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Authors: Keith Scribner
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with humanity than with wild, uncivilized nature.
And it was stunning: old-growth forests wet with moss, mushrooms, sword ferns, and rotting wood, even during the rainless summer. Wild grasses, firs as tall as skyscrapers. She’d quickly come to love the moist embrace of the fog. The gardens around town—front yards of wildflowers and unruly Russian sage—were meant to imitate wilderness, not tame it into regimented rows of flowers and manicured hedges. The striking beauty of the place was the breeze that came up over the coastal range from the Pacific, carrying with it traces of sea salt and fertile, decaying forest.
Every day she took a different route, discovering more gardens and smells. The days were getting too hot for her to be walking at eight months, and this afternoon she planned on swimming at the university. But she wasn’t about to give up the daily intoxication in her nose; in the last two weeks she’d refreshed olfactory memories and added hundreds of new ones.
Stepping slowly around a corner, lightheaded, only a few blocks from their house, she saw a green moving van, a fridge wrapped in a quilted pad standing in the street, and the mover, Edmund, wiping sweat from his forehead with a washcloth.
“Mrs. Pratt,” he called. “Am I right? I never forget a shipper.”
She stopped in the shade beside the truck. “Lovely day.”
“Well put, Mrs. Pratt. I appreciate the sentiment.” He hung the wet cloth over the side mirror, then called over her shoulder. “Hey, Clay. Guess who pops out of the woodwork?”
She turned. He was coming down the front steps holding up an exersaucer and rocking horse like a hunter with fresh kills. She stepped out of his path, but he stopped. “Miss New York,” he said, all taut skin and ropy muscles, scars and smeary tattoos. His head twitched. Sweat collected in the dip above his collarbone. He smelled boyish and feral. He smelled like heat. Then, on a breeze, she smelled Pacific salt and damp forest floor, morels, moss, rotting cedar—or was it Clay?
“Scorcher,” one of them said as her legs went watery and the sky flashed, sparking with white light, her eyes rolling back, then her neck …
Coming to, she was slumped on the rocking horse in the shade of the truck, Edmund fanning her with a clipboard. Clay’s arm, hot as a pelt, was propping up her back, and with his other hand he was holding a Pepsi cup in front of her chin. Cool drops fell from the cup to her arm, and she lipped the straw and sucked in the sweet drink. The first swallow, icy through her chest, revived her.
“More,” Clay instructed, his face close to hers.
And she did as he said, tasting his warm saliva along with the sugar and fizz. She looked into the cave of his mouth.
“Swimming’s better toward the end,” he seemed to be saying. “Especially in this heat.”
“Any number of fine pools in town,” Edmund added.
She took one last drink and pushed off the head of the rocking horse to stand up, seeing that it wasn’t a horse at all. It was a wolf.
For an hour she’d been back and forth between the bedroom and the toilet. Edmund, who’d insisted on walking her home, had made too much of her lightheadedness to Scanlon, who’d made her drink too much lemonade when he wasn’t insisting she lie down to rest. She suspected he liked her in this weakened state. Seven years ago he’d genuinely saved her from an increasingly desperate depression, cared for her through the lows, been patient and tender as she adjusted the Paxil. But when she gained strength and rediscovered her place in the world, he still wanted to be her caretaker.
She sat on the toilet looking at changing tables in a Target circular while Scanlon stood at the mirror combing through his patchy beard, which reminded her of photos she’d seen of him onstage, mid–guitar solo in his old college band—scraggly, hip, self-assured.
“Looks good enough,” he said, “except for a thin spot here.” Hisdepartment
And it was stunning: old-growth forests wet with moss, mushrooms, sword ferns, and rotting wood, even during the rainless summer. Wild grasses, firs as tall as skyscrapers. She’d quickly come to love the moist embrace of the fog. The gardens around town—front yards of wildflowers and unruly Russian sage—were meant to imitate wilderness, not tame it into regimented rows of flowers and manicured hedges. The striking beauty of the place was the breeze that came up over the coastal range from the Pacific, carrying with it traces of sea salt and fertile, decaying forest.
Every day she took a different route, discovering more gardens and smells. The days were getting too hot for her to be walking at eight months, and this afternoon she planned on swimming at the university. But she wasn’t about to give up the daily intoxication in her nose; in the last two weeks she’d refreshed olfactory memories and added hundreds of new ones.
Stepping slowly around a corner, lightheaded, only a few blocks from their house, she saw a green moving van, a fridge wrapped in a quilted pad standing in the street, and the mover, Edmund, wiping sweat from his forehead with a washcloth.
“Mrs. Pratt,” he called. “Am I right? I never forget a shipper.”
She stopped in the shade beside the truck. “Lovely day.”
“Well put, Mrs. Pratt. I appreciate the sentiment.” He hung the wet cloth over the side mirror, then called over her shoulder. “Hey, Clay. Guess who pops out of the woodwork?”
She turned. He was coming down the front steps holding up an exersaucer and rocking horse like a hunter with fresh kills. She stepped out of his path, but he stopped. “Miss New York,” he said, all taut skin and ropy muscles, scars and smeary tattoos. His head twitched. Sweat collected in the dip above his collarbone. He smelled boyish and feral. He smelled like heat. Then, on a breeze, she smelled Pacific salt and damp forest floor, morels, moss, rotting cedar—or was it Clay?
“Scorcher,” one of them said as her legs went watery and the sky flashed, sparking with white light, her eyes rolling back, then her neck …
Coming to, she was slumped on the rocking horse in the shade of the truck, Edmund fanning her with a clipboard. Clay’s arm, hot as a pelt, was propping up her back, and with his other hand he was holding a Pepsi cup in front of her chin. Cool drops fell from the cup to her arm, and she lipped the straw and sucked in the sweet drink. The first swallow, icy through her chest, revived her.
“More,” Clay instructed, his face close to hers.
And she did as he said, tasting his warm saliva along with the sugar and fizz. She looked into the cave of his mouth.
“Swimming’s better toward the end,” he seemed to be saying. “Especially in this heat.”
“Any number of fine pools in town,” Edmund added.
She took one last drink and pushed off the head of the rocking horse to stand up, seeing that it wasn’t a horse at all. It was a wolf.
For an hour she’d been back and forth between the bedroom and the toilet. Edmund, who’d insisted on walking her home, had made too much of her lightheadedness to Scanlon, who’d made her drink too much lemonade when he wasn’t insisting she lie down to rest. She suspected he liked her in this weakened state. Seven years ago he’d genuinely saved her from an increasingly desperate depression, cared for her through the lows, been patient and tender as she adjusted the Paxil. But when she gained strength and rediscovered her place in the world, he still wanted to be her caretaker.
She sat on the toilet looking at changing tables in a Target circular while Scanlon stood at the mirror combing through his patchy beard, which reminded her of photos she’d seen of him onstage, mid–guitar solo in his old college band—scraggly, hip, self-assured.
“Looks good enough,” he said, “except for a thin spot here.” Hisdepartment
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