Fiction excerpt: a new way to fall in love
Scenes from a novella
5/20/1984
Airplane. Window seat.
A man sits next to me. Blond hair cut to his shoulders, brow razor-straight, pale watery eyes. Nordic maybe.
There’s a tattoo of a burning bush on his right hand, a mess of blown-out vines, reds and yellows fading. He said he got it when he was a teenager. It was a lousy commitment.
The stewardess makes her rounds. Once she’s gone he presses the little pillow against my nose and mouth. First gentle, then to stop my breathing. We’re the only passengers on this flight.
My head in a synthetic cloud. Steam and milk brain. The cloud is my complete container. A goldfish has nothing but its bowl.
***
They kept coming, night after night, sometimes three or more in one sleep. Once she found me face up beneath the bleachers in the local soccer field, a clothbound copy of The Firefox Book cracked across the bridge of my nose. Days later I was on an operating table, naked and hunched over like a child receiving a bath. My face was disintegrating in bloody curls, all sinews and veins with intimations of an unvoiced shriek where there should’ve been a mouth. Her book of features.
Back then K. woke up early for school, hair parted with the brittle wooden pick-comb, sneakers laced tight by the time the eggs were on the table. This morning was different: at half past eight, her mother found her cheek-to-page on a Xeroxed copy of As You Like It, a pool of saliva gathering right where Rosalind appears in the forest as Ganymede.
She’d stayed up past midnight to rehearse for the drama showcase only to fight back tears that afternoon. Her performance was stilted, Mr. Miller said, she was too deep in her head. Back then K. fretted over the cost of acting classes. I said they’re nice to have, not required. I know fine actresses who learned on the job.
6/24/1984
I ask him why he left the church. Get a good look at him this time. We’re in a Jeep with a cracked dashboard and black leather seats and it must be I-10 because Picacho Peak is laughing at us in the mirror.
I put a poppy in his hair. It turns the tip of his ear translucent orange.
Once K. knew my voice and face well enough, she used the library’s thickest dictionary to revive me. Towheaded, cadence, drawl. This was the journal to burn on her eighteenth birthday, a ritual she contrived in junior high with the approval of a teacher whose published poetry wasn’t available anywhere in town. They had to be disappeared, these grainy depictions of her early mind. The words wouldn’t peel themselves off the page.
Most weekends she worked at Baby Planet. Moth-eaten technicolor quilts, dodgy supplements and modular cribs. No local competitor. I wondered if she envied the inexorable direction of Teoma mothers. On slow afternoons she’d abandon her post to practice lines in back storage, gesticulating at Radio Flyers and milk crates stacked with lullabies on vinyl. They kept getting the same one over and over, a slope-eyed singer named Gary Greenberg famous for putting tots to sleep in under three hundred revolutions.
Baby Planet was in the same strip as McGill’s Pub, which is where I’d first found Rob making a manic study of Screenplay one night. He’d taken the stool directly to the left of the service partition, and by my count, didn’t raise his head once as the barmaids passed by with their trays. We’d met there most Sundays since, and from our regular table, I’d glance over his shoulder to observe K.’s slow-footed journey across the plaza.
Always with the bulky white purse that never wanted to give up the keys. She’d gaze into the folds, bowing and tilting her head just so, a sheet of black hair curtaining her angular profile, digging around for the recessive object as my eyes arced from scarlet shorthand and mechanical letterforms up to the window and back again. The white of her scalp sliced through those strands like the tail of a meteor.
One month had passed since her first dream. Rob was in the middle of cutting our meeting short. We’d traded assignments and picked through each other’s comments on last week’s work; all that was left was to talk about ourselves. I waved him off with a smile.
My watch marked three minutes after his Chevy Caprice cut a left from the lot. This was very correct. K. was early for her shift. It was the Nativity of St. John the Baptist.
The storefront window was etched with two diapered, crawling things wearing grown-up grimaces. It occurred to me that I’d never been inside before, and that maybe I should’ve, on one of K.’s school days perhaps. Music drifted from a record player, a popular disco from a group I’m sure I knew but couldn’t place in the moment. When I willed myself to stop thinking, there was the comforting creak of a wooden fan.
K., to her credit, greeted me like any other customer. Wife expecting? Looking for a gift? I was about to meet my new nephew, I said, and she said they’d just received a shipment of officially licensed Winnie-the-Pooh onesies, and that the dangling mobiles were made by a kinetic sculptor from Munich who kept a residence in Marfa.
Something metallic flashed in the corner of my eye. A library copy of Macbeth, gold embossing on the spine. I spied it leaning against the cash register: K.’s for sure. My business card was burning a hole in my wallet.
“Shakespeare,” I said. “I remember that one from school. I liked it.”
“We haven’t gotten to it yet,” she replied. “We’re doing it next year. Our last play was As You Like It. I was Rosalind.”
“You’re an actress.”
“I’ve been doing plays since third grade. They keep giving me lead parts. Soon I’ll have enough money to move to Hollywood.”
“That’s why you work here?”
“Why I work so much.”
“The place could do with new carpeting.”
“I keep telling them to get it steamed.”
“Sorry you’re stuck here on such a perfect afternoon.”
She glanced towards the fan and then at the matted brick-colored rug. White socks in red huarache sandals. Dorothy in temperate weather. The lettering on her badge had mostly worn off.
“You’re not from Teoma,” she said.
“No, I’m not. I live in L.A.”
“That right?”
“My job is in Hollywood. Casting director for a little studio.”
“Do you know any stars?”
“Not the really famous ones. Actually, I’ve got something to confess.”
“You don’t work in movies.”
“Negatory. But the lie is about my job, you’re right about that.” The words started in a knot at the base of my throat and tumbled out in odd measures.
“There’s no nephew,” I continued. “I don’t know about any babies. Here’s my card.”
She squinted and frowned at the glossy rectangle as if it were a contract. I wondered if she’d ever held a business card before.
“I’m in Teoma scouting locals as extras. We’re on location nearby. Some of the parts have lines. I was sitting at the pub over there, saw you on your way in. Wanted to ask if you’d be interested.”
An image was coming together in her head. The risk paid off; she didn’t care about false pretexts. I think she likes them better than real ones.
“Do you want a copy of my school photo? I can drive it to you after I get off my shift.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Well, I’m interested. You should call the store if you need to get ahold of me. The number’s in the phone book.”
“Not necessary,” I repeated. “Now imagine this as a trailer. I’m going to try to sell you on it.” I erased the Texan from my voice and cleared my throat.
“The locals of a small desert town have reason to believe the government is hiding a secret from them. A UFO is about to land on Earth. No one knows everything, but everyone seems to know something. A community is torn asunder.”
“I’d like it if that happened here.” The words were close to her lips, almost a whisper, and her eyes were big and serious.
In my dreams, she was the mother of tranquility, an extensible structure built to absorb and resolve all paradoxes. For example, the one we call constitutional dissatisfaction. But I could accept K. as fully rendered, with the typical rhythms and moods. She had more texture this way, and I a clearer sense of my duties.
“Can you meet me later this week?,” I asked. “There are some details we need to go through together. And maybe I can see you in action.”
This was agreeable to her.
***
The diner was her suggestion. I arrived early on purpose. A wraparound counter had the sticky sheen of irregular cleaning, and the whole place was lit by tubes that flickered at the threshold of perception. I waited in the vestibule and flipped through a book of local deals. Bill’s Auto offering 15% off gasket sets, Victrolas discounted at The Western Home.
My company was right on time. The light brought out a subcutaneous bluishness in her hands and temples. We slid into a corner booth and ordered coffee, black. I suggested she perform something, anything she’d memorized. She stared down her sternum, deep into the pocket where her sunburned chest failed to fill out a bone-colored camisole. The pause was stylized, too drawn out. When she raised her head, though, her gaze was freshly unfocused. Natural.
“I was seven of the nine days out of the wonder before you came, for look here what I found on a palm tree. I was never so berhymed since Pythagoras’ time, that I was an Irish rat, which I can hardly remember.”
I waited for more, then realized she wanted me to press her to continue. Supposed that was enough for now.
“That’s lovely” — it was, especially for a novice — “although you won’t be doing anything ornate for this project. But you should keep going with the Shakespeare in school.”
“I think I need to learn more about the movie.”
“Here's something. At the end, what’s really happening will be revealed as the iceberg-tip of an intergalactic conspiracy. It’s part one of a trilogy. Parts two and three have interspecies transfiguration. If you work with us again, you’ll have to have the patience for felinoid prosthetics.” She didn’t smile at that last bit.
“What will I be doing in this one?”
“Here’s the line I have in mind for you. I saw those lights in the sky again. The townspeople are just starting to suspect something strange is going on. You’ll be with some ladies in the grocery checkout line. The youngest. Procuring supplies for the family. A farmer’s daughter, something like that.”
“My grandparents were farmers.”
“Good. Try to recall their mannerisms. The shoot starts in two weeks.”
Just one more step before she could join officially. We agreed to meet again.
7/2/1984
An A-frame cabin at the bottom of a redwood canyon. There’s no direct sunlight. No way to know the time of day.
The front door’s wide open. A candle burns in every window. White tapers in cast bronze sticks melting into crystal tears.
He’s inside on a mosaic-patterned runner. It looks handwoven. Probably expensive. He’s low to the fabric, folded legs, ass making contact with his heels, upper half bent over the leg fold, arms stretched over his head. The pose of the child.
K. was in the same spot we’d had the week before. She requested a dollar for her coffee, and as she followed me through the aisle of vacant booths, I told her it was normal to be nervous.
The longest fifteen minutes in my car. I wondered how she’d react to the accommodations. The ranch house was dilapidated, not unusual for Teoma’s outskirts, but the inventory warranted an explanation. The porch was cluttered with bulging paper bags, most a hair’s breadth away from a rusty nail protruding from the shingles.
I’d nearly satisfied my list. Coffee crystals — Saltine crackers — Licorice twists (the kind that come in smooth plastic packets, some red, mostly black) — Beef and venison jerky in uncut sheets — Cubes of bouillon — Peanut butter — Bean varieties — Canned vegetables (carrots, peas, okra) — Canned lard. On top of that, there was a styrofoam box marked MREs, a loose collection of unlabeled cans, and two drawstring cotton satchels filled with individually-wrapped bars of Dial soap.
The interior wasn’t much better. Burlap sacks of basmati rice and jugs of purified water took up the living room couch, which was wrapped in sweating polyethylene. That was there when I moved in.
These were all for the project, I explained. Townspeople fixing for doomsday. I’d volunteered my place for certain props. K. declined to comment.
She was wearing a floor-length cotton sundress with red and white psychedelic swirls, bell sleeves that dragged and tasseled hems. It’d be hard to get a sense of her proportions that way, but she’d brought nothing else to wear, so we made do.
Without instruction she placed her hands on her hips and looked directly into the lens of the tripod-mounted camera. I noticed her catch her reflection in the TV screen across the room. The flat black distortion made her look larger than she was in real life. I guided her through a series of poses then grabbed a Polaroid for stills, snapped nine in quick succession, and placed them on the glass coffee table in a tidy square.
The camera was still rolling. We sat cross-legged on the rug in front of the low-set table. The hairs on her neck were upright. She reported that she’d been freezing the whole time, and if it was okay she’d like some licorice.
The waxed vine matched the pattern on her dress, scarlet that wanted to be pink, diluted blood or a rare filet. She bit off one end and held it in the back of her jaw like it was chewing tobacco, taking too long to swallow, and I thought this must be some kind of trick for a sugar high, or maybe she’s lost in thought.
Another bite, and she said she wouldn’t have gotten into my car if she didn’t think she could trust me. I wasn’t a transient or a criminal. This didn’t seem to need a response.
I wondered how much the Polaroids could really capture.
“I saw you before we met in person,” I told her. “I know it sounds crazy. I had a vision.”
We were staring at the images materializing in real time. They didn’t flatter her one bit. She was one-dimensional, animatronic in the frame. You’ve seen the air vibrate around her, bending and trembling even when she’s sleeping. It pulses in a very unchristian way.
“You were in the war,” she said. “Maybe it was a hallucination.”
She was circling my tattoo with a slim finger. Her touch was unnaturally warm.
My service history didn’t interest her. She raised herself and leaned across the table, extracted one of the pictures, and took a more relaxed position on the rug. Supine, flat back. Savasana. Once in place, she extended her right arm straight over her head, establishing a tight line between her gaze and the square.
I watched her scan herself with predatory focus. Her hair was fanned out in a halo around her skull, and I noticed how her dress had such thin cotton, that it was sweat-soft and badly discolored around the seams.
She didn’t see herself in it. I could tell. Her eyes were twitching and tearing, calculating new depths of misrecognition. It’d be good to take her home, I thought.
I wanted to say something about the limitations of the medium. Just as the words were coming to me, K.’s wrist went limp and fell straight to the floor. So did the photograph, which landed face up, jeering and menacing us. She’d started to convulse, and I’d lost sensation in my lips and extremities.
Maybe it was a hallucination. Her hair was growing fast and forceful, spilling out past the shag and onto the wood beams, a pitch river flooding in every direction. I used the heels of my hands and feet to push myself back towards the wall, narrowly missing the black torrents. I closed my eyes in hopes it would reset the scene. Or maybe I was just afraid.
She was saying something in low murmurs. I couldn’t make it out in the moment, but the audio is good. We believe the monologue included her real name.
When I looked again, there was no more dress. Whatever you’ve imagined, you’re wrong. She’d assumed the lotus position and was facing the window, opposite from where I was curled up. I had a naked view of the dark filaments sprouting along the knobs of her upper spine. Beads of blood appeared as the wires broke the skin and coiled into wings, each about two feet in full extension. I could describe them as a kind of fortified silk, sturdy material for engineering marvels. I didn’t and wouldn’t get near them.
She unfolded her legs into a gymnast’s straddle and tilted her head a half-length back. Her hair had stopped, good fortune, but still fell perilously close to my feet.
That’s when she asked me the question. Clear and pure tone, absolutely unassuming. Five words I’ve been preoccupied with ever since.
***
I came to in a metal cot. K. was back in earthly form, and the dress was back, too, this time layered beneath a loosely-crocheted duster of a heavy yellow pigment. She looked clownish in it. Not bad, but like she had a poor understanding of her figure. It could’ve been chosen for her by a jealous sister.
The little room was washed in neon orange sunlight. K.’s shadow slid up the wall and dilated as she moved towards me.
“Where am I?,”
“St. Brigid’s,” she said. “You passed out when we were at your place. I called for an ambulance right away. Took a while for them to get there.”
Quarter to eight on the clock. I couldn’t have been out for more than three hours.
“How do you feel?”
“I feel fine,” I said. “Well-rested, actually. Like I’ve just had a great night’s sleep.” It was true. I sat upright and patted my hair: thin, light, ostensibly human. “I think I can go home.”
“Are you diabetic?,” she asked.
“Maybe.”
She dialed a taxi as I signed myself out. The driver dropped us off at a neighborhood where every living room TV was playing the same war documentary. We walked six blocks to one of the humblest playgrounds I’ve ever seen. “Stay here,” she said. “I’m going to fetch something from home.”
I kicked my feet under a lonely picnic table. Two girls around K.’s age had commandeered the swing set. They were smoking cigarettes, laughing and screaming.
K. returned with the big white purse. She unclasped it and placed it in front of me. There was the marble notebook, which was badly indented on both sides.
“Start from here.” She flipped to a page halfway through. I read.
There I was. In her sleep. Unquestionably me. Night after night.
I was grateful for the proof, sure. But it wasn’t easy. The impression was that she’d broken some metaphysical code. Of course we could only speak through filters of grammar and syntax, the language of bounded events. But the impulse to record these residues struck me as a bad sign.
Then again, what did I really know about her? She ate breakfast and imagined her name on a marquee. But she was still from a world that didn’t decompose into causal necessities.
That fact formed the center of my faith. It was truer than any word or ritual from this side of the division.
“You knew what I was after,” I said, breaking the first silence we properly shared.
“You’re lucky I saved you from yourself.”
“I saw you before you saw me. If May really was the first time. It started when I got back to the states. Only at night. I’d forget during the day, and then some girl on Venice Beach would give me a look. Not that anyone resembled you. But every now and then you see a girl that needs a different context. Sometimes I’d ask her to pose for me.”
“You’ve lived here all your life. Don’t lie to me.”
Timid and self-assured at the same time.
“Rob and I really are making a movie together. You can ask him.”
“How old are you?”
“I’ll be thirty-three next winter,” I said. These were customary bureaucracies. Every relationship faces them eventually. She pulled us through them as efficiently as possible.
“I hid a pistol in my dress, you know, just in case my instincts were wrong.”
“You still have it on you?”
“It’s back in the safe.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Let’s watch the tape.”
Exactly what I didn’t want. It was possible we’d both lost our minds. I needed the fantasy to hold just a little bit longer.
As it turns out (as you know) it was all there. The most exquisite and grotesque nine minutes ever committed to celluloid. That was the only time I saw it, not half a day after I’d lived through the decisive hour.
We spent the rest of the summer thinking about what to do.
***