Hall of Small Mammals (9 page)

Circles within circles, Flynn thinks. He finds his son by the fire.

“You ready to call it a night?”

“Okay,” he says, and tosses his marshmallow stick into the bonfire.

They leave the light of the ceremony. Their eyes slowly adjust to the darkness of the field. Ryan is swinging his arms and looking up to the stars. Flynn wants his boy to be happy.

“What are you thinking about?” Flynn asks.

“Nothing.”

“What else are you thinking about?”

“I don't like this uniform,” he says.

“That's okay.”

“I hate it. It makes my armpits itch.”

“You don't have to wear it again,” Flynn says. “If you don't want.”

They're following the edge of the lake now. A cool breeze twists the leaves in the trees. Flynn is still thinking about circles within circles. Also, he's thinking about snakes curled into circles by the water.

They reach the tent and climb inside. They stretch out on the sleeping bags and lie awake, side by side. The cell phone dings, its screen glowing blue inside his son's sleeping bag.

“She wants to know if I'm ready to come home,” Ryan says. “I can talk to her tomorrow.”

Flynn burrows into his bag and takes off his socks, trying to
get comfortable. They're still not asleep when the thunderstorm starts an hour later. The thought of all those Grasshopper Kings caught in the downpour brings a smile to Flynn's face. The tent shakes in the wind, the rain loud as bullets on the canvas. Everything is dark, but they can feel water dripping from the seams. The water bubbles up from below too. Tonight they will get very wet. Tonight they may get washed away. Even Mookie the bear on his T-shirt throne will not be spared. The water will cover all. Soon, nothing will ever burn again.

Flynn rolls over onto his side with the yellow matchbook. When he lights the match, his son's face is there, just beyond the flame, the light reflected in his eyes. They watch the tiny fire move down the paper stick toward Flynn's fingers. Before it hits the bottom and goes out, he leans toward his son. “Do you want to hear a
truth?”

H
ow will we know when the biscuits are ready?” Ellie is staring into the oven window. The tray is on the second rack from the bottom. The dough, still wet, isn't doing much. Harry sits on the countertop, the back of his tennis shoes thumping the cabinet door. His black hair hangs sheetlike over his forehead, and he flicks his head quickly. It's a tic he's got.

“My mother's making me go to church in the morning,” he says.

“When I was little, we went to church maybe once a month,” she says. “But I prayed every night, and I had this magazine cutout on my wall, and I thought it was a picture of God but later I realized it was just Allen Ginsberg.”

“You should just see my mother at church,” he says. “It's obscene. She waves her arms like this during the songs.” He has his hands up over his head.

Ellie can't help but laugh. Harry is living at home again and
that means he has to do certain things. Take out the trash. Keep his nails clean. Believe in a higher power.

The biscuits glisten in the oven.

“Sometimes I wonder if my mother is on something,” Harry says. “I wish there were more drugs. Different ones. I wish there was a drug that made everything look two-dimensional. Like we were living on a sheet of paper.”

“I wish there was a drug that made everything taste like fried chicken,” Ellie says.

“I wish there was one that let you see every kind of light there is and all the colors we can't see now.”

She looks back in the oven, and the biscuits are golden, maybe even a little brown.

“Let's take them to the park,” she says. She wants to hang upside down from the jungle gym. The way they used to.

•   •   •

They go to the park with their biscuits protected in paper towels. Ellie has blueberry jam on her biscuit. Harry has butter on his. A little girl is already on the jungle gym so they sit down on a bench like the parents do. Ellie tugs loose a strand of her long brown hair and slips it into her mouth to suck on the loose ends. Her mother doesn't like this habit, says it's something little girls do and not women. “You could be so much prettier if you acted like it,” she sometimes says, which makes Ellie laugh because
pretty
,
to her mother, means plucked and proper with a big pink Easter hat. Aside from her chin, which Ellie fears is maybe a tad doughy, she is satisfied with her body, the large blue eyes, the waist thin as a
wine bottle. Her boyfriend, Bryan, says she's got a “classic” look, plus amazing lips.

“I'm not a big fan of Bryan's,” Harry says when Ellie brings him up. “He's okay, I guess, but I don't get you two together. As a couple, I mean.”

Ellie has been dating Bryan for not quite a year, but she doesn't object when Harry puts his hand on her bare knee on the bench. It's like old times. They finish their biscuits, and Ellie leads him into the women's bathroom in the public park and locks the door. He lifts Ellie onto the edge of the sink, and the sink is wet. She feels herself sliding back into the basin.

“It's kind of gross in here,” Harry says. “Sorry.”

He's right, but that doesn't stop them. They keep their tops on, and Harry is fast. He goes outside to wait on her. She needs a moment in the stall. On one of the walls, someone has written,
HALLELUJAH BATHTUB
. Ellie wouldn't mind a hallelujah bath, whatever that is.

She joins Harry on the bench outside again. The little girl is gone from the jungle gym, but they don't feel like hanging upside down anymore.

“I know I was a little fast,” Harry says.

“Next time will be better,” she says.

Next time is a little better. They are in her bedroom on top of the covers. Her mother is out to lunch. When it's over they agree a nap seems like a nice idea, but neither of them can fall asleep. She tries to extrapolate an entire life from this moment, the two of them spooning together in her bed, time marked by the spray of the sprinkler slapping the window glass, by the whir of the
overhead fan. She shuts her eyes and sees Allen Ginsberg's shining bearded face. Harry, arm draped over her side, pretends to snore, then asks if she wants to make something in the kitchen. Biscuits—or maybe éclairs? His mother recently taught him how to make an amazing cream from scratch.

“Do you ever want to be somewhere other than here?” she asks.

He sits up, his back against the cloth headboard, silent.

“I used to say I was going to study dolphins when I grew up,” she says. “Bottlenose, Long-Beaked, Short-Beaked, Spinner. I had all the species memorized.”

“I do remember you having dolphin stickers on all your notebooks.”

She slides out of bed and stretches with her hands on the back of her head, spinning back and forth like a weather vane before a storm. “I've got plans with Mary now,” she says. “But call me later, okay?”

Ellie doesn't really have plans with Mary because Mary is working today. Instead she drives over to her boyfriend Bryan's house because he's been out of town for the last few days to see his aunt and uncle. They watch some television and eat fruit Popsicles. During a commercial break, Bryan mutes the volume and announces that he may be moving to Charlotte.

“Why?”

“My uncle got me a job at his bank.”

“But you're a drummer.”

“I'm still a drummer,” he says. “And now I'm a banker too.”

But she suspects that it is not really possible to be both things.

Bryan asks if she'd like to move to Charlotte too. It would be
a big step, he knows—their names on the same mailbox, on the electricity bills, on a one-year lease. Ellie says she wants some time to think about it, and then they kiss for a little while.

During a commercial, she asks, “Did you know millions of years ago dolphins lived on the land and they looked like rat-wolves?”

He mutes the volume again. “Wait, what are we talking about now?”

“Dolphins. They had legs. So, basically they evolved from being water animals to land animals and then went back to being water animals again.”

There is an analogy here, somewhere, she's sure of it, one in which she is the dolphin and Charlotte is either dry land or the ocean.

•   •   •

When she leaves Bryan's house, Harry is parked across the street in his mother's car. He has followed her here. His window is down but he doesn't say anything until she's all the way at the car, one hand on the roof. The paint between the ski rack and the top of the door is bubbled and cracked, the windshield splattered with dark berry bird shit.

“I thought you'd broken it off with Bryan,” he says.

She never said that. Not exactly.

“Get in,” he says. “Please.”

They drive to the top of a small mountain and park at the overlook. He sits on the guardrail with his legs over the side. With his phone he takes a picture of Ellie on the hood of the car.

“I'm ready to go home,” she says. “Let's go.”

They stop for soft serve first. In the car his paper cup springs a leak. He's got vanilla ice cream dribbled across his jeans. She rubs her hand up and down his knee a few times and points at the milk.

“That was fast,” she says, a bad joke. “Sorry.”

He crushes his empty cup and drops it on the floorboard with all the other trash—receipts, old printed Google Maps directions stomped with dirty bootprints, napkins, fast-food bags, straws with crushed and chewed-up tips. She worries the state of his car is a manifestation of some inner turmoil. Your car is a temple, a twenty-first-century Bible might say.

By the time they pull up in front of her house, she's made a decision.

“I'm moving to Charlotte,” she says.

Harry says that's awful news. The worst kind of news. Just what's so bad about where they are now? he wants to know. He might be crying. Or maybe it's the car's dry heat. She can't tell. “It's not definite,” she says, and he perks up a bit.

“Good,” he says. “Then we can talk about it more later.”

•   •   •

She moves to Charlotte and works in an art gallery. Her favorite painting is on the back wall. Two red squares intersected by a blue. If someone asked why she likes it most, she'd have nothing to say. Every afternoon she drinks a small iced mocha with whipped cream on top. Bryan goes to work in a suit and within the year has gained twenty pounds. But their apartment is well decorated. The furniture comes from various online catalogues. She craves biscuits on the weekends but never makes them. She wants to stop
taking birth control but Bryan says he's not ready for that. He has a friend named Kara who also works at the bank. Kara wears thick mascara and speaks German, and she invites them to go tubing on a river outside Charlotte. “I could live my whole life floating down this river,” Kara says. Ellie thinks Kara is possible friend material. But one evening Bryan comes home and says, actually, he wants to be with Kara now. “I'm sorry,” he says. “I didn't plan it this way.” Ellie wishes she were more surprised. When he moves out of the apartment, she can't afford to stay for more than a few months. She has to move back home again.

•   •   •

She calls Harry on her mother's phone but hangs up when he says hello. It has been two full years since the day in the park. If only there were a way to ensure a phone call went straight to voice mail. Voice mail was invented for rehearsed apologies. She could leave one for him, like a little gift on a doorstep he could unwrap again and again, without having to worry about what he'd say next.

Her old restaurant, despite new management, gives her a job again but now she's required to wear black pants and a black shirt.

The bartender is new. Everyone calls him Big D for some reason, but he's not very big. He drives a blue truck with a faded Dole–Kemp bumper sticker that he says came with the truck when he bought it.

“Where are you from?” she asks.

“From Georgia.”

“What do you like to do? For fun?”

“Sudoku,” he says, then adds, not at all sheepish, “if you want to know the truth, and probably you don't, I spend a lot of time reading about aliens because I don't think that we're alone in the universe. I think we made contact a long time ago. Did you know that Eisenhower was on vacation in Palm Springs in 1954 and that he disappeared for a whole night? Later they said he was getting a cap put on his tooth, but there's evidence he met aliens for the first time that night at Edwards Air Force Base. It's possible aliens are already living among us. You don't believe me, I can tell, but go to this website.”

He writes down the address on a bar napkin and slides it to her.

“What if God is an alien?” she asks. “Like, a really advanced one. So advanced that we wouldn't know the difference.”

“Wouldn't that be nice,” Big D says.

Ellie isn't so sure.

•   •   •

Big D takes her to a restaurant with a thirty-page menu and every item seems to include cheese—macaroni and cheese, cheese strudels, cheese salads, cheese sticks, cheeseburgers, cheese chips, cheese on cheese. Then he takes her to a dinosaur museum, where they buy
T. rex
T-shirts. Then he takes her to a theme park with roller coasters named after movie franchises. One night, a little tipsy, they wind up in a tattoo parlor that smells like cigarettes and bleach. They flip through the floppy binders and laugh at the skulls, roses, the confused Chinese symbols for courage and harmony and whatever else.

“You could get a flying saucer over your heart,” she says.

“I know bartenders are supposed to, sort of, love tattoos,” he says. “But I can't stand the idea of something being on my body forever.”

“Forever, in your case, being anywhere from thirty to fifty years,” she says.

“I've got more than that in me. I'm healthy as a—”

“—as a thirty-two-year old man, I know.” She peels the binder's laminated pages apart, their stickiness making wet static sounds. “One day they'll probably come up with extremely permanent tattoos. They'll be genetic or something. You'll get a dolphin on your ankle and your baby will come out with a dolphin on
her
ankle and her baby too and on and on until the end of time. Dolphins, all the way down the line. Then,
real
accountability.”

He smiles. They come to a picture of a gray cartoonish alien holding a bong. She draws a line in the air between the picture and his right shoulder. “There,” she says. “Perfect. It'll look so great on your son too.” Immediately she regrets saying it. He gives her an odd look.
Our son
, he might be thinking. She's been sleeping over at his house a few nights a week, and he's already asked her to move in with him. She's been evasive on this issue.

“Don't rush into it.” Her mother's advice. She's not thrilled that Ellie is dating a bartender, of all things. What Ellie really needs to do, her mother says, is get her life in order. And that starts with a new and proper job. Her mother has been making phone calls, and a friend of a friend has arranged an interview at her company, if Ellie's interested, and of course Ellie is, right? Ellie doesn't want to wait tables for the rest of her life, does she?

•   •   •

The entrance to the building is lined with prickly bushes. Ellie is there early. Not because she wants the job. It's just that parking was easier to find than she expected. She couldn't care less about this job. When people ask her what kind of job she wants, she usually says, a job studying dolphins, or at least a job where she can use her hands. “Your hands?” her mother often says. “But we all use our hands.” Her mother sells insurance policies and uses her hands every day. How else would she dial out?

But Ellie wants to use her hands to fix something. Bones, maybe—or pocket watches. A hundred years ago, you probably could have made an entire career out of repairing pocket watches.