Cannibals in Love

by Mike Roberts

  The Woman insisted on washing out my clothes in the machine. And when I got out of the bathroom, I saw that the Man had laid a fresh set on the bed for me. I felt strange about this at first, but they fit, and I decided that I liked the gesture. Studying myself in the full-length mirror, and trying to stand a little straighter in the Man’s outfit.

  I found him out in the backyard, barbecuing chicken on the gas grill. We ate our dinner out here, on the back patio, like a Family. The Woman bowed her head and offered grace to the Provider, and the meal was served. I hadn’t eaten meat in five or six years, but I didn’t want to say no. I had come too far to be here, and it didn’t feel right to make a fuss now. I picked apart my chicken self-consciously, pulling out the bones and generally scattering it around the plate. I chewed and chewed to break down sinew and muscle and tendon, and I still nearly choked with a hasty swallow. I admired the simpler mechanics of the Man, who sucked the bone clean and even ate the fat. A method that was pleasurable in its thoroughness.

  I watched the Woman cutting tiny pieces for the Child, who smushed everything into happy little handfuls. I was glad to be here at this table, and I took another ear of corn to show that my appetite was healthy and not peculiar in any way.

  * * *

  After dinner, the Child got sleepy or cranky, and the whole house turned in early with him. The Woman gave me the wooden bed that the Man had built special for the boy to grow into. I protested, saying I was happy on the couch, but the whole family insisted.

  I lay there in the dark room, staring up at the ceiling, counting all the lies I’d told today. Lies to smooth things over. Lies to stitch things up. Lies to pad the truth. But wasn’t I also giving these people something that they wanted? The simple story of a traveler in need. This weary character undertaken on a whim. The act of walking itself was always totally sincere, of course. Everything else, perhaps, was not.

  The thing that troubled me most was the fact that I was hardly troubled at all. I was only asking for a ride to the motel. Smiling and playing along as the Christians began to improvise. I never could’ve imagined any of this. Naked in the tub, and dressed in the man’s clothing, as I pretended to eat meat. I was just trying to keep my bearings.

  I listened to the crickets and the bullfrogs chirping out beyond the shadows of the yard, and I let out a breath that had been sitting in my chest all day. I felt my eyes flutter and begin to close. And, all at once, my head drew a total and fantastic blank.

  * * *

  I woke up early the next day feeling stiff but determined. I dressed in my own clothes, and stuffed my clean-smelling laundry back inside my bag. I had the idea that I might be able to leave quietly, to slip out of the house unnoticed. But the Man and the Woman were already awake in the kitchen. Already drinking coffee and smiling. And I smiled, too, hurrying through my eggs and toast. I was conscious of overstaying my welcome now, but the Woman wouldn’t hear of it. She made a big deal of packing me a lunch, and slowing me down. And the Man, too, made sure to give me a wide straw hat to protect against the sun. There was even a first-aid kit waiting by the door, where I could see forty dollars folded neatly inside its clear plastic walls.

  And, truly, I was touched by all of this. But too much generosity has a way of making me feel inadequate. I was troubled by my inability to repay these strangers anything. It embarrassed me to stretch the lie out today. I just wanted to say goodbye, and figure out where I was. This would certainly be another long day, I knew. Even if I caught a good ride straight off, it would still take me the rest of the week before I reached Minneapolis.

  I started packing up and saying goodbye all over again, when the Woman touched my arm sweetly. “We still have to pray over your travels, hon.”

  “Right. Of course,” I said, but I didn’t really know what this meant. It was just me and the Man and the Woman, standing in the kitchen. They each took my hand, and we made a circle, bowing our heads as the Woman began to pray. And not just some boilerplate blessing, either. Her voice was suddenly real with emotion. She was talking to me, about me, and that was strangely thrilling.

  “Lord Jesus, we ask you to stand over Michael’s journey now. Make him clear of mind and fleet of foot. Be the wing under which he seeks his shield and shelter along the road. Clear the difficult path for him in safety and in light. And keep your hand always at his shoulder as he makes this long pilgrimage to be reunited with his brother…”

  And she kept going. I was not expecting any of this, and it moved me. I stared at our feet on the shiny linoleum, trying desperately not to smile. This may be the most singularly strange and wonderful thing I’ve ever experienced. To be blessed by strangers in the middle of Kansas. It felt tremendous.

  “Do not fear what they fear; do not be frightened of the uncertain road ahead. For we Christians walk by faith, and not by sight alone. For no one can harm the man who is eager to do good in the world.” The Woman inhaled. “Amen.”

  “Amen,” we answered. I lifted my head and I knew, all at once, that I must keep walking. It was out of my hands. Only a fool would think to stop here.

  I hugged the Woman, and I shook the Man’s hand, and I finally left. I was truly a walker then. Everything was lighter, and I was lighter, too. The Man’s hat was like a straw halo upon my head, imparting its conviction. This was a thing I could do for the Man and the Woman, I thought. This was the drumbeat that I felt inside my bones: Just keep walking.

  And I did, for hours; but it was hard. Much, much harder on the second day. All the idiot joy was gone. It was hotter and drier, and I felt everything now. The pebbles inside my shoes; the spiders at the backs of my knees. I was sick and sweaty and lethargic, and my head just swam in the blurry heat. My legs felt rubbery and foreign to me as I walked with this snarl of distress painted all over my face. I could not believe how slow I walked today. Plodding, really. It was not the pain so much as the mental and emotional fatigue of not allowing myself to stop. I walked and walked, waiting for the pain to break.

  Why did I keep walking, I wondered. Walking through Kansas, walking. It was for the Christians, of course. But that was a lie. This was an act of vanity now. Folly. Boredom. It was a morbid curiosity. An aesthetic masochism. This was the fallacy of misplaced romance. It was young legs. Pink lungs. An animal heart. And, all at once, it was a spiritual act again. It was personal. It was inarticulate. And that was enough to just keep walking.

  As I went, I daydreamed about turning around and affecting that enemy pose. Walking backward with my arm out. And in my brain I did this. Smiling at the cars as they passed me. Rushing by in a blur. Objectively, I understood it. I knew how I must look today. Run-down and washed-out. I imagined myself inside one of those vehicles: passing a walker on the roadside. No, thank you, please. Not today, friend.

  But wouldn’t it be strange and incredible if I did it? What if I just kept walking? I’d made it ten miles, through the morning, into some westerly Kansas county where they were Denver Broncos fans. I recovered my rhythm and I laughed out loud at my own fool ambition to walk two thousand miles, because I was doing it. Disappearing into Kansas. Hours turning into days; towns turning into states. There is a numb kind of thinking born of small repetitive acts. A slow anesthetic. I was losing track for miles. Losing time entirely. I disappeared into the walking like I was coasting on a bike. This was not me. The body has its own locomotion, and it was willing itself so now.

  So much so that I hardly noticed the pickup truck that pulled off the road in front of me. Waiting there, idling, and it froze me. I knew, of course, that I must say no. I was supposed to tell the driver that I couldn’t; to say that I didn’t want to. I knew exactly what I was doing out here on the road. I was walking.

  But that’s not what I did at all. No. I jogged after the truck quite willingly, almost laughing. I was giddy with my own good fortune again. This heathen absolution with its long hair and dirty smile. Rumbling metal and the soaked smell of gasoline. I nodded to the stranger as he unlocked the
door, and it was over. Quick and dirty. I had done my walking and I was finished then.

  GREAT EXPECTATIONS

  I was staring at a tower on the television above the bar, waiting for it to fall. This sudden, intrusive thought that came rushing back to me. I used to stand on a high floor and imagine this same building folding inward. Shuddering down toward the street in a sudden, violent collapse. And as I sat there, staring at the screen, I was watching it happen now. Only not in a way that anyone could’ve imagined. JPMorgan Chase had just purchased Bear Stearns for pennies on the dollar.

  “Put all the bankers in jail,” Cokie said, as she sidled up behind me.

  “I used to work there,” I answered, feeling strangely exhilarated.

  “Of course you did,” she said with a laugh.

  “No, really, I’m serious.”

  And I was. This was my first job out of college. My first anything after moving to New York. Copying and shredding documents for the ignominious Bear Stearns. I answered to a frowsy, frowning woman named Judy. With her mussy muslin sweaters and her frizzy black bob. Judy was a force of nature in this office.

  “What are you doing?” she would ask as she pressed a set of documents into my arms. This question that would set my hairs on end. Stealing its way into my dreams at night. “What are you doing?” Judy would ask me, over and over. It was the only thing she said to me, most days. Strangely, though, my clearest memory was of Judy asking this of someone else. Cowing one of her coworkers; a man of some esteem, I thought. He was standing over my desk with a thick yellow binder. “What are you doing?” she asked as she took the work away from me, putting her fellow countryman on the spot. It was everything I could do not to smile. The only person who was confused in this situation was the gentleman. I was Judy’s bitch, motherfucker. You better step back.

  And he did, too. Snapping up his folder as he grumbled down the hall.

  “What did you do there?” Cokie asked me.

  “Do?”

  “What was your job?”

  “I knew where all the bodies were buried.”

  * * *

  I had run into Cokie on the subway. She was sitting on the bench seat of the R train, with her big draping coat splayed open. Looking tired, looking bored, as she stared at the in-car advertisements for plastic surgery and night school. I marveled at the air of inaccessibility that this girl exuded just simply being. A hardened New York cool that warned all comers, Do not fuck with this.

  All I really had to do was start smiling, though. I watched the sternness fall away as she glanced up at me. Forced to look again.

  “Oh, my god,” she said. “Dude. What are you doing here?”

  “I live here,” I answered.

  “Shut up.”

  “No. It’s true.” And we were both laughing then.

  “Oh, my god,” Cokie said again, as she pulled me into the seat beside her.

  “Where are you going?” I asked, feeling suddenly excited. “We should get off the train. We should go get coffee, maybe. Or breakfast. Where are you going?”

  “Borough Hall,” she said, sounding genuinely disappointed. It was only three stops away. “I have to work.”

  “On a Saturday?”

  “On every day,” she answered dryly.

  “Why?” I couldn’t help but smile. “What happened now?”

  “The same thing that always happens. Some kid grabs a cell phone and takes off running.”

  “Do people still steal phones?”

  “Are you kidding me? It’s like seventy-five percent of all my cases.”

  “Maybe he didn’t do it,” I offered glibly.

  “Of course he did it.”

  “What are you going to say in his defense, then?” I was enjoying this.

  Cokie’s face went slack. “If it pleases the court, I would like to ask for leniency in this case, Your Honor. Jermaine is a good kid in a bad neighborhood … and circumstances have blah, blah, blah…”

  “Right.”

  “Which he is. And they have. I mean, it’s just a fucking phone. Don’t dangle it out in front of your face like an idiot. You know?”

  “Noted,” I said as we got to our feet. I couldn’t stop smiling at her. I had no idea how important it was to see Cokie until she was standing right there in front of me. We were holding hands now as the train pulled into the station.

  “I’ll call you,” she said as she stepped out onto the platform. “We’ll hang out soon, I promise. I’ll call you,” she said again as the doors slid shut.

  * * *

  That was two months ago.

  We’d been making and breaking plans ever since. This is the latitude of old friends. It was easier sometimes just to push each other off. To delay. To wait for next time. Cokie would wake me up at one in the morning with a half-cocked text message entreating me to meet her at a bar in Manhattan. I would squint at this, in the dark of my bedroom, typing out a one-word reply: “Unsubscribe.” This was guaranteed to rile her up, and we would spend the next forty minutes texting vulgar jokes back and forth.

  It was strange. Just the simple fact of knowing that we could meet up again made me feel closer to Cokie somehow. Even so, it took an actual event to bring us together in the end. Patrick Serf was turning thirty.

  * * *

  “Thirty?” I asked as we carried our drinks to a small table at the back of the bar. “He’s really only thirty?”

  “How old do you want him to be?” Cokie asked with a laugh.

  “I don’t know. Just older, I guess.”

  “Well, I mean, when we were twenty-two and he was twenty-five, he kind of was, you know.”

  “Right,” I said. “And now it just feels like we’re all the same age.”

  “I sort of feel that way with everyone.” Cokie smiled. “Anyway. We’ll just have one drink and go over. All the old D.C. kids will be there. It’ll be fun.”

  I nodded. There was something inevitable about this conversation. This was the conversation that we always had. These were the things that came flooding back when we looked at each other. Houses and bars and backyards that we’d shared.

  “When was the last time you were there?” Cokie asked.

  “God. Two years ago, I guess. The last time I saw you.”

  “New Year’s Eve?”

  “Right.”

  “That was the weekend that you and Lauren broke up,” she said, almost reverently.

  “Well. I mean, technically, we were already broken up. But we were still fucking like cats and dogs right through the end.”

  “I don’t think that’s the expression,” Cokie frowned.

  “Sure it is.”

  * * *

  Lauren had moved in with Cokie and left me alone in the apartment in D.C. This was supposed to make us fully broken up. But we were still on the lease together, still paying rent through the end of the year. And there were things we needed to hash out between us. Like what to do with an apartment full of stuff.

  I went through a period of hoarding. Everything that Lauren left behind was mine now. In total, abandoned, claimed. Beyond that, I had no plans for any of it. And, to be perfectly honest, it took less than twenty-four hours for me to change my mind completely. I became meticulous about getting rid of everything. All this dead weight tied around me could go.

  The girls drove down from New York, on the morning of New Year’s Eve, to collect the last of it. The empty apartment was nothing then if not an excuse to throw one last party. This was to be our great valedictory, our one final going-away.

  “That was the last time everyone was together,” Cokie said, almost wistfully.

  “Yeah. What a nightmare,” I said drolly.

  “Horrible,” she answered.

  “But so much fun.”

  “Oh, my god. It was the best.”

  Cokie laughed. To hear her laughing now, as we said these things, made them funny. Funny for the first time ever, really. The whole fucking thing was hysterical.

&nb
sp; “I just remember you standing on the table, counting down to the ball drop, at eight o’clock at night. And then you did it again at nine. And ten. And eleven.”

  “Well, I mean, once you’ve started … you’re bound to land on it eventually.”

  “I must’ve kissed four or five dudes, thinking it was midnight.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You’re good at parties, Cokie.”

  “And then, the next thing I remember, some kid started freaking out because the doors were locked. And nobody could find you anywhere. You were just gone.”

  “So you broke my front window.”

  “Hey. False imprisonment is a Class H felony in the District of Columbia, dude.”

  “Yeah, well, either way.” I smiled. “We never did get our deposit back.”

  Cokie shook her head. “All of that was two and a half years ago?”

  “Almost, yeah.”

  “And now Lauren has a kid,” she said brightly. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “Lane told me. I think it’s great.”

  “I guess so,” Cokie offered mildly, in a line I could imagine she had delivered more than once. “Sometimes it feels like she loves that baby more than me.”

  I laughed.

  “I’m serious. Without a baby, they’d still be living in New York.”

  I nodded as Lauren’s life hung there between us. “And what about you?”

  “What about me, what?”

  “Are you ever gonna have one?”

  “You mean kids? No.”

  “No?”

  “Unh-uh, no,” Cokie answered flatly.

  “Why not?”

  “Dude. I’m a juvenile defender. Why do you think?”

  I laughed again.

  “Plus, I mean, I live in New York City.”

  “You could always leave New York.”

  “Leave New York!” she practically scoffed. “And where would I go?”

  “You could go anywhere.”

  “But I already live in New York,” she sneered, owning this posture.