Meteorites

by Julie Paul

  Then, from out of nowhere, a giant deer steps onto the road.

  “Holy shit,” I yell. “Hold on!”

  I don’t have time to brake, and if I swerve, we’ll end up in the ocean.

  We both start screaming as we near the beast, but somehow, we don’t hit it. We look back, still screaming, to see what’s happened: we’ve just driven under a deer. She’s got her front legs on one side of the road, her hind legs on the other, and she’s eating from the trees.

  I pull the car over. Holly and I look at each other; our mouths are useless gaping holes.

  Slowly, we get out of the car to take a better look. It’s a mule deer, a doe, at least eight times the size it should be. When it swings its gaze our way, we both run back to the car, get in, and lock the doors.

  “This is just a nightmare,” Holly says, in a robotic voice, her eyes closed. “I’m sleeping, and none of this is real.”

  I want to believe her, but I know we’re awake. “No, honey. Open your eyes.”

  I squeeze her shoulder. When that doesn’t work, I pinch her upper arm.

  “It’s not a dream.”

  Holly winces, opens her eyes, and looks back at the deer. It’s turned away from us. We watch as it deposits a giant pile of shit on the road. It sounds like a pile of books being dropped.

  “It’s impossible,” Holly whispers.

  Before I can stop myself, my recent training kicks in.

  “Nothing is impossible.” Then, because I think I’m allowed to be a little pragmatic here, I add, “We only wish it were.”

  “Do you think . . . do you think it’s real?” Holly asks.

  There are a lot of things I could say. Like, what do you think this is, Jurassic Park? Like, no, it’s Rudolph gone all GMO. But I must maintain my best self, or I will pay a hundred times over.

  “Yes,” I say. “It’s as real as you and me.”

  But who am I kidding? This animal is realer than we’ll ever be.

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  We’re striving for enlightenment, Don and me. When you do this, you must deal with visits from thoughts that you don’t want. We have thoughts that we recognize as being regulars, aside from the “this place is freaking awesome” ones, etc. There is the list of fears, including disasters: earthquake, tsunami, oil spill, meteor. There are the prayers: Dear God/Goddess, please don’t let us get fat, ever. Please keep us both faithful. Please let us keep our money and live in complete comfort.

  We are not proud of these repeating cries for help. But we are learning to allow them their time and, once that’s done, to let them go inside pink thought balloons (thank you, C*C*C*™).

  One thought that has never ever made an appearance in our brains, though, is this: if the animals on this island grow, then we will suffer. I mean, ha! What a crazy thought.

  But they have grown. We are suffering.

  It’s been two days since we drove under that deer. We know now that it’s happened everywhere—all the animals on this island are gigantic. We are trying to maintain our equanimity, but in the face of this, we are struggling. We know we are still blessed to live here and lucky to be in the program, but we’re having a bit of a time with it all.

  Are blessed and lucky what we’re feeling now, with these animals at large, no pun intended? They’re not just fleshy beyond their skeletons, or a little paunchy from too many Whiskas or Milk-Bones, not just pudgy around the middle from sitting on the couch’s back watching for birds; it’s not just a matter of stretched hides. These animals have expanded. Every cell has done it: bone, blood, hair, and hoof—a photographic enlargement, like a magician has said presto and pointed his wand at all the fauna, and voila, here they are, larger than life but very much alive. Big freaky creatures we think we know because they look just like they used to, except for one thing. They’re huge.

  The animals are fighting in the road and in the forests, no longer just minor scuffles between leashed dogs or territorial Siamese but real warfare, clashes of fur and fang that hurt our ears. More than that, it hurts our hearts.

  Oh, truly, it’s horrible.

  We moved here—the obvious scouring of sins aside—to escape. Now, beyond the ambient sounds of amplified meows, barks, squeaks, and moans, we can hear no ferry whistles. No helicopters or sea planes. No one’s leaving. No one’s on their way.

  Paradise isn’t supposed to feel like prison! At least not the paradise I’ve been working toward.

  We’re, well, we’re fucking trapped.

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  There was nothing in the literature about this. It has to be a joke, or just a special effects team here blowing off steam, getting their ya-yas out, probably as bored silly as we are. Can*Carma*Clear™ had only focused on the easy, natural beauty of this island, after all. It never mentioned the ennui, the mind-numbing effect of identical tree after tree, the cold ocean’s grind against the rocky beach, its chaste white edge ruffling rocks so round and useless we can barely walk on them without sinking in up to our ankles. You can’t even skip a stone here! And swimming? Forget about it. If you don a wetsuit for the frigid water, you look just like a seal, and the spectacular resident orca pod will mash you into dinner before you can gurgle for help. Oh, and that assistance the C*C*C*™ promised, to get us comfortable, to address any glitches? Nope. Nothing. Once we were here and paid our fees, it just started feeling like real life.

  Which is exactly what they promised, I guess. A new start, complete with all the idiocies of normal living—drunk mail carriers and leaf blowers and unstable wifi.

  But this? This was definitely not in the contract.

  It’s bedlam.

  It’s been two nights since we came home to chaos. Once we were in our compound, with the gates shut behind us, Holly started to sob.

  “The pool!” she cried. “Don, the pool!”

  There was a Canada goose in there—except it was the size of one of those ride-on swans at theme parks.

  Chicken-sized starlings were finishing off the cherries, squabbling over the last few jewels. Hummingbirds were as big as crows, hovering around the feeder Holly bought me for Father’s Day.

  (It’s true, I’m not a father, but she still wants to celebrate the day because, otherwise, she asks, what else does a man have? I can’t even own a pet because of her allergies. And she can’t make us a baby, or so it seems, even though we’ve had the tests, tried for years, and have the moolah. She may have told you we’re not interested in having a family, but that’s just her sadness talking.)

  God, though, I’m thankful we don’t have a baby now. Imagine a housecat carrying her off in its mouth, dashing off beneath the rhodos to its secret lair, never to bring her back. God, that would be sick.

  There’s nothing worse than . . . We say this all the time without thinking, fill in the blank with whatever bad thing is at hand: soggy cake, burnt toast, wet feet, impotence, but it’s not true. I know I’m not supposed to dwell on the negative anymore but screw that. There are always worse things. We’re living in an Orwellian farm/zoo/garden/nightmare-come-true.

  Right now, there’s a rabbit lolling about in the actual garden, bloating himself on the biodynamic peas. Cats are scratching at the door with their three-inch claws. Holly’s in the bathroom, submerged in a bubble bath, blasting Hawaiian chants for conjuring good things at full volume, trying to mask the insanity just outside our door.

  In other words, farting in the wind.

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  We mustn’t dwell on the negative. We know that every thought has power, and if we give a bad one its airtime, it’ll only get stronger.

  But we are getting worn down. Don and I are snapping at each other like the people we used to be after a long week of retail management hell. The grounds are decimated. The siding is coming loose. This morning
we witnessed a murder—a massive cat ripped a cat-sized rat apart, right in front of the window of the room where we take our breakfast. We want to place a call and have a helicopter come take us far, far away from this hell, but they’ve placed us under martial law. Quarantine. If we leave, we become criminals.

  Must get back to smiling. Must fake it till we make it. Must bury heads under pillows and repeat affirmations until everything goes back to better.

  My affirmations: Get us out of here. Take us to Tuscany. Get us out of here. Dear God, take us anywhere but here.

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  It’s Day Three, and we wake up to “Thriller.”

  I groan and slap the snooze. I want to sleep, to stay in bed, in oblivion, but all of that is gone now. Skin-to-skin with Holly is still comforting, but the stench of warming feces from the yard will soon enter the house. I’ve got to get up and start the day by scraping the piles of poo away from the windows. Besides, Holly isn’t in bed with me; she’s been sleeping in the basement because its smaller windows don’t let in the din quite as much.

  The authorities don’t want us to leave the house at all, let alone the island. They’re worried about species-jumping. No shit. We’re all worried about that. But we have been protecting ourselves with thought shields. We have been grounding ourselves in the moment, and so far, we’re good. To be safe, I wear my wetsuit and motorcycle helmet when I go out, my version of a hazmat suit. I glove up, put my hip-waders on, and wear a paint mask over my face. Someone’s got to maintain the property.

  When I get to the back of our yard, I can hear a woman crying. We usually have little contact with our neighbours, since no one seems to do much living at their property line, but it seems someone’s out here now.

  “Linda?” I call, quietly, through the laurel hedge.

  The crying quiets down.

  I pull back a few branches to see her on the grass beside Cedric, her old basset hound. He’s expanded to the size of a horse, only with much shorter legs, and he’s lying on his side, not moving.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask.

  Linda looks at me like I’m crazy. Of course, nothing is okay. It’s just a question. Automatic. Or is she reacting to my outfit?

  “He’s stopped eating, Don. He can’t even walk anymore, with all that belly weight.”

  I’ve only ever seen Linda and her husband in perfect form, dressed in yoga gear and matching health sandals, pushing their pollution-free lawn mower over their acre of grass. Today she’s in pajamas, hair flat on one side, mascara on her cheeks.

  Then I realize that she’s out in the open, unprotected from whatever might be in the air. “Shouldn’t you be inside?”

  “I can’t leave him.”

  “Can I do anything to help?”

  She shakes her head, eyes downcast. “What can anyone do? This—this plague, or whatever it is, is going to get us all.”

  Some people have started calling it that, a plague, as if it’s been sent from the Bible to punish. For what, I want to know. Haven’t we all been good people? Haven’t we been living the good life—the C*C*C*™ high-fidelity version of it—in a place known for its gentle, loving politics?

  “You could come for coffee,” I say. “Holly made muffins last night.”

  She looks at me like I’ve suggested she kill her dog right on the spot. “I told you, I can’t leave him.”

  “I’ll bring you some, then. We could have a little tea party in your backroom, so we could keep watch . . . ” There is no way Holly will eat out here in the air. This much dander alone could kill her.

  Linda shrugs. “I guess so. I don’t think I’ve eaten in days.”

  “Where’s Larry?”

  “Visiting his folks in Seattle.” She looks like she’s going to burst into tears again.

  Lucky bastard.

  I mean, poor Linda. She might never see him again.

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  When we’re preparing our delivery tray for poor Linda, we hear about the killings. According to the CBC, the healers are beginning to hunt the big game. One bear’s gallbladder is worth a fortune now. The few homeless that live here in their tie-dyed overalls are making bows and arrows, taking rabbits and deer down, roasting them on fires in the park outside the town hall. There are dogs on the loose, roaming in packs, looking for fights and getting them.

  We mustn’t think about it. Our feelings can enter whatever we cook, and do we want our neighbour to be crying all afternoon, even sadder than she is, because we stirred sorrow into her latte? Although she has admitted to a rather unsavoury past, we are keeping our hearts open for her. We are Americans, generous with our love. And our raspberry-ginger muffins too!

  Before Linda came here, she was CEO of Clairol. In other words, she headed a world of chemical beauty enhancements, a company built on making women first feel bad about themselves and then, just slightly better, after buying into their propaganda and, therefore, their products. What she’s really doing here on this island is the same as us, hiding out from the people who aren’t happy with her methods of business, her quite questionable ethics.

  Don and I just sold clothing, which, unless you’re a member of a hot-climate tribe, is something you need for survival. We consider clothing to be an essential service. We provided a solution to a problem. Really, we shouldn’t be here at all.

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  Linda’s cleaned herself up by the time Holly and I arrive in our protective gear. We assemble in her all-glass dining room. Outside, we can see Cedric, lying on the ground like he’s already dead. When we all express our sadness at the state of affairs, we start the usual small talk.

  “So,” Holly says, although she knows the deal. “What brought you here?”

  “Oh,” Linda says. “The weather. The beauty.”

  We all look outside at the air, thick with feathers, dust, and dander, at the denuded world we live in. Can this really be courtesy of C*C*C*™?

  “Same as us,” I say. “Weren’t we smart?”

  I’m losing my touch. Neither woman laughs.

  Holly’s still getting nightmares about the biz. She was chanting flame retardant, flame retardant in her sleep last week, over and over. We’d just read a story about umbilical cords and how they have traces of over 130 chemicals in them now. Flame retardants were on the list.

  Did she forget that we were saving lives, having that sprayed onto the wee pajamas we sold? There were no conclusive studies on any diseases actually being caused, but many cases of people not being set on fire. Not to mention all those parents with complete peace of mind!

  I’m getting all worked up here. I’ve got too much time on my hands now, as my small kingdom becomes a wasteland. My only job, aside from maintaining my stocks, is to shovel the shit away. And apparently, to console the neighbours with my shoulder to cry on. The scent Linda’s wearing reminds me of some gay old times in Paris, pre-Holly.

  I pull my attention back to Cedric.

  “He’s lived a good long life,” I say, trying to get her to look at the colossal beast.

  Linda starts sobbing against me. Silk washes, right? Holly’s shoving a napkin in Linda’s face, but she won’t take it.

  “It’s okay,” I murmur. “I’ve got more shirts.”

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  After a few minutes with Linda, I start to sneeze and get headachey. It must be all the products left over from her reign; surely, she has a lifetime supply in her five-car garage. We only kept one small box of our products—just in case we ever knew a child they might suit.

  Right now, there’s a squirrel outside that seems to be about a size five. Maybe we should dress him in neon fuchsia leggings and a crop top, just for old times’ sake.

  Linda has been consoled with carbohydrates and caffeine and my
husband. Cedric is not long for this world, but what can we do? There are battles worth fighting, and there are battles worth walking away from; once Linda starts really losing it over her “baby,” I put on my protective gear and run back home.

  That isn’t no baby out there, honey. That there is a dead old dog.

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  Evil.

  It’s a word I used to love. Before all of this, before the cleanse and the move, I used to use it whenever I could. For example, the weather is often evil, raining for weeks, Holly’s baking is evil if it’s too rich, she’s evil when she wears her red stockings and garters.

  Wore, I mean. Past tense. The past has claimed that particular activity.

  It’s Day Five, and what I think about more than anything else is how small we are. What we used to dominate, we don’t anymore. Last night there was a mouse in the kitchen, and it took Holly and me an hour to trap it in a cardboard box. Fortunately, the innate nature of each animal hasn’t changed: a mouse still likes peanut butter and cheese. The squirrels are still climbing trees, although the branch breakage is comical. The raccoons sleep all day, rub against the house as they try to get comfortable in their new under-the-deck accommodation.

  But just like knowing there is always something worse, there is always something to be thankful for. Now I am thankful that there are no primates on this island, other than us. Shit, monkeys would be awful. Evil, I mean, and not in a good way.

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  We are running out of food. One of us can survive on pasta and peanut butter but not the other, and that other is getting grumpy. Oh, I know the teachings: grumpiness is better than anger, which is better than hatred or depression, and we should always be reaching higher on the list of emotions to get to the least harmful one, but I can’t get above grumpy. My beautiful garden is destroyed! The thing I loved most in the world, to wander for hours while smelling my flowers—especially at dusk, when the blues got bluer and the jasmine and the nicotiana smelled more wondrous—is no longer possible. So, yes, I’m grumpy.