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Authors: Vendela Vida
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something," he said.
"What?" I asked, and that's when I saw what was in his hand. "A gun."
"You're going to kill the bat with a gun?"
He didn't answer, but put the gun down. Then he went out to the front porch and grabbed a shovel. I followed him back into the bedroom.
"Nick," I said. "What about that there?" I pointed to a wall by the window where a strange black shape, narrow at the top and at the bottom, like a leaf, seemed to have fastened itself against the wall.
I looked closer—not too close—but couldn't tell. The shape was so small and still. The bat I had seen the night before had a wingspan of what had seemed to me a foot, at least. This surely was not a bat. I got closer and saw it pulsing. Afraid I would alarm it, I tried not to scream. Of course it was the bat—bats slept during the day—but it was so small and folded up.
Nicholas was standing with the shovel that he had found on the porch. He held the shovel like an ax above his head. He let out a grunting sound and brought the shovel blade down hard. Blood, there was a smattering of it, and it was over.
The bat slid down the wall a foot, leaving a trail of red, but so tenacious was its grasp that it didn't fall. Nicholas took the shovel and, now holding it properly, maneuvered the bat around. He walked toward the kitchen. I followed him and watched him slide the bat off the shovel and onto the chopping block in the kitchen's island.
"What are you doing?" I said.
He got out a knife and started cutting the bat into small, square-inch pieces. "What are you doing?" I screamed.
He didn't answer. I wondered if he could hear me—he was so involved in chopping up the bat I feared he couldn't.
We drove back to campus in silence.
A few miles after we'd stopped for gas, at a junction where I knew I could catch a train if need be, I told him I thought we should take a break. "Hiatus," is what I called it. I said it like it was the name of a country we might want to explore. We'd buy a guidebook called Let's Go Hiatus .
"Have you thought this through?" he said. "Yes," I said.
The car swerved off the road and crashed into an apple tree. Turkeys ran; old, rotten apples fell onto the roof of his Saab, landing hard as hail.
I still have the small scar on my forehead. It's faded, but it still prongs out like a tuning fork. When I'm tan it turns white. When I try to conceal it, it looks orange. When the scar first started fading, I thought about painting it back in because it made me feel tough.
Maybe I should have done this, painted it in, I think now.
"I need your share of the money," Nicholas says over the phone.
He doesn't need the money, but each month since April I've put aside $125, so now I have the $1,000 for the house I never lived in. I don't want to owe him anything.
"Why don't you bring it over tomorrow?" he says.
I look at my calendar and I remember. "Tomorrow's your birthday," I say.
I get off the phone and water the plants. They look like they're dying so I breathe on them. Onto their leaves, I exhale huhs . Am I supposed to breathe onto the soil? I decide yes.
That night, when I come home from tutoring, the ROTC boy is sleeping outside my door. I step over him into the apartment. I come back out and give him a pillow and a blanket.
When the ROTC boy wakes up the next morning he rings the doorbell. I pretend to not be home.
I put the four one-hundred-dollar bills, five fifties, seventeen twenties, and one ten in an envelope and lick it shut. Outside my door, the pillow is wrapped inside the blanket. I take the subway and then the crosstowri bus and then walk. Nicholas is staying at his fathers place on East 72nd Street. His father made his fortune developing real estate in New York, and Nicholas has told me the apartment's been decorated by his father's various interior decorator mistresses. I enter the living room, where Nicholas is sitting in a chair, his back to me. I don't recognize the back of .the brown-haired
"What?" I asked, and that's when I saw what was in his hand. "A gun."
"You're going to kill the bat with a gun?"
He didn't answer, but put the gun down. Then he went out to the front porch and grabbed a shovel. I followed him back into the bedroom.
"Nick," I said. "What about that there?" I pointed to a wall by the window where a strange black shape, narrow at the top and at the bottom, like a leaf, seemed to have fastened itself against the wall.
I looked closer—not too close—but couldn't tell. The shape was so small and still. The bat I had seen the night before had a wingspan of what had seemed to me a foot, at least. This surely was not a bat. I got closer and saw it pulsing. Afraid I would alarm it, I tried not to scream. Of course it was the bat—bats slept during the day—but it was so small and folded up.
Nicholas was standing with the shovel that he had found on the porch. He held the shovel like an ax above his head. He let out a grunting sound and brought the shovel blade down hard. Blood, there was a smattering of it, and it was over.
The bat slid down the wall a foot, leaving a trail of red, but so tenacious was its grasp that it didn't fall. Nicholas took the shovel and, now holding it properly, maneuvered the bat around. He walked toward the kitchen. I followed him and watched him slide the bat off the shovel and onto the chopping block in the kitchen's island.
"What are you doing?" I said.
He got out a knife and started cutting the bat into small, square-inch pieces. "What are you doing?" I screamed.
He didn't answer. I wondered if he could hear me—he was so involved in chopping up the bat I feared he couldn't.
We drove back to campus in silence.
A few miles after we'd stopped for gas, at a junction where I knew I could catch a train if need be, I told him I thought we should take a break. "Hiatus," is what I called it. I said it like it was the name of a country we might want to explore. We'd buy a guidebook called Let's Go Hiatus .
"Have you thought this through?" he said. "Yes," I said.
The car swerved off the road and crashed into an apple tree. Turkeys ran; old, rotten apples fell onto the roof of his Saab, landing hard as hail.
I still have the small scar on my forehead. It's faded, but it still prongs out like a tuning fork. When I'm tan it turns white. When I try to conceal it, it looks orange. When the scar first started fading, I thought about painting it back in because it made me feel tough.
Maybe I should have done this, painted it in, I think now.
"I need your share of the money," Nicholas says over the phone.
He doesn't need the money, but each month since April I've put aside $125, so now I have the $1,000 for the house I never lived in. I don't want to owe him anything.
"Why don't you bring it over tomorrow?" he says.
I look at my calendar and I remember. "Tomorrow's your birthday," I say.
I get off the phone and water the plants. They look like they're dying so I breathe on them. Onto their leaves, I exhale huhs . Am I supposed to breathe onto the soil? I decide yes.
That night, when I come home from tutoring, the ROTC boy is sleeping outside my door. I step over him into the apartment. I come back out and give him a pillow and a blanket.
When the ROTC boy wakes up the next morning he rings the doorbell. I pretend to not be home.
I put the four one-hundred-dollar bills, five fifties, seventeen twenties, and one ten in an envelope and lick it shut. Outside my door, the pillow is wrapped inside the blanket. I take the subway and then the crosstowri bus and then walk. Nicholas is staying at his fathers place on East 72nd Street. His father made his fortune developing real estate in New York, and Nicholas has told me the apartment's been decorated by his father's various interior decorator mistresses. I enter the living room, where Nicholas is sitting in a chair, his back to me. I don't recognize the back of .the brown-haired
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