The Best American Short Stories 2017

by Meg Wolitzer

  “Look,” she said. She held out the raincoat. “Mold,” she said, flinging it to the floor. “Crazy, huh?”

  She didn’t wait for Peter to answer.

  “I’ll have to get a new one,” she said, kissing him quickly. She tasted like chlorine. She’d started swimming after class in the school exercise center. “Low-impact exercise,” she called it. She said it was good for the baby. Peter tried not to think about her body exposed to strangers in her swimsuit with the high-cut legs. How the seat of her swimsuit sometimes wedged itself into her ass. She got home later and later these days.

  “How was swimming?”

  “Fine,” Heddy said. Her hair was dripping all over the floor and she didn’t seem to notice.

  “You’ve always sucked at swimming,” Otto said to Heddy. He tore one of the plastic bags of bananas open with his teeth. He tried to peel a banana, but just mushed the top. Heddy reached over and grabbed the banana from Otto.

  “It’s easier to open it from the bottom,” she said, pinching the banana at its stubby end so the peel split cleanly under her fingers.

  Otto narrowed his eyes at her, snatching the banana back. “Thanks, genius,” he said. “Glad to know you’re learning so much. Voulez-vous coucher avec moi and all that shit.” He laughed, then turned to Peter. “Sam fixed the home page,” he said. “All the pictures load now.”

  “Good,” Peter said. “I told the co-op they could start ordering online in a week or so. They seemed happy.”

  Heddy ignored both of them, kicking her raincoat in the direction of the trashcan. Peter watched her while Otto kept talking. Each time she parked on campus, it cost ten dollars, and Peter knew she kept meaning to buy the parking pass that would save her a hundred bucks. Last week she told him, finally, that the pass was no longer a good deal. She seemed to feel this had been a great failure on her part, the failure to buy the parking pass in time.

  Heddy set water to boil for her tea, cleaning her fingernails with the nails of her other hand, and then arranged herself at the table to do her homework. She’d gotten a bad grade on her first French test, and had seemed perplexed and hurt ever since. Peter didn’t know how to help her.

  Otto was telling Peter some story about one of the workers, some RV they wanted to park on the property.

  “And I tell him, sure, be my guest, if you can even drive that thing,” Otto said.

  “Can you guys go outside?” Heddy said, finally looking up at them. “Sorry,” she said. “I just—I have to call someone for school. On the phone.”

  It was cold on the porch, the air gusting with the smell of wet earth. Peter hunched into his coat. Otto was still talking, but Peter wasn’t listening. He looked up at the sky but couldn’t orient himself. When he tried to focus, the stars oscillated into a single gaseous shimmer and he felt dizzy. Even on the porch he could hear Heddy inside on the phone. She was speaking halting French to someone she called Babette, and she kept breaking into English to correct herself. He felt ashamed for suspecting anything else.

  “I know,” Heddy said. “She is très mal.” Her accent was clumsy, and he felt bad for noticing. Through the windows, Peter saw her pacing the kitchen, her familiar shape made foreign by the pocked glass.

  Otto paused his monologue to study Peter.

  “Where’s your head at, brother?” Otto said. “You look like you’re off in space.”

  Peter shrugged. “I’m right here.”

  Inside, Heddy said a final “Bonne nuit.” Peter watched as she gathered her books and headed up the stairs, her shoulders a little hunched. Her rear was getting bigger, a humble sag that moved him. She turned out the lights as she left, like she forgot anyone was even out there.

  Peter had thought it was coyotes, the whooping that woke him up. He stood at the window of their bedroom, feeling the cool air beyond the glass. The ragged calls filtered through the dark trees and had that coyote quality of revelry—his father used to say that coyotes sounded like teenagers having a party, and it was true. He hadn’t spoken to his father since he’d left. But Peter had Heddy now. A house of their own that they’d live in with their baby, the curtains for the nursery that she’d want to sew herself.

  The idea pleased him, and he glanced over. Heddy was still sleeping peacefully, her mouth open. The salts she liked to dissolve in her baths were still in the air, and a dark stain spread across the comforter from her wet hair. There was something new in her face, though, some cast of resignation, since the bad grade in French. At least she was still going to classes. She made a face when he’d asked about registration for next semester, as if even that was uncertain, though classes would end a month before her due date.

  A dog had been killed a while ago; Heddy swore it had been a coyote, so Peter knew he would have to go downstairs to make sure the three dogs were tied up, that they hadn’t left any of their food uneaten. He pulled his boots from under the bed and found his hat. Heddy turned over but didn’t wake up.

  The dogs were fine, up on their hind legs when they heard Peter coming. They whined and pulled their chains, dragging them heavily on the ground.

  “You hear the coyotes?” he asked them. Their food bowls were empty and silver, smelling of their breath. “You scared?”

  The noise came again, and Peter stiffened. The coyotes were so human-sounding. He whooped back, crazily.

  “Ha,” he said, scratching the dogs. “I’m scary too.”

  But the noises doubled then, and Peter could make out, in the mass of the cries, what sounded like whole words. He could see, far off in the orchard, car headlights turn on abruptly on one of the dirt roads, casting a smoldering wash of light on the surrounding land.

  “Fuck.” Peter looked around. Otto’s truck was gone; he was probably in town. Peter hurried to his own truck and started the ignition, then jumped out to untie one of the dogs, an Australian shepherd that Heddy had named, to Otto’s disgust, Snowy.

  “Up,” he said, and Snowy leapt into the cab.

  Heddy had taken the truck to school, and it smelled like wet clothes and cigarettes, the radio turned up full blast to the staticky dregs of the country station. She hadn’t told him she’d started smoking again. Peter knew she wasn’t supposed to smoke—pregnant women couldn’t smoke. But suddenly he wasn’t sure. Because Heddy wouldn’t smoke if it could hurt the baby, he told himself. So maybe he had it wrong. Peter fumbled with the volume knob, turning the radio off, and took the ranch roads as fast as he could without headlights.

  The strange headlights he had seen were still on, but the car wasn’t moving. As Peter got closer, he slowed the truck, but he knew whoever it was had heard him. His heart beat fast in his chest, and he kept one hand on the dog.

  Peter was close enough that his own truck was lit now. He parked and felt around under the seat until his hand closed around a short piece of broken rebar. “Hello?” Peter called from the truck. The headlights of the other vehicle hummed steadily, and specks of bugs swooped in and out of the twin columns of light.

  Peter climbed out of the truck, the dog following.

  “Hello?” he repeated.

  It took him a moment to understand that the other truck was familiar. And before he had understood it fully, Otto walked out from the darkness into the bright room made by the headlights.

  He was drunker than Peter had ever seen him. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. He looked to the air around Peter’s face, smiling. Like an athlete in the stadium lights.

  “Peter,” Otto said. “You’re here.”

  Behind him, Peter saw two women giggling in the orchard. He could see that one was naked, a plastic camera on a strap around her wrist. He noticed the other woman’s T-shirt and see-through lavender underwear before realizing, in a sickening moment, that it was Steph, her dark hair sticking to her face.

  “Steph and I made a friend,” Otto slurred. “Come on,” he said to Steph and the woman, impatient. “Hurry up.”

  The women held on to each other and stepped gingerly throu
gh the grass toward the trucks, the woman with the camera plumper than Steph. They were both wearing sneakers and socks.

  “I know you,” said Steph, pointing at him. She was drunk, but it must have been something else besides alcohol. She couldn’t quite focus on Peter, and she smiled in a strange, fanatic way.

  “Hi,” said the plump girl. Her hair was blond and worn long with jagged edges. “I’m Kelly. I’ve never been to a farm before.”

  Steph hugged Kelly, her small tipped breasts pressing into Kelly’s larger ones. She said loudly into Kelly’s ear, “That’s Peter.”

  Otto kept licking his lips and trying to catch Peter’s eyes, but Peter couldn’t look at him. Snowy ran up to the women and they both shrieked. Steph kicked at the dog with her dirty tennis shoes as he tried to nose her crotch.

  “Don’t kill ’em,” Otto said to Snowy. “I like ’em.”

  “Come on, dog,” Peter said, patting his leg.

  “You aren’t going, are you?” Otto leaned against his truck. “Help me finish this,” he said, the bottle in his hand sloshing.

  “Don’t go, Peter,” Steph said.

  “I told them they’d only drink the best,” Otto said. He held out a bottle of grocery-store champagne to Peter. “Open it for the girls.”

  The bottle was warm. Snowy was agitated now, circling Peter’s feet, and when Peter twisted the cork and it shot into the dark, Snowy yelped and took off after it. Steph took the bottle from Peter, the bubbles cascading down her arms and frothing into the hem of her underwear. Kelly clicked the shutter.

  “See?” Otto said. “That was easy.”

  “Steph,” Peter said. “Why don’t I drive you back to your house, okay?”

  Steph took a long drink from the bottle. She regarded Peter. Then she let her mouth drop open, bubbles and liquid falling down her front. She laughed.

  “You’re a disgusting girl,” Otto said. Snowy came to sniff at his boots, and Otto gave him a heavy kick. The dog whimpered. “A disgusting girl,” Otto repeated.

  “Hey, shut up,” Kelly said, meekly.

  “Fuck you,” Otto said, smiling hard. “Fuck. You.”

  Peter started to move toward his own truck, but Otto came over and pushed him back, one hand steady on his chest.

  “Come here,” Otto said to Steph, his hand still on Peter. “Come on.”

  Steph turned her back on Otto, pouting. Her buttocks through the netted underwear were shapeless and crisscrossed with impressions of the ground.

  “Oh fuck off,” Otto said. “Come here.”

  Steph laughed, then took shaky steps toward Otto. He caught her and shoved his mouth against hers. When they pulled apart, he clapped at her ass. “Okay, now kiss him.”

  Peter shook his head. “No.”

  Otto was smiling and holding Steph by the hips. “Kiss him, babe. Go on.”

  Steph leaned over so her chapped lips brushed Peter’s cheek, her body pressed against his arm. The shutter clicked before Peter could back away.

  “Listen,” Peter said. “Why don’t you guys go somewhere else?”

  “Really?” Otto laughed. “Go somewhere else. Interesting suggestion.”

  Peter hesitated. “Just for tonight.”

  “I own this fucking property. You are on my property right now.”

  “Otto, go home. This isn’t good.”

  “Good? Don’t you work for me? Don’t you live in my house? You fuck my sister. I have to hear that shit.” He pushed Steph away. “You think you know her? Do you even realize how long Heddy and I lived out here alone? Years,” he spat, “for fucking years.”

  Heddy was still asleep when Peter came into the bedroom, the room navy in the dark. He took off his clothes and got in bed beside her. His own heartbeat kept him awake. The house was too quiet, the mirror on Heddy’s childhood vanity reflecting a silver knife of moonlight. Could a place work on you like an illness? That time when it rained and all the roads flooded—they’d been stuck on the farm for two days. You couldn’t raise a baby in a place like this. A place where you could be trapped. His throat was tight. After a while, Heddy’s eyes shuddered open, like his hurtling thoughts had been somehow audible. She blinked at him like a cat.

  “Stop staring at me,” she said.

  He tried to put his arm around her, but she’d closed her eyes again, nestling away from him, her feet soothing each other under the sheets.

  “We need to get our own place.”

  His voice sounded harsher than he’d meant it to, and her eyes startled open. She started to sit up, and he saw the shadowed outline of her bare breasts before she groped for the blankets and pulled them tight around her. It struck Peter, sadly, that she was covering her breasts from him.

  He took a breath. “I could get another job. You could be closer to school.”

  She said nothing, staring down at the covers, pinching at the fake satin border.

  He suddenly felt like crying. “Don’t you like school?” he said, his voice starting to unravel.

  There was a silence before she spoke. “I can just work here. For Otto.” She started to turn from him. “And where am I ever going to speak French anyway?” she said. “You think we’ll take the baby to Paris?” She laughed, but it was airless, and Peter saw the tired hunch of her shoulders and understood that they would never leave.

  The next morning, Peter woke to an empty room. Heddy’s pillow was smoothed into blankness, the sun outside coming weak through the fog. From the window, he could see the dog circling under the shaggy, emerald trees and the trailers beyond. He forced himself to get up, moving like someone in a dream, barely aware of directing his limbs into his clothes. When he went downstairs, he found Otto on the couch, his shoes still on, fumy with alcohol sweat. A pastel quilt was pushed into a corner, and the couch pillows were on the ground. Otto started to sit up when Peter walked past. In the kitchen, Heddy had the tap running, filling the kettle.

  “And on the couch, you’ll notice my dear brother,” Heddy said, raising her eyebrows at Peter. There was nothing in her voice that indicated they’d talked the night before, just a faint tiredness in her face. She shut off the faucet. “He smells like shit.”

  “Morning, Peter,” Otto said, coming into the kitchen. Peter worked to keep his gaze steady and level on the tabletop as Otto pulled up a chair.

  Heddy padded toward the stairs with her mug of lemon water, glancing back at them. Otto watched her go, then went to the sink and filled a glass with water. He drank it down, then drank another.

  “I’m in hell,” Otto said.

  Peter didn’t say anything. A band of pressure built around his temple, a headache coming on.

  Otto drank more water in huge gulps, then opened the cupboard. “Do you forgive me?”

  “Sure.”

  Otto closed the cupboard without taking anything out. He turned to look at Peter, then shook his head, smiling. “Shit. ‘Sure,’ he says. Listen,” Otto continued. “I’m meeting these guys today who’ve been emailing. They want to work. You have to meet them too.”

  The headache was going to be a bad one, a ghosted shimmer of the overhead light starting to edge into Peter’s vision. “I don’t think I can,” he said.

  “Oh, I think you can,” Otto said.

  Peter couldn’t speak, so Otto went on. “So we’ll meet here. Or do you want me to tell them we’ll meet in town?”

  Peter pulled at his collar, then let his hand drop. “I guess town,” he said.

  “Easy,” Otto said. “Wasn’t that easy?”

  They finished their breakfast in silence. The room got soggy with quiet, the air pressing in, a stale vapor that seemed a hundred years old. Heddy stooped to kiss Peter goodbye, her bag over her shoulder. Peter forced himself to smile, to kiss her back.

  “Lovebirds,” Otto called, and Peter looked over, just as Otto held up his hands to frame Heddy and Peter.

  Heddy stood and Peter noticed she had put on slashes of dark eyeliner that made the whites of her eyes bright
er. The faint smell of cigarettes lingered in the air where she had just been. Her hair was pinned up off her neck. She had on a light jacket instead of her old raincoat. She looked like a new person, like no one he knew.

  LEOPOLDINE CORE

  Hog for Sorrow

  FROM Bomb

  Lucy and Kit sat waiting side by side on a black leather couch, before a long glass window that looked out over Tribeca, the winter sun in their laps. Kit stole sideward glances at Lucy, who hummed, twisting her hair around her fingers in a compulsive fashion. Her hair was long and lionlike with a slight wave to it, gold with yellowy shades around her face. Kit couldn’t look at her for very long. She cringed and recoiled, as if faced with a bright light. Lucy was too radiant.

  A low glass table stood before them. Fake potted plants flanked the sofa, their waxy leaves coated with dust. Lucy crossed and uncrossed her legs. Her eyes were quick and green, flitting about the room like birds. She wore a blue mini-dress with a white collar and peep-toe black heels. On her lap sat a chestnut leather purse with a brassy curved handle. Lucy was both plump and long limbed. “A tall cherub,” she had once said of herself with a laugh of self-hate. She mocked herself constantly, but with a certain joy. Her joy had a tough edge to it and seemed wonderfully defiant considering the pleasureless nature of their business. Kit was captivated by her. It seemed magical and impossible that one could laugh so heartily while waiting to be handled by a perfect stranger.

  At the far end of the room, Sheila sat at a steel desk, staring at the bright page of a catalogue, poised with her red pen. She booked all of their appointments sulkily, sighing whenever the phone rang. Kit and Lucy considered her a bitch, though she rarely said a thing. “She does it all with her eyes,” Kit had quietly remarked. They spent much of their time on the black couch talking shit about Sheila, leaning near one another and giggling conspiratorially.

  Lucy removed a gold-tone compact from her purse and clicked it open. She patted powder onto her chin and gave her mouth a glance. It was pale pink and without lipstick, open slightly, her teeth and tongue peeking through. When her client arrived, she ate a green Tic Tac, biting down on it. He was a short, swarthy guy with a newspaper under his arm.