Softspoken

by Lucius Shepard

  Facing front, she’s more critical. She’s let her pubic hair grow into an unruly patch because it grosses Jackson out, but that’s easily fixable. What bothers her is the lack of symmetry. She recognizes that the human body is slightly asymmetrical. One breast a little larger, one foot, one hip, one everything. Yet her asymmetry is such, she resembles a Cubist woman. She can’t isolate the cause, can’t determine which of her features is throwing her so ridiculously out of balance. She pictures herself with a single enormous eye and a thigh the approximate mass of a cow’s. It’s almost that bad. She places the vodka bottle on the floor and straightens up. That’s better. She adopts a Bangles-style Egyptian pose. Hieroglyph woman. That’s better yet. She slides her right hand down over the swell of her abdomen, dips a finger into the dark tangle and finds her clit. Her eyelids flutter, half-shutting, and that perfects her. She’s desirable in sum once again. She should have known—it’s a lack of perception that orders the world. She twitches her finger away from the sensitive area, dismissive of pleasure. She doesn’t want to feel anything today. She stoops to pick up the bottle, but leaves it there and sits at the foot of the bed. If she senses herself growing asymmetrical again, she can lean to the right and check her reflection in the mirror. She lies back, fumbles for her purse beside the bed, and grabs her cell phone. Brittany. She’ll call Brittany. She gets voicemail and switches the phone off, realizing that Britt must be ducking her calls. She tries to think of someone else, but her options are limited. Howard…but he can’t talk at work. A couple of women and a man with whom she has coffee regularly, members of her writing group. But they’re not intimates and she can’t predict how they would react if she were to confide in them. Roll their eyes and get off the phone as quickly as they could, no doubt, so they could call their real friends and gossip. In their eyes, she knows—she supposes, anyway—she’s a talentless dilettante for whom writing is a hobby, and they think if they’re nice to her, they may be able to con her into funding one of their projects with Jackson’s money. Rock bottom, there’s Mom, but she prefers not to hear a lecture. The friends list on her blog is extensive, but they’re not friends, they’re co-conspirators in bloggery, a form of sham acquaintance. Friends Lite. She recalls a meme she suggested on the blog: Suggest Three Things You Can Imagine Us Doing Together (G-Rated Only!). The responses were boring. Watch a football game. Have coffee in New York. No one suggested anything daring, anything that would require imagination or commitment. Which suggests that she has become boring, that no one perceives her to be a committed, imaginative person. This despite the fact that, while a teenager, she spent two summers in Africa working with children on a church project. That alone should make her not-boring, in addition to committed, because Africa was far from boring and required a significant commitment. It’s the main reason she originally wanted to write, to talk about her time there…Anyway, now that Brittany has virtually abandoned her, there’s only Howard, and though he would commiserate, she doubts he’d be able to offer advice on a crisis. If it is a crisis. If it isn’t all in her head, as was the case with her asymmetry. She shifts to the right, squares up in front of the mirror. Breasts of more-or-less equal size and perkiness. Cunt tucked primly away between proportionate thighs. She tips her head to the side, smiles. The Mary doll. Just hook on a paper dress and blouse. Or not. A great gift for the guy in your life. She cooks, she cleans, she crawls on her belly like a reptile…She heaves up from the bed, changing into a tipsy, unsmiling woman, crosses to the bureau, takes a pair of panties from the top drawer and slips them on. A shirt from the bottom drawer. She no longer wants to risk nudity. Jackson may catch her unawares and think it an invitation. She scoots into her jeans and red Skechers and goes downstairs, half-falling into the door at the bottom. She opens it and feels like she has descended into the tropics. She inspects the thermostat in the hall.

  “Did you mean to set the heat this high?” she calls out to Jackson, who’s shut away in his study. “It’s eighty-something.”

  “Leave it alone!” he shouts.

  “Why’s it so high?”

  “It makes my face feel better! All right?”

  What a crock! She snatches a jacket from the hall closet and goes out, slamming the door behind her.

  She strides briskly down the muddy road to Snade’s, burning off her buzz. Drizzly skies and desolate fields. A crow flaps down to perch on a broken fence, pecking at its ragged feathers. Along the roadside, she can make out every flattened can, faded label, bit of broken glass, every condom, used tissue, diaper, newspaper, and drinking straw. All come out to show themselves from under summer’s green, ringing in the season of spoilage, replacing the weeds and flowers. It’s almost festive. She paints a picture of imps with zircon-colored wings, armored toadlike creatures belching methane, lovers dawdling in candy-wrapper hammocks, shrunken gray warriors with spears fashioned from those plastic Burger King thingys that pin pickles to Whoppers, a world of faerie appropriate to the day, secreted under mushrooms and within beer-can keeps, preparing to celebrate the Mid-Autumnal Eve…She puts the brakes on this train of thought. Naturalism, she reminds herself. “Observe the world,” Professor Demery has cautioned her. “Don’t riff on it.” He doesn’t care for the fantastic. But then she tells herself, Fuck Demery. Fuck naturalism. If she’s ever going to be more than a workshop junkie, it’s time she followed her own instincts. And if that leads her into the forbidden area of pollution festivals and candy-wrapper love hammocks, so be it. It’s possible that in “disciplining her gift,” as Demery puts it, she’s been restricting her imagination as rigorously as Jackson restricts her movements, letting her out only in channels he deems proper. For all intents and purposes, her writing teacher has served as Jackson’s assistant, helping fit a governor to her brain.

  She stomps up the stairs to Snade’s porch, scrapes her muddy shoes, bangs through the screen door. Usually on Saturday afternoons, Gar’s buddies, Sammy and Carl Jr., join him to watch football on the portable TV he keeps behind the counter, but today he’s by himself, gloomy as the October weather, poor ol’ balding plug of a country boy, hands folded on his dumpling belly, sitting in a lawn chair behind the counter, alone with his canned peas and frozen dinners and coolers full of Bud Light and Heine, beer froth clinging to his Fu Manchu. She asks where Sammy and Carl Jr. are, and he says, “Beats me.” He starts to say more, pulls it back, and then says, “Truth be told, we had a falling-out.”

  “That’s too bad.” She points at the TV. “Who’s playing? Bama?”

  “Georgia-Bama. Bama’s up by three.” He brightens. “Gamecocks whupped Tennessee again.”

  “Fucking Spurrier,” says Sanie.

  Gar looks as if he’s impressed by her use of profanity. “Man can coach, sure enough.”

  “And Fullmer can’t game-coach a lick.” Sanie takes a Diet Pepsi from the cooler. “Mind if I watch a while.”

  “Pull up a stool.”

  They watch the end of the second quarter, separated by the counter, making football noises: “Did you see that!” and “That boy like to tore him in half!” and such. A camaraderie having been established, Sanie inquires as to the nature of Gar’s falling-out with Sammy and Carl Jr.

  “It was my fault, I reckon,” Gar says. “We got real drunk watching the Gamecocks and Vandy last week. Game wasn’t for shit and we went through about three twelve-packs. I got to thinking, I ain’t nothing but free beer to those two. They been coming in for years, and not just on Saturdays. There’s NFL and weekday games. Hell, bowl season, they’re in almost every day. I started toting it up, and I figured they must have drunk thousands of dollars worth. It’s been four or five years since either one of ’em paid for anything. Chips, Slim Jims, and what-all. I made mention of the fact. I know them boys haven’t got a pot to piss in, but ’least they could do is bring me by some of that shine they cook up.” Gar pauses for a breath. “Anyhow, they didn’t take it too well.”

  “They’ll be back,” says Sanie.

&nbs
p; “I don’t know if I want ’em back, that’s the way they’re going to be.” Gar heads for the cooler and grabs a Bud Light. “It’s a matter of principle. A relationship ought not to be all one-sided.”

  Sanie thinks she should advise Gar that it wasn’t one-sided, that he derived from it the benefit of Sammy-and-Carl Jr.’s company; but she wonders if she’s qualified to offer advice, if she has not been playing Sammy-and-Carl Jr. to Jackson’s Gar. Or perhaps vice-versa. It’s a stretch, yet there are correspondences.

  “You guys’ll work it out,” she says.

  “It’s up to them,” he says, sitting back down. “I ain’t lifting a finger. As it stands, things are going to go a lot better with my wife when I don’t come home stinking drunk.”

  “Maybe you should think about what you were getting out of the relationship and set a value on it. That might help you make a decision.”

  Gar’s brow furrows. “Yeah, maybe.” He unscrews the cap of his fresh beer. “You know, I don’t want you to take this wrong, because I like having company for a game, but you don’t never stay this long. Is something wrong at home? I heard about the mix-up at Frederick’s.”

  “No,” she says in reflex; then, because she senses a sliver of genuine concern beneath his raw curiosity, she adds, “I guess you could say Jackson and I had a falling out, too. It’s no big deal.”

  Gar eyes her briefly, sucks on a tooth. “Well, if you need anything, you give a shout, y’hear.”

  She knows he means that if there’s any trouble at the crazy Bullard house, give a shout, and thinks that she should be insulted; but his concern, shallow as likely it is, warms her.

  The game turns into a punting contest in the second half, and Sanie has difficulty paying attention to it, weighty problems crowding out her dull enjoyment. This time, she swears, she won’t let things continue. That’s what Jackson wants, to continue, to pretend Frederick’s was a speed bump, to continue to pretend, to pretend to continue. This time, she intends to bring things to a head. She won’t allow herself to lapse, to slide back into routine. She’s going to find out if there’s any truth to this crap about a vortex; she’s going to pry Jackson out of here and get him back to Chapel Hill before he turns into Rayfield. And then she’s going to leave him. Once he passes the bar, she’ll unhook her paper dress, her doll clothes, and slip away. Gar says something that doesn’t penetrate her fog and she asks him to repeat it as he heads for the cooler.

  “I think what you said might be right,” he says. “About friends not being what they used to be.”

  Bewildered, she doesn’t recall saying anything of the sort.

  “About them not being worth what they once was,” he says.

  He appears to have taken her advice in a peculiar direction, or maybe he’s a savant, a genius bumpkin, and has made a leap into the core of her advice and mined a fresh truth. In the devalued culture, a devalued truth about a devalued people, yet no less true.

  “Right,” she says.

  Gar opens the cooler and tosses her a Diet Pepsi. “I appreciate it.”

  SEVENTEEN

  She dreams she’s in a firefight, but not with Jackson, not unless it’s a metaphorical firefight, and, on waking, she doesn’t believe that it was. A metaphorical dream would have lasted longer, had a coherent structure, been heavy on identifiable symbols. This was short, chaotic, and nasty, without apparent structure or symbol—a skirmish at dusk in an open-air building with countless stalls, gutters in the concrete floor, like a city market in Africa. She was firing on the run at blue-white muzzle flashes, and people were dying around her. The enemy’s fire made a different sound from hers. Phut phut phut. Like mortar rounds, but softer. When the rounds struck, they ripped off arms and legs, excavated chests and bellies. She crouched behind a bin—a spill of water on the floor reeked of fish—and peered out into the aisle. Half-obscured by the bin across from her lay a body. She couldn’t make out whether it was a man or woman, friend or enemy. It was too dark. She could barely see the shape of the body rising like a rumpled island from the blood pooled around it.

  That was all of the dream, all she can remember, anyway. It didn’t have the feel of an anxiety dream. Though her situation was desperate, though she felt some anxiety, she wasn’t agitated; she was searching for avenues of escape, analyzing the situation as might an experienced soldier, and she thinks now that a dream like this might be a slice of another life, one lived in another part of the plenum, come to her in a time of need, urging her to analyze and to act.

  So perhaps it was a metaphor.

  She lies in bed until nine, showers and dresses, then goes to Will’s door and listens. A man’s voice, a feminine giggle. Sanie knocks. The voices fall silent. She knocks a second time, louder. “Will,” she calls. “I have to talk to you.”

  “I’ll be down in a while!”

  “Now! I want to talk now.”

  She doesn’t think he’s going to respond, but then she hears him, rummaging, shuffling toward the door. He opens it a crack, posing an unappetizing picture with his mussed hair, pasty complexion, and brown silk robe, gazing sullenly at her. The smell of sex accents the customary odor of mildew and filth that issues from within.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the vortex?” she asks.

  His sullenness departs, confusion fades into view. “I…uh…It wasn’t important, didn’t seem.”

  “Not important? It’s the reason why the house is so weird. At least, according to your daddy.”

  “I guess…” He glances over his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I should have said something.”

  “What exactly is a vortex?”

  “Will?” Allie’s sugary voice wafts through the crack. “You two’re going to talk, let her come on in.”

  “What about…I mean, you want to…”

  “It’s all right. I don’t mind, if she doesn’t.”

  Will stares foolishly at Sanie, what seems a mixture of pride and embarrassment in his face, and steps back to admit her. At the heart of Will’s ratty nest, its milky treasure, Allie lies on the bed, naked and spread-eagled on her belly, breasts squashed beneath her, a pillow placed under her hips to elevate her fleshy buttocks, hands and feet tied to the bedposts with ropes of black velvet.

  “Hello!” Allie half-sings the word.

  Sanie is certain that her reactions are in plain view, that a measure of consternation has surfaced in her face and body language; she tries to cover it and says, “Allie.” Affecting nonchalance, she sits in one of the mauve armchairs.

  “Francine,” says Allie. “Call me Francine.”

  “Fine,” says Sanie. “Francine.”

  “We’re play-acting,” Allie explains. “And I wish to remain in character. I’m Francine, a Belgian submissive of the eighteenth century, and Will’s the…”

  “I can imagine,” Sanie says.

  Allie makes a disapproving moue, but holds her tongue. Will sits in the other armchair, carefully tucking in his robe so as to cover his privates. His eyes flick back and forth between the two women, and Sanie thinks he must be picturing a threesome.

  “So,” she says. “The vortex.”

  Will scratches the back of his neck, doubtless infested with eighteenth-century cooties. “There’s a bunch of theories, but they’re bullshit mostly, I figure. A weak point in the fabric of time and space, where energy flows between the dimensions…or universes. Between here and the hereafter. All I know is there’s an energy here you can’t find nowhere else.” He kicks at one of the magazines on the floor. “I got some articles somewhere about vortexes, but they won’t tell you more than what I just did.”

  Allie corrects him. “Vortices, not vortexes.”

  “People say all kinds of shit,” Will says, ignoring her. “They put you in touch with elves and fairies, Indian spirits. But they just saying that to make a buck.”

  “The vortices in Sedona,” Allie says. “Y’know, in Arizona?”

  “Rayfield said the vortex was developing,” Sani
e says.

  “They’re supposed to be quite salubrious,” says Allie primly. “I’d like to…”

  “If you’re going to play a submissive, Francine,” says Sanie, “act submissive.”

  A frown mars Allie’s brow, but only for a second or two. She makes a faint “ooh” noise and wriggles contentedly in her bonds.

  “Rayfield seems to be suggesting that this vortex is growing, getting stronger,” Sanie goes on. “Doesn’t that worry you?”

  “Why would it? This is our home,” Will says. “Our place. Nothing here’s going to do us any harm.”

  “It may already have harmed you.”

  Will blinks. “I don’t…What you mean?”

  “Pardon me for saying so, but your family has certain peculiarities.” Sanie holds up a hand to forestall Will’s attempt to interrupt her. “However you spin it, you can’t deny you and Louise are a little off-center. And Rayfield…I don’t care what anybody says, he was a nut. Look at Jackson. He’s tried to be normal for so long, he’s all knotted up inside. And now he’s pulling a Rayfield. He’s settling in. It won’t be long before he starts flapping a bedsheet at lights in the sky, trying to contact the mother ship. Don’t you think the vortex might have something to do with that?”

  “May I speak?” Allie asks.

  Will beats Sanie to it and says, “No!” He scratches his neck again, runs a hand through his hair, begins to speak, stops. Finally he says, “My granddaddy was an orderly soul his whole life. Married to the same woman forty years. Went to church every Sunday. There wasn’t a single thing he ever did people’d call weird.”