last now, he thought, be alone.
Over time Randall had built up so much venom that he hadn’t shuddered when the mold collapsed their bedroom ceiling. He wore no expression over their twin coffins. He could at last now, he thought, be alone.
Thereafter, though, among the damp halls, the house hummed with the phantoms of those it’d claimed. In the squished air Randall could hear all three, the folks, the baby, taking turns shaking the ceiling, breaking lamps. He could hear them clawing inside his grubby mattress. However long he lay, there was no rest. Randall prayed soon the mold would pile in on him too, deep enough no one could dig him up.
In the dirt, Randall passed the skin and nail salon where on weekends he liked to watch the girls prance out with their new flesh. He hadn’t sniffed a woman since the dead child’s mother left to meet a man she’d met on a 1-900 party line. Randall imagined her in wider rooms now, bloated with new chub from further births. She likely had a lot of other people in her life.
There was no one in the P.O. None in the laundromat, the frazzled gravel lot.
When the road ended where the town did, Randall continued walking on. He slogged up the mulch ridge ruptured with ant dirt into the smidge of half-dead sun-damaged trees. The days were lasting longer lately. Instead of fourteen hours, the sun would stay for sixteen, twenty. Some nights night never came.
Randall trudged until his breath stung. He turned to look back from where he’d come. White spurs of lightning stung at certain roofs. Randall’s stomach threw itself against his inner meat. He sat down in dirt and stared.
In the light slurring behind him he watched the streets eject a thing that moved. He couldn’t tell for sure, at first: a shimmer,
conjured cogs of spreading heat. He squinted through the stutter until it made a girl. She followed the hill the same way he had, approaching slow, but locked on course—as if she’d been sent to greet him, or he her, there in this absence.
Soon she stood right there beside, skin from skin by inches. Through clotted locks he saw her eyes slit flat over cheeks somehow newly bruised. He recognized the dress—a smock of several garish colors, picked to bits. He couldn’t tell if he smelled himself or her. She sat beside him, knee to knee.
“My father isn’t in the kitchen,” she said, blinkless. “He’s not in the whole house.”
Randall stood up and shook his head off. He stretched as if she wasn’t there. Above, the sky made bubble, blurred with humid grog. Several dozen black birds circled above the town in halo— no, not a halo —a living crust. In recent weeks he’d watched them swoop down and nip old women on the bonnet, their feathers chock with nit.
When he started back in for the city, the girl fell in behind, keeping close through the wrecked light until again they stood among street windows reflecting the outside on itself. The panes heat-warbled in their framework, the glass again becoming sand.
Every so often, the girl offered interjection, questions with no answers Randall knew—
Where are people?
Will they be back?
Why aren’t we also gone?
Who’s the trike for?
What has made your head so huge?
Randall walked in silence...’ so that the paragraph reads: ‘Randall walked in silence, squeezing the puckered plastic of his son’s tricycle’s handles--worn thin by his own fingers, not the child’s. He’d tried several times to ride it: his enormous knees and legs tangled alone among the metal in the night.
Other hours of certain solitary evenings Randall heard his father talking through the house. Most of the speech, to Randall, swam in blather—BUGMERMENNUNMMEM USSIS LUMMMM. Some words he understood— every inch of every inch of every thing you see is fucked . Might as well come ahead and muck it. Put your big head through the wall .
Sometimes the boy joined in—his son who’d yet to use a voice, now stretched heavy, echoed, spooled in
Over time Randall had built up so much venom that he hadn’t shuddered when the mold collapsed their bedroom ceiling. He wore no expression over their twin coffins. He could at last now, he thought, be alone.
Thereafter, though, among the damp halls, the house hummed with the phantoms of those it’d claimed. In the squished air Randall could hear all three, the folks, the baby, taking turns shaking the ceiling, breaking lamps. He could hear them clawing inside his grubby mattress. However long he lay, there was no rest. Randall prayed soon the mold would pile in on him too, deep enough no one could dig him up.
In the dirt, Randall passed the skin and nail salon where on weekends he liked to watch the girls prance out with their new flesh. He hadn’t sniffed a woman since the dead child’s mother left to meet a man she’d met on a 1-900 party line. Randall imagined her in wider rooms now, bloated with new chub from further births. She likely had a lot of other people in her life.
There was no one in the P.O. None in the laundromat, the frazzled gravel lot.
When the road ended where the town did, Randall continued walking on. He slogged up the mulch ridge ruptured with ant dirt into the smidge of half-dead sun-damaged trees. The days were lasting longer lately. Instead of fourteen hours, the sun would stay for sixteen, twenty. Some nights night never came.
Randall trudged until his breath stung. He turned to look back from where he’d come. White spurs of lightning stung at certain roofs. Randall’s stomach threw itself against his inner meat. He sat down in dirt and stared.
In the light slurring behind him he watched the streets eject a thing that moved. He couldn’t tell for sure, at first: a shimmer,
conjured cogs of spreading heat. He squinted through the stutter until it made a girl. She followed the hill the same way he had, approaching slow, but locked on course—as if she’d been sent to greet him, or he her, there in this absence.
Soon she stood right there beside, skin from skin by inches. Through clotted locks he saw her eyes slit flat over cheeks somehow newly bruised. He recognized the dress—a smock of several garish colors, picked to bits. He couldn’t tell if he smelled himself or her. She sat beside him, knee to knee.
“My father isn’t in the kitchen,” she said, blinkless. “He’s not in the whole house.”
Randall stood up and shook his head off. He stretched as if she wasn’t there. Above, the sky made bubble, blurred with humid grog. Several dozen black birds circled above the town in halo— no, not a halo —a living crust. In recent weeks he’d watched them swoop down and nip old women on the bonnet, their feathers chock with nit.
When he started back in for the city, the girl fell in behind, keeping close through the wrecked light until again they stood among street windows reflecting the outside on itself. The panes heat-warbled in their framework, the glass again becoming sand.
Every so often, the girl offered interjection, questions with no answers Randall knew—
Where are people?
Will they be back?
Why aren’t we also gone?
Who’s the trike for?
What has made your head so huge?
Randall walked in silence...’ so that the paragraph reads: ‘Randall walked in silence, squeezing the puckered plastic of his son’s tricycle’s handles--worn thin by his own fingers, not the child’s. He’d tried several times to ride it: his enormous knees and legs tangled alone among the metal in the night.
Other hours of certain solitary evenings Randall heard his father talking through the house. Most of the speech, to Randall, swam in blather—BUGMERMENNUNMMEM USSIS LUMMMM. Some words he understood— every inch of every inch of every thing you see is fucked . Might as well come ahead and muck it. Put your big head through the wall .
Sometimes the boy joined in—his son who’d yet to use a voice, now stretched heavy, echoed, spooled in
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