Nightbitch

by Rachel Yoder

  In the middle of the driveway, in the middle of the dogs, she was not afraid. She waited. They waited. Then, from somewhere on the outskirts of the fray, a dog let loose with a high and plaintive bray—the first note of a hymn, the mother thought, a call to worship.

  With the note, the retriever took the cuff of the mother’s sweatpants in her mouth and began to pull down on the material.

  Hey, stop, she said, laughing at first and then stopping, because the retriever did not let go, would not let go, and the collie started in on the other leg, pulling at the fabric, so the mother had to hold tight to the waistband to keep her pants up.

  Stop, she insisted, now more firmly, kicking first at the retriever and then at the collie. They did not let go, merely held tighter as she pulled against them.

  Oh Jesus, she said.

  The collie grabbed higher up on one leg, and then a bushy shepherd with different-colored eyes started on the other. A muscular black Lab hopped up on its back legs and nipped at the hem of her T-shirt, its teeth ripping holes as the Lab came back down to the ground, mouth still closed hard on the fabric.

  The mother flailed, panicked. She kicked at the dogs and knocked at them with her hands, but more and more teemed toward her. She was jarred to one side, then the other, then forward onto her hands and knees, and there was no stopping them at that point. She covered her head with her hands, and they ripped at her clothing, pulling apart the back of her T-shirt, easily rending the thin fabric of her underwear.

  It was over as abruptly as it had started, not a paw on her. She panted on the ground in the fetal position, naked. Her ears twitched, and she could hear only the gentle breath of dogs all around and smell their exertion.

  She raised her head. The dogs paced about her, whined and pawed the ground, side-eyed her, stopped and stared, fur raised along their spine ridges. She curled her fingers against the pavement of the driveway, showed her teeth. Her eyes lit with fire, and she could feel the hair on her head growing, her mane expanding into a monstrous spectacle. The muscles in her haunches rolled. One thought came and then left as quickly: you are an animal.

  She didn’t want to think, only to act. Only to survive. She snarled, then lunged blindly into the throng of bodies surrounding her, teeth searching for flesh. She was hair and blood and bone. She was instinct and anger. She knew nothing but the weight of her body and the pull of the earth against it, the particular wetness of the night air, the bats that flew through her periphery, every movement of the paws and legs and heads around her. She searched the night with her mouth, wanting to sink her teeth into anything. She closed her eyes and became pure movement, pure darkness, a twitch and surge, the animal’s first dream.

  * * *

  —

  SHE AWOKE THE NEXT morning in bed, T-shirt and underwear on, sweats in a pile on the floor beside the bed. She grimaced and stared at the sweats for a while, tugged at the neck of her T-shirt.

  Though she knew she should be worried, should wonder whether she was losing her mind given the state of her fully intact clothes—knew she should call the doctor immediately and make an appointment, should probably be evaluated by a psychiatrist, should probably be placed on an assortment of drugs, should confide in her husband as soon as he returned home and relate to him this break in reality she had experienced, the coming of the dogs, the rending of her garments, and then, there, in the morning light, her clothes whole and untouched—even though she knew all this, as she lay there in bed, the boy crawling over her, she could not help but bubble with a near-religious ecstasy, something bright and pure. It welled from her core.

  She grabbed the boy and threw him into the air again and again, until he was breathless with laughter. She buried her wet nose into his neck, nuzzling him, and he screamed with delight and tugged on her ears, freshly fuzzed. She took his arm gently between her teeth and he screamed again and ran from the room. She pounced from the bed and followed him, on all fours, to his bedroom. Her hair was long, longer than it had ever been, and streamed down her back, over her haunches, the ends tickling the backs of her legs. They played until they both couldn’t play anymore, and the room was ravaged, train tracks scattered, stacks of books now toppled, the bedsheets in a pile on the floor.

  Downstairs, she whistled as she made the boy’s breakfast. What had happened last night? She understood she should be scared, but she simply wasn’t. A fresh power animated her body, and she loved her body, loved being a body, and loved the boy, another body she had made.

  Maybe this was what happened to all moms and no one had told her, just like how she hadn’t known her feet would widen and extend after her son’s birth and her hair would come out by the handful in the shower. Maybe this was one of those secrets of motherhood. The boy ate his hash browns, and she sat in the tiny plastic chair next to him at his tiny table, looking out the window absently, stroking the hair on the back of her neck. She rose and took a steak from the fridge. She cut off two very tiny pieces from the slab of meat, then threw the rest in the skillet.

  Shall we try this? she asked the boy, taking him the bits of raw meat. Should we be doggies? she asked. He nodded and smiled, his mouth full of food. They each took one of the small red pellets of meat and put them in their mouths, chewed. She growled and tickled him, and he laughed.

  We’re wild animals! she said, and the boy said, Go outside!, and she agreed.

  The boy ran to the door while she finished cooking the steak and then put it on a plate. As she turned from the counter, plate in hand, the boy bounded back into the kitchen and shouted, Look!

  He held up a dead mouse, and she screamed and then laughed.

  Where did you find that? she asked. Yucky!

  No yucky, he said. Come, Mama.

  She followed him, and he stuck out his fat little finger, eyes wide, and watched her to see how she would react to the pile—a literal pile—of mice and squirrels and rabbits and even one flaccid raccoon which had been left just outside the door, on the porch.

  She gasped.

  An offering. A sign. A welcome.

  * * *

  —

  VORACIOUS WITH DEATH, SHE and the boy descended midday on their favorite lunch place downtown, just across from the library. One of those boutique grocery-and-deli places, with aisles of upscale cookies and crackers, imported jellies. Hot and cold buffets for the college kids, but also a favorite of the mommy set. A person could select just a pile of mac and cheese and three fingers of chicken if she wanted. She could purchase an entire plate of grapes. She could, if need be, arrange on a plate two cheese cubes as eyes and a kiwi slice as a nose with a splat of strawberry yogurt below for a mouth. And there was also wine by the glass.

  The boy loved going there and instructing his mother exactly what to put on his plate. He pointed like a little general, grunted commands, clapped and sulked and bullied his way into precisely what he desired. The mother piled meatloaf slathered with ketchup, crumbly pieces of pot roast, more chicken fingers, a mountainous pile of a lovely baked corn concoction—the immensity of which made her son clap with joy, for he, too, loved the baked corn. In a separate small bowl, she dolloped mac and cheese.

  At the cash register, the store girl weighed her poundage of meats and allowed herself a momentary glance at the mother, for which she had been waiting. The mother smiled and the boy laughed, and she said, Totally PMS-ing, and the girl laughed uneasily and pressed buttons on the register.

  Totally, the store girl said.

  It cost upward of thirty dollars for their food, so large was the mother’s hunger and, in turn, her lunch.

  She and the boy sat at one of the outdoor tables where other mothers tended to their children, insisting they eat a green bean or offering yogurt, wiping schmutz from chins and cleaning up spills.

  The mother and her boy sat side by side. She set the bowl of macaroni before him and cut a chicken fing
er into small bites, which she arranged on a napkin. She was unusually silent as she did this, distracted by her hunger and the smell of the meat. The mother may have been in some sort of animal trance—cutting the chicken finger, yes, but doing it without knowing what she was doing. She could focus only on her hunger, a hunger that filled up every space inside her until she was nearly crazed. She turned to her plate.

  Oh! The glory of the meatloaf! The suppleness of the muscle fibers as the pot roast fell apart! She used a fork and then she used her hands and then she simply allowed her face to fall upon the pile, and you could suppose this was some sort of worship, the mother with head bowed, taking the foodstuffs directly into her body. There was a purity to such an act.

  The boy watched with wide eyes for but a moment and then screamed with glee and did the same, plunging his face into the mac and cheese and then sitting up with a noodle stuck to one cheek, cheese on his eyelids. He clapped.

  The mother continued in her fugue, the feel of the meat in her throat filling her. The boy reached over to take a bite of the corn and she growled low and quiet and he retreated, to pick up the chicken tender in his mouth and shake it side to side.

  She gulped the meat down and moaned with the taste of it, snuffled and chomped, and then nudged the pile of corn with her nose toward her son. He picked it up with one pudgy hand, slammed it into his mouth, and closed his eyes as he chewed.

  She ate and ate and ate; with a singular animal focus she ate. She licked the plate clean, and when she arose, she saw that all the mothers around her had quieted. Even the businessmen were off their phones, watching.

  She picked up her napkin and calmly wiped her face. She took a very deep breath. She would act natural, play it cool. She would not cry. She would not cry!

  Horrifically, she met eyes with a man at the next table over, a guy with a smart haircut and an open-collared button-down, his briefcase beside him on a chair.

  Hungry, he said, not a question but more a verbal fist-bump, a somewhat awed acknowledgment of what had just transpired.

  Oh, she said, as her face flushed red. She turned away quickly and tried to laugh.

  Ruff! she said playfully to her son, unable to muster a lighthearted chuckle. They were just playing! It was doggy games! She was a good mother, and this was just a game, she said to herself, to anyone who might have asked.

  Ruff, ruff! the boy barked back, his face alight with joy and slathered with cheese. She patted his head and wiped his face, and he dived back into his food and the mother had a very dignified sip of water.

  It seemed that folks had gone back to their lunches, but she did not altogether look, because it was too horrifying, this loss of self-consciousness she had experienced, the overwhelming hunger that took her and drove her into some other state, in which only smell and taste and hunger mattered.

  Okay, she said quietly to herself, taking deep breaths. Okay.

  Mama! the boy screeched. He loved her, every way she was.

  Be doggy, he said, and she smiled and signed All done as she said it, flipping her palms toward him. All done, honey. More doggy later. He barked and went back to his food, content for now.

  The mother felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to find an older woman there. She smelled of sweet powders, and her short gray hair was styled elegantly. Everything about her was pleasant: her soft makeup and clean glasses, the wrinkles around her smiling eyes, the fuzz of her cardigan on a summer day.

  What fun it is to have a boy! she said.

  The mother laughed.

  Ah yes, she said. So fun.

  And what a mother you are, she added. What a wonderful mother! To have such fun with your child. I remember the days.

  Oh, thank you, the mother said bashfully, somewhat amazed—this woman who was not chiding her but instead reveling and remembering.

  We used to play doggies, too! she said, now talking to the boy. My son and I! It was so fun, and he just loved it. Errrrr, she said, showing her teeth to the boy and waggling her head back and forth, then chuckling as she patted the mother’s shoulder again and walked away.

  The mother watched the older woman and wished she would stay, sit down and chat, tell her about her life. You used to play…dogs? Really? Did people think you were strange? How old is your son now? How is your relationship with him? Did you work when he was young? What were your passions? Did you make the right choices? What would you have done differently, looking back now? Can you please tell me what to do, how to be happy and fulfilled? Can you please tell me the secrets? Because I know there are secrets, and I would like to know all of them.

  She nearly wept with longing, to sit down across from the woman, take her old, soft, highly lotioned hands in hers, and ask her questions, so many, many questions. Her own mother, who was far away, rarely called, and when she did spoke only of the garden and the weather, the shortening days, how they were in dire need of rain. She had once, while pregnant, attempted to talk to her about childbirth, what to expect, how she was scared of the pain, and how had her mother managed, to which her mother had only the offer of It’s called labor because it’s hard work—which she understood as a consolation. Sure, her mother was saying, it’s bad, but since you are a woman, this is your lot in life, your work, to do what’s hard, what’s unspeakably painful, and then to keep this covenant of silence.

  The mother packed up her things, wiped down her son, delivered the dirty plates to the bus tub as quickly as she could, then ran out the doors, following her son, to the playground. She scanned the playground and storefronts for the woman but couldn’t see her anywhere.

  Her son barked somewhere on the playground, bidding her to play hide-and-seek. The mother turned her face to the sun and howled, then sprinted toward him, to play.

  * * *

  —

  YOU’LL NEVER BELIEVE IT, she said to her husband on the phone that night.

  Mmm, he said, distracted.

  This morning, on the porch, there was a pile of dead animals.

  Excuse me? he said.

  Rabbits and squirrels and maybe some mice. A raccoon on top. She let out an elated whoop of a laugh.

  That’s strange, her husband said, and she said, Well, I guess it is, but it’s also sort of fun.

  Are you okay? he asked.

  I feel wonderful, she said. Better than I have in months!

  Well, that’s good news, he said.

  Is it? she asked, laughing. I mean, is it good news for you?

  What’s that supposed to mean? he asked.

  She laughed and laughed and laughed.

  WW—

  I have been considering what really matters in life. I realize this isn’t an original question, but still wanted to present my ideas to you, in case you had been thinking along similar lines.

  Before my child, I had never longed for a family, or even to be married. Instead, I fantasized about the echoing rooms of a museum, the expanse of dustless floors and white walls, the certain sacred hush that comes with such spaces, and then my work there, in that space. This was the first fantasy, when I was a child, the most generic of fantasies, but over the years, it inflated and morphed. I thought only toward expensive haircuts with very little bangs and trendy eyeglasses, a sun-washed studio in which many interesting projects were under way. Friends with lots of opinions and good taste, trips to Europe, summers at residencies, and on and on. I won’t bore you. What I’m saying is that I had imagined this entire life. I had dreamt it.

  But then my body. Then a child. And, yes, he has brought me great joy—being a mother, despite my loudest protestations, has been pure and sweet and true—but there is not room for the child within the sun-washed studio. Or, rather, there is not room for art within my house with my child. It is as if all my dreams have been reset. The walls are blank, and with them I am blank, too.

  All this
is to say, what should a woman fight for? Given her limited resources, limited time and energy and inspiration, what is worth fighting for? Is it art? In the grand scheme of things, it sometimes seems so pointless, even selfish. To force one’s point of view on the world—who really needs it, especially when a child needs a mother so immediately?

  I don’t have any answers other than that art seems essential, as essential as mothering. In order to be a self, it is essential. I should perhaps cease being a person without it.

  Is that enough of a reason, that it matters to me?

  MM

  * * *

  —

  THERE ARE SCRATCHES ON the door, inside and out. The edges of the books are chewed. One of the pillows is ripped and ruined. She will not leave the house and go into town; she does not want to. She and the boy play with Play-Doh and bake a pie and dance to songs in the living room. Her entire body is covered in hair. The cat—its fluffy tail, its supple belly—is irresistible. She loves to run and run and run outside on the lawn with the boy. They play catch. They play fetch.

  Should we get a dog? she asks the boy, and he says Yes.

  Maybe we’ll ask Daddy, she says, and then she says, Or maybe we won’t.

  They walk to the neighborhood hardware store and get dog treats and a shiny stainless-steel bowl for water that she likes very much. She tries out the bowl once they get home, and the boy laughs, then he tries it, too. He wants to drink all his drinks from then on from the dog bowl, like a dog, and she does also, so they do. They share with the cat, because they’re good dogs.

  She is becoming a better mother because she is becoming a better dog! Dogs don’t need to work. Dogs don’t care about art. Why had this never occurred to her before?

  She likes the idea of being a dog, because she can bark and snarl and not have to justify it. She can run free if she wants. She can be a body and instinct and urge. She can be hunger and rage, thirst and fear, nothing more. She can revert to a pure, throbbing state. She had that freedom when she gave birth, had screamed and shat and sworn and would have killed had she needed to. Her husband nearly passed out from the noises coming from her mouth. That’s what he called them: noises. For a time, she lay with one leg in the air, and her doula told her this was the position she would have put her in had she not done it herself, to help the baby turn, but the mother had known instinctively. She had followed her body. What else was there to follow? If she could not be part of the world of ambition and money and careers, she wanted to leave it behind entirely and recede into the wildness of her deepest dreams, of her corporeal yearning. No more reading about who was in what juried show. No more berating herself for not trying, each day planning to get back to her work and every day failing. She would simply give in to what she felt she was being called to be: an animal taking care of its young with no wishes or cares beyond that. Fine, then. She could almost feel the hairs sprouting from each and every pore on her body.