by Cook, Diane
The bag floats away, and a few birds give chase. Their dawn shadows weave playfully as they swoop at the bag, and Lydia is glad they have found it. They’ll know what to do. They’re following some instinct that has to do with morning.
A WANTED MAN
There once was a man, a well-known man, we’ll call him “our man,” who could impregnate fifty women in one day.
He could bend a high-heeled dancer over a Dumpster; a waitress across the order counter; a teacher over the hood of her car in the teachers’ lot. You get the picture. He could have any woman he wanted, anywhere he wanted. He could take one and turn, find another waiting, and take her too. We’ve all heard the stories. Remember how he did a row of bank tellers, one after the other? How they begged and huffed and grunted, their faces pressed against their teller windows where they’d stuck a Closed sign when it was their turn? “We’re so lucky!” they squealed. Remember how they all took maternity leave at the same time? Remember the elevator story? That Little League game? Independence Day?
Our man was in his prime, his status secure. His offspring were the most coveted, the most successful, he was a sure thing—he never missed, and he was always ready (which can’t be said of lesser men). Women dreamed of having his babies. Young boys dreamed of being him. Other men knew to keep their distance and their eyes down.
But our man believed all of that was changing.
Impossible, you say? As proof, take that waitress story: When he’d bent her over the counter, the cooks had tried to ambush him. The waitress held them off with a kitchen knife, and they’d had to finish over the prep table, with her holding the knife out, jabbing it at the cooks with each thrust our man gave her.
Our man recognized the look in the cooks’ eyes. They were thinking, That should be me. He knew the feeling. For some young men it was a long-held life goal, and for others it came out of nowhere like a punch. They wanted what he had, and so deeply that they believed they could get it, should get it. They deserved it.
Lately young men had been ambushing our man from dark alleys, following him home, breaking into his apartment and setting traps. He’d had to move. Before, he would have walked unguarded and proud. Now he skulked and wore disguises. He saw the Wanted signs with his picture affixed.
But of all the changes, he was most bewildered by how much he wanted to see the waitress again.
Once they’d finished, he’d asked if she would like to sit with him, have a coffee, talk. He felt a heaviness in his stomach, a need to spend time with her. It was the strangest feeling—he’d never desired a woman twice. But she already had her order pad and pencil cocked and ready. “I work here,” she’d said briskly, and returned to her tables. He’d blushed and felt ashamed. When was the last time he’d felt that?
Now he thought of the knife, of the way she’d jabbed. She hadn’t been protecting him so much as her offspring. But still, the gesture touched him. He felt cared for. He hadn’t felt that since he was a much younger man, but he wanted to feel it again.
Our man returned to the diner, anxious and prepared to ask the waitress to meet him after her shift. He would offer to buy her a sandwich or a soup at a different diner where she could relax. That was better than coffee, right?
But the waitress wasn’t there. The cooks were, however, and they chased our man onto a dim side street, where he was able to lose them. He panted in a Dumpster until it was safe to emerge.
Our man knew of a cave in the big park near the diner. He could wait out the night and go back tomorrow, see if the waitress was working. Tell her he couldn’t stop thinking about her. They could marvel at how weird that was. He had a feeling she would totally get it, and get him.
The sun was bright, and the grass smelled extra grassy because of it. Park animals scampered. Our man kept his head down, slipped behind trees and into bushes when threatening types strode by. He stepped over two different ankle traps he assumed were set for him.
He entered a wide-open space with few hiding spots. A crowd of boys on bikes noticed him. “Hey,” they yelled. They lobbed stones at his head. Our man ran, and the boys chased on their bikes through the gravel paths. Of course it could only be a game for them—they were boys—but the commotion alerted others. An arrow was launched from somewhere in the trees, and it whizzed by our man’s head. A large group of healthy young men began tracking him. But our man is faster than most.
He gained ground by sprinting over a steep hill, and then he heard a sweet voice say, “Pssst.”
A woman in a yellow dress sat on a large blanket in the middle of the great lawn. She scooched over and lifted a corner. Our man dove under, and she laid it back down. She reclined so as to hide his bulk, then resumed reading her book with great languorousness.
Those pursuing our man crested the hill, breathless, and scanned the lawn for some movement. The woman yawned for effect. They ran on, fought with each other for the lead; the young boys were jostled off their bikes and limped away, crying bitterly, pining for the day they would feel like men.
When they were all out of sight, the woman tickled our man through the blanket, and he laughed.
“Shh, they’re very close,” she lied. She rubbed him until his breath quickened. “I’m taking you home with me. It’s safe there.”
Our man was happy to hear that. No one had ever offered him a home. He would stay with her, be cared for, and never have to run again.
She leaned and peeked under the blanket: her eyes shone like stained glass; her brown hair piled in the grass like curled dead leaves. His waitress was forgotten.
Our man woke to the woman snapping pictures of him; she’d tucked a flower behind his ear and was pretending to feed him grapes.
“My girlfriends are going to freak out.” She giggled. “Can I invite them over?”
“I only want you.” He grabbed her and tenderly kissed her cheeks, then her forehead, her eyes. “Let’s get married,” he said. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so safe.
“Oh, I can’t.” She fake pouted. “I’m already married.”
“You are?”
She pulled away and snapped another picture.
“Run away with me then,” he said. “We could find a new home together, somewhere no one knows me.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t.”
It felt as if a chunk of ice was going down his throat. “Don’t you love me?”
She laughed. “You funny man,” she said, and tried to push his face between her legs.
The icy lump reached his heart, and then his stomach. It was a new sensation. He said, “But you want kids with me.”
“I want your kid, not, ‘I want to have kids with you.’ It’s different.” She shrugged. “The kids my husband gave me stink. They’re weak and they get terrible grades.”
“You have kids?” He had no idea. “Where are they?”
“At my mom’s.” She sighed. “I don’t know how much longer I get you for, and I don’t want to waste it. Now, come on.” She wiggled in his lap until he was ready.
Just as they finished, they heard the front door creak open, the sounds of a bag being tossed onto a table, papers in folders slapping down, and the tired sigh of someone who had no one to greet him.
“Hello? Anyone home?” a man called out.
“My husband’s home.” She groaned. “I was hoping for another go. It’s so fun with you.”
“Come with me then,” he said as he threw clothes on.
She sulked. “No, that would probably ruin it.”
They heard the husband pad around the apartment, into one room and then another, take something from the fridge, clink some glasses.
“Hello?” he called out again.
She jumped up to lock the bedroom door and barred it with her body. “I do love him,” she said, but she looked at our man like she was eating something delicious. “It’s complicated. Just be quiet for a minute. Maybe he’ll go away.”
The footsteps got closer. “Ellen?” the husband called
out. “Are you in there?” The knob jiggled.
Our man began to tremble. “Let me out,” he hissed. He didn’t like being this close to a husband.
“Hey,” the husband yelled. “Who’s in there?”
Our man tossed Ellen aside and threw open the door.
He could tell the husband used to be handsome, but now he was older. His clothes were drab and hung on him poorly, his skin too; his hair was dyed shoe polish black to hide the gray.
The husband gasped, and our man recognized his look: as if a long-forgotten dream was resurfacing and giving him the wild idea to battle our man. It was folly. He was too old. But nostalgia and regret are powerful. He reached out.
Our man bolted past.
“Wait,” the husband cried, lumbering after him. “Come back. Let’s make a deal.” But our man could hear him rummaging for weapons even as he tried to sound friendly.
Our man bounded from the apartment and took the stairs half a floor at a time.
“Dammit,” the husband cried, and stomped his feet. He whined, “Ellen,” and our man heard her respond, “It didn’t mean anything.” He felt that icy lump again.
Our man rushed through the streets, his head down, but still he felt like everyone was about to pounce. He ducked into a parking lot, squatted between two cars, and cried. The sky threatened rain. The buildings squatted sullenly. The lights in windows were green and harsh. The expressions on passersby were angry. They all seemed to be searching for something. Probably him.
“Um, hi?” said a shy voice.
Our man shrank against a car, frightened. How careless. He hadn’t heard anyone approach; he could be facing his death right now.
A woman reached for him. “Don’t be scared.”
“What do you want?” he hissed, and blushed at how unkind it sounded. Where were his manners? She looked nice.
“This is my car,” she said.
He laughed with some relief. “I’m sorry.” He rose, though he remained hunched and averted from the crowded sidewalk.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” He wiped his eyes. “Hard day.”
“Don’t I know it.” She leaned where he had been leaning, and pulled a cigarette from her purse. She thoughtfully exhaled, and our man felt hidden in her fog.
“Thank you,” he said, relaxing a bit in her company.
“For what?”
“For just standing here with me.”
She smiled. “I’m happy to. You look like you could use a friend. I’m Jill.” She extended her hand. “And you are?”
His breath halted, his tongue swelled: she didn’t know him.
She was plain looking, with straightened black hair, small eyes, thin lips, but big rosy cheeks that made her whole self inviting. She was the kind of woman he might overlook. She seemed like a person who didn’t want to be seen. He wanted to be around someone like that forever. Maybe he would grow plain then. Blend in. He’d like that. He took her hand.
“Do you want to go somewhere?” He imagined her too insecure and unassuming to ask herself.
She blushed, elated. “Sure?” She ducked her head in disbelief and gleeful shame. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” She hooked onto his arm and began to walk.
“Won’t we take your car?” he asked, his hand on the door.
“No, my place is just around the corner.”
He concentrated on watching her so he wouldn’t panic on the sidewalk. He felt ordinary with this woman on his arm, like he could look people in the eye. But he didn’t dare.
Her apartment was bare, but still she searched awhile for mugs.
“Did you just move in?”
“Oh yeah,” she said, now looking through drawers for tea.
“Where did you move from?” Our man sat on a spare wooden chair at an empty table.
“Uh, the Midwest?” she said scrunching her face at him as if she couldn’t believe it herself. “I’d like to forget about that, honestly.” Her voice swelled with emotion. He became aroused by her vulnerability.
“Well.” He walked to her and gripped her hips. “You’ll like it here.”
She let him touch her, then demurred, put her mug between them. “Stop.”
He raised his hands, surrendering. “I’m sorry.” When was the last time he’d needed to say that?
“No—” She laughed, though with some sadness. She pushed his arms down to his sides. “It’s just that I don’t know anything about you.”
He was flattered and thrilled. “What do you want to know?”
She opened her mouth like she would speak but didn’t. He badly wanted to slip his thumb between those lips, have her gently tongue it. The silence between them rushed into his ears. He was scared to fill it. He felt dumb in her presence. But he wanted her to know him. “I’m lonely,” he said.
She bowed her head, kissed his knuckles.
The tension in his shoulders released. He didn’t know when he’d felt such tenderness. Then he laughed, overjoyed. She laughed. They clasped hands and laughed together.
“I’ve always wanted a family,” he said.
“Me too,” she cooed.
“A real one, though. One I can watch grow.” He skimmed his finger above her waistband, under her shirt. “I’ve never told anyone that.”
She shivered and licked her lips. He thought, Here’s the future, so why wait?
He got down on a knee and tied the string from his tea bag around her finger.
“Will you marry me?” He couldn’t believe he had said it. He imagined waking on a sun-dazzled morning with her.
She jogged in place and screamed, “Yes!”
He scooped her into his arms as if she were a long, light pillow. “You’ll have to return to the Midwest,” he said, and when she looked confused, he explained, “It’s not safe for me here.”
She cupped his face. “You’re safe with me anywhere.” Her eyes were wet and searching. “Do you feel safe?”
“I do feel safe! I felt safe the very first minute,” he said, forgetting that in fact, he had felt in danger when he’d first encountered her.
He spun her in a circle. “I’ve got you and I won’t ever let go,” he cried, and she tossed her head and fluttered her legs like she was a captive in a monster movie. This time he wouldn’t have to run.
The bedroom was also bare, a mattress on the floor with a single sheet balled at the foot. The windows were shrouded in brown cloth, but a chair had been placed where someone could sit and look out a crack between the fabric panels. There was a shabby painted dresser. Our man swiped what little was on it to the floor.
He pulled her shirt over her head; her breasts, oblong and heavy, spilled from her bra with just a flick of the straps. She was plump. Her belly looked strangely swollen. All evidence to the contrary, he might have guessed she was already pregnant. But no, she had the hunger of an empty woman.
She moaned she was ready, and she was. He was about to bend her over that dresser when she said, “No,” and backed our man to the bed. He fell onto it, and she straddled him. “This way.”
The woman took him in with a long oooh. “It’s like you’re made of electricity,” she said. She began to rock slowly, smiling gravely. “I’m going to have the best kid.”
Our man concentrated on how tightly her legs locked around his hips, on how protected he felt.
“You’re going to be a great mom.” He sighed.
She began wiggling around on top of him, tossing her hair, bucking, and it felt so good. He couldn’t believe he’d been lucky enough to meet her, and at a moment when he most needed to. He watched her breasts sway, her belly heave, her mouth round into pleasure and then spread into surprise. He tucked his hands behind his head as if he were taking a nap in the park, not a care in the world, with his penis drawn inside her and about to start a family with her in just another minute or so. He was entering that buzzy state he loved, his body feeling like the glass casing of a thermometer, the liquid rising, swelling, g
etting dangerous—the casing could shatter!—when he thought he saw something move in the doorway; a man, a shadow, a ghost; and then it was gone.
“My kid will be the best,” she chanted as she writhed.
Our man became lost in the chant. She was coming. And then he was braying, grabbing at air, coming too.
Then she quieted and stopped moving.
His climax whimpered out, replaced by a new nervousness. He cleared his throat several times, but she stayed silent and still. “Did you like that?” It was not a question our man had ever asked.
“Sure,” she said, though she seemed displeased. Her smile had disappeared. She pressed her hands against his collarbones and said very somberly, “But it’s not why I brought you here.”
She slipped her hands around our man’s throat and tightened.
Everything in him cooled. His spent limbs went wax dead. He had never been threatened by a woman before. He didn’t know how to respond. Should he hit her? He couldn’t.
“What’s going on?” he wheezed. His rejected ejaculate gummed between them.
“Don’t hate me,” she said. “I’m doing this for my baby. I’m not a bad person.”
“Please,” our man sputtered. He struggled, but he’d been made defenseless on his back. She was strong and determined. A mother already. It all began to make sense. She was pregnant, had known exactly who he was, and was helping another man, the father of her child, conquer our man in order to rise in stature. She probably wasn’t even from the Midwest.
Our man’s sight turned to black smudges, his hearing clotted. He groped and kicked wildly, and she held tighter. He gurgled, his chest burned. He felt so stupid. He shut his eyes and couldn’t believe this was it.
How terrible life was, he marveled, but how fair. He was getting what he deserved. He thought back on how he became our man. You remember: how he’d come upon his predecessor—a man in his prime, powerful and unchallenged—copulating in the middle of Main Street, an admiring crowd gathered and traffic stopped. How our man had pummeled and bloodied him, broke his bones with his bare hands and left him to crawl a few paces away, where he died. Then how our man impregnated the woman, who was waiting and hungry, and then fourteen other women from the circle of onlookers. The crowd had never seen such a spectacle. You know the rest.