Read Online The Small Backs of Children by Lidia Yuknavitch - Free Book Online
Authors: Lidia Yuknavitch
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of her own books, books written by her. The beer going down his throat branches out across his chest. His throat is warm. His hands ache. Their lives together make a list in his skull, because that’s all he’s able to think or feel.
Before she was a writer, she was an abused daughter.
Before he was a filmmaker, he was a neglected son.
Before he turned to art, he was a bouncer at a casino.
Before she turned to art, she was a flunking-out addict.
Both of them briefly arrested and incarcerated.
Both of them stealing their lives back, pursuing lives of the mind. Both of them carrying invisible injuries, injustices, betrayals, all in silence.
When they first met, he took her to Gold’s Gym. Taught her how to box, how to defend herself, stayed with it even when she accidentally punched herself in the nose. She took him to a swimming pool to do laps, because she said water was the one place she felt free, and he swam laps even though he was allergic to chlorine.
She introduced him to the movies Cool Hand Luke and On the Waterfront.
After the gym, he played Bach for her on the cello.
It was as if the crappiness of both their lives opened up and let them at each other.
Before they were anyone, they were who they would become in each other’s arms, each of them passing through crucibles to reach the other, each of them arriving at art instead of death.
She writes stories of their lives and desires and fears.
He makes art films based on the stories.
She collects experiences and images and pulls them down to the page.
He takes actions and images and projects them up onto a screen.
Who are they? What is their love? Is it their son? Is it their art?
He touches the spines of her books in the dark.
Love isn’t what anyone said. It’s worse. You can die from it at any moment.
He picks out a book she wrote, containing one of the stories he adapted to film. The film is nearly finished. The closing scene is her. She is walking naked toward the angry ocean on a cold day in November. Her blond hair wrestles the wind. She keeps walking even after she is knee-high in waves. He knew, as he filmed her, that the water was freezing. He also knew she wouldn’t flinch. She walked far enough to dive straight into the oncoming waves, the camera trained on her, their son perched in a carrier on his back. And then she swam against the waves. Bold strokes into white-frothed swells. Far enough that he screamed, “Cut!” Far enough that he stopped filming. Far enough that he started to yell into the wind and the noise of the surf—it was a cold day, no one else around on the beach—“ Stop! Come back! ” Her name, but his voice was swallowed by gales and tides. His chest tightening. His thoughts racing as his body readied itself for action: Set the child on the shore remove your boots remove your jacket and pants enter the ocean for her even though you are a weak swimmer enter the ocean for her do not watch her disappear into water. Their son’s voice behind his head a cooing sound, “Mama,” as he reached for the strap at his shoulder.
But she did stop.
He saw her turn back to look at them, the way a seal’s head pokes up sporadically to eyeball a human on shore.
And then she swam back to them.
She left the water cold and shivering, and he wrapped her ina towel, and she said to him plainly and without the suggestion of drama, “Did you get the shot? Was it okay?” Her lips blue, even as she smiled, a little like a corpse mermaid.
Is their love their art? Are their lives making art?
He stares at the spines of the books in her writing room. He feels she is the other side of things—the balance, the space to his motion, velocity, force. If in him need drives the fist, then in her space receives all action. But it is not a velvety romantic love. It is creative and destructive. He thinks of her body. He wants to fuck the room of her. The whole house.
Suddenly he needs to be in the bedroom. He makes his way upstairs, into
Before she was a writer, she was an abused daughter.
Before he was a filmmaker, he was a neglected son.
Before he turned to art, he was a bouncer at a casino.
Before she turned to art, she was a flunking-out addict.
Both of them briefly arrested and incarcerated.
Both of them stealing their lives back, pursuing lives of the mind. Both of them carrying invisible injuries, injustices, betrayals, all in silence.
When they first met, he took her to Gold’s Gym. Taught her how to box, how to defend herself, stayed with it even when she accidentally punched herself in the nose. She took him to a swimming pool to do laps, because she said water was the one place she felt free, and he swam laps even though he was allergic to chlorine.
She introduced him to the movies Cool Hand Luke and On the Waterfront.
After the gym, he played Bach for her on the cello.
It was as if the crappiness of both their lives opened up and let them at each other.
Before they were anyone, they were who they would become in each other’s arms, each of them passing through crucibles to reach the other, each of them arriving at art instead of death.
She writes stories of their lives and desires and fears.
He makes art films based on the stories.
She collects experiences and images and pulls them down to the page.
He takes actions and images and projects them up onto a screen.
Who are they? What is their love? Is it their son? Is it their art?
He touches the spines of her books in the dark.
Love isn’t what anyone said. It’s worse. You can die from it at any moment.
He picks out a book she wrote, containing one of the stories he adapted to film. The film is nearly finished. The closing scene is her. She is walking naked toward the angry ocean on a cold day in November. Her blond hair wrestles the wind. She keeps walking even after she is knee-high in waves. He knew, as he filmed her, that the water was freezing. He also knew she wouldn’t flinch. She walked far enough to dive straight into the oncoming waves, the camera trained on her, their son perched in a carrier on his back. And then she swam against the waves. Bold strokes into white-frothed swells. Far enough that he screamed, “Cut!” Far enough that he stopped filming. Far enough that he started to yell into the wind and the noise of the surf—it was a cold day, no one else around on the beach—“ Stop! Come back! ” Her name, but his voice was swallowed by gales and tides. His chest tightening. His thoughts racing as his body readied itself for action: Set the child on the shore remove your boots remove your jacket and pants enter the ocean for her even though you are a weak swimmer enter the ocean for her do not watch her disappear into water. Their son’s voice behind his head a cooing sound, “Mama,” as he reached for the strap at his shoulder.
But she did stop.
He saw her turn back to look at them, the way a seal’s head pokes up sporadically to eyeball a human on shore.
And then she swam back to them.
She left the water cold and shivering, and he wrapped her ina towel, and she said to him plainly and without the suggestion of drama, “Did you get the shot? Was it okay?” Her lips blue, even as she smiled, a little like a corpse mermaid.
Is their love their art? Are their lives making art?
He stares at the spines of the books in her writing room. He feels she is the other side of things—the balance, the space to his motion, velocity, force. If in him need drives the fist, then in her space receives all action. But it is not a velvety romantic love. It is creative and destructive. He thinks of her body. He wants to fuck the room of her. The whole house.
Suddenly he needs to be in the bedroom. He makes his way upstairs, into
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