Because They Wanted To: Stories

by Mary Gaitskill

  The next day Elise was watching TV with Becky and Rick when their father walked through the room in a state of mild, enchanted absence. He looked as if he were in a private landscape, a place of secret relief only he knew about. He passed Becky, and as he did, he reached out and, with one finger, playfully stroked the bridge of her nose and said, “Ski nose! Ski nose!” She giggled and forgave him. He patted her shoulder and moved on. Elise had boiled with anger.

  Andy and Eric ran around the room, happily screaming. Andy waved the knotted leather cord and banged the marble balls together. Eric beat the cymbal with a colored rock. Their energy unspooled crazily and spilled all over the room. Andy ran up to Elise like a kitten dancing around a cat. He held up the banging balls and gave a shrill little scream and hopped around. Eric looked on. Elise smiled uncertainly. She wanted to answer their excitement, but she felt too big and stiff. She couldn’t remember that kind of excitement and was tentative and vulnerable before it. The boys ran to the bed and chased each other around it, yelling and banging. Elise remembered jumping up and down on the mattress with Rick, yelling, “Because they wanted to!” The boys pounced on the bed and rolled around, tickling. A little strip of feeling wiggled free inside her. She burst off the chair and jumped on the bed, grabbing Andy and tickling him. He squealed and turned in to her embrace with a shy, writhing twist. Penny began to scream. Everything closed up.

  “Stop it,” said Elise. She sat up and pried Andy off her. “Be quiet now.”

  The boys looked down nervously. Elise put her hand on Penny and made her rock on the squishy mattress. The baby kept screaming. Elise felt a hard little hiccup of fear. The boys slid off the bed and went away. Her fear got bigger. Frightened, she slid her hands under the baby and took it in her arms. Penny bellowed and wet through her diaper. Elise didn’t know what to do. She didn’t remember how to change the diaper. She walked the length of the floor with the baby, turned and walked the other way. Her heart pounded. Maybe Penny would stop screaming before the pee got sticky and itchy. Then Elise could think about the diaper. She tried to walk slow and soothingly.

  Sometimes her father would run around and scream because the dog down the street wouldn’t stop barking. For a while, she would come home from school every day and would find her father yelling about the dog and her stepmother pretending not to hear him. Elise would go upstairs and knock on Rick’s door, and he would let her in, putting on a show of reluctance but smiling. “Hi, Leesy,” he would say. He would sit on the bed and play his guitar, hunching in on himself as he sang her a song. Or they would sit on his orange pile rug, eating candy corn left over from Halloween and making fun of their father for going crazy over the dog.

  “I’m going to kill him!” screamed their father. “I’ll beat his skull in!” There was yelling and scuffling, and then the back door slammed.

  “Yeah, right,” said Rick.

  But when the dog stopped barking, they were fascinated and nonplussed. If their father had beaten the neighbor’s dog to death, what would happen next? “They’d put him in jail,” said Elise.

  “Nah,” said Rick. “Just a fine, but it would embarrass him.”

  They filed down the stairs in excited apprehension. Elise looked back at Rick; he put his hands over his mouth and bugged out his eyes. He meant to be funny, but with his smirking mouth covered, his distended eyes had the flat hysteria of a mask.

  “If he kills that fucking dog I’ll divorce him, and I mean it. I mean it! It’s not normal! What kind of person would go after a dog with a golf club?”

  “An asshole,” said Rick.

  Sandy banged her hand on the counter and yelled, “Shut up!” Her voice broke; she had hit her hand hard enough to hurt it.

  Their father came in the back door. His face wore an expression of gentle puzzlement, his golf club was dozing in his hand. He looked as if he been holding a baby against his breast. “That poor sonofabitch is lonely,” he said mildly. “When he saw me coming, he started jumping up and down, wanting me to play with him. No wonder he barks! They’ve got the sad bastard on a short leash, walking around in his own shit.” The frilly green curtain on the back window flared out behind his armpit, the little brass bell attached to the curtain rod dangled above his head. Elise thought of the frilled collar and silly hat of a clown. “I just petted him for a few minutes,” he said. ‘And listen, he’s still quiet.” He came into the kitchen and put his golf club in a corner. It immediately fell down; he gently muttered “Shit” and bent to stand it up again, and Elise was stricken with unbearable pity. It hit her so fast, she didn’t have time to be furious or contemptuous. She looked at Rick and saw that under his look of bored distaste was a rigid muscular contraction, like a grimace of pain or rage. For a second, it was as if she was seeing through him to his skeleton. Then it was over, and he was Rick again. He was putting Pop-Tarts in the microwave, his long, agile hands moving like they knew nothing about pain or rage.

  Her chest sweated from holding Penny against it. The baby’s crying had become a steady contemplative grumble, as if she had found an engrossing pocket of misery and was digging around, exploring. The rhythmic little sobs penetrated Elise and attached her to the baby. She sat on the bed and rocked. The attachment was mutual and interlocked. It made Elise feel relaxed; no matter what happened, it would be all right. She thought: formula. Robin had left a bottle of formula on the counter so Elise wouldn’t have to heat it again. Still holding Penny, she walked to the counter and got the bottle. Penny took the nipple in her mouth with a neat little grab. She sputtered, panted, then sighed and quieted as she earnestly sucked.

  As soon as Penny stopped drinking, she wet herself again. She didn’t seem to care, but still Elise thought she’d better try to change her. Carefully she laid the baby on the coverlet. She undid the soaked diaper and took it off. Penny kicked and waved. Elise wet a thread-bare washcloth at the kitchen faucet and wiped the baby. Carefully she put a new diaper on. She wasn’t sure it was on exactly right, but it would do until Robin got back. She rinsed the washcloth and hung it on a tiny metal rack.

  Andy came over. “We’re hungry,” he said. There was a reproachful little push in his voice, and no wonder: it was two o’clock. She got bread and peanut butter and dishes out of the cabinet. The dishes were cheap and bright-colored. There were three cups, two with flowers on them and one with a picture of a hippopotamus carrying a balloon. Elise imagined Robin in the Salvation Army, picking out cheerful dishes; she felt protective allegiance. She stood at the counter, making them all sandwiches. The linoleum on the counter was cracked and faintly buckled. There was moist black mold where the counter met the wall, and a sour smell in the drain. The odorous dirt was lush and dense. It made her feel rooted to the floor and to the making of the food. She thought of her mother, standing at the counter, making food. Mostly she thought of her mother’s hips, big and strong and set right against the counter.

  She cut each sandwich into four squares and the orange into eight wedges. She poured everybody a cup of milk, and they all sat down to eat. The boys ate with concentrated faces, as if they were exaggerating their satisfaction on purpose, reassuring themselves that it really was good, that there would always be sandwiches and milk for them. Elise remembered the time she and Becky got up before everybody else and made themselves tea and peanut butter sandwiches; it wasn’t that good, but they relished the meal because they wanted to. She remembered herself and Rick and Robbie sitting at the breakfast table while their mother hurried around the room in her open coat, fixing pop-up waffles in the toaster. Their mother was always late for work. She poured their little glasses of juice with a quick, jerking motion. She put their plates before them with such force that the food almost slid off. All her movements were like the tail end of a great, bursting effort, like a grab for a lifeline in a midair leap. The children ate breakfast in the center of this surging effort. Unknowingly they aligned with it. They supported their mother with the fierce secret movements of their breath and blood.


  If Elise could have written her mother a letter, she would have told her that she remembered how hard she’d worked to get breakfast on the table in the morning and how good her breakfasts were. She would tell her mother she missed her. She would tell her she had a job as a baby-sitter.

  Eric looked at her. “When is our mommy coming?” he asked.

  Elise looked at the clock. With a strained click, one white digit became another. It was two-forty. “She could walk in any minute,” she said, “but if she doesn’t, she’ll be back in a few hours.”

  Eric looked confused, then disturbed. He licked his finger and picked at the bread crumbs on his plate with it. Andy began a loud singsong chant.

  “She’ll be home soon,” said Elise. “Don’t worry.”

  Andy sang louder and more insistently. He stood up in his chair and thrust his lips in the air like a singing snout. Well, Elise could sing too.

  “Six foot, seven foot, eight foot—bunch! Daylight come and Blue wants to go home!”

  Andy stopped with his mouth open, his eyes bright and askance. He grinned, jumped off the chair, and sang his crazy noises right at her. He paused.

  Elise stood up; she waved her arms and wagged her butt. “Come Mister Tally Man, tally me banana—daylight come and I want to go home.”

  The boys grinned delightedly. Eric gave a high squeak; he darted forward and grabbed her thighs, butting her with his head. She wobbled and sat down, unbalanced and abashed by the sudden burst of feeling. He climbed up on her lap and groped her body like a busy animal. Andy jogged up and down, yodeling triumphantly. Eric planted his knee on her thigh and squeezed her breasts with both hands. That startled her. Boys weren’t supposed to do that, but he was only four. She wasn’t sure what to do; it seemed mean to make him stop, but if she let him do it, he might think he could do it to anybody and he’d grow up to be the kind of guy who grabs women’s boobs on the street. Then Andy came over and grabbed at her too. She sat for a moment, perplexed. If Robin walked in, would she think that Elise was molesting the children? She put her hands on their shoulders and gently pushed. “Hey,” she said, “stop it.” They clung stubbornly. She pushed them again, harder. Eric put his face against her and let out an angry, pleading little grunt. The sound shocked her, and she hesitated. Then Andy lost interest anyway. He let go and went off toward his toys. Eric sighed and relaxed against her. Tentatively, she stroked his head. Then she stroked his back.

  When she looked at the clock, it was past three. Robin must’ve gotten her job. Maybe it was a waitress job and they’d hired her on the spot. Elise imagined Robin changing into a soiled, ill-fitting waitress uniform in a dressing closet filled with odd furniture, forgotten sweaters, and a bucket with a dry mop in it. Her small limbs would be bristling with tension and determination. She would smooth the uniform in the depressing mirror and remind herself to smile. She would work frenetically, trying to do too much at once. The manager would yell. She would work through the break, sneaking olives and maraschino cherries from the condiment tray.

  Or maybe she hadn’t gotten the job. Maybe she had just decided to go for a long walk in the park, eating cheap candy out of a bag. Elise liked to do that. Sometimes when she was finished panhandling, she would take the long walk around Stanley Park, even though she’d been walking all day. It would probably be a treat for Robin to do something like that, after being cooped up in the apartment for days.

  But six o’clock came and then six-thirty, and Robin didn’t come back. Elise wondered how, if she’d gotten a job, she could know exactly when she’d get home anyway. What if the job had started at three? What if it was a long shift? What if she’d applied for a waitress job and didn’t get it, and then looked at the paper and saw one of those “escort” ads? She pictured Robin in her little summer dress, talking to an escort service man. She pictured Robin sitting and holding her purse with both hands, her knees together and her calves splayed out, one foot tucked behind the leg of her chair.

  One night when Elise was begging in San Francisco, a man asked her if she would blow him for twenty dollars. He must’ve heard her asking other people for money, because she hadn’t asked him. She hesitated. She had never blown anybody before. “Okay,” he said. “Thirty.” “Okay,” she said. They had to walk a few blocks to get to his car. She saw that he wore nice pants and shoes. She asked him what he did. “Never mind,” he said. He had a sour, contracted little face that reminded her of a cat spraying pee on something to mark it. Elise didn’t mind the mean expression; there was even something intriguing about it. It looked like it came out of a small, deep spot that was always the same.

  When they got in the car he started to drive. “Are we going back to your place?” asked Elise.

  “No,” he said. “The park.”

  For the first time it occurred to her that something bad might happen. She had read in a magazine that according to experts, rapists and killers are less likely to attack people they can identify with on a human level. So she began talking to him about her boyfriend, even though she didn’t have a boyfriend. She thought it might remind him of being in love.

  “He doesn’t like me to do this,” she said. “But we need the money so much. He’s trying to get a band together.”

  The man didn’t say anything. Light played on his face. He looked like he was alone in the car, thinking about something he didn’t like. He drove deep into the park, where there wasn’t any light. He stopped the car and took a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet and put it on the dashboard.

  “If it’s good, you’ll get the rest of it,” he said. Then he unzipped his pants and said, “Go for it.”

  Elise hesitated. She felt insulted, and she wasn’t sure what to do. She considered telling him that she’d never blown anybody before; it didn’t seem like a good idea. She curled her legs up under her, bent, and tucked her hair back. It couldn’t be that difficult.

  But it was. Her jaw hurt, hairs kept getting down her throat, and it went on and on. Finally he said, “Oh, Jesus Christ, just hold still and open your mouth.” He grabbed her hair in his fist and furiously worked his hand. There was a horrible taste, and she reflexively spat. He yanked her head up and jerked her over to the other side of the car. Pain tingled across her scalp. She reached for the bill on the dash-board. He swung wildly; he meant to slap her face, but she moved too fast and he just clipped her chin with her fingers. He snatched the bill on the backstroke and crushed it in his hand.

  “No,” he said. “That was shit.” Outraged, he groped between the seats and extracted a packet of Kleenex. He yanked one out with such force that the packet flew into the back seat. He wiped himself furiously. “You were shit,” he said.

  “That’s not fair,” she said. Her voice was light and shaky, and her heart patted fast and high in her chest. “I mean, you got off.” Her voice was still light, but now it was stubborn too.

  He paused in his wiping and half turned. The air between them went into a slow, palpable twist. “You little cunt,” he said. His voice was very quiet. “I should beat the shit out of you.”

  If he grabbed her, she would poke out his eye. She would kick and bite and scratch. Her mind sped up and ran too quickly for her to hear it. She waited.

  He threw the bill at her. “Get out,” he said.

  As she walked, her mind stopped racing and she began to think. She didn’t know where she was going, but she felt heady and feverish with clarity. She would not be frightened. She would be all right. It was so cold her teeth chattered, but that was all right. She walked a long time. Sometimes she heard voices, and she knew she was passing near groups of people who couldn’t hear her. She felt safe and private in the dark.

  She emerged on Haight Street. A caravan of street people were arrayed across the edge of the park. She could see them huddled in ragged groups, their belongings on the ground in bundles. Some people walked between groups with a feisty, rakish air. Dogs trotted about, wagging their tails and sniffing people. The scene had a m
uddy, pushed-down feeling, but inside that was something raw, volatile, and potent as electricity; it could go in any direction, and it was hard to tell which it would be. She walked by a bright-yellow shirt that had been used to wipe somebody’s butt. She realized she was trembling.

  “Hi.” A woman wearing a purple jacket walked up to her. “Do you need anything?”

  “What?”

  “Like condoms or . . . anything?” The woman had a nervous little face and funny looking glasses. Her jacket had “Youth Outreach” written on it. “Um, alcohol pads, bleach, a toothbrush? A cookie?”

  “No, thank you,” Elise had said.

  It was getting dark. Through the screen, Elise could feel that the air had cooled, but the apartment was still very hot. It was seven-thirty. Andy and Eric were yelling at each other. In a minute, they would start hitting. Elise felt anger come up in her and then go back down.

  “Come on,” she said. “It’s time for dinner.”

  Andy threw his toy truck on the floor so hard it dented the wood. “When is Mommy coming?”