by Mary Rickert
You are on a train. Your whole body aches. The body is a wound. You groan as you turn your head away from the hard glass. The body is in agony. Your head throbs. You reach up and feel the bald scalp. Oh! The body! The dream of the body! The hope of the body for some miracle world where you will no longer suffer. You press your open palms against your face. You are not weeping. You are not breathing. You are not even here. Someone taps the body’s shoulder.
You look up into the hound face of the train conductor. Ticket? he says.
I already gave it to you.
He shakes his head.
You search through your pockets and find a wallet. The wallet is filled with bills but there is no ticket. I seem to have lost it, you say, but look, here, I can pay you.
The conductor lifts the large walkie-talkie to his long mouth and says some words you don’t listen to. Then he just stands there, looking at you. You realize he thinks he exists and you do too. The train screams to a long, slow stop. He escorts you off.
You can’t just leave me here, you say. I’m not well.
Here’s your ride now, he says.
The police cruiser comes to a halt. The policeman gets out. He tilts the brim of his hat at the conductor. When he gets close to you, he looks up with interest. Well, well, he says.
There’s been some sort of mistake, you say. Please, I’m not well.
The conductor steps back onto the train. The windows are filled with the faces of passengers. A child with enormous ears points at you and waves. For a second you think you see yourself. But that isn’t possible. Is it?
The policeman says, Put your hands behind your back.
These aren’t my hands.
He slaps the cuffs on you. Too tight. You tell him they are too tight.
The whistle screams over your words. The train slowly moves away.
Aren’t you going to read me my rights?
The policeman leans into your face with bratwurst breath. Just ’cause you shaved your head you think I don’t know who you are, he says. He steers you to the cruiser. Places one hand on your head as you crouch to sit in the backseat.
I know my rights, you insist.
He radios the station. Hey, he says, I’m bringing something special.
You drive past cows and cornfields, farmhouses and old barns. The handcuffs burn into your wrists. The head hurts, the arms hurt, the whole body hurts. You groan.
Whatsa matter? The policeman looks at you in the rearview mirror.
I’m not well.
You sure do look beat up.
I’ve been in a hospital, you say.
Is that right?
You look out the window at an old white farmhouse on a distant hill. You wonder who loves there.
The station is a little brick building surrounded by scrubby brown grass and pastures. The policeman behind the desk and the policewoman pouring coffee both come over to look at you.
Fucken A, they say.
Can I make my phone call?
The policewoman takes off the handcuffs. She presses the thumb into a pad of ink. She tells you where to stand for your picture. Smile, she says, we got you now, Farino.
What?
What is this body doing with you? What has happened? They list the crimes he’s committed. You insist it was never you. You never did those things. You are incapable of it. You tell them about the hospital, the Doctors, you tell them how Farino tricked you.
They tell you terrible things. They talk about fingerprints and blood.
But it wasn’t me, you insist.
Farino, they say, cut this shit and confess. Maybe we can give you a deal, life, instead of death. How about that?
But I didn’t, you say. I’m not like that.
You fucking monster! Why don’t you show a little decency? Tell us what you did with the bodies.
I was in a hospital. He switched bodies with me. He tricked me.
Oh, fuck it. He’s going for the fuckin’ insanity shit, ain’t he? Fuck it all anyway. How long he been here? Oh, fuck, give him the fuckin’ phone call. Let him call his fuckin’ lawyer, the fuckin’ bastard.
You don’t know who to call. They give you the public defender’s number. No, you say, I have money. In my wallet.
That ain’t your money to spend, you worthless piece of shit. That belonged to Renata King, okay?
Renata?
What? Is it coming back to you now? Your little amnesia starting to clear up?
How’d I end up with Renata’s wallet?
You fuckin’ ape. You know what you did.
But you don’t. You only know that you want to live. You want to live more than you want anything else at all. You want life, you want life, you want life. All you want is life.
What if this is really happening? What if you are really here? What if out of all the bodies, all the possibilities, you are in this body and what if it has done terrible things?
Listen, you say. You look up at the three stern faces. They hate you, you think, but no, they hate this body. You are not this body. The stern faces turn away from you. What can you say anyway? How can you explain? You sit, waiting, as though this were an ordinary matter, this beautiful thing, this body, breathing. This body. This past. This terrible judgment. This wonderful knowledge. The body breathes. It breathes and it doesn’t matter what you want, when the body wants to, it breathes. It breathes in the hospital, it breathes in the jail, it breathes in your dreams and it breathes in your nightmares, it breathes in love and it breathes in hate and there’s not much you can do about any of it, you are on a train, you are in an operating room, you are in a jail, you are innocent, you are guilty, you are not even here. None of this is about you, and it never was.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to Emma Powell, as soon as I saw your haunting photographs at emmapowellphotography.com I hoped you would allow a piece to be used for cover art; you did, and I couldn’t be more pleased with the result. Thank you to my family, the Rickerts, Bauerbands, Vetters, Kenneys, McCanns, Dehecks, Dopkeens and Orths for cheering me on, sending thoughtful notes, attending readings, and hand selling my books. I am truly fortunate to have your love and support. Thank you also to the Lyons family, technically not mine, but I’m claiming you anyway. To my friends who have understood my need for solitude, even when it has been inconvenient to the friendship, thank you for loving me through my weird: Rietje Marie Angkuw, Cathy Barber, Kristen Barrows, Haddayr Copley-Woods, Karen Crandall, Kriscinda Lee Everitt, Marcia Gorra-Patek, Mary Leanord, Liz Musser, Sofia Samatar, Terry Shuster, and Vera Lisa Smetzer. Special thanks to Christopher Barzak, you have been my trusted companion through the challenges of a writing life, holding the lantern aloft for me. During my years as an apprentice writer I often struggled financially and benefitted from the kindness of others. I want to give a big thanks to Dr. Richard Dunham for your generosity when I needed compassion and dental work. Thank you also to Thomas Tunney for sharing your wisdom, expertise, and bagels! Thank you to my agent, Howard Morhaim, for working so hard on my behalf with class, integrity, and intelligence; I am honored to have you as my representative in the world. Over the years I have been happy to meet, either in person or through email, many people who have taken the time to tell me they enjoyed something I wrote. These exchanges are some of the highlights of my life. Thank you, dear readers, for being a part of my story. Others have supported me with their special talent for teaching, generously sharing the hard lessons they learned so I might enjoy the benefit without the suffering. Thank you to Laurie Alberts, Karen Joy Fowler, Douglas Glover, Joshilyn Jackson and David Jauss. A special bow of gratitude to Ellen Lesser who worked so tirelessly with me for two semesters, helping me find my novel, and my passion for engagement with critique, thus gifting me with that cherished experience of a snowy night when I was so immersed in a great work I momentarily forgot it was not my own. Thank you as well to Vermont College of Fine Arts for accepting me into the MFA program, in spite of the deficits I brought to my applic
ation; it was a tremendous experience. Thank you also to Meg Galaza of Yoga One Studio in Cedarburg, Wisconsin. When I think of the great teachers in my life, I think of you. Thank you to Gavin J. Grant and Kelly Link of Small Beer Press. As a young writer I often imagined an idealized relationship between publishers, editors and writers; it has been lovely to have such an experience working with you. Finally, thank you to my husband, Bill Bauerband for always leaving the tea kettle on and the fire lit.
Publication History
These stories were previously published as follows: The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction: “Memoir of a Deer Woman” (March 2007), “Journey into the Kingdom” (May 2006), “Cold Fires” (October/November 2004), “The Corpse Painter’s Masterpiece” (September/October 2011), “The Christmas Witch” (December 2006), “The Chambered Fruit” (August 2003). Subterranean Magazine: “Holiday” (2007). SCIFICTION: “Anyway” (August 2005). Tor.com: “The Mothers of Voorhisville” (April 2014). Feeling Very Strange: The Slipstream Anthology: “You Have Never Been Here” (March 2006). “The Shipbuilder” appears here for the first time.
About the Author
Mary Rickert has worked as kindergarten teacher, barista, Disneyland balloon vendor, and in the personnel department of Sequoia National Park where she spent her time off hiking the wilderness. She is the author of two collections and a novel The Memory Garden. She has received the Crawford, World Fantasy, and Shirley Jackson awards for her writing. She lives in Wisconsin.
Small Beer Press
Recent and forthcoming short story collections and novels from Small Beer Press for independently minded readers:
Nathan Ballingrud, North American Lake Monsters: Stories
Shirley Jackson Award winner
Karen Joy Fowler, What I Didn’t See and Other Stories
World Fantasy Award winner
“An exceptionally versatile author.”—St. Louis Post-Dispatch
Angelica Gorodischer, Trafalgar (trans. Amalia Gladhart)
“I found it delightful. Thought-provoking. Impressive. Brilliant.”—Liz Bourke, Tor.com
Eileen Gunn, Questionable Practices: Stories
“Combines humor and compassion in 17 short, intricate gems.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
Elizabeth Hand, Errantry: Stories
“Elegant nightmares, sensuously told.”—Publishers Weekly
Generation Loss: a Cass Neary novel
“Postpunk attitude and dark mystery.” —George Pelecanos
Kij Johnson, At the Mouth of the River of Bees: Stories
“Thought-provoking . . . emotionally wrenching stories.”
—Publishers Weekly, Best Books of the Year
Kelly Link, Magic for Beginners; Stranger Things Happen
Maureen F. McHugh, After the Apocalypse: Stories
Shirley Jackson Award winner
Publishers Weekly Top 10 Best Books of the Year
“This is definitely one of the best works of science fiction you’ll read this year, or any thereafter.”—Annalee Newitz, NPR
Delia Sherman, Young Woman in a Garden: Stories
“Lightly flecked with fantasy and anchored in vividly detailed settings.” — Publishers Weekly Best Books of the Year
Ysabeau S. Wilce, Prophecies, Libels, and Dreams: Stories
“Califa: riotous carnival world of soldiers, drunks and magick.”
— Kirkus Reviews
Our ebooks are available at all ebookstores as well as DRM-free in multiple formats at our indie ebooksite weightlessbooks.com.
Read excerpts, interviews, see what we’ve done, what we’re going to do at www.smallbeerpress.com.
