by Ted Sanders
He invents a game in which trivia questions are asked about himself. He enjoys this game. He finds it surprisingly difficult, not at all sad.
He cares for his teeth. He possesses a healthy respect for the mechanics of flossing. He wraps the floss sturdily around his fingertips. His fingers turn purple and white.
He takes up paper-folding. He has purchased colored paper for the purpose. He has followed difficult paper-folding instructions, has made an angelback frog, a seven-cornered star, a snowcapped mountain, a dromedary. He memorizes the steps involved in the creation of basic forms. He refines his technique. He makes a castle keep, a hawk approaching, a collapsible looking-glass, an unfortunate dog. He has come to the conclusion that the best folds are those he draws through the bite of his incisors. He presses the fine cuts in his fingers closed, applies droplets of clear, potent glue.
Peter Lumley receives a piece of the machine in the mail, returned and forwarded to himself. He appraises the handwriting on the envelope.
He maintains a display of the shapes he has folded from paper. He fusses with the arrangement.
He implements a regimen of stretching in the morning. He is surprised to discover how far he cannot bend. He commits himself to deriving satisfaction from the regimen.
He devotes himself to exploring the countless permutations of various cheeses, various crackers. He learns the difference between fontina and fontinella. He fails to encounter a perfectly satisfying cracker. This occupies him for several weeks.
Peter Lumley fingers the machine part through the worn, crinkled thickness of the envelope. He contemplates the intricacy of what he discerns.
Peter Lumley remarks to himself how every day, he dresses himself in the ordinary fashion.
Peter Lumley gathers certain of his belongings. Peter Lumley combs his hair.
Peter Lumley returns to his room. He finds Peter Lumley there, bent over parts of the machine. Peter Lumley rises and begins to talk rapidly about the machine. He tells Peter Lumley that he has spent over a month counting wrinkles in his skin. From certain parts of the machine, he has constructed an aperture through which objects, such as himself, can be seen greatly magnified. He asserts that he has developed a new appreciation for the nature of a wrinkle, for its tendency to propagate endlessly at finer and finer scales, for the ever-more canyonesque quality of his skin. He explains that he has since disassembled this machine.
Peter Lumley participates in the unpacking of Peter Lumley’s things. Peter Lumley asks about the pink lamp.
Peter Lumley and Peter Lumley come to work quietly over parts of the machine. They sit through the night. By morning, they complete a noise-dampening device—possibly by accident—and cannot speak to one another for most of the afternoon, except with gestures. They are surprised not to understand each other better.
That evening, Peter Lumley and Peter Lumley construct a device that briefly causes forgetfulness. Later, hesitantly, they blame each other for this.
Both Peter Lumley and Peter Lumley insist that the other take the bed but Peter Lumley refuses.
They build a machine like a long, twisted tank tread, a sagging belt like a strip of ammunition. They watch as it trundles around the room, dedicated to a specific sinuous circuit. Peter Lumley observes that it is a Möbius strip, that its interior becomes its exterior as it rolls, and so forth. Peter Lumley observes that every unique point of the machine touches the floor in the same unique spot each time the machine circles the room. Peter Lumley draws attention to the pleasantness of the sound made by the machine. Peter Lumley concurs. The sound remains pleasant for several days.
Peter Lumley and Peter Lumley build a bulbous machine that seems to do nothing. It reminds them of something they cannot recall.
Peter Lumley and Peter Lumley construct an angular, spinning device whose purpose is a source of contention.
Peter Lumley and Peter Lumley build a box with no outside.
Every other night, Peter Lumley sleeps in the bed. An unspoken understanding allows this to occur naturally. Peter Lumley sleeps in the chair on these occasions. Peter Lumley is an excellent cook, a quietly tidy man, a decent enough companion, sensible on the whole.
In time, Peter Lumley and Peter Lumley build a tiny machine that trembles and causes maternal yearnings in those who cup it in their palm. They admit to themselves, huddled quietly around the machine, a different intent.
The Peter Lumleys contend that the trembling machine is pleasant to sleep with.
Peter Lumley trims Peter Lumley’s hair. He attempts to style it like his own.
Peter Lumley wonders aloud if the trembling machine seems to express certain needs. Peter Lumley explains that the machine cannot express need, only function. He describes, in detail, the theoretical mediums for a fabricated expression of need. Peter Lumley hands Peter Lumley the trembling machine.
Peter Lumley considers his surroundings. Peter Lumley recalls basic forms used in the folding of paper. The trembling machine is always with Peter Lumley.
Occasionally, Peter Lumley speaks sentimentally about the Möbius-strip machine. Peter Lumley perfects an imitation of the sound it made. Peter Lumley asks if Peter Lumley remembers the forgetful machine. Peter Lumley wonders aloud what would have resulted if the box with no outside had been built inside out.
The Peter Lumleys slowly begin to verbalize certain complicated needs to each other.
The trembling machine is disassembled.
Peter Lumley and Peter Lumley begin to build a machine that slowly takes the shape of Peter Lumley. Peter Lumley feels a strange warmth begin to spread across his face as he becomes aware of the fact. He comes to believe he recognizes this same sensation manifesting itself on the face of Peter Lumley. The work progresses quickly. Parts of the machine settle deftly into place. Peter Lumley is surprised to find a process something like memory at play in his fingers. They work through the night and through the morning and they finish in the afternoon.
Peter Lumley and Peter Lumley congratulate themselves.
They dress Peter Lumley in Peter Lumley’s clothes. At one point early in this process, Peter Lumley, Peter Lumley, and Peter Lumley spend several murmuring minutes in a circle, examining the skin on one another’s backs.
Peter Lumley tidies up. Peter Lumley bathes. Peter Lumley preheats the oven, begins peeling potatoes, makes a glass pitcher of iced tea.
The Peter Lumleys sit down over dinner. They eat beef tenderloin and potatoes, pale green beans, cranberry sauce from a can. Peter Lumley slices the tenderloin. Peter Lumley explains that the tenderness of this meat has to do with the location of the muscle along the spine of the animal, its infrequent use. Peter Lumley describes the way the tenderloin, in deer, can be pulled out easily by hand. The Peter Lumleys pass the salt. Peter Lumley praises the mashed potatoes, agrees they are creamy, adds pat after pat after pat of butter. Peter Lumley mentions a pain in his side. The Peter Lumleys share a look. Peter Lumley bends in his chair, reaches for his side. He grimaces. He continues eating. The Peter Lumleys all do the same. Peter Lumley tugs at the corner of the tablecloth, straightens a wrinkle with a brisk brush of fingers. They drink tea from thick, green glasses. Peter Lumley uses plenty of ice. Dessert is the remainder of a fat chocolate cake. They discuss how best to divide the cake. Peter Lumley recalls the egalitarian solution whereby one person slices, one person chooses. Peter Lumley objects, invents a variation whereby Peter Lumley cuts the first slice, Peter Lumley cuts the second slice, Peter Lumley chooses, Peter Lumley chooses. Peter Lumley declares he no longer feels like cake.
After dinner, the Peter Lumleys play the game Peter Lumley has invented. They enjoy the game immensely and play it deep into the evening, until Peter Lumley fails to answer a question asked by Peter Lumley. The question has to do with recent developments.
The Peter Lumleys watch television. They do not speak. Peter Lumley drinks tea, coffee, milk.
The Peter Lumleys, deep into the night around the table, sort aimlessly through
the leftover parts of the machine. Peter Lumley talks softly with himself.
Peter Lumley nods off. Peter Lumley snores monstrously. Peter Lumley nudges Peter Lumley awake.
Peter Lumley and Peter Lumley begin to disassemble Peter Lumley. They begin with his hands, prudently. His skin looks rosy beneath the light of the pink lamp. Peter Lumley remarks what a sad affair it is. Peter Lumley marvels at the complexity of the machine in question. Peter Lumley watches their work unfold, flexes his tongue inside his mouth. As he watches he hums to himself—as ably as he might—a circumscript, invented tune.
Acknowledgments
The stories in this book have appeared in the following publications:
“Jane,” The Southern Review
“Assembly,” Confrontation
“Obit,” The Indiana Review and PEN/O’Henry Prize Stories 2010
“Flounder,” The Gettysburg Review
“Momentary,” The Massachusetts Review
“The Lion,” Black Warrior Review
“Deer in the Road,” Berkeley Fiction Review
“Putting the Lizard to Sleep,” The Georgia Review
Thanks to Neil Archer, who is incapable of not stating the obvious, and who helped get this all going. Thanks to Richard Powers, for bringing the massive fist of his intellect to bear on these stories. Much gratitude also to Alex Shakar, Michael Madonick, Philip Graham, and Audrey Petty, for all their time and insight and support. Thanks to my classmates at UIUC. Thanks to Katie Dublinski and everyone else at Graywolf, and to the dedicated folks at Bread Loaf.
Thanks to my parents, and my son Rowan. Thanks to Jodee, for everything she does and is; so much would never have happened without her. Much gratitude and affection for all the friends and readers and shapers, named and unnamed here, for letting a part of your lives be a part of mine. Life will always be the thing, the story that can’t really be told.
Bread Loaf and the Bakeless Prizes
The Katharine Bakeless Nason Literary Publication Prizes were established in 1995 to expand the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference’s commitment to the support of emerging writers. Endowed by the LZ Francis Foundation, the prizes commemorate Middlebury College patron Katharine Bakeless Nason and launch the publication career of a poet, a fiction writer, and a creative nonfiction writer annually. Winning manuscripts are chosen in an open national competition by a distinguished judge in each genre. Winners are published by Graywolf Press.
2011 Judges
Carl Phillips
Poetry
Stacey D’Erasmo
Fiction
Lynn Freed
Creative Nonfiction
Ted Sanders’s stories and essays have appeared in journals such as the Georgia Review, Black Warrior Review, Cincinnati Review, the Gettysburg Review, and the Massachusetts Review. His work has been featured in the O. Henry Prize Stories, and he was the recipient of a 2012 NEA Literature Fellowship Grant. He has lived in Illinois for most of his life and now resides in Urbana with his family. He holds an MFA in fiction from the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, where he currently teaches writing.
The text of No Animals We Could Name is set in Sabon MT Pro, an old-style serif typeface based on the types of Claude Garamond and designed by the German-born typographer and designer Jan Tschichold (1902–1974) in 1964. Book design by Ann Sudmeier. Composition by BookMobile Design and Publishing Services, Minneapolis, Minnesota. Manufactured by Versa Press on acid-free, 30 percent postconsumer wastepaper.
