Dirt

by David Vann

  You need to eat, his aunt said. Even your eyeballs are starting to stick out.

  Galen closed his eyes. They were in an enormous hot valley, a dust bowl, the Central Valley of California, and what he hoped for was a twister, a hot, dry tornado that would build for three hundred miles and come through the walnut orchard to explode the house. His aunt and mother and cousin lifting in their chairs, winging through the air, shattered wood like shrapnel all around, the little piggies flung from their blankets.

  Our heavenly father, his cousin said. Give us this day our cheeks and neck and other bits of flesh.

  Stop that, Jennifer, Galen’s mother said.

  I think we should pray that poor Galen be made whole again.

  I said stop it.

  Suzie-Q, his aunt said.

  Fine, his mother said. I won’t reprimand your little angel, Helen.

  Galen opened his eyes. Now that the crossfire had started, perhaps he was safe.

  That’s rich, his aunt said. Galen will be at your tit until he’s fifty. Don’t talk to me about coddling.

  Galen smiled. He liked his aunt. She didn’t hold back. He thought of himself clinging to his mother’s tit, tiny baby gums but an otherwise grown body. He laughed, and then he liked laughing, so he stretched and developed it a bit, chortled and added little yelps.

  Okay, Galen. That’s enough, his mother said.

  But Galen kept laughing, let it bubble forth, and somehow it fed itself and he was feeling much better, lighter and almost free.

  His mother got up and left, and without her here to feed it, the laughter slowly wound down. He had tears in his eyes. Ah, he said. That felt good.

  You’re a freak, Jennifer said. But I kind of enjoyed that. You should consider the circus.

  We’re already in the circus.

  His aunt smiled—or what was a smile for her, anyway, lips pulled straight back—and looked up toward the far corner of the ceiling, her arms folded. Well, she said. Well, well, well.

  Galen looked down at the little piggy. He was vegetarian. He was also starving, deep cramps in creases that folded and stapled him from the inside. It hurt so much he had trouble sitting up straight. His mother knew he was vegetarian, and she had served him this. Red nub of hot dog poking out of dough. The side dishes condiments.

  You do realize, his aunt said, that at some point you’ll have to become something. You’ll have to go to school or get a job or do something. You can’t remain a child forever.

  I don’t know if that’s true, Galen said. Look at my mom, for instance.

  His aunt laughed. That’s true, she said. That is true. Little Suzie-Q.

  You’re a trip, Galen said. I like you.

  Well, his aunt said.

  The pantry door opened and Galen’s mother returned. Are we through now? she asked.

  We’ve only just begun, Galen sang.

  Jennifer smiled and put her foot up on his crotch under the table. Her bare foot on his jeans, held there lightly, feeling his boner grow.

  How was Mom today? his aunt asked his mother.

  She was fine.

  Any details?

  You should go yourself if you want details.

  It’s not enough that you’re the favorite? And that you get to live in this house and collect the checks? You also have to be snotty?

  You’re not going to be invited to this house anymore if you behave like this.

  No empty threats, please.

  Jesus, Galen said. Listen to the two of you.

  It’s the only sound in the world, his aunt said. How could we hear anything else?

  Jennifer pressed harder against his boner, pleasant at first and then it kind of hurt. He put a hand down to try to push her foot away, but she was too strong. He looked at her and she was smiling. Mascara put on too heavily, a child’s makeup. Blue eyes bright as marbles. But what he always noticed most was the down, the actual down along her cheeks and neck. He could see the tiny blond hairs, so soft. Something he wanted to feel against his own cheek.

  What are you two up to? Galen’s mother asked.

  Just a stare-down, Galen said. First one to blink has to stay here at the table and talk with the two of you.

  Stop it, Galen’s mother said. Jennifer, you look like a little tramp. And all of you have to stop it. Why can’t you just be normal? Why can’t we just be a family?

  Galen sighed. Okay, he said. May I have the plate of piggies, please?

  Thank you, his mother said. And she passed the plate. A dozen piggies in their blankets. Galen slid them all onto his plate and then he stuffed them in his mouth with both fists, hot doughy intestinal meat with the taste of butchery floors and tongues and hooves. His cousin laughing and his mother gone again and he kept stuffing and chewing and swallowing the little abominations until there were only shards on his plate, the ruins of the feast, and then he bent down to lick his plate clean, left the table with his stomach heaving and lurched up the stairs to his room and bathroom to vomit into the toilet. When he was done, he folded his arms on the toilet seat, his mouth acidic, and he took a little nap. Closed his eyes and slept on the toilet with the unclean water below, thought about dipping his head in for a drink, and he would have done it if his mother had been watching.

  Chapter 3

  When Galen woke it was dark. The house silent. The time of peace. The way he wished the world could be. No people.

  He had to shake his arm to get it to wake up. He flushed the toilet and brushed his teeth. Then he walked barefoot down the stairs, stepping as softly as possible, trying to walk with no weight. His body lifted in the air, gravity gone. This world a dream, the house made of memory. His mother as a child walking these same steps.

  Out through the pantry, he walked beneath the enormous leaves of the fig tree, could smell its fruit, let his jeans and underwear and shirt slip to the ground, stood naked. The moon nearly full, and as he stepped around the farm shed into the walnut orchard, he saw the array of bones. Long rows of white trunks and branches all turned to bone in this light. Every branch hollow and too large, luminous. The leaves as shadows too insubstantial to cover.

  Galen ran as he had read in the Carlos Castaneda books, let his bare feet find their way in the night, their own path, closed his eyes and held his arms out to the sides, palms up. The clods of dirt crumbling beneath his feet, rocks hard, small branches, leaves. All of it hurt and made him slow down, but he wanted to be lifted free. He wanted to drift over the ground without sound or feel, his feet held just above the surface by a kind of magnetism. Instead, his feet sank deep into furrows, stumbled and jolted, and he never knew what was coming next. He opened his eyes and slowed to a walk, put his arms down.

  The moon the brightest of bones. Dark patches forming the open mouth of a snake, a small man sitting below, meditating. Always the same moon. It never revolved, never changed. Always this snake head and small man etched on a disc of bone.

  The trees arrayed in obedience to the moon, lined up, reaching upward. Even the furrows responding to the pull. All of the earth extending, trying to close the gap. The air so thin, what was keeping the earth and moon apart?

  Galen sat cross-legged, his lower back braced by a furrow, and stared up into the moon. His palms open on his knees. Long exhale, and breathe in deep. Exhale again. No thought, only this shining disc, this mirror.

  But then he was thinking of his cousin, of the inside of her thigh, of her lips, of her foot pressed against his crotch. Samsara always there, always intruding. But perhaps it could be used. Perhaps it could provide some power.

  Galen rose and put his hand on his boner. He stroked it a bit and then tried to run like that down the furrow, stroking with his right hand, his left hand held outward to the side, palm upward, a meditative pose, his eyes closed. He tried to let his legs guide him, tried to let the boner guide him, lift him above the furrows toward the moon. And his feet did feel lighter. He was gaining speed, the dirt falling away farther below, the air gaining a presence, an
d maybe that was the key. Not some sort of magnetism from the earth but a pulling from the air itself. The air was the medium, not the earth.

  He tried to leave his body, tried to place his consciousness outside, to see himself from far away. White bone-legs running, like the tree trunks come alive.

  But his breath was ragged, holding him to the world, pinning him here when he wanted to lift free. Tall weeds ripping at him, lashing him, a snag between his toes and he almost went down. He had to open his eyes and jog to the side to get around the worst patch. And this was the problem. Always an interruption. Whenever he was getting close to something.

  So he stopped. Stopped running, stopped stroking. He tried to never come, because he’d read that a man lost his power when he came. But he really wanted to come. And he was tired of just his hand.

  Galen lay down in the hollow between two furrows, curled on his side. Breathing heavily, wet with sweat, the air cool now on his skin. His forehead in the dirt. The world only an illusion. This orchard, the long rows of trees, only a psychic space to hold the illusion of self and memory. His grandfather giving him rides on the old green tractor, the putting sound of the engine. His grandfather’s Panama hat, brown shirt, smell of wine on his breath, Riesling. The feel of the tractor tugging forward, the lurch as the front wheels crossed over a furrow. All of that a training to feel the margins of things, the slipping, none of it real. The only problem was how to slip now beyond the edges of the dream. The dirt really felt like dirt.

  Galen woke many times in the night, shivering. The moon a traveler, crabbing sideways through the stars. Galen on the surface of the earth. The planet not to be believed, spinning at thousands of miles per hour. There should be some sound to that if it were true. Some thrumming or vibration. But the dirt was soundless, and it felt too light, as if the earth’s crust were only a few feet deep. What Galen wanted was for the crust to crack so that he could fall through, fall thousands of miles flipping through empty space toward the center of gravity, accelerating, and then fall past the center toward the crust on the other side and feel himself slowing as gravity took hold. Until he’d reach the underside of the other side of the world and touch it lightly with his fingertips, then fall backward again. His feet would never touch ground, and that would be good.

  Galen was so cold his teeth were chattering. But he didn’t get up. He fell back into sleep over and over, and the night was an endless thing. Each night a lifetime, including the wait for the end.

  And when the end came, finally, when the sky lightened, the black become blue, Galen was not yet ready. Too quickly the air would bake, the earth would bake, and the day would repeat itself. There’d be tea with his mother and the visit with his grandmother and the visit from his aunt and cousin. Galen didn’t feel he could do it again.

  He had to pee so badly he finally rose, sent an arc of piss toward a tree, then hooked his thumbs under his armpits and crowed a cockadoodledoo loud into the dawn. He strutted around naked, flapping his arms, warming up, calling in the day. His stomach an empty cavern, a pit shrinking him from the center. But he kept strutting, broke into a low run through the trees, then over to the main house. Stood beneath his mother’s window, crowed as loudly as he could and stomped his feet in the grass.

  Damn it, Galen, he finally heard. I’m up now, and you know I won’t be able to fall back asleep.

  Galen felt a smile, the real thing, happen across his face, his cheeks pulling themselves up. No stunted thing, his face not broken. He stopped crowing, walked over to grab his clothes from under the fig tree, and went in through the pantry. Quiet up the steps to his room, and he closed the door, took a shower to be clean finally, then buried himself under the covers, a warm nest, and fell deeply into sleep.

  Chapter 4

  Galen woke with Jennifer’s panties just a few inches from his face, thighs on either side of his head.

  Good morning, cousin, she said. It’s a sin, you know, to peek at your cousin. But you’re always peeking. So I thought I’d give you a good, close look.

  Blue silk, a different shade than the blue cotton yesterday. More tightly fitting. He could feel the heat. He tried to smell her, but she smelled only like soap.

  He was afraid to say anything. He didn’t want this to end.

  The twenty-two-year-old virgin, she said. This is the closest you’ve ever been, isn’t it?

  Yeah, he said.

  Why is that?

  I don’t know. Just not very popular, I guess.

  And a mama’s boy. You never leave this house.

  People don’t value the spiritual enough.

  You mean freaks don’t get laid. You can jack off. You can jack off while you look at me.

  So he reached down and began pulling, squeezing tight, enjoying the ache of it.

  I’m going to turn around, she said. So I can watch.

  She stood up on the bed, which tilted like an ocean, and came back down facing the other way. She pulled away the blanket and sheet so he was exposed. He pulled harder. This view he’d never had before. The backs of her thighs and ass, so perfectly shaped, beautifully cupped, and the hollow and curve toward the front. The edges of her panties against soft creamy skin.

  Can you pull your panties to the side? he asked. I wanna see.

  No, she said. Not yet. You only get the panties for now.

  Not yet, he said.

  Why would you even want it? I thought you wanted the spiritual.

  Galen’s dick was harder than it had ever been. He stroked more slowly to prolong this, and he could see she was getting wet, the silk darker in the center.

  You’re getting wet, he said.

  Yeah, she said. I like this. I like watching. I want you to come now.

  So he sped up his hand and arched his hips, feeling every part of him drawn tight, and then he came and his neck pushed back and he shook with the pleasure. He opened his eyes again, her panties dark and wet above him, and he wanted her in his mouth. Please, he said. Let me see, or let me just lick.

  Jennifer stood up on the bed, stepped down carefully onto the floor in her bare feet. No, she said. But that was fun. I like that. It’s always nice to spend time with family.

  Galen laughed. It felt good to laugh, and he tried to add the little yelps again.

  You’re a freak, she said. I’m leaving. But she was smiling, and Galen had never felt so good. When she was gone, he just lay there and smiled and stared up at the ceiling.

  Then his mother was knocking at the door. Get up, she said. We’re having a quick lunch, and after that we’re working on the walnuts.

  Galen had forgotten about the walnuts.

  September, he yelled. The harvest isn’t until September. But she was already back downstairs.

  It was only the end of July, but his mother would make them put out all the drying racks to inspect.

  So Galen rose and cleaned up, then looked around for green clothing. He would dress as a green, unripe walnut. He had a green sweater and green rubber boots. What he was missing were green pants. But in the hallway closet, in the stacks that smelled of mothballs, he found two green towels. He doubled old belts around his thighs to cinch the towels into place, then pulled on the green boots.

  Galen walked carefully down the stairs, and he felt like some old knight heading into battle. He’d carry a giant cucumber for a sword, or a spear of asparagus.

  Mother, he said as he entered the dining room. I am Green Walnut, and I am reporting for duty.

  Galen’s aunt Helen shrieked with laughter, and Jennifer snorted her milk onto her plate. But Galen’s mother continued cutting the crusts off her baloney sandwich. Fine, she said. Have some lunch, Green Walnut.

  I hope my unripeness doth not offend, he said.

  His mother quartered her sandwich diagonally and picked up one triangle. Today is a special day for me, she said. It was this time each year that Mom and Dad would put out the drying racks to inspect them. We’d start earlier, of course, at first daylight, when the
air was still cool. And we’d work quietly. I’d feel the day heat up, and by lunchtime it was wonderful to stop and sit in the shade under the fig tree and have lemonade.

  And don’t forget the wine, Helen said. The wine started in those early hours, too.

  We’d drink lemonade, Galen’s mother said. And we’d have sandwiches, cut like this, and we’d be a family.

  Until the bickering would start, Helen said. I’m not sure where you’re fitting in the bickering.

  Stop, Galen’s mother said. Just stop. Why can’t you remember the good moments?

  Gosh, I don’t know. Maybe because I wasn’t the one prancing around being cute? Maybe because I was older and knew what was going on?

  That’s not fair.

  Wake up, little Suzie-Q.

  Galen poured himself a glass of lemonade and then considered the food options. Baloney and ham in plastic packets, American cheese also in plastic, saltine crackers in plastic, sliced bread in plastic. I think I’ll have a plastic sandwich, Galen said.

  Mom and Dad had their problems, but what you don’t seem to understand is that we were lucky here, living in this place, working on the walnut harvest together.

  Dad used to beat Mom. He’d beat her right in this dining room, and in the kitchen, and upstairs in their bedroom. What part of that are you not understanding?

  He never beat her.

  Oh, for chrissakes.

  Galen didn’t want bread and mustard, which was one option, so he decided to go for the crackers instead. He grabbed a handful of saltines and crumbled them into his half-full glass of lemonade. He used a fork to submerge the pieces of cracker and then he drank his lemonade while shoveling with the fork. Salty and sweet and not really all that bad.

  His mother was still working on her sandwich, and there seemed to be plenty of time, so he fixed another glass. A bit heavier on the crackers this time, pulpier, more substantial. Fitting in a good meal before a day’s work.

  When his mother had finished, she rose to take her plate to the kitchen. She returned to the dining room and looked at them all, sitting there. For a moment, Galen felt bad. Felt guilty for dressing up like this and destroying her special day. She looked hurt, and he didn’t like seeing that. Not really.