Man V. Nature: Stories (16 page)

“You better be,” she said, disrobing. “You're my last hope.”

But he wasn't good for her.

Maybe outside these walls he'd been replaced. Or maybe he'd managed to satisfy each woman in the city, except one. After all the other women swelled with child and left, only Mary remained, empty. And with each visit, she grew more disappointed. He didn't understand why she kept coming when all he did was fail her, but he didn't want her to stop—he would have nothing left. So he tried to try harder, though he didn't know how.

It wasn't a good life. But it was a life.

When he felt most lonely, he focused on this: He had been kept. Not cast away to be chased, battled, killed. He was being cared for by a woman who still asked him to touch her again and again, and who, at least for now, believed beyond all proof that he had something to offer. And who, in their closest moments, when our man tried to give her what she most wanted, managed to abandon some bitterness and express something like joy or pleasure or peace. It might be unconscious. It might have nothing to do with him. But he called it love. And as long as he could see it in her, he would be grateful. He would miss her when she wasn't with him, and with bile burning his throat, he would wait for her return.

THE MAST YEAR

Jane stuffed as many of her belongings into her purse as she could. She'd just been called to her boss's office and she knew what that meant. Nothing good ever came from a visit to the boss's office. If she was about to be fired, she wanted her things with her.

But in her boss's office she didn't get fired. She got a promotion. With a raise—a good one. And a bigger desk. She unpacked her things and sank into her new, better chair. She'd often thought of quitting. The job had been stagnant. The commute was long. But this made it easy to stay. That day, she even enjoyed her drive home. The traffic seemed thinner and no one honked at her.

Then, that weekend, Greg returned from a business trip with a bulge in his pocket that turned out to be a ring box. Jane watched him slide the ring onto her finger. She thought about how, when Greg moved in, his things would mix with her things until they forgot who owned what. And there would be other perks of stability, like knowing what to expect and what was expected of her. She twirled the ring, enjoying its glimmer. It was as if the world had heard what she wanted and had finally decided to deliver.

This was how her year began. And shortly after, the first people arrived.

One morning, Jane found a man and woman sleeping in each other's arms near her roses. Jane figured they were homeless, though they didn't have that scruffy look. Perhaps they were drunk and had gotten lost. Their presence unnerved her, but she told herself they would leave in a day or so, and what was the harm?

The next day two tents stood under her willow. A few children ran around, and a man with a long beard moved landscaping stones into a circle.

During the night, Jane's sleep was disturbed by hammering. She woke to a crowd of men, women, and children huddled under umbrellas, tents, and tarps strung between the trees. There looked to be at least forty people. When Jane peered out the front door, they cheered.

She called her mother.

“Sounds like a mast year,” her mother said. Jane heard a game show in the background.

“You mean this is a thing?”

“Yes, it's a thing. It's a thing that happens to trees. But sometimes it happens to people too.”

Her mother explained that some years trees grew far more nuts than in ordinary years. A year of abundance was called a mast year. Somehow, as if the trees were calling to them, animals from all over sensed the tree's prodigious bounty and swarmed it. They gorged. “I'll send you a book about it. It's short. More like a pamphlet.”

“But I'm not a tree.”

“You're like a tree. You drink water. You're tall. You're sweet.”

“Mom.”

“Jane. When people have mast years it's because they're having extra good fortune. Like you with your raise and engagement. Don't you think you're very fortunate right now?”

“Things are going well, but—”

“People want to join in your good fortune. So let them. You said to the world, ‘I've got something you want.' You shook your limbs and said, ‘Come.' So they came.”

“Sorry, Mom, but I didn't ‘shake my limbs.' I didn't
do
anything.”

“Well,
sorry
, honey, but you did. They wouldn't be here otherwise.”

“Mom.” Jane sighed. She wished she hadn't called.

“Jane, relax. You'll love it. You'll be surrounded by people who think you're wonderful.
Because you are.
They'll feel lucky. And you'll feel like a saint when it's over. It's only a year. What's one year?”

 

Jane wanted to tell Greg herself, but he'd already found out from work friends. He made a big show of ringing her bell and presenting her with flowers at the door even though he had a key and could have just come inside. Jane blushed and tried to usher him in, but he caught her around the waist and dipped her into a movie-style kiss. The crowd clapped their hands. Someone yelled, “Woo!”

Greg called out, “This woman loves
me
.” He puffed his chest.

But once inside, Greg slumped. “Why are you doing this?” he whined.

“It's just a thing that's happening,” she said.

“Well, make it stop.”

“I can't. I don't know how.”

“That's not what I heard.”

“Excuse me?”

“Aren't I paying enough attention to you?”

“Yes, you're fine. We're fine.”

“Then make them go away. They're going to think I don't do enough for you.”

“But you do.”

“Then why are they here?”

“I don't know.” She kissed his neck. “Maybe I'm not doing enough for
you
.”

 

Jane tried to wake early so she could bring Greg breakfast in bed, but he was already in the kitchen when she came down. On the table was Greg's signature omelet, cut in two and plated, and mugs of coffee, hers fixed how she liked it.

“I also made a coffee cake, but it isn't ready yet,” he said. His brow seemed to frown.

“You make coffee cake?” She smelled vanilla and something bitter.

He glanced quickly out the window. “I
always
make coffee cake,” he said, sounding hurt. The crowd looked hungry.

“Well, great,” she said, settling into a chair, “I love coffee cake,” even though she thought it was just okay. “Is it your signature coffee cake?” she asked, looking at her beige omelet.

“Why, yes. It is.” He laughed with relief, glancing out the window again. “You're lucky. I'm a man with a signature everything.” His half of the omelet was gone, and he stood to go. He kissed her roughly, as though marking his territory. But then his kiss turned tender, and she blushed. The faces in the window were smeared with achy smiles.

“Be a doll and take that out in five,” Greg said, took two twenties from her wallet, and left.

She dumped the rest of her omelet into the trash. It was nice that he had signature things, but really
signature
just meant
one
, and his signature omelet wasn't very good. She tasted a corner of the coffee cake. It was salty. Jane cut it into pieces and arranged them on a platter. She would tell him she couldn't stop eating it.

As she pulled out of the garage, people gathered to touch her car. She triggered the door locks. Their clothing wiped the windows. Metal jacket buttons pinged the car like rain. Their faces showed deep concentration, as if they were placing a smell that had once been familiar. They held small trinkets in their hands, wood and stone talismans, stacked brownies tied with ribbons. They offered these to her.

“No,” she said from behind the glass. “You keep those. I don't need them. Don't
you
need them?” The brownies looked good. Her mouth watered. But no, this was what it was all about. They were in need and she could give, and then they would leave, right? She inched the window down enough to slip them the plated coffee cake. Someone in a wool hunter's coat took it. “Sorry, it's not very good,” she explained through the crack. “I didn't make it. I will next time. I promise.”

They sniffed the cake and put crumbs to their tongues, tentative, she assumed, because she had claimed not to like it. She knocked on the window.

“Go ahead. It's good, it's fine,” she urged. They began to stuff chunks into their mouths. Their faces gave away that, truly, it wasn't good at all. She thought they might spit it out and leave, decide that if her first offering was crappy coffee cake, it wasn't worth the hassle. But they continued to eat it.

 

The news crews came. She saw her house on television. She saw herself, pretaped, standing at her kitchen window, lit bright against the darkening evening, washing dishes, her hair electric on one side and matted on the other. Onscreen, she was wearing Greg's college track T-shirt, and she remembered it as the day they'd both called in sick just for fun.

Watching it, she unconsciously smoothed down her hair.

After the news broadcast, people bloomed like mold across her yard, over where she'd planned to put a pool, threading through the forest border of the property. People climbed trees and built houses in them. She watched whole families disappear into the branches in the evening, then climb down each morning to pick through her garbage.

When the lawn and trees filled, people burrowed underground. They fought each other for shelter. When a man came up from his burrow, he cautiously looked around. Occasionally someone was waiting there to bash his head, drag his limp body from the hole, and then scurry in. The victim would eventually come to and crawl away, embarrassed that even here his luck had run out.

Wires fanned out from Jane's hacked electric and cable up into the trees and down all the holes, like streams off a mountain.

Jane had to bake for hours each morning. She bagged lunches for those who worked, passed out milk money to children lined up for the caravan of rerouted school buses, held babies so their mothers could get a shower in at the portable facilities Jane had rented. The people, like devotees, lined up before her, and Jane caressed each of their cheeks to give them strength for the day ahead. Then she drove to work. She was disappointed when her boss suggested she begin working from home—productivity was down due to everyone wanting to stand around her. She liked her new job. Even more, she liked going to work and leaving her house behind.

 

“There were twelve birthdays that needed cakes today. And somehow they've got me tutoring all the fourth-graders. Can this not take too long?”

“Don't you think this is fun?” Greg said, smiling with all his teeth. “
I
think it's fun.”

“No, you don't.” Jane wouldn't use the word
fun
. She didn't think it was anything but exhausting to feel responsible for so many people.

Usually they peeled their clothes off in bed according to which body part they were trying to locate. But now Greg undressed slowly in front of the window. “Come over here. I'd like to make you come over here.” Lately, he'd made a show of really enjoying it.

“No. The bed is a fine place for that.”

They fought over lights on or lights off, and she won, but even in the dark she could tell when he peered out the window and flexed.

“It's so much better now,” he insisted loudly, rolling her into a different position. “Don't you agree? I think I'm a better lover now. Don't you think I've become a better lover?”

“You're the same,” she said. She hadn't meant to sound unencouraging. He was going through a sensitive time. She tried to apologize by moaning loudly.

He lapped at her closest body part—her elbow—making a face like he was in a foreign country, eating gross food his host family presented him. An
I love it
behind a false grin. She didn't like it either.

She situated herself on top of him, tried to pull a blanket over her shoulders, but Greg tore it off. She placed his hands over her breasts so anyone watching couldn't see them bounce. “Nothing is different,” she whispered. “And that's good.”

“Oh no,” he said. Then again, “No,” and she thought he disagreed. Then he said, “Yes,” like he'd reconsidered. And then again, “Yes.” Then he came with theatrical force, almost bucking her off him. “Wasn't that incredible?” he panted. “Wasn't it incredible for you?” He acted more in love with her than ever, and so it felt like much less.

“It was great.”

“Let's go again. I'll do better.”

But Jane climbed off.

Greg's face drooped. “Please,” he whimpered and gripped her.

Jane sensed the stillness of all the people outside, listening to them. The crickets were silent, as though listening too.

 

Her mother sent a thin, dog-eared paperback called
My Mast Year.
It had large print and clearly was self-published. On the cover the author, Penny Smith, contemplated something soft in the distance; her eyes sparkled with spotlight diamonds while a chain of real diamonds squeezed her neck.

Inside were gauzy photos of Penny baking pies, Penny reading to children by her fireplace, Penny cooking a shiny goose for what looked like thousands of people crowding her ornate dining room. In picture after picture, people lounged over her furniture, leafed through her books, slept in her beds. They gazed at her with an aggressive love.

Jane had been generous, but she hadn't been welcoming or gracious. She should think of this as an extended dinner party where everyone drinks too much and has to stay over. They should feel at home and be glad to be there. And in the sobering daylight, they would feel rested and satiated enough to leave.

She went to her front door, unlocked it, threw it open, and went to bed.

 

At first, they were skittish; they hid as though they didn't believe her invitation had been genuine. But she'd catch clues that they'd been there during the night. Dirty mugs in the sink. New shows recorded on the DVR.

When Jane entered a room, a sense of movement lingered in the air. As if a minute before, the room had been filled with people who'd hid at the sound of her. She felt on the verge of a surprise party every time she turned on the lights.

At night, she yawned loudly and said, “I'm going to bed,” into the seemingly empty rooms. The house creaked to life once her light went out.

One morning, she came downstairs to find a few people sitting around her kitchen table, digging into a pie she'd made the day before. At the sight of her, they tensed, but they didn't run. They lifted their forks to her and said, “Good pie.”

Jane nodded. “Thank you.”

From then on, people occupied every room. Late into the evenings they huddled in earnest conversation along every wall, lounged on furniture, on the floor, slept under and on the dining room table. Their laughter drowned out her music, the radio news she liked to listen to. She believed they must be getting what they needed, and that she had helped them get it. But her house was now very crowded. The dishes were always dirty. There was never a chair to sit on. The shower drains were clogged with hair. She couldn't do any housecleaning without being jostled. And no one helped. Each morning she had to shoo people out of the laundry room, where the couples falling in love would go to be alone. She restocked toilet paper several times a day. She only found solace in her bedroom. She'd tacked a note on the door asking for privacy, which, thankfully, they respected.