Nightbitch

by Rachel Yoder

  A knife?

  It was so sharp.

  But I don’t think she felt anything, Nightbitch continued in a rush, because the pot had definitely killed her, or at least knocked her out? She wasn’t breathing, is what I’m saying. I checked very closely. And I tried to, well, push everything back in, but, oh god, it was just a mess.

  She began to cry very gently at this point, and the tears were not fake. She did indeed feel genuine remorse, a low, mean ache about what had happened and what she had done.

  What a disaster, she said, and her good, kind husband wrapped his arms around her.

  What did the kiddo think? the husband asked, holding his wife at arm’s length and smiling wryly.

  He asked if we should eat her, Nightbitch said through tears, and they both started laughing.

  Oh Jesus, he said.

  He liked burying her, she added.

  I’m sure he did. Well…at least we don’t have to put up with her pooping her furry pants anymore.

  Or with her whining for food.

  Poor kitty, the husband said.

  Poor thing, Nightbitch added. Poor, poor thing…

  * * *

  —

  NIGHTBITCH ARRIVED LATE TO the party on Saturday afternoon. Jen’s house was in a development called Prairie Breeze on the east side of town, a place to which Nightbitch had never had reason to venture before and did not, to be honest, even know existed. The houses asserted their dominance as she crawled past, each one more misshapen and sprawling the deeper she drove. Vinyl-sided garages and faux-stone dormers, screened-in decks and front porches bearing curated flowerpots and smiling frog figurines and signs that commanded love or be grateful—the houses seemed as if they had built themselves, had fulfilled their own destinies for materials and square footage by raising themselves up in much the same manner as rapidly dividing cells, spewing out an entire abundance of inelegantly modeled houses, two stories tall and then three, grotesque in their expanse and yet, to the same degree, horribly ordinary. Vinyl siding, faux brick, faux stone, faux-cedar shingles—these were the finishes of choice, in a color palette ranging from puce to beige to dark cream.

  Nightbitch found Jen’s house at the farthest reach of the development, fashioned with not one but two vinyl-sided turrets, each with its own widow’s walk and antiquated parapets. The sky was a dying violet as she parked nearly two blocks away, for SUVs and minivans and station wagons lined the street.

  Each house in this part of the development had a wide skirt of grass spreading all around it, finely cut, uniform in color, weedless and without feature, save for what appeared to be a small moat that circled Jen’s house, a curved little bridge leading over to her front door, medieval in appearance, with black wrought-iron hardware.

  Before Nightbitch had even knocked, Jen flung the door wide.

  Hiiiii­iiiii­iieeee! she screamed, then grabbed Nightbitch’s arm. You guys, it’s my fashion idol! she spurted, and indeed, Jen’s demeanor had transformed, her formerly silky-smooth blond hair teased to nearly the same lengths as Nightbitch’s, no fewer than four golden necklaces dangling an array of gems around her neck, a loose-fitting pair of soft gray linen pants and a hemp tank with unfinished seams above her bare and dirty feet.

  I’m boho! she said, dragging Nightbitch into the living room. Do you love it?

  I do, Nightbitch said. I really do.

  Jen’s house, she explained as she led Nightbitch to the sofa, was castle-inspired, for she had really wanted to assert her personality in the turrets and moat and had always had a dream of living in a castle.

  When I saw it was within reach, I insisted, she finished. I told Alex I would settle for nothing less.

  Wow, Nightbitch said, impressed and delighted by how utterly bizarre Jen was turning out to be.

  So—this is Jen, Jen said, turning to her right and gesturing at a mother who offered a little wave.

  Also Jen, she added, touching the next mother’s shoulder.

  Jen! she said again, putting her arm around yet another mommy. She laughed, and the other Jens laughed, too.

  What are the chances? Nightbitch said, smiling and trying to appear friendly and nonjudgmental of the name Jen.

  I mean, is everyone here named Jen? Nightbitch asked.

  Ha ha, the second Jen said in lieu of actual laughter.

  Let’s have a drink, the original Jen replied, wandering off toward the refreshment table.

  Let’s have five! another Jen yelled, her words swallowed up by laughter and chatter, by the boppy notes of eighties hits wafting in the background.

  Nightbitch, a bit reluctant to be fully assimilated into the multi-Jen universe yet nevertheless fascinated by it, followed Jen to the refreshment table.

  Let’s see, we have white, white, white, and rosé, Jen said, examining each bottle of wine and turning to Nightbitch.

  White is great, she said, accepting a glass that Jen had filled nearly to the rim.

  Time to mingle! Jen said brightly, pulling her back into the center of the room, where Nightbitch was quickly overtaken.

  Jen’s husband was president of a local bank. Jen’s husband was an ER doctor. Jen’s husband ran a local outdoor-gear store or taught at the university or was an administrator at the university or worked out of town each and every week doing mysterious things to capillary electrophoresis machines.

  But what about Jen, the original Jen, the Big Blonde and possible golden retriever?

  Jen, what did you go to school for? Nightbitch inquired, a bit tipsy now, having talked to some half-dozen Jens, whom she found for the most part indistinguishable from one another.

  Jen, drunk, snorted with laughter, then stopped abruptly.

  No one has asked me that in a long time, she said thoughtfully. I was a communications major.

  Ah, Nightbitch said. What did you do with that?

  Oh, well, I started working for this PR agency, Jen began, then took off, telling her tale of That First Job and The Excitement of It, her new office-ready clothes that made her feel so grown-up, the working lunches, the thrill of a promotion, that sense of being a vital part of a system, the paycheck every two weeks, which, while not quite enough to live on comfortably, still felt lavish.

  Even a budget back then was, like, sexy, she said. I felt like a goddamn oil magnate.

  Nightbitch laughed kindly. Yes, she understood.

  But then I met Alex, and before you knew it we had the twins, and wasn’t that a surprise, and, I mean, going back to work was preposterous, and I just, well, gave up—I mean, gave in, I guess, to the direction that things were going, because who really wants to work anyway, and also it’s not like I really had a choice…she said, trailing off.

  Sure, sure, Nightbitch said, sensing that Jen was done talking and now wanted to wander off somewhere inside herself, which is what she definitely seemed to do then, staring that blank mommy-stare for a time from a corner of the living room as she distractedly chewed a carrot stick.

  She was now, yes, worried about Jen, because she had asked her questions that should not have been asked and stirred up something that didn’t need to be stirred. She would never wish Nightbitch on another mother, certainly not, for while feral-mommy-time had its fun, its vitality and power and brazenness, at its core it was something very private and sad, those deeply held dreams that a mother had tucked into a cold, dark corner of herself. It was no good to go in and start checking on them, turning on the lights, and throwing back the sheets, because then you didn’t have sleep-dead dreams anymore. You had a raving, roaming bitch who wanted to kill animals with its mouth.

  After eating no less than ten carrot sticks in quick succession there in the corner, Jen disappeared for a half-hour with the excuse of refreshing the snacks, only to return freshly made up, with an air of tropical fruit, a too-bright smile stuck to her fac
e.

  Time for herb presentation! Jen hollered aggressively. Get your vino refills, ladies! Fill ’em up and find a place in the living room!

  Jen took her post at a table positioned in front of the towering fireplace made of rough stones—gorgeous, really, as it rose from the living room and up to the gables on the house, a truly astonishing feature that made Nightbitch long for a sizable turkey leg on which to gnaw and a goblet of mead.

  On the table, bottles and containers were arranged handsomely, as one expected at these kinds of events.

  Okay, you guys, Jen began. I know lots of you have been to so many of these before, but I’m really excited to introduce the line to our new recruits, and also let you know about some new autumn-themed products!

  Who’s ready to have more energy and be happy? she yelled, after which all the mothers yelled in unison, I am!

  Who came here today to live the life you deserve? Jen shouted, the deserve hanging there like some sort of indelible verdict or threat.

  The life I deserve? Nightbitch thought. What was that? Some sort of curse?

  I did, came the harmonious response.

  Oh my god, Nightbitch thought. Holy fuck.

  And it was here, despite her best efforts, that she began the old ways of thinking, spiraling down, down, down, into a grim churning. For to maintain a critical stance toward the world at large meant that she was not a fool, had not been duped, that she would not be taken in by the accepted thinking of the day simply because that was how things were or because of fun or simplicity or being a good sport. No. To be Nightbitch meant always to be on guard, to doubt and confront, to critique and question, her husband, her motherhood, her career, these women, capitalism, careerism, politics and religion, all of it, especially herb-marketing plans. But—and she truly couldn’t believe she now felt this way—she needed this, needed other women, other mothers, and even if these weren’t the exact right ones, they were a start. The cold terror of the cat murder left her desperate for some kind of equilibrium, to return to her self, or at least to a transformed self that owned her dreams and desires, but wielded her power with even determination.

  She looked around the well-lit living room, at the medieval candelabras, the royal dining table, the cannon inexplicably positioned at the front window, the thirty-some expectant faces emanating hope and teamwork and a can-do attitude.

  Jen talked, an expression of desperate positivity squeezed onto her face, of the flagship regimens, then touched bottles, one by one.

  Calm now, she said.

  Alive, she insisted.

  She passed a small white bowl to the right, one to the left, and the women obediently participated in their strange communion, touching the medicine to their lips, swallowing, eyes widening or closing, depending on the blend.

  The doctors have equipped us to compete in the mental-wellness market, Jen said, and all the women nodded, and one began to cry.

  The crier stood to testify, weeping ecstatic tears, a single ray of light piercing the high, stained-glass window and coming to light her face like the Virgin’s in a Renaissance painting.

  Jen saved my life, the crying mother said, looking to Jen. I have been saved, and I believe in this product. It has changed my life. I am living my best life, she said with an enormous sob as she sat. The woman beside her rubbed her back and murmured in her ear.

  We each have our own profound why, Jen said, hands now positioned as if in prayer. A silence settled over them, and many cried quietly. Jen passed around a bowl of Happiness, of which all partook.

  My why is vitality and fulfillment. My why is financial agency, Jen said, then continued, explaining the deep history of the company, its sacred beginnings, how these formulas were hundreds, probably thousands, of years old. How they weren’t created just to sell and make money. How they had first been concocted for ancient dynasties by holy men with finely honed knowledge.

  They would have been killed if they’d given a king something toxic! Jen exclaimed, at which an affirmative murmur rippled around the room. These have been refined for hundreds of years. They carry within them sacred knowledge. They were once meant for royalty, and now they are meant for you.

  Children burst from a door on the other side of the room and galloped, screaming, through the middle of the living room, spilling two glasses of wine, then sprinted up the stairs, followed by a teenaged sitter, who offered an embarrassed Sorry, then followed the children up the stairs and slammed a door. Jen closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.

  Okay, she said. These tried-and-true products, when combined with our work-at-home opportunity and supportive marketing strategies, create a winning situation for all of us in which we can realize our dreams and live our best lives.

  There were more testimonials, more crying, a chart projected on the wall that outlined the earnings that quarter from their chapter. Next, the projection of an elaborate flowchart that demonstrated the earning potential of each mother and how they were weaving a powerful web of financial support for each other. They all needed to project success. They all needed to use the products so that they could better speak to their restorative qualities when selling. They had to be outgoing and strike up conversations on airplanes, in the line at the grocery store, wherever they might find an unsuspecting, captive audience of one to whom they might spread the gospel of herbs.

  Who’s ready to join the team? Jen asked, raising her hands in the air and closing her eyes in evangelical ecstasy.

  I am, one mother said, standing.

  Me, too, another mother added.

  Silence overtook the room, and Jen opened her eyes to look directly at Nightbitch.

  Okay, Nightbitch said. Jen ran to her for a too-tight hug, then to each of the other women. She squeezed their hands and murmured happiness at them, asked for six hundred dollars, which they each handed over, in cash.

  It truly was the perfect selling storm: wine, herbs, peer pressure, devout glee. It was like floating in a warm pool, as easy as falling asleep, and just as comforting.

  They all ceremoniously received their new herb kits, large cardboard suitcases of sorts which one could open to present an arrangement of herb bottles displayed in a carefully crafted foam bed, each one labeled with a name like Hope and Wow! and then a tagline: “For those mornings when nothing seems clear” or “Centers energy at the pudendum for otherworldly orgasms.”

  The mothers began to wander off then, toward the refreshments or the backyard, where Nightbitch glanced at one mother, wineglass in hand, entering the cornfield that bordered the vast expanse of lawn. The sun was setting far beyond as the field swallowed her. Nightbitch wondered if she should say something to someone, but didn’t, for wasn’t it that mother’s right to disappear? Perhaps she had taken a dose of Into the Wild and just needed time to get away? Nightbitch would allow her whatever it was she needed, and instead turned to the living room, the floor now littered with mommies in all states of consciousness.

  A Jen, silk blouse askew, her flirty mules strewn on the plush cream carpeting, asked Nightbitch what her deal was.

  What is your why for joining? she demanded drunkenly. And don’t give me some bullshit answer.

  Well…Nightbitch weighed her answer, the words swimming in her head, for the white wine had indeed gone straight there. The wine, combined with the truly what-the-fuck cultic ceremony in which she had just participated, the peculiar stress of the week, the dead cat, the peculiar stress of the summer and her transformations, not to mention the handful of twiggy balls she’d swallowed in the hope of boosting her vitality in the past hour—all propelled her toward her confession, perhaps too familiar, for she barely knew these women at all, but who actually cared?

  Well, Nightbitch repeated. This is really horrible and embarrassing, and I hesitate even to say it….

  Go on, drunk Jen commanded.

  I accidentall
y killed our cat this week, she said, and it was a breaking point for me, I guess you could say. I just need some balance. Some structure. I’m looking for some stability.

  The room settled into a deeper silence, whether because some of the mothers had passed out in day-drunk swoons there in the ever-soft carpeting, or because some were appalled by her admonition, it was hard to say.

  I let our pet parakeet go accidentally, the drunken floor Jen said, putting air quotes around “accidentally” and making a face.

  I let the fish die, Babs, on the couch, admitted, gesturing with a glass of white wine. Benign neglect. But I didn’t want to take care of them, clean their bowl. The kids didn’t care. It was their job to take care of the things.

  I stepped on Percy, Poppy admitted quietly, only loudly enough for Nightbitch to hear.

  What was Percy? Nightbitch asked.

  A gerbil, she whispered.

  Later that evening, she recounted the events of the party to her husband with great excitement—Jen’s castle house and the presentation, the fervor with which they all endorsed the herbs, the depths of their feelings exhibited by tears and the raising of hands, the women at the end on the floor, the sheer spectacle of it all, the absurd delight—and they laughed together. She showed him her herbs, presenting each one on her hand like a game-show hostess, reading him taglines, delighting in the novelty of it, how they were not the sort of people to buy into such things, but she had, and wasn’t that a hoot?

  So—wait—you did have to buy into it? the husband asked.

  Well, yeah, she said. But it’s a small price to pay for access to these women who are just…beyond. And, anyway, I consider it research.

  For what?

  An art project maybe, she said. But I don’t want to talk about it.

  He hugged her then and smiled.

  Okay, he said. Okay.

  * * *

  —

  THAT WEEK, HER NOTES to White turned philosophical, contemplative, poetic, cryptic. She had not kept a diary in many years, and now this was her diary of sorts, a chronicle of her thoughts in the deepest part of the night, or when her son was napping, or in the long, slow hours of late-summer afternoons, when the sun walked across the sky and time itself started and stopped, the temperature rose, the naked boy splashed in a kiddie pool in the driveway, Nightbitch in a floppy hat and cutoff jean shorts, a sports bra, dipping her toes into the ice-cold water, and them together inside this infinity, forever.