THE HISTORIES OF EACH: A COLLECTION OF SHORT FICTION
A Thesis by
David Benjamin Bernard
Bachelor of Arts, Roanoke College, 2004
Submitted to the Department of English
and the faculty of the Graduate School of
Wichita State University
in partial fulfillment of
the requirements for the degree of
Master of Arts
May 2006
THE HISTORIES OF EACH: A COLLECTION OF SHORT FICTION
I have examined the final copy of this Thesis for form and content and recommend that it
be accepted in partial fulfillment of the requirement for the degree of Master of Arts with
a major in English.
__________________________________
W. Stephen Hathaway, Committee Chair
We have read this Thesis
and recommend its acceptance:
__________________________________
Richard Spilman, Committee Member
_________________________________
Alan Elcrat, Committee Member
ii
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Story
Page
I.
THE USED COUCH
1
II.
INDIAN GRAVEYARD
10
III.
HEART DISEASE
26
IV.
TREE HOUSE
38
V.
CRAVINGS
51
VI.
HENDERSON'S GROCERY
66
iii
THE USED COUCH
They bought the used couch for $128. They were proud of their purchase,
skipping the flashier, newer couches in favor of one with character, with a history
unknown to them. They thought of it as rescuing a kitten from the pound or feeding
leftover bread crusts to ducks. The price seemed so much a steal that the husband pulled
the salesman aside to ask why the couch was only $128. The salesman supposed that a
prominent stain, which he thought resembled the profile of his mother-in-law, could be
blamed. Regardless, the couple deliberated for eight minutes before deciding on the
purchase. They envisioned its location in their house, how it could complement the other
pieces of furniture and complete the living space. The husband showed no outward
dissent, but he found the couch, with its pink floral print and small cushions, less
impressive than his wife did.
A pair of burly men in plaid and denim delivered the couch two days later. They
nestled it in a corner of the living room, where it blended nicely against the creamcolored wall paint and tan ottoman. As soon as the delivery men exited, the woman lay
on the couch, after carefully removing her shoes, and requested that her husband join her.
He refused, claiming that during the past two days, he had envisioned a dark and
disturbing timeline for the couch. It was the only way he could explain the low price.
Perhaps someone had died on it: a woman living at home during the tail end of chemo
treatment. Perhaps an old man had had a heart attack while having sex, or worse, having
sex with a prostitute. He envisioned diseased cushions, pillows marked with dried blood
and errant semen. He imagined vomit—pregnant women with morning sickness and
1
college students too eager with alcohol. In addition, he thought the stain resembled
Satan’s pitchfork.
She told him he was being silly. He sat on community toilet seats, didn’t he? He
rode public transportation and shared locker rooms with both pubescent and prepubescent boys during his life, didn’t he? Plus he had already agreed to purchase the
couch, and he wasn’t going to pull another microwave ordeal, was he? After closing the
blinds and curtains, she disrobed and snuggled the cushions, pillows, and fabric. She
touched every square inch of the couch with every square inch of herself. Once the
panting had subsided, she asked the man if he was satisfied. He replied that no, he was
not.
He went to bed; she put her clothes back on.
Later the night, while the wife was asleep, the husband investigated the couch
with a gloved hand and a pair of kitchen tongs. He found nothing but a child’s sock,
stained bright pink, and one feather. He replaced the cushions and pillows and returned to
bed on tiptoes. He slept little that night. Instead, he imagined countless tales of
debauchery and violence for the used couch.
The wife offered to cure his dissatisfaction. She suggested they recruit hobos and
college students and pay them to lounge on the couch for hours at a time. They’d be
tested for Native American curses, symptoms of haunting, demon possession, and
communicable diseases. If no volunteers could be found, she was willing to purchase
some mice from Petsmart to see if their offspring would be disfigured or mutated. He said
her methods were unacceptable. He wished to purchase a slip cover, or some other
protective barrier, to prevent his skin from coming in contact with the couch fabric. She
2
considered the extra purchase unnecessary, but he remained steadfast. Instead of covering
the couch, she offered to have it thoroughly cleaned using a gallon-sized cocktail of
Lysol and Febreze. She offered to rent a steaming vacuum to suck away the offending
microbes. She offered to quarantine the couch for a few days in an atmosphere where no
creatures or bacteria could live. He ignored her offers.
The wife continued to sit on the couch when the mood struck, often reading or
doing paperwork while lounging on the pliant fabric. Because she was its only user, it
conformed to her shape. She even thought that the couch stain resembled a miniature
version of herself.
When the husband was home alone, he would pass by the couch and see her shape
in it. It smelled of her. Looked like her negative. It was as if he could pour meat and
bones into the mold, refrigerate, and pry out a new wife. He sat next to the couch while
she wasn’t home, running his hands just above the cushions, imagining how it would
support his lumbar area. How would it feel if he could merge her mold with his, curve his
body around hers? He’d bolt upright when she’d return from work and pretend to be
doing crunches or pushups.
She’d fall asleep on the couch in the evenings and join her husband in bed hours
later, rousing him at two in the morning to recount glorious dreams. After a few weeks,
she took to sleeping entire nights there, claiming to have spent the most restful hours of
her life hugging tight to the rosy throw pillows. She’d taken to eating on the couch
instead of at the dining room table. He could hear her chewing alone, laughing in
hysterics at television sitcoms she watched to replace his dinner conversation. He
mouthed dialogues in the dining room, commenting on the doneness of the peas to the
3
salt and pepper shakers, while he imagined their remarks about the quality of sprouts
found at the local grocery. She invited friends over to admire the couch and appreciate
the thrifty steal that it was. They relaxed on it together while the husband squatted in the
opposite corner on a camp stool, only occasionally entering the discussion. They would
play poker on the black pressboard trunk used as a coffee table. He’d shuttle drinks in
and out of the room on a wooden tray so guests wouldn’t lose their prime couch-sitting
locations. Then the guests would leave, and he would retire to the bedroom while the
wife slumbered on their couch, purring in her sleep.
One day, the husband told his wife that he needed to deposit his latest paycheck at
the bank. Instead, after withdrawing their vacation fund in its entirety, he drove to the
furniture store. While his wife was still at work, the man purchased a new couch for
$734, the one he had wanted in the first place, the one he had feared to tell his wife about,
the one with the print of a twelve-point buck on the pillows and hunter green fabric. He
scheduled its delivery for the next day.
The husband took off work and waited for his couch to arrive. He wore his
wedding tux and dark loafers, tying his bow tie in the bathroom mirror. He took his time
making a Spanish omelet on the stove, careful not to stain his best clothes. After eating
his meal and downing a glass of orange juice, he answered a knock at the door. The same
two burly men wearing the same plaid and denim combo entered with the husband’s
couch. He directed them to place his couch in front of the used couch. Then he pulled a
fifty dollar bill from his front tux pocket and offered it to the men, a giant smile on his
face.
4
Once the movers had left the house, the husband took a tour around his new
purchase. Then he sat down, using only the front third of a cushion. Afterwards, he
lowered into a slouch and spread his legs across the entire length of his couch. He flicked
off each shoe, using his toes, and sighed. He fell asleep for a couple of hours, dreaming
about the sterile conditions in which the new couch was manufactured.
After waking, the husband stretched cat-like and threw down the pillow he had
been clutching. He covered his mouth while yawning. After carrying the couple’s laptop
from the desk, he balanced their finances on the new couch. He became hungry at lunch
time and left the couch long enough to heat the leftover twelve-bean soup in his multifunction microwave with multiple heating settings. He spent the entire afternoon on the
couch, except twice when he had to empty his bladder.
His wife returned from work at half past five and noticed the new couch. She
wanted to know why he’d purchased a new couch and where he'd gotten the money. And
why the hell was he wearing his wedding tux? He loosened his bow tie and walked
toward his wife. He placed a hand on both of her cheeks and slobbered a kiss on her lips.
Then he went back to his couch and settled into a cushion, rubbing his clothed buttocks
against the fabric.
The woman dropped her briefcase onto the welcome mat, slammed the door, and
settled into the used couch twice as vigorously, cementing herself into the cotton
padding. Because the new couch had been placed in front of the used couch, the man
could not see his wife. But she saw the back of his head perfectly. Then it disappeared
from her view when he lay on his couch. She returned the favor and lay on the used
couch. She heard rustling noises and saw the man’s clothes begin to fly overhead. First,
5
came his socks, then his bow tie, then pants, shirt, undershirt, and finally, his paisley
boxers. She parted with her skirt, blouse, stockings, bikini thong, and black padded
underwire bra. Both man and wife lay naked on their respective couches, unable to see
each other.
Early the next day, the wife went to the bathroom, gargled mouthwash, and
declared that for the next five minutes she would be tweaking her nipples. The husband
heard her moan and raised his head above the back of his couch to watch his wife
manipulate herself. He watched for a few minutes, his neck twisted like an owl’s. Then
he stood and moved his couch so that it faced the used couch. He was naked and grunted
while he shifted it on the brown carpet. He made sure to leave twelve inches between the
couches, so that the used couch wouldn’t be allowed to touch his new couch. When the
husband was settled in the new position and was noticeably aroused, the wife stopped
moaning, crossed her legs, and placed her arms across her breasts. The man placed a
buck-print pillow over his crotch.
For days, neither the man nor the woman left their position on the couches, except
for life-sustaining functions. Showers were missed. Meals were skipped or reduced to
their bare necessities. The man could see when his wife rooted around the nearly deserted
purple kitchen cabinets, licking graham cracker crumbs off the faux marble countertop
and chugging the last of the two-percent milk from the carton. He’d wait at least an hour
before he ate. Then he’d find empty containers of orange juice and Coke. He’d bang
canned beets against the edge of the sink until they exploded in a ruby shower. All
because his wife had rubbed the can opener on the used couch. When the phone rang, the
man jerked into a ready position. But the wife stared him down and scowled, so he sat
6
with a furrowed brow as his boss chastised him on the answering machine for missing so
many days of work. When the wife’s supervisor appeared on the answering machine, the
husband gloated while the woman’s brow did the furrowing.
The man had access to the TV remote. Even though the TV rested behind him, he
left it on constantly. The wife made sarcastic comments when sports talk shows were
aired. The man responded by raising the volume. She, however, had access to the stereo
remote. When the man raised the TV volume, she countered with the stereo. The noises
battled under vaulted ceilings until neither won. TV commentary became
incomprehensible, and the female artists muddily strummed their acoustic guitars.
Neighbors complained by banging on the front door, but sound levels remained high. The
wife would change CDs every time she got up to use the bathroom. When she left the
room, he would turn in his couch to sneak a peek at the television.
Dispatchers sent policemen to the house. They spoke through the door of noise
violations and search warrants, claiming that the couple could potentially be dead while
their appliances continued to sound alive and well. The husband yelled that the used
couch was the problem. His wife was being stubborn. And weren’t women simply
unreasonable sometimes? The wife yelled more loudly, claiming spousal abuse. She was
being kept starving and chained to the furniture as her husband’s sex slave. And weren’t
men simply the biggest pigs? The noise of the appliances, coupled with the noise of the
argument, caused the policemen to force in the front door with a metal battering ram.
The door broke from its hinges, and the two policemen entered, guns at the ready.
The naked man and woman, who had been naked for so long that they had forgotten that
nakedness wasn’t a common practice, sprung from their respective couches. The second
7
policeman, the youngest and dimmest-witted, was frazzled by the noise, the nudity, and
the stain on the used couch that he thought resembled a nine millimeter pistol. His index
finger twitched, his gun went off, and an errant bullet sped through the husband’s new
couch and lodged itself in the used couch, leaving billiard ball-sized entry and exit
wounds. The cop realized that neither the husband nor wife was armed. In fact, naked
people were rarely armed. He told the couple that he was sorry.
The husband and wife, who had both feared for their lives during the brief
encounter, found themselves clutching to each other’s naked bodies, the ones they had
been staring at for the past days with embarrassment. They enjoyed the feeling, as one
enjoys watching his favorite movie for the eighth time.
The three policemen conveyed their dismay about the mistake, attempting to
shout over the noise of the two appliances. The couple’s intentions turned amorous, and
the policemen simply turned off the television and CD player and left the premises,
propping the damaged door against the frame.
The man and the woman—husband and wife—pushed the used and new couches
together. With bodies and limbs mingling on the new and old, the used and pristine, the
couple made love. But first, the husband nuzzled his face in the used couch where the
woman had imprinted her shape, burrowing into the dents. He inhaled her scent, tickled
her inner thigh, and kissed her eyebrows. And also before they made love, the wife
caressed her husband’s hands. She fondled the buck-print pillows, picked his stray hair
from the new couch fibers, and pressed her cheek against the man’s hip. They vowed to
sue the police department in order to receive a large settlement, which would be used to
obtain another couch, or possibly a trip to the Caribbean. Because the couches had both
8
been used; they were both new to the couple. And, regardless, they had already begun to
write the histories of each.
9
INDIAN GRAVEYARD
When it’s chilly outside, I roll my red wagon to the Indian Graveyard so I can
bring home kindling. We make a wood fire in the fireplace every time it gets below fifty
degrees in the winter, but I get kindling during the summer, too. Momma says it's always
warm in Mississippi, but that don't mean we can't have a little taste of winter.
The Indian Graveyard’s not really a graveyard, but if you saw it, you’d picture
Indians buried under the bricks with their clay pots broken in the dirt. Even so, nobody’s
buried there. Daddy named it the Indian Graveyard because he liked the sound of it. I get
kindling there, but I also sleep in the moss sometimes. I pretend I’m from the old days,
sleeping on a straw bed. Once, Daddy caught me sleeping and told me my back would go
bad doing that, but I still do it anyways. I even bring my Nancy Drew books and sit under
the trees, reading about mysteries. Sometimes I bring my friends there, but they don’t
appreciate it like I do. They tell me it’s stupid. They won’t call it the Indian Graveyard.
Their imaginations aren’t any good.
Daddy used to come to the Indian Graveyard with me, and we’d look at the piles
of moss like they were clouds. The moss made the best shapes early in the morning, right
after sunrise. We’d sit against the trees, our butts getting dirty, and the orange sun would
come over the hill and light up the Indian Graveyard. If I strained my neck, I could see
through all the trees, straight to our house. Then Daddy and me would concentrate on the
moss. He’d see a sheep in one pile; I’d see a palm tree in another. One time, I saw a
dinosaur with short arms and a big head. Then we’d swirl up the moss into new piles and
try again. Momma would be mad when we wasted time looking at the moss because
Daddy would be late to work at the Fruit of the Loom factory.
10
I’m at the Indian Graveyard as the sun's rising, gathering kindling with my
wagon, and I see the man who lives there, poking his big head out from behind the bricks.
He smiles when he sees me. It looks like he just got outta college, and his face is real
smooth and shiny when the sun hits it. He’s got blond hair that’s always covered in
leaves and little bits of dirt because he gets excited when he sees me and rolls around on
the ground. His shirt’s red, just like Daddy’s favorite shirt.
I say, “Hey you,” thinking he’ll have to tell me his name this time, but he just
ducks back behind the bricks and won’t come out. The brick graves where the man lives
are built like miniature barns. I go and gather twigs by the graves, but I can’t find the
man. So I dig my hands into a mound of moss. It’s cooler in the middle, like moving into
the shade during the summer. The moss smells like deep, sticky mud—the mud that
won’t give your shoe back when it gets sucked in. I get the twigs, scooping with my
fingers spread apart. The twigs feel damper in the shade. I drop them into my wagon; it's
rusty where I keep the twigs. It was Daddy’s wagon when he was a boy. He gave it to me
when he left for the new job.
I told Momma once that I see the man, that he lives in the Indian Graveyard and
pokes his head out above the bricks, and she told me to stop imagining things. She said I
imagine things too much, that my imagination’s active. Well, teacher says that
imagination is a good thing. All us third graders have twenty-two minutes each class
where we imagine what we want to be when we grow up. I say I want to fix Ford
Mustangs, and the boys laugh at me. But I bet they can’t fix them. And even if they
could, I wouldn’t want their cootie hands touching my car.
11
*
*
*
*
I get home and use the bathroom. We got a big bathroom that was just redone by
Mr. Rolf at the hardware store. So there’s still some paint cans lying on top of the toilet
and scrap pieces of wood that Mr. Rolf says I can use to build a birdhouse. I go to the
kitchen and sit at the table. Momma saves old funnies and coupons from the Sunday
paper, and they’re everywhere, even the ones that’s expired. There’s three piles on the
table where my placemat used to be. Another stack that’s my height is on the counter
next to the stove. Momma has to move it onto the floor every time she cooks. But that’s
rare. She usually lets me cook, or we order a pizza. There’s even a few stacks of funnies
blocking the hallway. I pretend like I’m in the Olympics and try to jump over them
sometimes. Once I fell and busted my front tooth.
Momma steps over the big stack of coupons blocking the hall, and I tell her that
I’ve been down at the Indian Graveyard again, and I seen the man who lives there.
She says, “Stop imagining things, Bridget.”
And I say, “Well, I seen him anyways.”
Then the phone rings, and Momma answers it after moving some funnies outta the
way. She says, “Good to know, Momma,” then she hangs up the phone. When Grandma
calls, she tells you the temperature and the season, and then she hangs up the phone.
Grandma’ll say, “It’s eighty-six degrees and summer,” and hang up. When Grandma calls
and tells me the weather, I’m supposed to say, “Good to know, Grandma.” Momma never
wants Grandma to get the Internet, or she’d be emailing us the weather twenty times a
day.
12
While Momma’s on the phone and not looking, I take one of the stacks from the
table and put it on the floor. I say, “That Grandma?”
And Momma says, “It’s eighty-six degrees and summer." She pours herself a
bowl of Cheerios and milk and sits down at the table. "Listen here, Bridget. Stop thinking
that there’s a man in the Indian Graveyard.” I forget that’s what we’re talking about
because I’m thinking about Grandma's cabin. It's in the woods, and it's real old. They
built it during the Civil War. Now Momma says, “Bridget.”
And I say, “Yes, Momma.”
“That man?”
“What about him?”
“He’s just in your imagination.”
“No he’s not.” I stand up and stomp my foot on the linoleum floor. It’s yellow
like French’s mustard and it has all these lines criss-crossing. “I seen him today. He was
poking his head from behind the bricks again. I think he lives in there. He probably has a
whole mess of children living with him behind the bricks.”
Momma says, “Bridget,” and her voice gets louder, like she’s yelling at the
Jackson kids that’s always rolling around in our yard, kicking up dust. They run away
home when Momma uses that tone.
I say, “There is too a man in the Indian Graveyard. We can go down there and I’ll
show you.”
And Momma says, “I don’t have time to go down to the Indian Graveyard just
because you have an imaginary friend. I have to go to work like everybody else. How do
you think we get food on the table? They’re going to tear down that place in a few days
13
anyways. The paper says some men are gonna be there today.” Momma mentions work a
lot more since Daddy got the new job. When I ask her how come Daddy’s new job don’t
pay more than the old one, she just ignores me. Sarah Cole says that Daddy didn’t really
get a new job. She says he left cause Momma was fooling with Mr. Rolf, but I never seen
Momma fool anyone in her life. She’s not funny and hates jokes. Plus Mr. Rolf is old and
works on our house. I tell Sarah she don’t know what she’s talking about.
I say, "I was just there. There's no men."
"You're always up before the rest of the world, Bridget. Now, do you want me to
keep working? Or do you want me to get fired from the grocery because I’m with you
down at the Indian Graveyard?”
I say, “I want you to keep working, Momma,” but I’m thinking to myself that I’ll
never let them tear down the Indian Graveyard. It’s mine. Mine and Daddy’s place. I’ll
make sure that nobody messes with it. Momma kisses me on the forehead and leaves for
work, the back of one of her shoes trailing the funnies from a few weeks ago.
*
*
*
*
I wanna see the Indian Graveyard for myself. Daddy used to say that the paper
don't always tell the truth. They're probably lying about this, too. I walk barefoot across
the green hill with the purple wild flowers and down to the little ditch where one of the
Jacksons nearly drowned a couple of summers ago. Momma says the field behind the
house reminds her of The Sound of Music. When there’s a rainstorm, it’s the best place to
see the lightning, but Momma always yells when I’m outside watching the lightning. The
field’s also where one of the Jackson boys tried to kiss me. I slapped him in the face, and
he never tried again.
14
When I get to the Indian Graveyard, there's a whole mess of men walking around.
They're smoking and looking into this thing that looks like a telescope. Then one of the
men writes in a tiny notebook.
I yell, "Get out!" The men turn and look at me. "Get out the Indian Graveyard or
I'll tell Paw Paw on you!" The men look at each other. Then they start to laugh. I say, "I
will tell on you. I'll go down to the Shooting Match right now." The men just keep
laughing.
"Go on home now," one of them says.
I get upset and start running to Paw Paw. He runs the Shooting Match, and I hafta
run about five minutes to get down there. It's right on the other side of the trees and says
“Shooting Match” in red letters on a white background. Paw Paw made the sign hisself
with a sheet of plywood and a couple buckets of paint from Wal-Mart. You can see the
grain in the plywood where it makes little cracks in the paint. Inside, they got a bunch of
rednecks and their guns. Momma always says that the purpose of Paw Paw’s Shooting
Match is so rednecks can get together and look at each other’s guns.
What’s best about the Shooting Match is that Paw Paw and the other men have a
lot of Snickers bars and beer. Sometimes they let me have some beer, but I can always
get a Snickers bar if I ask real nice and make what Momma calls sweet eyes at Paw Paw.
I run through the field with the purple flowers, but I don't have time to smell the
honeysuckle. If I was walking with Momma or anybody else, I would pick some
honeysuckle and shove it against their nose to make them smell it. Paw Paw always does
that to me when we’re walking together between home and the Shooting Match. The
field’s good for walking through, but I couldn’t sleep there, and there’s no moss like at
15
the Indian Graveyard. It’s just not the same. There’s a few of the Jackson’s cows over to
the right, sleeping under the shade of the big oak trees. One of them is mooing at me, but
I'm so angry about everything that I moo back, and she shuts up. She’s got a little calf
with her, wobbling on his little legs to keep up with his momma. The calf moos, too, but
his moo is really quiet and I can barely hear it.
When I get to the Shooting Match, I open the door and smell all the men smoking.
Cigarette smoke makes my eyes itch and turn red, and it smells like a messed up wood
fire.
I say, “Paw Paw!”
One of the men says, “What's wrong, little boy.” I don’t know which one he is.
Paw Paw never introduced us. It don’t matter. All the men at the Shooting Match call me
a boy. This one’s wearing a blue flannel shirt, and he has a beard that looks like a bear’s
face. He has a bottle of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
I say, “I’m not a boy,” and I stomp my foot onto the concrete floor; it’s ice-cold.
“I need to see Paw Paw.” I have bangs and a haircut like a girl, but all the men in town
love to call me a boy and watch me stomp my foot. Momma says it’s because I’m cute
when I act upset. But I’m not acting. I don’t like being called a boy. Momma will
sometimes go to the Shooting Match with me and laugh along with the men when they
call me a boy. Even my teachers do it, and the preacher, and the man who bags our
groceries.
Paw Paw says, “Awww. Looky there, D’Wayne. You got our little lady all upset.”
Paw Paw grabs me around the waist and I smell his face; it smells just like when Daddy
was finished shaving and still had a little bit a shaving cream under his chin. Paw Paw
16
lifts me in the air and spins me around, and I try to stay mad about the man calling me a
little boy and about the Indian Graveyard. I can’t help but start giggling, and Paw Paw
puts me down.
Paw Paw says, “You’re a lot harder to play airplane with when you’re jiggling.”
He walks over to the counter and grabs me a Snickers bar. Paw Paw says, “Here you go,
my little lady,” and he pinches my cheek. I wipe my cheek and get a little dirt on my
fingers. It might even be gun grease.
Paw Paw says, “You gonna eat that whole thing then, Little Lady?”
I say, “Yes, sir. I will. But I got to tell on the men in the Indian Graveyard.” I
open the wrapper with my teeth, and I spit it out onto the floor. Dr. Edsin tells me to stop
opening wrappers with my teeth, and bottles with my teeth, and every other fun thing I do
with my teeth, because it’ll hurt them in the long run. When he tells me this, I say,
“Momma says enjoy the short parts of the long run, or you’ll never make it all the way.”
Dr. Edsin always laughs when I say that and pats me on the head like I’m a puppy.
When I bite the wrapper, one of the men says, “She thinks she’s doin' chaw,” and
he laughs, keeping his mouth closed the whole time. He’s got a fat lip, like he was
punched in the face, but I know it’s just chewing tobacco in there.
I say, “What are they doing to the Indian Graveyard? What’s happening? Momma
said they’re gonna tear it down.”
Paw Paw crouches down and looks real serious, like he did when he told me
Blackie got hit by a car. “Somebody bought the land. They’re going to fence it off and
build a house.”
I say, “They can’t do that, can they?”
17
And he says, “Certainly they can. It’s just like when we bought the land to put
you and your momma’s house on. That used to be a field.”
One of the men shoots his gun at a target. He says, “Damn,” because he don’t hit
the target in the belly where you’re supposed to. He reels it in, using both hands on the
pulley. It squeaks like the wheel on my wagon used to.
I say, “That pulley could use some WD40. I put some on my wagon wheel last
week and now it don’t squeak no more.” The man stops pulling and turns to look at me.
He’s got wrinkles on his forehead like he’s raising his eyebrows, but he’s not raising his
eyebrows, that’s just how he looks. He smiles a little, and I take a big bite out of my
Snickers bar. I feel the caramel sticking to my chin, so I wipe it off and don’t stop staring
at the wrinkly-faced man. I’m still thinking about them taking the Indian Graveyard from
me. It’s not fair. I’m sure me and momma’s house ain’t on somebody’s favorite place.
Momma and Paw Paw wouldn’t do that to anybody.
The man walks slowly at me and says, “Where’d a little boy like you learn so
much about greasin’ wheels?”
I stomp my foot and say, “I’m not a boy,” and I take an even bigger bite of
Snickers bar. I still got most of the first bite left in my mouth with the second bite, so my
mouth is full of Snickers bar and I can barely breathe, let alone talk. So I don’t know how
much of my speaking the man can understand. All the men laugh anyway, partly because
they laugh at me every time I say I’m not a boy, and partly because I’ve got most of a
Snickers bar in my mouth.
18
Paw Paw says, “That’s enough, fellas,” and he raises his arms like he’s Pastor
Nash on Sunday mornings. The men quiet down, and the wrinkly-foreheaded man pulls
the pulley and looks at the target. He says, “Damn,” again.
I walk over to Paw Paw and give him a hug, still chewing my Snickers bar. I hope
if I hug Paw Paw hard enough, he could stop them from taking the Indian Graveyard
from me. He can do some good things when he gets really mad. Like when he nearly
skinned the hides of one of the Jackson boys because he stole a six pack of beer from the
Shooting Match. I wish he woulda taken a belt to him.
I say, “I don’t wanna lose the Indian Graveyard, Paw Paw.”
And he says, “I don’t want you to lose it either, but bad things happen sometimes.
Like when your daddy got a new job.” I nod my head, still hugging hard to Paw Paw, and
another gun shoots through one of the targets.
*
*
*
*
It’s the next day, and I’m thinking about who’s moving into the Indian Graveyard.
Momma’ll probably say they’re from outta state. Whenever I ask who’s moving in
around town, Momma always says they’re from outta state. She says the properties out
here are valuable because people want to live in the country. She says it’ll be even harder
to find real country soon.
I walk down to the Indian Graveyard with my wagon because of all the fuss about
people buying it up and moving in, and there’s lots of men standing around in overalls
and leather gloves, wiping sweat off their faces with their forearms. I can’t gather any
kindling or read or look at the moss. I say, “You seen the man who lives behind that
grave over there?” and I point at the grave. “It’s not really a grave, but it looks like one.”
19
A big man says, “Sorry, little lady. We ain’t seen nobody.” I know the men must
not be from around here because he woulda called me a boy to make me stomp my foot.
They must be from a couple counties over.
I say, “You sure? He lives behind that brick thing. The one that looks like a little
barn.”
The man walks over to me and I can smell that he’s been smoking cigarettes. He
says, “We have to tear down that little barn there.” He turns and points at it like he’s Mrs.
Hobbes showing us a math problem on the blackboard. “But don’t worry, little lady.
We’ll check to make sure no one’s living there.”
I start to cry because I’m used to seeing the man every time I go to the Indian
Graveyard, and now I can’t even go there to read. The man says, “Your friend can live
somewhere else, but you should really go home to your momma, now, so we can work.”
I say, “He’s real. I seen him. And he lives over there behind the bricks.” It’s hard
for me to talk because I’m crying so much, but I think the man understands what I’m
saying.
I keep crying as I run home, dragging my wagon behind me. I want to tell
Momma not to let the man who lives in the Indian Graveyard leave me. Momma’ll say
I’m being silly, but I really think it’s my fault. Daddy switched jobs to another county
right after I turned five, and I thought that was my fault, too. When he left, Momma said,
“Leave it to the muscle and bones of the Lord.” Pastor Nash says that sometimes, too. It
don’t make me feel better.
20
I get home and leave my wagon next to a patch of grass sticking out the top of a
fire ant hill. Momma’s still at work, even when I have school off in the summer, so I go
inside and call the grocery. Mom works in the bakery.
Mrs. Taft answers and says, “I’m sorry, Bridget. But your momma just went to
the bathroom.”
I say, “I need to talk to her,” but I’m still crying, so it’s probably hard to
understand what I’m saying.
“What’s wrong, sugar? Can I help you with something?”
And I say, “No thanks,” and hang up. I call Grandma because she’s the only other
number I got memorized.
She picks up the phone and says, “Hello.”
“Grandma. It’s Bridget.”
“It’s eighty-seven degrees and summer, Bridget.”
“That’s good to know, Grandma.”
And she says, “Bye.”
I say, “Hold on, Grandma. I want to talk to you,” but she’s already hung up the
phone. I call her again and say, “Grandma. Somebody’s bought the Indian Graveyard,
and they’re gonna kick out the man that lives behind the bricks.” I hear silence on the
other line for about eight seconds, so I say, “Grandma.”
And she says, “It’s eighty-eight degrees and summer,” and hangs up the phone.
*
*
*
*
I’m running back to the Shooting Match because Paw Paw’ll know what to do. He
always knows what to do. I skinned my knee once, and he made me laugh and feel better.
21
He needs to tell those men from a couple counties over to give me back the Indian
Graveyard.
My bare feet are warm on the grass because it’s summertime. They start to get
numb as I’m running, but I just keep running anyway. I know if I look at them they’ll be
all dark like the mud, but I can’t stop to look. I move through the purple wild flowers and
honeysuckle and try my hardest not to pay attention to them, but they’re pretty and I want
to just stop running and sit in them for a while, plucking them up and smelling them. But
the faster I get to Paw Paw, the faster he can fix it.
I get to the Shooting Match, and all the men are gone. It must be too early for
them to look at each other’s guns. Paw Paw’s sitting out front in his old wooden chair
with a bottle of Bud Light in his right hand. The chair’s not painted or stained; it’s just
the color of old wood. It’s been sitting out on the porch for so long that it’s starting to
crack at the seat. Every time Momma sees Paw Paw sitting in his wooden chair, she says,
“Daddy. You’re gonna fall through that chair one day, and nobody’ll be there to help you
up.” But he does it anyway.
He says, “What’s wrong, Bridget?” because he sees that I’m crying.
I say, “The men are already at the Indian Graveyard, Paw Paw.” I jump into his
lap even though I’m probably a little too big to be in anyone’s lap. His overalls are old
and worn so they feel like a blanket to me. I put my face in his chest, and I feel one of the
buttons cold against my cheek.
He says, “What’re they doing to it?” like he really wants to know, and he’ll kick
their behinds if he finds out.
22
“I don’t know. Tearing down the bricks.” I wipe my eyes with my palms, even
though Momma says it’s funny that I wipe my eyes with my palms. “They’re gonna kick
out the man who lives behind the bricks and pops his head out when I’m there picking up
kindling and looking at the moss. They’re gonna put up a fence, and I’ll never see the
man again. And I’ll never be able to read Nancy Drew there or sleep under the trees when
the sun’s rising.”
Paw Paw says, “Calm down there, little lady. It’ll be okay.” Paw Paw leans over
real gentle so I can keep my face pressed against his chest and keep crying, and he puts
his Bud Light on the porch. He starts playing with my hair with both hands, stroking my
head like I’m a cat. He says, “It’ll be okay, little lady,” again, and I cry some more into
his chest. Then I start thinking about the man that lives in the Indian Graveyard and how
he’ll hafta find a new place to live. Since Daddy went off to work somewhere else,
maybe the man could live with me and Momma. We have plenty of room in the house.
Plus Momma and Daddy used to share a bedroom, and it’s just Momma now, so there’s
space for him. I start thinking about the man from the Indian Graveyard cooking
breakfast for me and Momma. That’s how he could pay his rent. Pancakes and sausage
every morning and eggs on Sunday as a treat. He’ll roll up his flannel sleeves when he
stirs the pancake batter, just like Daddy did before he switched jobs. And he’d let me
watch him shave every morning and smell his shaving cream.
I sit for a while on Paw Paw’s lap and eventually stop crying, but then I fall asleep
and dream about the man that lives in the Indian Graveyard. In my dream, he comes out
from behind the bricks and holds my hand, all of his fingers wrapping around mine. His
hands are dirty, but I don’t care because he’s finally talking to me. He asks about
23
Momma and Grandma and Paw Paw and the Shooting Match. We sit down on the leaves,
and I tell him every little thing about the people I love. But then the men working at the
Indian Graveyard tell us we have to leave so they can tear down the bricks and build a
swimming pool. I stand up and start yelling at the men, saying that Momma’ll give them
hell when she gets home from work. But they come with a bulldozer and scoop me up off
the ground, and the man that lives in the Indian Graveyard starts to cry. When I’m sitting
in the bulldozer, it runs over the man, and his legs fall off and bleed all over the place.
Then they put up a fence a hundred feet high so I can never get in and read or look at the
moss. Then the bulldozer runs into the fence, and I wake up.
*
*
*
*
After a few days, the men working at the Indian Graveyard put up a wooden
fence. It’s made of a lot of boards with tiny gaps in-between. When I stand back from the
fence, I see little bits of the color of grass and working men’s clothes come through the
wooden fence boards, almost like the fence itself was green or made of blue jeans. I try to
look over the top of the fence, but I’m too short. I stand on my tippy toes and reach as far
as my arms will go, but I still can’t reach the top of the fence to pull myself up. I scratch
the wood with my fingernails, thinking maybe I can wear it down after a while. I keep
scratching and some splinters get into the tips of my fingers, and the nail on my left pinky
cracks. But I keep scratching.
I hear the men making scraping noises, like they’re dragging a shovel over
concrete. I press my face against the fence boards, looking through the crack in-between
the boards. I can just make out the shapes of men standing around the bricks. They’re
tearing down the little brick barns with sledgehammers. I see one man taking the bricks
24
off a barn one brick at a time, placing them in a big wheelbarrow. I try to look for the
man that lives in the Indian Graveyard, but I don’t see him.
I start moving from one crack between the boards to another, hoping I can see
him. I say, “You can stay at our house if you make pancakes and sausage every morning.
And eggs on Sundays.” Then I start crying. “There’s even room in Momma’s bed.” I
move again to try and see the man who lives in the Indian Graveyard. Some of the
working men get in the way, and I can’t make out the little brick barns anymore. I say,
“You don’t hafta let me watch you shave,” and I squat down and press my face against
the fence again. I can just make out the spot where the little brick barn used to be. There’s
nothing there but dirt and bits of leaves. Then I see a worker walking away from the spot.
He’s carrying a wheelbarrow full of bricks, straining hard to keep it from tipping over
and spilling onto the ground.
25
HEART DISEASE
Dr. Benz held most of his meetings on a brisk jog. His family had a history of
heart disease. His father had died of a heart attack. So had his grandfather. The medical
history caused him to exercise almost constantly. He didn’t drink and never smoked. He
bought fresh organic produce every day and regularly ate a genetically engineered fish—
it was cholesterol free with extra Omega-3 fatty acids. Likewise, he ate rice cakes
flavored with Romaine lettuce.
“You’ve heard of holograms, Tommy?” Dr. Benz was wearing forest green sweat
pants and a white undershirt. His legs took elegant strides on the sidewalk. Blue New
Balances absorbed the shock. “Holograms are the reason I called on you to go jogging.”
“Like stickers?” Tommy said. Dr. Benz’s intern didn’t normally run eight miles a
day. He didn’t normally run. He breathed heavily and struggled to speak. The two of
them passed a family of yard gnomes on the right, an Indian sculpted out of a tree stump
on the left.
“More lifelike, Tommy. Ever been to Disneyland?” Dr. Benz took a shortcut
across the tip of a freshly-sodded lawn, narrowly missing the spray from a sprinkler. The
sun rested low in the sky. It was obscured by redwood trees and sharp crags.
“When I was twelve,” Tommy said. He was wearing brown corduroy pants and a
black hooded sweatshirt. He had recently graduated from the University of CaliforniaSan Diego and was paying his dues as an intern to Dr. Benz. He looked forward to his
own family practice. The sprinkler dotted his shoes as he passed through the yard. His
corduroys sounded as if they were starting a fire near his crotch.
26
“At Disneyland, Tommy, they have an attraction called the Haunted Mansion.
They project ghosts into a dining room so they can dance with one another. You like
dancing?”
“Not really.” Tommy’s short breaths strained his chest.
“The ghosts dance. It’s all possible because of projected holograms.” Dr. Benz
wasn’t short of breath. He was never short of breath. His skin stretched against his face. It
made him look like he was always traveling at Mach 2.
“Researchers at Stanford are developing the most advanced hologram technology
in the world. They perform three dimensional scans of the human body and store the
information in a computer. Then they can recreate the body, the movement—
everything—as a hologram. The image can be projected anywhere, and it looks perfectly
real. They could project the image of your dead grandfather, and you’d think he was still
alive.”
“My grandfather is alive. Both grandfathers, actually.” Tommy uttered the two
sentences in pieces. He spoke as quickly as his cardiovascular fitness level allowed.
“Ever wonder what it’s like to die?” Tommy didn’t reply. Dr. Benz jogged into
traffic to maintain his target heart rate. He ignored the “DON’T WALK” sign. An Impala
screeched and honked a single piercing note. “Tommy? Answer me, dammit.”
“Sometimes,” Tommy wheezed. The Impala's driver flipped Tommy the bird. Dr.
Benz was already past the scene.
“We now have the technology to test it. Imagine if we place someone in the
circumstances of death, then we project an image of him in that state. He’ll see it and
27
think he’s dead. His body will react as though it’s dying. That will allow us to document
how a body reacts its own death.”
“People aren’t that stupid.” Tommy coughed up the sentence. Then he panted on,
“It doesn’t make sense. It wouldn’t really show anything.”
“You’re familiar with Aspartame, Tommy?”
“Yeah.” Their feet pounded the sidewalk. They passed a man pushing his twin
daughters in a double stroller. An elderly couple stepped off the concrete into the grass,
allowing the jogging men to pass.
“A doctor at Duke has run studies showing that the body reacts to sugar
substitutes in the same way it reacts to sugar. It tastes so real that it tricks the taste buds,
and the user still gains weight. So it doesn’t matter what’s actually happening. It just
matters what the mind thinks is happening.” Dr. Benz tapped his temple.
“It doesn’t….” Tommy coughed a guttural smoker’s cough. He struggled to
breathe and held his ribs. “…make sense.”
“We’ll play into the notions of death. Stereotypes from religions and tabloids. The
subject will believe what we want him to believe. We’ll help many people.”
Tommy stopped jogging. He leaned over, resting his elbows on his knees. Dr.
Benz continued jogging, maintaining his target heart rate. “See me at my office,” he
shouted over his shoulder.
*
*
*
*
“It's unethical.” Tommy had showered and changed into jeans before driving the
half mile to Dr. Benz’s office. A treadmill stood next to the doctor’s desk. Metal brackets
attached to oak bookcases cradled dumbbells of increasing weights.
28
“You’re familiar with the Zimbardo experiment?” Dr. Benz sprinted on the
treadmill. He was cooling down after his jog.
“We talked about it in Intro to Psych. But I don’t see what it has to do—”
“Zimbardo gave college students roles—some as prisoners, some as guards. He
didn’t make them privy to exactly what was going on, and perhaps let it go too far. Some
people think it was an unethical study. But guess what, Tommy?”
Tommy stood in silence. His hands jingled coins in his pockets.
“Guess, Tommy!” The treadmill squeaked with each step, the black conveyer belt
protesting Dr. Benz’s pace.
“It became famous,” Tommy said.
“What happened, Tommy, is that Zimbardo and the subjects became famous in
psychology. So why not risk it if it benefits society?”
Dr. Benz had graduated from medical school at Washington University twenty
years earlier. He had gone to UCLA for his Bachelor’s degree. His family practice was
lucrative and small. Being in perfect physical condition allowed him to see twice as many
patients in a day as any other doctor. He also diagnosed diseases flawlessly.
“Who’s gonna fund us?” Tommy sat on Dr. Benz’s desk because there were no
chairs in the office. He had to push away a tower of medical journals: Academic
Medicine, Doctor Today, and The Future of Medicine.
“I have money, Tommy. Stay single, and you’ll have money, too.” His pace
increased. Legs blurred with speed. Sneakers streaked blue on the belt. “The likely
problem could be convincing those Stanford boys to help us out.” Dr. Benz took a plastic
bottle from the holder on the treadmill and squirted a thin stream of water into his mouth.
29
He dabbed a towel on his forehead. He sweated and drank equally large amounts. “But I
have some friends there I know from UCLA. So that won’t be a problem. You know what
will be a problem, Tommy?”
“Finding a subject?”
“The biggest problem, Tommy, will be finding the perfect subject. He has to have
a history of a disease that’s dangerous enough to kill him. His family has to be willing to
give him up to the test, and he has to believe in stereotypical near-death experiences.” Dr.
Benz’s sweat stained his undershirt lemonade yellow in the pattern of his chest hair. His
forest green sweatpants were black with sweat. Even his ankles sweated. Even his butt
cheeks. Even the backs of his knees. All were black with salt water.
“I don’t understand. We’re just testing a reaction to death. Can you react to death,
while we’re at it?”
“What happens when you die, Tommy?” Dr. Benz slowed to a jog. What he
considered a jog.
“What people say?”
Benz nodded.
“I hear an irresistible voice and float out of my body.”
“Is there a light involved?” Dr. Benz squeezed distilled spring water into his
mouth from the bottle again.
“Are you even listening to my concerns?” Tommy said. He got up from the desk
and tensed the muscles in his forearms.
“People who’ve had so-called near-death experiences say there’s a light, and
they’re drawn to it. It’s irresistible. It’s beautiful.” Dr. Benz looked into space. He gazed
30
at the fluorescent light attached to the ceiling. “Let’s suppose, Tommy, that you—you
being a believer—regain consciousness in a morgue. You leap up and see that your body
remains behind you. Then there’s a beautiful light, and a voice tells you to move toward
it. What would you think then, Tommy?”
“There’s no way someone will buy it.”
“Tommy, what would you think? Remember, you have a history of a lifethreatening disease, and you’ve been told that your current condition is possibly fatal. A
doctor told you this. Remember, you’re waking up in a morgue, Tommy.”
“I’d think I was dreaming. Or that I was on Candid Camera.”
“You’d believe you were dead, Tommy. And it doesn’t matter if you only
believed you were dead for the first half minute or so. That’s all it takes. That’s all we’d
need to get our information. It’s not dying that people fear, Tommy. It’s the mystery
involved, the variables. How does it feel? Is it frightening or comforting? If people knew
how they would feel when they died, maybe they wouldn’t be so afraid.” Dr. Benz
slowed the treadmill to a halt. He hopped onto the carpet and performed leg kicks for his
glutes.
“The mind is a powerful thing, Tommy.”
*
*
*
*
Custodians, ones Dr. Benz paid handsomely, outfitted the morgue per his request.
Eight cadavers lay concealed by zipped white body bags, spread out on stainless steel
tables. Dr. Benz weaved between the dead bodies. He breathed fog in each corner of the
room. He was never short of breath. Everyone in the morgue puffed clouds with each
breath. The morgue was thirty-seven degrees.
31
The subject, Mr. Band, had been told he needed chest surgery to repair damaged
heart tissue. He had agreed. After all, his doctor had recommended it. His wife consented
to the experiment when Dr. Benz talked to her alone. He promised the wife that the study
would help everyone who was afraid of death. She said that she was one of those people.
Then she signed pages of release forms. The interns fed anesthesia into Mr. Band’s
arteries and rested him on an itchy, hospital-issue pillow with a drool-catching rubber
sheet. He went to sleep. When they carted him into the morgue, he was still asleep.
Dr. Benz directed the gurney in the midst of the dead. The men pushed the patient
onto a taped “X” on the floor. Dr. Benz and Tommy affixed wireless suction cup sensors
to Mr. Band’s naked body: his head, chest, stomach, legs, and arms. The suction cup
devices transmitted readings to the computers positioned on the other side of the room.
They were hidden behind a carpeted pressboard partition.
Dr. Benz walked around the partition to check the accuracy of the sensors,
Tommy trailing him.
“Can you feel it, Tommy?”
“What?”
“The excitement. It’s palpable.” Short sentences rocketed almost visibly across
the cold room. “Everything’s in place. Everything’s perfect.”
“I’m still skeptical.”
“Tommy, never get married. You’re terrible at kissing ass.” Dr. Benz cupped his
chapped lips and said, “Turn on the projector.” The Stanford confederate, Dr. Benz’s
Sigma Chi brother from UCLA, flipped a switch. A projection of Wilson Band’s body lay
suspended in midair. Dr. Benz blew gently on the hologram. The image wavered in the
32
fog. It rippled like a reflection in water. Dr. Benz rolled the gurney a bit to the left, a bit
to the right. The hologram and Wilson Band’s body merged.
“Perfect,” Dr. Benz said. He clapped his hands. The sound echoed from steel and
concrete. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
It was a waiting game. Mr. Band was due to wake up, at any time, really. Tommy
paced with a piece of nicotine gum jammed between teeth and lips. Smoking was not
allowed in the morgue. He hugged himself tightly inside his lab coat, shivering from the
cold. Dr. Benz passed the time jogging in place.
Then Wilson Band stirred.
Computer readings sounded a soft cacophony of beeps and boops. Sophisticated
medical programming dissected Wilson Band’s vitals: heart rate, brain activity, and blood
flow. His brain pattern indicated that he was waking up. Also, he twitched. The Stanford
confederate checked the hologram projector to make sure everything was properly set up.
He gave Dr. Benz the okay. The wireless transmitters continued to pump telemetry
through the air. Dr. Benz and Tommy crouched behind the computers, accidentally
obstructing the monitors with their breath. Aggressively fluttering his hands, Dr. Benz
motioned his intern back.
Dr. Benz gripped a microphone and pushed it against his lips. It connected to a
P.A. system. Dr. Benz was prepared to read from his script whenever SUBJECT stirred.
Dr. Benz was VOICE. When he breathed heavily, it rumbled from the speakers.
Wilson Band was naked apart from his navy blue boxers. The sensors, suctioned
to his flesh, colored his skin a light brown. He let out a groggy moan, and then opened his
eyes. Tommy monitored Band’s vitals and watched his movements via camera feed. Dr.
33
Benz jogged in place and watched Band’s heart rate. They waited a few minutes while
Band shook off his anesthesia. Then Dr. Benz nodded to his fellow experimenter.
“Wilson Band.” Dr. Benz’s baritone timbre boomed throughout the morgue. “Sit
up, my child.” The computer reading rhythms increased. The suction cup sensors
remotely relayed Wilson Band’s surprised heart beat and confused brain activity. He
pushed himself into a sitting position using his sensored triceps. He looked around the
morgue, gaze timid.
“You’ve come home, Wilson.” Dr. Benz had written the script on the night of his
first conversation with Tommy. Actually, he'd dictated it to his word-processing software
while performing one-hand push-ups in the corner of the room. There were detours in the
script. What to do if SUBJECT asks where he is? What to do if SUBJECT questions the
validity of the project? What to do if SUBJECT wants to see long-dead relatives? Dr.
Benz didn’t need the script anymore. He’d memorized the words while dictating them.
“What’s going on?” Mr. Band asked. Tommy coughed. Dr. Benz glared at him.
SUBJECT didn’t change his expression.
“You’ve come home, Wilson.” Dr. Benz thumbed through pages of the script just
to make sure. What to do if SUBJECT questions his surroundings? “Stand up and look
behind you.”
Dr. Benz squatted next to the computer monitors. If Wilson Band had looked, Dr.
Benz’s New Balances would have been visible under the carpeted partition. If Band had
cared to notice, the breathing doctors were shooting fog out from either side of the
partition area. Also, the Stanford hologram projector was not so inconspicuous while it
projected images.
34
Band dropped his feet to the ground and tested his leg muscles. He slid off the
gurney, stood next to it, and looked around. Body bags stared back. “What’s going on?”
Dr. Benz’s script did not account for repeated questions. So he repeated his
direction: “Look behind you.”
Dr. Benz had planned for everything. The projector hung above the gurney. No
matter what side of the bed Band exited from, he would not block the hologram. If Band
thought the projector looked peculiar, Dr. Benz could explain that it was the Bright Light.
Wilson Band turned toward the gurney, upon which the projector recreated the
image of his body. Band’s heart rate increased. The beating became erratic.
“Welcome, Wilson. You’re home.” Band’s right hand flew to his chest. The
computer readings hit peaks. Hit valleys. Beeping volumes crescendoed, then crashed.
Tommy stood to the side of the partition. “It’s fake, Mr. Band,” he said. “You’re
in an experiment.” Wilson Band’s eyes remained wide and squirrel-like. His hand stuck
to his chest hair as if glued there. He gagged; then he fell to the floor.
*
*
*
*
Wilson Band, Dr. Benz explained, died a brilliant death. He gave his life for
science. He should have exercised to protect his heart, Dr. Benz said. He should have
gone to the gym and eaten organic vegetables. He was Christian, wasn’t he? His death
was probably already better than his life.
Wilson Band’s family sued the experimenters and the hospital. Dr. Benz was
defended by a Sigma Chi brother from UCLA. He was the best lawyer on the Pacific
coast. Tommy was stuck with someone court-appointed. The intern still had thousands of
dollars in student loans to pay off.
35
Dr. Benz’s lawyer spoke of an air-tight waiver, signed by Band’s wife. The legacy
of Wilson Band would live on. Data collected in the experiment would ease the minds of
those afraid to die. The intern was to blame. The experiment had gone perfectly until he
had illusions of grandeur. He wanted to steal Dr. Benz’s thunder. He ruined the
proceedings with his outburst. Band’s life was clearly under control until the unexpected
happened. What kind of person did he think he was?
Tommy said he was doing what his conscience dictated. Band was heading
toward a heart attack. That’s why he stepped in. Dr. Benz’s lawyer proved that the heart
attack directly followed Tommy’s “supposed” warning. All of the readings salvaged from
the morgue concurred. It was a simple case of cause and effect.
Dr. Benz, wearing an eight-thousand dollar Armani suit, squeezed a tension ball
during the proceedings to buff his forearms. When he took the stand, he explained how
his experiment would help people who are afraid to die. Many of the jurors nodded. They
were those people. Tommy’s defense was marred by his lawyer’s infrequent public
speaking experience and newsprint-smudged shirt cuffs.
The jury exonerated Dr. Benz. Tommy was ordered to spend ninety days in jail.
Dr. Benz published his findings in The Future of Medicine. He won awards, appeared on
Oprah and The Tonight Show. The hosts and audience members claimed that they were
afraid of death, too, but not after the experiment. Dr. Benz wrote exercise books outlining
his strategy for weight loss. He became wealthier, attracted more patients to his family
practice, and his heart grew stronger. Once Tommy was released from jail, he applied to
fifty free clinics along the Pacific coast. None called him for an interview.
36
Dr. Benz continued to jog every day, though not as vigorously. He invested in
organic grocery stores. And, with the blessing of Wilson Band’s widow, he dedicated a
hospital wing in memory of his famous test subject.
When it was his turn to die, he kicked off his running shoes and lay down. Then
he closed his eyes and smiled. Because he thought he knew exactly what was coming
next.
37
TREE HOUSE
Jackie knew, as soon as she pushed her brother from the tree house, that her father
would punish her if Darren broke his arm, even though he had started it. Her father's
punishments had become erratic since he lost his data entry job with the city. Now, he'd
ground her for weeks before changing his mind a day later, claiming he'd been too harsh.
Then he always asked Jackie not to tell her mother that he'd reduced the sentence.
Jackie slumped against the tree house wall, which was lined with photographs of
Mary-Kate and Ashley Olson she’d ripped out of Seventeen, and braced herself for the
impact. King Kong shook the earth. Asteroids left craters buried in the sand. Surely,
Darren, whom she could barely lift since he had turned five, would dislodge the tree
house and shake the magnolia flowers from the branches. If it was anything like the
movies she watched, Darren would fall in slow motion, taking his time to admire the
scenery.
Of course, levying punishments was about all her father had accomplished
recently. He hadn't done anything else since the lay off, as far as Jackie could tell, except
punish her for brief periods and erect the tree house slowly and shoddily. And that only
happened because her mother nagged him about it for a month.
Jackie stuck her index fingers into her ears and clenched her teeth. Her brown
bangs hung past her line of sight, and thin strands, parted down the middle, covered her
hands. But there was no jarring of the earth’s crust. The tree house nails that Jackie’s
father had pounded into the magnolia’s trunk held tight. Even the sweet flowers kept
clinging to the swaying branches. Jackie sniffed the air. She didn’t smell a newly-formed
crater. No smoke drifted up from the ground. The scent of mowed lawns and recently
38
tilled soil struck her as too normal for a cataclysmic, life-changing occurrence, such as
pushing a no-good younger brother out of a tree. She could lie, if she got in trouble. She
could blame it all on the trap door her father had built. Her mother would go along with
it. It was easier that way. Plus, Darren would be too upset to correct her.
If she told the truth, her father would say, “You’re the older one, Jackie. You
should be mature and set an example for your brother.” Jackie knew that this was one of
those situations in which maturity was necessary, but she didn't care. It was her father's
fault that she had pushed Darren anyway.
Jackie decided that she should rely on senses other than touch and smell. She
didn't want Darren dead, after all. She opened her eyes and looked over the edge of the
tree house floor. Darren lay in a heap, his khaki shorts stained with weeks-old grass skids.
His Lake Camp t-shirt was bunched up, which exposed his outie belly button. His mouth
was wide open; the two front teeth he knocked out as a toddler gave Jackie the perfect
view of his panting tongue. He probably had broken his arm, and Jackie didn’t care.
She was sick of having to supervise him every Sunday afternoon. She should be at
Bon Marché Mall with her friends, trying on ruffled skirts at Old Navy and applying
smuggled lipstick in the public restrooms. Darren was old enough to be left alone in the
back yard. Her father had suggested it two days earlier at the prescribed Family Dinner
Time, but her mother shot down the idea.
When he was building the tree house, he had fashioned a trap door at Jackie's
request, even though her mother thought that it would malfunction and kill someone. The
moment he had finally finished it—waking Jackie up to see the results with a Maglite at
4:30 one morning—he seemed prouder than she had ever seen him.
39
As her mother burst through the patio door and ran to Darren, Jackie took her
fingers out of her ears. He couldn’t really be hurt; he was yelling too loudly. He had
knocked out his two front teeth eighteen months earlier when he took a swan dive off of
the top bunk in the bedroom they used to share, landing face-first onto a plastic trough
designed to hold pencils and pens. Blood was everywhere, but Darren didn’t make a
sound. Her mother told her it was because he was in shock.
Jackie's mother and brother were both yelling now. As Mom ran closer to the tree
house, Jackie scooted back against the wall and shoved her fingers into her ears again.
*
*
*
*
Jennifer rarely got to see her husband alone anymore, except on Sunday
afternoons. On weekdays, she was either at the real estate office or showing homes to
clients, while Rick played homemaker. On Sunday afternoons—the mornings set aside to
attend St. Bethany Catholic Church—they could have sex.
She had worked it out five months before. Her eldest, Jackie, could look after
Darren for the afternoon as they played outside. Jennifer got Rick to herself, Jackie could
learn important responsibility skills, and the children would both get the benefits of fresh
air and exercise. Jennifer had even forced Rick to build the children a tree house to make
the afternoon transition seem a positive event. He finally had done it, fashioning a display
case for Darren’s Hot Wheels along one wall and a book rack for Jackie’s magazines on
the other. It had taken him two months and fourteen trips to The Home Depot, but he
finished the tree house just in time for spring. She couldn’t understand why he
complained so much about building it, seeing as how he spent countless extra hours re-
40
hammering nails and sanding the walls. He finished it two days before he allowed anyone
but himself to set foot inside. She wondered why he didn't just move in permanently.
The bedroom phone was unplugged, the curtains were closed, and Jennifer
straddled her husband’s legs with her own freshly shaved pair. She loved the way it felt
to have his leg hair rubbing against her smooth skin.
“I love Sundays,” she said.
“Is Jackie’s play this Monday or the next?” Rick said.
Jennifer was wearing pink panties and a pink bra, built with a new Victoria's
Secret technology that allowed for greater lift. Rick still had on the boxers, socks, and
undershirt he had worn underneath his church clothes.
“Need me to help with the rest?” Jennifer said.
“I don’t want to miss the play. She sounded excited about it at dinner yesterday.”
Jennifer ran her hands along Rick’s inner thigh and tickled his crotch. She missed
having long hair, being able to slide it over his chest.
“Rick,” she said. She moved her face inches from his and stared into his pupils.
“Rick. Don’t worry about the kids. This is our time.”
“I know.”
“So relax.” She slipped her hands under his waistband and stroked the short black
hair below his belly button. She took off his socks and massaged his feet.
“I am relaxed,” Rick said.
The headache of convincing him to build the tree house was nothing compared to
the headache of convincing him to schedule their sex life. She wasn't asking him to
41
undergo invasive surgery. She didn't even complain when he started to go bald at twentytwo. It would have been easy to buy Rogaine for him.
"You're distracted, Rick," she said. He turned from her. "No, I'm sorry, honey. It's
just frustrating. I thought this would help. The tree house has been done for a month."
A shriek from the back yard carried into the bedroom. "What do the kids want
now?" Jennifer waited for another noise. "Let's just ignore them." She smiled.
"I'm trying," Rick said.
Jennifer listened, as another shriek sounded through the window; this time it was
Darren yelling, "Mom."
"I guess I have to go see what the problem is now." Jennifer tied a robe around
her waist and walked to the window. She lifted the curtains and separated the blinds with
her fingers. Squinting against the sun, she could see the shape of her son on the ground
underneath the tree house. He shrieked again.
"Oh my God!" she said and sprinted out the patio door.
*
*
*
*
Darren expressed his frustrations the same way he saw his father do it: he crossed
his arms tight against his chest and squeezed his lips into a circle. What better way to
show that his sister was being unreasonable to request a game other than hide and seek.
“But you promised,” Darren said.
“Did not,” she replied. On Sunday afternoons, his parents put his stupid sister in
charge. She normally allowed Darren to choose the first game, but today she wanted to
play checkers, a game she said was more adult than hide and seek. She’d carried the
board into the tree house and placed the red and black discs on dark squares.
42
“Don’t be a baby. Just give it a try. Mom wants us to try new things.”
“No. No. No.” Darren uncrossed his arms and brushed the discs off the board.
Some fell through the cracks of the tree house floor. A pair of black ones clicked against
the wall where Darren had organized his Hot Wheels collection. The cars, trucks, and rigs
were parked on a homemade display his father had constructed.
“I spent all morning putting them in the right place,” Jackie said. Darren knew
this was a lie. He had just seen her set it up.
“Liar. Big fat liar,” he said. “I’m telling Daddy on you.”
“Don’t you dare, you little twerp.” Darren knew that all he had to do was yell for
his father and Jackie would be in big trouble. When Darren had lost control of the
automatic sprinkler and the hose drenched his church suit, she was the one who got into
trouble. One Sunday afternoon, when Darren was fascinated by a newly parked Harley
and burned his hand on the pinging engine, she was the one who couldn’t talk on the
phone for a week. He did whatever he wanted, and she paid the price.
“I’m gonna,” he said. “I’ll even tell Momma.” He inhaled deeply, puffing his
stomach and lungs full. The threat of yelling, "Momma," used to mean something. His
mother's punishments had been strictly enforced before his father was laid off. But it
didn't carry the same weight, now that his father had taken charge.
“Don’t do it,” Jackie said. When Darren's lungs were filled with air, he puckered
his mouth, prepping it for the loudest “M” sound it had ever produced.
“Mmmm,” he started.
“Don’t finish that word.” Jackie balled her tiny left hand into a fist and cocked her
arm. He continued to make the noise.
43
“Mozzarella,” he said.
“You little jerk.”
“I tricked you, but I’m really gonna say it now.”
Darren saw a robin settle on a branch behind his sister and chirp inquisitively, as
it twisted its head to the side. After he puckered his lips this time, he shook his head
repeatedly and moved closer to his sister, imitating the bird.
“I'll tell Dad you think the tree house is stupid,” he said.
"I don't."
"You're making me tell him it's stupid. You hate Dad. You hate the—" But she
didn’t wait for him to finish the sentence. She thrust her hands against his shoulders and
toppled him out of the tree house. As he fell through the air—the sky and trees a blurry
blue and green—he could swear that one cloud looked exactly like a checker.
The fall seemed endless. After he landed, he tried to move. Everything felt okay.
His shoes were heavy and caked with mud. His arms lay tangled across his body. His legs
were a little sore where his shins scraped the edge of the tree house, but nothing was
permanently damaged. Still, he wanted to use the situation to his advantage. So he
opened his mouth and wailed. Even though his parents were inside, they’d be able to hear
him. He'd simply scream until he got their attention.
*
*
*
*
Twenty-five minutes before Mass, Rick stood in front of the bathroom mirror,
examining his bald scalp.
"You ready, honey?" his wife's voice sounded manly when he couldn't see her.
"Yeah."
44
"Got your wallet? Keys? Cell phone?"
"Yeah," Rick said. "Yeah. Yeah."
"Time to go," she said.
He straightened his tie, and checked his pockets. He had forgotten his wallet.
"Shit," he said.
Looking into the mirror again, he could swear that he saw one hair growing a few
inches above his right ear. Then he left the bathroom and grabbed his wallet on the way
out of the house.
Rick got them to church fifteen minutes early, as usual, despite his wife's constant
murmuring about not being able to find four seats together. He and Jennifer sat like
bookends in the pew with their children in the middle. An old woman's hairdo obstructed
Rick's view of the altar. A green hat topped the thick curls, secured with a bobby pin.
Next to her was a woman who must have been her daughter. She shared the right-angle
nose and big ears. It was the kind of unpopular girl Rick would have gone after in high
school.
While Jackie and Jennifer recited Lord Have Mercy's and Also With You's in the
same monotone as everyone else, Darren dragged a red Hot Wheels Corvette up and
down his thigh, and Rick thought about sex. He and Jennifer hadn't had good sex in
months. He just wasn't interested. It had been even longer since they'd tried anything but
the missionary position. Then Jennifer had had the brilliant idea that he should build a
tree house. That way the kids could leave the adults alone on Sunday afternoons. Rick
hadn't built anything since a spice rack in middle school shop class. So he researched
extensively on the Internet, printed out diagrams and blueprints, made the necessary
45
calculations, visited the hardware store with a thorough order, loaded the Accord with
lumber and brackets, unloaded everything himself, rented a circular saw to cut the wood,
hammered the nails, screwed the screws, painted the wood, and admired his work. So
what if it took longer than they thought it would? So what if one end was a little bit
higher than the other? He had made it with his own hands, and it was beautiful. Plus he'd
added a trap door just like Jackie had wanted. Jennifer was convinced that Darren would
fall through and shatter his ankles, but Rick had tested it.
He'd been going through the motions at church again: kneeling on command,
praying on command. He lifted a missalette from the wooden holder and leafed through
the pages. Two readings, one gospel. Two readings, one gospel. He wondered why he
heard the same stories over and over. Across the aisle, a few other families sat together.
They were smiling and dressed alike. Four families sat to Rick's right, and in each case,
the husband and wife were seated next to each other. Children weren't in between them.
One wife was especially attractive. Her neckline showed a glimpse of her cleavage, and
the shape of her hips was visible, even with the silky fabric in the way. Rick bet that she
and her husband didn't have any problems with sex.
By the time the priest raised his arms and dismissed the congregation to do God's
work, Rick instinctively moved to kneel when he was supposed to exit the pew.
"Dad," his daughter said. "We don't do that now."
"What? Am I embarrassing you?" It came out a little more harshly than Rick had
intended.
"Mom," Jackie said.
46
"I'm not doing anything, honey," Rick said. "Let's go. Sunday afternoon, right?
Fun day in the tree house."
"Your father's fine, Jackie," his wife said. She winked at him. Rick's family stood
in their places and tugged at their starched church clothes.
"Everybody in the car," Rick said.
No one talked during the drive. Jennifer tuned the radio to the R&B station and
squeezed Rick's thigh. As they pulled in to the driveway, she batted her eyes. He felt a
little stir because he was imagining her as she was when they first met. She used to have
gorgeous long hair and wear tight turtlenecks. They had sex twice a day then. He hadn't
learned yet about her screaming matches with her father, about her refusal to ever cook or
wash the dishes, about the two-week PMS marathons that occurred once she stopped
taking birth control. He didn't know she'd shear her hair off and sell houses in dark pant
suits. By the time she had invented Sunday afternoon snuggle sessions, he rarely even
thought about traditional man/wife sex. He only fantasized about Jackie's former
babysitter and threesomes. Anything different, really.
"Time to play in your tree house, kids," Jennifer said. "I'll call you after Daddy
and I are done talking." She looked at Rick and giggled when she said "talking." She
always did. Some jokes never got old for her. She was like a three year-old.
Jennifer led Rick by the hand into the bedroom.
"I'm going to slip into something more comfortable," she said. Rick sat on the
bed, and Jennifer shut the door behind her. He loosened his tie and undid the knot,
leaving the two halves of the tie dangling. After grabbing each end, he glided the blue
silk around the back of his neck—back and forth, back and forth. Eventually, he removed
47
the tie and took off his shirt. The loafers slipped off his feet easily. Then, he unzipped his
pants and dropped them on the floor. He leaned back and lay on his half of the bed,
compact in his sleeping position. The tree house would be beautiful at this time of day.
The sun was almost directly above it, so the light would be shining on the red paint and
streaming in through the windows. Darren's Hot Wheels would be bright and lustrous.
Even Jackie's hair would appear like that of a teenage starlet. It was their little haven that
he had built, and only his wife selfishly saw it as a diversion.
He heard the door click and propped himself up on his elbows. The lingerie was
new. It was new every week. The bra and panties were pink. Rick thought it looked like
normal underwear and didn't understand why she had to spend so much money trying to
turn him on. She'd probably gotten it from one of those slutty stores in the mall. He didn't
say anything.
"Like it?" she asked.
"It's very nice," Rick said.
"Doesn't pink look great on me?"
"Everything looks great on you, honey."
"You're so hot in that undershirt, Rick. All the other wives talk about you. I tell
them that you built the tree house with your bare hands and how great you look with your
shirt off. They all fantasize about you when they're making love to their husbands.
Brenda told me that once." She walked toward him and straddled his legs. She grabbed
his hands and placed each one on one of her thighs. He could tell that she'd shaved that
morning.
48
She tried to talk dirty and get him excited, but he could only picture other women.
He didn't even know what he was saying. It was off-topic, he was sure. Then he lied
about being excited, like he always did, and tried to concentrate on nothing else.
Darren's screaming startled him. Eventually, Jennifer ran out of the room, but
Rick was sure his son was overreacting again. He yawned and searched for his socks.
Then he heard Jennifer scream and realized that it must be serious. He rushed to the back
yard. Darren was sprawled under the tree house, his body lying still on the grass. Darren
cried out continuously for his mother, even though she was kneeling next to him, holding
his hand.
"It must be your trap door," she said. "I knew one of the kids would fall through.
You do such a half-assed job with everything."
Was it the trap door? The tree house was the first thing that Rick cared about in
months. He'd actually tried.
"It looks like he's okay," Jennifer said. "Thank God. If he had broken his leg,
Rick, I would've killed you for that stupid trap door." He walked over to his son and knelt
outside of the halo of his wife's consoling.
"You're so damned careless, Rick," Jennifer said.
Jackie crept to the edge of the tree house and sat with her legs dangling in the air.
"I guess you were right about the trap door, Mom," she said.
"Jacklyn. Get your butt down here right now," Jennifer said. "I don't want the
whole thing collapsing."
"Maybe your mother's right, Jackie," Rick said. But after that, Rick removed
himself from the conversation. He tried to maintain the concerned expression that a
49
distressed parent should have, one who was to blame, but as Rick looked at the tree house
in the sun, it was one of the most beautiful buildings he had ever seen. The asymmetrical
lines and runny paint only added to the charm. Better Homes and Gardens would
describe it as cozy and unique. As Darren continued to scream and Jennifer continued to
complain about him, Rick accidentally broke into a smile, thinking about the tree house.
If he concentrated just right—the sound of puttering lawn mower engines and pool
splashes smothering the yelling—the tree house looked like a mansion. He walked past
his family and climbed the steps up to the tree house. Once inside, he stood on the trap
door. Then he shut his eyes, jumped into the air, and prepared himself for the fall.
50
CRAVINGS
I craved s’mores last week. This week it’s donuts. A month ago I couldn’t go a
day longer without a glass of merlot and a slice of espresso cheesecake with graham
cracker crust.
But right now I need donuts, so I drive to Target at six in the morning. Nicole
woke me up when she was getting ready for work, and I've been having trouble sleeping.
I grab a plastic box containing a dozen donuts. Only Target labels them as “yeast rings.”
Do donuts even have yeast in them? I suppose they rise at some point. But French bread
isn’t called yeast loaf. Baguettes aren’t yeast phalluses.
I check out in the express lane with my single item. “Yeast rings” displays on the
computer monitor. The cashier pops purple bubble gum and licks away the residue from
her upper lip.
“Find everything okay, sir?” she says.
“Can you believe your company calls the donuts yeast rings?” I say.
“What?”
“Look.” I pick the donuts out from the plastic bag and point to the words
individually. “Yeast. Rings. Isn’t that odd?”
“Unusual,” she says.
“Might want to page your manager and let him know about it. I’m probably not
the first to notice.”
“You’ve just got the donuts, then?” she says.
“People could get really upset about this. My wife doesn’t even like seeing the
word yeast. Reminds her of infections.”
51
“It's really early in the morning, sir,” she says. The fluorescent lights shine on the
droopy skin under her eyes when she lifts her head. I tell her that’s all and leave the store.
I eat six of the donuts when I get back to our apartment, standing over the sink,
watching the crumbs disappear into the garbage disposal.
Nicole isn’t home. She works days at an architecture firm; I work nights in a
Venetian blind factory. I go in at 5 p.m. and get off at 2 a.m. She leaves the apartment at
six for her 7 a.m. start. Then she comes home a little past four in the afternoon.
She already had the day job when they switched me to the night shift. We said it
would be okay for a few months until I could find something better. Or at least something
that had normal hours. But it’s worse than we thought. We greet each other with a few
tired mumblings on the way to or from work. Nicole used to cook every night, but now
we eat all of our meals separately. She works overtime on Saturdays. Says we need the
extra money.
*
*
*
*
A week later I crave Phish Food ice cream: Ben and Jerry’s with chocolate ice
cream, marshmallow cream, caramel swirls, and bits of dark chocolate in the shape of
aquarium fish. Nicole ate it when we were first married. She’s on a diet now. Says Ben
and Jerry’s is too fattening.
I go to buy the ice cream at Wal-Mart at 2:30 a.m. What’s good about Wal-Mart
and not Target is that it's open 24 hours. There aren’t many people shopping after
midnight, and I like knowing that I can shop after I get off from work. A woman with a
Mohawk dyed Pepto-Bismol pink is standing next to the refrigerated cases displaying all
the ice cream.
52
“Dude,” she says. “Where the fuck is the good shit?” She staggers, looks like
she’s on a choppy sea.
“These are good,” I say. “Ben and Jerry’s doesn’t use bovine growth hormones to
make their ice cream. That’s why it tastes so good. I only eat Ben and Jerry’s.”
“You drink milk?” she asks.
“Sometimes.”
“Does the fucking milk have growth hormones in it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You should check on that.” She opens the fridge door and examines a pint of
Chunky Monkey. She presses the container against her forehead and hangs her mouth
open. “They use pesticide-free bananas in here? Organic nuts?”
“This used to be my wife’s favorite,” I say. She continues to examine the Chunky
Monkey.
“I don’t really like bananas,” she says.
*
*
*
*
I get home with my ice cream and spend the morning trying to sleep. When
Nicole leaves for work, we discuss the possibility of rain. Then I’m left by myself.
I’ve stopped keeping track of time using the names of months. Last month wasn’t
March; it was Espresso Cheesecake Week, Pork Chop Week, Spinach Calzone Week,
and S’Mores Week. This month started with donuts and ice cream.
The cravings began when I had to cook for myself. They come with regularity, so
I write them in my daily planner and catalogue the people I meet. On Tuesday of
Espresso Cheesecake Week, a nice gentleman dressed in a suit lent me three dollars to
53
buy some cinnamon twists at Taco Bell. Saturday of Pork Chop Week introduced me to
the lovely young woman who works in the butcher department of Target. She has a
boyfriend and didn’t appreciate when I asked if she likes going to the movies.
While I’m reviewing my cravings, the phone rings.
“Hello,” I say.
“Is Nicole there?” the voice says.
“Nicole?”
“She gave me this number to reach her. Is this her place?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Mark,” he says, as if he were my long-lost brother.
“You work with Nicole?”
“You could say that,” he says. I hang up. He doesn’t call back.
I call in sick so I’ll be sitting on the couch when she gets home. Eventually, I hear
the key in the lock and straighten my posture, crossing my arms on my flabby pecs.
“Ward,” she says. “Why aren’t you at work?”
“Who’s Mark?” I say.
“Is something wrong?”
“How do you know Mark?”
“What’s with the investigation? Christ, Ward. I thought your mother had died or
something with you sitting there on the couch.” Nicole drops her purse onto the kitchen
counter and shuffles through the mail. “Everything’s okay, right? No one’s injured or
dead?”
“I was feeling a little sick is all. Thought I would rest a bit,” I say.
54
Nicole looks around the kitchen. “If you’re going to cook your own meals, you
might want to clean up all the flour. It’s hard to get up once the humidity gets a hold of
it.” I’ve had a calzone relapse. Ricotta cheese has hardened on top of the oven, shaped in
stalagmites. Newman’s Own Pesto and Basil Tomato Sauce is crusted red at the crack
between the counter and sink. I stand, keeping my arms crossed, and head toward Nicole.
“Mark called for you,” I say.
“Okay,” she says. She rips open a letter addressed to both of us. We are approved
for a Capital One Visa.
“Sounded like he works with you.”
She stops looking at the mail, cocks her neck, and rolls her eyes. “He’s my boss.
I’ve told you that before.”
“Oh, yeah. I remember now,” I say. She’s never mentioned him before. I’m
almost positive.
“It’s nice you’re home, though.” Nicole opens the fridge and takes out a 32-ounce
container of Danon non-fat plain yogurt. “It’ll be nice to snuggle.” She drops a spoonful
into a glass dish and stirs in some blueberries from the vegetable crisper.
“If you want,” I say, “we could do massages like we used to.”
“Okay,” she says. I get the bottle of rosemary-scented oil from the bathroom and
click the cap opened and closed, sniffing it with each click.
For the next hour, I sit on the couch watching Jeopardy and Access Hollywood
while she checks her email. Then she walks into the bedroom. I go in five minutes later
and find her asleep, under the sheets, the blankets squeezed beneath her chin. I leave the
oil on the nightstand and lie on my half of the bed until I fall asleep.
55
*
*
*
*
It’s dog biscuits a week after the ice cream. I’ve never even eaten dog biscuits,
but I suddenly find myself craving them, needing a crunch to satiate my jaw muscles. I’m
in PetSmart at ten ‘til noon, browsing the doggy aisles and testing each bone’s density
with my fingers, poking through cardboard boxes and plastic bags. I pick out some Milk
Bones, shaking the box to make sure they’re the correct crunchiness, and head over to the
rodent area.
Stacked glass aquariums house hamsters, guinea pigs, mice, fancy rats, and a
chinchilla. The rats scurry in their cedar chip bedding. They stand on their hind legs and
hump the glass. Guinea pigs hide under plastic green igloos.
A woman wearing an ash-gray fleece top and blue sweat pants taps on the hamster
glass and talks to the animals. “How are you?” she says. “It looks like you're eating. Do
you enjoy when I tap on the glass? Do you like that?” She speaks in a loud monotone,
pausing on the last syllable of each sentence for a second. “I like hamsters,” she says to
me. “You picking out a rodent?”
“Just browsing,” I say, raising my dog biscuits. She talks to me the same way she
talks to the hamsters. It’s probably the same way she’d talk to the Pope, to an infant.
“My husband and I have eleven pets,” she says. She has a husband? “I can list
them alphabetically. I love them all equally.” Her declaration of love is flat because of
her voice. I don’t believe her.
“More than your husband?”
She laughs and says, “All equally.” She taps on another aquarium and says, “Look
at what the guinea pigs are eating.”
56
“You doing anything after you leave here?”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you eaten lunch yet today?”
“I’m married.” She turns around and fingers a bag of Timothy Hay. “And I’ve
eaten.”
I wait a few seconds, but she doesn’t stop squeezing the bag. I go to the checkout
counter and say to myself, “I’m married, too.”
*
*
*
*
It’s two weeks after the dog biscuits. Mark’s called a second time, and my
cravings come more quickly. It’s two or three a week now. And they’re all Nicole’s
favorites: mocha cake, macaroni and cheese, Hershey’s syrup drizzled on white toast,
cinnamon raisin bagels from Panera slathered in whipped cream cheese. So I’m in WalMart, planning to stock up on packages of Hamburger Helper and Pillsbury chocolate
chip cookie dough. I’m preparing for what might come next.
Right after I started the night shift, I began looking for something with decent pay
and normal hours. I sat in my pajamas on Sunday mornings with the classifieds in my lap
and a red pen, like job seekers in the movies. Nicole and I split the section into layers,
each scrutinizing a sheet or two. I’d come away with a few circled ads and apply
immediately if the company’s system was Web-based. I went to four or five interviews
over the course of a month and had nothing to show for it. I slowly stopped looking.
Nicole mentioned that I should keep at it. Finding a job wasn’t a matter of luck, she said.
I stopped trying entirely after Mark called.
57
I’m in the craft section of Wal-Mart, touching all the fabrics on their giant spools.
I need to buy a yard to patch my old jeans, even though Nicole says I should just throw
them away. One spool features Mickey Mouse and Goofy on a walk in the park. I rub my
cheek on some plaid flannel and feel the tiny beads of fuzz shred against my stubble.
A girl in a sunflower skirt and high heels goes through the fabric patterns like an
audiophile in a used record store. Judging by her outfit, she’s a sewing pro. The fabric
she’s wearing is over by the Styrofoam rings and spider webby pillow stuffing. If she
walked over there, her outfit would disappear, leaving a floating head and unclaimed
legs.
“Hello,” I say as I move toward her. She keeps her place in the patterns with a
pinkie.
“Do I know you?” she says.
“Looks like you know a little something about sewing.”
“I’m trying to find something for prom,” she says. She’s a lot younger than I
thought. There’s a scar on her neck that looks like a burn. Dirt smudges the skin between
her eyebrows. A cluster of zits poke out from under her nose. “My boyfriend’s getting
black socks.”
“It’ll just take a second,” I say. She lets the patterns drop into their rows and
walks with me to the plaid fabric. “I’m trying to patch my jeans.” I point my butt at her,
touching the hole at the seam of my back pocket. “See.”
She leans down, and I glance back over my shoulder. Her handmade sundress
dips at her breasts. She’s wearing a sheer black bra with lacey straps and shiny cups.
“Just trying to find a good match,” I say. The high-schooler unravels a yard of flannel and
58
holds it beside my butt. Her hand’s a few inches away, and I can feel the heat from her
fingers. “How does it look?”
“It should be okay,” she says. “Have any thread?”
“No.” I follow her down a couple of aisles, watching the sunflowers grip tightly to
her waist and hang loosely at her hips.
“This looks like a good match.” She holds up a tiny spool with blue thread. “You
probably don’t even need a whole yard of fabric.” I take the spool out of her fingers,
mine lingering on the lines of her palm.
“Thank you so much,” I say.
“Yeah,” she says. She removes her hands from mine and smoothes skirt creases
near her ribs. A pack of teenagers giggles behind me. “Are you ready, Georgette?” one of
them says. I turn around. There’s three of them: two in braces, one with a pony tail.
“Ooooooh,” says one with a red Lockport High School t-shirt. “How your
boyfriend has changed.”
“Shut up, Shondra,” she says. “I was helping him find some thread.”
“Isn’t he a little old for you?” Shondra says. She switches her purse from left to
right shoulder.
“Yeah,” says the girl with a pony tail. “And a little fat.”
“I was helping him out,” Georgette says. “Leave him alone.”
“And a little ugly,” the third girl says in a stage whisper to Shondra.
“Georgette’s in love,” says the pony tail girl.
59
I shove the spool of thread into my front left pocket and walk away from the girls.
I look back once and see Georgette laughing with the other girls, the sunflowers shaking.
I leave the store without any food, forgetting to pay for the two dollars worth of thread.
*
*
*
*
It’s Cheetos today. I’ve got bright orange cheese powder caked onto my fingertips
and staining the corner of my mouth. I take a sheet of paper from the printer and place
my hand against it. Then I trace my fingers and make an orange turkey.
The phone rings, and I grab the receiver with my cheesy hand.
“Hi, it’s Mark,” he says. It’s the third time he’s called, almost two months since
the first one. Each time he plays it coy. It’s like Nicole told him I’m stupid, so he doesn’t
have to worry about tipping me off.
“She’s not here. If you really did work with her you’d be at work with her.”
“Whoa, buddy. We work together, not always at the same branch at the same time
necessarily. It’s nothing you should be worried about.”
“Why aren’t you calling her at work then?” I say. “Mr. Smart Guy.”
“She should be off soon,” Mark says. “Just let her know when she gets home that
she needs to call me on my cell, not my land line.” I shove a few Cheetos shaped like
mini caveman clubs into my mouth. “Hello?” Mark says. “You still there?” I chomp
again, crunching with my mouth open. “Ask her yourself if you’re worried about it,
buddy.”
“All right, Mark. My wife, Nicole, who you work with, will be sure to call you
back on your cell instead of your land line. I’ve got your message. Good bye.” I hang up
the phone. It's sticky with orange cheese residue.
60
I call in sick to work again. My supervisor tells me I’m out of days to take, that if
I miss again I’ll be fired. Nicole should be home in an hour.
I wait for her, reading through months-old entertainment sections in the
newspaper. Catching up on movie and music reviews. It’s 4:30, and she’s now thirty
minutes late. I call the office, and the secretary tells me Nicole’s already left for the day. I
give her another thirty minutes before I call her cell. I get four rings and her voice mail.
“Hi, Nicole,” I say. “Just thought I’d take off work so we could go out to dinner or catch
a movie. It’ll be like before they moved me to night shift. But they said you’d already left
for the day, so I’m just trying to figure out where you are. Give me a call if you’re not
coming home.” I reach into the crinkly bag of Cheetos and fish out another handful.
I nod off and wake up at 5:30. She’s an hour and a half late. I go to the cupboard
and dig around for more food. I’ve got a craving for miniature marshmallows. I find the
oval Tupperware container with our miscellaneous marshmallow supply and dig out a
bunch. I hear the key in the door, and Nicole walks in.
“Holy shit,” she says, and her purse slams onto the floor. She’s carrying paper
bags from the grocery. “You scared me. What are you doing here?” I’ve been planning
out what I’ve wanted to say for days, but I haven’t confronted Nicole yet. Our schedules
are out of synch.
“Why do you love me?” I say. I have to squeeze the words through a dam of
miniature marshmallows.
“Jesus,” she says. “Have you been watching soap operas again?”
“No.”
“You’ve been very melodramatic recently.”
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“Do you love me?” I chew and swallow most of the marshmallows.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“Is it the weight?” I ask. Nicole steals the Tupperware from my hand and hurls it
into the living room. The marshmallows scatter, and plastic rattles against the legs of our
desk chair. I take the bag of Cheetos off the counter and stomp on it. Orange dust shoots
out and covers the linoleum.
“You weigh the same you did when we got married. You were fine with it then.
I’ve always been fine with it.”
“Why are you having an affair?” I say.
“Is that what this is about? All the eating? The staying home from work? The
laziness?”
“Why don’t you answer any of my questions?” I yell and pound the counter with
my left fist.
“Not everything is about you. And if I have stop by the grocery store to get some
real food it doesn’t mean I’m having an affair. Jesus Christ. You make everything so
much more than it is. You’re the one I’m worried about.”
She hoists herself onto the counter next to the sink.
“What are you worried about me for? I go to work and to Wal-Mart. That’s all I
have time for.”
“Hannah told me she saw you at Wal-Mart, hitting on a teenager. A slutty
teenager. Do you think that makes me want to come home right after work, Ward? If you
weren’t so paranoid about me. Maybe you’d—”
62
“The only reason I was doing that was to pay you back for cheating on me. I was
trying to, at least.”
“What?”
“What about Mark?”
“He’s my boss,” she yells and slides down from her perch on the counter. “How
many times do I have to tell you that?”
“A few more, obviously.”
She swings open a cabinet door, and it slams against the wall. Dust and plaster
drift to the floor. “How come all you buy is junk food? You’re like a child.”
“I needed it,” I say. I know this statement isn’t good enough. It doesn’t explain
anything. She’s holding a box of Crunch n’ Munch and reaches inside.
“This is empty,” she says.
“Mark wants you to call his cell, not his land line.”
“Christ,” she says and walks into the bedroom, locking the door behind her. “You
used to be so calm and happy.”
“Nicole.” I knock lightly. I hear her through the door sobbing, so I leave the
apartment.
*
*
*
*
I go to work a few hours late and tell my boss that I took some Tylenol and feel
better. He forces me to work extra hours to make up the time. When I get back to the
apartment, Nicole has left for work. I’m craving wheat toast with the crusts cut off,
maybe with some orange marmalade. I take off my shoes and socks and remove my
name-tagged shirt.
63
I open the fridge, but nothing’s there. The bread is gone; the marmalade is gone;
the pickles, ketchup, ground beef, carrots, milk, OJ, yogurt and bagels are all gone. All
that’s left is a stalk of celery in the crisper. But I’m hungry. I’m starving. The Banquet
frozen meals and Hot Pockets are gone from the freezer. There’s an iced over box of
frozen peas stuck under layers of thawed and refrozen water. The cupboards are empty,
too. No more boxes or bags of food. Just a few crumbs left behind, unidentified white
specks that could be broken popcorn kernels or shredded coconut.
I stride over to the garbage can, but it’s empty. She put in a new bag before she
left. I think I would eat the food if she’d left it in the garbage can. I open the fridge again
and notice half a jar of jalapenos nestled in the door. I twist open the jar and drink the
juice. One jalapeno disk tickles my uvula, and I want to vomit, to spill it onto the floor. I
pour the rest of the liquid into a juice glass and down it like a shot of vodka; then I slam it
on the counter. The fluid bubbles in my stomach. If I threw up, it would be watered-down
split pea soup on the tile squishing under my feet.
I go to the bathroom, and her makeup kit is gone. I rip the shower curtain from the
rod and see that her shampoo and tiny French soaps made of goat's milk are missing. I
slam the door shut and walk into the bedroom. It’s the same. Almost everything of hers is
gone.
I take the cell phone out of my pocket and dial Nicole’s office.
“Martin and LaRocca,” the secretary says.
“Could you put Mark on, please?” I say.
“Which one?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
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“We have four men named Mark. One even spelled with a ‘C’ instead of a ‘K.’”
“I’m Nicole’s husband.” I’m trying not to cry but failing. “Our schedules are out
of synch.”
“Oh,” the secretary says. I sit on the couch; my feet sink into the carpet. “Well
she’s in a meeting.”
“Well,” I say. “Put Mark on. The one that’s Nicole’s boss.”
“One second.” She puts me on hold. Muzak drifts through the earpiece.
“Sir?” she says.
“What?”
“Mark’s out of the office. Can I take a message?”
“Like hell he is,” I say. “Are you married? Does someone love you?”
“Excuse me.”
“We’ll be even if you just make out with me. Then she’ll come back.”
“I’m married to Mark. To Nicole’s boss Mark. And Mark’s been calling her
because we’re worried about her. Clearly you’re not.” She hangs up.
I could just see them at the office. Nicole is high-fiving the secretary for doing
such a great acting job. Mark opens a bottle of champagne to celebrate the ruse. Then
they get naked and have sex on his desk.
I stand here alone in the hall and wait for the next craving to come. A new one has
to come along. After I satisfy my cravings, I can work on getting Nicole back. In fact I
feel something coming on right now. I think it’s pretzels. No, I’m sure it’s pretzels. And I
can always forgive her if she lets me.
65
HENDERSON’S GROCERY
Everybody in the town of Spenser knew that George Henderson was crazy. He ran
a grocery store on Front Street that most would have considered a Mom and Pop outfit if
George had ever married. The store was in an old bank building that George had owned
for twenty-five years, but he never put up a sign. He wrote specials on the storefront
windows regarding half-priced yellow peppers and dented cans of kidney beans. And he
had a “Yes, We Are Open” sign that flipped over to say, “Sorry, We Are Closed,” with a
young child melodramatically frowning. But no sign declared that George owned the
grocery store. All that was written above the door was “Bank.”
When George celebrated his twentieth anniversary operating out of his
bank/grocery, the townspeople got together, each pitched in a little money, and they
presented George with his very own sign. It read, “George Henderson’s Grocery and
Produce.” George thanked everyone repeatedly, but he never put up the sign. Word
around town was that he kept it in a storeroom in the back.
George was in complete charge of his grocery store. He did every single thing. He
cleaned the floors, stocked the shelves, and took inventory in the evening before he
closed. He even checked out every customer. The lack of a second or third checkout
register became problematic sometimes, so those who were impatient would tally the
total themselves and leave George an amount easily covering the goods.
George checked his inventory against money received to make sure no one was
ripping him off. Until three years earlier, he’d never been shortchanged. But one day,
George was five dollars short. For the next week, he turned his sign to “Sorry, We Are
Closed” twenty-four hours a day. Beneath the words, he wrote in sloppy chicken scratch,
66
“Until people stop hating me.” That whole week, people passed by, read the sign, and
immediately imitated the frowning child who was merely apologizing for the store being
closed. Even though George was considered crazy, he had always been nice as could be.
No one wanted to think they had hurt George’s feelings.
While the grocery was closed that week, George sat perched upon a wooden stool
next to the checkout counter, as though poised to ring up the next customer. Townsfolk
already felt bad after seeing the sign, but when they saw George sitting there with his
perpetual smile, as if he’d just heard a bad joke but didn’t want the joke teller to be
embarrassed about it, it was just too much for them. People squinted at him through the
storefront windows. He was wearing his Boy Scouts uniform, the same one he wore
every day, and his graying hair was slowly but surely vacating his skull, creating a shiny
lake on top of his head.
No one could remember him ever being a Boy Scout, but he wore the uniform
with pride, just the same. The olive green shorts were barely bigger than a pair of boxers,
but it didn’t matter because the trademark Boy Scout socks reached up so far that the red
stripes fit snugly over George’s kneecaps. According to the patches on his khaki shirt,
he’d reached the rank of Life Scout, one below Eagle, and his merit badge sash was filled
with tiny circles declaring his expertise in archery, chemistry, pioneering, first aid,
cooking, canoeing, personal fitness, patriotism, and swimming.
Mrs. Walker and Alice Cedrick broke into tears when they saw George on his
stool, the closed sign indicating George’s hurt feelings. Mrs. Cedrick put her hand to the
window and said through her sobbing, “I’m sorry, George. We’re all sorry.”
67
The following week, George opened the store and acted as if nothing had
happened. People flooded in and expressed their shock and horror that someone had tried
to rip off George Henderson. He said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” and
maintained his awkward smile. This made people feel even worse. Most folks went
through the checkout, even if they had to wait half an hour. And those who were bold
enough to forgo the checkout process left more than enough cash to cover their bills. If
they did skip the checkout, they got such an evil stare from everyone else (especially the
old ladies) that even the slightest difference between goods and payment would have
resulted in an ostracizing worse than lepers experience.
*
*
*
*
One of George’s habits was staring at things. He didn’t stare only at young
women, which might be expected from even a normal single man: he stared at men,
too—at boys, at dogs, at fireflies, at aluminum cans. Really, he would stare at anything
that crossed his path. People in town knew about his craziness and his staring habit, so
they smiled back, dismissed the situation, and went about their business. But every now
and then a stranger wandered into George’s store. One day there was a tourist who was
staying at Biddy and Ed Carlson’s bed and breakfast, and he went into Henderson's
Grocery looking for a few things to surprise his wife. As the stranger walked up and
down the aisles, searching for his required food items, George stared at him.
The stranger noticed pretty quickly that he was being stared at and reduced his
mental grocery list by half. Then he walked to the checkout with his food in an orange
plastic hand basket and saw that George was the only option. George said, “Find
everything all right?” and stared right at that stranger. The stranger was put off by an old
68
man wearing a Boy Scouts uniform. One who was leering at him from across the store
the entire time he’d shopped. One who was over six feet tall and looked imposing even
while sitting on his stool. The stranger had had enough, and he stuck his face up near
George’s, and said, “What the hell are you staring at?”
George had heard the line so many times that he always replied the same way. No
one had a good reason for his stock reply, other than George’s obvious craziness; he was
a nice man for the most part, they said, and meant well, but he just couldn’t function
properly when confronted. Leonard Scott, the oldest resident of Spenser, claimed that
George had been a Little Rascals extra, and the retort (aimed at Spanky) was his only
televised line. When that angry stranger walked up to George and confronted him about
the staring, George kept staring and smiling, and said, “Why…the ugliest face our Lord
God ever created.”
The stranger was so surprised that he couldn’t think of any recourse; it was his
turn to stare at the wonder that was George Henderson. The mutual staring continued for
a while. Then George said, “Paper or plastic?” The stranger didn’t reply, so George
picked for him (paper) and sent him off into the world with his sack of goods.
*
*
*
*
Children rarely ventured into Henderson’s Grocery, at least not by themselves.
Every now and again a mother would drag along a screaming son or daughter while she
attended to her errands. And some of the town’s unruly children made quick, loud
appearances in the store to prove their braveness. But most were frightened of George
because, in a television-conditioned child’s mind, mental illness and craziness were
associated with evil and dangerous activities, such as turning children into giant rodents.
69
His house was the house in the neighborhood that children avoided, especially on
Halloween. George tried his best to calm the frightened little ones, but he rarely
succeeded. They took one look at George in his Boy Scout uniform, a six-foot olive
complete with pimento at the knees, and reacted as if George were the bogeyman on his
way to slaughter the third grade.
But there was one little boy who wasn’t fazed by George Henderson. His name
was Fred Nelson, and he was nine years old. He had curly brown hair that stuck up no
matter how much water, mousse, or hairspray his mother used (so she just stopped
bothering and let the hair go where it wanted). Each day Fred barged into George’s store
as soon as school let out, causing the little bell on the door to jingle violently for a few
seconds. Then Fred walked as quickly as possible to George’s register to look at
George’s Boy Scout merit badges. Fred was the ideal height to fold his arms on the
checkout counter like a perfectly twisted pretzel and prop his chin on his right wrist.
Once settled that way, Fred asked George about each badge on the sash.
“Mr. Henderson?”
“Yes, Fred?”
“What’s that one for?” Fred pointed, and George tried to follow the pointing
finger.
“This one?” George asked, pointing to a red background with a yellow cross.
“Yeah, that one.”
“This one's for first aid. You know what first aid is?”
“Yes, sir,” Fred said. He patted his unruly hair flat before it sprung erect again.
“Mr. Henderson?”
70
“Yes, Fred?”
“What’s that one for?” The process continued in much the same manner until
Fred had cycled through all of the merit badges. The pioneering badge fascinated him
most of all; it showed a black oil derrick with a red flag on top.
“I tried to make that one at home with my Legos,” Fred said.
"Really,” George said.
“But I ran out of black pieces.”
“You know,” George said, “if you joined Boy Scouts and you put a little effort
forth, you might earn more merit badges than even I have. What d’you think about that?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Henderson.”
“They’ll even let you have a knife.” He said knife as if it were two distinct
syllables, each a different note: kni-ife.
“Really, a knife?” Fred shouted the words. Shoppers had filled the store at this
hour, and they all turned to the checkout counter to see who was yelling about a knife.
“Yes siree, Bob,” George said. “A knife.”
Fred was so excited about the prospect of owning and using a knife that he ran
home and told his mother about his conversation with George Henderson. She reacted as
mothers do when they think their children may have put themselves in the slightest bit of
danger. It was now her turn to run into George’s store.
“Do you know what you just told my son?” She forcefully stated the question
while the door was still closing, so the little bell caused all the patrons to look in her
direction.
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“Yes, ma’am,” George said. He was in the middle of scanning a box of Meow
Mix. “I think Fred should join Boy Scouts. It would teach him lots of useful things.”
“Knives? You told him he could get a knife." Fred’s mother, still dressed for work
in a pant suit, walked up to George. "And I suppose you wouldn’t mind if he cut himself
or hurt one of the other children by accident. Would you consider that a learning
experience, Mr. Henderson?”
The conversation had gone on long enough that George had begun to stare at
Fred’s mother. Already stammering and intimidated, Fred’s mother suddenly had the
town’s supposed crazy man staring at her. But unlike her son, she did not frequent the
store, so she didn't know about George’s habits. All of her purchases were made at a
health food store twenty-five miles away, a store that housed gourmet nut bins and
imported cheeses from all the European countries. Even if Fred's mother didn't, every
regular customer knew exactly what was coming next.
“My God. What are you staring at?”
George took his time with the reply. He bagged the Meow Mix, scanned a tube of
Aquafresh, and weighed a bunch of bananas. He turned around on his stool to face Fred’s
mother entirely.
“Why,” George said, “the ugliest face our Lord God ever created.”
*
*
*
*
Later that day, rumors flew. Fred’s mother not only frequented nut bins and ate
fancy cheeses, she also liked to talk to her nut-searching, cheese-eating friends. These
friends lived in large cities, and she typed to them over the Internet. George’s regular
shoppers spread the knife story around Spenser by themselves, without the aid of
72
complex electronics. The rumor mill injected its unique brand of hyperbole into the
situation, so pretty soon word got around that Mr. Henderson encouraged children to
practice sadomasochism and that he was probably gay. People in Spenser had no idea
what sadomasochism really was, so they settled on the gay accusation. The town had
never actually known a homosexual. There had been rumors years before about the
Watson kid who joined the Fighting Broncos cheerleading squad, but to Spenser’s
citizens, gay men wore funny hats, smelled like tropical fruit during the day, and lived in
run-down areas of big cities. Then at night they broke as many of the Lord’s
commandments as humanly possible.
Some folks suddenly vowed to stop shopping at George’s place altogether, for
fear that some of his Boy Scout uniform-wearing gayness might rub off on them. Others,
such as Mrs. Doris Taylor, who claimed that George stared at her a little bit differently
from the way he stared at others, stood by George and began to shop twice each morning.
“One can never have too many cans of peas,” she told George when she paid her bill.
The non-shoppers soon outweighed the double-shoppers. Formerly loyal
customers began to drive an extra twenty miles to peruse Rouse’s Market in Patterson
City. More choices, they said. Brand name boxes of cereal sat next to colorful bags of
generic Oaty O’s and Marshmallow Mates. Rouse’s Market even stocked mangoes,
papayas, and leeks in their produce department. The defectors never went back to
Henderson’s Grocery. George's store experienced a decrease in profits, which turned
quickly into an increasing deficit. Some teenagers saw George boxing up shirts in his
garage one night when they were out past curfew. They swore that he bubble-wrapped
everything, protecting his famous collection of jazz albums with an extra layer. George
73
supporters assumed that he was donating the goods to charity. George detractors assumed
they had driven him out of town.
Fred’s mother wasn’t finished with George, even though his store and wallet were
suffering. She claimed that she had never been so thoroughly insulted in all her life. She
first tried lobbying the town council to evict George from his grocery on the grounds of
“influencing children in the homosexual arts.”
Town council meetings were a big event for the participants. Nearly all the
prominent businessmen, preachers, teachers, and lawyers were present at every meeting.
One notable exception had always been George Henderson. He had never been to a town
meeting; he’d never really left his house, except to check his mail and run his store. He
even did all of his yard maintenance at night.
Mayor Smelts was not of the same mindset as most of Spenser’s residents. He had
sat in classes with both “queers” and “coloreds” (as many of Spenser’s citizens labeled
them). Smelts dismissed Mrs. Nelson’s lobbying, stating, “Mr. Henderson, to my
knowledge, is not a homosexual, and even if he were, his comments were not harmful to
Fred. I was an Eagle Scout in my time, and I feel the Boy Scouts of America is a
commendable institution.” Fred’s mother groaned, but Spenser’s mayor was wellrespected and loved by the young and old. His decree stood.
Next, Fred’s mother tried a course of action backed by an actual law. George
Henderson’s store had a red and white striped awning that extended six feet past the face
of the building. George had never measured how far out his awning protruded. He’d
simply put it up to keep his customers from getting wet. But the town of Spenser had
passed a law years earlier, mandating that all stores downtown had to keep their awnings
74
shorter than five feet. Most folks didn’t know that the law existed, and even if they had
known, they wouldn’t have obeyed it.
Fred's mother had discovered the old law while researching in the town's archive,
and she drove to George’s store one day with a tape measure and an aluminum ladder.
She climbed up the first few rungs so she could get an accurate measurement. Then she
extended the yellow tape measure. It snapped back into the case, and she rolled the tape
out again. George, of course, had no clue as to what she was doing in front of his store or
why she was measuring his awning. His eyes were attracted to a silver pendant dangling
at the base of Mrs. Nelson’s neck. She assumed that he was staring at her cleavage, which
went along with her idea that he was crazy and morally reprehensible. But she had
learned better than to question what he was staring at.
During the next town meeting, a month after Mrs. Nelson had claimed George
was gay, she attempted to rid Spenser of him once and for all by demanding that he
remove his awning. She wanted to crush his spirit. George had received a polite card
inviting him to the town meeting so he could plead his case against Fred’s mother and the
town law. No one really expected George to show up, but there he was, exactly twenty
seconds before the proceedings began. He arrived in his Boy Scouts uniform and his
finest cap, for he assumed that a town meeting must be a formal occasion. He sat in the
last row, leaned back in his seat, took off his cap, and propped his legs up on the chair in
front of him. The mayor nodded to George when he entered, and Doris Taylor winked at
him.
It had been years since the town council addressed an issue other than garbage
collection taxes and the paved walkway connecting Spenser High to Golden Farms
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subdivision. The council was excited to address laws and spats, and the town was excited
to see it. After a few minutes, it was time for new business, and Mayor Smelts called
Fred’s mother to the front of the room. She stood and walked with poise to the wooden
speaking podium, setting down a packet of papers, including the speech she had written
earlier in the day while eating roasted red pepper hummus on her lunch break. She
grabbed the microphone snake cable with only a thumb and index finger and gently
adjusted it to her height.
“Good evening ladies and gentlemen.” As she spoke, she slowly scanned the
room and looked into the eyes of her audience. She could tell her backers from her
detractors. In one half of the room sat women in pant suits, men in overalls, and a host of
children with combed wet hair, restless with Robert’s Rules of Order. The other half of
the room featured slightly older women dressed for church and young men wearing
sweaters purchased at the mall in Dickinson. They sneered at Mrs. Nelson. Mrs. Walker
had created a poster for the occasion with the ladies auxiliary that read, “George
Henderson is Spenser: Support Local Businesses.” It seemed to Mrs. Nelson that the
crowd actually favored the store owner.
She continued, “I am here today to ask George Henderson to remove his awning
in accordance with zoning law thirty-five, section three. It states, and I quote.” She
paused briefly and looked at her notes before reading the sentence. “'Buildings on Main
Street and Front Street, both residential and commercial, may not have extraneous
apparatuses extending from the front property line any more than five feet.’”
Once she finished stating the law, she looked back to the audience. “Now it
also—” That’s all she got out of her mouth before the ladies auxiliary raised their poster.
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“George never meant any harm,” Mrs. Ruby said. "He has the best peaches in the
state."
“Get that knife-wielding queer out of our city,” Mr. Hardaway said from across
the room.
“Order,” Mayor Smelts said. He banged his gavel repeatedly as the residents
shouted back and forth across the tiny aisle separating rows of metal folding chairs.
George looked confused by the proceedings. When the arguing had erupted, his
staring had shifted from speaker to speaker at a rapid pace because there were so many
things to stare at. He had yet to say a word.
“Mr. Henderson was staring at me the whole time,” Mrs. Nelson said. “He’s
trying to intimidate me, Mr. Mayor.”
Naturally, everyone wanted to look at George to confirm the accusation, so the
entire room of seated citizens turned around and stared at the back row. They were
spared, however, because George Henderson turned around just like everyone else to see
what the matter was. It didn’t make any difference that the only available thing to look at
was a white brick wall three inches from his face; everyone thought he was crazy, after
all. People turned to the front of the room, almost in unison, when they realized George
was doing nothing exciting.
“Thank you, Mrs. Nelson,” Mayor Smelts said. “Take your seat now.”
She sat down in the front row, George staring at her silver pendant the whole
time. “He’s doing it again,” she said.
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The mayor hushed the crowd and said, “This meeting is focusing on Mr.
Henderson’s awning, not his personal life.” The mayor made eye contact with the
rowdier citizens before continuing. “Mr. Henderson?”
“Yes, Mayor?” George Henderson stood and took his cap off.
“How do you respond to the illegality of your awning?”
“I believe it keeps folks dry after they buy their groceries, or before they come in
to buy their groceries, or if it’s raining and they just need a place to—”
“That’s enough, Mr. Henderson,” the mayor said. “I feel that an extra twelve
inches won’t hurt anyone, but I can’t just ignore the law. It was passed for some reason,
even if I don’t know what that reason is. So, in accordance with the town charter, we’ll
have to have a vote next Tuesday to figure out where we stand on this issue. Same time,
same place. Until then, Mr. Henderson, you may keep your awning.”
*
*
*
*
George won the battle and was allowed to temporarily keep the awning, but the
war clearly swayed in favor of Mrs. Nelson. George lost more money, as fewer customers
entered the store, and he closed his store earlier and earlier every day. People thought it
was only a matter of time before the grocery shut its doors for good.
Mrs. Nelson forbade her son from even looking at Henderson’s Grocery. The boy
exited school a couple of days later and walked along Front Street. When he passed
George’s store, he cupped his hands over the glass to look inside, but George didn’t look
back, not even when Fred tapped on the window. It seemed to Fred that George slumped
an inch or two lower than normal as he sat on his stool next to the cash register.
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The townspeople began polling the town council members to figure out which
side would win the vote. Members of the ladies auxiliary distributed fruit baskets, cookie
baskets, bread baskets, and chocolate baskets, depending on the preferences of the
particular town council members. The anti-George supporters performed their own
political reconnaissance. The high school coaches hosted half the councilmen at a dinner
disguised as a Spenser High Boosters meeting. They put manliness to question, asking
the councilmen to listen to the person wearing the pants in the family, not to their wives.
Mrs. Walker expressed the concerns of the pro-Georges on the Saturday before
the vote. “How’re you holding up, George?” she asked. The shelves were still stocked
fully, but the lettuce was brown and wilted, and the store smelled of rotten apples. Also,
the aisles were a bit dirtier; some of the fluorescent bulbs had burned out and had not
been replaced.
“Oh,” George said. “Just fine.” George stared at the red light that scanned
barcodes while he bagged the cans.
“We’re doing the best we can, George,” she said, “You have to be strong. Even if
those mean people do take away your beautiful awning.”
“It’ll be fine,” George said and handed Mrs. Walker her bagged groceries.
“Would you like me to come by and help with the store?”
“Oh, no. I can do it myself. Always have.” Mrs. Walker nearly cried when George
said that. She was so flustered that she almost forgot to pay.
*
*
*
*
The pro- and anti-Georges planted plastic signs in yards and continued calling
town councilmen. On Monday night, the day before the vote, Mrs. Walker drove to
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George’s house to leave some cookies on the porch for good luck. She parked her car
against the curb, leaving the motor running, and walked the basket of cookies to George’s
front door. All of his lights were off, but she thought she could see the outline of a person
through the front window. She assumed one of the anti-Georges had broken in to kidnap
George so he would be unable to defend himself at the town meeting. Startled by the
thought, she dropped the cookie basket, and a few cookie shards fell onto Mr.
Henderson’s lawn. She called the police from the Adams’ house next door.
The sheriff drove to George’s house and saw Mrs. Walker’s Ford Taurus, which
had run out of gas while idling against the curb. He parked behind her car, walked to the
front door, and rang the bell. After a few seconds, George answered, dressed in his Boy
Scout uniform, clutching seven rolls of half-used Christmas wrapping paper.
“Evening, Mr. Henderson,” the sheriff said.
“Sheriff.”
“Mrs. Walker said there might be a break-in at the Henderson place. So I got in
my car and came right over.” He paused. “Cookies?” The sheriff leaned over and scooped
the broken cookies into the basket. He handed it to Mr. Henderson.
“Oh yeah?” George eyed his wrapping paper rolls before wriggling free a pinky to
snag the basket’s handle.
“How thoughtful of Mrs. Walker," the sheriff said. "Her car died. Out of gas.”
“Too bad.”
“Anything funny going on, Mr. Henderson?”
“No.”
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“Getting your Christmas presents out of the way early this year, huh?” the sheriff
slid his hands into his pockets and shifted his weight from the balls of his feet to the
heels.
“Oh,” George said, as if he had forgotten what he was carrying. “I guess so.”
“Wrap away. Good luck at the meeting tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” George said and slammed the door.
The sheriff went next door, explained to Mrs. Walker that the intruder was
George himself, broke the news about her car, then gave her a ride home.
*
*
*
*
On the day of the vote, the sidewalk in front of Henderson’s Grocery was busier
than ever. People stood outside to get their pictures taken with the awning, just in case it
disappeared later that day. An entire group of artists sat along Front Street on public
benches, sketching away. Everyone in town knew that the awning had little to do with
council’s final decision. George himself, and his craziness’ influence on Spenser’s
children, was the reason for the vote.
George closed his grocery three hours before the meeting. Thirty minutes before
the vote, Mrs. Walker stopped by to see if he was still around. She cupped her hands
against the front window, but couldn’t see through. All the lights were off. She thought
she saw a figure toting aluminum cans, but her knocks on the door went unanswered.
The town council meeting room was filled to capacity. Even the hallway was
packed, the residents begging that the door remain open during the proceedings. The proand anti-Georges sat on opposing sides. The antis looked like they were dressed for a
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funeral. The women sported black dresses, the men still in their work clothes. The pros
were slightly less somber, though still formally dressed.
The mayor adjusted his microphone at the beginning the meeting and said,
“Remember, gentlemen, that our duty to the town of Spenser is to protect its citizens.
Don’t let all the craziness influence your decision.” Mayor Smelts looked around the
room to see if George appreciated his speech, but he was nowhere to be seen. The antiGeorges saw it as a mini-victory and couldn’t wait for the big victory after the voting was
complete.
Mayor Smelts explained the law once more and asked how many councilmen
were in favor of repealing it. Four replied aye. Next came five nays, and the fate of the
awning was confirmed: George would have to take it down.
Mrs. Walker sobbed into a white handkerchief. The other side of the room traded
high fives and smiled. Mrs. Nelson picked the giant purse off her lap, which she had
loaded with a brick to smash Mr. Henderson’s window if she hadn’t gotten her way, and
she moved toward the door. The other item in her oversized purse was a pair of garden
shears.
“Follow me,” Mrs. Nelson said. The mob of anti-Georges swarmed the exit and
left the room. The pro-Georges followed to protect what was left of George's dignity.
Mayor Smelts hammered the gavel on his desk. Nearly the entire population of Spenser
followed the lead of Mrs. Nelson across Main Street and up Front Street. She walked
with a hand in her purse, gripping the shears.
The group approached Henderson’s Grocery. It looked like all the lights were off.
Mrs. Nelson motioned to two of the taller anti-Georges to lift her up so she could cut
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down the awning. When the three triumphant townspeople approached, they saw odd
colors through the windows. Mrs. Nelson cupped her hands against the glass, but couldn’t
see inside. She took car keys out of her purse and shined the tiny flashlight clipped to the
key ring. As she shined the light against the window, everyone saw bright colors, mostly
shades of red and green. The sheriff turned on his Maglite and cast a giant circle against
the front windows. Best as anyone could tell, George Henderson had lined all his
windows in Christmas wrapping paper.
Mrs. Nelson tried to open the door, but it was firmly locked. Instead, she took
hold of the brick in her purse and flung it through a window. The sheriff motioned her
back and drew his pistol. He entered through the window frame. His shoes crunched on
the glass, and soon he opened the door and turned on the lights. People filed into the store
and gasped. It was bare. All the canned goods were gone from the shelves. The heads of
iceberg lettuce had been removed. Even the canister of package-your-own-peanuts was
emptied.
“That's one crazy S.O.B.,” the sheriff said.
*
*
*
*
Fred Nelson had not been allowed to attend the meeting and had been passing
the time trying to sleep. Then he heard a tapping at his window. He jumped out of bed
and raised the blinds, but nothing was there other than the haze of a streetlight. He ran
through the hallway on his stocking feet, bumping into walls on the mad dash to the front
door. Outside, a crescent moon shone, and swirls of dirt lifted in a mini-cyclone by the
curb. He turned to go back inside, but he noticed that the mailbox was wide open. He
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walked to it and stuck his face against the open hatch. In the mailbox lay a brown
envelope with this printed on the front in childish chicken scratch:
Master Fred Nelson
Spenser
No return address was given, and no postage of any kind was included. Fred
could feel a pair of small objects inside, so he opened the envelope and dumped the
contents into his hands. There was a small round cloth patch with a blue sky and a black
structure resembling an oil rig with a red flag on top. Also, there was a Boy Scout pocket
knife.
“Mr. Henderson,” Fred said. He looked down the street, and he saw a figure
jogging awkwardly. The person struggled with the bulkiness of a giant sign, a weigheddown garbage bag dangling from his shoulder, and what appeared to be a merit badge
sash flapping in the breeze. Fred slid the knife into his pajama pants pocket and fingered
the Pioneering badge. When he looked back toward the figure, the person had stopped.
And when Fred saw his face, he could swear that there was an uncomfortable grin
plastered there.
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