The O. Henry Prize Stories 2013

by Laura Furman

  I put on my running shorts and a singlet and lace up my shoes. Then I set my watch and start out at an easy 7:00 pace. By mile two I’ll pick it up to 6:30; mile four, 6:00. These early minutes are the gray space, the bland miles I have to run through before the prickling starts and the God rhythms pulse in my heart and I have to trick myself into not listening.

  My therapist says when this happens, it’s the first hit of endorphins. It’s not God, it’s biology, he says.

  My therapist is not a runner.

  I head down the dirt access road, past the entrance sign with letters molded out of horseshoes. I reach the paved highway and run a mile and a half down a long incline, then turn left into the Little River Canyon National Preserve. We used to train out here in middle school. Two miles and I’ll hit the footbridge that crosses to the trailhead.

  I run beside the river. The water’s shallow and mostly shaded, a few coins of sunlight on the surface. When I reach the bridge, I sidestep down the embankment and kneel beside the water for a drink. Then I dip my whole head in. Best way to keep from overheating is to keep your head cool.

  I cross the bridge and start up the trail. I’m feeling strong. Invincible, even. I’m thinking, Best of the Preps newspaper article, scholarship to Stanford, Olympic trials. I don’t picture myself getting these things—I picture other people watching me get them. Admissions committees crowding around my file, fans waving flags, my parents opening the Times Free Press to a full-size picture of me on the front page of the sports section. My father saying, We knew it, we’ve always known it.

  Delusions of grandeur, my therapist says. Classic endorphin rush.

  The trail hairpins back and forth. I’m going fast. My shoes kick up dust, leaves, small rocks.

  Any second now, I think.

  I focus my thoughts on the spot of skin between my pecs. Nothing happens.

  I push myself harder. The incline makes my calves burn. Along the side of my knee, all the way up to my low back, I can feel my IT band tightening.

  Now, I think.

  Now.

  No prickling, no tingling.

  I picture hugging Wren, her chest pressing against mine.

  I imagine wearing a tie made out of lead.

  Now.

  I reach the top of the ridge and still nothing’s happened. I stretch, then walk up to the cliff overlooking Trenton. I pull off my shirt and feel the sun fire up my back. My stopwatch reads 58:13. It should be happening.

  I pull up a tall grass weed, feathery at the tip. Knowing what I’m about to do creates a little buzz in my skin.

  I rub the tip of the weed on my lips first, to test the pressure. Then I turn it over and, with the firm end of the stalk, poke the dime-size spot.

  And then I’m on the ground. The sinkhole is spiraling open. It’s whirling fast, faster than usual, and it’s as if something is reaching up from beneath me, through my low back and spine and ribs, tugging down.

  I get my hand in the ready position. I am my own Great Physician, I think. I am the boss.

  The sinkhole widens through my skin, numbing everything it touches. I start to move my hand in tiny circles. Not too much. I want to hear God first.

  Here I am, I say. Tell me.

  The sinkhole twists around in my pectoral muscles. I feel my throat start to close and I have to gasp a little for air.

  Please, I say.

  My heart sort of pauses, as if it’s thinking. Then I feel this giant flub: You.

  You what? I say. My voice is dry and wheezy as an old man’s.

  You. You. You. The word repeats with each heartbeat. The sinkhole moves into my sternum and I hear a crackling noise, like breaking ice. I move my hand faster.

  You what?

  The sinkhole is turning into a sphere, the size of an orange. I feel it fingering around, looking for my heart. You you you.

  The corners of my vision are turning fuzzy gray. My chest burns. I’ve never let it get this far before.

  You what?—in my mind I fling the words up to God.

  I feel the sinkhole grab my heart.

  YOU you. Squeeze, release, like a handshake.

  You what?

  You you you

  You—

  My brother is lying in a clear plastic bassinet in a hospital room. I’m allowed to see him one last time, and in my mind I know he’s dead, but while I look at him, I feel this electricity jumping around inside my hands, as if any second blue lightning is going to shoot out of my fingertips, which feel burnt. And I think, if I touch him and say sit up, he will. I reach out my hand. Then I remember how God strikes people down for trying to mess with his decisions: Adam and Eve kicked out of Eden, Pharaoh and his army drowned in the Red Sea, Herod eaten up by worms.

  When the nurse comes in to get me, I pull my hand away and walk out. I don’t even say goodbye.

  You could have.

  • • •

  When I wake up, I’m on my back. My T-shirt is crumpled beneath my head. I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep. I can tell that the sinkhole is still open, stuck inside my sternum, sitting there like an open wound. No pain or tingling, just this eerie numbness.

  I stand up, dizzy. The sinkhole spirals around in my chest, slowly, like an old record.

  I turn and sprint the downhill back to camp.

  Wren, I think.

  Wren Wren Wren.

  When I get to the cabin, Ransom and Quentin are just leaving.

  “Dude,” Ransom says. “Daryl went to the staff lodge. I think he’s calling your parents.”

  “You guys knew I went for a run,” I say. The sinkhole is so wide I’m sure if I take off my shirt, they’ll see it gaping there, black and empty.

  “Like, five hours ago,” Ransom says. “We were heading out to look for you.”

  “I got turned around on the trails,” I say.

  “Your face is fried,” Quentin says.

  I grab my towel from the nail beside my bed, then kneel down and root around in my duffel, as if I’m looking for my shower stuff. But I’m gathering my faith-healing supplies: oil in its tiny Advil bottle, small New Testament bound in red leather, three votive candles, matchbook, flashlight. I wrap everything up in the towel, then go to the lodge to look for Daryl. I find him watching something on the staff television. He doesn’t seem worried or mad when he sees me.

  I tell him I got lost on the trails. I tell him I’m sorry and that I won’t run alone again. I tell him I’ll call my parents if he wants me to.

  Daryl tilts his head back so he’s looking at me down the bridge of his nose. “That girl came to find me,” he says. “Wren. Said you guys were going to take a walk and you never showed.”

  “Like I say, I got lost,” I tell him.

  “She seemed genuinely worried,” Daryl says.

  “I’ll talk to her tonight,” I say. “I’m going to shower up and rest.”

  His eyes narrow. “Right on,” he says. “Listen. I don’t know what you’ve got going, but don’t mess with that girl. She’s good, you know?”

  “I know,” I say. He watches me walk out, so I turn toward the bathrooms. Then I circle around behind the lodge, take the rolled towel down to the waterfront, and stuff it deep in the bushes beside the canoe dock.

  At the evening session in the gym, I find Wren sitting in the back row. She smiles and moves over a little when I walk up.

  “What happened?” she says. “I waited till two.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, sitting beside her. “I got lost on this trail.”

  “Are you okay? You’re all splotchy.” She touches my cheekbone, just barely brushes it with the tip of her index finger. The sinkhole spins around a few times. I suck a little air in between my teeth.

  “There’s something I need to ask you,” I say.

  Her eyes go wide. She looks down into her lap.

  “I was thinking we could go down to the waterfront—” But before I can finish, Frank Collins comes out from behind the screen. He’s wearing b
lack pants and a white shirt with a bow tie. A kitchen towel is draped over his forearm; in his hands are a pencil and leather notepad.

  “My sincere apologies for being late,” he says, using a British accent. “I hadn’t expected to come to work this evening.”

  Wren nudges me with her swollen leg. “A thousand bucks he’s the Genie God,” she says. Again she leaves her leg against mine, and the sinkhole deepens, you, you humming faintly.

  When she looks away, I move my hand up to the ready position.

  “Beg your pardon?” God says to no one in particular. “Ah, the menu. How silly of me to forget.” He hands an imaginary menu to a little boy. “Now, sir, the last time you were here, you ordered a win for your baseball team. Would you like another?”

  The boy stares up at him.

  “My apologies, sir, that item is not on the menu. But I’ll see what I can do.” He pauses, listening. “I know you can take your business elsewhere, and believe me when I tell you how much I appreciate your loyalty. It’s just that I’m not entirely certain I can do what you’re asking. No, please, sir, don’t walk away. I rely on customers like you to stay in business. I might have to close up shop if I can’t keep producing. I understand. No hard feelings. Know that I’m here, at your service, any time you’d like to return.”

  The waiter sighs.

  “My restaurant used to be so busy,” he says. “Then again, there were far fewer restaurants to choose from. And people used to listen when I made recommendations.” He walks back to the fold-out screen, then turns to face us.

  “I suppose I can’t blame them for leaving,” he says. “After all, I am just a waiter.”

  When he’s gone and the camp director starts talking, I pull my hand down from the ready position and turn to Wren.

  “Can you come to the waterfront with me?” I say. “I need your help with something.”

  “Can I meet you? I want to stop by my cabin first.”

  “Let’s go now. I’ll walk you to your cabin and wait.” Wren’s knees bounce; she keeps swallowing.

  “And now,” the camp director is saying, “before the music team comes up, we have another God.”

  “I’m going to stay and see this one,” Wren says. “I’ll meet you down there, okay?” As soon as she turns away, my hand starts moving.

  Frank Collins scuffs out in slippers. He’s wearing Bermuda shorts hiked way up with a belt and has a pair of reading glasses down on the end of his nose. He keeps gumming his tongue, which rests on his lower lip. He sticks a pipe in his mouth, then takes it out, looking around, as if he’s expecting something.

  “Hold on,” he says. “Lemme turn up my earpiece.” He pretends to twist something in his ear. “My name?” He digs around in the pocket of his shorts. “This is why I keep my ID with me.” He pulls out a card. “My name is … Blue Cross Blue Shield!”

  Laughter.

  “That ain’t right,” he says, feeling in his pocket again. “Ah, here it is. My name is Blockbuster Video!”

  More laughter. God smacks his lips. “Well, never mind who I am. It’s more important what I do. And what I do is … eh …”

  He inserts and removes his pipe a few times.

  “I guess I don’t know what I do. Ha! Mostly I just sit around here. Where’s here? I don’t know. It’s not important. I’m here and that’s all there is to it. Wherever this is, it’s pretty boring, truth be told. I used to be busy. I remember this one time I created a whole universe. Took me a week! That was some hard work. But I liked that seventh day. I got hooked on that seventh day. After that seventh day, I decided I was going to just keep on having seventh days for the rest of eternity.

  “Every now and then I peek down at what I made, poke around in a few of the old hangouts. Cathedrals and such. But it’s discouraging. People don’t like me, cause I’m old. But if I ignore what everyone is saying and just sit up here real quiet, I can remember the days when I was busy. And that makes me happy.”

  Frank Collins shuffles out while the music team starts to set up.

  “That was him,” I say to Wren. “The real God.”

  “Sure,” she says, sort of laughing. Then she looks at my face.

  “You figured this out, right,” she says.

  “Figured what out?” I say.

  “None of them are God. That’s the point.” She frowns. “I wish he would be the real God, though. So I could picture who it is I’m mad at.”

  I stand. The room tips sideways, the sinkhole is squeezing, I’m trying to take sips of air between my lips.

  “Meet me at the canoe dock in half an hour,” I say.

  It’s dusk. Tree frogs tuning up, fireflies drifting just above the grass. My sinkhole is on slow rotation, you you vibrating in my ribs. An accusation, not a request.

  I walk past the elementary cabins and dining hall to the staircase leading down to the water. I unhook the rope and lay the slack end on the hillside, then walk down and take the path to the canoe dock, which is tucked beneath a rocky overhang surrounded by bushes and trees. The dock is totally hidden; you can’t see it unless you’re on it, or approaching it from the water.

  I find the towel. Unroll it and remove the supplies. It’s completely dark now. I light the candles and set the Advil bottle, New Testament, and flashlight beside the towel. I take off my shoes and sit on the edge of the dock, let my feet hang down into the water while I wait for Wren.

  When she comes around the bend, I can tell something’s different. She seems sort of stiff, hunched up in her shoulders. Her hair is pulled back, and she’s changed into a short white skirt. I notice that one of her legs is brighter than the other—it takes me a minute to realize she’s not wearing her compression stocking.

  “Ohhh,” she says, looking at the candles. “That’s pretty.” She twists and untwists a section of her ponytail.

  “Thanks for coming,” I say.

  “No,” she says. “I mean, sure. I wanted to.” She stands there, shifting her weight, then comes over and sits beside me. She smells good—summery—a mixture of grass and sunscreen and something like cake frosting. I feel myself start to get hard. The sinkhole picks up some speed. I need to get this over with, I think. I realize I never thought about how to get things started.

  “So I’m super nervous,” Wren says, turning to look at me. She’s blinking a lot, keeps plucking at her skirt.

  “Me too,” I say. “I’ve been wanting to tell you about this, thing, for a really long time. Something that happens sometimes, in my chest—”

  Wren’s not looking at me. Her hand is moving around in one of her skirt pockets.

  “When the doctor told me about the buildup of scar tissue, I knew I’d have to find out,” she says. She draws this long, shaky breath. “I was hoping you’d be the one.”

  I feel her shove something into my hand. It’s a wrapped condom.

  Wren’s crying now. “It’s because of all the surgeries. The doctor said he wasn’t sure if it would, you know. Fully work for me.”

  She takes my hand. “Please,” she says. “I need to know.”

  The sinkhole is rooting around, expanding, making it hard for me to speak.

  “You don’t have to wear the condom. I don’t even know why I brought it.”

  “Wren,” I say. “There’s this thing in my chest—”

  But she’s pulling at the hem of her skirt, getting it higher and higher above her knees. Her breath is coming in sharp sucks. Then she’s lying back on the towel, and the sinkhole is huge, it’s squeezing my heart. You, you, you.

  I lie beside her, take off my shirt, start to do the Gesture.

  “Listen,” I say. “I need your help.”

  She moves my hand away and starts kissing my chest all over, quick, light presses, and the sinkhole is squeezing my heart, but now she’s kissing my mouth and I taste salt, some kind of peppery spice. I reach for the Advil bottle.

  “Use this,” I say, handing it to her. “Pray for it to stop.”

  “
For what to stop?” Her voice sounds far away, like I’m talking to her on the phone. She sits up and looks in the Advil container, sniffs. “Is this olive oil?”

  “Say, In the name of Jesus,” I tell her. My hand is circling, fast.

  “Why do you keep doing that?”

  “It’s right in the middle,” I say.

  Wren reaches up and sort of smooths her bangs. Her hand is shaking.

  “I thought you wanted—you brought candles.”

  “Even if you just breathe on it—” But she’s pouring the oil out on her hands, she’s reaching down inside my shorts, beneath my boxers, moving her fingers around till she finds the tip. I feel myself getting harder, and the sinkhole is squeezing my heart so tight there are long pauses between beats. You. You. You. I hear a wail, the voice high-pitched like a girl’s. I’m terrified the voice is mine.

  I feel Wren sliding onto me, the tight squeeze of it. A door swinging open.

  The sinkhole contracts, moves toward the door, starts to go through it.

  “Don’t let it get inside you,” I say.

  “But I want it to,” she says, crying hard now.

  “You don’t understand,” I say, but it’s too late, I am letting it happen, the sinkhole is spiraling into a thin funnel and exiting through the door.

  “I think—I think it’s working,” Wren says. She lets out a sob.

  The sinkhole, narrow as a pencil, turns from black to gray to white, like rising smoke. And then everything is clear, the yous are gone and I can hear my heart beating in my ears.

  I take a few deep breaths. I open my eyes and see Wren’s face, eyes closed, mouth open. Behind her the sky is a dark bowl pocked with stars.

  “I think it’s gone,” I say.

  Wren lifts up and falls onto her side, then curls into a ball at my feet. Her whole body is quivering like she’s cold.

  I sit up. The river is flat and still as a lake, all that power churning just beneath the milk-spill light on its surface.

  I put a hand on my chest.

  Both hands.

  “Wren,” I say. “It worked.”

  “I knew you’d be the one,” she says.