Authors: Lindsay Hunter

Daddy's (2 page)

Get on the scale, Yesenia says. She’s standing in front of me, arms crossed over her belly. I can’t get her into focus—I can still see her parents’ heads floating around, zooming in and moving away, until they finally settle onto her breasts. And then I realize I’m staring at her breasts.

Get on the fucking scale, she says. Her face is red and wet, tears streaming freely.

Yeah, okay, I tell her. I get on the scale and she crouches to read the numbers. Her spine sticks out and in the bright light of the bathroom little shadows collect under the bones.

Ha, she says, standing. I still weigh more than a hundred pounds less than you. She takes her bikini top out of the sink and wipes her face with it. Let’s go find something to eat.

In the kitchen she piles a tub of ice cream, spray cheese, Doritos, a six-pack of Diet Coke, and pretzels onto a tray. We put it between us on the couch and she sits, cross-legged and naked, and watches me eat. Is that good? she asks. That looks really good.

I eat slowly. Every once in a while applause soars from the television and I mentally bow. I don’t even know why the television is on—she watches me, and I watch the food.

I eat until I can’t eat anymore. I’m done, I tell her.

Okay, she says. Good. She puts the tray on the floor and scoots closer. I give her my hand and she sucks my fingers clean. The thunder is so loud it drowns out the television, but I watch it anyway—a talk show, a woman openly sobbing, a child stunned by the lights, the host stabbing the microphone into the audience. Who has something to say?
Say
something, say
something
. Yesenia’s mouth is warm, and even though I can’t say I like it, it’s soothing, and it feels good.

When she’s done she flings my hand into my lap. I try not to be obvious about wiping it on my jeans.

This is a dumb show, she says.

I know, I tell her.

She leans in and kisses me, licking my lips, probing my mouth for bits of food, sucking my tongue. I keep my eyes open, watching the fading dots of her parents’ heads dancing around the room.

She finishes, leaning back into the arm of the sofa, rubbing her arms. I’m still cold, she says.

So get dressed, I tell her.

You’re not a dyke, are you? she asks.

I shake my head. No.

She nods to herself. Good, she says. You should go—my stepdad’s going to be home soon.

At the door she says, See you tomorrow.

I leave my bike at her house and walk home. The thunder is so loud it sounds like hunks of sky are crashing all around me. I make it to my street before it starts raining thick drops that sting my skin. I’m drenched by the time I can see my brother at the window, staring out at this sea of rain, his mouth closing, his mouth opening, his mouth closing. I lie on my back in the yard and let the rain fill my mouth. I wonder how long I can stay like this before he thinks I’m drowning. Probably forever.

THE FENCE

My husband, Tim, came home on his lunch hour and we had sex on the floor next to the oven. I could see our reflection in the black glass door and when Tim turned his face toward it I saw his flared nostrils, his neck thick with effort, and I turned my head so that I was looking at the island in the middle of the kitchen instead. Near the end I saw an ant scuttling through a tiny hole at the baseboard. It went toward the living room and I remembered the coffee I’d left on the coffee table, and wondered if it could smell the coffee from here, and if it would drown in pursuit of the sugar I’d stirred in, but I was still able to come. Concerned, our black Labrador, Marky, came over and started licking at the beads of sweat on my face. I pushed him away and he trotted around the island to sniff between my legs, his wet nose flitting at the inside of my thigh. When I clamped my legs together his head got caught, and he yelped.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Tim cooed, still on his knees. He scooted over to Marky and scratched his ears and under his collar. “Want me to rub your belly? Let me rub that belly, there we go.” Marky lay on his back, his paws jerking with pleasure.

Tim took his sandwich to go and called me from the car. I could hear him chewing. He said, “I’m still hard. I liked that. Love you.” When we hung up I gave Marky a bacon treat.

After I cleaned myself up I went to the fence and then I went again just before Tim came home—he thought I was out there to greet him, and I let him believe it.

I woke up to Tim’s hand on my arm, trying to roll me over. “Hey,” he whispered, “come here.” When I turned to him I could see over his shoulder that it was 5:13 in the morning. His breath was hot in my face and he didn’t bother pulling my underwear all the way down—just enough so that he could maneuver. He guided me onto my back and then he lay on his side and I folded my legs over his, my underwear stretching from knee to knee. He held me by the hip and pushed himself in. He was done quickly, and he fell asleep with his head on my shoulder. Marky never stirred from his place at the foot of the bed, though he did begin to dream, his legs jerking and his mouth quivering, a low whine coming through his nostrils.

When Tim left for work, his hair still wet from our shower, his fingers playing with my zipper, I turned Animal Planet on for Marky, removed his collar, and went to the fence. It runs the entire length and width of our property, but I have my favorite corner, right where the gravel driveway stops and the grass starts, where I can see the road and if I stretch I can touch our mailbox. The fence is invisible, but it’s there. I wind the vinyl part of Marky’s collar around my hand, holding the plastic receiver in my palm, and then I press the cold metal stimulator against my underwear, step forward, and the jolt is delivered. Like a million ants biting. Like teeth. Like the G-spot exists. Like a tiny knife, a precise pinch. Like fireworks. I can’t help it—I cry out; my underwear is flooded with perfect warmth. I lie back in the grass and see stars.

I try and think of my husband when I go to the fence, but he becomes a distraction, and sometimes when I conjure him up I can’t go through with it, and my trip is ruined.

Tim barely made it through the door. He pushed me up against the doorjamb, tugging at my zipper. His was already open; I could see his bouncing penis through the glass panes at the door as he walked from the garage.

My pants fell around my ankles. We were in an awkward position—my legs couldn’t open enough—so he spun me around and bent me over the table that he threw his keys on each night when he came home from work. Its top was intricately tiled in the shape of a large green turtle, its legs splayed and its eyes weirdly on top of its head. My front tooth caught some of the grout during one of Tim’s thrusts, and when I cried out he said, “Yeah. There we go. Like it, don’t you.” Still, I came, shuddering until my knees buckled, nearly rocking the table onto its side, and then Tim came, heaving at my back in long dry sobs. Marky lazily watched us from his place on the couch, his eyes slowly shutting and then bursting open at every new sound.

“God, I’m starving,” Tim said, his mouth hot and wet at my neck. “Do we have any M&M’s? Peanut?”

He left soon after that, a red Dixie cup full of M&M’s in one hand while the other swatted at his crotch. “Sore. In a good way. You too, I hope,” and his eyes were so full of genuine interest that I pushed him out the door, bowing my legs in answer. He mimed stepping over the invisible fence, looking back to see if I was laughing, and I wondered if my trips out there were the cause of the sudden urgency of our sex life, if he could sense something was different, if the fence worked on him even without him knowing about it.

I watched his car back down the driveway, then I waited for the cloud of dust it kicked up to settle, and then Animal Planet, collar, jolt, wet explosion and sleep.

The phone was ringing when I came back inside. I put Marky’s collar on and let him out, and then I answered it.

“I just saw you lying in a heap in the grass. I told Fred to stop but he said he could see you breathing even though we were going thirty-five miles an hour and that you were probably just sunning yourself. I told him if we see on the news that our neighbor was found dead in her yard and we didn’t stop I’d never forgive him for as long as I live. So you’re fine, you’re alive?”

“I was just playing with Marky. Playing dead.” Cradling the phone at my shoulder, I peeled off my pants and underwear. I could see the bruise under my pubic hair—a sunburst of purple and blue. It was tender and sent a zing of pain through my groin when I touched it.

“I didn’t even see Marky. Well. You want me to come over? You want to have tea?”

“Some other time,” I told her. The brightness of the bruise wasn’t helping—I’d been trying to work up the courage to hold the collar to my bare skin.

“Kiss that husband of yours for me. Bye bye.”

Outside, Marky was running from edge to edge, his body bucking. Twice, he got too close and his body froze and he screamed like his heart was broken, like he was being pulled apart.

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