Man V. Nature: Stories (17 page)

 

On date night, Greg wrestled everyone out of the kitchen. “Come back later,” he said. “We're trying to have a romantic dinner because we're so in love.” The crowd regrouped in the kitchen doorway. Some of them threw pennies at him, which had become an insult in the house. Jane worried that people didn't like him. It made her self-conscious.

“You have to be nicer,” she warned.

“I'm nice.” He picked up a penny that had landed in his lap and chucked it back. The crowd booed.

Jane laid a seared steak in front of him, yawning.

“You should sleep,” he said.

She rolled her eyes. “There's no time.”

They ate. When Greg had finished his steak, Jane passed him the rest of hers. “Why don't you give that to them?” He was trying to be nicer.

She imagined them setting upon the meat like dogs, turning over lamps and tables, hurting each other. She would have to dress their wounds all evening. “No, there's not enough.”

Just then a man sauntered into the kitchen. Like he owns the place, Jane thought, flushing with anger. She recognized him. He had a tent by her mailbox and went through her mail. She'd bought a shredder because of him. But she noticed the crowd of people in the doorway winking at her. A few gave her a thumbs-up sign, and she realized they liked this man.

“You gonna eat that?” the man drawled, pointing to the chunk of steak that sat between Jane and Greg.

“Who do you think you are?” Jane asked. She made her voice hostile, but really she wanted to know.

There was something rogue about him. Like he would be a bad addition to anyone's life. But his eyes were saggy and kind, like a dog's. He extended a hand. “I'm West.”

“That's not your name,” she said, crossing her arms.

“No, but I wish it was.” He smiled then, and she could make out deep dimples hidden beneath his disorganized beard. The discovery made her blush.

Greg stood. “Excuse me. This is a private dinner.”

West breathed deep. “And what a delicious private dinner it is,” he said, and winked at Jane. “Why don't you share?”

“I am sharing,” she said.

“Are you though?”

What did he mean
share
? She felt like a victim of sharing. She'd tripled her grocery budget and had given in to the requests for sugar cereal. She'd instituted nightly storytelling around the bonfire for the children. As she spoke, those at her feet tied and untied her shoelaces or drew vines around her ankles. They stayed up past their bedtime because their parents took too many sips from the whiskey flasks they'd insisted she provide. The parents tottered around the yard flashing her tipsy grins. But other times she knew she'd displeased them. She'd taken on Greg's student loans in anticipation of their wedding. She'd heard grumbling that it meant less for everyone else. Is that what West was saying? Was she expected to pay off everyone's loans?

She pulled the plate to her and methodically sectioned the meat. Greg said, “Honey,” in protest, but West put up his hand and Greg quieted.

She chewed and swallowed each piece. She
mmm
ed like she loved every bite, though she thought she might be sick. West watched her mouth do this work, and then he smirked and winked again.

Later in bed, Greg pouted. “Why did you eat the steak?”

The steak still felt lodged in her stomach. Like she'd eaten a golf ball. “You didn't want it.”

“But you
gave
it to me.” Greg rolled over and clicked the light off. “You gave it to
me
.”

When Jane found herself in the same room as West, people winked and made kissing noises. Notes were passed to her at the kitchen table.
West likes you.

“But I love Greg,” she would say.

They would shrug. “But don't you like West?”

She did like West. She couldn't look at West without imagining his tongue on her skin. She wondered if he was a doting or selfish lover. She wanted him to be selfish. She thought from his smirk he might be, and she liked the idea of something that required no compromises, no special kindness, no giving. Just taking. She found the stuff of love hard to juggle with all the other stuff like cooking, cleaning, yard work. When Greg left for a week-long business trip, she felt relief for many reasons.

West became a fixture inside the house then, where there was so much more to be gotten than mail. He played music in the evenings, thumping out songs he'd written on the piano. Secretly, Jane liked to watch him play these songs, and at times she suspected that he played them for her. One must have been for her, because at the chorus West sang her name over and over again. The tune drifted into the kitchen, where she was sandwiched between two knitters, their needles and elbows jabbing her with each stitch. She could see West's back when he leaned in and out of the piano emotionally. The parlor was full of people, and they all laughed behind their hands and said, “Aww,” like they'd just seen a baby. When West finished, everyone was quiet. From the ridge high above the house she heard the hollow echo of gunshots. Some night hunting. Or someone else's mast year gone wrong, perhaps.

Jane climbed the stairs to her bedroom, and they all watched her. She slid into bed and flicked off the light. A moment later West arrived and slid in beside her. She invited him to do what he wanted. She felt used and generous all at once. After, she asked if that was what he'd meant by sharing.

West moved in permanently. He brought nothing with him. As a first act, he moved Greg's things to the front lawn where they were picked through by the crowd and eventually by a weepy Greg. West dealt with the mail, paid the bills, answered correspondence. Jane hadn't expected him to be helpful, but he was. He let Greg's loan payments default. She knew it was happening but pretended not to.

Inside the house, people patted her on the back.

“We never liked him,” they said of Greg. “He was so needy. He tried too hard.”

Jane didn't bother to explain that he hadn't always been like that. He'd been fun; it had been nice, easy.

Her mother welcomed the news. She too had never liked him.

“If he was so awful,” Jane asked, “why did all these people come?” Now that her engagement was off, would they leave? That had been her hope.

“Oh honey, there's more to you than some boy and some job. Maybe there's a secret in you. Maybe there's something in you that's about to burst.”

Jane liked this idea.

 

Jane hadn't thought she wanted much from West. But he was steady and calm and she found herself relying on him more and more. As her feelings for him grew, so did the crowds. They doubled, then tripled. The old house shuddered under the weight. Parties went on all night. Sometimes into the mornings. The cushions of Jane's couch were deflated, all her curios had disappeared from her curio cabinet, all her books from her bookshelves. People drank and accused one another of slights. Fights broke out regularly now. People got injured. Ambulances came. The sirens screamed up and down her street, a seemingly endless loop of extreme alarm.

At night, Jane and West whispered under bedsheets so no one could hear.

“What made you come and live by my mailbox?” Jane asked him once.

“I just had a feeling I should.”

“I'm glad you did.” She felt him smile in the darkness.

West always fell asleep first, while Jane remained awake, holding him or holding his hand, listening to the night commotion in her house. All Jane wanted was to eat a nice, quiet dinner with West, to get to know him better without so many bodies pressing into them, living their love vicariously. But that possibility seemed farther away than ever.

 

On movie night, Jane and West couldn't find an empty spot on the couch. The floor was covered, head to toe. They stood in the corner and balanced their beers and popcorn. People grabbed fistfuls from their bowl until the popcorn was gone. They wiped their buttery hands on Jane's pants.

A large plaid-clad man was controlling the remote. A home renovation show was on.

West tried pulling rank. “It's movie night.”

The large man said, “It's
Ace the Wrecker
marathon night.”

Others called out the news, trivia, or crime shows they wanted to watch.

West contested. “But I signed up for this time. It's movie night.”

Everyone turned to Jane for a final verdict. “Leave me out of this,” she snapped.

The large man catcalled, “You could use help around here. I can build an addition in exchange for a little—” He made a lewd gesture.

Jane dropped West's hand and pushed through the crowd. The people pushed back. She stepped over heads and the hands that reached for her, groped at her ankle, her knee. They tried to reach higher. They pulled at her sweater, clutched at her belt. Arms looped around her waist. Her hair was yanked. She scratched her way out.

When she slipped into bed, she found four children hiding under the comforter, a rumple she thought was just bunched sheets. The children clung to her and called her Mommy. She could not free herself, so she lay limp while they mewled. West arrived and peeled the children from her and scooted them out the door.

When she and West made love that night, she saw shadowy figures hovering in the doorway. As she tried to sleep, she felt their breath on her through the sheets.

All night, the house stairs creaked; people thudded down hallways, in and out of rooms, slamming doors, laughing, yelling, fighting. Music blared, people fucked, moaned, glass broke. Jane shook. West held her and smoothed her hair.

“Hang in there, kiddo,” he said. “It's only July.”

She turned from him and wept.

 

Jane woke alone. She smelled bacon and knew West had cooked for her. He was always doing small, thoughtful things.

He sat at her kitchen table, but so did forty others. They left no place for her. People perched along the counters, their heels banging against her cupboards. All the burners burned, the microwave buzzed, the oven was on broil. Something even cooked over a fire in her fireplace.

West looked up at Jane from the newspaper, ratty and worn as if it had already been read a hundred times that morning. Two plates of breakfast sat in front of him. He had waited, and seeing her then, picked up a strip of bacon and held it under his nose like a mustache, even though he had a full beard. Desire thrummed in her, and she said, “You're so cute,” but it was drowned out by all the morning noise. He smiled, but she knew he hadn't heard her.

Shouting began over by the toaster. More voices joined. Something about cinnamon toast. A scuffle erupted. People surged to escape the fight and both of Jane's feet left the floor as she was pressed upward by the bodies around her. She screamed. The nearest people shrank from her and let her fall to her knees.

She had lost sight of West. She heard him call out, his voice filled with concern but far away. “Are you okay?”

Jane couldn't speak. She punched her way through the crowd, wanting to harm, and once inside her bedroom, slid all the furniture in front of the door, even the wicker hamper which held only one sock. Someone had stolen all her dirty clothes

By midday, West was able to force himself into the bedroom. Jane sat stiffly in bed. He approached with caution, as if she was either delicate or dangerous. He tried to hold her.

“Don't touch me,” she said coldly.

His eyes widened. “Why not?” He tried to hold her again.

“I don't want people touching me.”

“But it's me,” he said, his voice soft with confusion. “I'm different.”

He was different. That was the problem. “You need to go,” she said.

“But I can help. Let me help you.”

“Help? You can't help me. I don't even love you.”

“That's not true,” he said, not believing it.

“Yes, it is,” she said, through tears now. “Get out.”

“You do too love me. I can see it.” He tried to sound certain, but he shook his head, stunned.

“You're wrong. This whole world was wrong. I have nothing to give you. So leave.”

“Honey, you don't really believe that. That's not what you want.”

“You have no idea what I want.”

“So tell me.”

But she didn't know what to say. She felt a strong desire to be alone, but she didn't know how long that feeling would last. And she didn't equate that desire with knowing what she really wanted. She said nothing.

West smoothed her cheeks, but he failed to find her behind hardened eyes, and so he reluctantly packed a bag, a bag he hadn't arrived with, full of things that didn't belong to him, and left.

News spread through the house, out to the yards, up the trees and underground. Conversations died in the living room. People quickly got out of Jane's way when they saw her coming. For the first time in what felt like years, she went a full day without brushing shoulders with someone.

When the food ran out, she didn't buy more. People scrounged in the garbage, hunted for scraps in the yard. The hunger set in. Motley caravans began to leave, clanging down the streets at all hours. People insisted Jane buy supplies to make them snacks and bagged lunches for the road, pay their bus fare, drive them to the airport. “You owe us,” they said, but she gave them nothing. They threw pennies at her, then collected what fell at her feet. They would need them.

“Mom, they're leaving.”

“What did you do?”

“I kicked West out.”

“Oh honey, why?”

“I don't know. They steal my stuff.”

“You have plenty of stuff.”

“It was too much. I couldn't take it.”

“How am I not surprised? You have no follow-through. You never have.”

“Mom.”

“Jane. What's one year? You were happy. They were happy.”