neck, it stopped. Paused. The ball descended once again, to the same point. Then it climbed her neck a second time, like an elevator.

McKenna had witnessed Audrey’s incredible esophageal control many times. She understood the message Audrey was sending to her now: “I know about your eating disorder.”

Perhaps it had been apparent all along, to everyone. Perhaps McKenna’s throat bulged, too. Presently, in fact, a masticated clump of roast beef was riding her esophageal highway. Perhaps it was obvious. More likely, though, Toby had told her. What ever the reason, Audrey knew. And she was mocking McKenna.

An elderly man, whom no one had seen approaching from across the grass, pointed. He said in an urgent voice, “That girl is choking!”

“She’s okay,” Murray answered coolly, reclined on one elbow, picking his teeth with a fork. He didn’t even bother detaching his gaze from the Gazette article he was reading.

“I don’t think so!” the stranger persisted. The man wore a rumpled, oversized brown suit. His mouth showed more gaps than teeth. His white hair was parted in a meticulous, gentlemanly fashion upon his head. He was either a homeless pervert or a wealthy pharmaceuticals baron; flip a coin, you might get it right.

What was undeniable about the man was his concern for Audrey’s safety. “I watched her eat buttons from that bag! She ate buttons! Craziest thing I ever saw! Now she’s got a rubber ball in her throat!” His finger, trembling—from terror, from drink?—led the way as he approached Audrey.

Toby sprang to his feet. “Mind your own goddamn business,” he warned.

“Sit down, Tubby,” Murray said. Then, to the man (though without looking up): “You saw it wrong, mister. No one’s eating buttons. It’s candy. She’s fine. We’re all fine. Run along. Have a great evening.” He made a shoo-ing gesture with his hand.

“When will this family admit that YOU ARE NOT FINE?!”

This lion’s roar was Grandma Pencil, who for additional emphasis had hurled her half-full Mr. Pibb at a nearby tree.

“This girl is sick! She needs help, do you hear me?! She cannot live on pencils and Matchbox cars and Barbie Dolls! She CANNOT! You laugh, you smirk. What is wrong with all of you? This is trouble! Demonic possession! You cannot deny it any more!”

“Mom. Now’s not the time—”

“Now isn’t the time! Now isn’t the time! The time is NOW!”

Grandma Pencil struggled to stand. She took two mighty steps across the blanket and began walloping Audrey’s back and shoulder blades with the heel of her hand.

This old dog had indeed learned some new tricks, courtesy of the penguins: Punishment, retribution.

To the brown-suited observer, however, and to the civilian onlookers who were now crowding the sidewalks, it likely appeared that Grandma Pencil was attempting to save Audrey’s life by dislodging the object from her throat. The man stiffened in his tracks and drew in a nervous breath.

Grandma Pencil herself probably believed she was saving Audrey. After all, this is what the nuns did to every child who flirted with damnation.

Audrey wasn’t like those children, though. She hadn’t been cowed into submission. She wasn’t going to grin and bear it. She wasn’t in a classroom. Her bravado wasn’t being measured by the number of spine-tinglers she could bear. And this lady had no authority over her, no uniform to show God’s sanction for this corporal punishment. Grandma Pencil’s arm moved so quickly that she managed to land three strikes before Audrey even knew what was happening.

Once Audrey knew, though, she didn’t hesitate.

“She’s beating me!” she yelled. “Help! Oh god, it hurts!”

“Yelled” is too flimsy to describe it. Audrey shredded her throat. She startled squirrels out of trees; they crashed like writhing fruit onto the grass. She shattered windshields on nearby cars. Flight patterns were disrupted. Planets were knocked out of orbit. Her voice was sonic boom, dog whistle, and exploding dishwasher all in one. And in addition to raw volume, her voice contained genuine panic. Even McKenna, who knew that it was an act, felt a surge of pity as Audrey burst into tears.

But Grandma Pencil was a boulder thundering down a hill. She had momentum. She had gravity. Her hand rose and fell another half-dozen times. The deep, fleshy thumps resounded, all witnessed by the gathering crowd.

Their judgment was swift and unanimous.

Boo! Roar! Outrage! Someone’s got to help that innocent little fragile gumdrop marshmallow of a girl! She’s on crutches, no less! Poor thing!

A take-charge middle-aged man dressed entirely in denim ventured into the shaded area where the Mapeses were picnicking. His ponytail wagged as he gently but insistently gripped Grandma Pencil by the shoulders and pulled her out of reach of Audrey, who cowered with conviction.

At the same moment, Toby lunged forward, either to get the ponytailed man off of Grandma or to get Grandma off of Audrey. He was foiled when his bare foot stepped into McKenna’s uneaten roast beef sandwich. He lost his balance and tripped over the cooler.

McKenna sat, frozen, not knowing what to do—laugh silently, or laugh out loud?

Misty and Murray sat, well, frozen.