by Jon Methven
I have a memory of our first year together, a tiny one-bedroom in the West Village with a window that faced the back of several buildings, a kitchen so cozy we had to rub against one another as we experimented with her pancake idea. Awoken at four in the morning, a car alarm, a stifling heat, we knew we would not sleep. I led her naked onto the fire escape. The metal was cold beneath the sheet, a slight wind leftover from nighttime shade, nothing moving but the sound of blind creatures foraging for existence in the rubbish below. We made love under the slumbering dwellers—no, that is not the memory that cradles my nostalgia. We fucked there, giggling at our deed, not needing the proper mattress or higher thread count, only the chaos and mess of youth. I think how I got from there to here, a ruined marriage, a dying career, a contemptible investment, and I know I am missing something vital that Laura and the children can sense each time I force my presence upon them.
Backyard Lagoon Killing Fields
For its size and pull-power, the Manman twelve-gallon Shop-Vac is the best in market, by far the most efficient Father’s Day present I have ever received. It is an item I would recommend to every homeowner. It has a powerful motor and comes with several extensions. I use it this evening to vacuum up dead chipmunk bodies, parts really, that upon returning from the office I found scattered across the lawn and back deck. It is unclear how many designer rodents perished in Clint Eastwood’s inaugural rampage because he tore apart a few to reach the meaty center. Anywhere between seven and twelve, a purge that would take me weeks to achieve as I lack the ferocity and agility I knew Clint Eastwood maintained the first time I laid eyes on this therapeutic creature. Doing a fast estimate of how much it costs to repair the lagoon versus the cost of the cat trapping equipment, it appears my investment has paid off. The body parts disappear into the Shop-Vac with a thumping gulp, the horsepower surging up my arm causing me to laugh miserably into a weep. The pills dig out a playful vibe and I am helpless to silence my painful laughter. My pocket buzzes. I ignore it, choosing to sneeze instead, the persistent cold or the pills causing my dizzy state.
I have successfully predicted the weather for thirty-three days, though outside Josey Mateo, the Gopa secretary, no one is counting, the Luderica a key component of my science. Gloomy clouds silhouette a desperate skyline with light winds off the coast, a chillier end to a day that saw two separate suicide bombings, one in a German train station, the other in a Shiite shrine in Baghdad, the deaths highlighting an otherwise dull day in global murder. My major accomplishment of the week is that I purchased a new phone to replace my broken one. It is a sleek model for which I rewarded myself with a minor shopping spree. I am not a shopping addict. I am a mobile shopping addict. While I enjoy new possessions, and the fresh dust that a ripped box emits, it is only comforting, strangely, if the merchandise is purchased via phone.
Trending on Lustfizzle is a quiz guaranteed to give male readers erections and make female readers hungry. From my new phone, I argued with several moms for three hours on the Gopa website over my idea to turn the library into a telekinesis center. My argument, that moving objects with the mind was invaluable whereas reading books is outdated, was meant to be ironic in response to Pinkgopamom’s suggestion that we need a culinary program to rival the Benedict Academy’s. I buckled down on the side of telekinesis when the moms grew irate, and then as they slowly realized I was talking about concepts similar to the dreaded law of karma, many became convinced at my argument. That was when I swapped allegiance in support of a world-renowned reading program instead of feel good nonsense, and they grew confused and preachy. Once the moms stopped arguing, I doubled back on my support of the mind-reading laboratory and inquired if anyone had seriously considered suicide in the past school year.
Friday night, the end of the workweek, when neighbors gather for dinner and wine. It is our night to host. We are planning the first barbecue of the season, chicken drumsticks and a pork tenderloin Laura marinated overnight while I stared into the refrigerator at the gray, dead meat after everyone went to bed. My insomnia has worsened with my latest battle with the flu. Laura is inside handling preparations. I was dispatched to the backyard to clean and prepare the grill and make sure there are no chipmunks floating in the Jacuzzi, or lying slain, having heroically attempted to storm the side patio. It puts Olivia in a nasty mood, complaining about the chipmunks’ nut allergies and accusing me of purposefully scattering a thirty-two-ounce container of mixed nuts onto the lawn, of which I am guilty.
My backyard is the envy of all island homeowners and a feat that deserves to be photographed for décor magazines. I hired a three-dimensional design firm to lay out the blueprints and did all the work myself over two years. The landscaping begins at the tree line and cascades toward our back deck, bushes so full and ordered they look professionally manicured. When the weather warms, I will fill the banks with tomato plants and marigolds and petunias, and neighbors taking a soak will feel they are bathing inside a controlled jungle, the base of which is a fire pit that we gather around when the temperatures cool. The faucet is hidden in a crevice of ferns, spouting a waterfall that meanders through the yard, eventually plummeting over a lighting source I can change to set the mood. Red, silver, yellow, blue, or just put the lights on shuffle and watch them pirouette across the lawn and woods.
The centerpiece is a twelve-person, concrete floor Jacuzzi with a gentle slope toward the middle that stands four feet deep. I keep it heated year-round, the invigoration of emerging into the winter as the steam rises over the yard, snow dusting the earth, and disappearing into the warm acceptance. Even neighbors like Olivia McClutchen, who claim I have built a death trap for woodland creatures, are forced to admit that my backyard exists as an example to other property owners. I have mounted a screen and rigged up a digital projector to shine movies or concert videos overhead, which gives the yard a cinematic vibe. Tonight, I show a music concert, Jason Isbell: Live at Austin City Limits, a gift from Jackson who knows good music, the lyrics poetic as I hose blood from the patio. The backdoor opens. I suppress a chuckle. The bushes above rustle. I catch sight of Clint Eastwood escaping into the woods and I cannot help but feel an affable intimacy with the universe.
Iliza has been sent to check on me, a task she was begrudged to fulfill even as I notice something in her posture, an eagerness to seek out her father. She is barefoot in April, staring at her phone.
“Mom said you need to get ready. The Sedlocks are here.”
“Thanks, honey. I’ll be right in.”
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.”
“When I came out you were laughing.”
“Thinking about work. Just getting the grill ready.”
“With the hose?”
Iliza loved the Jacuzzi until we found Tilly floating in it, two gallons of industrial red dye sitting on the deck, only one of which was emptied. She has heard the macabre rumors of her father’s involvement, which she dismisses as nonsense, though she knows about my chipmunk purge. While she ignores the tactics I must take to keep our yard rodent-free, she is quietly supportive of me in this endeavor, the creatures born in a laboratory that do not know to fear the food chain, who cannot offer primal affection to other creatures because their instincts are chemically augmented. They will wander within inches of a human foot and sniff the fabric to see if there is anything worth foraging, a point Iliza and I agree earns suspicion.
Our collusion on the bloody remains makes headway in the silence that has existed between us. I should let it drop, enjoy the one, small victory of her smile. But I cannot do that, of course. I am a father and an egomaniac when it comes to her fondness, and I must know she loves me a percentage of how much I love her.
“How was school today?”
She taps the phone. “Fine.”
“Ready for the big play?”
“I guess.” I know preparations are going well because I’ve been spying on Iliza. Josey
Mateo updates me regularly.
“You’re going to be great, Iliza. I know it.”
“You have to say that.” She shuffles her toes on the cold wood. “Thanks.”
It is something, a nicety in times of struggle, and I should be content. But I am furious at my daughter, for reasons that are not entirely clear, the patterns of my discontent cloaked inside the sleeplessness and Luderica. The anger comes in fits. One moment she is my innocent Iliza, the next guilty of some transgression I cannot discover. And if she is guilty, I am guiltier.
“Something else. I spoke to Toby,” I say, shifting the mood. Jason Isbell is singing about an encounter with a girl, and I do not know if he struck her or if she fell of her own indecency, but there is a strong hint that they are pushing on in spite of their past and I love the grit of this musical relationship, and I think of something Whitman said today about primordial indecency and how beautiful he can sound, and I wonder if the Sedlocks are my friends or my destruction and if Russ will be at the dinner party because I am low on pills. The hose has caught something hard in its stream. A tiny paw, an esophagus maybe. Iliza types into her phone. “Did you hear me?”
“I know, Dad. Everyone knows.”
It’s concerning to hear. “Who’s everyone?”
“The nannies.” She glances from the phone to catch my stare. “What did he say?”
“Never mind.” Never mind because I do not remember. Never mind because I was not sure I actually spoke to him until you just confirmed it. The nannies do not always get the story right, but they get the story.
“If it’s something about me, I deserve to know. Unlike most of the shit that goes on in this fucked up family.”
“Watch your mouth,” I say.
Iliza has no interest in chatting with her old man. This is a reconnaissance mission. There is movement from the side yard, which at first I mistake for Clint Eastwood until I see Jackson leading Rhythm and Damian. Jason carries a dish.
I grab Iliza’s arm before she can escape. “It’s between Toby and me,” I whisper. “But I can promise you—” Promise what? Happiness? Innocence? Life in prison if anyone so much as harms a particle of your anatomical wonder? “So help me, Iliza, if I find out…”
I do not finish. She wrenches her arm loose as the Jays hug hello, the usual niceties as they follow Iliza inside. I think I am alone until I notice Tungsten, who has materialized like a blanched specter out of the mist from my hose. She is leading her tiny therapy dog, Muggly, to take a shit on my newly washed lawn. A bandage on her wrist I think to ask about. “Hey, Mister P. How’s it hanging?”
I want to believe she refers to existence itself, or the hose, and not my cock. A clever girl, Tungsten is aware that Laura and I are trying to conceive without the actual act of copulation. Science these days. I masturbate several times a week and deliver the sample to a sperm bank, which will eventually be used to inseminate my wife’s egg. The painful erections arrive at the wrong time, caused by the pills, none of which is any of Tungsten Sedlock’s business.
“Fine, Tungsten. How is school?” She lets Muggly scratch at my grass and nose away at the pavement, likely smelling blood. The rat glances up at me and barks. With the wide mouth extension I could Shop-Vac Muggly in seconds, a conquering whoomph when his body left this plane and disappeared into the twelve-gallon mausoleum. The thought warms me until I’m chuckling again.
“What’s so funny?”
“Just thinking about work.”
“Weather. That’s funny.” She checks her phone to see if she missed anything in the last seventeen seconds. Tungsten is not nearly as beautiful as her mother, though she pretends to be with makeup and expensive clothes. She dresses too provocatively, which I have complained about to Laura. “Just warning you. Allie found another dead chipmunk on the front stoop.” She refers to her parents by their first names, suggesting my kids refer to me as “Pisser” behind my back. “Thinks you put it there intentionally.”
“Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know. A warning maybe.”
“Warn your mother about what?”
“I was talking about me, Mister P.” Tungsten picks up the dog and moves toward the door. “Maybe you left it there to warn me.”
I take out my pills and shake another Luderica into my mouth. My pocket buzzes, the old phone that is not mine, and on which, oddly, I feel someone is trying to reach me.
Giveth Us Our Daily Bread
Winter’s treachery giving way to the embers of spring is not complete until scorched animal flesh cascades across neighborhood yards. There are no buds but the trees have straightened after a long hibernation, ready to fill the world with life and pollen and dust mites and other treatable maladies that will drive Maddie McClutchen into an early grave. Existing in a perpetual state of phlegm and rash, the child’s main food group consists of my wife’s pancakes, a recipe that is non-allergenic, gluten-free, nut-free, dairy-free, non-GMO, corn-free and egg-free, skinny morsels of ethical perfection that, unlike regular pancakes, stand upright and ensconced with decadent uniforms that can be applied to any social function. I am not sure what holds the pancakes vertical, or how she first thought to cleverly decorate them as little pancake people. At first decapitation they taste like putty, but the more torso one eats the more one craves. Despite the financial shambles we find ourselves converging toward, Standcake—Laura’s disruptive innovation to the breakfast and dessert industry—is destined for success.
She provides pancakes free for all the lacrosse game tailgates, a marketing ploy that has paid off with exorbitant orders. Parents love them. Even the players snack on them at halftime. She is expanding to other sports that host tailgates in the autumn, soccer and football, and partnering with Gopa to purchase the delicacies for events.
The children gather around the table chatting and ignoring the age difference as a bathrobed Gus cleans up after them. Most stare down at cell phones. There is quiet talk of Gopa and a stray cat in the neighborhood, and Jason does that gay thing where he grasps his chest, appalled, and we all react with indignation. Russ Haverly did not show for dinner. While it is possible I knew this, it comes as unfamiliar information that Russ has missed lacrosse practice all week and no one has been able to locate him. I am concerned about his whereabouts but also my refill, which I have been awaiting since last week. I mostly listen at these dinners, lobbing questions or insults that are drowned out by the cacophony of mutual conversations. I am ill. I take a fast nap with my eyes open.
“The big concern,” Olivia says, “is tomorrow’s game in Montclair. Will Russ show?”
“People disappear. They have other lives going on that we don’t know about. One day they are dining with us,” I say, half asleep, no one listening. “The next they’ve been ripped open by a chainsaw, their insides splattered along a remote corridor of I-eighty-seven, dozens of counties and hundreds of man hours just to find the parts.”
“Could just be a personal issue back home,” Harry Sedlock mentions.
“…the madman driving past the crime scene. So many cars…”
“Though it’s not like Russ to not answer his phone.”
“…a throat near Glen Falls, part of an ankle in Chestertown.” I pour more wine. “Anyone know how far it is to Montreal?”
No one has brought up the chipmunks and the wine flows, Allie Sedlock accepts a second glass. This is substantial because keeping up with the Sedlocks drives our semen storage initiative. If Allie is not pregnant, it implies there will be less pressure to masturbate into a jar, which should open up my weekend. Even Laura notices the second glass and compliments me on the perfectly cooked tenderloin that I stared at vigorously last night, imagining how it got from there to my plate. What did it yearn for? Did it trust the farmers that kept it fed? Did it enjoy life? I chuckle as the meal finishes and we fall into the nightcap and small talk about Gopa, which is typicall
y a rerun for those of us who spend our free time on phones browsing the school message boards for much of the day.
The Sedlocks coax Jason into petting Muggly, although he is squeamish about just sitting near the dog. Laura talks with the McClutchens and I tap my jacket pocket to know it is there, the BB gun. I should be the bigger person and wander over to my wife’s side, but pride prevents me and I disappear into the backyard where Jason Isbell sings about cancer and sex. Jackson, too, has snuck out of the small talk. He has the fire pit roaring. No one has brought swim gear, which means I will not be able to take a dip until they leave. A chilly night, we pull chairs close and sip scotch, and Jackson leans to check that we are alone.
“Anything you want to get off your chest?”
“I don’t think so. Is there?”
“It’s just us.” I am fond of Jackson. At age forty-five I am proud to be young enough to appreciate the multicultural pandemic of our society. I do not consider myself a bigot, but he is my first and only gay friend. That he is also a black man makes me feel progressive because I do enjoy people of all racial and sexual natures, even if I look predominantly white and closed up during newscasts. I am not friendly with his husband, Jason, who does not care for me. “Tell me everything.”
“Not much to say. It happened rather fast,” I guess.
“But it’s true?”
“Depends what the nannies got wrong. Some of it probably.”
He slaps my knee. “Self-entitled little fuck. Good for you, Pisser. Not that I condone strangulation. Russ will have something to say about it, sure. And you’re lucky you didn’t get arrested. But hot damn.”
Damian is one of Gopa’s top students and earns a small stipend tutoring the lacrosse team. He has relayed stories of cruel upperclassmen, and Jackson and Jason have complained to the administration, which is reluctant to get involved. The athletes have parents every bit as protective of their princes as we are of our brood, and it has been agreed to keep a teacher in the room at all times. But it is the things people cannot see that ruin our faith. And no one knows it better than a gay, black man.