The Physics of Imaginary Objects (Pitt Drue Heinz Lit Prize)

by Hall, Tina May

  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.

  Across the field, Jessamy was playing with the kids, throwing a kite into the air, trying in vain to catch a scrap of breeze. It was July, and the air was like honey. She called to the little boy holding the string (one of Pale Johnnie's kids—hair the same brush of white blond), “Run, run.” And the boy ran, dragging the kite behind him, the tip tripping over the stubbly earth. Jessamy was a runner too but only marathons, not ultramarathons, and she walked through the water stops. At Ben's events she took photos, shuttling from point to point to catch him. Invariably in these photos, Ben was mid-stride, mouth agape, left shoulder higher than the other, hands clenched. The other members of the club looked at the photos and chided him for the tense posture, talked about minutes he could shave off if he would relax his upper body. That was one of the highlights of these gatherings, race photo analysis. Along with talk of tapering strategies and shoe inserts and the best podiatrists in the area, the ones who would shoot you up with cortisone and not explicitly tell you to stay off your feet. Sometimes, when one of Ben's runs was over rough terrain, Jessamy brought her bike and she would buzz up to him out of the woods, spewing cedar chips and flecks of mud, snap her photos, and spin away. Ben thought of her as some kind of wood sprite in those moments, a distraction, a glimpse of color and a whir of wings. Jessamy was certainly sprite-like. Anyone would agree. Had there been a strong wind, the kite could have lifted her off of her feet. Ben thought of it, Jessamy, floating overhead, her blue sundress ballooning around her skinny legs, her sandals slipping off one by one to fall into the duck pond.

  Jessamy wanted children, and Ben didn't. He didn't like the way they drooled and clung and had to be carried everywhere. That morning, after he had woken up laughing, Ben had gone to his lab and euthanized forty-two rove beetles to send to a fifth-grade class in Florida. When he had put them all in the killing jar along with the tablespoon of nail polish remover, all forty-two opened their mandibles at him and waved their abdomens threateningly. This was the type of moment that made Ben love being an entomologist, even though his running buddies introduced him as “the bug man” and he knew they found his job somehow ridiculous. As a boy, Ben had been happiest when he was lying outside at night, the air buzzing and crawling around him, his hands wrapped around one of the glass mason jars his grandmother saved for him. Jessamy wanted a dog, and Ben didn't. He didn't like the way they drooled and shed and had to be taken outside to shit. Jessamy wanted a velour couch and an inflatable travel bed and the color green on the kitchen walls. Jessamy wanted a lot of things Ben didn't. That morning he had labeled the box going to Florida in his flowery script and written underneath rove beetle, Staphylinus olens, and under that, often called the Devil's Coach Horse. On impulse, he drew a picture of the beetle on the side of the box, meticulously inked and shadowed, the kind of illustration he normally was paid quite a bit of money to produce.

  Pale Johnnie had a nice spread. It was one of those farms that no longer functioned as such and instead was just a big, nostalgic playground for parents and children. The fields lay fallow and the barn housed a jumble of tricycles and beach floats, plastic balls and dolls, and hoops and teepees—everything inflatable. Pale Johnnie was going on about the trees in the field, how he had some agreement with the government not to let them grow and now the seedlings, too large to tug out, had to be poisoned, one by one, with some liquid so toxic that Pale Johnnie administered it with an eyedropper. A small, plastic hatchet was wedged into a stump by the barbeque grill; a decaying Day-Glo orange semiautomatic water gun lay near Ben's feet. He prodded at it with a toe, but it seemed rooted to the ground.

  If Jessamy flew away, Ben would be sad but also very happy, relieved even. Sometimes he imagined ways she might die on her way home from her job at the daycare center and reassured himself that every married person did this now and again. His favorite was collision with an oil tanker because the body would be incinerated, leaving fewer details for him to fuss with in the midst of his bereavement. If Jessamy flew away, Ben would eat all of the casseroles that were stacked in the freezer, and surely there would be a stream of additional casseroles brought by neighbor ladies.

  “Did you know you are harboring bald-faced hornets?” Ben called to Pale Johnnie, gesturing to the nest hanging from the barn eaves.

  Marco's girlfriend, who was curled up on a beach towel next to Marco's chair, said, “Are they the ones always missing a leg?” She was big-bosomed and wore enormous, magenta-tinted sunglasses that matched her fingernail polish. She appeared to be nameless and, like all of Marco's girlfriends, seemed not to notice that he was just using her for sex. Ben had no idea what she was talking about. “You know,” she said earnestly. “They are on my screens all the time, big ugly suckers with claw legs, all lopsided like.”

  Ben said, “That doesn't sound like a wasp at all.”

  Any rational man would lust after Marco's girlfriend, but Ben was drawn instead to Pale Johnnie's wife who, as far as he knew, had never painted her nails in her life. She also did not run but stayed at home baking zucchini bread and watching the kids while Pale Johnnie took to the road nearly every weekend for the race season from April to October. They had four boys, all loud and blond. Meg had large hips and wore khaki shorts that were perpetually wrinkled in unflattering ways. She sat with her thighs apart and her head cast back, snoring slightly in the chair next to Ben. The youngest son, still a baby really, was snuggled into her belly, his face nuzzled into her shirt. Ben imagined the folds of her skin were crusted with spit-up and potato salad, that she was the kind of woman with a disintegrating Kleenex tucked into her bra. Her hair frizzed everywhere and her arms were freckled like a giraffe's skin. She had beautiful knees, perfectly round and aligned, no scars or arthroscopic puckers. They were the knees of a woman half her age. Ben wanted to take one in each hand and just hold it, like an apple. He felt aroused just thinking of it, picturing himself kneeling between her legs, cupping each precious knee.

  The sun was setting, and a breeze finally kicked up. Ben heard Jessamy's squeal of excitement. The chicken charred on the grill. In the barn, five hundred wasps hatched in unison. Ben flexed his Achilles tendon compulsively, absentmindedly, like a violinist tapping out a rhythm with his toes. Across the field of dead and unplanned plants, the kite ripped into the air.

  For Dear Pearl, Who Drowned

  She wakes thinking today she'd like to eat eggs. All night she dreamed of a hard-boiled one, white and gold. She wakes thinking an egg is something beautiful to own. The sun is bright in the shelter. All the windows are bare. The sun is as bright as a memory. The sun is too bright in her. It is as bright as

  Her knees glow in the shower. She scrubs them hard. They are red and wistful. She has given up on soap. Soap is for sisters taking baths together. Soap tastes like Sunday nights. Now, everything is scrubbing. She scrubs too hard to be clean. It is hard to scrub oneself clean. It is hard to be clean. It is hard to be

  The man who stands next to the doughnut shop is dirty. He has long hair like vines. He asks her questions. His hair twists words. His hair spells starvation. She pays for a piece of it. She pays for a piece of hair to make a rope of. She pays for a piece of hair to weave a
meal of. It is hard. It is hard to make anything clean.

  Her knees hurt too much to walk outside in the sunlight. The sun can hurt. Sometimes a child is at school during a solar eclipse. Sometimes a child is at recess during a solar eclipse. Sometimes a child is waiting for her turn on the swingset when everything is shadow.

  She remembers. She remembers that one can go blind and not even know it. She remembers the sun isn't always bright. The sun can make things dark. She remembers how the sun can make everything

  Inside the drugstore there is shade. Everything is hidden from the sun. She is hiding enough hair for a meal. There is a storekeeper to hide from. But he is watching television. He does not see her. He can see paper-thin people. He has mirrors to watch them. He has a television. He has a special type of vision because his store is so dark. But he does not see her. He doesn't want to. He has a television instead of the sun. He has a television to make things bright. He has a way of making people paper-thin.

  A lot of things can feed a person. It doesn't have to be a snare made of hair. She loosens pills from their boxes and bottles to see them. She doesn't like the brown pills. She doesn't like the red pills, either. Brown and red are colors for leaves in the forest. Brown and red can be stretched into squares on a pretend sofa. Brown and red leaves are big enough to block the sun. Brown and red leaves are big enough for paper dolls to live in. But not big enough for her.

  Paper dolls never die. But their heads fall off. Sometimes sisters play on brown and red leaves with paper dolls. They have to be careful. Even when wrapped with Scotch tape the necks are too fragile.

  The storekeeper's mouth opens wide when he laughs. But then it closes again. She saw, though. She saw silver hidden in his teeth. She saw silver like stars. He laughs again. The people on the television are so paper-thin it's funny. The people on television are so thin you can see through them. They would not make a good eclipse. She finds the white pills.

  These are the ones she likes.

  These are the ones smooth enough to be eggs. Eggs can only grow smooth in the water. Eggs only grow smooth with a lot of scrubbing. These are the ones smooth enough to be her kneecaps. She scrubs her body every morning as if

  It's hard to make a clean meal. But it is easier if the pills are white. The pills have to be white and stolen. The pills have to be white as the sun. The pills have to be white as soap on Sunday. She hides them in her shoes. The storekeeper is laughing, not laughing. Each time he opens his mouth, the store gets darker.

  She has to go back into the sun. But she walks close to the buildings to avoid noon. Her kneecaps don't like day. Neither do her elbows. Day means sun. Day means a knob in the shower that has to be turned all the way. Day means hot. It has to be hot enough to

  Her kneecaps and her elbows like shadows. They like wrinkles. They treasure most skin that has pulled away from the sun. Every morning she scrubs away the wrinkles. Her elbows cry all day for more.

  They were proud of that skin.

  She walks close to the buildings to hide from sun. She is searching for something to eat. She is searching for food, maybe the kind of food that comes from a door marked Palm Reader. The kind of meal that can read wrinkles in a hand. The kind that maps lines in skin. Wrinkles can be translated into words. Wrinkles are dangerous. She tries to scrub them smooth as eggshell. She tries to wear them down. But her skin resists her. Her skin resists water. Her skin is too proud.

  The palm reader tells her to put her hand on the table. She tells her to put two dollars on the table.

  The palm reader is a large woman with no hair. She has teeth even and white like a painting. She has teeth like a photograph in a magazine, like a row of quail eggs. They don't look real.

  The palm reader is touching her hand, testing the thickness of skin. She says it's not worth telling futures, only pasts. The palm reader touches her hand. She watches her skin stretch. Her skin is trying. Her skin is trying to give up a memory. It is hard to remember. She scrubs every morning to forget. It is hard to be clean. It is hard to remember without wrinkles.

  The palm reader says river. A river is a way to eat. A way to wait for the fat ones to drink, to step into the trap. And if that doesn't work, there are fish with their spider bones and their slipshine eyes like coins in a pocket.

  Sometimes a sister dies in a river.

  Sometimes two sisters are playing and one goes into the river. Sometimes two sisters are playing tea party with white cups and imaginary boiled eggs and brown and red leaves by the water when everything is shadow.

  A river is not a clean death.

  Sometimes a sister looks at the sun so long she goes blind for a little bit. Sometimes when she can see again, something is missing. A river is not clean. There is no way to look through it, to see what might be hiding inside. Sometimes the skin resists water. Sometimes a person stays in the bath too long. Sometimes a person stays in water long enough to grow wrinkles. Sometimes a person stays in water even longer. She says river. The palm reader's room is shaking. The palm reader's earrings are trembling. Everything is falling. She sees an eclipse. She feels an earthquake. She sees an eclipse moving over the lamp. It is only a cat.

  The palm reader tells her how to find an egg. She tells her to go out the back door and to make a cup with her mouth. The palm reader tells her to walk until she finds running water. Her hand is still on the table. Her skin is listening. Her skin knows about water. Her skin knows about scrubbing. Her skin knows how to

  It is hard to make a clean meal. She finds a back door. She walks for a long time. She walks for a long time but doesn't find water. She only finds a highway. Sometimes a highway can be a river. Sometimes a cat can be an eclipse. She hangs her feet in the water. She hangs her feet in the water to search for smooth stones. The water is too dirty to see through. She has to search by touch.

  She remembers the piece of hair and makes a line of it. She remembers the pills and makes bobbers of them. A newspaper man on the median is busy selling disaster. He gives her a lump of grief that has hardened at the bottom of the canvas pocket at his waist. He gives her a hard lump of grief to use as bait. It rings like a coin in the river. She makes a cup with her mouth.

  She hangs her feet in the water to feel the stones rolling. She hangs her feet in the water to search by touch. She sees silver. She sees silver spinning down the river. She sees silver like stars. She sees the lures that other people cast. She sees a lot of silver. It is hard to catch anything clean. The river is polluted now. It is dangerous to eat from it.

  The river hides things in its wrinkles. She pulls the piece of hair in and throws it back out. She pulls the piece of hair in to check her bait. She pulls the piece of hair in and sees a hard lump of grief. It is a hard enough lump to last for a while. It is hard enough to last for a while even in water.

  The sun goes away. Her kneecaps forget to be quiet and sigh at the darkness. Her kneecaps sigh at not having to hide anymore. Her kneecaps count their wrinkles. The only light is from stars. She sees stars streaming by her. She sees stars like silver. She sees stars like teeth, like teacups, like eggs. She sits still, and the stars move and flash around her.

  They don't spell anything. They don't remember anything.

  She makes a cup of her mouth and the egg flesh fills it. She bites down hard and the yolk breaks. A million lovely yellow pieces of yolk melt onto her tongue. Eating an egg is like dying—it is so beautiful, all on its own, without any help. The egg in her mouth is a blessing of flesh and salt and yellow. The eggs under her feet roll like stones. The egg in her hand is as pure as the heart of a sister, white and hard, strong egg, like a star, like a pearl, grown up around its powdery secret.

  Faith Is Three Parts Formaldehyde, One Part Ethyl Alcohol

  Rosa keeps her finger in a jar on the nightstand. In the morning, it twists to feel the sunlight. She watches its gentle convulsions and holds her other fingers up to share the warmth. Since she cut off her finger, she has worked in the diocese business office,
filing and answering phones. Mostly, she answers questions from parents about the parish schools and fields requests for priestly appearances. While at work, she doesn't think about her finger too much. It is just her left pinkie finger; she can still type seventy-five words a minute. In fact, some people don't even notice it is missing. Those who do usually look appalled and ask, almost reverently, how it happened. Then she has to lie, all the while praying for the Lord to forgive her.

  She used to carry the finger with her in a large shoulder bag, the jar wrapped carefully in a bath towel. For a while, she needed it with her all the time. She would take it out at work when no one else was around and in restaurant bathrooms to assure herself that it was still there, that it hadn't dissolved, that the glass of the jar hadn't cracked, leaving it withered and gray. She never showed it to anyone. This was partly because she didn't want anybody to know about it. Cutting it off had been enough to make the nuns expel her from the convent, even though she was, by their account, the most promising novice they'd seen in years. If the fathers found out she had kept it, she would probably be excommunicated. The other reason she never showed anyone is because she was afraid that sharing it would diminish its potency. Her severed finger is a miracle, a divine link. Every time she unwrapped it in the darkness under her desk or in the chill of a bathroom stall, it would glow love. It is a piece of her that is always praying, a sign of the preservative power of God's grace.