by James Zerndt
Dustin takes a step back. “Touch him where?”
“They like it when you stroke them,” Twink says. “Like this.”
Dustin watches in awe as Twink rubs between the goat’s eyes and its ears, a pair of hairy-looking tulips, begin to twitch.
“They’re extremely playful creatures,” Twink goes on. “Watch this.” With the flat of his hand, he lightly slaps the goat on the nose. It lowers its head, scrapes the dirt with a hoof and then butts Twink’s outstretched fist. “Want to try?”
“No,” Dustin says, taking another step back. “I don’t think so.”
Twink shrugs, starts to walk on, but then stops and holds a finger up in the air all eureka-like. “Hold on. I’ll be right back.”
He lumbers off, disappearing into a small shed near the goat pen before bringing back what looks like a carafe filled with glue.
“Anybody thirsty?”
“What is it?” Dustin asks.
“Goat’s milk.”
Dustin takes the bottle, swirls the contents.
“What do you think?” Twink says after Dustin takes a small sip. “I made it myself.”
Dustin considers this.
“So you’re a goat?”
This cracks Twink up. “No,” he says. “The goats make it. We just bottle it.”
Dustin takes another drink, passes it over to Jerusha. When she shakes her head, I take the bottle so Twink won’t think we’re being rude. The first thing I notice is how cold it is. It’s sweating, like iceberg cold, and I hold the bottle against my cheek.
“We have a battery-powered fridge,” Twink says. “Go on, try it.”
I plan on only taking a sip, but once I start I can’t stop.
I’m drinking candy.
This is what I’ve been missing my whole life.
I tip the bottle, start guzzling the stuff.
And, just like that, I’m hooked.
A goat-milk junkie.
Take me to your leader.
I hand the bottle back, stammer, “Sorry...but that’s good stuff.”
“Plenty more where that came from,” Twink says and shoots Jerusha a smile. “To tell the truth, you’ll probably be sick of it before long.”
“Never,” I say, picturing Twink’s pool full of the stuff, Jerusha and I swimming laps in it.
We move on, Dustin glued to Twink’s side like a kid on his first day at school. As we make our way to the well, Jerusha turns to me, says, “You know what I hear?”
“What?”
She nods toward the goats. “I hear those goats are outstanding in their field.”
“Yeah? That what you hear?”
“Just an observation,” she says, picking up her pace. “C’mon, I want to make a wish.”
The well, it turns out, is “pretty sweet” as Dustin puts it. The opening is about six feet across with a pulley system that lowers down a gallon-sized bucket.
“This well is over twenty feet deep. It took us two months to dig, using little more than your average gardening tools.” He pauses, apparently for the weight of the achievement to sink in, then continues. “An aquifer purifies the water. It works sort of like a coffee filter, catching the grounds but releasing the coffee. Or, in this case, the water.”
Jerusha leans over, whispers, “I wish they’d dug a coffee well, too.”
Twink overhears this and frowns. “We’re working on tea leaves in the garden, dear. Sorry to say that’s as close as we’ve gotten to coffee. No beer either, so don’t bother asking.”
“Got it,” Jerusha says. “Sober is the new drunk, right?”
Twink isn’t amused, seems on the verge of scolding Jerusha when a gang of children races by. One of them, a girl about Dustin’s age, stops to gape.
“Who’s he?” she asks, her tone chock-full of superiority. “Another Gridder?”
“No,” Twink says. “These are our friends.”
“Does he play?”
“Can I?” Dustin says, and I can hear the voice of a nine-year old again.
“I guess so,” I say. “Just don’t go too far.”
“When the dinner bell rings, we’ll bring him right back,” the girl says. “Would that be alright with you?”
“That would be wonderful,” I tell her and she grabs Dustin’s hand, drags him away.
“C’mon,” I hear her say. “My name’s Cyndi.”
*
Twink tells us to ladle in cold water every five minutes or we’ll overheat.
“Unless of course, you like hyperventilation” he says, chuckling to himself before leaving us alone.
Jerusha and I soak in our own individual canoe-style tubs and while I’ve seen Jerusha naked before, every time seems better than the last. Her body is so ripe looking, so astoundingly healthy, that it’s almost impossible trying to imagine her getting old. Not that anybody in their right mind would bother doing such a thing.
After our soak, we have about thirty Dustin-free minutes before it’s time for dinner. On the walk back to our tent, we see more of our new neighbors. There’s something different about them, like there’s a stronger kind of light in them.
Maybe it’s the goat milk.
We crawl into our tents, still in our towels, and I know I have to work fast or Jerusha will think of something else we should be doing.
Like looking for Dustin.
I run my hand up her thigh, under the damp white cotton.
“I don’t know,” Jerusha says and starts toying with the knot pinning her cleavage in. “What about Dustin?”
“Dustin who?”
She turns on her stomach, cycles her legs in the air behind her. “You think we’re safe here?”
“Yeah,” I say, staring as the towel inches up with every kick of her legs. “Totally fine.”
“You’ll have to pull out,” she says, and, for a second, I have no idea what she’s talking about. “That’s the only way this is going to happen.”
“Like way early,” I say, finally getting a clue. “Not a problem.”
“Thomas.”
“Yes?”
“You okay?”
“Aces,” I say, hyperventilating, not a hot springs in sight. “Just tell me what to do.”
She rolls over, unknots her towel. “That won’t be a problem.”
Outside, I can hear people walking past.
Voices.
Kids playing.
I don’t care.
This is finally happening.
Jerusha, hearing the same things I am, whispers, “Don’t worry. I promise not to be too loud.”
I almost laugh, like there’s any chance she’ll be getting to that point, but she grabs hold of my neck with one hand while the other disappears down below. I try to look down, but she tightens her grip, guides me in before steering my eyes back to her face.
I sneak glances when I can, watch as her fingers move in circles like she’s trying to sound out a note along the rim of a very small glass. I’m witnessing a miracle, something sacred and mysterious, and I feel unworthy of the beauty, the rapture spreading across her face. Somehow I manage not to lose it as she inhales and a vein along her neck begins to turn to rope. I don’t know how long we’re like this, time having lost all meaning, but when she shudders, a quiet thunderstorm passes through the tent.
A tempest, more like.
We lay there, side by side, her face pressed against my neck while I rub the insides of her thighs, the dimpled pocket of flesh there.
“Your turn,” Jerusha says, nuzzling my ear. “Just remember the camp rules. No screaming.”
I nod, all I’m really capable of doing besides drooling, and roll over on my back. I’ve been fantasizing about this moment since high school. Even back when things were just starting to get bad, back when Mom and Dad were still here, back when I’d wake up with my tongue swollen from thirst, even then I craved Jerusha more than I ever did water.
I lie still as Jerusha climbs on top and guides me back inside her. I’m movin
g through curtains again, layers and layers of velvet or maybe silk. Whatever it is, it’s expensive and soft and I can taste it somehow. Like there’s this white dot in the center of me, something hot and pulsing and bottomless. Like I’m breathing a universe in but never exhaling. Outside I can hear voices, laughter, but somehow it all seems perfect.
Wonderfully absurd and perfect.
I wrap my arms around her, hold her tight against me.
“You okay?” she asks when I stop moving.
“I just want to stay like this for a minute. That okay?”
“It couldn’t be more okay,” she says and we lay there, every part of my being pounding, little straining hearts occupying my elbows, knees, fingers, until I can’t take it anymore and arch up like I’m trying to fuse myself to her. A lifetime comes flooding out of me, and I swear I can hear the faint sound of bells chiming in the distance.
Like maybe I’ve died and gone to heaven.
But then I remember.
It’s dinner time.
Dustin time.
The Party
The earth is a piñata
stuffed with death certificates
while all the various Gods circle
with baseball bats
waiting to swing
for what they jokingly refer to
as candy.
8 Every Cloud Has a Green Lining
There are green things on our dinner plates.
We’re seated at a picnic table with Twink at the head. Dustin doesn’t bother to join us; he just waves from the kid’s table, cool-guy that he is now. I give him a thumbs-up, wonder if I look different to him, if he can tell I’ve grown two-hundred feet in the past hour.
The green things, it turns out, are snap peas. Twink splits one open, slides a row into his mouth. “Mmmm, tastes just like the good ol’ days.”
Jerusha follows suit, whatever reservations she had about being here seemingly cured by certain recent events in a certain someone’s tent.
“How long does it take to grow them?” I ask.
“About two months, depending on the season. Speaking of which, we’d still like Dustin to help with the green house. That is, if it’s okay with you.”
“I can help, too,” I say, but Twink shakes his head.
“We have other plans for you.”
Even though he’s smiling as he says it, I don’t like the sound of it.
“Can you give me a clue or is it a secret?”
He chortles this old-man sort of chortle and grins at Jerusha. A thing all men seem fond of doing. “We don’t exist. So, yes, in a way, everything here is a secret.”
Give me a break.
I want to regurgitate the community-marinated peas onto the table, sneak back to the tent and start dreaming inside Jerusha again.
“I’m sorry,” he says once it becomes obvious I’m not going to bite. “We’d like you to help out with the second well. Aquifers are great, but they dry up if there isn’t any new run-off.”
“I thought you wanted to know about the Sustainability Unit.”
“I do. But for now, we need your body. Most of the camp is either too young or too old for that kind of work.”
I look down at myself, check to see if maybe I’ve somehow gotten buff when I wasn’t looking.
No such luck.
“Thomas is your man,” Jerusha says, trying to keep a straight face. “He just loves an honest day’s work. Don’t you, honey?”
Later, I think. I’ll deal with you later.
“Good,” Twink says. “Then it’s settled. We’ll start in the morning.”
“And what about me?” Jerusha asks.
“From the looks of your water-brewing kit, I’d say you’re e a prime candidate for helping with the water-still we’re designing.”
Jerusha tries to act indifferent, but she’s obviously flattered.
“You’ll like what we’re doing. It’s all battery-powered right now, but eventually we want to go solar.”
Throughout dinner, I try to keep Dustin in sight but by the time our plates are clean, he’s vanished. I’m about to ask Twink if he knows where Dustin might be when I hear a shriek come from behind a stand of nearby trees. We find Dustin on the ground, covered in dirt, his hands around what looks like a piece of Indian corn.
Until it starts writhing.
“Kill it. Or strangle it. Or something!”
Dustin’s little girlfriend is standing with her back against a tree clamoring for the snake’s death. I wish we still had cameras because the look on Dustin’s face is priceless.
Dustin, the protector of pre-pubescent Leftovers.
Dustin, the snake charmer.
“How?” he says, his voice higher than hers. “It doesn’t have a neck!”
Jerusha starts to move in, but I hold her back. “Let’s see what he does. It might be good for him.”
“That’s food,” Jerusha says, and I can’t believe the thought didn’t occur to me.
“Dustin!” I shout, and Cyndi jumps. “Don’t you harm one scale on that thing.”
He looks at me like I’m crazy, but, as soon as I reach for the snake, his face floods with relief.
“Cyndi found it,” he says and Cyndi goes full-pout, so much so that you’d think somebody did kill something. “We were just playing.”
Playing what, I wonder. Do kids still play doctor? Maybe they play meteorologist now.
“It’s okay,” I say and hold the snake up in the air. “I’m going to show this to Twink.”
“Dustin and I will meet you back at the tent,” Jerusha says, and, without another word, grabs him by the hand, leads him away from the natural disaster in the yellow dress.
*
There are two silhouettes inside the tent when I make it back: Jerusha and Dustin bent forward, their heads nearly touching. They look something like a baby elephant.
Would you rather be a silhouette or a shadow?
Because I’m curious, or maybe because I’m just plain bored, I hover outside and eavesdrop.
“...I don’t know. She’s cute I guess.”
“You guess? If she passed around the donation jug at Water-rallies, she’d make a killing.”
“Yeah,” Dustin says, suddenly full of pride. “She’s hot, huh.”
They’re quiet for a minute, only the sound of cards being flipped, then, “Just be careful you don’t get too attached. I don’t know how long we’ll be staying here.”
“I’m a kid. How attached can I get?”
Jerusha’s silhouette nudges Dustin’s silhouette.
“All I’m saying, tough guy, is too keep an eye on your heart. They crack easier than you think.”
“Hearts don’t crack.”
“Sure they do. They’re just like eggs.”
“Spit!”
It’s Dustin’s favorite game. Something he used to play with Dad. It goes quiet again, though I can almost hear Dustin gloating. He’s a horrible winner.
“Do girls like guys who talk a lot?”
“Why? Do you talk a lot?”
“No. That’s why I’m asking. Duh.”
I can make out Jerusha raking her hair with her fingers, the way she does when she’s mulling something over.
“Let me put it this way,” she says. “A lot of girls like loud, confident guys. But guys like that usually don’t have anything to say. The strong, silent type. That’s where it’s at. Like your brother.”
“You think Thomas is strong?”
“Thomas is incredibly strong. In his own way.”
“So it’s okay if I don’t talk a lot around girls.”
“The good ones will think it’s cute,” Jerusha says. “Maybe even mysterious.”
A fellow camper passes by, so I pretend to look for something in the dirt. When the coast is clear, and just as I’m about to make my entrance, I hear Dustin call Spit again.
“Two in a row,” Jerusha says. “Not bad, kid.”
“One more?”
; “I think it’s time for bed. Besides, I should go look for Thomas.”
“What about yours?”
“My what?”
“Your heart. Is it like an egg?”
“Sure,” she says. “A poached one.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Never mind. Bad joke.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve always just sort of been a sucker for unrequited love, that’s all.”
“For what?”
“Unrequited love. When you love something and it doesn’t love you back.”
“Oh. Like my mom and dad.”
“Dustin.”
“Well?”
“They love you more than life. I’m sure of that.”
“Then when are we going to see them?”
I creep a few steps back, loudly stamp my feet as I walk up to the tent. When I pop my head in, Jerusha’s holding Dustin’s hand.
He pulls it away when he sees me.
“What took you so long?” Jerusha asks.
“Twink gave me a lecture on the Arizona Milk snake. That’s what you found, Dustin. Apparently they--”
“Crap,” Dustin says.
“What?”
“For a second I thought you said milkshake.”
“Wishful thinking, buddy.”
“I bet they could make us goat milkshakes if we asked them to.”
“I don’t think that would taste so good, D.”
“Then don’t have one.”
“Anyway, Twink says Milk snakes are constrictors.”
“So?”
“So they have to constrict something,” Jerusha says.
“Right. He thinks there might be mice or other rodents around here.”
“I don’t get it,” Dustin says and flops down on his sleeping bag. “Who cares?”
“Where there’s smoke...” Jerusha says.
Dustin rolls his eyes. “I thought we needed rain, not smoke.”
“If there are snakes around here, they have to eat something to survive.”
“And we can harvest them,” Jerusha says. “And whatever else is alive.”
“I still want a milkshake,” Dustin says and rolls over on his side.
“You can ask Twink about that tomorrow,” I say. “He wants you to show him exactly where you found it.”
“But I’m supposed to hang out with--”