University of Northern Iowa

The Holy Sunrise SceneAuthor(s): Tara PerlaSource: The North American Review, Vol. 285, No. 3/4 (May - Aug., 2000), pp. 42-44Published by: University of Northern IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25126462 .

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N A R

When Soo and Sue and Jaime come back from tour to crash at Sue's parents' house, all hell

breaks loose. Their hair is beaded and mat

ted, their clothes are worn with dirt from sleeping in it,

they are barefoot and brown foot, their cheeks are pink and their eyes are wide. Sue's mother literally throws

up her hands after giving them all held-back hugs. "You clash with the furniture!" she manages, pink cheeked herself.

The first thing they want to do is kick back on turtle

island. My sister is determined anyway that Chris will

take us for a ride in his boat while I am visiting her; she

has to laugh in surprise when he says sure right away.

"Sues and Jaime have been bugging me, too," he

drawls, red eyes peering sleepily out of the holes he cut

in his fisherman's hat. "So tomorrow, rain or shine."

The speedboat belongs to his father who keeps it

docked at the yacht club. It is christened the Sarasota

Bite Me, officially un-officially. We leave before sunrise

and Chris is the worst driver I have ever seen, believing himself to be in Caracas, Venezuela where he spent last summer with his dad's first wife and where streetlights and speed limits are routinely ignored. He sees the road as a video game and his mission, to come within a foot

of all obstacles without breaking speed. He drives like we are already in the ocean where lanes calmly disap

pear in our wake. He drives with the old fisherhat on his

head, eyes blinking through frayed fabric, a cigarette

continuously occupying the fingers of his left hand, the

right lonely on the wheel. I hate him. I hate him, and

under the curious blinding pull of the early sun, I find

his sloe eye in the rearview mirror and fall thick in love.

Crush love, summer love, where all I want to do is lie

naked on the beach and think of it, the evenings; days full of the best kind of waiting. Knowing and forgetting that it ends too soon, the relief in not having to hold

onto, the freedom in not being held.

I like the smell of the diesel we pour into the Bite

Me, so much that I think I could live here, sell bait and

tackle, gas up the boats, get to ride on some beautiful ones. Sue and Soo and Jaime come up with three dol

lars while my sister is already stretched out on the prow in her bikini, surrendered to the sun. I pay the differ

ence and catch a wink from Chris, who also winks at

Soo, and then again at Jaime. The Sues giggle in pri vate conversation as Jaime lights a joint. Chris pushes the motor from hum to roar and my sister scrambles

into the boat, sits in the captain's chair. "Let me

drive." She's telling him.

"Later, my pretty." He's staring down the surf.

In four months he will be standing on the lawn of

the Ringling mansion, facing out to sea, pour gasoline over his head and light his last cigarette. He will dance,

trip and fall like they taught him in clown school, inter ested mostly in effect. Believing he's still in Disney

World, my sister will feed his pet iguana while his fin

gernails turn brown, then black.

We ride the waves like a roller coaster, fast and so far out there is no land between the edges of sea and sky, blue and blue, my head filled with it and laughing inside,

laughing my head off. I notice things, the peeling sun

burnt skin on Chris's nose. I think of 60-year-old men

who have lived all their lives in the sun, how their skin is

papery and blackened, browning-bags stretched over grin

ning bones. Soo's hair is fairy-tale gold, she keeps lifting it

in her hands and letting it fall slowly down her bare back, aware that everyone is watching, practically in moans. My

desire is pain, I have no words for what I want. It goes

beyond her body and Chris's mouth and the sea and the

speed of the boat into remembering this moment into all

other moments, all golden shimmery sunlit beauty, the

kind that makes bodies cry with singing. My sister smiles

her sly smile at me like I should know what she's think

ing?I have no idea. I sit down by the motor to watch it cut and toss the water, where the wounds heal quickly to a clear marbled surface and flying fish skip off the foam like a game. The beauty is relentless, everywhere, setting

old blackened men and fresh gold girls on fire, burning them the same, long into sleepless nights.

Ta? H

"Do you have any 15? My nose is roasting," Chris to

Jaime, whose leather backpack holds everything: a

folding beach chair, six hits of E, Soo's panties balled

into her jeans, bottled water and assorted strengths of sunscreen. The panties fall to the bottom of the boat as

he fumbles with slippery tubes, they're instantly soaked and Sue stretches them across the windshield to

dry. "Nice wind sock," Chris says into the wind.

"She wishes somebody'd sock it to her," Sue glances at Soo, bright red elfin face. "Don't be shy, we all know

you're a slut." Soo's shoulders go back, her hands in

her hair, pleased; her pleasure pleases her further to a

warm golden glow. "You are a goddamn miracle, you

know that? I hate this girl," Sue hugging Soo, kissing her on the mouth for a long time, until the island final

ly comes into view.

"Turtles," Chris announces. "Turtles for everyone."

I pull deep into the space under my skin, where the fit

is tight and narrow, dark and quiet inside my own

pounding. The horrible part is pushing back out, into

42 THE NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW May/August 2000

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TARA PERLA

the hurting eyes of the light, but I do, and everyone is at the front of the boat. Chris kills the motor and cartwheels the anchor; Jaime wades to shore, immedi

ately begins doling out the E with a tiny coffee stir stick. White sand clings to his wet knees as he lines up shot glasses, half-fills them with spring water and mixes our potions with a steady hand. The water grabs my

thighs with spread fingers as I head for mine: one will

make you small, one will make you tall, one will make

you feel like you weren't there at all. Jaime's knees in

sandy shin guards, tube socks from junior high school soccer games, my own sweaty knees bent to his, Chris

somewhere behind us, tying up the boat. My sister

undoes her top after neatly swallowing her share, offers

her body to the sun god, leaves her sunglasses on. The

Sues set up camp beside her, oiling and talking a belt

length of nail polish and DKNY, Soo gels her hair with

glitter then rolls in the sand like a hot bun, runs scream

ing into the water. We are turning into candy and I see

myself a cherry Charms, Circus Peanut, Astropop. There are castles here in crumble, built by Spanish

kings, wreathed in bright green vine. I am rolling my own movie, island girl in flip-flops and acid orange

bikini, exploring the ravaged island, about to meet up

<oly Sent?s? i

3TORY BY TARA PERLA

with?turtles! They are here, too, casually strolling,

craggy mouths croaking chirpy voices, guarding soft, luminous eggs to melt in your fist. I am in a place

where no sound repeats in regular intervals, where

paths lead nowhere, where lizards regard me with inter

est. My hands pass through air like water, water like

air, one gentle extension of one; eyes blue as the bluest

ocean I mirror the sky, in love with how blue.

"Come and meet the Mama." Jungle boy finds island

girl, scripts are spilled with coffee, lines forgotten, the

grips scratch their heads and wander off-set. Chris

before me with faded skateboard trunks barely clinging to his hips, white-blond hair on his strong, tanned legs

making me suddenly tired. He doesn't take my hand

but the island tugs us both, skipping across twiggy sand

to a broken hearth where the biggest, meanest turtle

sits guarding her eggs. "Now?don't go judging by the

look in her eyes, she's a big fat sweetheart, aren't you,

sweetheart?" We sit on our heels as she glares out from

under her sand-dusty shell, little wrinkled feet wrig

gling slowly sideways, nipped and scarred in tiny places. He leans back against me and we sit that way, squatting together with arms holding; he pulls my fingers into a

fan and presses them between his thighs, our eyes watch the turtle. My face fits into the moon of his chin and shoulder, I feel a trickle and realize that he's crying, hard and without sound, from a broken place that keeps

breaking, breaks in regular intervals. When the light rain comes he leans away from me and grabs the turtle, tucks her under his arm and tears through the trees.

"No, Chris!" I yell stupidly, racing after him, feeling a shiver pass over her eggs, wondering how long it will

take her to find her way back. He runs her all the way to the beach and plops her in

the sand. "Look, Soo, it's Mama!" Sue calls as she bunny

hops into the water, but Soo is busy getting Jaime's best

massage ever and can only grunt in response.

"Whatever," Jaime translates. The turtle sits

stunned a moment, gaining her bearings. Chris lies

beside my sister, starts giving her a back rub as I stand

still, staring at the turtle. There is no sound but the

wind playing chimes high in the palm trees, Sue's

splashes in the ocean, the sighs of girls beached in

pleasure. Slowly, blinking, the turtle begins to move

toward the green side of the island, she seems to know

where she is going. I think of the ride back, my return

to California, how the trip is waning, the four hours of

E nearly over.

Four months later, when Chris stands on the perfect

ly manicured lawn of the Ringling brothers' estate, his

hands hardly shake at all. It is still light out, and he lays his Indian blanket, can of gasoline, pack of cigarettes and three BIC lighters in a neat line on the grass. Jaime

would appreciate the care he's taking. He spreads out

the blanket and lights three cigarettes with the three

lighters, waits for the sun to set and tries to smoke them

all at the same time, feeling spent, choking. "Shit, if

that asshole on TV can do it..." he barks at the trees and

maybe somebody hears, maybe someone comes closer

and will get to see. He thought about everything when

he was in Disney World, so he doesn't have to now. He

said goodbye to Guano, he figures Jaime or someone

will take the TV, the VCR, his CD collection; the girls will want his clothes, but only select pieces, he's sure?

May/August 2000 THE NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW 43

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N A R

besides that, there's little else. He already thought about his parents, he hopes they'll be raving mad, he

hopes his dad has a first-class fit and breaks something

precious that his mother cried over when she first

bought it, he hopes she crushes her drink in her hand

and bleeds, bleeds for him. He reminds himself he

doesn't have to think of them again. The air is cooling down and the sun is plunging into

the water, blazing inspiration. He soaks the blanket and

wraps himself in it, the can makes that good hollowing sound, he pours the remaining gasoline into his hair and sits again, then stands, hopes somebody will be watch

ing. He tries to come up with a prayer, pictures himself

smoking heroin, runs through his mental list of people he knows who might have some. He sees himself

through Jaime's eyes, under the fall of Soo's hair; the

wires of his heart are doing that twanging where they snap, snap off and curl up, the sound goes flat all inside

him. Touching the flame to the blanket fringe is more

of the flatness, he has a single hope that escapes him, feels important?oh, yeah, maybe someone else sees.

On the side of the mansion somebody spray paints words by Allen Ginsberg, that evening, leaves the can

lying in the burnt grass. It isn't enough for your heart to

break, because everybody's heart is broken now. In the

morning there are more words: Did you know that a

heart breaks every fifteen minutes? And the next day, Chris is a lying fuck and I hate him. Finally, the can is

empty.

On the boat, heading away from the sunset, every

body is subdued, tanned into submission. Chris takes us for a last easy turn under the bright white

Breezeway, a bridge in one endless curve, a mile-high

sailfish slapping cars onto their backs and pulling them

gently, up and over. We motor toward the dock, reverse

our speedway boogie, drop the Sues and Jaime off at

the dorms to hang in Chris's room, watch movies on his VCR. "Soo, later?" She blows a kiss.

"Don't wake me till 8:00?I'm crashing this very

second." In front of my sister's apartment we say good

bye, Chris gets out to give her a hug, chucks me under the chin.

"Hey." His eyes find me, abruptly let go. "Cheer

up."

In the morning the sky breaks in two and the sun

gives itself again, same bloody offering. In a couple of

days I'm on a plane, the sea and everything falling, falling beneath me. My legs clamp tight around my hands and I feel the heat, I won't cry. Hard not to feel the thing that goes on burning. D

M?NG-LAN

embarkment

H? T?y, Vietnam

one-legged man forgets himself

arpeggio of dark

the fake Ray-Bans he'd been trying to sell for weeks are still in his hands

shifty windshaft of straw movement within stones ashes lilting to

is he glad he hadn't sold that pair to see the sun better or the moon the darkness between

behind sheets a journey impossible to exist as twilight forever for seventy-five years fat rats scutter & sup on dog feces

forever i am told a person can live

the cone-hatted women mud-smirched men of the fields see ambered time

and smooth underbellies of songs rise into mist

children inch out with buckets of mauve ink-water at the behest of teachers

pale reed soaked in whispers are told to look into the water to view the eclipse and not the sun itself

behind the image the imagination workers wade in hay ears beyond the winded birds

behind words the intent a distortion

sinewy arms dangling mouths eyes to another world smarting by the chant of their braced

bodies summing the nature of existence a total eclipse the one-legged man removes his glasses squints

44 THE NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW May/August 2000

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