by Неизвестный
I climb in bed to read the paper but I can’t much concentrate on the words there. The nervousness inside me is messing with my thoughts, getting ready to blow. The newspaper says something about the Peking Opera, something about a volcano in Indonesia, something about a government cover-up, but it’s all the same to me.
My husband has stopped talking. He takes off his clothes without my even asking him to and stands in front of me, pulling on one ear like there is an honesty tonight, a bright rawness I’ve never seen before. He is beautiful to look at. I slide the newspaper to the floor and he shuts off the light. We don’t say good night to one another. I’m too nervous. We don’t say anything and the air is rigid between us in the dark. I wait, blinking my eyes, seeing nothing. I worry. There’s no guarantee that anything will happen. Just because something has happened doesn’t mean it will continue to happen, and then he will think I’m crazy and then he will call some girl we knew in high school, one who doesn’t have problems like this. One who doesn’t have a dead brother. I listen for him to fall asleep, for his breath to change, but it doesn’t. Instead he clears his throat. I hear him stay awake, imagining his eyes blinking open against the dark like mine. I wait and wait, listening. America at night, a couple of cars, some wind, a plane overhead, a blue jay or a crow—one of the birds with an ugly voice is upset about something outside. I wait and listen until I can’t wait any longer. The blanket is up around the back of my neck. My eyes shut as a woman and I am asleep before it happens.
When I wake it is still night. I can tell because there is a small knot of unknown fear in my lungs and a soupy proximity to every memory I’ve ever had. Something is rousing me, something wants for attention. A poke, a sharpness dragged across the fur of my back. I seize up the muscles in my neck. The barrel of a gun.
Though the room is dark I can see in the light of the alarm clock’s blue digital numbers, 12:32. I can see my hooves. I am too scared to move, too scared to turn around. The newspaper lies on the floor. The brother in Minnesota is probably still at his security job after having worked all day at the chicken plant. I think of him. I wonder if his sister is home asleep or if she is out at the bar with her college friends. It seems important to know which just at that moment. It seems important to understand whether or not it is worth it to sacrifice yourself for someone else.
I feel the poke again. It is sharp. There is no mistaking it and so I release my breath, resigned. I get all four legs underneath me. They tremble as I turn, prepared for what I might deserve. I decide, in that moment, that it’s worth it even if I don’t really mean that.
The digital clock changes to 12:33. There is no gun.
He has his front hoof raised. A buck, almost twice my size, with nearly eight points of antlers, is waiting, his leg raised as if looking for the answer to some question I didn’t hear asked. The light of the clock reflects dully in the curve of his worn antlers. My front knees loosen and shake, so that I stumble. My head dips away from him. There is a deer in my bedroom, one besides me, that is, and I am terrified, more terrified than I would be by all the guns in the world. I know what a gun means. I haven’t got any idea what a deer does.
I lift my eyes to him. He winces again when we meet. He lowers his hoof down to the rug and, turning his back on me, walks from the bedroom. It is then that I pick up his scent. His mother gave birth to him. High school. A tire plant. Akron. Heavy machinery. The dinner I made him just hours ago. Mine.
I follow him into our living room. “How?” I want to ask him but we are both deer now and deer cannot speak. His neck is bent and he is maneuvering between his antlers, working on something. He has the front doorknob in his mouth, in his jaws. He twists his head, opening the door as if he’s done this a hundred times before. He is demonstrating to me how it is done. The door sticks with the humidity but he shoves it open with his neck. I can see he’s really good at opening the door with his mouth, practiced. The night rushes in and he stands back from it, looking up at me. I can’t be sure what he is saying. Either, “Get out,” or “Come on.” His deer eyes are dark and hard to read. But he is waiting for me to do something. I nudge the screen door with my nose. I walk out in front of him, scared to leave, wondering if he will follow.
Outside, the night is beautiful. Stars and cold. A navy blue sky. The grass underfoot breaks into a spicy smell, oregano and dirt. Why should anyone be afraid of night? But then there is motion around me like standing in a flooded river, and I’m terrified. I am afraid of this night. I stumble back, trying to figure out what I’m looking at, to let the world come into focus. Fur and flanks and pointy hips and rib cages pass slowly before me. Sharp ears that nervously twitch forward and back. Everywhere the warmth of blood. Dark brown eyes lined with white fur, quivering backs that shake an itch. Silence. The road, the yard, the whole county it seems, is filled with deer, a calm stampede of them. An ocean of brown fur moving both together and separately, the way a caterpillar’s back will resist and accept the ground at the same time. Some deer going up the road, some going down. They thread each other. Not one of the deer says a word. It’s quiet. Each looks exactly the same, a flood of the ordinary. I am humiliated by their numbers, by the way they clump themselves together desperately, like insects.
I turn to go back inside our house but he is standing on the front step. He stomps his foot. He doesn’t want us to go back inside. He curls his spine and lurches quickly, urging me forward as if that is where we both belong, as if that is where we’ve both always been. I know exactly where forward is headed. I look out at the deer again, trying to pick out just one from the mass. This is very hard to do. They are guarding what’s individual by disguising it with what’s not. Try to see one leaf in a forest. It’s hard.
My husband steps forward, in front of me. He too is staring at the deer now, the way a person might stare at the sea without thought, without time. I catch a scent. What do the deer mean? That is a good question. That is the best question. I think the answer is somewhere nearby. I can smell it. I could almost say what the answer is but I am a deer now and deer can’t talk.
My husband steps forward again and I follow him right up to the edge of the deer. His antlers have nearly eight points. I tell myself I’ll remember. I’ll find him. I step forward and then I step forward again, closer to the deer. I feel the warmth of that many animals. I feel their plainness rising up to swallow me. I step forward into the stream of beasts.
MIRANDA JULY
Oranges
I .
Are you the favorite person of anybody?
What?
Are you anyone’s favorite person?
Oh.
I can give you more time to think about it.
No, no, that’s okay.
Some very prominent people are not anyone’s favorite, it doesn’t necessarily mean—
I am.
You are?
Yes. My ex-girlfriend’s. Christina.
Great! Thank you! Can I ask you how sure you are of this: very certain, confident, you think so, not so sure, or could be?
I’m very certain.
That’s the highest.
Oh, it is? What was the second highest?
Confident.
Oh.
The one below that is you think so.
Yeah. That one.
You think so?
Yeah.
Okay, this has been really helpful.
I’m glad.
Send anyone down here if you think they might want to do the survey.
I will.
Thanks again.
Okay, bye.
Bye.
II.
Are you the favorite person of anybody?
What?
Are you anyone’s favorite person?
Okay, I’m not interested.
It’s just a survey.
Yeah, I don’t vote.
It’s not political—
Yeah, I understand, I’m not interested in that sort of stuff. What sort of st
uff?
Free love and all that.
What? That’s not what it’s about!
Okay, I know, I’m sure it’s a good thing, I just don’t want to be involved.
Okay, that’s fair.
Okay, bye.
Bye.
III.
Are you the favorite person of anybody?
What?
Are you anyone’s favorite person?
Oh. No.
Are you sure?
Yeah, definitely.
Great! Thank you! Can I ask you how sure you are of this: very certain, confident, you think so, not so sure, or could be? I’m very certain.
That’s the highest.
I know.
Hey, do you want an orange?
What?
An orange—my wife asked me to get rid of some of these oranges.
We have three trees and they just keep producing.
So it’s free?
Totally free. You’d be doing us a favor.
Can I have two?
Sure.
My girlfriend might like one.
Take three.
Are you sure?
Yeah!
Terrific! These are great oranges, thanks!
Thank you.
Thanks again!
Okay, bye!
Bye.
IV.
Are you the favorite person of anybody?
What?
Are you anyone’s favorite person?
I don’t know but can I ask you a question?
What?
If I keep walking down this way will I get to the beach?
The beach? No. The beach is on the other side of town.
But isn’t it in this direction?
Well sure, it’s west, but it’s like thirty miles or something. Thanks.
You’re not going to walk there, are you?
Yeah.
It’s too far.
It’s okay, I’ve got a lot of time.
Shit, you really do.
Yeah.
I’d get bored and then after that I’d get lonely.
I’ll be fine.
Really?
Yeah.
It might even be nice, right? Kind of peaceful?
Yep.
Sounds nice. I wish I could do that.
You’re welcome to come with me.
Yeah?
Sure.
Naw. I have to stay and do this.
Suit yourself.
Yeah, this is pretty important. This survey. Did I already ask you?
What?
Are you the favorite person of anybody?
Yeah, you did.
Right, sorry.
Well, see you later.
Yeah, see you.
V.
Are you the favorite person of anybody?
Oh, no thank you, I already did the survey.
What?
I did it back there, with another guy.
Oh shit.
Maybe you should go to another area, farther away.
Yeah, shit, though. You were going to be my last person for the day.
Oh.
Yeah, see, that’s the thing, if you would’ve been able to answer I could’ve gone home now.
Oh.
Yeah, there’s this show I really wanted to watch on TV.
What show?
America’s Next Top Model.
Oh yeah, that’s kind of like the survey.
What?
You know, it’s like America’s Next Top Favorite Person of
Everybody.
Oh, I see where this is headed.
What?
You think I work for America’s Next Top Model.
No I don’t.
Yeah, you think I’m out recruiting models for the next season.
No, not at all, I was just free-associating.
Exactly, you were trying to associate yourself with the show,
through me.
No I wasn’t.
Well, I’ve got news for you: One, I could be working for supermodel Tyra Banks, I could very well be, because this is LA and it’s
a free country. But I’m not. And secondly, you aren’t pretty enough to be a model.
I know that.
Well, that’s good, because you could waste your life trying to get
into modeling instead of doing something useful with yourself.
Like what?
Well, like anything, like, you know, I don’t know, anything.
Like walking?
No, not walking, that’s not useful.
Oh.
You could, like, be a doctor or something. I don’t know.
Or a veterinarian.
Yeah, that’s a good example.
But I’ll never do that, I don’t have the discipline.
Me either, I can barely do this.
Yeah, me too. I can barely keep up with everything as it is.
Yeah, even without medical school and all that.
Yeah, I can’t even go to the gym.
The gym? I can barely even move.
Me too, I can’t move at all usually.
I’m like a brick or a stone.
Or a piece of food.
Food?
Like a piece of food that someone dropped on the ground and not even the dogs want to eat it.
Yeah, not even the bugs or worms will eat me.
Not even germs.
Germs won’t even touch me.
I’m the same way.
Yeah? Are you the favorite person of anybody? I’m not, are you?
I’d like to think so.
Even though you’re like a piece of dropped food?
Sure, why not? Maybe I have a secret admirer.
How sure are you of this?
I’m not so sure.
But why not hope?
Right, hoping’s free.
You take care.
You too.
Bye.
Bye.
KELLY LINK
Light
TWO MEN, ONE RAISED BY WOLVES
The man at the bar on the stool beside her: bent like a hook over some item. A book, not a drink. A children’s book; dog-eared. When he noticed her stare, he grinned and said, “Got a light?” It was a Friday night, and the Splinter was full of men saying things. Some guy off in a booth was saying, for example, “Well, sure, you can be raised by wolves and lead a normal life but—”
Lindsey said, “I don’t smoke.”
The man straightened up. He said, “Not that kind of light. I mean a light. Do you have a light?”
“I don’t understand,” she said. And then because he was not badlooking, she said, “Sorry.”
“Stupid bitch,” he said. “Never mind.” The watercolor illustration in his book showed a boy and a girl standing in front of a dragon the size of a Volkswagen bus. The man had a pen. He’d drawn word bubbles coming out of the children’s mouths, and now he was writing in words. The children were saying—
The man snapped the book shut; it was a library book.
“Excuse me,” she said, “but I’m a children’s librarian. Can I ask why you’re defacing that book?”
“I don’t know, can you? Maybe you can and maybe you can’t, but why ask me?” the man said. Turning his back to her, he hunched over the book again.
Which was really too much. She opened her shoulder bag and took out her travel sewing kit. She palmed the needle and then jabbed the man in his left buttock. Very fast. Her hand was back in her lap and she was signaling the bartender for another drink when the man howled and sat up. Now everyone was looking at him. He slid off his stool and hurried away, glancing back at her once in outrage.
There was a drop of blood on the needle. She wiped it on a bar napkin.
At a table behind her three women were talking about a new pocket universe. A new diet. A coworker’s new baby: a girl, born with no shadow. This was bad, although, thank God, not as bad as it could have been, a woman—
someone called her Caroline—was saying.
A long, lubricated conversation followed about over-the-counter shadows—prosthetics, available in most drugstores, not expensive and reasonably durable. Everyone was in agreement that it was almost impossible to distinguish a prosthetic shadow from a real one.
Caroline and her friends began to talk of babies born with two shadows. Children with two shadows did not grow up happy. They didn’t get on well with other children. You could cut a pair of shadows apart with a pair of crooked scissors, but it wasn’t a permanent solution. By the end of the day the second shadow always grew back, twice as long. If you didn’t bother to cut back the second shadow, then eventually you had twins, one of whom was only slightly realer than the other.
Lindsey had grown up in a stucco house in a scab-raw development in Dade County. Opposite the house had been a bruised and trampled nothing. A wilderness that grew, was razed, then grew back again. Banyan trees dripping with spiky epiphytes; tunnels of coral reef barely covered by blackish, sandy dirt that Lindsey—and her twin, Alan, not quite real enough, yet, to play with other children—lowered herself into, to emerge skinned, bloody, triumphant. Developers’ bulldozers made football field–size depressions that filled with water when it rained and produced thousands and thousands of fingernail-size tan toads. Lindsey kept them in jars. She caught blue crabs, Cuban lizards, yellow-pink tobacco grasshoppers the size of toy trucks. They spat when you caged them in your hand. Geckos with their papery clockwork insides, ticktock barks; anoles whose throats pulsed out like bloody fans; king snakes coral snakes red and yellow kill a fellow, red and black friendly Jack corn snakes. When Lindsey was ten, a lightning strike ignited a fire under the coral reef. For a week smoke ghosted up. They kept the sprinklers on but the grass cooked brown. Alan caught five snakes, lost three of them in the house while he was watching Saturday-morning cartoons.
