Alien Virus Love Disaster

by Abbey Mei Otis

  They let me in. “Bless you, Pickle,” they say. “You and old man Windson both.” I follow Mrs. Drake from the porch, down the hallway into the kitchen. She moves as though she is afraid of waking something huge. Mr. Drake unloads the wagon of food. We sip tap water in silence, though a couple of times Mrs. Drake opens and shuts her mouth. The only words that make it out are more thank you’s. I wonder if perhaps she cannot say anything else. Maybe once you lose something so big, there is no point in holding on to little things like speech. Who needs it? What could it possibly do?

  As I’m walking out, I notice a door off the hallway that is slightly ajar. Inside, there’s a long clothesline piled on the rag-rug, with clothes still clothespinned onto it. Little pink sweaters and polka-dotted skirts. Socks that would fit on my thumbs. A knitted hat with teddy-bear ears.

  The thunderstorms this year have been unpredictable. I imagine the Drakes standing on their porch, paralyzed with indecision. Do we leave the clothes out there to get drenched? Do we admit that it doesn’t matter? Or do we go out and take them down, touch them with our own hands for the very last time, because there’s not—there’s never going to be—

  Carrying the whole clothesline in must have been a compromise. They didn’t have to touch a thing.

  Some nights when I cannot sleep, I close my eyes and watch the cougar stalk the dark country of my eyelids. The cat is as big as the shuttle Davy drives. Its eyes glow gold and turquoise and green and a hundred other colors that exist nowhere else. Its front paws are human hands, and it is wearing bracelets. When it opens its mouth I see Phoebe Drake curled in its gullet, sound asleep.

  I don’t mind playing delivery girl for old man Windson. With the valley so sparse, you snatch on any excuse for human interaction. I pass the Drakes’ drive every day I head into town. Their place has the same feel as mine—both tiny houses, nestled back against the mountain, the huge quiet of the black rock and hemlock needles bearing down.

  Except to be technical, I shouldn’t call it “my place.” Davy might take exception to that, if he ever got wind of it. It’s unlikely, though. Eleven months out of the year he’s eleven hundred miles away.

  Davy Drum. My wedding veil had not been in the closet for six months when he heard the call of the shuttling life and lit on out of town. It’s been five years since we lived together as man and wife.

  The first week he was gone I made a list of qualities I would no longer tolerate in a man. One of them was Never Comes Around, and another one was Pees in Bottles While Driving, and since then our relationship has been pretty much moot.

  It works out okay. When Davy comes through town he crashes with friends, and I get to play both “house” and “independent woman,” as long as I don’t press for alimony. To be honest, if I could go back to my high-school self, waving my pom-poms and hollering as Davy ploughs the ball into the end zone, well, I might give some advice to certain people. I might burst a rosy bubble or two. But, you know. I can’t.

  Mr. and Mrs. Drake are in old man Windson’s grocery, meandering down the produce aisle. It’s good to see them—I’ve been worried. They come up to me and say hello. I can’t help but wonder if they have some sort of vitamin deficiency. Their eyes have a yellowish tint. It gives me the shivers. My first thought is that something is terribly wrong. That’s not how it’s supposed to be at all. But it occurs to me that I have no idea how it’s supposed to be. Maybe when you’re grieving, your eyes are supposed to turn golden and glassy. Maybe all those with cloven hearts forget basic things, like the layout of their local grocery. Maybe when Mr. Drake clutched my arm and said, “Pickle, where is the meat cooler? We’ve been wandering around this store for an hour, please, where has it gone?” maybe his hands were supposed to feel cold and scaly.

  And maybe those who encounter the grief-stricken all react in the same way too. Maybe all of them sleepwalk through the rest of their day, stumble home, get halfway through making a pot of tea and collapse on the linoleum, pressed up against the dishwasher, not crying but not really breathing either, trying to accustom themselves to the devouring hole that has opened up in their chests. That’s just how it goes. Right?

  When old man Windson doesn’t need me for errands I wait tables in Eddie Squeak’s bar. Mostly it’s a watering hole for shuttlers passing through the valley, but we’ve got a decent cast of locals to round the place out. The mood since the cougar attack has been tense. The whole valley sleeps with one eye open.

  Mae Woods and her husband, Clovis, are in tonight, squaring off on either side of a booth.

  “We’re getting the hell out of here,” Mae tells me. “This ain’t a place to raise children. This valley sold its soul to the devil. I’ve been saying it for years, and this mess with the Drakes is the last straw. We’re hightailing for the suburbs.”

  I replace their empty beer pitcher. Clovis looks up at me with dog-tired eyes. “What we are doing,” he enunciates, “is evaluating our prospects in a rational and level-headed manner.”

  “My sister’s got a condo next to hers that’s up for rent. Little patch of lawn in front of every one. Perfect for a picnic supper. Can you imagine trying for a picnic supper in this valley? Forget cougars, the kiddies would wind up impaled on those awful black rocks.”

  Mae was a year below me in high school. I can still feel the homecoming tiara in my fingers as I lifted it off my own head and set it on hers.

  “Each condo’s got one cute maple tree inside a fence,” she says. “That’s what I call family friendly. All these pine trees give me the willies.”

  They’re hemlocks, I want to tell her. Clovis asks could he please get some ketchup.

  “And this rain,” I hear Mae say as I walk away. “Good Lord, I can’t stand this rain.”

  It has been raining a lot. But let’s be clear, at the moment she says that, the storm has broken, the clouds are parting, and if you look out the window the whole parking lot is bathed in moonlight.

  The dead man shows up at my house that night. It’s been three weeks since he last came around so at first I don’t let him in. If you think I am just going to twiddle my thumbs and wait for the mood to strike you, you have got another thing coming, mister, I tell him. I didn’t put up with that from Davy, I will not put up with it from you, understand?

  “I’m deeply sorry.” The dead man spreads his hands before him. His eyes are wide. “Pickle, you must believe me. There were matters that required my attention.”

  How can I resist? He is so contrite, and so handsome. How can a man stay so handsome when he’s been dead two hundred years? He was a soldier in the war, shot through the chest by a man he had trusted as a brother. He told me this to explain why I didn’t have to worry, he would always be faithful. I understand the pain of disloyalty, he declared, kissing my hair. I have never been able to help myself when it comes to men, especially men in uniform. Even when I can tell they mean trouble.

  We sit on the lumpy futon and he rubs my feet.

  “You shouldn’t have gone away,” I admonish. “Who knows what could have happened to me. Did you hear about the little girl? All they found was one of her feet. How would you feel if the next time you showed up, all that was left was one of my feet?”

  He bends around and kisses my toes. “I would be surprised, dearest, that the foul beast had deigned to relinquish such a choice piece of flesh.”

  I could kick him in the face but I don’t. Who knows, his head might fall off and maggots might pour out of his body. I sometimes have a feeling that if I clutch him too hard or wrap my legs too wildly around his waist, he will collapse like he is carved out of dust. I’ve never figured out exactly what he is, or why he chose to come to me. Is he a ghost? No, there is heat under his flesh. Is he a zombie? No, he doesn’t smell like death.

  Part of me envies Mr. and Mrs. Drake. They are both whole living breathing people who interact with each other on a daily basis. In high
school I anticipated a life like that. But I am no good at taking action. Like now for instance. What I should really do is just say, here’s the deal, dead soldier, no more sex until you tell me straight, are you a zombie or a ghost or what? But for some reason whenever he shows up the question goes clean out of my head.

  Every so often I get dressed for work, I get my purse, I leave the house—but then instead of walking down the road I climb up the mountain. I can’t control it, or predict it, or explain it. I get out of breath pretty quickly; the mountain is steep. Where the rocks are bare they are slippery, and where they are covered the detritus conceals crevasses and loose scree.

  I lie down on the ground. The rocks have heartbeats. They throb fast and irregular and infect me with their fear. When the wind blows, the whole bulk of the mountain chain shivers and the trees whine. I don’t know what to do with such a big scared thing. Sometimes I hum parts of Lance Harbinger’s greatest hits but that doesn’t help much. I am no good at remembering songs.

  Lying on the ground, I stuff my mouth full of pine needles. They taste sour and rotten and they teach me new kinds of yearnings. The yearning to decay. The yearning to collapse, to finally let go. They prick my throat, my tongue, my lips, and when I finally spit them out the ground is tinged pink with mouth blood.

  I have to be careful to brush all the dirt and needles off me before I walk down to the valley. Otherwise old man Windson will shout to me, “Who have you been rolling around with, girlie?” and try to sweep me off with his long-handled broom.

  Eddie Squeak is not bartending very well tonight. He has something on his mind. His grandmother just died and he received a package from her estate in the mail. It’s a tiny locked box.

  “The hell am I supposed to do?” Squeak looks a little frantic. “Ain’t no keyhole. And no hinges either. How’m I supposed to open a box with no hinges?”

  He leans against the bar and does not provide refills and doesn’t seem troubled when patrons leave fuck-yous instead of tips. I call Cristoff in to check on him. Cristoff is the bouncer.

  “She had a fortune,” Squeak tells us. “You got no idea. She slept on the sheets of the empress of China. She bribed gravity to let her house alone. And it’s in here. I know it. She wouldn’t have left it to anybody else.”

  He clutches the object in both hands and drops his head between his arms. Cristoff’s stony features rearrange themselves into an expression of concern. He looks at what Squeak is holding.

  “All due respect?” Cristoff says. “That’s a chicken egg.”

  It does look a lot like a chicken egg. But Squeak will not listen. In an icy voice he reminds Cristoff that he is paying him to deter unsavories from entering, not laze around the bar and insult Squeak’s deceased family. Cristoff stalks away and Squeak turns to me. “I’m sorry, Pickle.” His mouth quavers. “Something’s happening to me. First the Drake girl, now Grandma? There’s death in the air. I can feel it.”

  I assure him I feel it too. When I finally get off work at two in the morning I pass him sitting on the curb. There are tears on his face. He is holding the white ovoid treasure chest up to the moon, begging it to give up its secrets.

  In high-school cheerleading my favorite move was the seven quarter cradle. The base girls would put their hands under my feet, lock into a full extension, I would go tight, and they would shoot me up, up, up. I’d tuck my body in and do two forward flips and for a moment at the apex, I was nothing. I had no body. There was no up or down or past or future or ground or sky. Then I’d straighten out into a pike pose and drop into the arms of the base girls and they would catch me gentle as a baby bunting.

  Davy said the seven quarter cradle was his favorite too, because when I flipped over he could see my panties. He told me that the night he proposed. “You know, babe, that thing you used to do? Your legs up in the air like that? Well, first time I seen that? That’s when I fell in love.”

  I get a piece of mail addressed to the Drakes. Normally I’d just put it back out for the mailman but I want a reason to check on them. The wood of their porch is rotting through. My foot goes through the top step and I catch myself on the railing. The house is dark. I’m almost convinced no one is home when suddenly Mr. Drake appears, beckoning me through the door, leading me down the hallway as silent as falling hemlock needles.

  It’s hard to tell in the gloom but I don’t think he looks any better. His eyes are still yellow and he walks hunched over. He could use a shave. Mrs. Drake comes into the room and it’s hard not to jump, because she is very successfully cultivating a unibrow. She used to babysit for me sometimes. She’s the one who taught me how to put on eyeliner.

  They say things like, “Thanks so much, Pickle,” and “Darn postman!” and “You’ve been so kind these past weeks.” They bob weirdly up and down, their knees always bent, their backs never straight. Mr. Drake’s hands are on his wife’s shoulders, then her waist. She touches his jawline, his chest. They never lose contact with each other.

  I say thank you, no trouble, really, and then there’s an awkward silence. Their sink is filled with brown water. The faucet drips into it. Plink. Plink.

  They walk me down the hallway. The door to the room with the clothesline is shut. There are dark stains around the door knob.

  When I go to shut the front door behind me the hinges rip out of the wall—the wood is soft as tofu!—and the whole thing falls on top of me. I stagger out from underneath and it collapses on the porch. Paint flakes and rotting splinters pepper my blouse.

  Mrs. Drake gasps, “Oh, goodness!” and Mr. Drake chuckles, “Nice catch, Pickle.” Neither of them moves to pick up the door.

  We get a whole bunch of shuttlemen in the bar that night. The vestibule is full of rain-soaked shuttlesuits and helmets. The room smells like wet mustaches. At first all they can do is complain about the storm, but then someone mentions Phoebe Drake. There is no talk of the parents, only the cougar. The shuttlemen were not aware that cougars still prowled these mountains. They are outraged. Arguments start up over how best to slaughter it.

  “Smother the mountain with poison gas!” declares one. “Fill the woods with remote-control assassins!” shouts another.

  “Now guys,” says Cristoff. “Let’s not get out of hand. It’s just one cougar, after all.”

  This catches my attention. I look up at Cristoff but his arms are crossed and his face looks just as much like a double-bolted freezer door as ever. The shuttlemen fall over themselves in their hurry to disagree. The ones furthest along in their drinking fall over literally. How dare he say “just one cougar”! One cougar with a taste for manflesh—for little girlflesh, no less. It’s a threat to the security of the good people of this here valley. It’s a threat to the dominion of good people everywhere!

  The shuttlemen are experts at dominion. The shuttlemen’s union is lobbying for a highway to be built from the Earth to Mars. How disgruntled these shuttlemen must be, stuck shuttling goods through a dark and rainy valley across the lonely surface of the Earth.

  The dead man doesn’t come around nearly enough and I am no good at keeping the emptiness of the house in check. The rain drums and drums. The best I can do is put my Lance Harbinger cassettes into the tape player and crank up the volume. The DJ at my prom played four Lance Harbinger songs, more than any other band. One was a slow song, but at that point Davy had gone down to the moat to funnel a Budweiser with his friends. But he came back for the last song of the night, which was “Jump, Lele,” the one that kept Lance at the top of the charts for six straight weeks. He implored us all:

  Jump, Lele, baby

  Jump with me tonight

  Jump through to morning

  We’ll make it all right

  And so we jumped. Everyone. It almost felt like we hadn’t jumped, like instead the floor of the gymnasium fell out from under us. My ex-best-friend Janet and One-Legged Cordelia held my hands, and I c
ould feel Davy’s breath warm on the back of my neck. We were screaming out the words. The disco ball scattered stars over our faces. We rose into the air.

  As the bar is closing up I go talk to Cristoff. I’m not sure how to say what I want to say. He looks as though he were hewn out of a great pillar of black rock. I pretend I’m talking to the mountain behind my house. That makes it easier.

  “I can’t get Phoebe Drake out of my head,” I tell him. He raises his eyebrows and nods.

  “I know.”

  He knows! I feel braver. “But I’ve got this awful feeling. I don’t know who to tell. I’m ashamed.”

  “Ashamed of what?” The great pillar looks concerned.

  “I—well—sort of—uh,” but there’s no way to get around it now. I have to spit out this viper coiling around my insides, and I have to spit it out to Cristoff. “Sometimes I—do you ever—feel relieved?”

  “Relieved?” His eyes grow wide. “Yes, Pickle. I do.”

  The pillar turns kind! I venture to discover the precise nature of my viper. “It’s like . . . who knew there were cougars left around here?”

  “Exactly!” Cristoff thumps one fist against the wall with satisfaction. “No one expected it! We were all sinfully complacent. I’ve got a wife and three babies, did you know that, Pickle? And so of course my heart breaks for Mr. and Mrs. Drake. Of course. But when I think it could have been my own . . .” He shakes his head. “It’s a sinful feeling, Pickle, it truly is. But I am relieved. Relieved that when the wake-up call came, it spared the ones I loved.”

  No. This isn’t my viper at all. My viper has a subtler venom. I say good night to Cristoff then, because I am suddenly afraid of what he might find out.