| SHARED SACRIFICE THE JOURNAL OF PROGRESSIVE THOUGHT 29 JANUARY 2009 |
A
B
C
fiction by Caitlin Myer
A sits on the floor, holding the baby, the toddler leaning against his
mom. Her husband, B, is on the couch, plinking at his guitar. C is at
the end of the couch, her clothes stuffed into a puny backpack, her
legs tucked up beneath her.
The front door is open, and wind rattles through the leaves of the
apple tree, curls in through the door. The flame gutters as B holds
a lighter to his joint, elbow propped on the guitar. A shakes her
head when he offers it, so he passes it over to C.
A sits on the floor, the baby in her arms, the toddler dozy at her
side. C feels her head rise with the pot smoke. She watches A lift a
brown breast from her shirt, the baby’s floral mouth shape around
it. The baby’s eyes look up at his mother while he sucks.
C is talking about the boyfriend she left behind, giddy with her
decision. She looks out at the dark beyond the doorway, hears the
rattling of the apple tree. She feels herself in an eggshell of warm
lamplight, floating on an infinite black sea. When she steps outside
that door, she could be anywhere. She could be anyone.
A tells B where he can find a blanket for C and C thanks them
again. The couch will be just fine; she can sleep anywhere.
B puts away his guitar when he gets up for the blanket. He sits
down again on the couch, again passing the joint. C spreads the
blanket over her bare knees, watching A, her thick hair gathered at
the nape of her neck. Her long neck, bent as she looks at her
baby, watching his mouth around her nipple.
B pulls an end of the blanket over his knees. They talk quietly, not
to wake the toddler, whose eyes have gone from glassy to closed,
not to wake the world outside, the tall grass, the apple tree, the
creatures moving along the earth, crickets, mice, ants. The hippie
house is gold with lamplight inside, at the end of a long dirt road.
No neighbors close by, no human sounds besides their own.
A sits on the floor, stroking her baby’s head while he suckles, the
toddler snoring lightly on the floor. B sits on the couch beside C.
They talk about C’s ex-boyfriend, they talk about the people in
town, they talk about family and religion.
B reaches a hand, beneath the blanket, and touches C’s knee. C
stops speaking, her breath stopped behind her breastbone. She
looks over at A, feeling B’s hand on her knee, a buzz moving from
his fingertips all the way to the top of her head.
Although beneath the blanket, B doesn’t seem to be hiding. He is
covering her knee with one large hand. C feels the heat from his
hand, feels the thrill and the shame. Does A see? Does she
approve?
A sits on the floor, with the children. Her husband sits on the couch
with C, his hand moving to her thigh. The dotted lines connect one
to the other to the other. This is where it starts.
*-*-*
A is for apple, the tree that stands in the yard. Its fruit ripe and
scarlet, like jewels. B is for boy, who climbs the tree, plucking the
heavy fruit from its stem. C is for cat, a stray that comes mewling
around, that walks into the house like it belongs, turning around on
the cushion, kneading kneading kneading its muddy paws.
*-*-*
mom. Her husband, B, is on the couch, plinking at his guitar. C is at
the end of the couch, her clothes stuffed into a puny backpack, her
legs tucked up beneath her.
The front door is open, and wind rattles through the leaves of the
apple tree, curls in through the door. The flame gutters as B holds
a lighter to his joint, elbow propped on the guitar. A shakes her
head when he offers it, so he passes it over to C.
A sits on the floor, the baby in her arms, the toddler dozy at her
side. C feels her head rise with the pot smoke. She watches A lift a
brown breast from her shirt, the baby’s floral mouth shape around
it. The baby’s eyes look up at his mother while he sucks.
C is talking about the boyfriend she left behind, giddy with her
decision. She looks out at the dark beyond the doorway, hears the
rattling of the apple tree. She feels herself in an eggshell of warm
lamplight, floating on an infinite black sea. When she steps outside
that door, she could be anywhere. She could be anyone.
A tells B where he can find a blanket for C and C thanks them
again. The couch will be just fine; she can sleep anywhere.
B puts away his guitar when he gets up for the blanket. He sits
down again on the couch, again passing the joint. C spreads the
blanket over her bare knees, watching A, her thick hair gathered at
the nape of her neck. Her long neck, bent as she looks at her
baby, watching his mouth around her nipple.
B pulls an end of the blanket over his knees. They talk quietly, not
to wake the toddler, whose eyes have gone from glassy to closed,
not to wake the world outside, the tall grass, the apple tree, the
creatures moving along the earth, crickets, mice, ants. The hippie
house is gold with lamplight inside, at the end of a long dirt road.
No neighbors close by, no human sounds besides their own.
A sits on the floor, stroking her baby’s head while he suckles, the
toddler snoring lightly on the floor. B sits on the couch beside C.
They talk about C’s ex-boyfriend, they talk about the people in
town, they talk about family and religion.
B reaches a hand, beneath the blanket, and touches C’s knee. C
stops speaking, her breath stopped behind her breastbone. She
looks over at A, feeling B’s hand on her knee, a buzz moving from
his fingertips all the way to the top of her head.
Although beneath the blanket, B doesn’t seem to be hiding. He is
covering her knee with one large hand. C feels the heat from his
hand, feels the thrill and the shame. Does A see? Does she
approve?
A sits on the floor, with the children. Her husband sits on the couch
with C, his hand moving to her thigh. The dotted lines connect one
to the other to the other. This is where it starts.
*-*-*
A is for apple, the tree that stands in the yard. Its fruit ripe and
scarlet, like jewels. B is for boy, who climbs the tree, plucking the
heavy fruit from its stem. C is for cat, a stray that comes mewling
around, that walks into the house like it belongs, turning around on
the cushion, kneading kneading kneading its muddy paws.
*-*-*
The spare room is the Pot Room, the plants reaching to the ceiling.
Grow lights cast a white wash under the door. Leaves bigger than
B’s hand, four fingers and a thumb. He tends his charges well. The
plants fill the room, saying their secret things to each other, so
there’s no room for a bed. No room for a guest, for another living
being.
C says the couch is fine, she doesn’t mind. She lets him touch her
thigh. She seems to warm to him, a warmth coming from her body
beside him on the couch. Without seeming to move, they are closer
together and closer, until her shoulder is against his body and he
can smell the sun off her skin.
He has only touched A’s thighs before now, his wife the only girl
he'd touched. He was a good boy, a good teenager. He wasn’t like
A. While she opened her legs for the football team – the whole
team – B was in the library. In church, wearing his thin white shirt,
his hair slicked down. A was in the library too, he guessed, in the
library and on her back. Bookish and sluttish. Wife-ish now.
Motherish. But he can’t shake the picture from his head: A on her
back, boy after boy after boy putting his dick in her, like an
assembly line.
It is for both of them that he evens the score, now. His heart swells
with love for A as she cradles the toddler’s head from her knee to
the floor. She gets up, pushing off the floor with one hand, the
other holding the baby. She disappears into their bedroom with the
baby, and B gets up to gather the boy, his limbs loose and liquid,
his head dropping against B’s chest. B follows A into the bedroom
where she lays the baby on the futon on the floor beside the bed.
B arranges the toddler’s arms and legs beside his baby brother,
then sits on the futon to watch A undress in the light from the living
room. It edges her right hip, her milk-heavy breast. These little
domestic moments are everything. He gets up to make way for her
as she lies down beside the children. This is where she sleeps
since the baby came; B unable to sleep with the baby in the bed, A
unwilling to sleep without the baby, where she can suckle him
without getting up. The bed is large and cold without A, although
he can hear her breathing in the night.
In the living room, C is looking at her toes like they are strange
beings. B lights another joint, and C’s eyes go wide, but she
doesn't turn it down when he hands it over to her. She lets out a
lungful of smoke, laughing and coughing. She’s shaking her head
and laughing, holding the joint out, not looking at him. Her legs are
folded up and she’s rocking back and forth on the couch, and B
reaches for her hand with two of his. He takes the joint with one
hand and pulls her closer with the other, and going fast before he
can change his mind or she can know to change hers, like you dive
fast into a cold pool, he kisses her.
There, the second girl, second woman he’s ever kissed. Her lips
are smaller and cooler than A’s, like a doll’s, but soft. Not like a
doll. Like a tiny animal. A mouse, or a rabbit. He kisses her again,
blood roaring through him, and already her lips are heating up.
She kisses him back, her body bending to his curve. She’s so tiny.
B’s hand moves to her face and he can almost fit her head into his
palm.
B gets up from the couch, holding his hand out to C. Is it really this
easy? No. She looks toward the darkened doorway of the
bedroom, and shakes her head. She seems almost apologetic,
almost frightened. She leans back on the couch, pulling the blanket
up to her chin, to demonstrate. One hand emerges from under the
blanket to wave good night to B.
Grow lights cast a white wash under the door. Leaves bigger than
B’s hand, four fingers and a thumb. He tends his charges well. The
plants fill the room, saying their secret things to each other, so
there’s no room for a bed. No room for a guest, for another living
being.
C says the couch is fine, she doesn’t mind. She lets him touch her
thigh. She seems to warm to him, a warmth coming from her body
beside him on the couch. Without seeming to move, they are closer
together and closer, until her shoulder is against his body and he
can smell the sun off her skin.
He has only touched A’s thighs before now, his wife the only girl
he'd touched. He was a good boy, a good teenager. He wasn’t like
A. While she opened her legs for the football team – the whole
team – B was in the library. In church, wearing his thin white shirt,
his hair slicked down. A was in the library too, he guessed, in the
library and on her back. Bookish and sluttish. Wife-ish now.
Motherish. But he can’t shake the picture from his head: A on her
back, boy after boy after boy putting his dick in her, like an
assembly line.
It is for both of them that he evens the score, now. His heart swells
with love for A as she cradles the toddler’s head from her knee to
the floor. She gets up, pushing off the floor with one hand, the
other holding the baby. She disappears into their bedroom with the
baby, and B gets up to gather the boy, his limbs loose and liquid,
his head dropping against B’s chest. B follows A into the bedroom
where she lays the baby on the futon on the floor beside the bed.
B arranges the toddler’s arms and legs beside his baby brother,
then sits on the futon to watch A undress in the light from the living
room. It edges her right hip, her milk-heavy breast. These little
domestic moments are everything. He gets up to make way for her
as she lies down beside the children. This is where she sleeps
since the baby came; B unable to sleep with the baby in the bed, A
unwilling to sleep without the baby, where she can suckle him
without getting up. The bed is large and cold without A, although
he can hear her breathing in the night.
In the living room, C is looking at her toes like they are strange
beings. B lights another joint, and C’s eyes go wide, but she
doesn't turn it down when he hands it over to her. She lets out a
lungful of smoke, laughing and coughing. She’s shaking her head
and laughing, holding the joint out, not looking at him. Her legs are
folded up and she’s rocking back and forth on the couch, and B
reaches for her hand with two of his. He takes the joint with one
hand and pulls her closer with the other, and going fast before he
can change his mind or she can know to change hers, like you dive
fast into a cold pool, he kisses her.
There, the second girl, second woman he’s ever kissed. Her lips
are smaller and cooler than A’s, like a doll’s, but soft. Not like a
doll. Like a tiny animal. A mouse, or a rabbit. He kisses her again,
blood roaring through him, and already her lips are heating up.
She kisses him back, her body bending to his curve. She’s so tiny.
B’s hand moves to her face and he can almost fit her head into his
palm.
B gets up from the couch, holding his hand out to C. Is it really this
easy? No. She looks toward the darkened doorway of the
bedroom, and shakes her head. She seems almost apologetic,
almost frightened. She leans back on the couch, pulling the blanket
up to her chin, to demonstrate. One hand emerges from under the
blanket to wave good night to B.
*-*-*
On the third night, after A has gone to bed, C takes B’s outstretched hand, and lets him lead her into the dark of the bedroom. She can
hear A and the kids breathing on their futon on the floor. Are they asleep? Is A lying awake, listening?
C climbs into the bed, and feels the weight of B as he gets in beside her. She isn’t high enough, or maybe she’s too high. She is paralyzed
as he climbs on top of her, holding her breath, her eyes open in the dark, thinking of A just a few feet away. A on the floor with the kids, B
and C in the bed above.
It’s over quickly, and C rolls over into dreams, falling slowly, like Alice, down a deep well.
She wakes to the sound of the lighter, the tiny foosh of flame. Morning light filters in through the sheet tacked over the window. The futon
is empty, bedclothes rumpled. B sits up in bed beside her, lighting a joint. Is this what married people do? Get high first thing in the
morning? She takes the joint when B hands it to her, not looking at the hair on his chest, the way his belly spreads out above his hips.
A’s taken the kids out for the morning, says B, and he leans over to breathe in the smoke leaking from C’s lips. Now there is more time,
more space in the room around them. C lies back on the bed.
*-*-*
A feels herself turning to crystal. Her breasts, her belly, her thighs. A woman made of hard glass, shining crystal. She shines light onto her
boys: her princely toddler and his curls, her baby, and B. Her husband is a child, and understanding this, she is indulgent. A looks through
the tomatoes, picking one that is obscenely red, almost overripe. Does C like tahini salad? She puts the tomatoes in her basket.
Other women know how to live with this. Their sons are named for Old Testament prophets who had many wives. Does B see himself now
as an Old Testament prophet? Does he fantasize about five, six wives? Lying back in his tent while they feed him, stroke him?
Jealousy can be unlearned. A will always be the first wife, the mother of his children. She doesn’t have time or energy to give to his sexual
whims. Who knew a man could be so needy? She doesn’t have to think about the girl’s narrow hips. She doesn’t have to think about her
husband cupping her little breasts in his hands. She knows he loves her, and he will turn his attention to her soon enough, like the earth
turning toward the sun.
This morning the girl slept in their bed, hair covering her face, sheets crumpled around her body. A and B spoke in whispers, A carefully
keeping her eyes away from the girl and her rounded arms, her bare foot hanging off the side of the bed. B sat up in bed beside the girl
like a man with many wives, whispering with A about the day, but A saw his eyes were bright, his cheeks speckled fever-red. He could
hardly believe his luck; this child, her husband, could hardly wait for her to leave him alone with his new toy.
She could unlearn her body’s reaction, the way her lungs sliced sideways in her chest, sipping scant cupfuls of air.
*-*-*
B fills the claw-foot tub in the bathroom. Hot, C said before he left the room. She sits on the bed, listening to water thundering into the tub.
She can feel all the places his hands rested on her body, like a vapor trail lingering after the plane is gone from the sky.
B calls her from the bathroom. C places her bare feet on the wooden floor, looking down at her feet, the knobs of her anklebones. She
stands, leaving the sheet behind, and walks naked through the hallway to the bathroom. The air pulls every minute hair on her skin erect,
and she makes herself walk slowly.
B is already in the tub, his arms along the lips on either side. He leans back against the curve of the tub like a king. B holds out a hand to
help C into the water. She steps in, disappointed at its mild warmth. She’d wanted her skin to sting like a slap, to see a line on her body at
the level of the water, raw pink below, shocked white above. Instead she slips in easily, facing B, her feet between his knees.
Hot enough? he asks, his voice booming off the tiles, the water. She says Yes, listening to her own echo tail off until her voice blends with
the sound of water dripping from B’s hair. C looks down at their bodies under the water. She hasn’t shared a bath since she used to bathe
with her brother. Before she was old enough to notice the difference between their bodies. Her brother taught her to squeeze her hands
together to spurt water from between then. C laces her fingers together the way her brother showed her, fitting her hands to each other.
She is smiling, sick with pleasure at the strangeness, the delicious taboo of this moment. She squirts a fountain of water that arcs
beautifully to drum against B’s chest. B laughs and retaliates. He knows this game.
C doesn’t hear the front door over their laughter, B’s knee up, foot out of the water to defend against her volleys. He is in this position
when C sees the door open. Sees A’s face appear, take in the scene, and pull in on itself. C sees lines cutting in around A’s mouth before
she resets it, B flopping around in the tub to look up at his wife, his face open and laughing. But C still sees it, sees that starved look, and
the laugh that was shuddering around in C’s chest flips over in a hot second. C sits naked in the tub, crying.
A’s face seems to crack, like old glass. Why are you crying, she says, snapping out the “you” across the room to C.
C stands up in the tub, arms and legs shaking, and A turns her head away quickly, jerking back from the door and disappearing down the
hall. C’s clothes are in the bedroom. In their bedroom, A’s and B’s bedroom. C dashes wet across the hall to gather up her clothes, the
toddler standing in the dark of the hallway, one finger in his mouth.
C holds the clothes in front of her and pads from the bedroom to the Pot Room. She dresses, listening to the plants whisper one to
another about A and B. It was always and only their equation: A plus B equals the princely toddler, equals the baby. C had wanted love.
She was greedy for love, from both of them. She had imagined A taking her into her arms. But theirs was a closed system, the love
running from wife, to husband, to children and back to wife. Perfectly sealed, like an egg.
Dressed now, damp clothes sticking to her body, C will step out onto the porch and fly apart, bits of her expanding and rising in the
afternoon sun, abracadabra, in two steps she’ll disappear.
But the toddler prince, watching her wet footprints contract and fade, will for the rest of his life remember this: a woman, bare to her skin
and wet as a naiad, flying right in front of his eyes, in his own house. He won’t remember the tears, or the fight between his parents, but he
will remember the slight shudder of her bottom as she ran, the mossy smell that the wet ends of her hair left in her wake.
A writer living in San Francisco, Caitlin Myer blogs at Chemical Billy
On the third night, after A has gone to bed, C takes B’s outstretched hand, and lets him lead her into the dark of the bedroom. She can
hear A and the kids breathing on their futon on the floor. Are they asleep? Is A lying awake, listening?
C climbs into the bed, and feels the weight of B as he gets in beside her. She isn’t high enough, or maybe she’s too high. She is paralyzed
as he climbs on top of her, holding her breath, her eyes open in the dark, thinking of A just a few feet away. A on the floor with the kids, B
and C in the bed above.
It’s over quickly, and C rolls over into dreams, falling slowly, like Alice, down a deep well.
She wakes to the sound of the lighter, the tiny foosh of flame. Morning light filters in through the sheet tacked over the window. The futon
is empty, bedclothes rumpled. B sits up in bed beside her, lighting a joint. Is this what married people do? Get high first thing in the
morning? She takes the joint when B hands it to her, not looking at the hair on his chest, the way his belly spreads out above his hips.
A’s taken the kids out for the morning, says B, and he leans over to breathe in the smoke leaking from C’s lips. Now there is more time,
more space in the room around them. C lies back on the bed.
*-*-*
A feels herself turning to crystal. Her breasts, her belly, her thighs. A woman made of hard glass, shining crystal. She shines light onto her
boys: her princely toddler and his curls, her baby, and B. Her husband is a child, and understanding this, she is indulgent. A looks through
the tomatoes, picking one that is obscenely red, almost overripe. Does C like tahini salad? She puts the tomatoes in her basket.
Other women know how to live with this. Their sons are named for Old Testament prophets who had many wives. Does B see himself now
as an Old Testament prophet? Does he fantasize about five, six wives? Lying back in his tent while they feed him, stroke him?
Jealousy can be unlearned. A will always be the first wife, the mother of his children. She doesn’t have time or energy to give to his sexual
whims. Who knew a man could be so needy? She doesn’t have to think about the girl’s narrow hips. She doesn’t have to think about her
husband cupping her little breasts in his hands. She knows he loves her, and he will turn his attention to her soon enough, like the earth
turning toward the sun.
This morning the girl slept in their bed, hair covering her face, sheets crumpled around her body. A and B spoke in whispers, A carefully
keeping her eyes away from the girl and her rounded arms, her bare foot hanging off the side of the bed. B sat up in bed beside the girl
like a man with many wives, whispering with A about the day, but A saw his eyes were bright, his cheeks speckled fever-red. He could
hardly believe his luck; this child, her husband, could hardly wait for her to leave him alone with his new toy.
She could unlearn her body’s reaction, the way her lungs sliced sideways in her chest, sipping scant cupfuls of air.
*-*-*
B fills the claw-foot tub in the bathroom. Hot, C said before he left the room. She sits on the bed, listening to water thundering into the tub.
She can feel all the places his hands rested on her body, like a vapor trail lingering after the plane is gone from the sky.
B calls her from the bathroom. C places her bare feet on the wooden floor, looking down at her feet, the knobs of her anklebones. She
stands, leaving the sheet behind, and walks naked through the hallway to the bathroom. The air pulls every minute hair on her skin erect,
and she makes herself walk slowly.
B is already in the tub, his arms along the lips on either side. He leans back against the curve of the tub like a king. B holds out a hand to
help C into the water. She steps in, disappointed at its mild warmth. She’d wanted her skin to sting like a slap, to see a line on her body at
the level of the water, raw pink below, shocked white above. Instead she slips in easily, facing B, her feet between his knees.
Hot enough? he asks, his voice booming off the tiles, the water. She says Yes, listening to her own echo tail off until her voice blends with
the sound of water dripping from B’s hair. C looks down at their bodies under the water. She hasn’t shared a bath since she used to bathe
with her brother. Before she was old enough to notice the difference between their bodies. Her brother taught her to squeeze her hands
together to spurt water from between then. C laces her fingers together the way her brother showed her, fitting her hands to each other.
She is smiling, sick with pleasure at the strangeness, the delicious taboo of this moment. She squirts a fountain of water that arcs
beautifully to drum against B’s chest. B laughs and retaliates. He knows this game.
C doesn’t hear the front door over their laughter, B’s knee up, foot out of the water to defend against her volleys. He is in this position
when C sees the door open. Sees A’s face appear, take in the scene, and pull in on itself. C sees lines cutting in around A’s mouth before
she resets it, B flopping around in the tub to look up at his wife, his face open and laughing. But C still sees it, sees that starved look, and
the laugh that was shuddering around in C’s chest flips over in a hot second. C sits naked in the tub, crying.
A’s face seems to crack, like old glass. Why are you crying, she says, snapping out the “you” across the room to C.
C stands up in the tub, arms and legs shaking, and A turns her head away quickly, jerking back from the door and disappearing down the
hall. C’s clothes are in the bedroom. In their bedroom, A’s and B’s bedroom. C dashes wet across the hall to gather up her clothes, the
toddler standing in the dark of the hallway, one finger in his mouth.
C holds the clothes in front of her and pads from the bedroom to the Pot Room. She dresses, listening to the plants whisper one to
another about A and B. It was always and only their equation: A plus B equals the princely toddler, equals the baby. C had wanted love.
She was greedy for love, from both of them. She had imagined A taking her into her arms. But theirs was a closed system, the love
running from wife, to husband, to children and back to wife. Perfectly sealed, like an egg.
Dressed now, damp clothes sticking to her body, C will step out onto the porch and fly apart, bits of her expanding and rising in the
afternoon sun, abracadabra, in two steps she’ll disappear.
But the toddler prince, watching her wet footprints contract and fade, will for the rest of his life remember this: a woman, bare to her skin
and wet as a naiad, flying right in front of his eyes, in his own house. He won’t remember the tears, or the fight between his parents, but he
will remember the slight shudder of her bottom as she ran, the mossy smell that the wet ends of her hair left in her wake.
A writer living in San Francisco, Caitlin Myer blogs at Chemical Billy
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