Man V. Nature: Stories (7 page)

“Did you come to apologize?”

Her guffaw is from Drama. “No.”

“Did you get suspended?”

She guffaws again. “Why would I? We didn't do anything wrong. They were helping me. It's what friends do.”

I flinch. What a jab. “Then why are you here?” I'm acting tough.

Marni squeezes her hands together and looks around the room, everywhere but at me. She shrugs. “It didn't work,” she says with fake indifference. “I need it to work. And now Terry and Hilly are spooked.” My stomach tightens at the nicknames, the intimacy. “That's your fault, you know. So.”

“So what?” I yell it just enough, but not enough for Mom to hear, wherever she is.

“Finish it,” she yells back in the same way, but meaner.

“Why me? Why not Mack?”

Marni looks at me, disgusted, like I'm a horror under my fresh, flowery sheets. “I thought you were my friend.” Her chin quivers, and even though I know the logic here is wrong in that way that I almost choke on, I don't care.

“I am.”

She waits for me to prove it.

But I concentrate on the feeling of air through my nose, in and out to slow the anticipation growing in my stomach.

“Fine,” Marni hisses. “Then I'll do it myself.” She punches at her gut, her fists cluttered with cheap rings, barely denting her fat inner tube, hysterical.

“Stop,” I plead, and grab her hands. “You know that won't work.”

She looks at me.

“I have to step on it.”

Marni nods.

 

I make a soft bed on the floor with my comforter and the quilt my grandmother fumbled her way through. It's how I used to make Marni's bed for sleepovers. She lies down; I cradle her head, place a pillow under it. Stretch her hair out around her like she's floating in a pond. I know the pillowcase will smell of coconut after. I know I will let the scent fade on its own before I'll wash it.

I fold her hands over her chest like she's a dead person, and I see the slivers of scum under her nails. It's the dirt from dirty things. It's Mack's back skin from scratching. She never cleans. Is that even how it works? I'm salivating.

“What's it feel like?” I ask, because even though she has stopped liking me, she's the only person who can tell me.

Marni rolls her eyes. I want to slap her hard, but I have no one else to ask. Does it feel slick like glue? Is it a pressure like shoving? I picture my dad's girl calendar, tacked on the stainless steel fridge. I can't ask him. I can't ask my mom. I can't ask Clara because I hate her, and what would she know?

Marni bites her lip thoughtfully, and I almost think she's going to tell me, but then her face scrunches like she's going to cry, just for a second. “Just do it,” she orders and punches my shin.

I drop my knee with what feels like my whole weight behind. It sinks into her like I'm landing on Mom's too-soft bed.

“Ooph,” she bellows.

“Shh. You're being too loud,” I whisper. “Why can't you just go to the doctor?”

The way she looks at me, I can't figure out if there is something about the world I don't know yet, or the other way around. There's something about the world that isn't real to her yet, either, like doctors, or problems with simple solutions. The world is where things feel too hard to explain, and so they stay a secret.

I drop my knee again.

“Oh, oh,” she moans, and I worry Mom will hear.

“Shut up,” I snap. I feel the sharp shame of being in trouble even though no one knows. It was always this way with Marni—thrills and pains. I always felt good and bad because of her. I shove her hard with my foot. “You're trouble.”

She gasps, and then really sobs. “You're so mean.”

“I'm mean?”

“You're the meanest!”

I didn't think I was mean. I thought Marni was mean. Were we mean together? And if we used to be mean together, why couldn't we still be? I want to be meanest with her.

I find a pair of balled-up socks on the floor and push them into Marni's mouth. She makes protest sounds and starts to take them out, but I push them in farther until she gags. She quiets down and watches me with big, alert eyes.

I prod my toe into the fattest part, just below her belly button. I step there lightly with my bare foot; steady myself with the bedpost. I place the other foot. It's like being in an inflatable castle at a street fair; everywhere I step gives way, and it's hard to get my balance. My foot slips, rakes her side. She winces. I finally get on good, hand on the bedpost, other arm outstretched. Balanced. Her belly squishes under my feet, but beneath all that fat is a small, hard mound that seems to push up against my weight in self-defense.

I begin to bounce up and down, lightly, and Marni huffs quietly into those socks, to the rhythm I make. With each bounce, I gain momentum like I'm on a trampoline, and so I bounce a little harder, faster. I'm no longer slipping. Marni's huffs get louder and I dig my heels in as a warning. She squeals unhappily through the socks, and after that, the only noise she makes is a tiny gurgle in her throat like she's going to vomit.

It's like the fat has melted away, and all I can really feel now is that secret mound. I want to break it open, slay the dragon, save the princess. I don't want to stop until I'm sure it has worked.

Tears flow from Marni's eyes; they run through her hair, pool in her ears, spread darkly on the pillowcase. Her balled fists unclench, and she covers her face.

I can't explain it, but I feel maybe the best I've felt since the end of last year, when on the last day of school me and Marni and a couple other girls snuck into movies all day without getting caught. We'd heard it could be done from someone's older sister. We'd leave before the end of one movie, run into the bathroom, and hide in stalls to wait for the next one; me and Marni squatting in the same stall, feet on the toilet seat, leaning against the walls, laughing into our hands at the fact that we were doing the things other kids did. We were becoming like other kids. And it was so easy. Just a series of steps.

MAN V. NATURE

It had been days since Phil and his two oldest friends drunkenly fished from the middle of the great lake for fat trout, the sweet orange flesh of which tasted best grilled over charcoal, under stars tossed absurdly across the sky like birdseed.

Days since Phil's boat ran out of gas, stranding him and his friends during this, their annual fishing trip.

Days since Phil had seen another boat or passing tanker, which was strange on a lake usually choked by commercial traffic and sport boats.

Days since they'd placed bets on a timetable for rescue, and grown bored of spitting contests, of swapping sex stories, of imaginary card games.

Days since they'd devoured the beer brats and the buns. The coal-cooked sweet potatoes. The breakfast eggs. The butter for frying. The three bloody steaks they'd brought for the last night, when they figured they'd be tired of fish. All the A-1.

Days since Dan claimed the water was safe to drink, even though they were shitting and pissing into it, saying, “It dilutes,” as he swished a turd away.

Days since Ross, standing at the prow like a hood ornament, shielded his eyes against the bronze water of sunrise and insisted he saw land through a retreating fog, while their large pleasure craft heaved, weighty and useless on the swells.

Looking back, it's clear they'd been fevered by exposure, buoyed by assumptions, not to mention drunk, when they decided to abandon said thirty-foot pleasure craft—the one thing Phil had held on to in the divorce, with its comfortable sleeping cabin and mini-fridge still stocked with two dozen beers—to jump into the cramped rubber lifeboat. They'd cheered, certain they could navigate it to a shore Ross insisted was there. “We'll be walking on the beach in an hour. I just know it,” he'd said. They'd sat straight-backed and high-kneed like kings on tricycles; they rowed like ecstatics.

But that was days ago.

 

Ross and Dan, tired out from rowing nowhere, rubbed their tender shoulders and watched Phil with what he thought was skepticism, but hoped was appreciation, after he swore he could row them to land by himself,
No problem,
with the two child-sized oars—cast-offs from a summer camp and covered in green chipped paint.

“I've
got
this,” Phil said reassuringly. “I've been in worse shit.” He'd been an army man, after all. Ross and Dan exchanged a look. What did the look mean? Phil felt nervous. It was a risk to take charge. He used to like risk. But lately he'd grown wary of it.

Was the boat moving? With no landmark, Phil couldn't say. He strained harder.

“Remember how I was the star of our high school team?” Phil reminded, hoping to bolster their faith in him, with his quivering shoulders and hands wet with panic.

Ross said, “Of track.”

Dan scoffed, “And field.” Phil was tall and skinny, had an abnormally long stride but not much strength.

Ross and Dan laughed. It was the first genuine laugh Phil had heard since they'd been relaxing in their real boat. The only sounds since had been waves slapping the rubber lifeboat, an occasional bird whining past. They conversed softly, as if to use their regular voices would be too jarring in such small quarters. “
Can you pass some jerky?
” in a whisper. The response, not necessarily unkind.
“No. You had your piece today.”

Ross and Dan's laugh sounded like a new thing, so Phil joined in. It felt good to laugh.

“Dan the man,” he said with affection. He clamped his hand on Dan's shoulder. It felt so normal; even Dan's bristling at his touch.

Ross and Dan hunkered into an exhausted sleep while Phil tried to row his friends to shore.

In the night rains came, and the men groggily scooped water from around their feet until it began to merely drizzle and they drooped back into an unhappy sleep.

When morning came, Phil held only one oar.

Had he fallen asleep? the two men asked Phil. Yes, yes, he had, he answered. Hadn't he tied the oars to his wrists so he wouldn't drop them while he slept? Like they'd all agreed they would? they cried. No, he answered calmly, no, he hadn't.

Phil cleared his throat. “This is not a problem,” he said. Phil would row with the one oar into the currents that moved like ribbons through the water. The currents would help push them closer to the shore. Gray lake and sky blended into a perfectly blank dome. If someone told them they were upside down, Phil thought, he would not be surprised. When Dan and Ross chewed their lips and exchanged more looks, Phil decided, they are putting their faith in me.

The boat dragged in circles. And when the weather broke and blue sky emerged, the men discovered that the land Ross swore he'd seen—that Dan and Phil believed he'd seen—was gone; the horizon lay sharp in all directions. If something had been seen, Phil guessed it had been clouds, a bank of them hugging the water like a real distant shore would.

Ross pawed at his face and sobbed, “My girls,” for his wife, Bren, and their three daughters, who were sure to have called the police by now, who'd no doubt sent search parties, search boats, search planes. Which made it even more frustrating that the men were still lost, drifting, alone. Phil looked at Ross's sunburned, bald head, handed over his own hat, and said gently, “Hey, boss, you're blistering.”

 

Each morning they rotated positions, two on the plastic bench in back and one on the rubber bottom at the bow. The two on the bench bumped elbows, smelled the other all day, shifted ass cheeks to avoid sores. Whoever sat on the bottom could stretch his legs and lean against the side. They coveted the spot for sleeping. Early on, Phil had hoped the other men would offer the spot to him indefinitely; he was the tallest, which made folding himself onto the plastic bench that much harder. Plus, it was his boat. But the other men decided to share. It was more fair. In return for getting the spot for the day, the man on the bottom had to massage cramps out of the other men's calves and feet.

Phil was stretched out, locking and unlocking his knees. Quietly, he kneaded the blood back into Ross's bloated legs while Ross groaned in good pain. Dan twirled his mustache and stared into nothing, patiently awaiting his turn. Though they weren't on the ocean, all around them Phil smelled salted air. It must be coming from us, he thought, and licked his own shoulder. He tasted like a warm olive. His mouth watered precious spit.

The thirty-foot pleasure craft was long gone. After that first day of rowing, they could still see it as night fell, bobbing on the horizon like a fishing lure. But in the morning the sun lit flat, empty water, with no pleasure craft in sight. That was a hard morning for Phil. The men asked him to use the GPS to find out where they were. And Phil had to admit that it was still on the boat they'd abandoned; he'd forgotten to grab it, he'd said.

The truth was Phil
had
remembered it but couldn't unhook it from the control panel, and really had never learned how to use it anyway. He only took the boat out this one week a year. It had sat in a marina weathering while he was living out west. He wasn't even sure why he'd fought Patricia so hard for it. Maybe because she had wanted it, which was ridiculous after she had given him so much grief for buying it in the first place. “Get a job you like,” she'd barked. “Then you won't have to fill your empty life with meaningless crap like that stupid boat.” He cried when he saw the boat in the list of assets she demanded. Now she had the house, the nicer car, the dog, which she gave away to an old friend. The friend had called Phil to offer the dog back, saying it felt weird, owning Phil's dog. But Phil didn't know how to go about retrieving the dog. He'd gone east, and the dog was west. He didn't want to fly to get the dog and be in the same city as Patricia—there was the issue of that court order. But he didn't know how to ship a dog. Would he have to call an airline to schedule it? UPS? The thought of making phone calls overwhelmed him. So the friend kept the dog.

“He's asleep,” Dan garbled, and nudged Phil's hands onto his own leg. “My turn.”

The three men had been babies together in the same neighborhood; their moms took turns watching them, shuttling them from house to house without ever having to cross a busy street. Still, Dan and Ross had always been the better friends; they were true next-door neighbors, while Phil lived down the street. They flashed Morse-code messages through their bedroom windows when they should have been sleeping. But Phil was too far away to join. Ross and Dan went to the local university, Phil to the army. But they all stayed friends, Phil made sure. Dan was a television writer in the city, a serial dater, the best man at their weddings. Ross lived in their hometown, had the family, golfed at the municipal golf course. Phil atrophied at a base out west, met and married Patricia there, then stayed to be with her. What a mistake. That kept him out of the loop. He should have tried to come back home. Dan's parents still lived in town, and Phil knew Dan visited often. Ross and Dan must have seen each other then, but they never talked about it.

One time, a couple days into their lifeboat drift, Phil had jumped into the water to cool off after assurances from Dan and Ross that they would help him back in. A few yards from the lifeboat, he turned to watch them. He saw how the men stretched out luxuriously, how Ross clasped his hands behind his head and sighed, and how Dan did the same. The men smiled and laughed about something, enjoying themselves, almost. Phil never left the boat again.

 

Days passed. The men hadn't spoken in at least two. Or was it more? How many more days? Phil wondered. As another night fell, his mind droned. He hated being alone with it.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “Let's play a game.”

“Like playing imaginary cards?” Dan scoffed.

“Sure,” Phil said gamely. “That might be good.”

“I was joking,” Dan said.

“Okay.” Phil tried again. “We could bet on if we'll get rescued.”

Ross scowled. “You're a macabre fuck.”

Phil fake chuckled. “You're right. How stupid of me. That's not a game.” He stroked his chin. “What about girls? We haven't talked about them in a while. That can't be bad, can it?”

The other men shrugged.

“Ross, why don't you start,” Phil encouraged.

“Fine.”

Phil closed his eyes. He was just beginning to stiffen when Ross stopped talking and yawned pointedly.

“This is boring,” he said. “Also, I'm tired.” His blisters had turned to wet sores, and he winced every time the wind stroked his oozing bald head. His energy bled out of it.

“You're always tired,” Phil said. “Keep talking.” Even with his eyes closed, Phil could tell looks were exchanged—the boat shifted slightly as the men turned their heads.

In the distance, geese landed in a mess of honks and splashes. Ross remained quiet.

“Maybe just start from later in college,” Phil said. He wanted to hear about Bren. Beautiful blond Bren.

Ross trudged through the story of the flexible roller skater and her bleached pubic hair, his voice flat and uninterested.

Phil waited.

“Then I met Bren,” Ross said, and he choked on her name, sounding angry almost, which in a strange way made it a new story to Phil. Like a new encounter. A new first time. Nothing boring about that, Phil thought, his body warming.

There it was.

Ross sobbed into his clenched fist, unable to continue. But it was enough. Phil carefully slid his hand under his waistband, skimming the raw chafed skin around his middle, and tried to let the images and a light touch do the work so the boat wouldn't quiver. Sweet Bren wearing only cotton panties, giggling into her hand. He'd meant only to comfort himself, not climax, but he was the hardest thing for miles. Inside, everything lined up.

“We know what you're doing, Phil,” Dan said, disgusted.

“Shut up,” Phil hissed. Distracted, a banal dribble slipped out. But that was all. No big release. Frustrated tears sprang. “I hate you,” he muttered. It sounded like a yell.

Phil hid behind his closed eyes. When he opened them, he saw that Dan was asleep, his head loose and lolling with the swells. But Ross sat rigid, arms crossed, his gaze seemingly fixed on Phil. In the shadows made from slivered moonlight, Phil couldn't tell if Ross's eyes were shut or if his stare was meant to accuse Phil of something. He held his breath. Soon, he heard Ross snore.

Even though Phil had the floor, he couldn't sleep. His inner drone continued. As night passed he watched the stars blur and the eerie green auroras appear, spilling along the horizon like paint. As his sight adjusted, the night was not as pitch-black as before. It shone through his eyelids like the glare from a streetlamp.

He picked at his crusty shorts. He filtered through questions to soothe himself to sleep. Why hadn't they been rescued? Where were the other boats? Was it the end of the world? What did Ross really think of him? Who did Dan like better? Every question he asked yielded an unsatisfying answer that woke him more. To make himself feel better, he ate the last of the peanuts. Then he leaned toward Dan, felt Dan's rotten sleep breath in his face, and cleanly plucked the last strip of jerky from his pocket.

 

Phil woke to the wind in his hair and Ross and Dan bellowing, “One, two, one, two!” They synchronized feeble hand scoops through the water like a crew team, but they went nowhere. They spun in slow circles.

Ross and Dan spat words and dusty saliva toward Phil. They'd woken disoriented, frenzied, lost to time.

“The jerky is gone!” Ross barked.

“The peanuts!” Dan screamed. He took a breath and screamed again.

The remaining oar was also gone.

“How?” Phil asked.

Ross and Dan stopped mid scoop.

“Someone must have taken it,” Dan said, and scratched his palms, pilling bits of grime and skin. He looked over his shoulder as if someone had tapped it.