Farewell Navigator Page 4

  Who’s it for?

  For someone who will not afuckingppreciate. Hencefore I am not going to give it. But it’s for her anyway.

  Who?

  Her. The unappreciator. Where are my coffin nails?

  By your foot. So who is it, Hor? (Although I am pretty sure that I know.)

  None of your bitchwax. He lights a cigarette and clutches his knees to his chest. I can’t believe how good this mix is.

  Why won’t you give it to her?

  One, she wouldn’t like it. Two, she’d think I’m creepy for making it. Three, I have no way of finding her. Who knows where she roams? She might be here, she might be there, she might be in my underwear. He giggles, eyes closed.

  Have you looked in the phone book?

  And the point of that would be what, exactly? Do you believe—he swigs from a can, notices it is empty, picks up the one next to it—that many a girl dreams of consorting with an elderly shut-in who is doing with his life, hmm, let’s see, not a thing? And who can’t, because he has no car or for that matter valid driver’s license, take her to the movies?

  A girl might like him anyway, I say.

  Why?

  I could answer because he’s handsome, or because he’s smart, or because he’d serenade her sweetly on the guitar. But other people are wiping his chin on too regular a basis. He lets it get dirty, knowing there’s a napkin on the way.

  I haven’t yet told my mother that in the new year my eye will not be so peeled. She will say, But he has such trouble taking care of himself!

  And I will say, It wasn’t your fault about Dad.

  Their Christmas lists are brief: money or what can be traded in for money (brother) and a good cookbook (mother).

  You must want more than a cookbook, I prod.

  No, I’ve got everything I need, she answers, clamping one hand on my shoulder, the other on Horace’s. Have a good expedition! and she pulls the orange scarf snugger around his neck.

  We walk in the glittery cold to the center of town, where ribbons festoon the street lamps and plowed snow hardens on the curbs. You haven’t told me what you want, he complains, and there’s only two days until Jesus.

  Surprise me.

  It’ll have to be an economic surprise.

  At the fire station, we stop to admire the trees. They are selling some really tall ones. How come Mom bought such a fucking midget? he says. These ones are killer. She should’ve gotten one here.

  Can you say one positive thing ever?

  I say many positive things.

  Um, not really.

  Half an hour ago I told you I liked your new peacoat, did I not? Where are we headed? I’m fucking cold. That is—I am delightfully cold. Cheerfully chilled. Felicitously freezing. See? Positive.

  Let’s finish Main Street then get some lunch.

  Only two days left, he repeats with fake gloom. He’ll be as relieved as I will to have Christmas over with. I never miss my father more than on the Eve, when he used to read us “’Twas the Night Before Christmas” and make up little extra parts where the reindeer said things.

  I know Mom told us cookbook, Horace continues, but I think we should get her a dating guide for seniors. To those about to die, we salute you and your waning libidos. . . . He takes my mittened hand, settles it in the crook of his elbow, and adjusts his lope to my shorter strides. Linked, we cross the snow-scabbed bridge and follow the curve of Main Street toward the outdoor mall, directly across from the bar where cops pushed my brother’s face against a brick wall until the blood trickled onto his sneaker laces. Horace still drinks at this bar. He is becoming one of those town guys who sit on a stool, watch the game, flirt with the bartender, and at last call leave alone.

  Go on in, he says, lifting his cigarette, I want to finish this.

  A rope of bells chimes. The bookstore is warm and quiet.

  The woman behind the counter, bent over a book, says without looking up: Help you find anything?

  Oh shit, I say.

  It is Horace’s writing instructor.

  She looks up.

  I need something for my brother, I say.

  What does he like to read?

  Everything. Except, you know, crap.

  She nods, twisting a piece of hair around her finger.

  He’s a writer himself, I add, so he’s kind of critical.

  Will she say, Actually I’m a writer too! and will I ask if she ever teaches and will she say, Yes, at the community center! and will I mention Horace and try to tell, from how her eyes move, what she thinks of him?

  No. She gets up and leads me to a table display. Here are some new titles he probably won’t have seen yet.

  She returns to her stool and I pretend to scrutinize dust jackets. Sweat seeps down my ribs. Through the snowflake-painted window I watch the back of Horace’s head. Her—the unappreciator—who knows where she roams? And him, the hater, who roams in a tiny circle from his apartment to the blood bank to the bar and back again.

  I could leave right now, before he sees her. Take his arm and hop away, drag him until he starts running, gets ahead of me, glances over his shoulder to chide, Come on! I could chase after him laughing and he would laugh too and my nose would run and we’d stagger on the snow, shouting, until we were long past the mall and the bar and the brick where a splash of his blood can still be detected if you look close.

  Him and me, no one else.

  Back at the counter I say, Nothing caught my eye.

  The instructor nods and the bell-rope clatters behind me. I see her see him. I hear him stop in his tracks. She smiles; her black lashes flitter. She says, That wouldn’t happen to be your brother, would it?

  Yeah, I say, turning. Horace stands pressed against the door. His face has gone a lunar white.

  Hello stranger, calls the instructor.

  Oh, he says.

  My mouth is ready with all kinds of sabotage. We have to be getting back. We’re late for our movie. We’re meeting our mother for lunch. Horace, didn’t you need to stop by the hardware store?

  How’ve you been? the instructor asks.

  Keeping my head out of the oven, Horace replies, and cackles with unusual vigor. Incredibly, she laughs too. More of a bark, really. Together they laugh a lot longer than the remark warranted. My brother comes to lean against the counter. He smells like smoke and toothpaste.

  You know, I wanted to tell you, she says, since we never got a chance to discuss your story in class. . . .

  He bends closer.

  I make for the door and keep a careful hold on the bells as I open it, though god knows what for—Horace wouldn’t notice my leaving if I screamed the whole way out. A swift glance back through the snowflakes: she is laughing again. Perhaps he’s talking shit about the impotent woodcutter, or regaling her with a hilarious account of finding, when he came home from tenth grade, our father asphyxiated in his car: It gave a whole new meaning to the phrase “blue in the face”!

  Her barking can be heard through the glass and clear across the parking lot as I walk—reminding myself to root for him—back up Main Street in the direction of home.

  HEART SOCKETS

  On a rain-black morning she inches up and asks me to do some groundwork. Cut through the glass mask the new boy wears. Drop her name at his feet, please, and see what he picks up. Struck speechless herself whenever he’s near, she wants me to be the talker. I am so much older, she thinks, I won’t be after him myself. I have no desires left, she probably thinks.

  You just need to do the groundwork, the girl explains. Once that’s laid, I step in.

  The supervisor stops pacing, lets his crotch hover at my shoulder, and waits. I give him my heart and he pinches it between thumb and pinky, testing. We are told to make hearts firm and flesh them strong, stitch them tight in the glare of our room, tall and white, with long wood tables and plates of silver instruments.

  Garbage! says the supervisor.

  But the stitches are good, I say.

  No k
eeping, he says, it’s shit. He turns and brays to the room, We are not in the jack o’ lantern business here!—his skull shining globy in the white, chilly light. Tidy stitches! he howls. Tidy, tidy!

  With his barks and warbles, he ruins the room. I, cowering, tell my ears don’t listen. My stitches stagger, wrung clumsy. There are so many hours before the day can end.

  The animals wait at home, splinted and bandaged. Codling, elver, owlet, smolt. Human milk works on these wild babies. Even the eel? Especially the eel. It finds the breast quickly. My nipple is bigger than its head but it licks drops. The young owl’s beak is nimble; the codling’s lips are a wet pleasure. The infant salmon sucks longer than a human child can. Hurt young animals heal quicker than you think. Some rest, some milky drink, some affection is a marvelous cure. Behind my house are shelves for them, tin-roofed, padded with straw. Clean troughs for the fish. Old soft shreds of clothes that don’t fit me anymore, which the babies nose and trod to make little beds.

  Across the gravel lawn from the sewing room is a shackish building they say was once used as a buttery. What happens in a buttery other than butter? A milkmaid with skirts foaming at her plump neck getting pounded by the assistant gamekeeper? The company uses it for coffee and small food you can buy on your break. From tucked against the window I watch the new boy watch his own feet dig in the gravel. He doesn’t come inside. He stands scratching the ground with a toe, walks from one fence to the other, runs waving through a grist of bees outside the buttery door. I pray they won’t sting but his skin looks easy to bite. His skin looks like a newborn cougar’s pelt. He is dash, with damp curls, a pinstriped suit, a sharkskin belt. I don’t know him more than a face through fogged windows when I sit with my cup waiting to work again, but I have noticed he wears the same pinstripes every day. His face blown perfect like blue glass animals that cost a thousand dollars make my fingers throb to build a new and better than anything heart. His face looks like good work.

  I watch the dash boy dance for minutes on end. He stops when he sees nobody is watching. (He can’t know I am, from the brown window.) Done dancing, he takes off one shoe and hurls and the shoe flies where I can’t see it. Break is done and time to work but I take the long way around the back of the buttery. In the low-grown bride’s-breath hemming the wall lies his shoe. The shoe is, I notice, a creeper. It is purple and furry and, like any creeper, arrow-toed; it’s a fashion you don’t see much anymore. I see it and am glad. It means first I have an excuse for talk, a question to ask him—why did you throw a shoe into flowers?—and second that the boy knows old, good styles. Third it means he is a little trickster maybe. Nobody else in this no-talking place would raise an eyebrow long enough to play a game with shoes. The other workers are dead with their eyes open.

  Last night the wolf pup coughed up his own swallowed teeth. Kept brushing the floor with his snout, as if nervous or hunting, then coughed and coughed and spat the teeth into a little pile, shiny with stomach-juice. I washed the teeth and dried them. Now they sit, a row of yellow three, on the sill above the kitchen sink.

  The creeper sits under my jacket all afternoon. It stinks bright and I hope nobody thinks it is my body. The new boy, one-shoed, is at a table by the wall. He is making, I notice, scanty progress on his red handful of silk and stuffing—keeps lifting his head to look around, opening his mouth to talk. They won’t talk back! But, like me, he tries. He starts to sing. He whispers, chirrs, and hums. He recounts the plot of a sad movie that came out before he was born.

  Necessary? hollers the supervisor. Your loud voice? Is it?

  It’s too quiet in here, says the boy.

  And it might get even quieter, says the supervisor, once I run my thickest strung needle through your lips and pull.

  Here are my questions:

  Why do your eyes remind me of canoes?

  Who bought you that pretty suit that fits you pretty badly?

  What last thing did you think of last night before sleep?

  Mine was black stars lashed to the bottoms of canoes.

  Have you ever stayed alone in your room for more than one day at a time playing nurse with wound?

  In the gravel, after our shift, I hand over the creeper. The boy smiles and tucks it toe-first into his back pocket. I hate it, he says—meaning here, I know, because so do I.

  I miss it bad, he confesses.

  Miss what?

  The stem. The grit. The white.

  Pardon? I say.

  Those mean road. Old terms.

  He is young, so he heard them on the radio. He read them in a book. I say, You miss the road?

  Bad.

  When were you on it?

  In childhood, he says.

  He is just like the babies on shelves behind my house, except his limbs and fins aren’t broken and he can feed himself. But the youngness—the wetness—the way he’s eager. His mouth I wouldn’t dive a needle into; I would gently guide it to my milk. He would suck until he didn’t want more. His lips would be softer than a codling’s.

  You’re that person, he says, that lives in the scary zoo?

  I live in a house, I say, not far from town.

  But it’s a scary one, right, it’s a spook den, the kind of place nobody goes alone?

  I go there alone, I correct him. And my animals are there. I rescue hurt ones.

  But you yourself, insists the boy, must be a little off the beaten brain-path.

  He has heard people talking about my cages and troughs, my babies barking the whole day and crying the whole night. He thinks something’s not firing all the way upstairs in me.

  This is a job, he declares, only vegetables or work-release people take. He gets the shoe from his pocket, steers his foot in.

  I ask what, if so, brings him here.

  Investigative journalism, he clucks. I’m deep undercover. Does the supervisor whip or burn you?

  No, he’s just cranky, I say, to play along with this fatigued joke. I am humoring him. I am dry and old and hot for him. Under my jacket the nipples stand stiff, want sucking. What are you here for? I ask again.

  I’m a vegetable too! he says.

  (You are a newborn, slick with birth canal.)

  Just kidding, he says. I’m a hitchhiker.

  (You crack yourself up, you faker imp, you are nothing but a wet thing, velvet mouth!)

  I’m actually a tailor’s apprentice, he says, who’s learning to sew.

  (You’re a mouth where I fit.)

  I am jealous of whatever bodies have fallen under him before today, opened for his skin, whatever other bodies wetter than my old hot hurting one. It’s like seeing from the street a Saturday night family in its window, bent at table, the mother and father and child—that same envy. I have a talented mind for matching one feeling to another. A caught scarf on the bus seatback, for instance, is the hand on your neck of someone who knows you but when you turn around, nobody’s there.

  It was the only job I could find this summer, admits the boy, and this answer sounds truer, but I don’t trust him whole. He is barely out of his mother’s clutch. Some of us here are old, even if we’re not. We get old from keeping out of the way of things.

  Elephant seal milk is fat-clogged so rich that a pup gains nine pounds a day. Because she doesn’t eat while nursing, a mother seal sheds five hundred pounds in a month of milk.

  The forgotten assignment burns back into my mouth. Mention the girl. But what is her damn name? I can barely remember her face but oh, I know it’s smooth, it matches the boy’s, soft as a furred fruit skin. Their cheeks pressed together would be too much soft to bear. The girl has been at the job only a month or two. She drifted in just as she’ll drift, not long from now, back out. While she’s here, she wants distraction. She wants love gathered on her behalf, the boy drawn by sly strokes into her nearness where, stunned by her charms, he will gape and kneel down. She hasn’t yet asked me to write a poem for her to memorize, but I won’t be shocked if she does. Her name? It might as well be Calf, since Ca
lf is more fitting than any Jen or Stephanie, really far more accurate.

  Here are my questions:

  If you saw a hundred-legger run down your wallpaper at night, churning every leg, scratching and whispering, would you kill it with the sole of your creeper? Or would you even be afraid?

  Do your lungs ever clot with worry on the weekends?

  Does your brain bleed nails of ideas you think are so good until you say them to someone else and the person’s face shows you how bad the ideas are?

  Does the skin on your feet shiver the second before you step into a bath? Does the hair stand up on your belly?

  Calf plows into me on my way up the steps. Drool flecks the splits in her lips, a little girl’s drool, saliva of a sparkle and clarity that mean she’s not yet acquainted with the cloudier waters of wanting. She whispers, Saw you talking yesterday after work. What did he say? What were the exact words?

  We didn’t get far, I tell her.

  But you were talking for at least five minutes, she accuses.

  About weather.

  Did you get information? Girlfriend? Wife?

  He’s a bit short in the tooth for marriage, I remind her.

  At break, the boy catches up to me on the gravel, says, Your house is a dead hard mark.

  First what does that mean, and second how would you know?

  A place, he says, only approachable by an expert tramp. I saw it last night from the road.

  I say, That must have been a very informative hobo textbook.

  Book? he says. What?

  Why were you watching my house from the road?

  I just wanted to see what it would look like.

  I am old enough to be your much older sister, I decide to tell him.

  So? he says.

  So, I say.

  So it’s not like I’m affected by that information! and his moist mouth curls angrily. Old vegetable person, he adds.

  Slippy eel runt! I hiss.

  Maker, he shouts, of no sense!

  But his blue glass animal face makes me want to build a heart so much better than the crap we throw together at work, those red synthetic pillows to decorate the beds of hospital children, for pets to ruin with chewing, for dull men to disappoint women with on anniversaries.