Read Online There Is No Year by Blake Butler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Blake Butler
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still, touching the doorknob. The man rubbed his eyes and took her by the hand. Throughout the house thereafter they kept on looking back in the direction of the son’s room’s location, even through the floors and walls and walls.
They did not seem to care at all to see the master bedroom, where they would sleep night by night by night by night by night, the mother mentioned, the word night falling out of her mouth in repetition, she could not stop it , and still they did not say a word or blink.
They did not look askance to find the master bathroom’s mirror again off its putty, leaning forward above the basin making double image of the floor.
They did not seem to smell the smell of something musty coming from the vents there, the mold loosening all through the house, suddenly warm.
Their foreheads folded slightly at the child’s bookshelf, packed fat end to end with colored spines, though while awake and of his knowledge, the son had only ever read one book — a volume given to him by the father’s father, unbeknownst to either parent, a strange, enormous edition with only one letter on every page, to be read along a slow strobe. The son had found he could quote the text at length before he’d read it. When he did read blood would leak out of his nose. It would pour onto the white pages, blanks, making new letters, then, on closing, smear them doubled, smudge the letters into more.
The couple moved so slow all through the house, like lava.
A bell inside the house was ringing, though the mother could not hear.
This is where on the weekends my son likes to sit and tan her skin, the mother mentioned in the kitchen, pointing through the door glass at the yard and swimming pool. His skin , she corrected, not hers . My son is a boy. She said how good it felt for children to go swimming. What clean work water could do.
The couple appeared blank. The mother shook her head, began again. Hello, yes, welcome, please come in now, I’d love to show you our fine house. The flushing mother started to open the door to lead them out to where the pool was, to have a closer look, but then thought of something and stopped and stopped again. She turned to press her back against the glass. Actually they couldn’t see the swimming pool today, the mother explained, aching, as it had just been treated. It wasn’t right to breathe. The couple did not press this issue. They continued not to blink or budge or motion or say much of anything at all.
HEY
Hey, what’s your due date, the mother asked at some point, on a whim. She asked with a strange expression on her face. She didn’t know she wore the expression and didn’t mean the thing the expression seemed to mean she meant. They’d gone through the whole house already and were back in the first room where they started, with the couple standing close together, arms at their sides. The mother was standing near another window when she said it, the whole back of her head and spine aflush with light coming down into the house from outside, though in the outside now it was night, and there were no streetlamps and no moon or stars. There was nothing, not even the yard.
The couple’s mouths were closed.
The mother made a motion at her own midsection as if there were a bigger belly there—where the son had been upon her sometime and now was just the air. She nodded between the blank space and the woman, drawing lines out with the motion of her head.
The man looked hard at the mother, shook his head. He shook his head so hard it briefly blurred. Stopping again, he looked older.
The mother’s mouth continued moving without sound. She touched her own face, which felt like anybody’s. She felt her jaw pulse in its gristle.
The man touched the silent woman on the back.
She’s sickly, the man said. His voice was so small, sticky. She’s not been feeling well. It’s been known to go around.
The woman sniffed and sniffed, like wanting food.
It’s been known to go around, the
They did not seem to care at all to see the master bedroom, where they would sleep night by night by night by night by night, the mother mentioned, the word night falling out of her mouth in repetition, she could not stop it , and still they did not say a word or blink.
They did not look askance to find the master bathroom’s mirror again off its putty, leaning forward above the basin making double image of the floor.
They did not seem to smell the smell of something musty coming from the vents there, the mold loosening all through the house, suddenly warm.
Their foreheads folded slightly at the child’s bookshelf, packed fat end to end with colored spines, though while awake and of his knowledge, the son had only ever read one book — a volume given to him by the father’s father, unbeknownst to either parent, a strange, enormous edition with only one letter on every page, to be read along a slow strobe. The son had found he could quote the text at length before he’d read it. When he did read blood would leak out of his nose. It would pour onto the white pages, blanks, making new letters, then, on closing, smear them doubled, smudge the letters into more.
The couple moved so slow all through the house, like lava.
A bell inside the house was ringing, though the mother could not hear.
This is where on the weekends my son likes to sit and tan her skin, the mother mentioned in the kitchen, pointing through the door glass at the yard and swimming pool. His skin , she corrected, not hers . My son is a boy. She said how good it felt for children to go swimming. What clean work water could do.
The couple appeared blank. The mother shook her head, began again. Hello, yes, welcome, please come in now, I’d love to show you our fine house. The flushing mother started to open the door to lead them out to where the pool was, to have a closer look, but then thought of something and stopped and stopped again. She turned to press her back against the glass. Actually they couldn’t see the swimming pool today, the mother explained, aching, as it had just been treated. It wasn’t right to breathe. The couple did not press this issue. They continued not to blink or budge or motion or say much of anything at all.
HEY
Hey, what’s your due date, the mother asked at some point, on a whim. She asked with a strange expression on her face. She didn’t know she wore the expression and didn’t mean the thing the expression seemed to mean she meant. They’d gone through the whole house already and were back in the first room where they started, with the couple standing close together, arms at their sides. The mother was standing near another window when she said it, the whole back of her head and spine aflush with light coming down into the house from outside, though in the outside now it was night, and there were no streetlamps and no moon or stars. There was nothing, not even the yard.
The couple’s mouths were closed.
The mother made a motion at her own midsection as if there were a bigger belly there—where the son had been upon her sometime and now was just the air. She nodded between the blank space and the woman, drawing lines out with the motion of her head.
The man looked hard at the mother, shook his head. He shook his head so hard it briefly blurred. Stopping again, he looked older.
The mother’s mouth continued moving without sound. She touched her own face, which felt like anybody’s. She felt her jaw pulse in its gristle.
The man touched the silent woman on the back.
She’s sickly, the man said. His voice was so small, sticky. She’s not been feeling well. It’s been known to go around.
The woman sniffed and sniffed, like wanting food.
It’s been known to go around, the
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