by Rachel Yoder
Come here, she snarled. You fucking cat, get over here.
The tabby would not budge and only pushed itself deeper into the darkness, its eyes visible and flashing yellow-green when they caught the moonlight.
The weekends of rehearsal—for that was indeed how she viewed it, as a vital part of her artistic practice, a development of her work—she moved through the neighborhood following the dark constellations of shadow that tatted the yards and streets. She visited the soft patch of moss she liked to roll in, with the feel of its velvet softness on her naked back, her chest, her thighs. She traipsed through flower gardens and sniffed each bud, then tasted the green twists of leaves and stems that seemed most promising. She sprinted to the elementary school ten blocks down to smell the playground equipment as she panted and huffed, to sniff the ground for stray pieces of chewed gum, candy wrappers, a bit of sandwich or candy bar, or to find a good ball for chewing. She continued on to the soccer field behind the school, where bunnies liked to nibble on dandelion greens, and watched the small, twitching bodies in the moonlight, plotting her attack. Then, the next weekend, she set out in the opposite direction, to the train tracks and creek where she had gone that first night, to find sleeping men on benches whom she passed by without fear, despite her nakedness, her vulnerability, because she did not feel vulnerable, not a bit. She ruled this neighborhood. She presided over it. She was its monster, its mistress. She trusted the strength of her body and depth of her rage, the rage now tempered by her vision, her singular direction deeper into the mystery and creation itself.
Try me, she thought at those sleeping men. Just try me. She waded into the creek to wet her fur and muddy her underbelly, to drink the cold, clear water, to push her nose into the soggyrottensweet of the muddy banks.
It became habit, after her weekend traipses during that enchanted month, for her to return to their quiet home in the cul-de-sac in the late-night or early-morning hours, stand at the back French doors to watch her husband splashed in the blue glow of his computer. She would tap lightly on the window, and he would let her in, then lead her to the bathroom as he would a child, to turn on the hot water, light a candle, peel off his clothes, and then wordlessly help her into the shower. He washed her body with soap and a cloth, cleaning her face, her breasts, in between her legs. He washed her hair, massaging the mud from her scalp, then slowly working a comb through the tangles with conditioner.
You are a prince, she told him, and he said Shhh, shhh, and kissed her back, her shoulders, her eyelids, her mouth. They made love each night after she returned, after he cleaned her, after she had wandered so long and far that her muscles ached and her bare feet were raw and riddled with splinters and she was all over covered with dirt and sweat and the sweet midnight dew of deep summer. What a husband, to love her through such a thing.
* * *
—
AND IT WAS ON a Monday at the end of this month, as summer made her final overtures on fine September days with a heat that still inspired trips to the ice cream stand by the river, that she and the boy went to the dog park, although they didn’t have a dog. It would be one of the last perfect days to run beneath a blue sky and taste the sun-sweetened wind.
We love dogs! Nightbitch declared to anyone who glanced their way—kindly or unkindly, it didn’t matter.
May we pet your dog? she said, petting a dog as her son touched its cold, wet nose.
May we chase him? she asked another owner, who barely looked up from his cell phone, only grunted an affirmation, after which she and the boy took off, and the dog, too, off across the green expanse inside that dewdrop of a day.
It was only then she saw them: a golden retriever, a basset hound, and a collie, clustered over by the pond, all of their front paws in the cool water, mouths agog and tongues lolling as they panted in the heat.
Oh my god, Nightbitch said. She moved toward them hesitantly, over the trampled grass, the boy trailing behind her.
Hello, she said to them, approaching hesitantly, and they each quickly twisted their heads to look at her.
The golden retriever offered a bright Ruff! and the boy barked back. They walked to the animals, who sprang from the pond, all wet fur and muddy paws, to have their damp heads scratched and sopping backs patted, to lick the boy’s hands enthusiastically to make him laugh and then nose into Nightbitch’s legs.
She took the retriever’s head in her hands and looked into its eyes.
Jen? she whispered, and the dog blinked, playing it cool. They eyed each other for a time, until Nightbitch said, Okay, fine. Go on, and slapped the dog’s haunch.
She searched the edges of the park for anyone calling after these dogs, walking toward them, tossing them a ball, or offering them a treat, but each figure was engaged with some other animal, in the process of chasing or being chased, hollering, whistling, throwing something or picking up poop. No one there seemed to be in any way attached to the doggy trio, save for a lone figure at the farthest reach of the dog park, standing quite still, notebook in hand, watching the scene unfold.
It was Wanda, exactly as she imagined Wanda to be, slim and lithe, with a cloak of silver hair. There was a wonderful ease about her, wearing a smart shirtdress and sensible shoes, a straw hat. Nightbitch squinted to bring her more into focus, but she was so far away.
Nightbitch walked in her direction, excitement rising, for this must be Wanda White. She took deep breaths to calm herself but could not, was overcome with pure jubilation, a force so strong she began to run, arms outstretched toward the woman. She knew it was her. She just knew.
Excuse me, she shouted, sprinting toward the solitary figure at the edge of the park. Are those your dogs? I’m trying to find the owner.
The woman—still so far away Nightbitch could not make out the particulars of her face, could not read her expression or deduce from her demeanor her response to the question—cocked her head toward Nightbitch, paused, and then shouted No! She walked briskly in the opposite direction, toward the woods that bordered the park.
Stop! Nightbitch screamed in panic, which had the opposite effect she had hoped for. The mysterious woman was now also running, hat in hand, her hair streaming behind her, headlong into the woods.
Wanda! Nightbitch yelled again, an edge of desperation in her voice that she could not control. She began to hyperventilate and shake from the exertion and sheer emotion of it all, still running, her heart thudding and legs hot with their effort.
The woman disappeared into the woods as Nightbitch stood panting, hands on her knees.
Please, come back! Nightbitch pleaded to the woods. Please. She stood at the edge of the woods and listened as the woman crashed through the weeds and fallen branches and brambles. Already Nightbitch could not see her through the thick, late-summer growth, nor could she leave her child behind to follow, for he was already in a panic, himself chasing after his mother, who was running away from him.
Wanda! she yelled, into the brush. Wanda! But no response came.
* * *
—
WAS THAT YOU I SAW at the dog park this afternoon? she texted Jen that evening, followed by a puppy emoji and a tree emoji and a sunshine emoji and then an upside-down smiley-face emoji, as if to say, What a dumb-dumb I am if that was in fact you! A bold move on her part, she thought, yet safe. Not asking her directly if she was actually a dog sometimes, but allowing her safe passage into such a conversation. Plus, she hadn’t really been in touch with Jen since the party, just a Book Babies here and there. She waited and waited while the three little dots blinked at her as Jen typed.
Ha ha no, Jen wrote back, but I’ve been meaning to text you.
Just what someone trying to hide their true identity as a dog would text, Nightbitch thought.
Jen went on, after the pauses and hesitations of a million lols and omgs and a nervous not be totally weird and disclaimer that this cou
ld be TMI, but it was just that Nightbitch seemed so open-minded and into art that she felt she could express to her totally bonkers changes of late that she had been experiencing, that she didn’t feel like myself lately it’s hard to explain, that she just kept having these like stoner thoughts lol, and maybe it was just aging or whatever, but she felt things were out of control and she didn’t have anyone to talk to and might she, this new mother in their circle of friends, be interested in getting together one to one, no herb talk, just hearts in conversation. She just really wanted to talk because of Nightbitch’s own recent transformation—bold and trendsetting, she called it, then added, I love how you don’t care what anyone thinks! She added jokingly, again, that she didn’t want to come off as totally weird, and she hoped her new friend would be able to hold what she had to tell her in confidence, because having this sort of thing get around could really creep everyone out.
Sometimes I’m up all night roaming the neighborhood, that’s how bad it is, Jen wrote, and hope swelled within Nightbitch, a hope she had not known she had been harboring, a brilliant magnanimity and feeling of goodwill toward all women, all mothers, for how she had longed to have just one person in whom to confide all her most private urges and thoughts! And who would have thought it would be this mommy, this Jen, with her herbs and strawberry shampoo and suburban McMansion? Nightbitch could have cried with delight and relief at the prospect of another mother like her, with similar struggles and puzzling propensities. I would love to meet! she texted earnestly. Can’t wait.
She raised the phone above her head and did a little dance in the kitchen, then whizzed around in circles, chasing what once had been a tail.
* * *
—
THEY MET AT THE university’s museum of natural history the next day, a wonderful little place Nightbitch had enjoyed visiting as a grad student. She hadn’t yet been there with the boy and was tickled by the idea. Besides, weekdays at the museum were as quiet as a tomb, which, in a sense, it was, because it contained the oldest collection of taxidermy west of the Mississippi, so old, in fact, that the mothers and their wards could see straw filling through a hole in the rhinoceros, a bit of cloth where fur should have been on a cheetah.
Jen had never been, and expressed her great wonder that such a place existed in their little town, reiterated how creative Nightbitch was.
I wish I were artsy, she said wistfully as her two girls chaperoned Nightbitch’s boy around the room, each one taking a hand and pulling him this way and that, mothering him, if you will, in a way that made Nightbitch want to tell them to stop, inform them that it wasn’t their job to take care of him, that they should be enjoying the displays and not worrying about caring for this little boy, that their aspirations should be toward, say, taxidermy rather than caregiving. Instead, she laughed dryly at Jen’s comment.
Jen had arrived in a most uncustomary state. Though her children were indeed washed and dressed in coordinating outfits, their silken hair collected into pigtails that protruded like horns from the tops of their heads, Jen herself appeared haggard, uncharacteristic bags beneath her eyes, her eyeliner uneven and too far from the edge of her eyelids. Her tank top was on inside out; sure, it was one of the kind that was hard to tell right side from wrong, but these sorts of details seemed to be Jen’s forte.
I was inspired by you, so I’m experimenting with teasing, she said as they considered a giant sloth. She gesturing to her own blond tresses, which, even in the low light of the museum, appeared oily and matted. Nightbitch, of course, liked the aesthetic very much, and with each small thing she found askew, her joy only rose. She must not force Jen into saying anything, she reminded herself. She must remain reserved and thoughtful, a listener, in no way trying to manipulate the situation. She looked on Jen as she might her prey on a dark night—gently, cautiously.
The little crew made their way to the bird room, Jen chugging coffee and popping herbs stored in a stroller compartment. The bird room was circular, with skylights high above and a circular kiosk lit from within that showed the flight paths of many North American species. Around the outer edge, an array of taxidermized songbirds was mounted on the wall, some on twigs, but most in a way that reminded Nightbitch of her junior-high bug collections, a pin stuck through each insect and into a block of Styrofoam with neatly typed labels underneath.
There were so many buttons to push in the bird room, and the children busied themselves with the task, layers of birdsong enveloping the room as the two mothers stood in the soft glow of the displays.
Okay, Jen said, holding her coffee cup and looking very tired indeed as the birds sang. You’re so creative, Jen began. And a really good mom. I just…Jen began to cry.
It’s okay, Nightbitch said. Let it out.
She panted in anticipation, clear and ice-cold.
Say it, she willed Jen. Say you’re a dog.
Look, I have my own…stuff, things I don’t tell anyone, Nightbitch said, to put Jen at ease. I mean, everyone has problems.
Though Nightbitch had hoped her own admonition would soothe Jen, instead it seemed only to heighten her anxiety.
I’m in such a pile of shit! Jen said, whisper-hissing the word shit so that the children wouldn’t hear, not that they were listening anyway. I’m fucked. Not even my husband knows. Especially not him.
We all struggle, Nightbitch said. They were so close to a moment of true communion!
I just…Jen buried her face in her hands, then dragged her fingers from her forehead, around her eyes, and over her cheeks. I’ve lost so much money on the herbs, Jen confessed. Like over ten thousand, she whispered, and everyone thinks I’m so successful, but really it’s just me buying my own products. And Alex doesn’t know any of it—I mean, it didn’t really take that much doing, since I manage the finances—but I don’t know how to get out. The local market is saturated! No one needs herbs! We all already have them! We’re just trying to sell them to each other.
She looked mournfully at her children, who were now holding the small boy on the floor and tickling him, to all of their great delights.
Nightbitch said nothing, for this was not what she had expected, not at all.
I need to project an attitude of success, Jen continued. All the girls are looking to me to make this work, but I just can’t, she said, then pushed a button in front of her to make an owl hoot long and low.
And of course. Of course Jen was in deep. Of course she had sunk too much money in the herbs.
Of course she wasn’t a dog.
Why, Nightbitch had been so silly to think such a thing. What a riot to imagine this mother roaming through back lawns, naked and haired. Nightbitch needed to really reel it in, to—and how many times must she say this to herself?—pull it together, but no.
No.
She would not. She would not pull it together.
Oh my god, you don’t even know what to say, Jen said, looking desperately at Nightbitch for an encouraging word, an It’s all going to be okay. The trio of children now clamored around them, orbiting the center console in a spirited game of tag, shrieking and pausing to push buttons and then run and shriek some more, but the mothers paid them no mind whatsoever, in that way mothers are able to do, Jen there, ashen and desperate, her hair a goddamn mess, and Nightbitch glowing with something, as though she had absorbed each and every one of their worries into herself, like nutrients, and had used these worries to grow stronger, clearer, more sure of her purpose, for there was really no turning back at this point.
Look, you don’t need to pull it together, Nightbitch said to Jen, clutching her biceps for emphasis. She looked her square in the eyes.
Fuck the herbs and fuck the money, she continued, and went on to unreel a diatribe against multilevel marketing, for she had just listened to an entire podcast about these things, and explained to Jen how they prey on women who feel disempowered, who are stuck and at
home and are taken in by promises of financial agency, and that she shouldn’t feel ashamed. That she could get out, and that Nightbitch would help her get out. That she should tell her husband, apologize, but assure him she would fix it. (No tears, Nightbitch commanded. You’re strong as fuck.) That they would get all the other girls, as Jen called them, out, too. That she had been thinking long and hard about womanhood and motherhood, about herself and all of them, really, and that it was time.
Time for what? Jen asked, moved by Nightbitch’s effort, yet still visibly exhausted, her eyes, her skin, the way her mouth pulled at the corners.
Look, Nightbitch said. You worked in PR, right?
A million years ago, Jen said.
I need a publicist, Nightbitch said. And I’ll pay you, at least eventually.
What the fuck? Jen said, laughing a little, and the children all ran to them, their disheveled mothers standing in the bird room.
Nightbitch now was the one to link her arm in Jen’s.
Let’s walk. Let’s talk, Nightbitch said. There’s so much we need to do.
Later, at home, she would open her Field Guide to read:
I want you to know: never before in the history of women, magical or not, have they been more empowered, more in touch with profound universal forces, more capable of summoning by whatever means necessary that which is essential to their evolution and fulfillment.
* * *
—
FIRST, READ THIS BOOK. Now look: This is how I run. This is how I appear at night. Here are my skins. Here are some props. Here my ideas and dreams. See this dance? This gesture? This animal? This spell? Learn them all. Good. Take off your clothes. Run. Pounce. Roll in this mud. Smell your way through. Here a mouse. There a chewed wad of gum, good to lick. Lap from the puddle, then jump into the stream. Follow it to the dark alley. Crouch. Growl. Pace. Pause. Here is the prey. Here is your power. Here is how I kill an animal. Don’t flinch. Don’t turn away. Look more closely, look at it, the heart of violence, the heart of need. Meditate. Sleep, or don’t. Here is how to grow your hair, and here is how to lose it. Listen. More. Be still, then move. Examine your teeth. Pet your own soft hairs. Demand more and do less. Tell, don’t ask. Howl, howl, howl at the moon.