Pretend I'm Dead

by Jen Beagin

  Thankfully, the instruments seemed to be in the cello family. Fucked-up cousins of the cello, it looked like. One was six feet long, the other four or five, and they each had only a single string. Nigel and Shiori laid them flat on the ground next to the platform.

  “We wanted to make something we could play sitting down,” Shiori said bashfully.

  “Right.” Mona nodded. “Okay.”

  “How long did we spend making these two, Shi?” Nigel asked. “A year?”

  “Nine months,” Shiori said.

  “Will you play something?” Mona asked out of politeness.

  “We don’t believe in live performance,” Nigel said.

  “Ah, stage fright,” Mona said, nodding. “I get the same thing. Not that I’ve ever been on stage.”

  “No, it’s not that. We just find live performance artificial. And it doesn’t do our music justice. But we’ll play something for you, since you’re a special guest. You’ve never heard anything like it, I promise you. First things first, though.” He removed a joint from his pajama pocket and placed it between his lips. Mona was startled and relieved.

  After she took only two hits, her relief turned into low-grade paranoia.

  “This piece we’re going to play is somewhat medieval,” Nigel announced with a straight face.

  Mona braced herself. They each gripped a bow and began sawing away at their solitary strings. After a few minutes, Nigel started singing. His voice was low-pitched, guttural, and way off-key. He was right; she’d never heard anything like it. She spent several minutes deciding whether it was medieval, as Nigel claimed, or just plain evil.

  They struck her as the type who actually made eye contact during intercourse, who remained present throughout the whole affair and didn’t have to think of other people to get off. She flashed to her fantasy that morning of the postman, a huge, Samoan-looking guy. He had her in the back of his mail truck, facedown on a pile of unopened Easter cards, while her former landlord, Mr. Lim, observed the scene from a nearby bush, and Mr. Disgusting, who was in the driver’s seat, supervised and gave orders: faster, slower, harder, stop talking, hurry, the dogs are coming.

  When the song ended, eighteen minutes later, Nigel and Shiori gave each other a private look and then closed their eyes and breathed deeply through their noses for several seconds. “Part of our process,” Nigel whispered.

  She tried to come up with something to say. Under different circumstances, Nigel and Shiori could have reminded her of John and Yoko, but the truth was, they were more like Yoko and Yoko. But then she’d always had a secret weakness for Yoko.

  When they opened their eyes, she said, “It sounded like the music of aliens or highly intelligent wild animals. Have you guys thought about writing for film?”

  They looked confused.

  “You know, making movie soundtracks. I could easily hear that song in the background of, like, a David Lynch film or something.” It was higher praise than she meant to give, and Nigel looked dubious. She had a habit of overshooting.

  “Who is David Lynch?” Nigel asked.

  “Uh, The Elephant Man, Eraserhead, Blue Velvet, Mulholland Drive . . .”

  Nigel shrugged, apparently at a loss.

  “Come on, Nigel. You’ve seen Blue Velvet. Dennis Hopper? The oxygen mask?” She attempted a Dennis-Hopper-as-Frank-Booth impersonation. “I’ll send you a love letter, straight from my heart, fucker! You know what a love letter is? It’s a bullet from a fucking gun, fucker!” She paused, noticing Nigel’s blank look. “Are you telling me you don’t even know who Dennis Hopper is? Easy Rider, Apocalypse Now . . . ring any bells?” She wondered if they were putting her on, if this was part of their shtick.

  “Mona, I haven’t been to the movies since I was a child, and I don’t think I’m missing much, frankly.”

  “Well, I’m not sure we can really be friends,” she said seriously.

  “Have you read Homer’s The Odyssey?” Nigel asked out of nowhere.

  “Is that the one with the wine-dark sea?”

  “Yes.”

  “Never read it.”

  “Well, allow me to get it for you,” he said, and climbed off the platform. Mona and Shiori smiled patiently at each other. When Nigel returned, he ceremoniously handed her the book while bowing slightly.

  “I strongly urge you to read this,” he said. “Its message may have something for you.”

  When Mona got back to her side of the house, she tossed The Odyssey on the floor next to her bed, then picked up The Fingersmith and rapidly read fifty pages before falling asleep.

  * * *

  SHE SPENT HER AFTERNOONS DRIVING around the wealthier neighborhoods of Taos, hanging flyers from people’s doorknobs. The flyers were homemade; she designed them herself. They were long and skinny and she fastened them to doorknobs with rubber bands. Her new company name and tagline—Bee’s Knees Housekeeping, Clean Like You’ve Never Seen, Honey!—was printed at the top. Below that, she’d made a compelling line drawing of a lady bee wearing an apron, a bottle of Windex in one spindly arm and a vacuum in the other. Her phone number and fake business license were printed near the bottom. She’d taken out a classified in the Taos News as well, but hadn’t gotten any calls so far. Hanging flyers, she reasoned, while exhausting and time-consuming, certainly couldn’t hurt, and she had nothing better to do. She parked her truck roadside, filled her messenger bag with flyers, and hoofed it up one side of a street and then back down the other. On her third day she was surprised to find herself talking to Bob, her old nickname for God. She hadn’t spoken to him in fifteen years. She wasn’t sure why now, but suspected it had to do with the landscape. The sky, in particular, seemed to naturally inspire Bob thoughts. The light had a quality of being everywhere at once, even in the shadows, and she felt suspended by it as if by an enormous hand. The Hand of Bob. When the sun was out, the hand held its sweaty palm wide open, and she often imagined she was traveling along the dust in one of its creases.

  “I hate happy people,” she said, trudging up a newer road of vacation homes, thinking of Yoko and Yoko. She stood before a stone house marked with a large wooden plaque hanging over the front door. The words “Angel House,” along with a simple rendering of an angel wearing wings and a halo, were neatly engraved in turquoise paint.

  “Looks like we got some Bob lovers here, Bob,” she said, pulling a flyer from her messenger bag. “Or angel lovers, anyway.” Reaching to fasten the flyer to the doorknob, she was startled when a woman suddenly opened the door.

  She froze, flyer in hand. No one ever opened the door.

  “You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here,” she said quickly, laughing nervously. “I was about to leave you this flyer.”

  The woman had a small glob of grape jelly near the corner of her mouth and hadn’t brushed her hair. The entryway was dark, but she could see a chandelier made of bleached deer antlers hanging from the ceiling.

  The woman took the flyer from Mona’s outstretched hand. Mona was about to deliver her spiel—“I’m new in town, but I’m the best in the business and my rates are super reasonable, so if you’re sick of scouring your own bathtub, give me a call!”—but the woman merely glanced at the flyer, said thank you, and shut the door. Mona lingered on the porch for several minutes and pictured herself collecting cans on a dusty road, wearing a flannel shirt with a floppy straw hat. The door cracked open and a wide eye peered at her from the dark.

  “Sorry,” Mona said. “Still here. If you don’t mind my asking, why is your house called Angel House?”

  The woman looked distracted, irritated. “I’m a collector,” she said.

  “You collect angels?”

  “Angel paraphernalia,” the woman said.

  She imagined bongs with pictures of angels glued to them. “Okay,” she said.

  “It’s just a hobby,” the woman said, softening.

  “I could use one of those.”

  The woman smiled and slowly closed the door. Mona walked
back down the long driveway.

  “I’m scared, Bob,” she said.

  “What’re you scared of, Mona?”

  “I’m going to end up collecting cans.”

  “You’re safe,” he said. “You’re in the palm of my hand.”

  “Then why do I feel like hanging myself?”

  “You have to trust me,” Bob said.

  On the drive home she thought of the Holy Dirt sitting in her sock drawer. Maybe she’d make a mud bath for herself when she got home. A miracle mud bath. She felt momentarily buoyed by the idea. Who knows, it might even have a nice effect on her skin.

  She made dinner instead, ginger pancakes, breakfast-for-dinner comfort food. What she called making an effort. Couldn’t bring herself to set the table, though. She ate the pancakes out of the pan, standing up, and then guzzled orange juice from the carton. From her kitchen window she could see Yoko and Yoko amble into the side yard, as they did every evening just before dusk, and spread a blanket on the ground. They usually sat side by side and stared at the horizon for a solid hour, sometimes longer. She enjoyed spying on them. At first she thought they were looking for UFOs, but it wasn’t dark enough for that, so she figured they must be meditating with their eyes open. Took her a few days to realize they were simply admiring the sunset. Granted, in these parts, sunsets were something to behold, no question, but night after night? Sometimes she squinted at their faces from the window, searching for signs of boredom, but they seemed fully absorbed, and maintained a reverent silence throughout the whole thing. When the sun finally departed, they stood up, folded their blanket, said a few words Mona could never catch, and went back inside.

  Tonight she walked over to their yard and plopped down next to them on their blanket. “You guys really need a television,” she said.

  Nigel smiled. “We’d much rather be here, in this moment.”

  “I’d rather be inside, watching Law & Order reruns.”

  “Have you had a chance to read Homer?” Nigel asked.

  “Not yet. Still reading the lezzie novel.”

  “I think you will appreciate the lotus-eaters,” he said.

  “Is that, like, a euphemism?”

  He laughed. “No.”

  “The lotus-eaters are a race of people who live on an island,” Shiori explained. “Odysseus sends some of his men to this island to see what’s there, to see if it might be a good place to rest, and the lotus-eaters are very friendly and give his men lotus flowers to eat, and soon the men forget what their mission is. The lotus makes them forget about home, and they no longer care where they came from or where they’re going.”

  “Wow,” Mona said. “I need to get my hands on some of that. Do they sell it at the health food store?”

  “You’re not a lotus-eater, Mona,” Nigel said patiently. “Not anymore. You’re back on the boat, heading home. It’s time you sat orderly upon the bench and smote the gray sea with your oars. Row hard and don’t look back.”

  “Sounds like a lot of work,” she said.

  “We want to invite you for dinner,” Shiori said suddenly, exchanging a look with Nigel that Mona couldn’t read.

  “Sure, okay,” she said. Then she remembered the wooden platform, how numb her ass and feet had gotten from sitting on it for two hours, how she’d been forced to lie down like a weirdo. “Except, how about we do it at my place this time? That way I can cook and play hostess.” They exchanged another cryptic look. “Don’t worry, I’ll make something vegetarian,” she assured them.

  “Make whatever you like,” Nigel said. “We’re not particular.”

  They set a date for the following night and then continued staring at the horizon. Only the sun’s forehead was visible, but a couple of its arms were still raised, reaching up to brush the undersides of the clouds, which looked swollen and bruised, and not at all in the mood to be touched. She glanced at Shiori and wondered if she was in the mood to be touched. Look at those perfect little ears hidden under that blue-black hair, those less-than-perfect thumbs hidden in those fists, that perfectly red tongue—

  “What do you think, Mona?” Nigel asked.

  It took her a minute to realize what he was referring to. She looked at the sky and said, “Good stuff. A little over-the-top, maybe.”

  * * *

  THE NEXT EVENING SHE PUT some thought into her outfit for a change. After tearing apart her closet, she settled on a black silk muumuu embroidered with a life-size silver crane. The crane looked as though it was pecking her left breast. Whenever she wore it she felt like a deranged Marlon Brando, minus the bald head and huge gut, which was probably why she didn’t wear it often. Still, she didn’t want to overdress, as Yoko and Yoko would likely be in pajamas. She tied her long black hair in a knot and painted her lips a raisin color.

  They weren’t wearing pajamas. Nigel wore a crisp white button-down and a faded pair of jeans; Shiori a fitted halter dress that showed off her chest and shoulders. “You guys look stunning,” she said, as she opened the door for them. “And more awake, somehow.”

  “Thank you,” Nigel said, bowing slightly.

  Shiori smiled and handed Mona a bunch of weeds. “We found these wildflowers on our hike today,” she said.

  “Sweet,” Mona said. She pretended to search for a vase even though she knew she didn’t have one, and ended up sticking the weeds in an orange Tupperware cup, which she left next to the sink.

  They sat at her kitchen table, which was rectangular and a little too big for the room. Nigel sat at the head of the table, Mona at the other end, and Shiori in between. While Mona poured herself wine—she offered them some, but they declined—she watched as they examined the art on her walls. They both had their eyes fixed on the Fat Fuck drawings.

  “May I ask who Fat Fuck is?” Nigel asked.

  “I wish I knew. These drawings were found in the trash,” she explained. “But he’s dead, apparently. Found with no hands. I imagine he died of blood loss.”

  Nigel sipped his water.

  “Who are they?” Shiori asked, pointing to the large black-and-white photograph on the opposite wall. It was a portrait of an Asian family, circa 1960-something, sitting on a modern and expensive-looking white leather couch. The mother wore a white Chanel-type suit with three-quarter sleeves and a matching pillbox hat, the father a tailored black business suit. Their small daughter wore a plaid dress and sat between them with a finger in her mouth and her eyes on the floor. Mom and Dad were both wearing dark sunglasses and holding cigarettes, but they seemed to be looking at the camera. No one was smiling.

  “Those are my parents,” Mona said. “I was adopted, obviously.” She waited a beat, but it was pointless. They never laughed at her jokes. “I’m kidding,” she said at last. “I found it at a thrift store.”

  “I like the frame,” Shiori said politely.

  “Are your parents alive, Mona?” Nigel asked.

  “Oh yeah,” she said. “They’re alive and leading miserable lives in California.”

  “That’s sad,” Nigel said.

  Mona shrugged. “Whatareyougonnado.”

  “I bet they’d like to hear from you.”

  “I sent them a letter with my phone number. The ball’s in their court.” The ball’s in their court, she repeated to herself. She’d never used that expression before and made a mental note never to use it again. “Besides, don’t be so sure they want to hear from me. I could’ve been the nightmare of their lives. Maybe I killed their pets.”

  “Did you?” Nigel asked.

  “No,” Mona said. “More like the other way around.”

  “Your parents killed your pets?”

  “So to speak,” she said. “They sent them to a farm in Idaho.”

  They were silent for a minute. Mona glanced at Shiori’s chest. She was surprisingly stacked, for an Asian woman.

  They didn’t eat with their hands this time. Granted, they didn’t have much of a choice since the main course was soup. Hominy, tomatoes, and Hatch green c
hilies she bought from a Spanish man roasting them on the side of the road. She’d meant to make stew, but hadn’t let it stew long enough. They kept pausing between bites to mop their foreheads with their napkins.

  “You’re sweating like a couple of alcoholics.” She put down her spoon. “Should I turn on the fan?”

  “It’s a little spicy,” Shiori said meekly.

  “Sorry,” Mona said. “I have beer—that might help.”

  “Shi, would you like to share a beer?” Nigel asked.

  Shiori nodded.

  Pussies, Mona thought. Who splits a beer?

  After they finished eating, Nigel directed his gaze at Mona. “I’ve noticed something about you, Mona.”

  “Uh-oh,” Mona said.

  “Now, don’t be alarmed, but are you aware that you’re sanpaku?” he asked.

  “Sand-packed-who?”

  “San-pak-u,” he repeated. “It’s Japanese for ‘three whites.’ It refers to the whites of your eyes. Your iris should be touching the bottom lid of your eye, but instead the whites are showing at the bottom. They’re also showing on the sides, which is normal. But since they’re showing on the bottom, you are sanpaku—three whites.”

  “What?” Mona said.

  “Look at our eyes,” he said. “See how the iris touches both the top and bottom lids?”

  “Oh yeah,” Mona said, looking back and forth between them. “You both have really big eyes. They remind me a little of an infant’s eyes.” She poured herself more wine.

  “Exactly,” Nigel said. “It’s interesting you mention that. When you’re born, you’re perfectly balanced. It’s only after you’ve lived awhile that things begin to . . . deteriorate.”

  “Are you guys in a cult or something?” Mona asked.

  To her surprise, Shiori giggled.

  “Don’t change the subject, Mona,” Nigel said.

  “Okay, Nigel, I’m willing to humor you, but first tell me what the hell you’re talking about exactly. Sometimes I think you make this shit up on the fly.”

  “It’s nothing fatal,” he explained. “Being sanpaku is something you can repair. It just means you’re imbalanced.”