The Anatomy of Curiosity

by Brenna Yovanoff

  “Don’t be unpleasant,” Geraldine said, her eyes on Daniel, not the bottle.

  “What is that?” Petra asked. Her voice came out thinner than she meant it to.

  “Yes, what is this?” Daniel shook it in front of Geraldine. “Will it work? Mr. Goodminster seemed excited for us to try it.”

  Geraldine lifted her chin, looking defiant rather than afraid. Daniel sprayed a puff into the air, and then, oddly enough, onto himself. He pumped it a few more times in his direction, and then hers. Geraldine held an elegant hand in front of her, mouth pursed in distaste, as spray misted the air. She turned her face away as the drops shone around her head.

  “You’re making a scene,” Geraldine said through her fingers.

  With a growl, Daniel turned to Petra and sprayed a puff on her.

  Petra only had a moment to recoil from the fine, earthy-scented mist before Geraldine said, “Stop that,” in a knife-edged tone.

  Both Daniel and Petra were frozen. Petra had never heard anything like that voice come out of her before.

  Daniel unfroze before Petra. He stepped close to Geraldine and snarled, shaking, “Get it over with.”

  Geraldine didn’t flinch. Instead, she reached up and took the bottle out of his hand, as quietly and surely as someone taking a box from a shelf. Then she said, “Get yourself together. Have you no respect for yourself?” To Petra she said, “Please excuse me for a moment, Petra.”

  As she turned, Daniel seized her arm, jerking her closer. “No.”

  Petra didn’t even think—she just swung her bag at his head. Daniel grunted. The strawberry lip gloss and bottle of mace probably had not had much of an impact, but the two volumes of nineteenth-century poetry probably had. When he didn’t fall over or back down, Petra swung it at him again, and once more for good measure.

  “Stop, you lunatic!” he hissed finally, clutching his temple. At some point in Petra’s beating, he had released Geraldine. She was backed several feet away, holding her hand over her mouth. “God. You’ve probably given me brain damage. What do you have in there?”

  He sank to the floor, careful not to crush his takeout boxes.

  Petra realized that her heart was racing. Her arms felt liquefied. “Should I— Should I call the police?”

  Geraldine still had her hand over her mouth; she spoke through her rings. “No. Isn’t that right, Daniel?”

  “Call them on this crazy girl, maybe,” muttered Daniel. He linked his arms over the back of his head. Voice muffled, he added after a moment, “I’m not sorry for calling you a beast. You are a beast.”

  “And you’re a sack of meat,” Geraldine said, “but we are more than that too, aren’t we?”

  “Speak for yourself,” growled Daniel. His fingers were white-knuckled in his hair. He looked more shaken than either Petra or Geraldine.

  Geraldine said, “Petra, I must have a moment, I’m so sorry. I will make you some tea.”

  Petra got herself together. “No, please don’t—”

  “I need a moment,” Geraldine insisted. “It would help me a lot if you would find something to read to me. Unless you are too bothered. I understand entirely.”

  Petra was sort of still too bothered to just forget about the previous minutes, but her options were doing as Geraldine asked or simply leaving. She shot a gasoline-tinged look at the top of Daniel’s motionless head before retiring to the couch Geraldine preferred to sit on during readings. By the time Geraldine had returned from making tea—in an entirely different dress, Petra noted—Petra had selected a poem and calmed her pulse.

  Geraldine sat. “What do you have selected?”

  “‘The Listeners’ by Walter de la Mare,” Petra said. “Unless you have something else you’d rather hear.”

  “No, that sounds perfect.” Geraldine picked up her tea and put it back down again. “I remember liking that one.”

  Petra said, “I’m sorry, I don’t have a background on this one. I just like the way it sounds.”

  “That is good enough for now.”

  “The Listeners” was ordinarily a satisfying poem to read aloud, a ghost story with only the promise of ghosts, and usually Petra would have thrown her back into it. Instead she wandered through the first few stanzas, only finding her stride near the end.

  Glancing over to Daniel—the source of her discomfort—she saw that he had lifted his head to listen as well. All of his anger had vanished, and there was something else in its place, quite lost.

  Petra read,

  And he felt in his heart their strangeness,

  Their stillness answering his cry,

  While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,

  ’Neath the starred and leafy sky;

  For he suddenly smote on the door, even

  Louder, and lifted his head:—

  “Tell them I came, and no one answered,

  That I kept my word,” he said.

  Never the least stir made the listeners,

  Though every word he spake

  Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house

  From the one man left awake—

  Geraldine fell from the sofa.

  It happened so gently and without remark that at first Petra didn’t understand what had happened. It was only when Geraldine remained on the rug before the sofa, a soft chiffon heap, that Petra realized that she had passed out.

  “Geraldine!” Petra tossed the book away from herself. Kneeling, she said her name again. There was no response. Petra felt for her pulse at her neck—tentatively, at first, because this sort of touching felt clumsy and invasive, and then more firmly. Tears marred her vision until she found Geraldine’s pattering pulse.

  “Call 9-1-1!” Petra told Daniel.

  “What? I’m not doing anything.”

  “You monster!” Fury cleared the tears and Petra scrambled to her feet. Snatching out her cell phone, she called 9-1-1 first, and then she called Marla. While she waited, she crouched beside Geraldine with her arms around her, crying. Everything seemed impossible. This thing was not Geraldine! It was a pile of clothing. Daniel remained where he was. She hated him.

  Geraldine’s eyes fluttered open.

  “Oh, dear,” she muttered. “Oh, dear, Petra, don’t.”

  Petra felt a great sob of relief. “What’s wrong? I called everyone.”

  “I just felt so faint.”

  Finally, the door opened to Mr. Goodminster and his pigtail and his duffel bag. Petra stared at him.

  “Where are the paramedics?” she asked. “Where’s Marla?” The great well of adrenaline inside her was beginning to wash out, making it all seem even more imaginary than before.

  “They’re unnecessary,” Mr. Goodminster said. “But we all appreciate your vigilance. Marla called me and filled me in. I was still waiting for the, ah, ah, train. She fainted?”

  “Petra, love, give me your arm,” Geraldine said. “This is unseemly.”

  Bemused, Petra helped Geraldine up, and found Mr. Goodminster on the other side of her, holding her other arm.

  “I’ll take her from here. Geraldine, we spoke about this. I did warn you. I really did,” Mr. Goodminster said. When he saw that Petra was still holding one of Geraldine’s arms, he added, “I’m going to take her to her bed and have another little talk with her. You can go home. Edith will call you later, I’m sure.”

  Petra reluctantly allowed Geraldine to be led from her. Her desire to have the responsibility taken from her warred with her lack of faith in Mr. Goodminster. “Will she be all right?”

  Mr. Goodminster said, “Will she what? Oh. She just needs to eat.”

  The two of them hobbled beyond the ferns, beyond the screens, to whatever faraway place Geraldine’s bed was in. After Petra could no longer hear Geraldine’s shoes scuffing on the rug or Mr. Goodminster’s murmuring voice, she sank down onto the sofa where Geraldine had been sitting before she fainted. Then she cried, silently and snottily. She didn’t want to go home. She wanted it to be
a normal afternoon.

  After a few minutes, Daniel stood over her, a paper towel in hand.

  “Why are you crying?” he demanded.

  “I thought she died!”

  “Why are you crying?” he repeated.

  Petra blinked up at him. “She saved my life.”

  This was melodramatic—the Petra version of melodrama, not the Barbara version—but still, it was true enough. Petra had not really been going to die from embarrassment. But she wasn’t going to live with it either. Whatever she was now, and it certainly wasn’t the Petra who first agonized up those stairs—it was because of Geraldine.

  “Oh,” Daniel said, sounding cross. He thrust the paper towel to her.

  “What’s this for?”

  “Your face. It’s disgusting.”

  Petra took it and used it. He had not lied. After she’d finished, she asked, “Aren’t you going to call me an old beast now and spray me with whatever that was?”

  Daniel cocked his head with comical curiosity. Then, in a low voice, he said, “You really don’t get it, do you?”

  Petra blew her nose. “What is there to get?”

  He said, “I’m supposed to be eaten.”

  “To be what?”

  “You heard me.”

  He waited for her reply. For her to understand.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he said finally. “Like I’m the crazy one.”

  Petra merely frowned more deeply; she could think of no elegant response.

  Impatiently, Daniel said, “I’ll show you.”

  “Show me?”

  “Get up.”

  Petra allowed him to lead her to the far end of the painting area, near the windows. There was an empty easel here, which he moved, and a few glass jars with brushes in them, which he also moved. A great oriental rug covered the space, and he kicked up the edge of it. The weight of it gained inertia and it rolled back, revealing: slaughter. There was no mistaking it, the twist of blood stained the floor. Something sizeable had bled here. A lot.

  “Tell me this isn’t blood,” Daniel said. “It’s right in front of you! Look, this curtain is even newer than the others. They had to replace it because it got blood on it. Tell me that’s not blood!”

  Both dramatic Petra and practical Petra believed that it was blood, but neither of them was prepared to accept that it was the blood of a hypothetical Geraldine-victim. She chose her words carefully. “There are a lot of reasons for bloodstains that are more logical than attacks by the elderly.”

  “I’m telling you, I’m here to get eaten. That thing is supposed to eat me. She was supposed to eat me ages ago. That was the deal.”

  “By that thing, do you mean Geraldine?”

  Daniel impatiently spread his hands. “Yes.”

  “You did notice that she was an old lady?”

  “Lady? Ha. Lady-like. She was collected in Malaysia or something years ago. She’s been in the family for decades, they told me. Only eats once a year, and only feeds at night, and is so rare, ecological treasure, blah blah.”

  Petra gave him a withering look. She couldn’t even be angry at him anymore: he was being so earnest and not sullen that she could only pity him.

  “Don’t give me that look, either! That one’s worse,” he snapped. “The cage? You saw the cage. You must have.”

  “Yes,” she said. “So?”

  “Come on! Put it together. All this old shit? It’s because she’s been around since the 1800s, getting fed trash like me every year or so by this crazy family who wants to preserve the species.”

  Petra was beginning to feel a little jittery; whether from aftereffects of the shock of Geraldine’s faint or from proximity to mental instability, she couldn’t be sure.

  “I’m going,” Petra said.

  “Fine, go,” Daniel replied. “Whatever.”

  She got her coat and made a big show of putting it on. As she went to open the door, she turned. He was sitting on the edge of the sofa where she had been crying, his eyes closed. He had made a tiny tripod of his thumb and first two fingers, and his forehead rested on it.

  Petra asked, “If she were a man-eater, then why didn’t she eat you? Or me, for that matter?”

  “That’s the point,” he said. “That’s why Mr. Goodminster’s here. Old bat doesn’t like hospital food, apparently.” He laughed humorlessly.

  “You’re awful,” Petra said. She didn’t know if she believed him or not. Of course she didn’t. “Really awful.”

  “I know,” said Daniel. “That’s why I offered to come here.”

  • • •

  At home, while the babies watched television and gave each other very wispy cornrows, Petra paged through her poetry books and slowly felt herself considering Daniel’s explanation. It was not the bloodstain that swayed her, nor the presence of Mr. Goodminster. It was the cage. She tried again and again to imagine what might fit in that cage besides a person-shaped something, and she just couldn’t.

  Petra tried to think if there were any poems dealing with cannibalism in her current collection.

  Don’t be stupid, Petra thought. You can just ask her.

  Originally, in this scene, Petra brought in a poem to trick Geraldine into talking about whether or not she was a man-eater. During revision, I realized that I had already written the exact same scenario when Petra was trying to get Geraldine to confess if Marla, Edith, and Frances were really her daughters. In the first scene, Petra realizes that this kind of trickery is unnecessary, so having her resort to the same method here was an accidental step backward for her character. During edits, I changed this scene to reflect all the things Petra has learned about herself.

  • • •

  Petra climbed the stairs to Geraldine’s apartment and found that she was not out of breath, though she was still sticky with sweat. At some point, Petra realized, she might simply climb these stairs and not think about it. What an impossible thing.

  Geraldine answered the door after three knocks. She looked tired, or hollow-eyed, but not like she was starving. Petra had to allow that she wasn’t sure you could tell from the outside. She couldn’t really tell what Geraldine looked like, anyway, because she’d looked at her too often to see anything but … Geraldine.

  “I’m sorry that I’m not really feeling well enough to make tea,” Geraldine said. “Do you mind terribly if we do without?”

  Petra did mind—she didn’t miss the tea, but she missed the Geraldine who was well enough to make tea. As she stepped in, she saw that Daniel was already peering at her. Petra glared back, as she hadn’t forgiven him for the misty assault of the day before.

  “I could make you tea,” Petra said.

  “Oh, no, not on my behalf,” Geraldine protested. “Your words alone are enough for me. Do you mind if I sit?”

  The two of them settled in their usual sitting area. Petra was distressed to see that one of the ferns near the window was striated with browning leaves. It needed watering, and no one had been watering. Petra’s heart jerked a little.

  “Geraldine,” she said, “I’m going to read you this poem by Tennyson.”

  She went quite pink, surprising herself. It was not quite the same sort of blush as before, because it was just her neck behind her ears and the apples of her cheeks. But the shock of feeling it reminded her of how long it had been since it had happened.

  “You’re red!” Geraldine exclaimed. “I’m sorry, but it’s been so long.”

  “It’s because I’m nervous. Here. Just listen.”

  I loved her, one

  Not learned, save in gracious household ways,

  Nor perfect, nay, but full of tender wants,

  No Angel, but a dearer being, all dipt

  In Angel instincts, breathing Paradise,

  Interpreter between the Gods and men,

  Who look’d all native to her place, and yet

  On tiptoe seem’d to touch upon a sphere

  Too gross to tread, and all male minds perforce


  Sway’d to her from their orbits as they moved,

  And girdled her with music. Happy he

  With such a mother! faith in womenkind

  Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high

  Comes easy to him, and tho’ he trip and fall,

  He shall not blind his soul with clay.

  “Oh,” said Geraldine, content.

  “I’m reading that because it’s the mother poem I should have found you before,” Petra said. “And because it’s how I feel about you.”

  Geraldine’s mouth said O but her voice didn’t.

  “I love you, Geraldine,” Petra said, earnestly. She took a deep breath. “So I don’t want you to be upset with me about what I’m about to ask you.” She remembered just a little while before, when she had tried to trick Geraldine into confessing whether Marla, Edith, and Frances were her daughters. How things had changed!

  “Ask, dear heart.”

  “Please tell me if you’re supposed to eat Daniel.”

  The tenderness ran off Geraldine’s face, replaced by a frown. Touching her elegant throat, she turned away. “It’s so crude to talk about the unseemly parts of ourselves in public even if we are not ashamed of them.”

  Petra’s breastbone thrilled in horror and confirmation.

  “Does it—does—” Petra realized that she didn’t know what to ask. Was Geraldine a cannibal like Hannibal, first question. Was Geraldine a vampire, second question. Did she stab them first, third question. Was this real, fourth question. None of these questions were possible using Geraldine words. Petra collected her thoughts and then said, “Just give it words that you like. Say it in a pretty way.”

  Geraldine, recognizing her own sentiment, turned back to Petra. “There are no pretty words for this, Petra. It should remain untitled.”