Milk Blood Heat
Page 16
It didn’t seem simple, certainly not then, sitting in silence while my resentment swelled between us. Years later, I would come to see those offerings—the earrings, the milk, her honesty—as her way of asking for my acceptance. She couldn’t ask me for forgiveness. She was too herself to apologize for her nature.
“Finish that,” she said, tapping my glass, and of course I did. We were tree and fruit. No matter how long she was gone, my body always knew.
She took the empties—the bowl, the glass—and disappeared down the stairs. I listened to her footfalls until they grew soft, until they faded entirely and I knew she had gone to the spare room to sleep before she left for wherever it was her almanac told her to go next.
Left alone with the animal remains still scattered on the rug and my belly full of milk, I sent myself to sleep. Told my own bedtime stories. I pictured women dancing, women spinning. Helen flying into black.
I felt my bones fashioning themselves into something like her: sturdy, sharp, and too exquisite to be human. In a hundred years, archaeologists or curious children would dig me up, brushing earth from my splintered femurs, studying my humerus for a hint at the joke. They would never quite get it because they couldn’t see the whole: my fierce weirdness or the restless current that circled my spine. They would wonder what kind of animal I’d been as they photographed my partial skeleton and counted my grinning teeth. They would gild my bones in bronze and hang them on walls behind glass, and men would pay money to see.
Acknowledgments
A.K.A
Love Notes
Writing is a solitary practice—until it’s absolutely not. Without the encouragement, guidance, and energy of so many magnificent humans, this book simply wouldn’t be. I won’t be perfect here; I know there are names I might miss. But if, during the writing of this book, you have ever read for me, written for me, fed me, held space for me, laughed or cried with me, know that you have my thanks, and that for me, gratitude is a special kind of love.
So much love to Meredith Kaffel Simonoff, my “here for any and all” super-agent, who took me on at the beginning when she definitely didn’t have to—for all of her support, intellect, and insight. For her heart. You are above and beyond anything I could have ever hoped for. Love to my Grove editor, Katie Raissian: same-spirited, big-laughing, art-as-life genius, who saw this book and understood it at its core, and who most importantly saw me, and fought so hard for us both. Big thanks to my Atlantic editor, James Roxburgh, who could make a bestselling book out of his emails, who talked to me straight and treated these stories with attention that was at once tender and serious. The four of us make the dreamiest team.
Thank you to everyone who ushered this book from computer pages to physical object in the world: the entire team at Grove Atlantic and Atlantic Books, especially Deb Seager, Judy Hottensen, Kait Astrella, and Poppy Mostyn-Owen; thank you to Gretchen Mergenthaler, and to Kelly Winton and Helen Crawford-White for designing such delicious covers; many thanks to the production team, the copyeditors, and the proofreaders: Julia Berner-Tobin, Sal Destro, Cassie McSorley, Brenna McDuffie, and Kirsten Giebutowski—y’all are rockstars; and thank you to Jacey Mitziga and Hanna Kenne for keeping things running smoothly.
Thank you to the program of Creative Writing at the University of Wisconsin-Madison where most of these stories were first written, with special thanks to Jesse Lee Kercheval, Sean Bishop, Amaud Jamaul Johnson, and Amy Quan Barry. To Judith Claire Mitchell, thank you for being the first champion of my work, for telling me when it wasn’t working, but especially for telling me when it was (#vivalajudy!); love and thanks to my fiction cohort, who saw these stories in their rawest form and spent time with me, talking through the work: Maddy Court, Jack Ortiz, Rodrigo Restrepo (thank you for everything), Carrie Schuettpelz, Jennie Seidewand (additionally, thank you for all the late-night Netflix-binge hangs), and Emily Shetler. I am so grateful to many institutions for the gift of time, space, and financial support: much gratitude to Hedgebrook, the Key West Literary Seminars, Jack Jones Literary Arts, Tin House (special mentions to Lance Cleland, karaoke legend), and the Elizabeth George Foundation. And thank you to the editors of the magazines listed at the front of this book for your gracious attention, and for publishing these stories.
Thanks to these writers I admire greatly for their talent and generosity, and for the early reads, mentorship, and support: Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah, Jamel Brinkley, Danielle Evans (with extra thanks for your brilliance at UW), Lauren Groff (thank you for Tin House and beyond), T Kira Madden, and Nafissa Thompson-Spires. This meant everything to me.
To the homies, I would not have wanted to walk this path without you: big love to Michael Lee (we’re eating frand!), María Alvarez, Shelley Senai; thank you to TSWT for the early support; Chet’la Sebree, you are a balm in my life—thank you for continually getting me all the way together; and to Sarah Fuchs—these stories have benefited greatly from your sharp eye, your insistence that I could do better. Thank you for everything.
Biggest thanks to my family for their belief in me, and nothing but love, gratitude, and respect to my mom and dad for teaching me as best they could how to live a life.
Finally, thank you to Jason Moniz, who has provided me with unflagging support for the last decade, who has grown up and failed and flown with me; who with just a look, knows exactly what I mean. Thank you for seeing the goodness in me when I couldn’t see it in myself.