Her Body and Other Parties
I turned off the air conditioner. If only those girls could see me now: an adult, married, magnificent in my accomplishments.
The radio was tuned to a classical station, which was playing a grand, jaunty song that moved along irregularly, dipping and swelling as I drove through the curves. It was like the beginning of an old film, a vehicle weaving along roads to reach its destination behind white-lettered credits. As the credits ended, the car would pull up to an old farmhouse, where I would get out, untying a white scarf from my hair and calling the name of my old friend. She’d emerge with a wave, and the laughter and rapport we’d share carrying my suitcases into the house would in no way foreshadow the gruesome plot whose wheels were already turning.
“That was Isaac Albéniz,” the announcer intoned, “and his Spanish Rhapsody.” After a while, the peaks began to chew up the music, eventually reducing it all to static. I flipped the radio off and rolled the window down, resting my elbow on the rubber lip and feeling very satisfied.
Then I noticed the car behind me: a low, white behemoth that hovered too close. I felt a strange spiral behind my navel, the downward swirl that might precede fear or arousal. Then there was a change, which I perceived before I understood it. Red and blue light spilled into my car.
The police officer sat behind me for a full two minutes before opening his door and crunching in my direction.
“Good afternoon,” he said. His eyes were small but oddly kind. He had a reddish patch at the corner of his lip: a fever sore, ready to bloom.
“Good afternoon,” I responded.
“Do you know why I pulled you over?” he asked.
“I certainly have no idea,” I said.
“You were speeding,” he said. “You were going fifty-seven in a forty-five zone.”
“Ah,” I said.
“Where are you heading?” he asked.
As we spoke, the reddish patch seemed to sense me and expand outward, like an amoeba preparing for reproduction. He had a wedding ring, and so, barring any recent tragedies, there was a spouse who had seen this mark as recently as this morning. I imagined her (you may think me presumptuous to assume that his spouse was a woman, given my own particular circumstances, but there was something in his demeanor that suggested to me that he had never touched a man without anger or force or anxiety, and even now he touched the ring unconsciously with his thumb, suggesting affection, maybe even an erotic memory) being a woman entirely unlike me; that is, she was a woman unafraid of contagion. I imagined her kissing his mouth, perhaps even procuring a tiny tube of cream from a basket of many kinds of creams and dabbing it on, saying something soothing to him (“No one will notice, I’m sure”) and squeezing his shoulder. Perhaps they had a single fever sore that they traded back and forth, like an infant exchanged between them.
When I emerged from my musings, his car had already driven out of sight. I looked at the paper he’d given me: a warning. “Drive slowly, arrive safe. Officer M——,” it said in sad, blocky handwriting at the top.
I soon reached a T junction, where, the sign indicated, I was to turn left to go to Devil’s Throat. The other direction would take me back to the past, that dilapidated campground where so many things had gone wrong, and right.
This last stretch was the most beautiful part of the drive. The trees bent over the road like footmen, acquiescing to the early heat. The glossy leaves were dense and blocked out the sky. I could hear the scream of cicadas, but I found it comforting. I felt renewed as I drove this lane—to paradise! To a completed novel! I had spent my life imagining a time when, instead of relying on the generosity of others, I would be able to stand on my own as an artist—refer to my published novel (released to modest but positive reviews—I was not so arrogant as to assume it would light up the world), teach where I wanted to, give small but respectable lectures for small but respectable sums of money. All of this now seemed within reach.
A creature darted beneath my car.
I swerved and braked so hard I could feel the car grinding in protest and the thunk of metal on body. Had it been icy or raining I would have surely died, swung into the nearest tree. As it was, I came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the lane.
I looked in my rearview mirror, terrified to see what lay in the road.
There was nothing.
I got out of the car and looked beneath the chassis. There, the black, lifeless eyes of a rabbit met mine. The lower half of her body was missing, as neatly as if she were a sheet of paper that had been ripped in two. I stood and walked around the car, looking for the other half. I even knelt down again and peered up into the labyrinth of the car’s undercarriage. Nothing.
“I’m sorry,” I said to her blank eyes. “You deserved better than that. Better than me.”
I sat down heavily in the driver’s seat, twin spots of dirt on my jeans for my trouble. Distress came over me like a wave of nausea. I hoped this was not some sort of omen.
Ahead of me there was a blue sign with an arrow, pointing right. DEVIL’S THROAT, it said. No pleasantries here.
As my car wound around the edge of the property, I understood that I would only be seeing a small fraction of it during my stay. It was hundreds of acres, much of it undeveloped. Devil’s Throat had once been a lakeside resort for New York millionaires, but the owners overextended their finances and the entire endeavor collapsed during the Great Depression. The current owner was an organization that funded fellowships providing time and space to writers and artists to do their work. The residency, I discerned from the map that had arrived in the mail soon after my acceptance letter, occupied the southernmost corner of the resort: a cluster of studios and a main building that had once been the sumptuous hotel. The studios themselves rimmed the periphery of a lake, where the wealthiest of the residents had stayed for entire summers, lazing around in the muggy heat.
I followed the road until the trees finally parted. The former hotel swelled out of the ground like an infection, a disturbance in the woods. It had clearly once been a grand structure, radical in design, the kind of work done by ambitious young architects not yet crushed by years of anonymity and unfinished blueprints.
Two cars—one ancient and dirty blue, the other red and glinting in the sunlight—were parked haphazardly next to the hotel. I pulled in beside the red car, and then, nervous, pulled out again and parked next to the blue car instead. I suddenly felt self-conscious about the number of possessions in my trunk and backseat. I would have to unload, and it would take half a dozen trips.
I got out of the car, and left everything behind.
The hotel’s first story was ordinary but elegant, with dark gray stone and black mortar, slender windows that revealed choice cuts of interior: red velvet, wood-paneled walls, an abandoned coffee mug leaking steam on a side table. But the second story made the building more closely resemble a large piece of saltwater taffy stretched and pulled to wild dimensions. The windows and their walls turned at odd angles from their first-floor cousins, tipping to and fro. You might, from one window, be able to see more of the ground than the sky; from another more of the sky than the ground. One of the rooms bent so close to the surrounding trees that a branch was arched toward the window; surely a stiff breeze would instigate its advances. At the top, the roof sloped up and up until it came to a whorl of a point, like the tip of a dollop of cream. Resting there was a large glass orb.
The steps leading to the front door were wide, so wide that if one stood in the middle, the banisters would be inaccessible. I walked up the right side, sliding my hand along the banister, until a splinter bit into my palm. I lifted my hand and examined the shard between my heart line and head line. I pinched the exposed wood and pulled; my hand contracted around the wound, which did not bleed. I mounted the last few steps to the porch.
I hesitated before the opulent entrance, disliking how the wood curled in organic tendrils from where the doors met, like an octopus emerging arm-and-suckers-first from a hiding place. My wife had always tease
d me for my feelings and sensations, the things that I immediately loved or hated for reasons that took months of thought to articulate. I dithered there on the stoop for a full ten minutes before the door was opened by a handsome man in penny loafers. He looked startled to see me.
“Hello,” he said. He sounded like a drinker, and possibly a homosexual. I took an immediate liking to him. “Are you—coming in?” He stepped to the side and nearly vanished behind the door.
“I—yes,” I said, stepping over the threshold. I told him my name.
“Oh, yeah! I think—” He turned to the empty space behind him. “I think we thought you were going to come tomorrow? Perhaps there was a miscommunication.”
The doorway to the adjacent room ejaculated a flurry of activity, and I realized that he had been speaking to a trio of women just beyond my line of vision: a slender, pale waif in a shapeless frock whose fractal pattern spiraled dozens of holes into her torso and created in me immediate anxiety; a tall woman with dreadlocks coiled on top of her head and a generous smile; and a third woman whom I recognized, though I was also positive I’d never seen her before.
The woman in the anxiety-provoking dress introduced herself as Lydia, a “poet-composer.” Her feet were bare and filthy, as if she were trying to prove to everyone she was an incorrigible bohemian. The tall woman said that she was Anele, and a photographer. The woman I did and did not recognize called herself by a name that I immediately forgot. I do not mean that I wasn’t paying attention; rather, she said her name and as my mind closed around it, it slipped away like mercury from probing fingers.
The man who had opened the door said, “She’s a painter.” He called himself Benjamin, and was, he said, a sculptor.
“Why are you not at your studios?” I asked, regretting the imprudent question as soon as it left my mouth.
“Midday boredom,” said Anele.
“Midresidency boredom,” clarified Lydia. “The more social among us,” she gestured to the people around her, “sometimes eat lunch here in the main hall, to stop ourselves from going crazy.”
“We just finished,” said Benjamin. “I was heading back. But I bet if you stick your head in the kitchen you can catch Edna and she can fix you something to eat.”
“I’ll take you there,” said Anele. She hooked her arm in mine and walked me away from the others.
As we crossed the foyer, I felt a fresh burst of fear regarding the woman whose name I could not seem to retain. “The painter—” I said, hoping that Anele would provide the relevant information.
“Yes?” she said.
“She is—lovely.”
“She is lovely,” Anele agreed. She pushed on a set of double doors. “Edna!”
A wiry woman was hunched over the sink, where she appeared to have been gazing into its soapy depths. She straightened and looked at me. Her hair was flame red, and was tied behind her head with a black velvet ribbon.
“Oh!” she said, upon seeing me. “You’re here!”
“I—I am,” I confirmed.
“My name is Edna,” she said. “I’m the residency director.” She pulled off her yellow rubber gloves and proffered a hand, which I took. It was cool and damp, like a freshly wrung-out sponge. “You’re early,” she continued. “A full day.”
“I must have read my letter incorrectly,” I whispered. I flushed scarlet, and I could hear my wife’s gentle laughter, my mortification on full display.
“It’s fine,” she said. “No harm done. I’ll take you to your room. Your bed might not have sheets—”
Back in the foyer, Benjamin was standing among all of my things—my suitcases, the hamper, even my car’s emergency-supply backpack, which was not supposed to leave my trunk.
“Did I leave my car unlocked?” I said.
“Why would you lock it here?” he asked cheerfully. “Here you go.” He bent down and lifted my suitcases. I picked up the hamper. Edna bent toward the backpack, but I said, “No need,” and she straightened back up. We mounted the stairs.
I woke up after the sun had set, as the last dregs of light were pulling away from the sky. I felt disoriented, like a child who has fallen asleep at a party and woken up clothed in a spare bedroom. I reached out, instinctively, for my wife, and met only high-thread-count sheets and a perfectly fluffed pillow.
I sat up. The wallpaper was dark, and dappled with hydrangeas. I could hear sounds coming from the first floor—murmuring chatter, the kiss of silverware and porcelain. My mouth tasted terrible, and my bladder was full. If I could sit up, I could use the toilet. If I used the toilet, I could then turn on the light. If I turned on the light, I could locate the mouthwash in my suitcase and get rid of this musty feel. If I could get rid of the musty feel, I could go downstairs and have supper with the others.
As I swung one leg from the bed, I had a monstrous vision of a hand darting from beneath the bed’s skirt, grasping my ankle, and dragging me beneath while the sound of delighted banter in the dining room drowned out my horrified screams, but it passed. I swung my other leg down, stood, and stumbled to the bathroom in the dark.
As I voided my bladder, I considered my novel, such as it was—that is, piles of notes and papers wedged into a notebook. I thought about Lucille and her predicaments. They were so many.
I came downstairs, the residue of mouthwash burning between my teeth. A long table of dark wood—cherry, perhaps, or chestnut; either way, it was stained a rich crimson—was set for seven people. My fellow residents clustered in the corners of the room, chatting and holding glasses of wine.
Benjamin called out my name and gestured to me with his glass. Anele looked up and smiled. Lydia remained deep in conversation with a slender, pretty man whose fingers were smudged with something dark—ink, I imagined. He smiled shyly at me but said nothing.
Benjamin handed me a glass of red wine before I could tell him that I do not drink.
“Thank you,” I said, instead of “No, thank you.” I heard my wife’s warm voice as if she were next to me, whispering into my ear. Be a sport. I believed that my wife loved me as I was, but I had also become certain that she’d love a more relaxed version of me even better.
“Are you set up?” he asked. “Or were you resting?”
“Resting,” I said, and took a sip of the wine. It soured against the spearmint, and I swallowed quickly. “I suppose I was tired from the drive.”
“That drive is horrible, no matter where you come from,” Anele agreed.
The kitchen door swung open, and Edna emerged, carrying a platter of sliced ham. She set the plate down on the table, and on cue, everyone left their conversations and began to gather around their chairs.
“Are you settled?” she asked me.
I nodded. We all sat. The man with smudged fingers reached across the table and shook my hand limply. “I’m Diego.”
“How is everyone’s work going?” asked Lydia.
Every head dipped down as if to avoid answering. I took a piece of ham, a scoop of potatoes.
“I’m heading out tomorrow morning,” Edna said, “and I’ll be back at the end of the week. Groceries are in the fridge, of course. Does anyone need anything from civilization?”
A smattering of nos rose from the table. I reached into my back pocket and produced a prestamped, preaddressed, prewritten letter to be sent to my wife, confirming that I had arrived safely. “Can you mail this for me?” I asked. Edna nodded and took it to her handbag in the hall.
Lydia chewed with her mouth open. She dug something out from between her molars—gristle—then ran her tongue over her teeth and took another sip of wine.
Benjamin refilled my glass. I didn’t remember finishing but I had, somehow. My teeth felt soft in my gums, as if they were lined with velvet.
Everyone began talking in that loose, floppy way wine encourages. Diego was a professional illustrator of children’s books, I learned, and was currently working on a graphic novel. He was from Spain, he said, though he had lived in South Africa and th
e United States for much of his adult life. He then flirted a little with Lydia, which lowered my estimation of them both. Anele told a funny story about an awkward encounter with an award-winning novelist whose name I did not recognize. Benjamin described his most recent sculpture: Icarus with wings made of broken glass. Lydia said that she’d spent all day “banging on the piano.” “I didn’t bother any of you, did I?” she said in a voice that suggested that she didn’t give a whit one way or the other. She went on to explain that she was composing a “poem-song,” and was currently in the “song” part of the process.
The walls were soundproof, Edna assured her. You could be murdered in there, and no one would ever know.
Lydia leaned toward me with an expression of deep satisfaction. “Do you know what the richie riches used to call this place, before they lost it?”
“Angel’s Mouth,” I said. “I was in scouting, as a girl, and we came here every year. I always remember seeing the sign.”
“Angel’s Mouth,” she half-shouted, as if I hadn’t spoken. She slapped the table and laughed uproariously. Her teeth looked rotten—stained plum. I hated her, I realized with a start. I’d never hated anyone before. Certainly people had given me discomfort, made me wish I could blink and disappear, but hate felt new and acidic. It rankled. Also, I was drunk.
“What do they do at Girl Scout camp?” Benjamin asked. “Swim, hike?”
“Fuck each other?” suggested Diego. Lydia slapped him playfully on the arm.
I took sip of wine, which I could no longer taste. “We made crafts and earned badges. Cooked over the fire. Told stories.” That had been my favorite part. “We usually were there in autumn, so it was too cold to swim,” I said. “But we did walk along the shoreline and play chicken on the pier, sometimes.”
“Is that why you’re at this particular residency?” Anele asked. “Because you know the area?”