Nightbitch

by Rachel Yoder

  And so the boy kicked her seat, and she seethed, and very soon they arrived at the trailhead for Tyke Hyke. She told herself to calm down, not to get angry, no yelling and absolutely no barking, and then she told him there were no doggy games on the hike, and he instantly began to weep because, you see, the boy had been anticipating his doggy games in the great outdoors, in the woods! where there were so many smells! and sticks! and bugs! a doggy would like.

  It really was her own fault. She had allowed the child to wear his brand-new blue collar with a shiny silver tag that flashed in the sunlight and made a satisfying tink when it tapped against the other metal parts of the collar. She had allowed him to wear this around his neck in the car, just for fun, and had not properly warned him that it would need to come off upon arrival at Tyke Hyke.

  Moreover, she had also agreed that he could hold his brand-new retractable leash and play with the quick-release button while they drove and, again, had not warned that this was simply—at least for today—a car toy that must be abandoned once they came into contact with other, normal-seeming humans.

  But we’re people, she said to the screaming boy as she stroked his head. He was still strapped in his car seat, and she bent over from the now open door, to talk to him, trying to muffle his shrieks with her body.

  Honey, you don’t need your collar to run and play with the other kids, she reasoned. You can be a doggy in your heart and a boy on the outside.

  Nooooo­ooooo­! he shouted, completely unreasonable. Dooooo­ooooo­ogggyyyyyyy!

  The other mothers—the on-time mothers with their obedient, uncollared children—who had collected at the trailhead turned, and Nightbitch gave a little wave.

  Honey, she whispered to her son, please. She unstrapped him from the car seat. He would not get out of his own volition, so she hauled his solid little heft out the low-profile back door, banging both his head and her own. He was dead-fishing it and, once out of the car, slid through her hands and into a sobby little puddle on the asphalt.

  Honey, she said.

  No walk! he yelled.

  We’re walking, she said firmly, and he howled like a sad puppy, so that all the waiting mothers turned again, and one even took a few steps toward Nightbitch.

  No, no, we’re fine. Just a minute and we’ll be there, she said brightly, waving them off.

  Okay, she whispered again to the boy, you may wear the collar, but we don’t need the leash. Doesn’t doggy want to run free?

  Play leash, he said, then rubbed his palms on his chest in his amended sign for please. Peas, Mama. he begged. Peas.

  He stopped with the screams and sobs to look at her, rubbing his eyes with two little fists and then taking the back of his hand and smearing snot from cheek to cheek. He was sick and tired and just wanted to play, and why was she denying him that?

  So what if the other moms thought it was weird?

  It was creative and sweet and fuck them.

  Though she wanted to efficiently lick his face, she knew they were all watching, and instead took a used tissue from her pocket and wiped the boogers from his rosy cheeks.

  Okay, honey. Fine. You can be a doggy. But the other kids might think it’s weird.

  The boy glowed and arfed and panted with his little pink tongue. He was horrible, and she loved him. She gave him a kiss right on his wet nose.

  Nightbitch smiled tightly as the boy led her on his leash across the small parking lot and right up to Jen from Book Babies. The boy arfed at Jen, who laughed, then sat beside her and arfed again, waiting.

  He wants you to pet him, I think, Nightbitch said, playing along as if she just did not have a clue what had gotten into this boy, and wasn’t he so funny??? I mean, surely it was just a phase, and tomorrow he’d be back to trains or monster trucks, you know how it goes. She communicated all this with a raise of the eyebrows, a tired smile, the faintest eye roll and shake of the head. It was the universal mom sign for Look at this psycho he is breaking my spirit in some small way, every day, yet still I adore him and will go to the ends of the earth for him and also allow him to pretend to be a dog and wear a collar and I will walk him—I WILL WALK HIM—because I am a wonderful mother.

  Well, look at you, Jen said to the boy, patting his head. The other mothers, among them more than a few Book Mommies she recognized from the library, smiled dubiously or offered polite chuckles.

  He wanted to be a dog, Nightbitch said. I mean…

  Sure, sure, Jen said. They’re always being something.

  As the hike commenced in the shadowed cool beneath the tittering canopy, the mothers grouped in twos or threes and took up exclusive conversations difficult to insinuate oneself into. The children rolled like a single organism ahead of them, moving like a flock of birds from one side of the path to the other, but her boy held back, walking politely at the end of his leash, and pulling out more leash only to chase a butterfly or to smell a flower.

  Dead snake! Dead snake! a big boy yelled up ahead, pointing next to a fallen log.

  Her son pulled on the leash and turned back to his mother. Go! Go! he said, pointing, and she unhooked him, and he took off toward the other children, a boy again, or perhaps still a dog of a sort, but one that wanted to see the dead snake, prod it with a stick and, if he was brave, touch its skin.

  The Book Mommies hung back, in a clump now, in watchful silence, until Jen turned to their new recruit.

  Hey, she said.

  Oh, hi, Nightbitch offered nervously. I’m so sorry I haven’t replied definitively to your invite yet. I’m just not sure.

  Oh, whatever, Jen said. We’re all busy. But you should come. The herbs are amazing.

  Without waiting for a reply, she continued: One to make you big and one to make you small. One to make you happy and another to make you fall asleep.

  I love the Mombie blend! one woman with an infant strapped to her chest added or, rather, yelled. It is full of energy! she said loudly, her bugged eyes gleaming with a youthful mania.

  We know you’re into that Mombie! Good for you, Jen said to the mommy, then turned back to Nightbitch. We all sell them. But mostly we just get together and drink wine, she whispered conspiratorially yet loud enough for all to hear. A way to pass the time, she said. Maybe you make a little money or maybe you don’t, but either way you can always say, once the hubby gets home, that you need to go and work on your business and can buy a few hours to yourself. But, really, it’s a way to feel as though you have something that’s just yours, you know?

  Oh, Nightbitch said, smiling. She wanted to say, But I’m an artist, I don’t have time for that, and then remembered that she wasn’t an artist anymore and did, in fact, have time for herbs, but still.

  She wanted to say, But isn’t turning into a golden retriever the thing that’s just yours? Be honest!

  Instead, trying to be polite, she said: I don’t think that’s really for me.

  Don’t make a decision so fast, silly! Jen said, slapping Nightbitch’s arm. You have to come to a party at least! I’ll give you free samples. Jen shook her head at her, as if to say, You don’t even know what’s good for you. Just come, you stupid.

  I mean, I’m not really into beauty or leggings or whatever, Nightbitch tried again. I didn’t even brush my hair today, she added, though the truth was, she had not brushed her hair all week.

  Well, this is sacred healing medicine! You’ll feel so great that you’ll want to put on that makeup and wear something cute! Jen said.

  I’m sorry, but what exactly are these herbs? Nightbitch asked. The packet of Balance that Jen had tossed to her as she lay on the floor earlier in the week, at Book Babies, was still at the bottom of her bag and had somehow ripped open a bit, to coat the entire bottom in a fine dust of sweet-smelling leaves and twigs.

  Oh my god, it’s Chinese. It’s Thai. It’s Japanese. Jen circled her hands in th
e air and widened her eyes. Her voice rose in excitement. It’s all the ancient wisdom of the great healers in a bottle. She dropped her arms and linked one in Nightbitch’s, as if they’d been friends forever. But let’s not get into facts and figures now. You’ll just have to come over. Oh! And make sure you have access to a little extra dinero. Six hundred or so? she whispered. You’ll thank me.

  That afternoon, another message appeared from Jen as Nightbitch put her son down for a nap. She tucked him in with a fuzzy yellow duck that squeaked when he bit it, and a little quilt she had made for him covered in bones and puppies, and a fabric that featured photo-realistic meat. She sat on the bed to read the note.

  Most notable, on first read, were all the lines—in fact, just about the entire message—that seemed to have been lifted from some sort of recruitment template located in a glossy pamphlet encouraging women to reach out and really live up to their full potential.

  I am looking for motivated and driven people to partner with me, Jen began without so much as a transitional greeting or other sign that she was a sentient being rather than some sort of modern automaton programmed only to recruit and sell. You have such a vast network already, she continued, and This model appeals to busy moms. Next, claims of unidentified doctors and their dubious credibility to deliver a number-one-selling product on a global scale. Anecdotal tales of high-school friends who had had successful careers as lawyers and teachers and dermatologists before having children, at which point they made a commitment to become work-at-home moms who fit their sales into the nooks and crannies of their lives, in between naps and meals, e-mailing on their phones at the park or library. It is truly a company that is too good to be true…yet still is! she wrote, before ending with talk of how she really thought Nightbitch would be wildly successful with tons of referrals and that she really should not pass up this opportunity for significant residual income for years to come.

  She lay in bed while her son clapped and giggled beside her and stared at the fan lazily spinning the softly pixelating late-summer afternoon. Jen’s strawberry-scented hair, her perfected mommyhood, her herbs, her unrelenting recruitment. A lawyer mom who now stayed at home with her kids and sold herbs was the most depressing story Nightbitch had ever heard, possibly even more depressing than her own life. There was no way that mom had a rich and weird internal life that colored her otherwise monochromatic days in magical shades of dog. She was a lawyer who was doing the reasonable thing, feeding her kids applesauce and picking up a side gig to contribute just that little extra to the family finances and really solidify herself as a loving mom and contributing earner.

  Was that mom happy? Was she fulfilled from downing handfuls of unidentified herbs with her Venti coffee while incessantly texting other mommies similarly stoned on herbs and frantically pushing toddlers on kiddie swings? Maybe she didn’t need to be fulfilled in the way Nightbitch herself needed it? Maybe her kids were enough? Nightbitch desperately yearned for such a thing, for her son’s delirious cackling and pudgy little wrists and garbled, lispy words of love to obliterate every last smidge of ambition. Why couldn’t mothering and cooking and grocery shopping and cleaning and laundry and Book Babies really fill her with glee and well-being and a sense of a life well lived? Perhaps she needed to take the herbs and go to the parties and be a joiner for once in her life, and she, too, would be satisfied?

  * * *

  —

  WE HAD A WONDERFUL time this week! Nightbitch reported to her husband when he arrived home later that day. He was still in the car, window rolled down, idling in the driveway. She held the wet cat, wrapped in an old beach towel, in her arms in the front yard as the boy ripped at grass and then played doggy and then sniffed some flowers. Her whole aura had changed, her husband said. She glowed. She was barefoot, and her face was freckled, her cheeks sun-kissed red.

  We went to Book Babies, she said, cradling the cat like a baby, as her husband exited the car. She had just washed the cat’s butt, again. Nightbitch’s eyes glowed as if lit with a fire burning inside her head, and her hair wisped about her face in the breeze. We played on the playground, didn’t we, honey? she asked the boy, to which he brightly replied Arf! as he dug in her flower bed with his two little paws.

  Well, the husband said, unloading his suitcase and slamming the car door, at which the cat started but did not escape from Nightbitch’s grasp.

  Oh. One thing, she said. The cat destroyed my headphones.

  Again? he asked, scratching the animal’s head. She’s horrible.

  I would love to punt her like a football, she added as she cradled the jittery animal.

  Imagine her little paws, the husband said.

  I really hate her so much, Nightbitch added.

  Yeah, her husband said. I’m going to murder you, he told the cat, playfully.

  Nightbitch looked into the cat’s big green empty eyes. The cat’s black nose twitched in a way that was very adorable but not adorable enough; then it flattened its ears against its head and hissed.

  I think this cat gave me toxoplasmosis, she said.

  Oh? he asked.

  I read an article, and it says there’s a relationship between explosive rage and toxoplasmosis. I mean, they don’t know if there’s a cause-and-effect thing going on, or what the cause is and what the effect is, but there’s definitely a link.

  Her husband said nothing.

  Do you think I’m mad because I have a brain parasite? she demanded.

  I mean maybe, he said, but you’d probably be mad either way.

  I fucking hate this cat, she said, at which the cat hissed again, and this time wriggled free to skitter across the front lawn and under the porch.

  * * *

  —

  IT WAS THAT SUNDAY morning when the boy crawled into the living room on all fours. A raw steak, beautifully marbled with fat, dangled from his mouth. He dropped the slab of meat at his father’s feet.

  Ruff! he barked, then panted, his little tongue jutting from his open mouth.

  Dude, the husband said, what are you doing?

  Doggy, the boy said, then licked the husband’s leg. He looked up again, a grimace on his face as he worked his tongue inside his mouth.

  Hair, he said, grabbing at his tongue with his fingers. Hair! he screamed.

  Here, the husband said, show me. He examined the boy’s tongue, picked the hair off. All better, he said. But, sweetie…, he continued. We don’t put raw meat on the floor. Or in our mouths, for that matter. Yucky, he said, making a face.

  The boy shook his head.

  Mama, he said. Yes, Mama. Meat. Yes!

  Honey! the husband yelled toward the bedroom.

  Nightbitch heard all this from the bedroom, where she was, per usual, putting away clean clothes while her husband scrolled infinitely on his phone. Though she had warned the boy that their doggy games were strictly Mommy-son entertainment, and tried to impart to him that Daddy wasn’t interested and that the boy should never ask him to, say, drink water from a dog bowl or fetch a stick in his mouth, she had been dreading the day when he would inevitably introduce the husband to the games they played while he was gone.

  Shit, she said under her breath. Fuck. Shit. Fuck.

  In the kitchen, the husband picked debris from the meat at the sink, and the boy whined at his feet.

  Bite! he cried. One bite!

  Yucky, the husband said again. I have to cook it first, sweetie.

  No, he cried, then, seeing his mother, Mama, bite.

  She patted the boy on the head and said as nonchalantly as possible to her husband, He likes raw meat. What can you do?

  Excuse me? her husband said, looking at her with annoyance, disbelief, that I-knew-it-ness he was so good at telegraphing with just a wrinkle of his brow, as if she were destined to fuck things up.

  The kid has a refined palette, she continued.
Beef tartare. There’s nothing wrong with it.

  When did our son start eating raw meat? the husband wondered. I mean, how did he figure that out?

  Hmmm, Nightbitch said, smiling at the boy and then reaching out to tickle him and send him into a squirming fit of giggles on the floor.

  I guess I was cooking dinner and he must have stolen a little piece of raw meat, she offered as she retrieved a glass from the cupboard.

  No, the boy said from the floor. Mama give meat. Yummy. Doggy.

  Honey, she said to the boy kindly, then, to her husband, He’s so silly, isn’t he?

  My little doggy, she said to the boy, stroking the silky hair on his head. The boy closed his eyes, relishing her touch.

  Have you been feeding him raw meat? her husband asked.

  A little, she said defensively. It’s fine.

  What about parasites? He could be infested, the husband said.

  I hardly think so, she said, pointing to the boy, who was, yes, the picture of health: shiny blond curls and rosy cheeks, a big belly left over from his baby days that she hoped he would never lose. The boy smiled at his parents, each now paying attention to him, and tipped his head back to let out a bright, clear Arf arf.