- Introduction: Dreams and Nightmares by A. J. French
- Flowers in Her Hair by A.J. Brown
- Lifeboat by Larsen
- Paradiso by Châteaureynaud
- The Doll by Hornak
- The One Ton Woman and the Amazonian Half Man by Malinenko
- True Blue by Parks
- The Emperor's Nose by Paul Malone
Lifeboat
by Cynthia Larsen
narrated by Bob Eccles
He started out fixing her planter. "The back side is rotting," she'd said. "It sags." So he'd gone back to the edge of their yard, tool belt in place and a hammer in his hand. She'd watched him from the window that first day, face grim and doubting.
Of course once he'd replaced the back side, the other three didn't match, so he'd replaced those too. The hammer felt sturdy in his hands, and the sound of nails banging into wood was comforting, the sound of accomplishment, permanence. So he'd kept going. At first his son Jimmy had wanted to help, but what does a ten-year-old know about building? He'd let him hand over the nails for a while, but then Jimmy had gotten bored and started kicking around the soccer ball, stopping once in a while to watch. Now he hardly ever comes out into the yard, stays mostly inside with his video games, as boys are prone to do.
After work he grabs a beer and goes straight to the back yard. The planter has turned into a boat of sorts, oval and tapered on the ends. It reminds him of his grandfather's boat, the one he and Marcy made love in that weekend he'd taken her to meet his parents at the lake house. He remembers that night, how the pale skin of her breasts flashed in the moonlight. He remembers how thirsty he'd been, afterward, how he'd felt the urge to somehow liquefy her and drink her down. Instead he jumped in the lake, staying under as long as he could hold his breath, letting the water seep into his pores. When he came up Marcy was looking frantically for him. He remembers how vulnerable she looked, naked and alone in the boat under the moonlight. He'd wanted to take her again before they went back—he was still so thirsty, but the moment was gone and her skin no longer sparkled.
He was proud to show her off back then, proud that she'd chosen him. These days she's all sharp angles. He remembers a time when she was rounder, softer, when she'd let him in. Now, even when she is busy with mundane tasks like peeling potatoes, or helping Carrie with her math homework, her body is barbed wire—firmly positioned to keep him out. The way they look at him, all three of them, like they are wary, like they're tensing for blows, makes him want to pull his hair out. He's never hit any of them, never would. As if he hasn't given up everything for them. Everything.
After a few weeks of watching him, Marcy finally comes out, pulling her sweater tight against the breeze. "I think that's big enough, John," she says. But he knows it isn't; it's never enough with her.
She's waiting for an answer, but what is there to say? Words are just letters strung together, don't mean a thing. Besides, her answer to whatever he would say is already perched on her tongue, just waiting to be let loose. He could babble like a baby, or sing the alphabet song, and she would still have the same response. What's the sense of even talking at all? Silently he turns back to his boat, fishing in his belt for another nail.
Marcy doesn't move, watches him with her raven eyes. He can feel them, burning into his back like he's leftover meat. Let her watch, he thinks. She can't take this from me.
He hears his neighbor Russ call to them and looks up, hammer dropping to his side. Russ is an asshole, always showing off his new toys. He'll fake grin and wave as he rides around on his big lawnmower, spraying his grass on John's property.
Russ ambles over. He pushes his baseball cap up off his eyes and motions to the planter. "Building an ark?" he says with that stupid grin. John glares at him. He doesn't owe him a thing.
"It's my planter," Marcy says. Her voice is higher now than before; she's been holding her breath.
"That's some planter, John," he says. He chuckles, like they're sharing a story, like they're reminiscing. "Planting a palm tree?"
The hammer feels heavy at his side, waiting impatiently for this transaction to be completed, to get back to work. His throat is dry, and for a moment he thinks of glistening water. He tightens his fist around the wood, smooth and strong in his hand. He stares blankly at Russ, waiting for him to go away.
"Don't have enough soil for this," Marcy says, trying again.
He swallows and turns from them, picks up a plank of wood. From the corner of his eye he sees Marcy waving Russ away, knows they've raised their eyebrows behind his back, conspired against him. But he doesn't care. He's thinking about another level, maybe a deck with a rail. Certainly a window or two. Egg-shaped.
What he needs is more time. He's due some vacation, thinks maybe he'll use it. His boss can push his own pencils around the desk for a few weeks while he works on this project. Probably won't even notice he's gone. Besides, he's put in his time; he's due. Marcy will be mad, though, since they'd planned a beach trip. But that was before he picked up the hammer. Marcy and the kids can go without him, will have just as good a time. And if they decide not to go, if they decide to stay right here and watch him work all day, they can probably still get the deposit back.
He's covered the sides with aluminum sheeting. Not that he thinks it will ever be waterproof; he's not stupid. The metal reflects the sunlight, and on good days his family cannot spy on him from the window without blinding themselves. He likes to think of it as his own personal shining star. And doesn't he deserve it? Reach for the stars, his mother had said. What she didn't say is that while you can reach and reach all day, the only thing you'll ever get is a sore arm. He'd like to tell his own kids that when you reach for stars and never grab them, you can just make your own. If words weren't so pointless.
When it's raining he works on the interior. He has dug down, excavated a cave. The walls are supported by hemlock beams and lined with sheetrock. Today he'll paint it brown—the white of the sheetrock is too bright, too pure. He heads to the garage for the drop cloths and paint brush, stops when he notices Marcy's car still parked in the driveway. She's usually gone to work by now. The door to the kitchen is open, and he stands next to it, listening to her talk on the phone. She's crying, and he wonders if she's still mad about the vacation.
"A month," she says. "We got his termination letter in the mail yesterday." Pause. In his mind he can see her winding the phone cord around her finger.
"We have some savings," she says, sniffing. "But none of that really matters." She lowers her voice, but he can still hear her. "He's scary," she whispers. "He walks around all silent and angry, and he never puts down the hammer."
He looks down at his hand, and there it is. It belongs there, comfortable as a finger. He can rely on this hammer, trust it. And he's not angry. She's the one that is angry. She's spread it to the kids, too. Carrie, who used to be his little girl, with her woman's body and her pinched face, just like her mother. Jimmie, his blank button stare—he'd like to shake the laziness out of him. None of this is John's fault. He thinks maybe he should just walk in there, tell her.
"He's not a violent person," Marcy says, her tone turning defensive. He wonders who she's talking to, what the other person said. He hears her sharp intake of breath, the release as she lets the words come out of her mouth. "He's having some sort of breakdown," she says slowly.
Breakdown. He can hear the words flitting around inside his head, can hear his own voice say it. Breakdown. He holds his breath, waiting for Marcy to realize he's there, that he's been listening. Waits for the sound of her chair scraping against the linoleum, the quick hanging up of the phone.
"I don't know," she says. Since she hasn't gotten up, she must not have heard him. Maybe he didn't really speak at all. "There was nothing that I know of. He just went out to fix my planter." She waits, listening to the other speaker.
"They'll go to my mother's for a few days," she says. Her voice shakes and she sniffs again. Pause. "Okay, one o'clock tomorrow. Yes, I will. And, ah, thank you."
He hears the soft click of the phone, pictures Marcy dropping her face into her hands as she does when she cries. Too late he hears the chair push back, the snap of her shoes as she walks toward the garage door.
He doesn't move, thinks maybe she won't see him if he is absolutely still. But then she is there in front of him, mouth open in surprise. She looks at his face, then down to the hammer in his hand, then back up to his face. Her eyes are wide, frantic, like the time Jimmie swallowed a quarter. It reminds him of her naked body under the moonlight. Of his thirst. He remembers the urge to drink her down.
"Are you okay," she says, glancing past him toward her car. It is not a question, he knows. She expects no response. He looks at her, at her shiny hair that rests on her shoulders. When it was longer, darker, and she was swollen with Carrie, he would brush it for her. Now her hair is lighter, though you can see the darker roots coming in at the top. Funny how the darkness always comes through.
She looks at him strangely, and he wonders if he said that out loud. About the darkness. "Russ called earlier," she says. "He wants to know how you're doing."
So that was who was on the phone? "That asshole doesn't give a shit about me," he says.
She looks at him, waiting. Finally she says, "You have to talk to me, John. You can't keep on like this."
He speaks louder this time, "Keep on like what? I'm getting paint."
She pushes air through her nose, throws her head back. "Fine," she says. "Don't talk to me."
He looks at her in surprise. Can't she hear him? He is talking loud and clear.
She sags, tilting her head to the side, saying, "I know this is hard for you …" She stops, cups her hand to her mouth then pulls it away. She squares her shoulders, says quietly as she brushes past him, "Someone is coming tomorrow to talk to you. This isn't good for the kids."
He feels the warmth of the hammer in his hand, looks down as she gets into her car. Then he realizes. He hadn't been talking—it was his hammer. And she can't hear it, closed-eared bitch.
"I've had a long enough break," it says.
John looks down at his hand. They are lying on the platform he'd built earlier, the sleeping bag unrolled beneath them. "But we're done," he says.
"Are we really done?" it asks.
"Well, I've been thinking about building an addition off the back," he says.
Quiet for a moment, then, "That's not what I'm talking about."
John thinks about this. He's heard it before. "Maybe another story," he says.
"It's high enough, John," it says. "And you know it."
He does know it. Much higher and a strong wind would take it right over. Still, he was thinking maybe a watchtower.
"Who do you think is coming over tomorrow to visit?" it says.
"I'm not sure. Someone to talk to me, I guess," he says.
"Do you think they'll like your lifeboat?"
Lifeboat. He looks around. He can really breathe in here; not like in the house. When he goes in there he feels anxious, sweaty. He shrugs.
"If you had the aluminum on your head, they wouldn't be able to see you."
It's true; that has been a problem. Being seen. Eyes looking at him are painful, burning into his flesh. Drying him from the inside out. He could make a hat, cover his head just like his boat.
"I'll help you," it says. "We can work together."
He sighs and stands up. He supposes it's time. He makes his way to the garage in the dark, covers an old helmet with aluminum. He is quiet, remembering the last encounter with Marcy.
When he's finished, it says, "She won't be able to see you now."
John grunts.
"Wonder what she's doing," it says.
Probably watching the television in the bedroom, he thinks. Probably having a cup of tea, crying about the stupid vacation.
"Maybe Russ is in there with her," it says. "Maybe he's showing her his hammer."
His throat constricts, beads of sweat forming under the helmet. He tightens his grip on the hammer.
"Maybe you should go inside and get a drink," it says. "You look so thirsty."
And he is thirsty. More thirsty than he has ever been in his life. His throat is dry, can't say a word. He turns the knob on the kitchen door so that he can quench his thirst.
BIO:
Cynthia Larsen lives in southern Vermont with her husband and three daughters. Her novel is currently being shopped by an agent, Alexandra Machinist of the Linda Chester Agency, and her flash fiction piece, A Cup Of Coffee, recently won the WOW! 2010 flash fiction contest.