They break to pee. Jo fanning her face with her shirt, Xie’s own shirt gone, the girls pulled it off somewhere on the dance floor and he is as naked as he’s been in public for a long time. Flushed but a sudden chill, skin prickling. Do you see me, beloved. Jo off talking in a corner, shoulder against the wall, hands moving, almost forehead-to-forehead with another girl, tall, mess of curly hair, bucktoothed, has he seen her before? Leni and Xie sit against the narrow bar, Leni’s feet hooked on the rungs of a stool, knees tight together, cupping her elbows. Xie’s back slick against the gritty concrete. Leni pulling the medal from his chest, finger hooked around the chain. What’s this? Having to shout. Um. That’s my patron saint. Leni frowning. What? Peering at the image. He was a, uh. Kid who. Died because he wouldn’t convert to paganism. But you’re a pagan, Leni says, smiling, rubbing her thumb over the medal. He moves his hair from his eyes. I am? Yeah, you’re always like. In the woods and worshipping the earth and stuff. He smiles. Yeah, I guess. Why do you wear it? Xie shrugs. Catholics wear them for. Protection or. Like, help. Leni nodding, quick glance to see if he is serious, then she is serious, too. Letting the necklace go. It’s really pretty. Looking over her shoulder to see Jo laughing, her laugh carries all the way through the room. P. dancing alone in the center of the crowd. Peter found a new space, Leni says. They let him rent at a different church, it’s nice. You should come sometime. It’s all the same people. And some new ones, Jo’s been spreading the word. Xie snorts. Looks like she’s got a fresh one now. Leni’s wry smile. Yeah. She’s good at it. Finding people, you know? Like, I never would have talked to you, at school. I was kind of worried, when she said we should. Why? She tugs a piece of her hair, head cocked. I wanted her to myself, I guess. Or I just didn’t know if things would be as good with another person. She smiles. But she was right. You were one of us. Her eyes scan his, deep gray. What do they want to see? He tries not to look away. She puts her hand in his, fingers against the calluses. Let’s go dance, she says. And they do.
* * *
They are in the middle of the woods. Half the trees spiked, half to go, his pace has been perfect but there are still so many to do, and the worry that he will not be done in time, that he will miss one of them, the wrong one, the one that will be cut first, never goes away. When he finally falls asleep at night he is hammering, when he is fucking the body he is hammering, when he is reading he is hammering, hands so hard now, a layer of skin as tough as wood. The canvas of his sneakers worn completely through at both sides, hoodie filthy, he washes it while standing in the shower fully dressed, the water black between his feet. Now stumbling in the ferns, shin skinned on the raw edge of a log, the new leaves on the youngest trees lashing his eyes. Rash of tick bites on his spine. The endless ring of the hammer hitting the nail, he hears it in his sleep, second pulse in his brain, who else. Understands this sound. It cuts through the night. And now P. lying down in the dirt, Xie looking over his shoulder to see, What are you doing. Rest, beloved. Are you fucking kidding? Pulling the next nail from his pack, two more between his teeth. Press the tip against the tree, chest-high; if he drove it through his own chest, at this angle, the nail would graze the top of his twelfth vertebra. Deep breath. Holds it. The nail falling through the birch. The next nail where his pelvis would be; the last at the ankles. Even if the tree was cut at the base, somehow missing the first nail, the others would stop the machines in a mill, making the tree impossible to process. He clips the heads of the nails, collects the metal in his pocket. Moves to the next tree. Adjusting the pack to the opposite shoulder but fumbles, dropping it, nails splashing through the ferns, Goddamn it. Kneeling to push them back into the pack. While he’s there, make the X at the roots, quick hard cut, P. turning onto his silver stomach: if they are meant to be destroyed they will be destroyed, he says. Xie incredulous. If we don’t finish this, then yeah, they will be. Next tree. Are you saying it doesn’t matter either way? How does that make sense? P. quiet. I should just, what, go to bed while someone comes in here and chops it all down? Three more nails. I mean, what is your point. You carry a sword but you don’t even use it. What, beloved, do you want to use it? P. asks. Jesus fucking Christ! Xie shouts. Just get up and help me! P.’s hand suddenly around Xie’s wrist, squeezing. Xie yanks his arm away, sending the back of his own wrist straight into a trunk, hard, and without thinking he turns and strikes the birch with the hammer, shouting, so much anger left in that aching shoulder, enough to break through the bark, show the deep gold beneath. Startle of birds against the clouds. Xie panting, dropping the hammer, both palms immediately against the tree. Forehead to the back of your hands. Why did you call me here, Xie asks. What do you want me to do. P.’s hands on his hips from behind. That breath that is not breath on his neck. Night heavy on his head. I didn’t call you, beloved. You called yourself.
* * *
There is only one more meeting at the library before summer. Karen at their table, filling out a form. Her hair cut to the chin. I like it, he says. Looks rad. She smiles. Touches the shorn ends. Thanks. Deep breath. So. Almost free, yeah? She pushes a packet of papers in his direction. He flips through them—forms to fill out, things to sign, he won’t do any of it, but. Folds them into his bag anyway. Putting a couple of jars of jam on the table. I got Greg something. She laughs. Nice. He’ll love it. Yeah, I hope so. I made some for you, too. She takes the jar, thumbing the label, on which he has drawn a star. Why’d you cut your hair? Oh, she says. A change. Are you growing yours out? He palms his hair back; his bangs to his cheekbones now, the rest falling over his collar. I’m just lazy, he says. Glancing around the room, hopefully for the last time: the yellow wood glowless on the tables, construction paper flowers stuck to the windows, the formerly flourescent sun bleached near-white. What do you see yourself doing? Karen asks. After high school? P. bright in the corner of his eye. Remember. How it was. When you first brought him home. And how even this place, for a little while, was radiant. I just want to find a way to live, he says. Karen nods, looking at her hands. Me, too. A breath. Well, she says. Tell the girls hello from me. Maybe we can do something this summer. Get tea or lunch somewhere. Sure, he says. They pack their things. Get up to go. And, Xie? He turns. Yeah? Her eyes scanning his. Maybe you can tell me about your friend sometime. Xie not knowing what to say to that. So he just goes.
* * *
MacAdams calls, meets with his father. He has failed his junior year, but can attend classes at the school if he agrees to the following, etc., etc. Erik saying, You can write them a letter telling them you aren’t going back. Getting up from the table for more soup. Just let me know what you decide. It’s an effort to take a breath, to nod, to say, Yeah, I will. As if he is considering something when everything has been considered already, decided already. His father lifting the spoon to his mouth. The soup is delicious; he has become a good cook, in spite of himself. What have you been doing in the garden? Erik asks. What about the garden. Erik cocking his head. The sunflowers. They’re almost as tall as the roof.
* * *
In the mail, a heavy package for him: a pair of bolt cutters, the ones he’d had at the Moore farm, seized by the police and now here, months later. They belong to Leni, who never said where she got them; brand-new, beautiful, shiny red handles, black blades at the head; he remembers the heft of them, how they felt in his hands, made to destroy the things meant to keep you out. He looks up Leni’s address in the phone book, the name of a street miles from his house, from Jo’s, from school, he has to look at a map to find it. Astonished when he arrives. The wheels of his bicycle sliding on the wet dirt road: no sidewalk, just this mud creeping up to the door of a house that looks as if it is sinking into the ground, tarpaper on the roof, sun-bleached plastic and car parts littering the yard bounded by a half-collapsed fence. A little girl in a diaper squats at the corner of the house and puts her hand up the spout of a bent drainpipe, singing. Her eyes slit at Xie. Hey, he says. Leni! the girl shouts, thin-voiced. A moment later Leni leaping out
across the mud, frantic. What’s wrong? Where’s Jo? Nothing’s wrong, he says. Leni scratching her arm, baggy plaid shirt and blue jeans, pale face, hunted eyes unlined, no ring in her nose, like a child dressed in her brother’s clothes. I just—got these, and I—wanted to bring them to you. Get inside, Leni barks to the girl, but the girl continues singing, paying no attention. He gives Leni the cutters and she takes them, quick, long unbuttoned cuff flapping around her wrist. You can’t just—come here, she says. I’m sorry, I—haven’t seen you guys in a while and I thought—I’d bring them, he stammers. There’s a thing called a phone, she says. I’m sorry, he repeats. They stand there. Where have you been? she asks. Just—home, he says. Leni looks over her shoulder at the house, then back at him. Holding the cutters out. I don’t need these, she says, and he takes them. I have to go. She walks back to the house, taking the girl by the arm, careful not to slam the screen door hanging from one hinge as they go inside. Dark sheets in all the windows. He thinks of the sounds the mink made in their cages, that restless rustle of fur. There is no sound at all from inside Leni’s house. A fat drop of rain hits the back of his hand. What do you do with all the living things in trouble. Build a church. Build a bomb. He pulls his hood up, turns his bike in the mud. When he looks over his shoulder the little girl is peeking through a hole in the screen. He waves. She waves back.
* * *
Walk through the park downtown on the way home from the garden store, cucumber seeds in his pocket. Brown grass, broken swings, sagging chain-link softball cages; why be here when you could be. Anywhere in the woods. A slim column of smoke twists up from the barbecue pits on the other side of the cinder-block restrooms; voices, laughter. A chill. Have to go around to get to the fountain. Shot of dread in your chest when you see: Ryan Moore and a dozen others at one of the pits. You know they see you. Shaking as you bend your head to the fountain. Throat too tight to swallow, you let the water run out of your mouth. Frozen there for a moment. Clink of P. somewhere. If someone tried to hurt you would he. Just watch or. Hey, Moore calls. That you, Twilight? Xie straightens, wiping water from his chin. Thirsty? You want a burger to wash that down with? Laughter. We got some fresh baby deer right here. Patting the side of a red cooler. Better than tofu. Don’t even glance at them. Head down. Keep walking. But Moore’s wife, he doesn’t know her name, jogging up to Xie, puts her arm through his. Hey, wait a sec. It’s Xie, right? Her shoulder banging into his. Come have a beer. Smiling. Big silver hoops in her ears, hair in braids. Come on. Pulling on his arm. If he pulled back she’d trip, her boots have some kind of crazy high heels on them, she can barely walk. Come on, please? she says, tipping her head. We won’t bite. Promise. Gray eyes half kind. Lets her turn him around. Moore opens a can of beer, hands it to him. Dark eyes intent on his. Hollow cheeks, weak chin. Cheers, Twilight. Xie blinks. The woman, her name is Cherry, keeps her hand on his arm. Passes him a can of Pringles. You can eat these, right? Chips? A potato’s a vegetable, yeah? Not knowing what to do. He bites one in half and it shatters in his mouth. Holds the beer without drinking it. P. behind the grill, smoke in his eyes. Becoming his eyes. Take a seat, Moore says, and a hole opens up in the group, making room. So how old are you? Cherry asks, sitting down beside him on a plastic crate. Sixteen, Xie mumbles. Cool. You driving yet? Head hunched low between his shoulders. No. Really? Shit, when I was your age I couldn’t wait to drive. I was seventeen when I got my first truck. You see that blue one over there? That’s my baby. He glances. Spotless chrome. Enormous wheels. Nice, he whispers. She drinks, arm still through Xie’s. Aware that everyone is watching. Cherry with her small talk holding them off. Drink up, she says. You don’t want that to go flat. He sips the beer. Try not to make a face. The sky as gray as a dirty glove. Facing the grill, just a few feet away, the lid of the cooler open to show its slick cargo. Full to the brim. Ryan’s back to him, tall and broad in blue plaid, Gotta get some meat on your bones, son. Those beans ain’t treating you right. Cherry smiles into her beer. Blood spits on the coals. Xie pulls the collar of his shirt over his nose. Moore lifts a brow. You know mink are cannibals, right? Some of the ones you let go ate the fuck out of each other. Mean little bastards. We treat them a hell of a lot nicer than they treat anything. Fresh water, all the meat they can eat. Moore throwing steaks over the flames. Sniff. We got some new ones, nice silver babies. Breeding real well. Taste like shit, though. No fat on ’em. Without looking Ryan passes a metal spatula to Xie. You turn these for me, will you? When Xie doesn’t move one of the guys pushes his shoulder. Not too hard. Come on. It’s fresh. Totally organic. Isn’t that what you’re all about, Twilight? Farm-to-table? Nudging his hand with the spatula. P. terrible in the smoke, looming over them all. Xie steps forward. Don’t think, just. Pull the meat straight from the grill. Burning on one side, still wet on the other, red all the way through. Throwing it into the dirt. You fucking murderers! he shouts. Ryan’s arm around his neck in a second, cutting off the last word. Right in his ear, like before, Listen I don’t want to hurt you but you’re asking for it, you crazy fuck. Cherry with her hand on Moore’s back. Ry, don’t, come on. And Moore turning his head, sharp. Calm down, I’m not gonna do nothing. Xie struggling with all his strength but Moore’s embrace is like iron, there is nowhere for Xie to put his anger, sneakers digging into the ground. We invite you to hang with us and all you can do is act like a goddamn psycho, Moore hisses. What did we ever do to you, huh? You can’t let people live their lives? You don’t know shit about me, you little fuck. Suddenly letting him go. Spits in the dirt. Xie stumbles, gasping for air. Cherry squatting in those fucked-up shoes, tossing the steak to the dogs. Refusing to look at him. If Moore said the word they would be on him in a second. But he let Xie go and Xie goes. Turning his back. P. right behind him, those footsteps. Guardian. But too late. P.’s hand on his arm. Xie shrinking from it, accusing, You didn’t do anything. You never do anything. Xie forgetting himself, speaking out loud. How often do I do that. Talk and not know I am talking. Walking too fast, tripping, fury throwing him forward. Clutching his own head as if to. Break it. The sole of his sneaker unglued, gaping at the sides with every step. What do you want me to do, beloved. Stop them! Stop—something! Even you can see how fucked-up it is, how proud they are of it. Past the church. Sounds of Mass. Body of Christ. Bringing his feet down harder and harder, as if to strike right through the earth. Through the skin of weeds into the woods. What does it matter, P. says. Leave them. Leave them what? Leave them alone? They just—they keep buying more, with our money, they think I’m going to laugh with them about. About frying animals on a fucking fire. Starting to sob, loud, helpless, They gas them, did you know that, they pack them into that barn, like fucking Nazis, and I’m the one who’s wrong? I’m the fucking psycho? Fuck it, I’m going back, I don’t care what happens, I’m going to blow their goddamn house the fuck up— and P.’s arm, from behind, around his neck, silver smooth across his throat, pressing. Down. Heart jumping against his ribs. Then shoved, hard, full sprawl into the ferns, his chin hitting a stone, hard click of teeth, the breath knocked free of his chest. Dull shock. Slow press of palms in the dirt and even slower to rise. In the trees now the tip of P.’s finger against his forehead. Xie moves his head but the finger follows. Insistent. Stop, Xie says. But P. won’t. Pushing so that the back of Xie’s head is pinned to a birch. Piercing the skin. Line of blood down his nose. Terror. Pure, crystalline. You don’t know what he can do. Imagines the finger touching through to his skull, bone to bone. Pain sparkling between his eyes. Blood in Xie’s mouth. Rubs it from his lips, to look; there it is, bright on the back of his hand. But no wound, the flesh on his forehead intact. Remember. Hitting the tree with the hammer. The cracks in the skin of the birch. Quick adrenaline pant, What is this. This is you. This is the violence inside you. But you’re the one who showed me. You were there in the woods. You put the nails in my hands. Yes, but not so you could raise it against them. Against who? Your fellows. They aren’t my fucking fellows! Xie turning his
head, trying to stop crying. I don’t even know what you are. Thinking, P. didn’t spare the lamb because he loved it, but because he loved nothing. On earth. But you love the lamb, not as a god, not as a symbol, but as itself, why isn’t that enough? No one has the right. To make a life into a sign. P.’s hand on his chest, pressing. Xie pushes it away. As hard as he can. No. He says it aloud, again: No. The light flickers, or is it P., is he flickering, and what does it mean, the light flinching like that, like something. Snapped. Can you hurt him. Can you hurt something that is dead. Closes his eyes. I don’t want to see it leaving, if it leaves. It does. It vanishes completely. You told it to go and it went. He opens his eyes. And it is darker here, much darker, than it has ever been before.
The Seventh Mansion Page 13