The Great Offshore Grounds

by Vanessa Veselka

  Her stomach twisted. She stood up, freaked. She couldn’t tell what was happening in her body. She started toward the fire where there were still people standing. Halfway there she realized it was just that she had to go to the bathroom.

  Looking up at the bright lights of the two houses on either side she saw that they were not homes but operating tables. No way was she was going into one. She walked into the desert looking for the compost toilet she thought she’d seen. There was one, which gave her some confidence. She tried to piece everything together. She was a person on a drug. Now she was in an outhouse.

  Moonlight came through the slit in the door and she could see a little. What was wrong? Why was there blood? Oh right. She was a person on a drug who had a deal with the moon. She wasn’t the only one. The moon. She felt around for toilet paper and found it. When she made it back to the fire, a small crowd still stood. They had their hands out over the embers. She put her hands out.

  “Jesus,” said a woman, “your hands and shirt are totally covered in blood.”

  Cheyenne nodded solemnly. “I may have killed something.”

  The woman turned white.

  Cheyenne tried to think back.

  “No. Wait.” She held up a bloody hand. “Don’t worry. It was only me.”

  There was the name again. A few feet behind her. She turned. Dhamma Dena. It clicked. It was in Justine’s letters…The stores are empty sockets and the streets are covered in trash. I keep hearing people on the news say: How could they do that to themselves? Why burn your own neighborhood? Maybe I would see it that way, if I wasn’t here, but all I see is will. The will to destroy everything around you and prove again you can live with nothing. It’s something beautiful in a way. The people I’m staying with are freaked out. They want to get out of town. They know about a meditation master at a place called Dhamma Dena.

  If people were talking about it, it couldn’t be that far away.

  She saw a man walking down the road looking for his car.

  “Do you know where Dhamma Dena is?”

  “Take this road back to the crossroads and follow the road left up the hill. You’ll come to another road but just keep going the way you are. It’ll be on the right about a mile on.”

  She walked back to the Toyota, which was unblocked. Starting the car, she was released.

  On the crest of a hill where she’d been told to look, she saw a series of low shacks and a single-story building made of corrugated tin and wood. She parked where other cars were parked and when she got out, she heard chimes in the wind. She followed a sign that pointed to a room where the morning meditation was taking place. Standing there she decided she didn’t want to go in.

  There is no mirror like the desert. That’s what Justine had written.

  Now it was morning, though early. She felt her mind almost fully back. The cold was helping, the light too. Two coyotes appeared on the horizon, behind the closest house. They trotted side by side in a perfect tandem gait. One seemed slightly bigger than the other, but it might have been the angle of approach. They came in her direction and crossed within six feet of where she was. Then, without a pause or look between them, the two coyotes split at the very same second. Not a beat apart. They tapped a new vector into the sand and dirt. She realized that despite the misery of the night, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t quite give up the idea that the world was a wild place where anything could happen.

  38 Neptune

  THE DRUGSTORES WERE CLOSED when Livy got to Juneau. She didn’t want to go to a hospital for emergency contraception if she could help it. She couldn’t take the blare of entranceway lights, the cacophony of nurses, pens, and clipboards.

  You are not you, but you say: Several times a day the cycle hum that is you downshifts. I reach for the cord on the diving bell and find only ocean…

  She only had a few hours left, but at least she had a few hours. In the phone book she found a rape crisis center. It was downtown in a basement on a side street. Unofficial, unfunded, and run by volunteers, it was just the kind of place where Kirsten would have worked, which made Livy feel closer to her mom.

  The woman who did the intake had a rash of carrot hair lighter than gravity. It sprayed around her ghost-skin face. Large freckles. Dressed in a tan army surplus shirt unbuttoned to her sternum, she said her name was Sarah. She apologized when she introduced herself but Livy had no idea what for.

  “I’m going to have to ask some questions.”

  “You’re the most Irish person I’ve ever seen,” said Livy.

  “I’m not Irish. I hate St. Patrick’s Day. You should see this place the day after.”

  “So you’re Scottish?”

  “Icelandic,” she said.

  Livy tilted her head, raised one eyebrow, and gave her a half smile. “I didn’t know you all looked so Irish,” she said.

  “It’s a reaction,” said the woman.

  “What is?”

  “Flirting.”

  Livy shifted her weight. “I’ve always been a flirt. Am I supposed to stop because of some asshole? Let the terrorists win?” She winked but there was no charm in it and her cheeks flamed.

  The woman, Sarah, smiled. “The lack of control is part of the violation,” she said. “Was the incident more than ninety-six hours ago?”

  “Five days. I was fishing.”

  “Have you showered since then?”

  “I’ve showered.”

  “Was the assailant known to you?”

  “I know his name.”

  “Do you have the clothes you were wearing?”

  “I’m not filing a report. I want contraception.”

  “I have to ask, sorry,” said Sarah. “Are you in danger now?”

  “Only of pregnancy.”

  “Can I get an emergency contact, just in case?”

  Sarah handed Livy a form. Unlocking a cabinet, she pulled out a shoe box filled with morning-after pills.

  “What’s going to happen when I take the pill?” Livy asked.

  “You might get a headache. Sometimes there’s spotting. Do you have support where you’re staying?”

  Until getting here everything had been about getting here. Now she was here.

  “An old skipper of mine lives in town,” said Livy.

  “Is that where you’re staying?”

  “He owes me money,” said Livy.

  “Do you have a safe place for tonight?”

  Livy looked at the clock.

  “Or enough money for a hotel?” Sarah asked. “You shouldn’t be on the street. If you have cramps or bleeding you’re going to want to be in shelter.”

  Livy popped the morning-after pill in her mouth and swallowed. “I have everything I need from you,” she said.

  Livy stood. Sarah stared at her desk.

  “Okay,” said Sarah, as if Livy had asked her. “You can stay with me.” Sarah gathered her things. “I’m a volunteer. They can’t fire me.”

  * * *

  —

  Sarah’s apartment was across from a totem pole near the top of a hill. They huffed up a set of grille-metal stairs to get to it.

  “My roommate just moved out.”

  On the yellow walls was a faded poster of a Tlingit dancer in a Chilkat blanket. An upright piano was in the corner, covered in dust.

  Crossing the threshold, Sarah relaxed. She began to talk incessantly. About music. About the roommate who left. About the benefits of rice over quinoa (which she thought was a marketing hoax). A form of mental motion sickness overtook Livy from trying to follow the conversation. The woman was hot in a weird way, but too birdy.

  “I was a page at the Capitol when I was a teenager. I worked for NGOs but they’re all fucked. We never did anything but write grants to continue writing grants so—you’re gay, aren’t you? Hear
tbreaking, the oil companies. I was no longer a true believer—but admitting that is like coming out. I shouldn’t compare it to being gay because that’s its own thing. Coming out is, and I felt like my soul was being sapped for nothing and all the oil companies just—you know I really shouldn’t compare it to coming out. Also coming out was way easier for me than for my native friends. I shouldn’t lump it in with food politics either. Like what I said about quinoa being a marketing hoax.” She stopped. “What do you think?”

  “About quinoa or politics?”

  “Either.”

  “I like quinoa Moroccan-style with fruit. I think people do what they do and call it politics later.”

  Sarah opened the door to her own bedroom and paused in the doorway.

  “I don’t mind you being here. I wouldn’t do it if I did. Do you need anything before I go to bed? An extra blanket?”

  You are not you, but you say: I was raped while my friend watched and did nothing. I say: Bring me his mother and sisters. You say: They are specters on the sea. The ocean is different now.

  “I don’t need anything,” said Livy.

  39 Every Rifleman

  ESSEX LIKED BEING a marine more than he thought he would, though he didn’t like the part of himself that did. Whatever. Steamroll my opinions. Give me a job I’m good at. He was relieved to finally stop wondering what to do.

  When he’d first arrived at boot camp, everyone was yelling for him to throw his personal items into the red plastic tubs, but he had nothing to throw in. Now, days from graduation, he had things, but they all were invisible—digital money, health care, the ability to actually help someone.

  He and Jared and two others weren’t going to Camp Pendleton with the rest, but east to Camp Geiger, then on to Camp Lejeune. Essex felt a tingle in his neck and saw the marine’s marine with anchors and globes and eagles.

  Jared was thrilled to be moving along. School of Infantry. He liked the sound of it.

  “Every marine is a rifleman,” said Jared.

  “Not you,” said Essex, “you can’t hit shit.”

  They were back at the barracks the night before graduation. There was a thrill going through the men, a crack of energy; families would be arriving. It reminded Essex of grade-school plays. Kids flushed and excited, peeking through the curtains to get a glimpse of their parents. It was the same. They would all perform. The moment would happen. And then everyone would rush off to find their loved ones. You were such a good goose. You were such a good prince. You look like a real soldier. Essex considered offering to fly Kirsten out but spending all that money for a two-day trip made no sense, especially for something she didn’t necessarily approve of anyway.

  All the recruits had ten days’ leave. Jared had booked his ticket but Essex still hadn’t. He wasn’t so sure going home was such a good idea. He was in between. Changing but not changed. Too long at home and he might end up back where he was.

  “I might start SOI training early,” said Essex.

  “Are you crazy? Think how easy it’ll be to get laid on leave,” said Jared. “People love to have sex with people who aren’t going to hang around.”

  “Getting laid is not really my problem.” Essex took off his socks so he could feel his skin on the floor. “It’s kind of like how they say don’t look back or you’ll never get to leave the underworld.” He stopped to brush a tiny spider off his ankle. “Or like how if you do it anyway it turns you into stone or salt?”

  “Girls, boys, I don’t care. Do me!” said Jared.

  Which was pretty much how Essex felt about the marines. It’s all okay. Do me.

  “Are you really going to go straight to SOI?” Jared asked.

  “I’ll probably go home for a few days and see everyone. I just don’t want to get stuck.”

  Jared laughed. “You don’t have to worry about that. They’d find you and throw you in jail.”

  Sadly, jail also sounded okay to Essex.

  * * *

  —

  Flying into Seattle, Essex peered over the wing of the plane at the islands in the sound as they made the turnaround for their approach at Sea-Tac. After deplaning, he walked through the airport. People stepped aside and smiled at him.

  Someone thanked him for his service. He wanted to tell them he hadn’t done anything yet and that he might never do anything worthwhile, but it would have taken too long to explain and everyone would have felt worse afterward. People’s expressions were remarkably similar. They all said the same thing: Thank you. I’m sorry. Boy, you’re not too bright, are you? He would never have believed that such a conflicting set of messages could be conveyed in a glance. He wondered how Cheyenne would look at him if she didn’t know him.

  He had planned to pay up several months of rent for her as a peace offering, but it turned out she was gone again. Kirsten had given her the Toyota and she was off to meet Justine. He was relieved in a way, something he didn’t expect.

  Cheyenne’s disappearance with the Toyota also gave Essex something real he could do for Kirsten. The second day he was there he took her out car shopping and bought her a used 1988 Corolla with a decent clutch that sailed through DEQ. Being able to just go out and do something like that was so unreal that he took a picture of the car, angled to show off the current tabs, and sent it to Jared.

  The day before he left he went to the expensive grocery store and filled a cart with enough organic food to stock Kirsten’s refrigerator and freezer for a month. She seemed a little thin for her and her skin was a little wan. He had seen her this way before, usually when she was living on cereal and toast and peanut butter. She made him dinner from the fancy food he bought, and he slept on the couch. He started to tell her about Camp Lejeune, how he felt good about it. Like it called to him. He had expected they would stay up talking, but Kirsten said she didn’t feel well and went to bed early.

  In passing at breakfast, she mentioned that Cheyenne was also going to North Carolina. Justine lived in some place called Bolivia. Which was the second unreal thing, the idea that he and Cheyenne would be so far away and so close at the same time. He was pretty certain that she didn’t want to see him. Strangely, he didn’t really want to see her. He liked getting to make up who he was all over again.

  Kirsten gave him the address anyway.

  Getting back on the plane he felt a wave of relief. He wouldn’t have to make decisions about any of it for at least another month. And even then, he might decide not to go find her.

  Because there were two ways to be a marine. Squared away or a shit bag. If you’re squared away, all your superiors are all over you making a big deal out of every mistake you make, which means they’re going to trust you not to get them killed. If you’re a shit bag, no one says a word. Jared, he knew, was a shit bag. Essex liked not being a shit bag. But he wasn’t sure that if he saw Cheyenne, he could still be squared away.

  40 Riding with a Kennedy

  CHEYENNE HAD GOTTEN OFF the interstate and taken a southern route through the heart of the desert and the tiny Toyota fan couldn’t take it. She had to stop every forty miles to let the engine cool.

  She had never been anywhere so hot you couldn’t touch metal. Trying to open the hood to check the water she burned her palm. Even that thick skin blistered. She put a sock over her hand to drive so she could shift. She saw Livy cackling like Medusa in the wavering fumes. Her sister would never be so stupid.

  Half an hour later, the engine hit 120 degrees and she had to pull over. The left side of her face and arm were turning scarlet and there was a new burn on the side of her elbow where she had accidentally touched the door trying to adjust the mirror. She rolled the window all the way down to wait and reclined in her seat.

  When it was safe to check the radiator she carefully popped the hood. Wrapping her backup jeans around her good hand she twisted off the engine cap. The well was dry and she’d gon
e through all the water. A truck went by and the driver laid on the horn—Look everybody I’m here! Notice me. I’m afraid of myself. She poured her gas station coffee into the radiator to get her a little farther down the road. She slammed the hood shut.

  Driving, she saw an empty boxcar out in the desert and wondered when the last train had come through. A billboard with date palms went by. She saw what looked like cotton gins far out on the flat land next to what looked like bunkers from another time. The engine was hot again. Plumes of white-blue steam billowed from under the hood. She saw a spark, panicked, and turned off the ignition. The Toyota coasted to a stop.

  Across the road was a compound of single-story structures that had been built in one shape and worn down into another. Cheyenne left the steaming car. When she got closer she saw the place was made of old railroad ties and corrugated tin. She saw a door with a brass bell, knocked, and stepped in. A cat was draped over the counter and another sunned itself on the desk next to a woman with leathery peach skin and bottle-blond honey curls.

  “My car overheated. I need water. There may be something else wrong.”

  The woman went outside through a door behind her and Cheyenne followed. She entered a world entirely made of cats. They sauntered and batted at each other, rolled off things and attacked one another around stacks of tires. Cats circled her legs and leapt at her shadow and a litter of kittens mewled under an abandoned Chevy hood. She saw a kid’s rusty metal slide from the ’70s. Two kittens were trying to climb the ladder to the slide that ended in a large sandpit, which was being used as a giant litter box.

  “Jesus. How many do you have?”

  “I say between eighty and ninety. Pedro says we’re well over a hundred. They’re harder to count than you’d think.”

  “Is that even legal?”

  “It’s the desert.” The woman cupped her hands and yelled for Pedro.