Monsters

by Karen Brennan

  THE MIGRATING WALL

  There was a wall of Ruth and Sam’s house that bordered the neighbor’s bed of ivy. These neighbors allowed the ivy to spread unchecked. It crawled up the wooden fence and weighed it down so that the fence now listed dangerously to one side. Then it overtook Ruth’s carefully tilled flowerbeds and strangled the roses. It even made its way toward their house after dark, sneaking up like a band of terrorists. For a while, she’d tried to tear it out, whacking at it with shears, brutalizing tendrils and shredding the sharp little leaves, but it continued to spread and grow like a cancer, she told Sam, just like a bad cancer, a melanoma.

  The neighbors were oblivious. He was the sort of man who was addicted to Internet porn and she was an hysteric with a loud voice. When she wasn’t gossiping, she was listening to the conversations of others. Neither had time to attend to the unruly ivy.

  We could try poison, Sam told Ruth. There’s a kind of poison that will kill ivy, I’m pretty sure. But we wouldn’t want it to kill the cat, said Ruth. True, said Sam.

  They were getting ready to go to bed. Ruth had smeared on some kind of cream which caused her face to gleam in an unpleasant way. Why she always got so greased up before bed was a mystery to Sam, who was propped up on the pillows reading a magazine article about one of the candidates. Perhaps it was a way of avoiding sex. Hey get this, he said, and he went on to read a very long and tangled criticism of that candidate’s economic policies.

  I wish this election were over, Ruth said, so you could talk about something else. I am passionately concerned, he agreed. Then they turned out the light.

  The next morning the neighbor’s ivy was gone and in its place was another part of the city. How odd, said Ruth, regarding a group of children with spray cans of paint and another group of children passing envelopes to people in cars in return for cash. We seem to have changed neighborhoods overnight. She stood at the window that had formerly held a view of the brick sides of the neighbors’ house and all that ivy. Sam was in the kitchen grinding the beans for their coffee. Usually the noise of the grinder overpowered every other noise, but this morning it was very faint in the din coming from the city street: cars honking, tires screeching, sirens, glass breaking, gun shots, et cetera.

  When she joined Sam in the kitchen, things were calmer. The view from that window was the same as always—a bland lawn (theirs) and a tree with a twisted trunk, like the arms of a contortionist. Something’s happened, Ruth said, and she explained. Sam rolled his eyes. You are a dreamer Ruth, a big funny dreamer. Come look for yourself, said Ruth. In a minute, said Sam. First I’m going to drink my coffee and then check my email. Maybe there’s some new news.

  Ruth returned to the bedroom. She considered it possible that she’d invented this strange turn of events, as wish fulfillment. Perhaps her desire to banish the neighbor’s ivy extended to the neighbors themselves—it was entirely possible. She disliked them. Once the woman told her that she overheard “every word” of Ruth’s telephone conversations. So you should keep your voice down, concluded the woman triumphantly. Another time, the man offered her a very strong gin and tonic when Sam was at work. Stupidly, she drank it and became drunk and wound up laughing with the man over nothing. After that, he’d acted as though they had a special bond.

  Yes, her mind might have been playing tricks on her. But when she went to their bedroom window she saw a group of police with clubs chasing the kids with the spray cans of paint and one of the kids shot a spray of silver paint on their bedroom window as she raced passed. This was a lanky, awkward-looking girl wearing a baseball cap and very orange lipstick. For a moment, Ruth thought she would come crashing into the bedroom.

  Sam! Ruth shouted, but when Sam didn’t answer she thought the better of it. Why involve Sam? He would find out sooner or later and it would make him angry. He would blame her. He would think that her obsession with the ivy had produced this consequence. That’s the way Sam was. He was a fan of the status quo—and Ruth, he believed, always threatened to tamper with it.

  He sat in front of his laptop, finger-mousing his way through the New York Times. He was obsessed with the upcoming election because it meant, he explained to Ruth, a new chapter in history. Our hopes and dreams will be fulfilled, he prophesied, sounding a little too much like a sound bite from his candidate’s stump speech.

  But really, there was nothing more important these days, he thought, pausing at the latest Gallup, which favored a landslide. Outside the birds were chirping, a sound most pleasant on this Sunday morning and Ruth, mercifully, had ceased to call out to him. He imagined her industriously cleaning out a drawer or sewing a button, though these were things Ruth never did. In the distance, he thought he heard her cry out and what that was about he did not know. Ruth was not the type of person given to crying out.

  Not for the first time, Sam considered his choice of Ruth. That he could have done better occurred to him occasionally; everyone had told him so way back when. His ex-wife had been especially adamant. She is not your type, mark my words, Myranda had said. But, at the time, Sam could not be deterred. Ruth’s sensibility appealed to him—he had seen her as eccentric and cultivated. Now he believed her neurotic.

  What’s so funny? he shouted, because suddenly he heard her whoop with laughter. Nothing! Ruth shouted back and then broke into a fresh bout of laughter. He knew from the sound of it that whatever it was would not amuse him. He would rather be checking the news on his candidate anyway.

  The thing about the candidate was that he heard from him everyday. A personalized email that began, “Dear Sam,” and then went on to report the progress of the election. Sam knew that the email was not really from the candidate, but he still liked the idea of getting this correspondence: to pretend that the actual candidate had emailed him, that he and the candidate had a personal relationship was only a small leap of faith under the circumstances. He liked to imagine the candidate calling him up for advice or just to relax and laugh on the phone, the candidate confiding, “if it weren’t for you—” and “man, I really need your help.” In fact, the emails themselves said something similar to the above, which is why Sam found himself donating more and more money to the candidate’s campaign.

  Ruth did not know why she was laughing, but on she laughed. She beheld a city under a hot, flat sky: the homeless and their shopping carts piled with bottles and rags; dead-eyed teenagers plugged into headphones; taxis screeching to curbs to retrieve or deposit business-suited passengers with hard mouths. Across the street, a tall building had sprung up, gunmetal grey with row upon row of window squares that put Ruth in mind of hundreds of blind eyes, staring down at her.

  Ruth no longer cared if Sam joined her at the window. It seemed to her that it was all a joke, the house, the ivy, the incomprehensible city street—even Sam himself, her partner in another room, was a form of tragic irony perpetuated by the gods, whoever the gods were. She laughed a little bitterly.

  And Sam called from the other room. What’s so goddamned funny? But she didn’t answer. She didn’t want to hear his voice.

  Gripping the sill, she stuck her head out. A hot breeze slapped the sides of her neck, the sun dug into her hair. A mother dragged a child by one arm; a cat huddled near a fire escape. Three women brushed by, so close she could smell their perfume. Arm in arm, they walked, speaking in high, beautiful voices. Right where the ivy had been so recently flourishing, a pigeon with an iridescent throat flapped its wings.

  What to make of any of this, Ruth did not know. It was like a certain kind of dream, unbearably sad and unbearably real.

  Sam listened to Ruth’s laughter fade, the way you might suddenly realize that a movie or dream were about to end or that one phase of your life were about to vanish forever. He felt the urge to touch her, to enfold her in his arms, to preserve a little last shred of her laughter, to feel it tremble against his chest.

  HOMELESS CAT

  Into our lives comes a small cat, scratching at the screen door, its expression w
eary and disillusioned. Oh come in, we say, and we give it a little saucer of milk, which it laps up. Then it begins to talk to us in our own language. It is full of complaints concerning the economy, the world energy situation and life on this planet, the great mystery being that we weren’t consulted, we are helpless pawns of the universe, yadda yadda. In other words, not only a smart cat, but a phenomenally bitter cat.

  WHEREWITHAL

  Today my old friend Raymond was pushing a shopping cart down Speedway, the shopping cart overflowing with clothes, Raymond unshaven and very dirty. Did you see that? I said. Raymond must have fallen on hard times. Not at all, said my companion. It is well known that Raymond is leading a double life. He is not content merely with a life of property, my companion went on. He feels that his half-time homelessness puts everything into perspective. I gave it some thought. Of all my friends, Raymond is the laziest; therefore, he would be the last person I’d expect to muster up the wherewithal to pull off a stunt like this.

  TOY DOG

  A man with a toy dog on a leash stood on line in front of me. This item was tan with round glass eyes. It jerked to the right and left, mimicking to a T a dog’s impatience. A little fringe of white acrylic fur made a stiff canopy over each eye, but its lips were black and twitching like the lips of an actual dog. The man bent over and whispered something to the dog at which point the dog collapsed on the floor, rested its chin on the carpeting and gazed up at me. At me! What amazing workmanship! I thought to myself, and for a moment I had an urge to stroke it or feed it a treat.

  BARK

  The dog is barking again and the family is annoyed. The barking dog represents a glitch in their system; they suspect the dog expresses the family’s secret malaise. For this reason they decide to feed the dog poisonous meat.

  There is something existential about the dog’s bark. It is not as if it hopes to gain anything like a nice biscuit or even the negative attention of a swift kick; it is more that the woof-woofing spirals up from its wrenched soul, a rant against things of the world, both pleasant and unpleasant—the McDonald’s dumpster as well as a swarm of yellow jackets stinging its neck, it’s all the same to the dog.

  The dog is black with a small pond of tan in the middle of its back. Its ears: twin beige trees. Its nose a circle of mud.

  Dad: a hard-faced man with a big belly sits at the end of the sofa and reads the want ads. When he finds one of interest he encircles it in blue ball point and reads it aloud to the family.

  Radio announcer/Pr Hack wanted to disparage enemies of regime. Ex college prof required for re-education of 90 yr old millionaire with cats.

  The ads make no sense to anyone in the family. What do they mean regime? asks the daughter. Whose regime? It sounds fishy to me.

  Everything sounds fishy to you, says Mom. There are times, Gwen, when you have to take a little on faith. Otherwise you’ll wind up a recluse with no friends and no worldly connections. You’ll dwell in a cave with no money and an incurable disease. Just you wait and see, young lady! On the other hand, it makes no sense to Mom that cats are included in the millionaire reeducation ad. Why cats? What could cats possibly have to do with anything? she wonders.

  Remember this, says Darryl, wisely, we don’t always have to know everything. There are some things beyond our knowledge and even to speculate about them would be to drive ourselves a little nuts.

  This is what I was saying, son, says Mom. I was saying exactly the same thing.

  No, says Darryl, you employed the word “faith” and I am a pragmatist who is simply acknowledging the limitations of the human mind.

  I will take my chances and apply for both jobs, says Dad. Even though I have no idea what is called for in either.

  Why should you know? asks Mom. You don’t need to know everything.

  You can’t know everything, amends Darryl.

  Just then the doorbell rings and into the room comes Bing who is Gwen’s date for the evening. Hi ho, says Bing, who is wearing some kind of executioner outfit: a tight-fitting black mask and some studded paraphernalia including gloves which he removes in order to shake Dad’s hand.

  Dude, you’re such a freak, says Darryl, disdaining the hand of Bing. Why are you such a freak? He says this to the world at large, as if the world at large were gazing in at this family scene which is, in fact, Darryl’s fantasy. In his happiest times he believes his life is being televised and he tries to conduct himself accordingly.

  Just then the dog commences to bark again. Woof woof woof woof.

  Sooner or later someone has to see to the dog, says Mom. I thought you’d take care of that Dad. Some of us are gainfully employed and we count on those others to pick up the slack. You could at least poison the dog.

  I said I’d take care of it and I will, says Dad.

  Mom is not gainfully employed but she is fucking the neighbor which takes up a good deal of her time. On top of that, she cooks dinner, does laundry, carpools, and so on.

  There’s no need to car pool any more, says Gwen. We’re grown up.

  Give up the carpool, says Darryl. It’s a completely useless activity. If you gave up the carpool you’d have time to poison the dog.

  Why don’t you poison the dog, it was your idea, says Gwen to Darryl.

  I really am gainfully employed, says Darryl. I support this family with my drug dealing.

  Darryl sells a new designer drug that makes everyone believe their lives are being televised. People who take this drug go around in states of euphoria born of fleeting self-importance. Darryl himself is addicted to this drug which is called PLAY which is an acronym for Please Look At Yourself.

  How about a cocktail? Mom asks Bing. I could use a cocktail, says Bing, I’ve had a hard day in the fields. What fields may those be? asks Gwen. It’s just an expression, says Bing. I doubt that, says Gwen. Oh, give him a break, says Darryl. Let the poor guy enjoy his cocktail. The mom has just handed Bing a cocktail made of rum and tomato juice called a RAT which is an acronym for Rum And Tomato.

  The dad has found an ad that is in search of a telemarketer with a lisp.

  Listhen to thith, says the dad, Lithping telemarketer needed for thales and showth.

  What kind of shows? asks the mom. It doethn’t thay, says the dad. It’s just plain screwy, says Gwen. Perhaps you’ll be required to wear a dress, too.

  I’m not a thithy! I’m not a thithy! says Dad, enjoying himself.

  Perhaps a lisping sales person puts people at ease, suggests the mom. True. People feel superior to those with disabilities, says Darryl. I’m not dithabled! I’m not dithabled! shouts Dad.

  Just then Bing vomits on the couch. His vomit is red with little specks of pink and yellow—little pieces of what look like salami and some cheddar cheese, possibly. The mask he wears is stained red around the mouth-hole which makes him look as if he’d devoured a live mammal.

  Now that’s a turn on, says Gwen sarcastically. Don’t worry about it, says Darryl, clapping Bing on the back, you aren’t the first. I’m so sorry, says Mom. It may have been the cocktail.

  We hope it’s the cocktail! says Darryl. That is its purpose.

  Just then Charlie enters the living room with his wife Wendy who is on a leash today. It’s very comfortable, she reports. You would think the tugging at the neck would cause irritation but I find it oddly relaxing to be tugged and led. Sometimes you lead, says Charlie affectionately. True, I do lead sometimes. And I get to poop on the sidewalk.

  Just then the real dog barks hoarsely—ruff ruff ruff ruff ruff—as if weary of its own angst and the barking that accompanies it. If only I were happy, thinks the dog, who cannot conceive of happy as more than a rhyme for “snappy” or “flappy” or as an acronym for He Accumulates Pathetic Pitiful Years.

  The sooner that dog is out of the way, the better, says Dad. Maybe we should draw straws, says Gwen. Especially since we have guests—it increases the odds. True. Maybe a guest will draw the short straw, says the mom. Maybe Charlie will draw the short straw,
says the mom winking at Charlie.

  Charlie is the neighbor man the mom is servicing in her free time. He needs more sex than I can give him, says Wendy about this arrangement. I’m actually grateful to the mom for being so generous with her time and energy. In fact, that’s why we’re here. To express our gratitude, interjects Charlie. We have a nice plaque, adds Wendy. Where is it Charlie? After all this did you leave it at home? I can’t believe I’m so stupid, says Charlie. I’m such an idiot.

  What a coincidence! says Dad, who has just then found an ad for idiots which reads Idiots wanted for medical study, must have IQ under 60 &/or pathologically impaired judgment.

  That’s you in a nutshell, says Mom. I guess I could feign stupidity, says Dad. It pays surprisingly well. I’m glad that’s settled, says Darryl who is preening for an imaginary camera. It’s good to have an employed Dad. It’s the American way and god knows we love America and her way (WLAAHW). He smiles charmingly.

  Do we love her curds or just her whey? quips Mom. Speaking of turds, Bing throws up again, but it is clear liquid vomit, the dry heaves, nearly curdless. I really feel like shit, he announces rudely.

  Time to rip off the mask! cries Gwen. Give it here! She begins tearing a little corner of the mask near Bing’s neck. You don’t want to do that, says Bing. There’s no telling what you’ll find beneath. True, it might be something really horrible like a no-nosed monster, says Mom. Or it could be a person without skin, says Darryl. We would all faint and Bing would steal our computers. You’re right, says Gwen, it isn’t worth it. Truth be told, I’m not even that curious.