Free Primitive People by Francine Prose Page B

be genius. Recycle some old furs from the attic, creepy shaman stuff. I’m sure he’d like some kind of harpoon, very weaponesque and phallic, always appropriate for the shaky pre-adolescent ego. And Maisie? We could do Maisie as the Death of Little Nell. Come on, I’m joking, Little Nell is precisely what we want to avoid. We want something healthy, organic, American. What about Pocahontas? The only Native American Hudson Landing is going to see.”
    Rosemary and Simone foraged in the attic and found a smelly fur parka for George and a feathered Indian bonnet for Maisie.
    “Perfect!” Rosemary said. “Let’s surprise them. No peeking till Halloween!”
    On Halloween the children came home from school and took one look at their costumes, and their faces crumpled.
    “What’s the matter?” Rosemary asked through clenched teeth. “What seems to be the trouble?”
    George gave Simone an accusing look. Clearly he thought she’d told his mother about the Eskimo videotape. There was no way to invoke the kitty-cat she’d rescued him from being.
    “These feathers are from a bird,” Maisie said.
    “A dead bird,” Rosemary pointed out. “By that point plumage was the least of its problems. But I like this evidence in you, Maisie, of correct ecological thinking. The feather bonnet was unconscious of me, a mistake I won’t repeat. Meanwhile, put it on for now and let me paint your face. You will be sadder being the only kid without a costume than worrying about some chicken that died ages before you were born. Besides, it’s nature red in tooth and claw. Do you think Pocahontas worried about dead birds?”
    The night was dark and sheeted with rain. Rosemary’s nose inched toward the windshield.
    “Every car in the opposite lane,” she said, “is full of guys dressed as Diana Ross and the Supremes.”
    The children had grumpily donned their costumes and now were taking it out on each other. “Quit it!” Maisie shrieked. “George is poking me with his harpoon!”
    “They’re really very much improved,” Rosemary told Simone. “A few months ago even sibling conflict was beyond their energy level. I really have to say, Simone, that your friendship has made a difference.”
    This was almost enough to reconcile Simone to the humiliations of her own costume: high heels and a little black shirt and a gold lamé mini-skirt. Simone and Rosemary were dressed, respectively, as Tina and Ike Turner.
    Finding the gold skirt for Simone had inspired Rosemary, who seemed relieved, even overjoyed, that Simone knew who Tina Turner was. In fact, her music video had been the most popular request on the American Center TV. That had pleased Miss McCaffrey, who liked Tina Turner as much as ballet, the difference being they couldn’t afford to bring Tina Turner to Haiti. Rosemary had teased Simone’s hair till it looked like an agitated turkey, then darkened her own face with makeup, spray-dyed her own hair black, and now looked rather natty in a boy’s white tuxedo. For the first time in months Rosemary had shed her mouton coat.
    “It’s our Carnival,” she said. “Or our excuse for Carnival or Mardi Gras or whatever. The one night out of the whole year we get to dress up and act out.”
    Simone felt as if objecting to her costume would be a sin against the culture. That had been Miss McCaffrey’s phrase, “sinning against the culture”; several times she’d told Simone that the greatest statesmen were the ones who would sit on the floor of the tent and eat the eye of the sheep. Still, the reference to Mardi Gras filled Simone with misgivings; she had always had a terrible time at Carnival in Port-au-Prince. Last year Joseph contrived to get lost in the crowd and disappeared for days, which at least excused Simone from having to fake the Carnival spirit. Even—especially—as a child the ecstatic mobs alarmed her. Though she longed to be the sort of person who enjoyed that sort of surrender and could briefly forget