Dedication
Honey, don’t take this the wrong way but
this book is dedicated to you.
For David. My love.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Part I
One
Two
Three
Four
Part II
One
Two
Part III
One
Two
Three
Four
Part IV
One
Part V
One
Part VI
One
Two
Part VII
One
Two
Three
Part VIII
One
Two
Three
Part IX
One
Two
Three
Part X
One
Part XI
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Amber Tamblyn
Copyright
About the Publisher
I
One
Am I in a body?
No body answers.
The sound of swallowing. A liquid click.
I feel a tongue.
Or a tongue is felt.
It is my tongue
or it is a tongue
belonging to someone else.
I am someone else.
Or I am the tongue
belonging to a self.
I am not a self.
I ask the tongue that is me
or the tongue that is in a mouth
to count.
How many teeth are left?
It doesn’t want to.
Please.
The tongue lifts its twisted torso from the tonsils, thrown to the back of the throat like a child from a car’s crash.
Darkness is a body.
I am in a darkness.
Or I am in a body.
A body is darkness.
The tongue searches, feels the teeth tremble like an ensemble of pebbles, disassembled. They are almost all accounted for. The tongue digs through an opening, touching air, past lips. My lips. Maybe. The tongue feels skin on a face.
What is feel?
No body answers
I open my eyes. The sky is a blue-cheese white with bullet holes of lapis, hued by the night’s dethroning. A bird the size of the memory of a bird passes over like a spider falling perpendicularly. Someone shaped the clouds all wrong; splashed chum on the deck of dawn. Everything points away from itself. The abandoned skulls of nests rest in a nearby tree.
A woman approaches and stares down at me, her expression horror’s portrait.
Can she see me?
Can I be seen?
Am I in a body?
She uncurls a thick scarf from her shoulders and lays it across me. Is it winter? There are no leaves on the trees. Is it cold out?
What is feel
The scarf’s warmth is proof. Proof of pumped blood, of living. My living.
I am alive. In a body.
A trigger pulls and a seismic ache awakens. A searing pain rises, as the sun does, assured of its scorch. Every inch of me shakes.
She takes out a phone and dials quickly.
I laugh. The end of me tickles.
“He looks . . . Oh God, please get here quick . . .”
I am not dead. I am not not dead. I am in a body, on a ground, and it is morning. It is Winter or I am Winter. I am alive, at the behest of death’s dress rehearsal. The pain. The pain. Please. My bones break each other, within. Internal ash. I move my jaw and it screams. Flex my toes and they scream. Tighten my anus, a scream. Swallow a scream. My legs are spread screams. I breathe—
“He’s here in an alley outside the Green Tavern . . .”
—and the freezing air screams. Each rib expands and lets out a scream. I try not to breathe, which makes my heart scream. I take smaller screaming breaths instead. My sore neck screams as I try to lift it, making my back scream. My entire body unfolds.
The space between my hips does not scream.
Silence.
I reach a hand down to feel.
My hand feels, but what it’s feeling
feels nothing.
“Yes, he’s still breathing . . .”
Yes, I am still breathing.
No, I am not living.
Yes, I can feel my legs.
No, I cannot feel my genitals.
Yes, I can see.
No, I don’t want to look.
Yes, Barack Obama.
March, I think. Early March. 2016.
Three fingers.
Donald Ellis.
Watertown. New York.
Yes, forty-seven years old.
Yes, an MFA in creative writing.
A poet.
No, I don’t write anymore.
Yes, I teach kids.
No, I didn’t mean to go to the bathroom while lying here.
No, I don’t want to hang on.
Yes, I understand I will survive this.
No, I don’t remember a face.
No, I don’t know how this happened.
No, I don’t want to cry.
Yes, I had some drinks.
Yes, I can still feel my legs.
No, I still can’t feel my genitals.
Yes, I can see the church from the ambulance window.
No, I’ve never lost anything in the ocean.
No, I don’t know what time the cemetery closes.
No, there was not enough room when we were kids.
No, it wasn’t my mother’s fault.
Yes, I feel alone.
Yes, I believe in God.
No, I do not want to pray.
Yes, I did see a ghost once when I was ten.
No, I can’t remember the words to any songs right now.
Yes, everything is on fire.
No, I don’t want you to put it out.
Yes, everyone’s face is a blur.
No, I won’t be hungry again.
Yes, I’m done with eating for the rest of my life.
Yes, I think the driver is humming something my grandmother used to.
No, she didn’t tell me.
Yes, I think that’s her in the car driving behind us.
No, she passed away years ago.
Yes, I understand I’ve lost blood.
Yes, I understand you may not be able to save it.
No, please don’t give me the details.
No, I don’t want to talk to the press.
No, I have no comment.
Yes, I understand I’m going to be fine.
No, I do not want to wake up after the surgery.
Yes, I’m still breathing.
No, I am no longer livable.
Yes, I’m a schoolteacher.
Yes, second-grade.
Yes, I’m married.
Camilla.
Fifteen years.
No, please don’t call her. Don’t tell her.
No, I don’t want her to see me like this.
Yes, two. Amanda and Jake. Ten and seven.
Yes, I do. Very much.
Yes, I would like to cry now.
Yes, I understand.
Yes, I am scared.
Yes, I can still feel the pain.
No, please don’t tell anyone.
No, I’m not ready.
Camilla sits next to my hospital bed, stained with the evening’s abrupt catastrophe, half her black hair falling out of a hasty predawn bun, her shirt on backward and inside out. She’s been up for two days straight, since they called and told her some woman
found me lying in an alley. She tells me I was in surgery for several hours while they tried to save it, attempted to reconstruct it, get blood moving through it, figure out a way, with newer medical technology, plastic surgery even, to graft skin and salvage it, even if I might never be able to fully use it again. At least it would be there, in some way, nostalgia’s souvenir. She tucks the curtains of her long bangs behind her ears and allows grief to take center stage. They were mostly unsuccessful, she says. We sink to the bottom of each other’s oceans, drowning in shared silence. There are no pamphlets for this, no leaflets we can look through together about how to deal or move forward. Her green eyes pucker saltwater as she tells me it doesn’t matter to her, that she’ll love me no matter. I want to reach out and kiss her lids, run my thumbs over their creaminess and remember what delicate feels like. She holds my hand and says the local paper called me “an area man.” She wants to know if I can believe that, like I don’t have a name or something. When Camilla gets angry, her shoulders move back and forth as she speaks, like spreading wings. I’ve always loved this about her. Sometimes I grab her by them and say, Don’t take off, hothead.
The kids are with her mother. She thought it would be better to come alone so we could talk. There’s a Detective Whirloch who wants to speak to me about the sexual assault when I get home from the hospital. Sexual assault, my brain repeats to my heart.
She unclenches her brow and kisses my palms, waiting for my response. A little part of me peels off and jumps out the seventh-story window. Besides the obvious, I’ve been treated for hypothermia, abrasions, and a little blood loss. They found high levels of Rohypnol in my system, she tells me. Is there anything I can remember, regardless? Rohypnol, heart. Rohypnol.
I tell her I remember a storm of moths fighting for a streetlight’s attention. I remember the sound of a night bird not yet ready to quit. I tell her I remember a knee pushing against my throat, hairless and smooth. I remember a strawberry color moving electric overhead, a pink cloak dancing across my face.
I do not tell her what else is remembered.
Someone caressing the lobe of my ear with their tongue. A hand unbuckling my belt. The last hard-on I’d ever feel. Trying to stop it, then trying to stop stopping it. Rides of swinging nausea leaning in and out of my roller-coaster body. Guilt pulsing through every pore of my departing consciousness.
I do not tell her that I tried to stop it, because I can’t remember if I did. I do not tell her what the person looked like, because I’m unsure. I do not say I enjoyed it, because I don’t know if that’s possible, given what happened, but if I did, she should leave me. I do not ask her if she’s going to. I would understand if she did.
I want to pull my hand away from hers and never be touched again. I want to take off all my fingers like pen caps and write blood all over this room. I want her to loathe the man who could let this happen to himself, to have no pity, to tell me this is what I deserve. Her touch is a broken mirror in every room of my mind. Her touch is a tender, mistaken fool. I want to unscrew the entire arm she’s got her hand on and just give it to her, let her have just that—my good, straight fingers, my thick pads, my forearms and sturdy wrists, unharmed. I want her to take the arm home and make it breakfast in the morning. Let the arm tie Amanda’s shoelaces while she finishes packing Jake’s lunch. Give it the car keys and let it drive everyone to school. I want her to send it dirty texts during lunch breaks. Make her smile and think only of gloves, daydreaming about manicures. I want her to crawl into bed next to it and stroke its elbow. Run her fingers over its cuticles. I want her to turn out the light and kiss the mouth of lines in its palm, happy and easy. Sleep there beside it, its wrist spooning her, its heavy, steady thumb draped over her ribs.
The rest of me will exit our picture’s future. I’ll go somewhere warm, black, and waterless, touching nothing, until she forgets my name.
Beep.
Hi baby, it’s me.
It’s about six thirty and I’m done with the staff meeting.
I swear Principal Sanders let out the most heinous, unchristly fart during the budget-cut meeting today.
I was sitting RIGHT next to him! And I couldn’t say a word.
Had to watch him shovel a tray full of room-temp gouda into his mouth for two hours while that fart wrapped itself around me like, like . . . God, it was just awful.
Listen, I’m going to meet Mark for a couple beers at
the Green Tavern
and maybe a bite since the kids are doing that sleepover thing?
And I know you’ll be out late at that baby-shower thing, right?
I just said “thing” twice.
Anyway, tell Jessica I say hi.
Call me back if any of that’s a problem.
Also, I can pick them up in the morning if you want to sleep in. The kids.
Maybe I’ll get some of those breakfast burrito thingies you always get.
Are those from Joe’s Café? And is Jake still doing the vegetarian thing?
Okay, Jesus, this message is way too long, we can figure it out in the morning.
Honey, why did you marry me? I talk a lot.
Love you.
Bye.
“My name’s Detective Whirloch, but you can call me Myles, okay?
“Would you like your wife to join us, Mr. Ellis?
“I’m going to have to ask some tough questions, so if at any time you want to stop, let me know and we will, okay?
“My first priority is your mental well-being, understood?
“What time did you arrive at the Green Tavern on the night of March second?
“Were you alone, or were you with any friends prior to meeting the offender?
“Do you mind if I get contact information for your friend Mark?
“Did you know any other people at the bar that night?
“Is there anyone you know personally who’s been volatile toward you lately?
“Do you remember how you first came into contact with the offender?
“Do you remember any facial features of the offender?
“Anything specific about the offender, such as hair color or moles on the body?
“Do you recall anything the offender said to you before or after the assault?
“Do you ever think about what the offender might be feeling, Mr. Ellis?
“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Mr. Ellis?
“What are you going to do if the offender is someone you know?
“What are you going to say to the offender when you see them in court?
“Do you think everyone will look at you differently now?
“Do you have any clocks in your house, and how many clocks do you own?
“Have they ever all simultaneously stopped?
“Do you think you’ll sleep okay in the coming decades?
“Do you think this is your fault, Mr. Ellis?
“You do, don’t you, Mr. Ellis?
“What will Camilla think of you?
“How are you going to tell your children?
“Are you interested in assisted suicide as an option?
“Have you ever heard of the kamikaze birds of India, Mr. Ellis?
“Did you know horned lizards can squirt blood out their eyes?
“Do you intend to recover from this fully?
“Is there a word for what you’re feeling?
“What would your father think of you if he were still alive?
“Are you going to cry?
“Do you believe in purgatory?
“Have you ever heard wolves howl in a place where wolves do not reside?
“Do you recall how many alcoholic drinks you had that evening?
“What force was threatened or used by the offender, if you know?
“Do you recall physically resisting at any time during the assault?
“Can you remember anything you said to the offender over the course of the night?
“What can you tell me about the chronology of sex acts tha
t were performed?
“Did you perform any sex acts, including kissing, before the assault took place?
“Would you like to take a break, Mr. Ellis?
“Would you like some water?
“Would you like the number to a crisis center here in town?
“Would you like references for therapists who work with this kind of trauma?
“Let’s pick this back up once you’re back home, okay with you, Mr. Ellis?”
Camilla rolls me in a wheelchair down a Listerine-reeking hospital hallway toward the elevator. It’s easier this way, they tell us. It will be painful for me to walk for a few weeks. I can’t lift my eyes to meet those of the nurses, patients, or doctors as I go. I can feel them. I am a damaged relic leaving the museum for good. I stare at their shoes. Patent leather. Slip-ons. Wedges, I think they call them. Sneakers. Even high heels. All those better, happier feet.
“What would you like for dinner, Don,” Camilla asks. Light talk is as good as any other way to begin my death sentence.
“Steak? Lasagna?”
All food is a last meal.
“Fish?”
Everything leads to the execution.
I’ll have the fish, please, and Camilla my dear, can we swing by the bar on the way home I think I left my body there
The elevator doors open and a woman and her husband step out, carrying flowers and balloons bearing the words “Get well!” She stops at the sight of me, gasps, and halts her husband with a hand to his chest.
“I’m sorry . . . are you . . . Donald Ellis?”
No, ma’am, but I get that all the time.
You must’ve mistaken me for a butcher’s block.
Any Man Page 1
