Man V. Nature: Stories

by Cook, Diane

  They sniffed the cake and put crumbs to their tongues, tentative, she assumed, because she had claimed not to like it. She knocked on the window.

  “Go ahead. It’s good, it’s fine,” she urged. They began to stuff chunks into their mouths. Their faces gave away that, truly, it wasn’t good at all. She thought they might spit it out and leave, decide that if her first offering was crappy coffee cake, it wasn’t worth the hassle. But they continued to eat it.

  The news crews came. She saw her house on television. She saw herself, pretaped, standing at her kitchen window, lit bright against the darkening evening, washing dishes, her hair electric on one side and matted on the other. Onscreen, she was wearing Greg’s college track T-shirt, and she remembered it as the day they’d both called in sick just for fun.

  Watching it, she unconsciously smoothed down her hair.

  After the news broadcast, people bloomed like mold across her yard, over where she’d planned to put a pool, threading through the forest border of the property. People climbed trees and built houses in them. She watched whole families disappear into the branches in the evening, then climb down each morning to pick through her garbage.

  When the lawn and trees filled, people burrowed underground. They fought each other for shelter. When a man came up from his burrow, he cautiously looked around. Occasionally someone was waiting there to bash his head, drag his limp body from the hole, and then scurry in. The victim would eventually come to and crawl away, embarrassed that even here his luck had run out.

  Wires fanned out from Jane’s hacked electric and cable up into the trees and down all the holes, like streams off a mountain.

  Jane had to bake for hours each morning. She bagged lunches for those who worked, passed out milk money to children lined up for the caravan of rerouted school buses, held babies so their mothers could get a shower in at the portable facilities Jane had rented. The people, like devotees, lined up before her, and Jane caressed each of their cheeks to give them strength for the day ahead. Then she drove to work. She was disappointed when her boss suggested she begin working from home—productivity was down due to everyone wanting to stand around her. She liked her new job. Even more, she liked going to work and leaving her house behind.

  “There were twelve birthdays that needed cakes today. And somehow they’ve got me tutoring all the fourth-graders. Can this not take too long?”

  “Don’t you think this is fun?” Greg said, smiling with all his teeth. “I think it’s fun.”

  “No, you don’t.” Jane wouldn’t use the word fun. She didn’t think it was anything but exhausting to feel responsible for so many people.

  Usually they peeled their clothes off in bed according to which body part they were trying to locate. But now Greg undressed slowly in front of the window. “Come over here. I’d like to make you come over here.” Lately, he’d made a show of really enjoying it.

  “No. The bed is a fine place for that.”

  They fought over lights on or lights off, and she won, but even in the dark she could tell when he peered out the window and flexed.

  “It’s so much better now,” he insisted loudly, rolling her into a different position. “Don’t you agree? I think I’m a better lover now. Don’t you think I’ve become a better lover?”

  “You’re the same,” she said. She hadn’t meant to sound unencouraging. He was going through a sensitive time. She tried to apologize by moaning loudly.

  He lapped at her closest body part—her elbow—making a face like he was in a foreign country, eating gross food his host family presented him. An I love it behind a false grin. She didn’t like it either.

  She situated herself on top of him, tried to pull a blanket over her shoulders, but Greg tore it off. She placed his hands over her breasts so anyone watching couldn’t see them bounce. “Nothing is different,” she whispered. “And that’s good.”

  “Oh no,” he said. Then again, “No,” and she thought he disagreed. Then he said, “Yes,” like he’d reconsidered. And then again, “Yes.” Then he came with theatrical force, almost bucking her off him. “Wasn’t that incredible?” he panted. “Wasn’t it incredible for you?” He acted more in love with her than ever, and so it felt like much less.

  “It was great.”

  “Let’s go again. I’ll do better.”

  But Jane climbed off.

  Greg’s face drooped. “Please,” he whimpered and gripped her.

  Jane sensed the stillness of all the people outside, listening to them. The crickets were silent, as though listening too.

  Her mother sent a thin, dog-eared paperback called My Mast Year. It had large print and clearly was self-published. On the cover the author, Penny Smith, contemplated something soft in the distance; her eyes sparkled with spotlight diamonds while a chain of real diamonds squeezed her neck.

  Inside were gauzy photos of Penny baking pies, Penny reading to children by her fireplace, Penny cooking a shiny goose for what looked like thousands of people crowding her ornate dining room. In picture after picture, people lounged over her furniture, leafed through her books, slept in her beds. They gazed at her with an aggressive love.

  Jane had been generous, but she hadn’t been welcoming or gracious. She should think of this as an extended dinner party where everyone drinks too much and has to stay over. They should feel at home and be glad to be there. And in the sobering daylight, they would feel rested and satiated enough to leave.

  She went to her front door, unlocked it, threw it open, and went to bed.

  At first, they were skittish; they hid as though they didn’t believe her invitation had been genuine. But she’d catch clues that they’d been there during the night. Dirty mugs in the sink. New shows recorded on the DVR.

  When Jane entered a room, a sense of movement lingered in the air. As if a minute before, the room had been filled with people who’d hid at the sound of her. She felt on the verge of a surprise party every time she turned on the lights.

  At night, she yawned loudly and said, “I’m going to bed,” into the seemingly empty rooms. The house creaked to life once her light went out.

  One morning, she came downstairs to find a few people sitting around her kitchen table, digging into a pie she’d made the day before. At the sight of her, they tensed, but they didn’t run. They lifted their forks to her and said, “Good pie.”

  Jane nodded. “Thank you.”

  From then on, people occupied every room. Late into the evenings they huddled in earnest conversation along every wall, lounged on furniture, on the floor, slept under and on the dining room table. Their laughter drowned out her music, the radio news she liked to listen to. She believed they must be getting what they needed, and that she had helped them get it. But her house was now very crowded. The dishes were always dirty. There was never a chair to sit on. The shower drains were clogged with hair. She couldn’t do any housecleaning without being jostled. And no one helped. Each morning she had to shoo people out of the laundry room, where the couples falling in love would go to be alone. She restocked toilet paper several times a day. She only found solace in her bedroom. She’d tacked a note on the door asking for privacy, which, thankfully, they respected.

  On date night, Greg wrestled everyone out of the kitchen. “Come back later,” he said. “We’re trying to have a romantic dinner because we’re so in love.” The crowd regrouped in the kitchen doorway. Some of them threw pennies at him, which had become an insult in the house. Jane worried that people didn’t like him. It made her self-conscious.

  “You have to be nicer,” she warned.

  “I’m nice.” He picked up a penny that had landed in his lap and chucked it back. The crowd booed.

  Jane laid a seared steak in front of him, yawning.

  “You should sleep,” he said.

  She rolled her eyes. “There’s no time.”

  They ate. When Greg had finished his steak, Jane passed him the rest of hers. “Why don’t you give that to them?” He was try
ing to be nicer.

  She imagined them setting upon the meat like dogs, turning over lamps and tables, hurting each other. She would have to dress their wounds all evening. “No, there’s not enough.”

  Just then a man sauntered into the kitchen. Like he owns the place, Jane thought, flushing with anger. She recognized him. He had a tent by her mailbox and went through her mail. She’d bought a shredder because of him. But she noticed the crowd of people in the doorway winking at her. A few gave her a thumbs-up sign, and she realized they liked this man.

  “You gonna eat that?” the man drawled, pointing to the chunk of steak that sat between Jane and Greg.

  “Who do you think you are?” Jane asked. She made her voice hostile, but really she wanted to know.

  There was something rogue about him. Like he would be a bad addition to anyone’s life. But his eyes were saggy and kind, like a dog’s. He extended a hand. “I’m West.”

  “That’s not your name,” she said, crossing her arms.

  “No, but I wish it was.” He smiled then, and she could make out deep dimples hidden beneath his disorganized beard. The discovery made her blush.

  Greg stood. “Excuse me. This is a private dinner.”

  West breathed deep. “And what a delicious private dinner it is,” he said, and winked at Jane. “Why don’t you share?”

  “I am sharing,” she said.

  “Are you though?”

  What did he mean share? She felt like a victim of sharing. She’d tripled her grocery budget and had given in to the requests for sugar cereal. She’d instituted nightly storytelling around the bonfire for the children. As she spoke, those at her feet tied and untied her shoelaces or drew vines around her ankles. They stayed up past their bedtime because their parents took too many sips from the whiskey flasks they’d insisted she provide. The parents tottered around the yard flashing her tipsy grins. But other times she knew she’d displeased them. She’d taken on Greg’s student loans in anticipation of their wedding. She’d heard grumbling that it meant less for everyone else. Is that what West was saying? Was she expected to pay off everyone’s loans?

  She pulled the plate to her and methodically sectioned the meat. Greg said, “Honey,” in protest, but West put up his hand and Greg quieted.

  She chewed and swallowed each piece. She mmmed like she loved every bite, though she thought she might be sick. West watched her mouth do this work, and then he smirked and winked again.

  Later in bed, Greg pouted. “Why did you eat the steak?”

  The steak still felt lodged in her stomach. Like she’d eaten a golf ball. “You didn’t want it.”

  “But you gave it to me.” Greg rolled over and clicked the light off. “You gave it to me.”

  When Jane found herself in the same room as West, people winked and made kissing noises. Notes were passed to her at the kitchen table. West likes you.

  “But I love Greg,” she would say.

  They would shrug. “But don’t you like West?”

  She did like West. She couldn’t look at West without imagining his tongue on her skin. She wondered if he was a doting or selfish lover. She wanted him to be selfish. She thought from his smirk he might be, and she liked the idea of something that required no compromises, no special kindness, no giving. Just taking. She found the stuff of love hard to juggle with all the other stuff like cooking, cleaning, yard work. When Greg left for a week-long business trip, she felt relief for many reasons.

  West became a fixture inside the house then, where there was so much more to be gotten than mail. He played music in the evenings, thumping out songs he’d written on the piano. Secretly, Jane liked to watch him play these songs, and at times she suspected that he played them for her. One must have been for her, because at the chorus West sang her name over and over again. The tune drifted into the kitchen, where she was sandwiched between two knitters, their needles and elbows jabbing her with each stitch. She could see West’s back when he leaned in and out of the piano emotionally. The parlor was full of people, and they all laughed behind their hands and said, “Aww,” like they’d just seen a baby. When West finished, everyone was quiet. From the ridge high above the house she heard the hollow echo of gunshots. Some night hunting. Or someone else’s mast year gone wrong, perhaps.

  Jane climbed the stairs to her bedroom, and they all watched her. She slid into bed and flicked off the light. A moment later West arrived and slid in beside her. She invited him to do what he wanted. She felt used and generous all at once. After, she asked if that was what he’d meant by sharing.

  West moved in permanently. He brought nothing with him. As a first act, he moved Greg’s things to the front lawn where they were picked through by the crowd and eventually by a weepy Greg. West dealt with the mail, paid the bills, answered correspondence. Jane hadn’t expected him to be helpful, but he was. He let Greg’s loan payments default. She knew it was happening but pretended not to.

  Inside the house, people patted her on the back.

  “We never liked him,” they said of Greg. “He was so needy. He tried too hard.”

  Jane didn’t bother to explain that he hadn’t always been like that. He’d been fun; it had been nice, easy.

  Her mother welcomed the news. She too had never liked him.

  “If he was so awful,” Jane asked, “why did all these people come?” Now that her engagement was off, would they leave? That had been her hope.

  “Oh honey, there’s more to you than some boy and some job. Maybe there’s a secret in you. Maybe there’s something in you that’s about to burst.”

  Jane liked this idea.

  Jane hadn’t thought she wanted much from West. But he was steady and calm and she found herself relying on him more and more. As her feelings for him grew, so did the crowds. They doubled, then tripled. The old house shuddered under the weight. Parties went on all night. Sometimes into the mornings. The cushions of Jane’s couch were deflated, all her curios had disappeared from her curio cabinet, all her books from her bookshelves. People drank and accused one another of slights. Fights broke out regularly now. People got injured. Ambulances came. The sirens screamed up and down her street, a seemingly endless loop of extreme alarm.

  At night, Jane and West whispered under bedsheets so no one could hear.

  “What made you come and live by my mailbox?” Jane asked him once.

  “I just had a feeling I should.”

  “I’m glad you did.” She felt him smile in the darkness.

  West always fell asleep first, while Jane remained awake, holding him or holding his hand, listening to the night commotion in her house. All Jane wanted was to eat a nice, quiet dinner with West, to get to know him better without so many bodies pressing into them, living their love vicariously. But that possibility seemed farther away than ever.

  On movie night, Jane and West couldn’t find an empty spot on the couch. The floor was covered, head to toe. They stood in the corner and balanced their beers and popcorn. People grabbed fistfuls from their bowl until the popcorn was gone. They wiped their buttery hands on Jane’s pants.

  A large plaid-clad man was controlling the remote. A home renovation show was on.

  West tried pulling rank. “It’s movie night.”

  The large man said, “It’s Ace the Wrecker marathon night.”

  Others called out the news, trivia, or crime shows they wanted to watch.

  West contested. “But I signed up for this time. It’s movie night.”

  Everyone turned to Jane for a final verdict. “Leave me out of this,” she snapped.

  The large man catcalled, “You could use help around here. I can build an addition in exchange for a little—” He made a lewd gesture.

  Jane dropped West’s hand and pushed through the crowd. The people pushed back. She stepped over heads and the hands that reached for her, groped at her ankle, her knee. They tried to reach higher. They pulled at her sweater, clutched at her belt. Arms looped around her waist. Her hair was
yanked. She scratched her way out.

  When she slipped into bed, she found four children hiding under the comforter, a rumple she thought was just bunched sheets. The children clung to her and called her Mommy. She could not free herself, so she lay limp while they mewled. West arrived and peeled the children from her and scooted them out the door.

  When she and West made love that night, she saw shadowy figures hovering in the doorway. As she tried to sleep, she felt their breath on her through the sheets.

  All night, the house stairs creaked; people thudded down hallways, in and out of rooms, slamming doors, laughing, yelling, fighting. Music blared, people fucked, moaned, glass broke. Jane shook. West held her and smoothed her hair.

  “Hang in there, kiddo,” he said. “It’s only July.”

  She turned from him and wept.

  Jane woke alone. She smelled bacon and knew West had cooked for her. He was always doing small, thoughtful things.

  He sat at her kitchen table, but so did forty others. They left no place for her. People perched along the counters, their heels banging against her cupboards. All the burners burned, the microwave buzzed, the oven was on broil. Something even cooked over a fire in her fireplace.

  West looked up at Jane from the newspaper, ratty and worn as if it had already been read a hundred times that morning. Two plates of breakfast sat in front of him. He had waited, and seeing her then, picked up a strip of bacon and held it under his nose like a mustache, even though he had a full beard. Desire thrummed in her, and she said, “You’re so cute,” but it was drowned out by all the morning noise. He smiled, but she knew he hadn’t heard her.