Sing Them Home

by Stephanie Kallos

  “Be right there.”

  “I’ll put on the kettle.”

  “Need anything?”

  “Bourbon if you have some. I’m out.”

  So she drags out of bed, crawls into her bathrobe, locates the Jim Beam, and starts hoisting herself up the stairway.

  She’s halfway there when she hears the sound of the door opening. Jon stands at the top, waiting, smiling faintly, and wearing his pajamas, robe, and slippers. He looks terrible: skin palid, eyes lodged in the depths of shadowy craters.

  “Oh, my God,” he murmurs, and Larken realizes that they must look much the same: a couple of extras from a zombie movie. “Can you make it?”

  “Yes,” she mutters breathlessly. “Just give me another half hour or so.” She grips the handrail more tightly and continues to yank herself toward him.

  “Hey,” he says wonderingly, as if making a sudden realization. “You’re supposed to be in England.”

  “And yet, here I am.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Aside from the minor psychotic break at the airport,” she coughs, “wasn’t it in the papers? I’m hunky-dory.”

  Finally, she arrives.

  “Hello,” Jon says.

  “Hello.”

  “I’ll tell you my sad saga if you tell me yours.”

  “Deal.”

  They go inside. “Welcome to the den of contagion,” Jon says. “I’ll ready the tea.”

  Illness and depression have made the same imprint upon Jon’s living space as they have upon hers: With the shades and curtains drawn, everything is murky and colorless, the decor is aggressively disarrayed, with misshapen pillows and mangled comforters lying about and unwashed dishes on every table, and the air has the peculiarly rank, sour, and stagnant quality of the sickroom. The Christmas tree is dead; the TV is turned to the same channel that Larken was watching downstairs.

  She joins him in the kitchen. As he steeps the tea and she makes toast, they start rewinding the experiences of the past few days. When everything is ready, they take it to the living room, settle on the sofa, and start amending the Earl Grey with generous quantities of lemon juice, honey, and booze.

  “I mean, the irony is unbeatable,” Jon is saying. “We live in one of the most socially conservative states in the U.S. and still she manages to find the one lesbian in all of Nebraska”—Jon takes another gulp of his toddy—“and I don’t care how sexist and/or politcally in-fucking-correct that sounds.”

  “I’m so sorry. I wish I knew what to say.” Larken pours more tea. “She’ll regret it. What goes around comes around. I speak from personal experience.”

  Jon’s marriage is failing, her professional standing is in disgrace, but this is infinitely better than being alone. She feels unreasonably happy.

  “We’re having what’s euphemistically called a ‘trial separation,’” Jon continues. “From what I can tell, this means that she’s living in unfettered bliss and lust with this woman she’s fallen for and I’m … well, as you see.”

  “It sucks.” Larken has a thought. “Do you think it would suck less if she were being unfaithful with a man?”

  Jon considers. “Maybe. No. I doubt it.”

  Larken sighs. “I suppose not. Infidelity is infidelity. An asshole is an asshole.”

  “I mean Mia’s always said that she’s bi, so I can’t claim that I entered this marriage with closed eyes, but I supposed I hoped that she’d just … how’s this for sounding pathetic? Settle down. Choose me. God. I sound like my father. I sound like my father’s father. I sound like an old man, which is exactly how I feel.”

  “You’re not old.”

  “Truthfully, if she doesn’t come back, I’ll find it difficult to stay, knowing I could run into her in the produce section or at the movies, making out with her girlfriend.” He stares into his teacup. “Fuck. I’ll have to move back to England.”

  “Don’t say that.” Larken sits up, grabs the lapels of his bathrobe, and cries, mock melodramatically, “Don’t ever say that, darling!” The tone is meant to obfuscate her real desperation. He must not must not must not leave.

  Jon gives her an avuncular, bleary look. “Stay here tonight, can you? We can watch the Law & Order marathon and binge on the care package Mum sent from jolly old England.”

  So she does. She doesn’t dream. She doesn’t wake up until the next morning. And when she does, they’re still sacked out on the sofa, tangled into a swirl of sour-smelling comforters. They fell asleep sitting up, their bodies listing toward each other as if forming the sides of a poorly erected pup tent. In the apartment, there’s not a single sound, no movement, no trace of anything to indicate that there’s anything in the world but them.

  She stares at his face, willing him to wake up. A bit of currant jelly dots a corner of his lower lip; a few biscuit crumbs are adhered to the spot.

  His eyes are closed when he mutters, “Good morning.” They stay closed as he pulls her close and his hands find her breasts. He finally looks at her as he begins to drag the heavy folds of cloth aside.

  They fall into kissing and fondling with Victorian desperation and propriety. No need to fret about the body’s flaws with en dishabille fucking. Rolls of flesh, his and hers, remain hidden, the flannels stay on. In another century, this would be just how it’s done.

  Does he say her name? She might only imagine it. But as she swoons into the viral and sexual heat and urges him into the slippery folds of her body, she is already fast-forwarding to their future, an Arthur-and-Eloise retro-romance with inspired variations: a cozy cottage in Cambridge, painted gate, flower garden, walls lined with books, teaching jobs, a circle of close friends with links to literature and the arts—all of whom will have their own children because it is not their passions alone that shape this fantasy: It is a life that must accommodate their daughter Esmé.

  And, perhaps, others.

  Her body swells and opens, a flood plain of fluids, a vast intake of breath, a quaking release, and then breathlessness. The two of them laughing.

  How could she not have seen? It should have been this way from the beginning.

  Hope’s Diary, 1969:

  Mommy Dropped the Mayonnaise

  I grew a perfect eggplant. The thing looks exactly like a uterus—at least given what little I know about it. I grew it—from seed, no less!—kept it safe from the claws of our marauding cats, who assume that any well-tilled patch of land is their personal litter box. I don’t know what possessed me. Tomatoes, yes, certainly, and a few stalks of sweet corn. You can’t call yourself a Nebraska woman unless you grow beefsteak tomatoes and sweet corn. And they’ve done well, too. It’s been hot this summer, not too soggy, not too relentlessly wind-swept, but hot hot hot, which is excellent for tomatoes and corn if not for me. I’ve also grown the requisite beans—so easy, and the children love seeing them pop up so quickly—some trellis cukes and God help us zucchini and some herbs. But eggplant? What was I thinking?

  It’s the color, I think. This is how nature fools us, entices us: with color. It works for the birds and the bees, why not for humans and veggies? “Grow me!” eggplants command us with their exotic skins. It’s regal, purple—the color of royalty.

  Back to my eggplant: it was perfect (she says mournfully); the exact size and shape of what I imagine to be the unpregnant (as I am, again this month) uterus. I had to throw it away today—the eggplant, I mean, not my uterus. I’d parked it in the basket with the potatoes and by the time I located a recipe for Greek moussaka it had shriveled inwardly and lost its glorious bourgignon sheen.

  Boohoo.

  The purple of my perfect eggplant reminded me of the purple of my spectacular bruise from my tumble down the stairs months ago (the bruise persists, a sad watered-down shadow, however, of its former self) and with that reminder comes the realization that I’ve grown chronically clumsy.

  Chronically as opposed to occasionally. It, the clumsiness, doesn’t seem to come and go as it used to. It’s a co
nstant, or nearly so.

  Which brings me to this afternoon, when I was making the children a snack.

  I dropped the mayonnaise. Except it didn’t actually feel as though I dropped it. The crash itself and the explosive mess that followed seemed to happen without my participation. There was a cause and effect that I was not a party to. I mean to say. Shit. The jar. It was in my hand, then it wasn’t.

  Curious.

  All right, more than that or why the hell am I giving over so much space in this book to write about it? Troubling. Surprising, certainly. I started laughing, that kind of hysterical laughter that overtakes me sometimes when I’m exhausted. Luckily, the children didn’t register the hysteria; after the initial shock of the crash, they took my laughter as a good sign and started laughing, too.

  Nothing to do but make a game of it—“Look! Mommy is finger painting with food!” I said, proud of my improvisational powers, not anticipating the result: Larken and Gaelan immediately jumped up and started to cross the floor to me—little bare feet and glass everywhere—and I reflextively screamed “STOP! STOP!!!”

  They stopped all right. They looked terrified.

  “Just wait until Mommy gets the glass out of the way,” I added, “and then you can come down on the floor and fingerpaint, too!”

  I couldn’t get my legs to resume their evolved relationship with the planet; they were like faulty folding table legs. No card games tonight, dearie! I managed to drag myself over to the cupboard, pull out a spare roll of paper towels, and get the glass into the garbage can. And then the three of us stayed on the floor, for about an hour, finger painting with Hellman’s.

  They came back, eventually—my legs, I mean—and so exhausted that I knew I couldn’t get the job done on my own, I enlisted the aid of my five- and six-year-old children and made another game out of finger painting with soap and water.

  The kitchen floor has never been so clean.

  Llewellyn home. More later.

  Chapter 20

  The Virgin Doubts Her Calling

  During the winter of 2004, the residents of Emlyn Springs—and most of the rest of southeastern Nebraska, for that matter—are interested neither in riding bikes nor drinking smoothies. They’ve hunkered down. It’s all they can do to get from home to work and back again, with occasional trips to the grocery store in between. Many of them are simply making do with canned goods and the contents of their chest freezers.

  The dead, too, are far from impervious to the season. Their circulatory systems, although exsanguinated, are not empty; veins and arteries still serve as conduits for whatever waters flow through the underground springs. It is not surprising, then, that when the ground freezes and the springs grow sluggish, the dead slow way down. Their voices drop an octave. They feel a keen desire to do nothing. The dead fathers are especially lethargic.

  On the plus side, the insulating layer of snow allows the dead mothers a respite from the incessant, brittle clatter of human feet. Under these conditions, the feeling against the inside of their bellies is much altered: To some, it is like containing a room full of spongy, bouncing Nerf balls; others are reminded of percolating microwave popcorn. In all events, deep snow creates a light, soft, muffled sensation, unpleasant only insofar as it is unceasing. But compared to what they usually endure … What a relief!

  Experiencing the footfalls of humankind in this gentler way allows many dead mothers to give up traveling during the winter months and catch up on much-needed sleep. A few continue to globe-trot in service of their psychological studies; others limit their observations to the local population. Goodness knows there’s enough interpersonal complexity here in Emlyn Springs to keep any one mother busy for an eternity.

  Their life experience taught them that after giving birth a woman’s sense of self is tremendously altered. They remember this much: Motherhood dismembers boundaries in a way that no other love can—not just corporeal boundaries (although that is certainly part of it) but ethereal ones. They sensed their children as much as felt them. A kind of spiritual echolocation allowed them to be affected by their children whether or not they were in close physical proximity.

  Strangely enough, Bonnie Jones—who not only isn’t a mother but unlikely to ever become one—has this ability, at least when it comes to the children of her hometown. She intuits their presence, senses their distress, feels the quality of their energy. Not a mother, yet she understands and embraces the mysteries of maternal intimacy.

  An interesting case, that girl.

  The dead mothers have their eyes on her.

  Bonnie tries to keep BJ’s Brews going for a while; she even borrows a promotional idea from the Runza Hut up in Beatrice: YOUR SMOOTHIE COSTS TODAY’S TEMPERATURE! But by late January, only the Labenz boys and Blind Tom continue to show up, so she posts a CLOSED UNTIL SPRING sign and moves her blender and dorm fridge into the bike shop, along with a small camping stove and a large electric heater. She starts stocking healthy snacks and board games. She barters one of her new bikes for a used color TV with a built-in VCR and several kids’ videos.

  Since then, the bike shop has evolved into an ad hoc teen and child care center. Some kids show up at Miss Jones’s place because it gives them a respite, a place to warm up before walking the rest of the way home, others because whoever was supposed to pick them up has spun out into a snowbank and can’t raise a tow truck.

  The young people of Emlyn Springs couldn’t be happier about BJ’s Bikes—not because of the merchandise but because there’s a door, there’s space for them, they can get in, they can be close to her. At the juice bar, their view of Miss Jones was limited and their access was blocked. Something about her makes them want to stand close, as if she were a full cookie jar or a medicine chest mirror.

  Being surrounded by kids has been an emotional boon for Bonnie as well, their impromptu gatherings like a benediction on her efforts. Their presence might even have the power to jump-start her ovaries; it’s certainly shaken her out of a period of inaction, and she’s feeling inspired once again to get proactive about procreation.

  As a child, Bonnie loved the Arthurian tales that her mother read to them. She loves them still, and prefers the way these ancient stories are rendered in books for children. Her favorite stories play out in Wales, in settings that are secret, underground, enchanted: the hidden cave on Anglesy where Arthur took shelter from battle; the subterranean lake in Dans Emrys where a red dragon and a white dragon engaged in combat; the invisible house on Bardsey Island where Merlin still sleeps.

  Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone and anvil is rightwise king born of all England.

  It is an old notion, and one much beloved by Bonnie: that worthiness is determined through deed.

  The task is set. The test is in place. Bonnie has summoned the first of her unknowing suitors and waits, expectant, for him to appear.

  Beyond locating the candidates—and she’s located five—getting them to the test site presented Bonnie with her next biggest challenge: none of them have shown even the slightest interest in cycling. They might feign such an interest—Bonnie is not unaware of the fact that, although none of them are interested in cycling, all of them are interested in her—but that wouldn’t do.

  Ultimately, it was the candidates’ universal disinterest in cycling that gave Bonnie an idea about how to lure them. Her invitation came in the form of a promotional flyer/questionnaire that she hand-delivered to each of them in their places of work:

  FREE OFFER! PROMOTIONAL GIVEAWAY! FILL OUT THIS QUESTIONNAIRE AND YOU’LL RECEIVE A PRIZE! Are you interested in cycling? If so, do you own a bike? How often do you ride it? If not, why? What would make bike-riding more attractive to you and your family? What kind of services and information would you like to see offered at a neighborhood bike shop? How could a bike shop best serve you, your family, and your community?

  Present this filled-out questionnaire to Bonnie Jones, owner and proprietress of BJ’s Bikes, 1302 Main Street, Emlyn Springs
, Nebraska on ______ (and here Bonnie scheduled each of the candidates on successive nights) and you’ll receive a healthy complimentary smoothie!

  It’s almost time. Bonnie takes out her clipboard and reviews her list:

  Tonight she’ll see Harold Schlake Jr., father of three, co-owner with his dad of Schlake’s Hardware. Not an attractive man, and divorced at forty, Harold is nevertheless observant when it comes to nuts and bolts and always holds the door open for her.

  Tuesday’s candidate is Mike Lawlor. Estranged from long-term girlfriend, Mike works in Women’s and Children’s Shoes at JCPenney’s. He sat next to Bonnie at the Beatrice library one day when she was looking at bike building sites on the Internet. He was checking out online dating agencies.

  Wednesday she’ll be visited by Ed Loerch, activities director at St. David’s, and a frequent juice bar customer. Separated, no children. He’s always taken note of the cute stickers on Bonnie’s calendar and frequently remarks on her choice of clothing.

  Dimitri (last name unknown) will come on Thursday. Never married, he’s the single father of one, head cashier at the health food co-op in Beatrice. He keeps his piercings very hygienic and is a die-hard vegan.

  And on Friday she’ll see Brody Canaerfan, high school health ed teacher and wrestling coach. He has been extremely enthusiastic about Fancy Egg Days. Even though he’s a bit on the short side, he’s not bad-looking, has a great body, and loves kids.

  At seven o’clock sharp, there’s a knock. Bonnie smears some grease on her face, musses her hair—this is not the scene of a seduction, after all, it’s the setting for an exam—and unlocks the door for the first candidate.

  “You’ll need an upgraded electrical panel in here, that’s for sure,” Harold is saying. Bonnie follows him around the shop with a clipboard and pen, ostensibly taking notes on his recommendations. “A whole new system.”

  Solid, she writes. Dependable. Sees the big picture.

  “The wiring in here is ancient. It’s real dangerous.”