The Physics of Imaginary Objects

by Tina May Hall

  Paul called to say he was coming home. I was in the basement working on a print for a nature magazine of a man in a forest holding up an old-style lantern—lost in the snow. I struggled with the flakes falling through the tree branches—a tricky thing, determining how much to pare away. My cut thumb stung, reminded me to go slowly.

  When Paul walked into the kitchen, he gasped at the hole in the wall and the smell that lingered. It was clear we were not going to be able to stay in the house. He stood in the center of the room, looking around, and I saw him touch the table, noticing it was shifted from its usual space.

  There was no use in taking anything with us because the smell had permeated everything. His house was only a few miles through the woods, and we decided to celebrate the first real snowfall by snowshoeing there. It was already night. The air was so cold the trees cracked. Above us, the gibbous moon, deflating. Between us, this understanding, a tether, the thing we wouldn't talk about. I wanted to tell him about the kitchen windows, the thickness of glass, the cost of a wall filled with squirrels, the spiders claiming their corners. I wanted to tell him I loved him and I couldn't remember how we met. He had things he wanted to tell me too; I knew by the way his breath hung in the air before us. There were so many things inside us, and it comforted me to think of them there, curled up, content, for the time being, to be hidden.

  Erratum:

  Insert “R” in “Transgressors”

  Fragments from the 1899 and 1900 Transactions of the American Microscopical Society

  A murder had been committed, the instrument used being an ax.

  The victim was a sailor of Swedish extraction and had sailed the lakes for seven or eight years, making his home in Buffalo.

  The defendant was a dancer, a singer, a woman once beautiful who, because of her tortuous course, became roughened and changed.

  The victim was a sailor of Swedish extraction. He was in the habit of spending his nights when on shore at a notorious dance hall in the infected district.

  I was engaged as a medical expert in an investigation under peculiar circumstances. With your kind permission, I will briefly narrate.

  The poetic statement that drops of different bloods drying on a glass plate would give different figures needs only to be mentioned to show that science is not always divorced from fancy.

  The victim was a sailor of Swedish extraction. He was in the habit of spending his nights in the infected district. One night he met a singer, whose husband was “the strong man” doing certain tricks such as stone-breaking, tearing chains asunder, and the like. One night the sailor met a singer, a woman, once beautiful, whose very appearance struck him a blow.

  A murder had been committed, the instrument used being an ax. After the murder, the house, a wooden one, containing the body, was set on fire, burning to the ground.

  I was engaged as a trained and thorough observer, called into action to help solve the seeming mystery. I was engaged for the testimony of a microscopist—one who sees, then feels—not with his fingers but with his intellectual grasp. With your kind permission, I will briefly narrate.

  A murder had been committed, the instrument used being an ax. After the murder, the house, a wooden one, containing the body, was set on fire, burning to the ground . The ax had been thrown down about eight feet from the house, thus being subjected to a high heat.

  I was engaged to determine the presence or absence of blood.

  The defendant was a woman, a singer in a resort, whose husband was “the strong man” doing certain tricks. Her very appearance struck the sailor a blow. The sailor's was a stable body not readily affected. He was of Swedish extraction. He had sailed the lakes for seven or eight years.

  The victim may have been the husband, “the strong man” noted for his strength, which in fact consisted only in stage tricks. One man was missing, one dead.

  A trauma, be it ever so slight, is only safe as long as the pressure is low. A glance from her struck the sailor a blow. The action of the heart alone is almost never responsible. She was a singer in the infected district, which caused her to become roughened and changed.

  I was engaged as a medical expert, a trained and thorough observer, called into action to help solve a seeming mystery.

  One man was missing, one dead. They offer a point of least resistance, and upon the degree of resistance do their own lives and safety depend.

  To determine the presence or absence of blood, one must perform the most delicate test. The action of the heart alone is almost never responsible.

  A glance from her struck him a blow. One man was missing, one dead. Her husband was “the strong man” doing certain tricks, such as stone breaking, tearing chains asunder, and the like.

  A chain is no stronger than its weakest link, or a bridge stronger than its weakest span, or a man stronger than his weakest artery.

  He was a sailor of Swedish extraction who was in the habit of spending his nights in the infected district. There he met women who were usually functional and temporary. She was a singer, once beautiful. They proceeded upstairs to a private room. A glance from her struck him a blow.

  A bridge is no stronger than its weakest span. There can be no question about the delicacy of this reaction. The main force of the heart is spent in distending the arteries. A man is no stronger than his weakest artery. They offer a point of least resistance, and upon the degree of resistance does their own life and safety depend.

  Leaving the room and descending the stairs, they met the husband who struck the sailor on the jaw, felling him. One man was missing, one dead. The house, a wooden one, was set on fire, burning to the ground. A murder had been committed, the instrument used being an ax. On the ax were charred and brittle hairs and some brownish-black spots, which, if blood, were too much altered to respond to any but the most delicate test.

  I was engaged as a trained observer—one who sees, then feels—not with his fingers but with his intellectual grasp. As a stable body not readily affected. As a microscopist and a medical expert. With your kind permission, I will briefly narrate.

  Practically everything can be accomplished with the small direct vision.

  One man was missing, one dead. The woman was a singer, once beautiful, capable of striking a blow with a glance. The instrument used being an ax. Her husband was “the strong man,” noted for his strength, which in fact consisted only in stage tricks. He struck the sailor on the jaw, felling him. On the ax were brownish-black spots. The test is certain and quite delicate. The sailor was of Swedish extraction and had sailed the lakes. A bridge is no stronger than its weakest span.

  Only the use of the most exact and accurate appliances could lead to successful or trustworthy conclusions. They proceeded upstairs to a private room. The main force of the heart is spent. A murder had been committed. To withstand the force of the heart's action one becomes roughened and changed. Matters of the most vital concern may be at stake, with a single small fragment at hand for examination.

  There is yet no accord. How to withstand the force of the heart's action? The test is certain and quite delicate. A bridge is no stronger than its weakest span. How to withstand the force of the heart's action? I was engaged as a trained and thorough observer. The main force of the heart is spent. The vessel walls will yield to the strain. The instrument used being an ax. How to withstand the force of the heart's action? Only the use of the most exact and accurate appliances. Practically everything can be accomplished with the small direct vision. How to withstand the force of the heart's action? A murder, an ax, drops of different bloods, a blow, stage tricks, the tearing asunder of chains, the house, a wooden one, burned to the ground, the heart, the infected district.

  Skinny Girls' Constitution and Bylaws

  We will know each other by the way our watches slip from our wrists, the bruises on our knees, our winged shoulder blades tenting silk dresses.

  We eat; we eat. We eat like wild boars, like wolves, like cyclists in training. We love the bloody shreds
that cling to the T. We suck the gob of marrow that floats to the top of the soup. We gnaw the chicken down to splinters.

  Everything is bone, bone, bone.

  Her brother holds Polly to the candle to read her, the way one would a stolen envelope. Numbers float like seaweed under her skin. She is a mathematical genius. She has teeth like the keys of an adding machine. She tells her brother that his birth date plus his wedding date plus the date of his death add up to 243. He drops her so quickly the flame is blown out.

  They call us witches. They look away from us in the bright light. The lavender crisps in the fields. The rain will not come.

  Querida is the only one of us who once was fat. Her mother cooked with lard and made pink pastries on the weekends. But when she was thirteen, Querida got her period and a fever in the same week. She burned and burned. The priests said masses over her. Her bed was lit by a hundred candles. Her mother held a wet cloth to her brow for fifteen months while bees died in the space between the window and screen. And when she rose up, Querida was a blade of grass, sweet as spit, forehead blanched and thighs withered. We ask her what it was like and pinch her waist, but she only smiles. We love our secrets; anything hidden is so dear to us, we who are always on display.

  When we run, our knees are castanets.

  Thirteen of us, a baker's dozen. Pasteboard box of meringues, sweet and brittle. Thirteen horses wheeling at the fence. Thirteen water-striders, all legs and surface tension.

  Bianca's job is to fasten ties around men's necks all day long. She has mastered the Windsor, the half-Windsor and the four-in-hand. She is practicing the cross knot. The double-simple is best for short men. Only a few wear bowties. Most prefer silk to polyester. Cotton is a daring choice. Bianca's fingers move quick as crickets. Many of her clients don't even realize she is there. The worst part is the collars. They are always too narrow or wide, too dingy or floppy. Bianca takes home the collars of the men she likes best and stiffens them herself with sugar and egg whites and mineral water, boiled down to a paste, painted on with a dove's feather, dried by her own breath.

  We will gestate plump happy babies in the bone cages of our pelvises.

  When we lift our arms to the moon, there is a sound like branches scraping.

  Lizzie stops a car with her bare hand, standing in the middle of the road over the body of the dead fox. The car just kisses the skin of her palm as it drifts to rest, like a boat easing into dock. Beneath the wishbone of her legs, the fox shudders. The moon falls right out of the sky. Fur springs up to cover wounds, its tail traces an “S” on the asphalt.

  We chant Plath at school assemblies. “One year in every ten, peel off the napkin, I eat men, I eat men,” as we shake our pom poms and swivel our hips, left, right, all around, a racetrack, a snake eating its tail, the eternal omphalos. Our classmates love it, throw carnations at us, send us candy-grams and risqué text messages, dream of us all weekend long.

  We will donate cells drawn from the doorknobs of our spines, the needle a key turning us.

  At eight, Francie is the youngest of us. We feed her the choicest bits, the organ meats and the toenails, the nose cartilage. She is pretty as a stream, kind as a blizzard, graceful as a schooner a thousand feet underwater. She plays goalie on the hockey team and roars like a lion when she has a bad dream. She will not sleep alone; her fears are our fears. Her knuckles dig into our necks at night; her mouth touches ours when we least expect it. Little ghost, how often we have closed the door on you, how often you have tunneled through.

  We will not stick our heads in ovens. We will not throw ourselves from bridges, nor weight our pockets, nor disturb our veins.

  Nessa is the mean one, the one who deals with telemarketers and credit card bills. She never holds the door for anyone, puts the empty milk carton back in the fridge, tells people their pets are ugly and ill-behaved. In her spare time, she climbs, her feet wedged into the too-small shoes, her fingers caked with chalk. Once, she fell sixty feet and dangled there, hanging from the rope and a leaf-bladed piton, the last of three, the only one to hold. She broke all of her fingers that time, trying to find a way up or down. In the end, she swears she used her teeth to unclip the carabiners and release herself from the granite face into the air, where she floated, hollow as a feather, lightning cracking around her, knowing what was coming, the morphine and its weird itch, the feeling of her tibia stitching itself back together, the forever lumpiness of her ribs, the first drops of rain, heavy as lead on her skin.

  We will grow up to be doctors and stockbrokers and video store clerks. We will wear our hair like crowns and snort through flared nostrils.

  Martine is 115 years old and still flat-chested. In her cold, blue heart, three little men live. By night, they write love poems and keep her awake with their sighing. By day, they smoke cigarettes and discuss Nietzsche. Finally, they lick clean the last can of duck fat, cough up their black lungs, and wither into tiny skeletons, whose splintery outlines Martine can feel if she presses hard enough.

  We pass each other notes in the hollows of our collarbones.

  In the snow, Audrey is invisible. Her pink cheeks drain to white, her eyes pale, her skin turns waxy. She is the corpse-bride running after the soccer ball. She is the one who chirps, “We're late again,” hands around lunches in paper bags, and builds scale replicas of Chartres out of the ice she scrapes from the windshield. Inside, Audrey is always the first to be seen. She is all roses and oranges and zebra stripes. She jingles when she walks—it is her molars rattling.

  There is no noose that can hold us.

  Fiona writes romance novels on her cell phone during lunch hour. All of her heroines are named Fiona, and her heroes are prone to swooning. Her publisher pays her in pounds and thinks she is a little old grandmother in County Cork. She writes, “Mark clapped the back of his hand to his forehead and said, ‘I am overcome.'” And, “Frank sank gracefully onto the divan.” And, “Steve reached out blindly as the world went gray.”

  Underwater, we are transparent.

  Our mothers won't let us sit on their laps.

  Colleen is deaf. We broke all of our grandmothers' rose-decaled plates proving it. We speak to her in signs and spell out the unusual words. Filament, Frangipani, Balzac. She sings us to sleep with her stony voice. She wakes at dawn to bake saffron buns with fat raisins poking out like roaches. In public, we must be careful. The sight of our fingers spelling causes heart attacks and car accidents. Mostly, we wait to talk in the dark, in bathroom stalls and movie theaters, broom closets and basements, our hands pressed into her hand, our knuckles kissing.

  We fit six across the backseat and shiver together, arms and legs wrapped like eels around each other.

  Olivia, Ophelia, and Odette are identical triplets. They have red hair that has never been cut. They sleep on piles of it, bind it up in knots and rolls for the daytime, let it unfurl like bolts of silk after dark. They sing in unison, their clear voices making a chord. They tap dance and juggle knives. They do a ventriloquist act at the burlesque theater downtown. Between the strippers, the triplets appear, holding three dolls with long, red hair. They are perfectly synchronized; they never falter. Their lips don't move. Once in a while, a chartreuse feather floats down from the catwalk or the light shifts and the stage glitters with loosened sequins. For the finale, they sit perfectly still, until the audience forgets which are the dolls and which the girls and breaks into spontaneous applause.

  We will grow up to be spelunkers, ballerinas, and landscape architects.

  In fairy tales, we are the last to be eaten.

  They call us late bloomers, daddy longlegs, frigid. They call us by each other's names and names we've never known and seat us in the back row of the plane, not realizing that it is our prayers keeping everyone from going down in a scream of burning metal. They call us sweetheart in the dark, never guessing we are all around them, so many of us packed in tight. That old game, we think. Breast, hip, thigh. Sardines, it was called, and the goal was to stay h
idden.

  We wash in teacups. We chart the stars on our scapulae, make telescopes of thumbs and forefingers. We cut our nails short as boys', the better to scratch at the chiggers embedded in our shins. We know our blood is sweet to drink; we know our bones are irresistible.

  Kick

  Last night, Ben dreamed of Freud and woke up laughing. He remembered this suddenly, as the lawn chair with its frayed, vinyl strips creaked against his fidgeting. Pale Johnnie threw two more steaks on the grill and some sausages and a bouquet of tender, pink chicken breasts. This was the monthly distance-running club gathering, and they were all on high-protein diets. Ben ran the farthest of them all, though Marco was the fastest. Ben was also the oldest of them, by nine years, an eternity to a runner, nearly two age groups. He shifted again, folding and unfolding his grasshopper legs.