draft
All night a high wind swings the hammock back and forth and back and forth. Sometimes I get seasick just lying in the hammock, much less sleeping. Every morning I wake: sour stomach, face slicked with sweat. When I try to lift my head, my neck snaps back, falls flat against the fine-knit hemp. From my spot on the hammock, I can see Susan’s lover Don cooking breakfast through the kitchen window. I watch as he fumbles for the frying pan, staggers over to the counter where the coffee pot sits. After his first cup, he lights a cigarette and exhales out the window. Although I have watched him often, the sudden bulk of him filling the window’s frame never ceases to startle me. I hold my breath; the hammock stills for an instant then begins to rock again.
***
On the morning of Don’s arrival, I was still sleeping on Susan’s couch. Head pushed into a cushion, I heard a knock at the front door and ignored it. Knock two: Susan stumbled into the living room, slipped on her cotton robe, and peered into the keyhole: Don! The door swung open. I struggled to sit, shake the man’s hand. Susan grinned: Sarah this is Don; he’s going to stay with us for a little bit. As he stepped into the living room, I noticed that his shirt was soaked with sweat and that he smelled like gasoline. My car broke down twice on the drive. I frowned bummer man then motioned towards the couch make yourself at home. When I tried to open the blinds, the cord snapped in half, and the blinds crashed onto the floor. A clump of cat fur flew up. Unmoved by the crash, Don sat legs-crossed in the blue recliner, lighting a limp cigarette with an even limper match. In the kitchen I helped Susan put on a pot of coffee. Did you know he was coming? Sort of but I didn’t think he’d actually show up. She served the coffee black. Before adding any sugar, Don asked is it refined? Without waiting to hear the answer, I dumped an entire tablespoon into my cup & took a big sip: so how do you & Susan know each other? Don eyed Susan briefly before answering we know each other from the Melon Group.
Susan had only mentioned the Melon Group once. At the time we were delivering a pie to a man in Holt County whose wife had just died. I knew neither the husband nor the wife, but Susan stressed the importance of the trip: I was in the Melon Group with them. Although Susan was my boss at the center for alterative healing, I knew little about her aside from what everyone knew: she possessed this persistent need to do good in the community and in the personal lives of her friends. When the duplex I lived in was temporarily evacuated due to asbestos, Susan insisted I stay with her. As soon as my coworkers heard the news, they praised her unfailing sense of duty. Cindy, the resident therapist, was even so bold as to use the phrase pillar of strength, before adding and to think Susan’s suffered so much herself. Two miscarriages, a damning divorce, and one year spent wandering. Where? Who knows; she was arrested near Dallas for hitchhiking then came here.
***
The day my truck broke down, Susan was nowhere to be found. Standing on the side of the road, I dialed her cell. No answer. At the center the secretary put me on hold for five minutes before saying she’s not here right now; can I take a message? When I called the house, Don, who had clearly been sleeping, answered in a fog: hello? Where’s Susan? She’s at the acupuncturist. I explained the situation; twenty minutes later Don’s Tercel rounded the corner. Seated on the passenger’s side, I fiddled with the radio till I heard something I recognized. An oldies station, barely audible, why can’t he see how blind can he be? Don rolled down the window: turn it up. A Beatles song. When we got stuck at the train tracks, Don informed me that he had achieved a minimal level of fame in the seventies working as a roadie for Wings. Who? You know Paul McCartney’s Band. God, I smoked so much hash with him. Susan didn’t tell you?
Susan had told me very little. The first night I stayed with her, I waited till she left for her stress-management class before inspecting the house. In the living room, I leafed through a few magazines, CDs, stray papers on the coffee table. In the basket beneath the TV stand, I discovered a pipe shaped like a vulva and a tattered copy of Siddhartha. Although I continued to paw through the other rooms, I found nothing that broadened the scant knowledge I had of her. The house existed in a sort of sterility. There was not a single distinguishable personal touch though the house was teeming with junk. Fourteen unscented candles, three electric juicers. Even the pictures on the refrigerator looked as if they could belong to anyone in any neighborhood. Not even the couch I slept on possessed a distinct scent; it was as if, over the years, the cushions had retained the personal scent of everyone who had ever slept on them. Often I woke in the middle of the night unable to place myself.
***
On Thursday we all crammed into Susan’s Bronco and drove two hours south to visit the Etowah Indian Mounds. A 54-acre site with six earthen mounds, a mid-size plaza and village area. Before entering, we took a vow of silence. Without making a sound, our tour guide pointed-out the major landmarks as dictated by the map: two borrow pits, four defensive ditches. At the end of the tour, a gift shop with glass doors. Don purchased a post-card and wooden necklace carved into the shape of an owl. On the drive home, he said it can’t be denied; Susan and I possess an inherent spiritual connection.
***
At six Susan left for her book club. As soon as her car turned out the driveway, Don pulled a palm-sized bong from his knapsack and said lets go out back. Out back: a two-acre stretch of dried grass. To the right a picnic table sat, and to the left, a hammock was strung between two poplar trees. After packing a tight bowl, Don said better not tell Susan about this; you know how she is. I nodded in agreement, took a hit. Stoned after only two turns, Don slurred god, this one time Susan and I... He began to sway a bit, spilled a sip of beer. Now it’s not what you think about Susan and me. She’s the one who left. Little by little Don filled in the missing details. When I had asked Cindy at work about the Melon Group, she elaborated little: it wasn’t much really, just some back to the land bullshit. Her ex-husband ran it. Don’s version differed: we set up camp in South Carolina; Susan’s father owned some property there. He took another hit, coughed hard: at some point we had close to thirty people living off the land, but then. More and more Don’s stories involved a leaving. Marla got pregnant and had the baby in a hospital, not even a midwife, mind you. Costa married his second cousin & no one’s heard from him since. In the end The Melon Group consisted of only Don and four other women; however, since Don organized his sex life around an open door policy, jealousy was a main-stay. All day the women argued, or worse, stared at each other in stiff-faced silence. See, Sarah, what we needed was more men to do the manual labor. You can’t self-subsist without men. From what I gathered, though, Don attracted only women and the occasional restless youth.
***
The first night I brought Anthony over, Don shook his hand what’s up brother? Nothing much man. Anthony took a seat next to Don on the couch. In the kitchen, I grabbed three beers from the fridge and opened them using the spare lighter on the counter. When I returned Beware my Love was spinning on the record player and Don held Anthony transfixed: yeah McCartney’s a cool dude I guess. Did Sarah mention that I toured with him?
A close friend, I met Anthony three years ago in a psych lab. Since we were the only smokers in the class, we became partners. Whenever we got together, we sat on the floor of his bedroom and listened to records. All Anthony’s favorite musicians, though, were from the sixties. I’ve never done acid but if I did, I’d listen to Jimmie Rodgers not Hendrix. I’m dreamy about an entirely different generation. Unions not sit-ins; FDR not Kennedy-& never, under any circumstance, Nixon or Reagan. Fuck Reagan don’t even get me started on that cunt. Anthony often ranted: you want to hear about Iran Contra, I’ll tell you about Iran Contra. He ranted fruitlessly; I already agreed, & Don, who had been present at Bloody Thursday needed no convincing. They fucking gassed the shit out of us. Anthony listened, riveted. My friend Terri was arrested and beaten.
Don knelt beside the coffee table to roll another joint. As soon as I inhaled, I heard Susan’s car pull into the driveway. Without hesitation I threw the joint into my beer; Don rushed to find something to cover the smell. Emerging from the bathroom with a rusted can of aqua net, he sprayed the room till even the cat coughed.
***
Late summer sun. We drove to the surplus store and paid cash for a charcoal grill. In the backyard Don wasted sixteen matches and ten sheets of newspaper before dousing the coals in lighter fluid. A single blue flame flickered then flared up. In the kitchen Susan and I chopped fruit for sangria. Our mouths stained red. Slicing open a pineapple, I asked how much longer did Don say he was staying? He didn’t.
Seated at the picnic table, we formed a lopsided triangle. Susan to my far left-and Don, a bit closer, on the right. With his eyes already closed, Don motioned with his finger then touched my wrist let’s give our thanks. A blessing, not to God, but to the earth itself. Throughout the prayer, his palm remained planted on my wrist-and all our eyes were closed except for the brief instant when I thought the prayer had ended and opened mine only to find that Susan had been eyeing Don and I the entire time.
***
On Tuesday the center closed for a recreational holiday. In the break room Monday evening, Susan urged everyone to do something outdoors; we’re going fishing. Although Anthony and Don hitched a boat to my truck, we did not fish. Instead we hiked till our hair was matted flat with sweat. We swam. In the lake, waist-deep. After an hour or so, Susan and I paddled out farther. With nothing but our heads bobbing above the surface, Susan asked don’t you want to meet someone? In the wake of her rediscovered love, Susan had become very curious about my love life. In any alone moment, a question: what about Anthony? He’s a nice guy.
Susan was a point-misser in much the same way as Anthony. When Anthony graduated from med school, he used his trust fund to hitchhike from Atlanta to San Francisco. In the weeks before he left, he begged aww c’mon Sarah it will be fun. You’ve never been anywhere. Don’t you want to. It seemed I was always expected to be doing. Something, anything. In fact, Anthony called only once while he was away. From a bar in Oklahoma he beamed into the receiver oh man if you were here. Where? In this cute little dive bar there are real cowboys here. I imagined sitting in that bar with him on a stool that looked chewed, running my middle finger across the top of a chipped glass of whiskey (of course whiskey) and some middle-aged, salt of the earth, holding my pigtails, one in each hand: are those handlebars? I didn’t need to move to feel moved. In fact the “restlessness of youth” confused me. I was satisfied to stand still all afternoon, watching my own shadow shift across the wall. But he’s perfect for you, really, perfect. Susan’s persistence baffled me: it’s just not healthy. There’s this great guy in my stress-management class? And then in a tone I had never heard her use before: you got your eyes on someone else?
***
Whenever I could not sleep, I stole a cigarette from Don’s pack on the coffee table & sat on the edge of the porch. For days I watched a cockroach I had assumed was dead, but then, one night I saw its left antenna twitch. I stared so long and hard at the cockroach that I almost did not notice Don as he opened the front door and sat down beside me. What are you doing? Couldn’t sleep. He offered me his jacket. You’ll get sick sitting out here like this. I slipped one arm in then the other, buttoned the jacket up to the neck. Sliding a bit closer, Don placed a hand on my shoulder now we’ve all noticed that you’ve been awful quiet lately. I lit one of the stolen cigarettes. Don sidled even closer, took a drag, then pulled me into a hug. Don’t forget you can talk to us, I mean Susan or me, about anything. I did not sleep at all.
***
At the county fair, Susan volunteered to work the center’s charity booth. For at least one week prior, she pressured Don to join her. I’m not asking a lot here. I’m just asking for one thing. With each new plea, Don waved his hands: now c’mon you know I don’t like that kind of shit. They argued over coffee. One morning Don was even so defiant as to light a cigarette at the kitchen table, exhale Susan’s direction. On the opening day of the fair, Susan threatened to kick Don out twice before slamming the front door: fine whatever I’ll go by myself.
While Susan was away, Anthony stopped by with four hits of 2C-I. This guy in my chem lab made a batch last week. I know Sarah won’t but I thought you might. Don fingered the bald spot above his left ear: what is it? Anthony laughed its like acid but a little more intense. After performing multiple internet searches on the drug, Don slapped his knee shit why not. By six the boys were tripping hard. Since we didn’t know when Susan would be home, I drove them to the park. All night they laid in the grass, watching their shadows stretch and shorten in the moonlight. I remained far off, counting down the weeks till my duplex would be ready. When Don & I finally arrived home two hours past midnight, Susan fumed where the fuck have you been?
***
When Anthony’s lease ran out, he slept on the floor of his storage unit one night before asking Susan if he could move in. Sure, honey. The next morning I woke with a note tacked to my windshield: can you come by at five to help me move? After work I drove over to Ample Storage off Beaverrun. When I unlocked the door to his unit, Anthony was still asleep. I bent down, shook his shoulder once, twice. He opened his eyes: what time is it? I pointed to the alarm clock sitting on a nearby crate. Anthony stretched, sat up and said want to smoke before we get started? While we smoked Anthony questioned me about Don and Susan. They’re not serious right, I mean it’s not a serious thing between them? I shrugged, took a hit, shrugged again. At first I didn’t understand his questioning, then, I did. Bending to lace his boots, Anthony said I mean it’s not a big deal or anything it’s just Don and I were thinking of taking a trip together. I packed the last of Anthony’s things. Whatever would not fit was thrown away. After I had secured the crates with rope in the flatbed, I couldn’t help but ask you sure, now really sure, you want to move in? Anthony rolled his eyes, slammed the tailgate shut that’s just like you.
Initially I blamed Don for Anthony’s sudden hostility. I imagined the two of them getting drunk at their favorite bar and saying my name over and over in a tone not unlike paper being cut. No, I knew better. Don was not talking about me to anyone, especially not Susan who watched my every movement. Just the other day, she cornered me in the hallway. Tugging at the hem of my skirt, she said I know you’ve been smoking with Don, and worse, in my own home. I’d expect that from Anthony but you? I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out.
***
All day every day Anthony laid on the couch reading books from the library. On Thursday he learned how to plant oregano. On Friday: how to till an acre, when to can tomatoes, six proven stewing methods. After finishing Bernstein’s Guide to Brewing, we decided to brew a Baltic porter. I sterilized the bottles with bleach and boiling water then hung them above the sink the dry; all day they glistened in the sunlight. In sloppy print, Don wrote down the ingredients. Holding the paper two inches from her face, Susan still could not make out Don’s handwriting. Now what does this say? Maybe you should just come with us? Don set his pencil down, raised a hand: now Susan we’re already been through this. Anthony knows the recipe better than. They stepped onto the porch. Through the window Anthony and I heard Susan tear up I just don’t understand why you won’t come. Don stomped his foot Not this again. God, Susan. I thought we were past all this.
Later that night I heard Don and Susan arguing through the walls-then, fucking. A vigorous, full-bodied act. A ferocity I had not heard previously. I heard none of the usual moans-but worse: the actual movements of their bodies. A stretch of tendon, bone-groan as they shifted into whatever position. Through it all Anthony remained unshaken. I propped one pillow beside each ear, hummed a tune aloud to myself until I thought they were through. A mistake. They began again. I gathered my blankets and walked out into the backyard where I laid down in the hammock.
***
All night, a high wind. The hammock swings back and forth and back and forth. I wake: sour stomach, body still swaying with the trees though I’ll be lying still. Through the kitchen window, light. Someone from inside the house calls my name. Although I pretend, I am not asleep when Don opens the kitchen door, walks out into the backyard. Shaking the hammock with his bare foot, he says you awake yet? He shakes the hammock again. I roll over: what’s wrong? Pilot light’s out. You know where Susan keeps the matches?
In the kitchen I point to the top shelf in the pantry. Standing on his tip-toes, Don struggles to locate the matches. Can you get me that stool. I drag the stool over, he climbs atop. Found them. Still towering above, he looks down at me, touches the top of my head and runs his hand through my hair. The cat walks into the kitchen, bangs her bowl against the floor for food. One step, two: Don climbs down, inches forward; he runs his hand through my hair again & leans in to kiss. Don! When I pull away, I back into a shelf. A jar of stewed tomatoes teeters on the edge a second before shattering across the floor. Just wait here I’ll go get the mop. Although Don leaves the pantry, he does not get the mop; he sits at the kitchen table, three fingers laced in the handle of his coffee cup. With his free hand, he lights his third cigarette and asks how long till you move back into your apartment? I grab the mop from the hall closet, roll my eyes one week why? Ashing into a flower pot, he says think you’ll still come by and visit. When I open my mouth to respond, he interrupts, and in a tone of pure mock, says yeah, sure I’ll visit.
***
Long after Susan and Don have gone to bed, Anthony turns the light on in the kitchen and motions through the window for me to come inside. I roll over in the hammock, close my eyes. For the last two days, Anthony has pestered I have something to tell you; Don & I ...well, never mind; when can we talk? I stare back at him: blank-faced, unblinking. I am storing myself up, taking stock in my own silence. A shut mouth, held breath. When Don wakes everyone up before dawn on Saturday for breakfast, I refuse his offer. Susan walks out to the hammock and says c’mon Don just wants to bring us all together again. In the kitchen, an impressive spread: pancakes, bacon, grits. When we finish Don clears the plates from the table and says Anthony and I have decided to take a little trip cross-country. Susan eyes me briefly before turning back toward Don. Anthony’s never been to Yellow Stone or the Grand Canyon; can you believe it, Susan? Without uttering a word, Susan stands from her chair and walks out the room. Shaking his head, Anthony leans over and lowers his voice: what’s up with her? Disregarding Anthony’s question, Don grins: we’re leaving this afternoon. We were hoping you could help us pack.
At three p.m. the boys turn out of the driveway. Susan stays in her room all afternoon, emerging only to pee or grab more tissues. On Monday she calls in sick at the center, and I arrive to a break room full of questions. What’s wrong? Did something happen? It’s just not like her. When I arrive home from work, Susan is sitting on the couch watching a Kirk Cameron special on the Hallmark Channel. I set my purse down on the coffee table and ask how you feeling? It takes her three minutes to acknowledge my presence, and when she does, it’s in the form of a question: what happened the other morning with you and Don? I heard you two arguing in the kitchen. I notice then that all the windows in the house have been shut for days and that it’s nearly eighty degrees. I take two steps towards the couch, reach over Susan’s head to open the window and let the breeze in. I say nothing.