Up and Coming: Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

by Anthology

  ***

  I come home smelling of industrial lasagna and children, tacky with sweat from the polyester double-knit. The platter is washed clean and standing upright in the dish drainer; the floors are swept, the windows washed. My kitchen chairs have been dragged all over the place. Afterwards they helped themselves to some half-pints of milk I keep on the bottom shelf of the fridge, and I add dwarf milk to my shopping list.

  In a corner of the kitchen window someone drew a penis using the soap, which I patiently wash away. I always imagine a younger one, bored with his chores, sneaking in a little bit of petty revenge. I’ve found genitals scratched in the patches of bare dirt in the yard, a swollen-looking woman that I assume is me, a muddy Fuk fuk fuk once on the siding. Each time I just wipe it away. It’s a small price to pay for a clean house.

  Under the sink, next to the trash, is the bloody carcass of some animal—a rat? a chipmunk?—skinned and in several bony pieces, all its meat neatly pared away.

  It’s still warm.

  I make Hamburger Helper and Vienna sausages for their supper and put it on the porch; I’m so tired I just take a scoop for myself. They love anything processed. They especially like Fridays at the cafeteria, when it’s Sloppy Joes. It’s hard to tell what they think about anything just by looking at them; their faces are hidden by thick, knotted beards and woolen caps pulled low. But they make a cooing noise over the Sloppy Joes that they never make at any other time.

  I eat my dinner standing up, watching them through the kitchen window. As soon as I shut the back door the ivy covering the back fence started rustling. They emerged one by one through the hole in the chain link, tramping up to the porch single-file. About a dozen this time; I would say it’s the same ones but I can’t really tell them apart. I call them dwarves, like in Snow White, but they’re more like those dwarves’ skid row cousins: besides the caps they mostly wear old baby things, grey with dirt. Their coveralls and rompers are bedecked with rainbows and toot-toot trains, cheeky monkeys and happy daisies, all as grimy as a mechanic’s uniform. Around their waists they each wear a leather belt with a sheath, and in each sheath is a knife with a long, curving blade.

  No matter how filthy they are, their knives are always spotless.

  Once they’re settled about the platter, crossing their legs and chatting in their strange, chirping language, they each draw out their knives and stab at the mound of food, spearing sausages and pasta gleaming with red sauce, shoving the wet blades into their mouths.

  As always when I watch them, I try to think how to prove, once and for all, that they’re just figments of my imagination. I never believed in Santa Claus, I hated Disney movies: it seemed cruel to be taunted with these kind fairies and handsome princes that could never exist. Why, then, would I imagine this? Have I become so sleep-deprived I’ve gone off my rocker? Am I drinking heavily and blacking it all out? Hallucinogens in the school food? What about when I was on the pill, did it have some secret ingredient to drive poor women crazy? And so on and so on, until I’m not sure that anything in the world is what it seems, least of all myself.

  There is no such thing as dwarves, or dirty little men about two feet high who do housework for franks and beans.

  And yet there is my clean house, my supermarket bill, the snapped links in the fence. The carcass in my trash. The metallic whispering of their sharp, bright knives.

  ***

  Today I’m salad; Ethel, who is too old for this but has no savings, is drinks. Every day we get a different station in the cafeteria and no more than an hour and a half to clean and prep everything. Lunch lasts for two and a half hours, the classes are staggered; then there’s two hours for cleanup. Al, who’s been here the longest, says that there used to be more time at both ends, and we would work special events too, but budget cuts scaled everything back. Now the special events are catered by a company from the city, and we get just enough hours to get by, just enough benefits to keep us hanging on.

  Of all the stations, drinks and pot-washing are the hardest. Ethel can’t work pots because of some medical waiver about the detergents, but she gets drinks a lot. I think Bill’s trying to get rid of her. Drinks have so much prep: heavy powders and syrups to carry and maneuver, machines so high you need the stepladder to set them up, the ice maker to clean out, hundreds of cups to stack. I do what I can to help, and Al does her cups, but we’re nearly open when she realizes she’s out of Coke syrup.

  And then the kids pour in.

  It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion. Every day the kids guzzle soda, especially Coke; they swarm around the machine now, beating the nozzle with their cups and kicking the cabinets beneath. When Ethel tries to shoo them away they yell in her face and hit her with their empty cups, like she’s just another machine.

  Everyone looks to the manager’s office, but Bill just shakes his head and shuts his door. I finally manage to get a monitor’s attention, and she rolls her eyes and drags herself over to intervene. Ethel looks stricken, and again I feel that twinge of recognition at her expression, a combination of anger and impotence.

  Later, Bill yells at Ethel in the office, yells and yells, his voice reverberating through the heavy steel and glass door. When Ethel comes out, her face swollen from crying, everyone pretends to be busy cleaning. Like we’re all fine, like it couldn’t be any one of us next.

  I follow her into the break room to try and say—what? something, anything—but she won’t even look at me.

  “You could have said something,” she says through gritted teeth. “You could have backed me up, you know damn well that station has too much prep for one person.” She throws her spare uniform on the table. “Take that, for all your trouble. I won’t be needing it anymore.”

  ***

  Every day, on my long walk to and from work, I pass by a church. Today the sign reads What good deed have you done today? and I think of Ethel. That will be me soon enough—too old to work and too poor to quit. All of us, trapped: myself, Ethel, Theresa and her bruises.

  Had I said anything, would it have mattered? Or would we both be jobless now?

  I come home to find the lawn in the backyard trimmed in jagged waves, the bushes pruned to about waist height, and the one flowering bush deadheaded. I heat up some leftover fish sticks and put them out with a stack of chopped carrots and celery. It’s getting harder to take food: Al’s wife just lost her job so he’s stealing everything he can, and Bill rounded off his day as an Utter Bastard by making us throw away the last of the cream of tomato soup.

  I make myself a bologna sandwich and sit by the back door, watching the dwarves as they clamber onto the porch. It took several months to get to this point. At first they would vanish the moment I stepped outside; now as long as I keep my distance they don’t seem to mind. They even wave at me sometimes, or touch their caps.

  Like stray cats. Stray cats that do housework. My craziness in a nutshell.

  When Michael and I first looked at rentals out here, the agent told us that this was the “elf house.” The old lady who had lived in it used to call the police complaining about “little men.” She said they would sneak around the house at night, messing with her things, and she had tried leaving out pans of milk, did the police have any other suggestions? The agent told us this while rolling his eyes, and then he drew circles in the air by the side of his head. “Crazy old woman,” he said, and then, “She was a widow,” as if that explained it.

  It was only after Michael left that they first appeared. I thought it possums, making that much noise. When I saw them rooting through my garbage I opened my mouth to scream, only to close it again. I wasn’t afraid; in a way I had been expecting them. I was a middle-aged woman living hand to mouth in a shitty town, with no friends or relatives, sagging and fattening and graying with every passing day. There was nothing to be afraid of; I was just going mad. Crazy old woman. It was the order of things.

  One of the dwarves spears half a fish stick with his knife. He bites into it wi
th a scowl, tearing at it like it were the haunch of an animal, and I find myself laughing. What else do I have to laugh at anymore? Not for the first time I wish I was on the other side of the door. As nasty as they are, I doubt any of them lie awake at night, hating the present, terrified of the future. I doubt they’re afraid of anything at all.

  ***

  In bed I half-watch Johnny Carson and try to write a little note to Ethel, to say how sorry I am that she got fired. I am sorry, but I’m not sorry for keeping my mouth shut. The want ads in the local paper fill one column and half is solely for mechanics and appliance techs. This town only needs people who can keep putting bandaids on it.

  On the television, Ed McMahon is clearly lit: he keeps blurting out nonsensical responses and squinting at something we can’t see. Little pink elephants. I haven’t had a drink since that one night Ethel took me out, right after Michael left. Forget about him, she kept saying. They’re all bastards, it’s a shitty world and you gotta toughen up if you’re gonna survive it. It’s survival of the fittest, I’m tellin’ ya.

  Her face today, when she realized what was going to happen, how it would be one write-up too many. All of us unable to control our lives, the only lives we’ll ever have.

  What good deed have you done today?

  Later the dog begins barking again, its yapping as relentless as a jackhammer. Why doesn’t someone stop it? I wait and wait and then storm out into my scrubby moonlit yard. At least if I can figure out who it belongs to, I can go over and complain. I go right up to the back fence, ears straining, trying to pinpoint what direction, I turn to my right—

  and look directly at Theresa looking at me. Her red eyes seem huge in their dark hollows; her thick brown hair hangs loose to the middle of her back. She’s in that thin robe of hers, clutching a beer bottle. She looks like something out of a movie, beautiful despite her suffering. I open my mouth to speak, but she only bares her teeth at me, her smooth face contorting into something animalistic.

  “Creepy lesbo,” she snarls, “mind your own fucking business.” She turns and stomps back into her house, her bare legs flashing beneath the hem of her robe, the soles of her feet black with dirt.

  Creepy lesbo. It’s as if she reached over and slapped me. Is that what everyone thinks? My face feels hot despite the cold air. Is that what everyone thinks? I’ve always thought her pretty, but not like that. Not like that.

  Did Michael spread something around, before he left for good? He once asked—but that was because I didn’t want to go down on him. I’ve just never liked it. It doesn’t mean anything.

  I tell myself: she’s just hurting, who wouldn’t be with a husband like hers. I tell myself: I should have called out to her, I should have explained that I just wanted to make sure she’s OK. I should have spoken to her months ago. I’m her closest neighbor and I have listened night after night and done nothing but will her silent. Each in our little cage of chain link and shitty wages and cheap food that makes my fingernails turn yellow.

  What good deed have you done today?

  The dog barks again, even more violently; I hear a chain jangling far to the right. “Someone make that goddamn dog shut up,” I blurt out, my voice loud in the night. “I can’t take it anymore! Either you shut it up or so help me, one of these nights I’m going to wring its goddamn neck.”

  ***

  I leave the dwarves crackers and cheese sticks as well as franks and beans. I don’t usually leave something so expensive, but I feel guilty about Ethel and Theresa, I even feel guilty about hating the dog. Someone in this world should be happy, even if it’s a dozen imaginary men who wear baby clothes and smell like dirty laundry.

  On the front step of Paul and Theresa’s house is a battered suitcase and a bag of groceries. Off to her mother’s again. At least I’ll have a few nights of peace, before she comes back. Because she always comes back.

  The church sign today reads, What is desirable in a person is kindness.

  ***

  At school there’s a police car outside. At first I think it’s something to do with the kids, but the cop at the door waves me in with barely a glance. In the cafeteria another cop is in Bill’s office, taking notes.

  “What’s going on?” I ask Al.

  “Ethel,” he says.

  I have a sudden vision of her in a rage-induced frenzy, driving a car into a school building or threatening to jump off the water tower, and I feel a stab of longing. To just cut loose like that, to just scream and rage. To make other people serve you for once. “What did she do?” I ask.

  He looks at me like I’m an ass. “She killed herself,” he says. Then, with a shake of his head, “They said she hung herself from a rafter in her living room. I know it’s sick, but I just keep thinking, did she use a stepladder to get herself up there?”

  Before I can think of something to say Bill waves me in. The cop asks me a few questions: how well did I know Ethel? Did she seem nervous or depressed? Did she have a man in her life, did she have any relatives nearby?

  And I want to say so much, all at once, the words frothing up inside me. I want to tell him how hard this job was for her, that she hated children. I want to tell him that her pension got screwed up in the budget overhaul and she actually lost money. I want to tell him that I feed imaginary dwarves who leave dead animals under my sink, and my neighbor beats his spouse, and I can’t remember who I was before Michael left. That I am broke and alone and I don’t have enough years or resources to start over.

  I want to tell him a noose isn’t the worst idea I’ve heard lately.

  But Bill is watching me like a hawk, so I swallow back the words and choke out instead that Ethel always seemed fine, I was never close with her, and I need to get an apron as I’m serving today—?

  As I tie on my apron I hear, clear as day, “Take that for your trouble.” I don’t even bother to look around. I already imagine little men with knives; it makes perfect sense that I would imagine Ethel haunting me, too.

  ***

  The smell hits me as soon as I open my front door, pungent and so thick it coats the inside of my mouth. It smells like a butcher’s shop; it smells like the dead raccoon in the street last year, hot blood and something oily and burnt. The kitchen radio is on, tuned to the local pop station, and Rod Stewart’s voice blares through the empty house. With each step the smell gets worse, and yet I keep walking towards the kitchen.

  Somehow the thought of calling for help is more frightening than whatever I might find.

  The dog’s corpse is sprawled across the kitchen floor, oozing blood in a wide pool that reaches nearly to the walls. There is a half-dried smear where they dragged it in from the yard. I know it’s a dog—the dog—because they left the head intact, but they’ve been working on the rest: they skinned the torso and haunches, and chunks of meat have been cut away.

  There is still a collar around its neck, and a length of rusty chain spiraling towards the back door.

  Tonight’s the night, the radio says over the fading music. If you’re up for the big drive, you can still win tickets to see Rod Stewart live! Be caller—

  I smack the radio off and at once the room fills with the sound of my panting. Something ripples close to the ribs and at first I think flies, very logically, but then one of the dwarves stands up. He has his bloody knife in one hand, a hunk of ragged flesh in the other. Smiling at me, he raises the blade and then saws at the flesh, tearing it off the bone as he works it free.

  It’s the noise of ripping flesh that does it. Everything becomes bright and sharp; my stomach rolls, the air burns my nose like pepper, and I run across the kitchen to the sink, skidding in the blood, and vomit. Even when I’ve emptied my stomach I keep dryly heaving, until I’m so wrung out I feel faint.

  At last I turn around. The dwarf is watching me curiously, the knife held out as if ready to protect himself. Ready to protect himself against me. I hiccup at the thought, though whether from nausea or some kind of hysterical laughter I’m not su
re. He’s got the dog meat rolled up neatly, like a little roast; he’s used one of my spare shoelaces to tie it. I hiccup again and my mouth tastes like bile.

  “Take it away,” I squawk. I clear my throat and point at the corpse. “Take it away.”

  He cocks his head at me, now clearly intrigued.

  “Dog, out.” My voice sounds like it’s coming from far away; still I jab my finger at the corpse, then at the door. “Dog out, floor clean.”

  The dwarf arches his eyebrows. Despite the grime of his face, for once I can read his expression with perfect clarity: what the hell are you upset about?

  Michael made that face a lot, near the end.

  With an exasperated sigh he holds out the roll of bloody meat, offering it to me. Small insects are crawling on its surface. The room feels close, so close I can barely get my breath. The light flashes yellow and green and I sink to the floor, warm blood seeping into my clothes.

  “Make it go away,” I whisper.

  The dwarves’ faces swarm around me, peering at me, chattering among themselves. Like being surrounded by smelly birds.

  “Please make it go away,” I say, though I’m not sure I mean the dog anymore. “Please.”

  They lay their little hands on me, grabbing at my limbs, my clothes. There is a rhythmic chirping weet weet weet oi! and with the last grunt I am hoisted in the air. The cracked ceiling spins and whirls; I think I must be dead; I am dead and being borne away, out into the night, out into the hole in the fence and into the damp darkness of the ivy.

  ***

  I awaken to find myself sprawled in bed, bathed in sunlight, still dressed save for my shoes and socks. When had I last slept so long, so deeply? I cannot remember, but I feel something like myself—whatever myself might be.

  The clock says 8:12. I’ve slept for over twelve hours—

  and then I think of work and lurch out of bed. I don’t see the thing on my chest until it goes flying halfway across the room to bounce off the paneling, landing on the carpet with an audible thud.