by David Vann
Galen’s aunt was shaking her head, looking down. I hate this so much, she said. I hate this more than I could ever possibly say. Her fists were clenched in her lap. Lies all my life. Both of you. Only lies.
Stop it, Helen.
Because I’ve been so bad. Helen has said the truth, and we hate the truth, so we hate Helen.
Stop it, Galen’s grandmother said again. You’re just awful. You never stop.
That’s right. I’m always the awful one. I’m the one who needs to be beaten after you’ve been beaten. But never Suzie-Q. Never little Suzie-Q. Suzie-Q helps us pretend that we’re good.
Mom, we don’t have to listen to this. I’ll take you out to the garden. She stood up from the bed, walked over to her mother, and the two of them were out the door quickly.
Galen could hear his aunt’s shaky breathing, furious. And she gets everything in the will. She gets everything.
What do you mean? Galen asked.
She hasn’t told you?
No.
Your mother gets everything. You don’t get anything. Jennifer doesn’t get anything. I don’t get anything. It all goes to your mother. But then your mother will give it to you in her will. So I guess you’ll be fine in the end.
The three of them sat there, looking down, and then finally his aunt got up. I’ll be at the car, she said.
Jennifer stood up and closed the plastic curtain around the bed. Stand up, she whispered. So Galen stood up. Now drop your shorts.
Galen did as he was told.
And your underwear.
So Galen was hanging there bare.
Get it up, she said.
Galen didn’t feel any desire at all. After all that? he asked. That’s impossible.
Jennifer lifted her skirt, and then she reached down and pulled her panties aside.
Wow, Galen said. Light blond hair, a few wisps of it, and she opened her lips with a finger so he could see pink. Oh, he said, and he could feel his boner rise back up, in small lurches until it was hard and ached and he stepped toward her. But then she dropped her skirt.
Stand sideways, she said. And put your hands behind your back.
Okay, he said.
I’m going to slap your dick, hard, and you can’t move, and you can’t make a sound.
What?
If you move or make a sound, you’ll never see my pussy again.
Why are you doing this?
Hold still.
She swung hard with an open hand, and what he felt was an explosion of pain. He wanted to scream, but he swallowed it. He kept his hands behind his back and closed his eyes and could feel the tears. Then the hard slap again, and he was whimpering, shaking.
She leaned in close and whispered in his ear. How does that feel?
Why did you do that?
She reached down for his balls. Don’t move, she whispered.
No, he said. Please.
But she squeezed, gradually tightening her grip, and he felt the pain rise up into his stomach, the nausea. Please, he gasped.
Jennifer let go, then slapped one of his burned thighs, hard, which made him want to howl. Don’t forget, she said. And then she stepped away through the slit in the curtain and was gone.
Chapter 6
Galen tried etheric surgery. Sitting on his bed, imagining a small golden hook dangling from his right hand, he swept the hand over his wounded dick and let the hook pull through and heal. Ideally, his left palm should be underneath, to help create an electromagnetic field for the healing, but it didn’t seem right to just sit on his hand. There had to be some airspace for this to work. So he turned on his side and had his left hand out behind his bare butt and waved his right hand in front of his dick. Now his golden hook was hanging straight down, though. He had to free his mind from gravity. There was no reason the golden hook couldn’t hang out to the side. It was etheric, after all. But his mind was just stuck on the hook hanging down. He couldn’t relax properly into his breathing. And his dick hurt. It was red and puffy on one side, even when it was limp. And he had a small bruise at the base, as if the whole thing had been broken off at the stem. He was afraid a boner would hurt even worse.
He didn’t understand how Jennifer could have done this. His balls were tender, too.
Galen closed his eyes and tried to imagine the hook. Swinging tightly to the side on a slim golden chain, and then he realized he had never imagined the chain before. Was it supposed to be on a chain, or just a hook out there by itself? And did he really need airspace? How did the ether work?
He tried to feel the healing, tried to let it happen, but it wasn’t happening. He remembered a troubleshooting section in the book on etheric surgery. Something about reestablishing a field. So he held his palms still, one a few inches behind his butt and the other a few inches in front of his crotch, and he tried to feel the force field between them. He pushed them lightly toward each other, like fluffing cotton candy, felt the energy now in the center of his palms, could feel them pushing at each other.
Okay, he said.
And now he tried to feel the energy in his crotch, tried to feel the path of that energy from palm to palm as he pushed and fluffed. A kind of warmth, the ether something that was always lit and warm, a little crackly from electricity, but no, that wasn’t right, it wasn’t crackly. Just a smooth warmth and light, and now he was able to dip his right hand and swing the hook through this warmth. He could feel its tug, and it wasn’t where he expected, not on his dick itself but deeper in his crotch at some base, and this was the beauty of etheric surgery. It could find the right places, the sources, and replenish those sources. It wasn’t fooled by the surface of things. And the hook didn’t need a chain. It was swinging out there on its own.
Galen exhaled deeply into the healing. Deeply and more deeply, sinking, the hook a kind of butterfly, fluttering inside him, and when he awoke, his mother was pounding at his door and his cheek was in a puddle of drool.
Uh, he said. Uh. He wasn’t up to speech yet. He wiped his cheek on a fresh bit of pillowcase and rolled onto his back.
And stop locking the door, she yelled.
Uh, he said, and he could hear her steps down the stairs.
Galen felt like he was climbing out of a deep well. A late-afternoon nap could really knock him down.
He sat up on the edge of his bed, the world still swirling a bit. Remaking itself, the appearances all knitting together again. He put his palms out and tried to levitate a few inches in the air, right now, while the world was caught off guard, before it was fully solid again.
Come on, he said. He tried to get the ether to lift his butt, but gravity was gluing him down, and it was too late. The world had remade itself. He hadn’t been quick enough. Fuck, he said. I have to be quicker.
He looked around for his underwear. Several pairs on the floor, maybe a dozen scattered around, and he couldn’t remember which was the clean pair from this afternoon. So he just went for the closest and hoped that was right.
He pulled on his T-shirt and shorts, which stung, lathered his thighs with aloe, a cooling, wonderful relief, tied his shoes but still felt so groggy he lay back down.
Galen! his mother yelled.
So he sat up and stumbled over to the door, down the stairs to the dining room. She had set the table with candles, even though it wasn’t dark out yet. Plates at either end of the long table, using the old Polish china with the edges painted in red and blue. A large round of sourdough bread in the middle of the table, filled with a white dip.
I fixed onion dip, she said.
He walked up close to it and looked down. White with brown streaks, the onions. Crackers on a wooden board, and vegetables cut up. Hunks of broccoli and cauliflower, whole carrots and slices of bell pepper.
I fixed a vegetarian meal for you, she said. Fresh vegetables, not even cooked.
Thanks, Mom, he said. This looks great. He grabbed his plate and filled it with veggies and crackers and a few hunks of sourdough bread, then spooned a mou
nd of dip. He was famished. Wow, he said.
He sat down, and his mother looked pleased. Thanks, Mom, he said again. Then he dipped a hunk of broccoli and put it in his mouth. Creamy and delicious, and a good crunch in the broccoli. He closed his eyes and hummed as he ate. Only the best meals brought on the humming.
Food was a meditation, an opportunity not to be missed. He sat very tall, erect in his chair, his crown chakra open, and let the food thrum through his body. He kept his eyes closed and felt for his food with his hands, dipped his fingers in the luscious dip and sucked on them, breathed in the bread before he chewed, crunched away at the slices of bell pepper, so juicy and fresh.
I love this, he said.
Shall we take our plates to the fireplace? his mother asked.
Sure, he said. We haven’t done that in a while. He piled more veggies on and they walked into the front room with the piano and high ceilings. Tucked inside, at the very center of the house, was an enormous hearth made of granite slabs from the Sierras, with rugs in front. Galen lay down, propped his elbow on a pillow, and kept eating. His mother lay down facing him.
Where are we? she asked. It was their game, from as far back as he could remember.
In mountains, he said. In front of larger mountains.
Mongolia, she said. Maybe Mongolia.
And we’ve ridden here across a wide plain.
Snow and winter, she said. The horses with blankets.
The plain had only hard tufts of grass, nothing for the horses to eat.
We’re running from someone.
Or everyone.
Yes. His mother was excited, up on an elbow now, leaning in closer. Her eyes gray with flecks of gold, similar to the granite. Running from everyone. That’s right. They don’t understand us, and we’re alone. We can’t talk to anyone.
She was too close. He could feel her breath on his face. So he sat up. I need more dip, he said, and he grabbed his plate and went for the table. They hadn’t played this game for months, and it seemed to him a strange game now. Sometimes they’d lie in front of the fireplace and whisper for hours. Inventing places and lives and telling secrets about people who didn’t exist. All his life they’d done that, but it felt creepy now. He didn’t know what it was. Maybe Jennifer calling him a mama’s boy. Or maybe seeing Jennifer up close. But something to do with Jennifer. Maybe because his mother and Jennifer were the same in some ways, separated only by age. He didn’t like to think about this. He was really creeping himself out.
Galen spooned more dip onto his plate and returned to the fireplace but this time sat on the wide stone front.
Are you enjoying your food? she asked. She was lying back on the rug, looking up at him.
Yes, he said, and he closed his eyes, focused on the chewing. The dip saltier than he had first noticed.
I’m glad, she said. I thought we’d have a nice treat since the terrible two aren’t here.
Galen tried to keep his focus on a carrot and the way it crunched in his teeth. He could feel it sever, all that solidity cracked through in an instant, a clue to how one might get the world to slip for a moment. Removal from the world. Distance. That was what he needed. It was awful how quickly he could forget that.
It was so nasty of Helen to pick a fight right before our trip. So like her. She’ll never let things just be good. She’s an unhappy person. She always has been.
What trip? Galen asked. He kept his eyes closed and tried to remain focused on his chewing.
We’re going to the cabin tomorrow.
Tomorrow?
Galen. I’ve had the trunk of the car packed for two days now. We’re leaving at eight.
Eight o’clock? Galen had his eyes open now. I hate getting up early.
It’s just one day. It won’t kill you.
But why? Why can’t we leave at noon? It’s only an hour and a half from here.
Galen.
Fine. Is Grandma coming?
Yes. Of course.
Is it true that everything goes to you in the will?
Who said that?
Helen.
Galen’s mother sat up, grabbed her plate, and walked into the kitchen. I don’t feel like talking about it, she said.
But Galen followed her in. And what about college? Is there money for college? Why was she asking for Jennifer?
His mother put her plate in the sink and ran the tap. Helen is in dreamland. She’s always been there.
But there is some way that Grandma or the trust could pay for college?
She shut off the tap and rested her hands on the sink. Look, she said. There are things written in the trust. That money can be used for medical expenses, or education, or even a house. Helen’s been trying for a house. She wants everything. But there’s not enough money for that. Mom may live another ten years, and that rest home is expensive.
How much money is there?
Galen.
I’m serious. How much money is there? Galen could feel the anger like a wave of heat. It was amazing how quickly it could come. He was standing behind his mother, looking down at the back of her neck. He was only inches away.
Stop, she said, and she walked out the back door, but Galen followed her onto the lawn. Leave me alone, she said. She looked frightened, and he felt suddenly how small she was, how frail. She was backing away from him.
I could have gone to college four years ago, he hissed. That’s what the trust is for. If it says it can be used for education, then that’s what it’s for. But you didn’t tell me. Because you want to keep it all for yourself.
Stop, Galen. You don’t understand. She was backing away toward the shed. She had her hands out, fending him off.
How much money is there? he yelled. How much fucking money?
Galen, you’re scaring me.
He growled and grabbed her by the shoulders, hard, pushed her back against the wall of the shed.
Help! she screamed. Someone help me!
Galen let go. What the fuck, he said. I’m not going to hurt you. What the fuck are you thinking? That I’d actually hurt you? I’m just trying to find out the truth. How much money are you hiding from us?
Galen couldn’t look at her. He walked back into the house and up to his room. He was shaking. He couldn’t believe she had thought he would hurt her. As if he were some kind of monster.
Chapter 7
In the morning, Galen couldn’t shake the feeling that his mother was the enemy. All his life, maybe. It was hard to tell how far back. When had she turned against him, and why?
He hadn’t been able to sleep. He’d wandered the orchard until some time past four. So getting up at seven was hell. He was a kind of ghost, but he didn’t have the energy to try to use that in some way. Packing didn’t make any sense. A mismatched bunch of clothing crammed into a duffel, and he put five new C batteries into his tape recorder, brought all his tapes. He brought the old spearfishing lance that had somehow become his, passed down from one of his mother’s men. Packed his pocketknife and binoculars and hiking compass. Hid several issues of Hustler in his clothing, and also packed Siddhartha, The Prophet, and Jonathan Livingston Seagull.
You can’t bring that, his mother said when he came downstairs with the lance.
I’m bringing it.
It won’t fit.
I’ll stick it out the window.
His mother was wearing an apron. She’d been making sandwiches, no doubt, probably up already for hours. Cabin trips were a very big deal for her. There’s nothing to spear, she said.
Trout, he said.
The trout in that creek are six inches long, Galen. If you’re lucky. And most of the water is less than a foot deep.
There are a few deeper holes.
You’re not bringing it.
Then I’m not going.
She walked away into the kitchen and came back with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Damn you, she said, and she threw the sandwich at him. A soft puff against his chest and it fell to the floor, separated. Pe
anut butter facedown, strawberry jam up.
You throw like a girl, he said, and he picked up the sandwich, put it together, and started eating.
She stood in front of him and cried. Shoulders slumped, head down, her hair curled, and wearing that apron. She just stood there and cried.
Normally he’d feel tremendously guilty and give her a hug. Normally he’d want to make things up to her. But something had changed. He didn’t like her. I don’t know who you think your audience is, he finally said, and he carried his lance out to the car.
The mafia showed up as he was packing his things away. Jennifer wearing a pink sweatshirt with the hood up, looking sleepy. Hard to believe she’d been so vicious. She looked soft and edible.
The air wasn’t too hot yet, but the sun was up and so bright Galen was squinting. He never saw this time of day. Everything pale, washed-out. No depth. A two-dimensional world, a cardboard cutout. The hedge and the walnut trees in the same vertical plane though they were a hundred feet apart. Galen reached out to try to fit his hand in the gap.
What are you doing? his aunt asked.
It looked for a second like I could touch where the hedge and trees meet.
Yeah, she said. I thought that was probably it. Maybe you should try again.
Galen put his hand down. His aunt made him feel like a stupid little boy, and he didn’t like that feeling.
What’s wrong? his aunt said. You were almost there. Go ahead and touch it.
Galen walked into the house, through the foyer and dining room into the kitchen. His mother was slumped in a kitchen chair. Can I help? he asked.
She didn’t look up but pointed at a picnic basket on the table. A wicker basket covered by a red-checked cloth, another perfect idea, the dream of a picnic basket. Galen picked it up and walked out to the car.
Little Suzie-Q, his aunt said. I’d like to take a shit in that basket.
Galen felt protective of the basket now. He got in the backseat with it on his lap and his lance poking out the open window, a kind of guardian of old. Jennifer a few feet away, slouched against her door, trying to fall back asleep, and his aunt in the passenger seat, all of them waiting.
