Man V. Nature: Stories (14 page)

His face tightened with ugly anxiety. A face, she realized, he'd made often, when reporting on the nicest, balmiest weather or all those nor'easters, while being seduced, when he came. She pictured the face in some confessional moment with his wife. But no. He would never. Would he?

“Don't worry,” she said, disgusting herself by backing down.

The cashier called his name. “Stay there, Hannah,” he barked.

“Hannah,” Janet cooed. “That's a good girl's name. Are you a good girl?”

Hannah shook her head and pouted.

“You know, Hannah, the last time I saw you, you were in your mommy's belly. And how old are you now?”

“Five,” the girl said, her eyes big and wet.

Janet nodded, bored by the information, and smoothed her own hair, let her hand trail down her body to rest on her hip, hoping Dave would notice. But it was the girl who watched. She mimicked the move.

How adorable, Janet thought. She reached out and fondled one of the girl's pigtails, silky like a dog's ear. She coiled it around her finger and gave it a sharp tug. The girl winced and then stared at her with a mysterious smile. If I were a man, Janet mused, I'd insist on a paternity test.

“You remind me of me,” she whispered to the girl.

Hannah curtsied, then said, “You're ugly.”

Janet clapped, delighted. She tugged both pigtails, and the girl succumbed to the move, the tension on her scalp pleasurable. It took Janet's breath away.

Dave returned, swatted at Janet's hand. “Please stop touching my daughter's hair.”

“If you insist,” she said, and reached for his hair instead.

“Janet. Please.” He ducked her. “It's not a good time,” he muttered, ushering the girl to the door.

What could that mean? She felt giddy. Dave's got a problem? “I'll always be there for you. And I know you know where to find me,” she called, and he paused, just briefly. She could see a tension—the good kind, she thought—pulse down his back. From his stuttered step, Janet thrillingly anticipated the ruin of everything. She wanted him to scold her again. Then half smile in the way she liked. She would know that he couldn't forget, was haunted by her in the same way she was by him. Maybe he'd ended up with what he
really
wanted, but there had been moments when Janet had clouded the picture. And she could do it again. She'd just done it. He would think of her tonight. She knew it. Then strangely, shamefully, she wanted to take it back. Her offer felt false, and yet she'd said it. Was that what she
really
wanted? More of that? Or did she want something new? She hated all this dry thinking. In a daze, Janet shuffled over to the window.

Dave unlocked his car, and his little girl lifted the back door handle, needing all her strength to pull it open. The girl climbed into the car seat, and Dave buckled her in, tenderly now that they were alone.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to have a child who was just like her. It would be a place to put what Janet knew. All of it. And children bring other, unexpected things. Certain perks. Maybe Meredith and Dave hadn't fallen quickly in love, as much as their lust begat a baby that began their family. Janet hadn't considered lapsing on birth control to get Dave's attention. She'd assumed what life had to offer wouldn't require compromises. And a child had always felt like the biggest compromise. But the strings attached didn't have to be bad strings, did they? Strings might have secured a good life. Strings might have tied her to Dave. If she'd played this wrong, she could make up for it easily enough, couldn't she? Whenever Dave showed up at her door, hat in hand. If he showed.

Or.

Maybe she could secure that life tonight, when her phys ed teacher arrived with wine and a roast chicken from the supermarket.

Or maybe they could just talk about it.

You can always change your mind, Janet thought with an ache as she watched that little Santana girl turn toward her. Behind the car window, she made what looked like a kissing face and wiggled it all around. Janet blushed and blew a childish kiss back. But then the girl pinched her nose, and Janet could see that in reality there had been no affection; the girl had been making a scrunched, sour, taunting face all along.
You stink
, was what she meant.

FLOTSAM

“Linda means ‘beautiful' in Spanish,” the man in her bed whispers.

“My name is Lydia,” she whispers back.

 

In the morning he is sitting on her kitchen counter drinking a beer, his ankle crossed over his knee, his belt buckle still dangling, his mustache glistening from some unknown wetness.

“I thought you'd be gone,” says Lydia.

“I mean to be.” He gulps the last of the beer and walks past her, pinching her ass on the way out.

While folding laundry, she finds a tiny blue sock that isn't hers and wonders if the man left it accidentally and it shrank in the wash, or if he left it and his feet (or at least one of them) are amazingly petite. She can't remember his feet. His name might have been Raul.

The next week, she finds a small red mitten in with her whites, the wool felted from the hot water wash. It could have shrunk, she thinks, remembering the particular style of Doug, with his crisped shiny hair, his colorful thigh tattoo. It could be a fashion statement. But it is late May; the time for wool mittens is over.

Next, a small pumpkin-colored T-shirt appears in the dryer,
Billy
stitched in blue thread across the tiny chest. The neck is so small she cannot get her head through. Could it have shrunk too?

“Is this yours?” She holds it up for the man eating a Pop-Tart at her table, who studies the shirt from his chair.

“No,” he says finally. “My name is John.”

 

On her bed, she lays out a small empty child with the clothes from weeks of laundry. Little Billy's orange T-shirt, the blue sock and the mitten on the right, a pink ruffled girl's sock for the left foot. A pair of blue jean overalls, from Sears, size L, 3 to 5 years. A corduroy jacket—the most recent find—with patches from Disney World and Lionel Trains sewn on with mismatched thread.

The variations in size give the empty child a disfigured look.

She fingers the T-shirt material, and it is too soft. The lack of friction irritates her, like rubbing two chalk-covered fingers together. She picks up the jacket. Who sews patches onto clothing anymore? Who plays with trains? She picks at the thread and the patch loosens from the fabric. The exposed corduroy looks brand new and is soft like velvet.

She's hoping Frank will stay the night, but it would be bad for him to see this.

She gathers the clothes into a black plastic bag, intending to throw it away, but instead places it in the corner of the kitchen nearest to the laundry room. That night, she hustles Frank straight to her bedroom. “You sure know what you want,” he says as she's flipping open his belt.

 

She sorts a frilly robin's-egg-blue girl's dress from a load of towels and storms into the kitchen, where Cal is standing in front of the open refrigerator.

“Don't you have anything stronger than milk?” he asks.

She throws the dress at him, and it lands quietly at his feet. “You planted this in my dryer.”

He picks up the dress. “No, hon, it's not my size.” He smirks, holding the dress against his bare chest. He begins to waltz with it. “La da dee,” he hums. The hem caresses his navel, and the top just covers his left pec.

“This isn't a game,” she says, folding her arms and gazing out the window sternly like she's seen in movies when women put their foot down about something. “Get out.”

She waits until his car revs down the street before sitting down to eat the toast points she carefully cut the way he likes, dipping them in jam and chewing them with disgust. She doubts Cal will be back. She's only known him for a few weeks, but she will miss him. She spits a chewed toast point onto the plate.

 

For a while she keeps her laundry to a minimum, wearing the same underwear for days to avoid finding some unwanted article of clothing in with her delicates. But now she is washing every towel she uses, every bra and pair of socks and jeans, every blouse she wears each day. Just to see. And each day some tiny article of clothing emerges with her clean clothes. The pale blue turtleneck with a sleepy turtle stitched on the front. The little T-shirt with the grass stain on the sleeve. The sweater emblazoned with a rainbow. Striped athletic socks. Superhero underwear. Clothes belonging to children named Patrick, Anna, Ned, Stacy, Jack, Heather.

 

The bag is stretched to the point of bursting, and she can't keep her eyes off it.

Her dad pours her another glass of wine and then wiggles the bottle in front of her face. He likes to bring nice wine when he comes for dinner.

She licks the corner of her napkin, absently reaches up to wipe away the wine he dribbled down his chin.

“Want me to take the garbage out?” he asks, following her gaze to the trash bag in the corner.

She shakes her head. “No,” she says. “I'll do it.” She picks up the bag and drags it upstairs, nestling it into the corner of her room where the dog bed used to sit, cozy between two curtained windows.

He's reaching across the table, cutting her steak, when she returns. She pushes the plate closer to him, and he helps himself.

“I'm thinking of getting an alarm system,” she announces, though she hasn't been.

“Why?”

“The neighborhood is going down the toilet.”

He looks out the window, expecting to see some crime in progress. Across the street, the neighbors still have Christmas lights in their evergreen shrubs, though it is summer. He takes this as a sign and nods in agreement.

That night she watches the bag in the corner. When car headlights sweep across it, and the neighbor's Christmas lights blink on the shiny black plastic, the bag looks as if it's squirming.

 

Cal is back to test the waters. Afterward he palms the sweat from his hairless chest, wipes it on the sheet beneath them, and points to the bag.

“What's in that?”

“Children's clothing.”

“Lydia,” he groans, “I thought we were on the same page.”

“We are.”

“So you're just collecting kids' clothes for fun?”

“No.”

“Are you opening a store?”

“I'm not.”

“So it's junk?”

“I guess so.”

“Then get rid of it.”

She nestles into him for warmth. It's good he's here.

“I will.”

 

Early in the morning, when it is still dark and Cal is gently whimpering beneath a dream, she wrestles the bag down the stairs, then into the backseat of her car. It is surprisingly heavy and unwieldy, and her muscles shake under the strain.

In the rearview mirror she watches the bag. It sits tall and blank against the tan upholstery. She almost hits an old lady crossing the road. When she slams the brakes, the bag thumps against the back of her seat.

At the bridge over the big rushing river, she again wrestles the bag. She rests it on the cold metal railing, and it balances there, the wind seeming to hold it up from all sides. Then she barely touches the bag and it goes over the rail.

When the bag lands, the water closes in, submerging it. Then it bursts through the surface again like it's gasping for air. The light twinkles all over it, and she's surprised by how pretty it looks, like something special being showcased in a store window. She wonders if she should have kept it.

The bag floats away, and a few birds give chase. Their dawn shadows weave playfully as they swoop at the bag, and Lydia is glad they have found it. They'll know what to do. They're following some instinct that has to do with morning.

A WANTED MAN

There once was a man, a well-known man, we'll call him “our man,” who could impregnate fifty women in one day.

He could bend a high-heeled dancer over a Dumpster; a waitress across the order counter; a teacher over the hood of her car in the teachers' lot. You get the picture. He could have any woman he wanted, anywhere he wanted. He could take one and turn, find another waiting, and take her too. We've all heard the stories. Remember how he did a row of bank tellers, one after the other? How they begged and huffed and grunted, their faces pressed against their teller windows where they'd stuck a Closed sign when it was their turn? “We're so lucky!” they squealed. Remember how they all took maternity leave at the same time? Remember the elevator story? That Little League game? Independence Day?

Our man was in his prime, his status secure. His offspring were the most coveted, the most successful, he was a sure thing—he never missed, and he was always ready (which can't be said of lesser men). Women dreamed of having his babies. Young boys dreamed of being him. Other men knew to keep their distance and their eyes down.

But our man believed all of that was changing.

Impossible, you say? As proof, take that waitress story: When he'd bent her over the counter, the cooks had tried to ambush him. The waitress held them off with a kitchen knife, and they'd had to finish over the prep table, with her holding the knife out, jabbing it at the cooks with each thrust our man gave her.

Our man recognized the look in the cooks' eyes. They were thinking, That should be me. He knew the feeling. For some young men it was a long-held life goal, and for others it came out of nowhere like a punch. They wanted what he had, and so deeply that they believed they could get it, should get it. They deserved it.

Lately young men had been ambushing our man from dark alleys, following him home, breaking into his apartment and setting traps. He'd had to move. Before, he would have walked unguarded and proud. Now he skulked and wore disguises. He saw the Wanted signs with his picture affixed.

But of all the changes, he was most bewildered by how much he wanted to see the waitress again.

Once they'd finished, he'd asked if she would like to sit with him, have a coffee, talk. He felt a heaviness in his stomach, a need to spend time with her. It was the strangest feeling—he'd never desired a woman twice. But she already had her order pad and pencil cocked and ready. “I work here,” she'd said briskly, and returned to her tables. He'd blushed and felt ashamed. When was the last time he'd felt that?

Now he thought of the knife, of the way she'd jabbed. She hadn't been protecting him so much as her offspring. But still, the gesture touched him. He felt cared for. He hadn't felt that since he was a much younger man, but he wanted to feel it again.

 

Our man returned to the diner, anxious and prepared to ask the waitress to meet him after her shift. He would offer to buy her a sandwich or a soup at a different diner where she could relax. That was better than coffee, right?

But the waitress wasn't there. The cooks were, however, and they chased our man onto a dim side street, where he was able to lose them. He panted in a Dumpster until it was safe to emerge.

Our man knew of a cave in the big park near the diner. He could wait out the night and go back tomorrow, see if the waitress was working. Tell her he couldn't stop thinking about her. They could marvel at how weird that was. He had a feeling she would totally get it, and get him.

The sun was bright, and the grass smelled extra grassy because of it. Park animals scampered. Our man kept his head down, slipped behind trees and into bushes when threatening types strode by. He stepped over two different ankle traps he assumed were set for him.

He entered a wide-open space with few hiding spots. A crowd of boys on bikes noticed him. “Hey,” they yelled. They lobbed stones at his head. Our man ran, and the boys chased on their bikes through the gravel paths. Of course it could only be a game for them—they were boys—but the commotion alerted others. An arrow was launched from somewhere in the trees, and it whizzed by our man's head. A large group of healthy young men began tracking him. But our man is faster than most.

He gained ground by sprinting over a steep hill, and then he heard a sweet voice say, “Pssst.”

A woman in a yellow dress sat on a large blanket in the middle of the great lawn. She scooched over and lifted a corner. Our man dove under, and she laid it back down. She reclined so as to hide his bulk, then resumed reading her book with great languorousness.

Those pursuing our man crested the hill, breathless, and scanned the lawn for some movement. The woman yawned for effect. They ran on, fought with each other for the lead; the young boys were jostled off their bikes and limped away, crying bitterly, pining for the day they would feel like men.

When they were all out of sight, the woman tickled our man through the blanket, and he laughed.

“Shh, they're very close,” she lied. She rubbed him until his breath quickened. “I'm taking you home with me. It's safe there.”

Our man was happy to hear that. No one had ever offered him a home. He would stay with her, be cared for, and never have to run again.

She leaned and peeked under the blanket: her eyes shone like stained glass; her brown hair piled in the grass like curled dead leaves. His waitress was forgotten.

 

Our man woke to the woman snapping pictures of him; she'd tucked a flower behind his ear and was pretending to feed him grapes.

“My girlfriends are going to freak out.” She giggled. “Can I invite them over?”

“I only want you.” He grabbed her and tenderly kissed her cheeks, then her forehead, her eyes. “Let's get married,” he said. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so safe.

“Oh, I can't.” She fake pouted. “I'm already married.”

“You are?”

She pulled away and snapped another picture.

“Run away with me then,” he said. “We could find a new home together, somewhere no one knows me.”

“Oh no, I couldn't.”

It felt as if a chunk of ice was going down his throat. “Don't you love me?”

She laughed. “You funny man,” she said, and tried to push his face between her legs.

The icy lump reached his heart, and then his stomach. It was a new sensation. He said, “But you want kids with me.”

“I want your kid, not, ‘I want to have kids with you.' It's different.” She shrugged. “The kids my husband gave me stink. They're weak and they get terrible grades.”

“You have kids?” He had no idea. “Where are they?”

“At my mom's.” She sighed. “I don't know how much longer I get you for, and I don't want to waste it. Now, come on.” She wiggled in his lap until he was ready.

 

Just as they finished, they heard the front door creak open, the sounds of a bag being tossed onto a table, papers in folders slapping down, and the tired sigh of someone who had no one to greet him.

“Hello? Anyone home?” a man called out.

“My husband's home.” She groaned. “I was hoping for another go. It's so fun with you.”

“Come with me then,” he said as he threw clothes on.

She sulked. “No, that would probably ruin it.”

They heard the husband pad around the apartment, into one room and then another, take something from the fridge, clink some glasses.

“Hello?” he called out again.

She jumped up to lock the bedroom door and barred it with her body. “I do love him,” she said, but she looked at our man like she was eating something delicious. “It's complicated. Just be quiet for a minute. Maybe he'll go away.”

The footsteps got closer. “Ellen?” the husband called out. “Are you in there?” The knob jiggled.

Our man began to tremble. “Let me out,” he hissed. He didn't like being this close to a husband.

“Hey,” the husband yelled. “Who's in there?”

Our man tossed Ellen aside and threw open the door.

He could tell the husband used to be handsome, but now he was older. His clothes were drab and hung on him poorly, his skin too; his hair was dyed shoe polish black to hide the gray.

The husband gasped, and our man recognized his look: as if a long-forgotten dream was resurfacing and giving him the wild idea to battle our man. It was folly. He was too old. But nostalgia and regret are powerful. He reached out.

Our man bolted past.

“Wait,” the husband cried, lumbering after him. “Come back. Let's make a deal.” But our man could hear him rummaging for weapons even as he tried to sound friendly.

Our man bounded from the apartment and took the stairs half a floor at a time.

“Dammit,” the husband cried, and stomped his feet. He whined, “Ellen,” and our man heard her respond, “It didn't mean anything.” He felt that icy lump again.

 

Our man rushed through the streets, his head down, but still he felt like everyone was about to pounce. He ducked into a parking lot, squatted between two cars, and cried. The sky threatened rain. The buildings squatted sullenly. The lights in windows were green and harsh. The expressions on passersby were angry. They all seemed to be searching for something. Probably him.

“Um, hi?” said a shy voice.

Our man shrank against a car, frightened. How careless. He hadn't heard anyone approach; he could be facing his death right now.

A woman reached for him. “Don't be scared.”

“What do you want?” he hissed, and blushed at how unkind it sounded. Where were his manners? She looked nice.

“This is my car,” she said.

He laughed with some relief. “I'm sorry.” He rose, though he remained hunched and averted from the crowded sidewalk.

“Are you okay?”

“I'm fine.” He wiped his eyes. “Hard day.”

“Don't I know it.” She leaned where he had been leaning, and pulled a cigarette from her purse. She thoughtfully exhaled, and our man felt hidden in her fog.

“Thank you,” he said, relaxing a bit in her company.

“For what?”

“For just standing here with me.”

She smiled. “I'm happy to. You look like you could use a friend. I'm Jill.” She extended her hand. “And you are?”

His breath halted, his tongue swelled: she didn't know him.

She was plain looking, with straightened black hair, small eyes, thin lips, but big rosy cheeks that made her whole self inviting. She was the kind of woman he might overlook. She seemed like a person who didn't want to be seen. He wanted to be around someone like that forever. Maybe he would grow plain then. Blend in. He'd like that. He took her hand.

“Do you want to go somewhere?” He imagined her too insecure and unassuming to ask herself.

She blushed, elated. “Sure?” She ducked her head in disbelief and gleeful shame. “I can't believe I'm doing this.” She hooked onto his arm and began to walk.

“Won't we take your car?” he asked, his hand on the door.

“No, my place is just around the corner.”

He concentrated on watching her so he wouldn't panic on the sidewalk. He felt ordinary with this woman on his arm, like he could look people in the eye. But he didn't dare.

 

Her apartment was bare, but still she searched awhile for mugs.

“Did you just move in?”

“Oh yeah,” she said, now looking through drawers for tea.

“Where did you move from?” Our man sat on a spare wooden chair at an empty table.

“Uh, the Midwest?” she said scrunching her face at him as if she couldn't believe it herself. “I'd like to forget about that, honestly.” Her voice swelled with emotion. He became aroused by her vulnerability.

“Well.” He walked to her and gripped her hips. “You'll like it here.”

She let him touch her, then demurred, put her mug between them. “Stop.”

He raised his hands, surrendering. “I'm sorry.” When was the last time he'd needed to say that?

“No—” She laughed, though with some sadness. She pushed his arms down to his sides. “It's just that I don't know anything about you.”

He was flattered and thrilled. “What do you want to know?”

She opened her mouth like she would speak but didn't. He badly wanted to slip his thumb between those lips, have her gently tongue it. The silence between them rushed into his ears. He was scared to fill it. He felt dumb in her presence. But he wanted her to know him. “I'm lonely,” he said.

She bowed her head, kissed his knuckles.

The tension in his shoulders released. He didn't know when he'd felt such tenderness. Then he laughed, overjoyed. She laughed. They clasped hands and laughed together.

“I've always wanted a family,” he said.

“Me too,” she cooed.

“A real one, though. One I can watch grow.” He skimmed his finger above her waistband, under her shirt. “I've never told anyone that.”

She shivered and licked her lips. He thought, Here's the future, so why wait?

He got down on a knee and tied the string from his tea bag around her finger.

“Will you marry me?” He couldn't believe he had said it. He imagined waking on a sun-dazzled morning with her.

She jogged in place and screamed, “Yes!”

He scooped her into his arms as if she were a long, light pillow. “You'll have to return to the Midwest,” he said, and when she looked confused, he explained, “It's not safe for me here.”

She cupped his face. “You're safe with me anywhere.” Her eyes were wet and searching. “Do you feel safe?”

“I do feel safe! I felt safe the very first minute,” he said, forgetting that in fact, he had felt in danger when he'd first encountered her.

He spun her in a circle. “I've got you and I won't ever let go,” he cried, and she tossed her head and fluttered her legs like she was a captive in a monster movie. This time he wouldn't have to run.