20

by John Edgar Wideman

  Then we spied on other things. The highway. We stared very hard at the other cars when they drove by us. Spying right on the driver, if they saw we didn't look away, kept spying.

  Soon we were going so slow. We had a lane to ourself. Twenty miles an hour right on the freeway. He said he didn't care where his ass ended up. I remember his tone. We drove along.

  “We could go spy on Supermarket,” he said, he forgot the name. We did that, we drove slow by the window of Shop N’ Save, all lit up and the shoppers inside with carts not knowing we were spying, and then he turned into the director.

  “Keep shopping,” he told them, don't stop. He nodded, he told them they were doing a good job. He was the director now. We were back on the freeway and he told the cars, “That's right, keep it up now, keep driving, that's right,” and he nodded. He told them he was very proud of them, and also the light, he told it to change red so we could stop, then told the light it was very good, he was proud. We then passed a woman lit up in a glass telephone booth. “Insert the coin and make the call,” he directed, and she did.

  Also we went to the factory, leather I think, the one under the bridge, there was a big chain link fence, we spied through it, we saw the factory wall. Our shadows were there. How his hands were on the fence is very clear. He shook the fence. Then he put the collar of his spy coat up and told me to do the same. We looked at our black shadows on the wall and waved to them. Then, back to the car, and now the keys between us and also his hand patting them. Next.

  We spied on sheep. They are downstate, way past Dover. We were flying, he directed the other cars, “Keep going, you're all doing fine, just keep driving.” He directed the moon, he said, “Shine shine and don't fall down,” and to the litter he pointed and said “Lie there and look awful” and we were going so fast the farmhouses float, float up off the land, he told them to. All the land was black and under the sheep. He pulled the car up and shined his lights on the sheep. We spied very long, he told them they were being good, doing a good job. He said stand there and look at us and they did. White wool bodies, black faces, pink ears and black legs. When they spoke the sound was men trapped inside.

  Look at these poor animals, he said, they don't want to be here, they want to go to another planet, can't you tell? I kept looking at the sheep, just looking now, not spying. And they turned their faces, you could see the world turning away from you.

  All the sheep were walking away and then he said “Your mother's in a dream world, a dream world all her own, and I don't know what's happening here.” You kissed him as he cried like kissing him good-bye and hello at the same time you're not sure, push him away as hard as you can.

  Very quiet. Back upstate. We drove and drove. Then we went down our street. It is very narrow, it never struck me how narrow our street was but then it did, that night, all the houses stuck together, we got claustrophobia. But he told the houses “Keep standing still in the moonlight.” And then he parked right outside our house.

  We spied from the car. Tears were running down. Already she was in the nightgown, roses on white. First she was in one window, her arms crossed. “You just stand there with your arms crossed,” he said. “That's right. Then in another window. That's right,” he said. “Walk from window to window in your roses.” She then stood in the big window, lit a cigarette as he told her, “Light a cigarette. Now inhale. That's good, now smoke it.” She smoked it, and he said “Perfect.”

  Let's go in please.

  In the morning I woke up, he was gone. I could feel it, it's for good, maybe he went to another country. You don't hope for return.

  My mother cried and didn't get dressed for some time. Then a new man came, one who brought me presents:

  1 crossword books

  2 red socks with light blue stars

  3 underwater snow scene thing

  4 china mouse with gray vest plus spectacles

  5 poster of sea gull flying over ocean

  6 notebook, pencils

  7 a record by a fellow named B. B. King

  8 several times, candy, including Baby Ruth, a personal favorite

  A very nice man, nobody should complain, by the name of Everett and feels great sympathy for all the peoples of the earth. He and my mother sit at the white table now, two voices behind the wall, you can get the glass and press your ear. She said to him last night I'm like my father, and she can't help that damn it. Other people's husbands come back just fine, she said, in a way I'm glad he's gone. It's a big relief, she said. They were drinking hot water with lemon in it like they do with saltines.

  To peel off my black leotards every night then to sleep, not under the blankets, they itch my skin, but under his spy coat, it smells like him, left behind on purpose, don't you think? and I clench my eyes shut and there is the sheep, every time, rising off the black land into the stars and inside the sheep's mind me pushing him away and his voice so clear in my head still directing. He tells the sheep Fly and they're already flying, so they fly.

  1993

  WINTER HAVEN

  Stewart O'Nan

  My father calls about the grass. It's December, I'm trying to sell our place, and we've got a squatter jumping house to house down the beach, building fires on the marble floors.

  “You said once a week,” my father says, “it's more like once a month.”

  It's long distance—peak hours—and I pay no matter who calls. That's all going to change once Eileen gets the papers together. The market's depressed, and I'm eating Corn Flakes a lot.

  “Look,” I tell him, “I'll give him a call, all right?”

  “I don't want to be a pain in the ass about it.”

  “You are being,” I say, to let him know he isn't.

  “So when are you coming down?”

  “Christmas.”

  “When Christmas?”

  “Things are crazy up here,” I say, and end up telling him about Eileen.

  “That's a shame,” he says. “I bet you feel different now, don't you?”

  “It's a collarbone.”

  “That's not the point,” he says.

  “All that's over,” I say, “and I'm not going to talk about it.” He shuts up to make me feel bad.

  “I'll call the guy,” I say.

  I'm living in the guest room off the kitchen so Sandy the realtor can show the house looking nice. The furniture's here; Eileen only took the kids. I have the drapes open and the shades up, the rug's just been shampooed. I've taken down all the crosses except Dan's over my bed. I keep at the dishes, the counters. It's with the multiple listing; when I get off swing shift I find cards by the sink. I'll leave a few rounds on the dresser to give them a thrill.

  “He's a detective,” Sandy or Barb or Gerry will say. It sounds better than a plain cop, like the pay was really different.

  The buyers'll give Dan's Jesus the eye, and depending on the sell, Sandy will or won't tell the story. I wonder what they think I'm going to do. I wonder if they have any suggestions.

  Swing isn't as bad as graveyard. Everything's open, and you don't have to change the way you sleep. The day is basically the same, the meals and everything, you just call dinner lunch. You're never late for work.

  I don't like to be in the house days. I'll drive down to the ocean and read the Psalms, which sometimes works. I have the department Blazer while I'm on the squatter. The waves come up the sand until they're under me.

  O Lord my God, in thee do I take refuge;

  save me from all my pursuers, and deliver me,

  lest like a lion they rend me,

  dragging me away, with none to rescue.

  My father hates Winter Haven, the people always out. He says he wants to come back north now that my mother is gone. He doesn't have any friends in Florida, he misses the winter. When the spray is blowing and the gulls hover and the wind herds the trash barrels, I can see the attraction, but the old place is gone, and his friends are dead. But you can't tell him that.

  “Any luck?” I ask Sand
y.

  “Things will pick up with the weather, it's just a buyer's market right now. One problem is people with children don't like breaking up the school year, and that's I think who we're looking for, a family with children. Unfortunately you know what the economy is like around here, I think that's keeping the market slowed down, but things will pick up I'm sure come March, it's just a slow time of year normally.”

  Eileen's face is coming along but she has to wear a sling, and I have a hard time stopping my sympathy. Once on a bust I fell into a boat and broke my hand. I hated her cutting my food; no matter what it was, halfway through it was cold.

  “You want pizza five times a week?” she said. “You want hot dogs and hamburgers like a little kid?”

  Our squatter dumps in the toilets but they're capped for the winter. It hits you a foot in the door, that and the smoke. He snips the alarms, even the big ADT systems, that's why Jimby thinks it's a pro. Jimby's from the city; to him if you can fix a car you're a genius. When I was a kid we used to do the same thing, that's why I'm swing and Jimby's days. Jimby comes in, there's an address on his desk, something-something Dune road, and by the time I get in it's pictures. A dried dump, charred ends of driftwood by a grand piano. I put on my duck gear and roam the dunes around the empty houses. Baymen say the sea talks if you listen, but I'm safe. God isn't like a star that can go out.

  The grass guy says he's been there. “914 Clarendon,” he says, “I got it right in front of me.”

  “What's the date?”

  “Says Thursday.”

  “This Thursday.”

  “The Thursday just was.”

  “What about this Thursday?”

  “It doesn't grow that fast.”

  “Then what, will you tell me, am I paying forty dollars a month for?”

  “I'll go and do it again myself if you want.”

  “Please,” I say.

  I don't like talking on the phone with the kids. I don't know what she's said to them. “Your old man's not so bad,” I say sometimes, but they don't bite. Jay wouldn't trust me even if things were normal; twelve's an ugly age. I expected some help from Dan, but he's gone quiet. It's a bad sign, I say to her, but she thinks I'm getting on her about the whole thing. “Maybe I should move back in,” she says. “Sure. Give me a minute to pack everything up, OK?”

  She doesn't bother to argue anymore. She'll hear it's me and hang up. She thinks the restraining order takes care of everything. Her sister's the one I feel bad for. Jenny's always liked me. “She's very confused right now,” Jenny'll tell me outside. We both know it's not true but it makes leaving easier, and she watches me walk away from the porch like I'll be coming back.

  I've got the profit figured at sixteen thousand, clear. When the car commercials come on, I think about walking into the dealer and dropping an envelope on the desk and just pointing to the one I want. Not that we're going to get close to what we're asking.

  I like to four-wheel at night, rolling slow over the dunes. The surfcasters' fires hop out of the darkness, then black. A camper forms, battened down for the night. I've got the kids' mattresses in back, beef jerky on the dash, my basic ordnance. It's not going to be easy to go back to the Caprice. I send the spotlight out over the water; even at night, it is still coming.

  O Lord my God, if I have done this,

  if there is wrong in my hands,

  if I have requited my friend with evil

  or plundered my enemy without cause,

  let the enemy pursue me and overtake me,

  and let him trample my life to the ground,

  and lay my soul in the dust.

  I don't have trouble sleeping, I just forget a lot lately. Jimby leaves me an empty pack of Salems, half-burnt, a blackened matchbook with JFK's face, and a pair of dead AA batteries. He has on a note card, “Menthol Crack Walkman?” I go down to the property room and get something to keep me going. I'm supposed to drop by the rest area past exit 66 and shine my light into the bushes, but when I get there I open the window and listen to the rustle of the men. When is love not evil?

  The lights are on at Jenny's, the curtains drawn. Jay's bike lies on its side on the front lawn. I eat a stick of beef jerky and watch the shadows cross and recross the living room window.

  Sandy calls and wakes me up to tell me we have a buyer. I'm in last night's camo and still going. My eyes are like tinfoil, my gums sweat. The offer is eighty-seven-five.

  “That's not even close,” I say.

  “No one is getting list value out here right now. If I were in your position I'd think about a serious counter offer.”

  “Things are going to pick up in a few months in the spring, is that right?”

  “I can't predict the market,” she says. “They're a good risk for a mortgage.”

  “One-oh-two.”

  “I don't think they'll like that.”

  My pump leans in the corner. Dan's Jesus bleeds down over me.

  “Oh well,” I say.

  Jimby comments on my beard. “You're really getting into the part,” he says, pointing at my hunting vest, my orange hat. They're my own clothes.

  “So,” I say, “how close are you?”

  “Don't get wise,” he says, “how're you holding up?”

  “Aces, Jimby I'm living the life.”

  Jenny's husband, Howie, bowls Tuesdays and Thursdays in Hampton Bays. He rolls three strings then yuks it up in the bar, two pitchers max. The season is on a chart on the wall; it's not half over. This cheap crank makes me see funny, but it looks like Howie's the team's anchorman. Good for fucking you, Howie.

  “Jay,” I say.

  “We're not supposed to talk to you,” he says, and hangs up.

  The men groan in the bushes. I go down to the beach and shine my fog lights into the houses, go home and sleep till noon. Sin is no enemy.

  I've got to remember to eat more often, and then when I try to have cereal the milk is bad. I feed the cards into the disposal, pour the clotted milk in, and grind it all. The buyers are fuckheads.

  “The grass,” my father says, “no one came about it.”

  “I will take care of it,” I say, “I swear if I have to come down there myself and cut it.”

  “I'm the only one here,” he says. “You don't know what it's like.”

  “Do you want me to come down?”

  “What about Eileen and the kids?”

  “They're gone.”

  “That's a shame,” he says. “Now don't worry about this thing with the grass. I know you've got problems.”

  “I'm absolutely fine,” I say, “I'm just worried about you.”

  “Don't,” he says, “I won't be in your hair much longer.”

  The guy at the grass place says there was nothing to cut but he ran the mower over it anyway. He gives me the address again. “Does your father have a problem with his memory maybe?”

  “How much do I owe you total?” I say, “because I am sick of this bullshit.”

  Thursday our squatter's camped out at the Flamingo Club in the empty swimming pool and risks a fire because of the windchill. Jimby's coming back from a long lunch at the Crow's Nest and practically trips over the smoke. A local kid, what did I say? I get a change of shift day which takes me through the weekend, then Monday it's back to shaving.

  I get down to the beach before sunset. The wind is up, the surf bucking. A few men in waders are letting fly. I've got the heater blasting, a cold six on the seat, my box of Flakes. I can't remember if I took the two I usually take around now, and take four to make sure. The sea never gets tired, never gives up.

  O let the evil of the wicked come to an end,

  but establish thou the righteous.

  I fill up at a Hess and buy two of their Christmas tankers and drive over to Jenny's. They have a tree and presents under it, angels with pipe cleaner wings. Howie's into his second game. Either none of us or all of us are forgiven.

  Jenny doesn't understand what I'm doing there. I hand her the
tankers through the crack in the door and show her the gun.

  “Ron,” she says, but won't stop looking at it. I open the door and she steps back.

  “Who is it?” Eileen calls from upstairs.

  “It's me,” I say.

  She comes to the top of the stairs. “Jen, are you all right?”

  “She's fine,” I say.

  “What do you want?” Eileen says.

  “I wanted to say good-bye. I'm going to Florida. I brought these for the kids.” I point to the tankers.

  “Good-bye then,” Eileen says.

  “Good-bye,” I say, and shoot her through the sling. She falls back instead of down the stairs so I can just see her feet, flopping. I figure the one's good enough.

  I steer clear of the rest areas, sleep in the campgrounds. In the Carolinas everyone's friendly and has extra razors. Driving, I imagine a cop pulling me over, looking in my side while I pretend to get my registration. He'll figure I'm a regular guy and ask, “What's the lawnmower for?” and I'll say, “To cut grass With,” and then who knows what will happen.

  1994

  RISE

  Jennifer Cornell

  This is a list of the things that went missing: half a metre of green nylon netting, a small quantity of stainless-steel gauze, a bolt of cheesecloth, two pairs of forceps, eight sheets of plywood and a box of syringes, half a dozen light bulbs, a spool of wire, a fret saw, a hammer, and a packet of needles.

  It's that boy, my Uncle Vincent said. What did I tell you about that boy?

  Now hold on a minute, my father said.

  Hold on, nothing, my uncle answered. That's who's done it. And it's your own fault for taking in strays.

  Alright, we'll go see him, my father said, but when we got to the house he wouldn't go in. Instead he went up to a man in his shirtsleeves who was leaning in a doorway on the other side of the street. The man straightened up when he saw us coming, and the girl on her knees in the hallway behind him sat back on her heels and set her brush down.