love will come because it always does, because why else would it exist and it will makeeverything hurt a little less. You just have to believe in yourself. Look your demons right in the eye. Set your Angel Juans free to do the same thing themselves.
I snap a picture of creepster Cake with the last shot in my camera. There is a flash like lightning.
My wishes are: my beloved Angel Juan is free, Charlie Bat finds peace, Cake becomes who he really is. These are my wishes.
Cake starts to shake. He is a white blur. Then he gets very still.
Angel Juan’s limp fingers wake up in my hand. “Niña Bruja,” he says. I look at him. We are both crying like babies. I feel my fever break into clean sweat. Angel Juan takes my hand and presses it to his lips. We put our arms around each other in our brother grip. And we watch Cake seal up inside himself, becoming a bleached plastic mannequin man without a breath or a heartbeat. He’s not any different from before really. This is who he really is.
We can leave.
Charlie’s light leads us out of the chamber, down the halls. Angel Juan doesn’t ask about the light that looks like it’s coming from an invisible flashlight. Heleans against me, holding my hand.
We get to the gold-and-white room with the mannequin smoking a pipe and the family having a tea party and the grinning boy. None of them will ever leave. They look so real that it seems like we could wake them and take them with us but I know if I shook one of them the only sound would be the clatter of bones against plastic. Angel Juan knows what I’m thinking. He holds my hand tighter as we go through the door that leads back to our life.
It’s dark when Charlie, Angel Juan and I come up into the empty diner. The jukebox is still playing “Johnny Angel” like it never stopped. My dirty dishes are still on the counter. But the Angel mannequin isn’t in the window anymore.
I put on my skates. We go outside and it’s so cold that Angel Juan and I can see the ghosts of our breath on the air. We put our arms around each other in our perfect-fit brother grip. We stumble-shake-skate back to the apartment following Charlie’s light.
If Charlie’s building reminded me of a beat-up oldvaudeville guy when I first saw it, now I think all the rooms are like songs he still remembers in his head. And the best song is on the ninth floor in the Rag Mop room.
There is a note on the door.
Dear Lily,
We are home. The ghost is at peace. We hope you don’t mind but we let ourselves in to give you a few things. Come by as soon as you can. We are worried about you. Love from your benevolent almost-almost uncles, Mallard and Meadows.
We go in. Charlie flies right over to his trunk and slips inside.
I look in the cupboards and the refrigerator. Mallard and Meadows filled them with food—apples, oranges, scones, bagels, oatmeal, raisins, almond butter, strawberry jam, tea and honey. Angel Juan and Ichomp-down lap-up almost everything and fall onto the Persian carpet wrapped in each other like blankets.
“Thank you, Niña Bruja,” he whispers, taking me in his arms. “You set me free, Miss Genie.”
His eyelids flicker closed and I can hear his breathing getting deeper. I get up and go over to the trunk.
“Come on, Charles,” I say.
I look into the mirror pieces. “Grandpa Bat?”
Slowly, like when ripply water in a pool gets still so you can see yourself, his face floats up out of the murky murk of the mirror.
“I’ll miss you, Witch Baby.” His voice fortune-cookie crackles, old-movie pops.
“You can come back with me to L.A. Weetzie would rock.”
“I can’t.”
“Well then I’ll visit you.”
“No. I’m going to leave now. I needed to finish some things and now I’m done.”
“Finish what?”
“I wanted to stay and meet you, little black lamb. And make sure you would be all right. I wanted tohelp you but I messed up and really you helped me.”
“You didn’t mess anything up.”
“I didn’t
I snap a picture of creepster Cake with the last shot in my camera. There is a flash like lightning.
My wishes are: my beloved Angel Juan is free, Charlie Bat finds peace, Cake becomes who he really is. These are my wishes.
Cake starts to shake. He is a white blur. Then he gets very still.
Angel Juan’s limp fingers wake up in my hand. “Niña Bruja,” he says. I look at him. We are both crying like babies. I feel my fever break into clean sweat. Angel Juan takes my hand and presses it to his lips. We put our arms around each other in our brother grip. And we watch Cake seal up inside himself, becoming a bleached plastic mannequin man without a breath or a heartbeat. He’s not any different from before really. This is who he really is.
We can leave.
Charlie’s light leads us out of the chamber, down the halls. Angel Juan doesn’t ask about the light that looks like it’s coming from an invisible flashlight. Heleans against me, holding my hand.
We get to the gold-and-white room with the mannequin smoking a pipe and the family having a tea party and the grinning boy. None of them will ever leave. They look so real that it seems like we could wake them and take them with us but I know if I shook one of them the only sound would be the clatter of bones against plastic. Angel Juan knows what I’m thinking. He holds my hand tighter as we go through the door that leads back to our life.
It’s dark when Charlie, Angel Juan and I come up into the empty diner. The jukebox is still playing “Johnny Angel” like it never stopped. My dirty dishes are still on the counter. But the Angel mannequin isn’t in the window anymore.
I put on my skates. We go outside and it’s so cold that Angel Juan and I can see the ghosts of our breath on the air. We put our arms around each other in our perfect-fit brother grip. We stumble-shake-skate back to the apartment following Charlie’s light.
If Charlie’s building reminded me of a beat-up oldvaudeville guy when I first saw it, now I think all the rooms are like songs he still remembers in his head. And the best song is on the ninth floor in the Rag Mop room.
There is a note on the door.
Dear Lily,
We are home. The ghost is at peace. We hope you don’t mind but we let ourselves in to give you a few things. Come by as soon as you can. We are worried about you. Love from your benevolent almost-almost uncles, Mallard and Meadows.
We go in. Charlie flies right over to his trunk and slips inside.
I look in the cupboards and the refrigerator. Mallard and Meadows filled them with food—apples, oranges, scones, bagels, oatmeal, raisins, almond butter, strawberry jam, tea and honey. Angel Juan and Ichomp-down lap-up almost everything and fall onto the Persian carpet wrapped in each other like blankets.
“Thank you, Niña Bruja,” he whispers, taking me in his arms. “You set me free, Miss Genie.”
His eyelids flicker closed and I can hear his breathing getting deeper. I get up and go over to the trunk.
“Come on, Charles,” I say.
I look into the mirror pieces. “Grandpa Bat?”
Slowly, like when ripply water in a pool gets still so you can see yourself, his face floats up out of the murky murk of the mirror.
“I’ll miss you, Witch Baby.” His voice fortune-cookie crackles, old-movie pops.
“You can come back with me to L.A. Weetzie would rock.”
“I can’t.”
“Well then I’ll visit you.”
“No. I’m going to leave now. I needed to finish some things and now I’m done.”
“Finish what?”
“I wanted to stay and meet you, little black lamb. And make sure you would be all right. I wanted tohelp you but I messed up and really you helped me.”
“You didn’t mess anything up.”
“I didn’t
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