Cloven Hooves

“In the boat. His bed turned into a boat.”

“No. ’Cause that can’t really happen. He just fell asleep and dreamed it. It’s a dumb story, just about a dream someone had.”

He stuffs the Scooby-Do book into the place of honor under his pillow. I pick up Where the Wild Things Are as I stand and take it with me. I think it is my book now, a thing Teddy has outgrown and cast aside. Perhaps I am a thing Teddy has outgrown and cast aside. I feel gutted, hollow. Why did she have to take that away from him? I wonder. Did she even know what she was doing? Is it a malicious cruelty, or only ignorance? And why is it so important to me? Am I worrying about Teddy, really, or am I worrying about me and what she has taken from me, the thing Teddy and I shared? I feel Teddy’s eyes on me and turn back to him.

“Can we get some new books next time we go to town? I had lots of books at our old house and here I don’t have hardly any. Can we get some new ones?”

“What do you mean, our old house? Your books at home still belong to you, and they’ll still be there when we go back. If we stay here much longer, maybe I’ll send for some of them. But not too many, because we’d just have to pack them up again when we go home.”

“Can’t we just get new ones?”

“Maybe. A few. We’ll see.” I tug back the covers that are sliding off his feet, snug them around him. “Don’t worry about it. Daddy and I are going to talk tonight and decide all about when we’re going home. Then I’ll tell you in the morning, and things won’t seem so confusing. We can plan better.”

“Auntie Steffie says she saw a Sylvester and Tweety book in the drugstore.” His eyes are already closing. I don’t reply but reach to turn off the lamp by his head. As I rise once more, he asks from behind closed eyes, “What if we never go back? What if we live here forever and ever? Then would we send for all my stuff?”

“Don’t be silly,” I tell him. “We’ll be going home, and all your stuff will be there and just fine. Now go to sleep.”

I leave his bedside like an actor leaving a darkened area of a stage, stepping into the yellow light of the kitchen and Tom’s set. The light spills in a circle on the table from the pull-down fixture, illuminating Tom’s manual. His hand moves, scratching pencil notes on a yellow tablet. He looks tired, older. His hands are graven dark with diesel and oil, the nails cracked, the downy hair on the backs of his wrists and forearms eaten away by harsh cleansers. The lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth, between his eyes and on his brow, are pale against his tan. He glances up from his manuals, gives me a smile, and goes back to tracing a diagram. As I walk behind his chair he reaches back with his free hand, hooks it around me for a moment, and pulls me up against his back. I hug him suddenly, impulsively, putting my face against his hair, smelling his true scent despite the diesel. He goes, “Mmmm,” and is still for a second. Then he leans forward again, his fingers wander slowly across his diagram, his hand drops away from me. I stand clear of him.

I settle in another chair, across the table from him. I rest my pirate romance on the edge of the table, stealing a bit of light from him, hovering at the edge of his glow, and try to submerse myself in David and Desiree and Alfred. They are all idiots. Boring, stupid people, trapped in a trite plot, who will inevitably do what is expected of them. Alfred will be unmasked as the kidnapper and swindler he is. David will regain his wealth and marry Desiree. How can they be so blind to the other possibilities? And who could have put such an idea in Teddy’s head? Live here forever and ever. The three of us in this cramped little house, forever under the sway of Mother Maurie. I can see me now, a junior wife in the Potter tribe. I smile at the idea and go back to my pirates. But after a while I find myself rubbing my jaw, where the knotted muscles ache.

“Tom? Tom?”

“Yeah, just a sec, Lyn … Okay. What is it?”

He closes his manual on his pencil and looks up at me, sighing. I am seven years old and I’ve been talking during the spelling test. I grope for excuses. “I just wanted to talk to you for a second, honey. Have you given any more thought to staying here for the winter?”

“Sure.” He stretches, rolling his shoulders under his T-shirt. “I told the folks today that it was all settled. Dad was really relieved.” He pauses at the look on my face. “Isn’t that what we agreed on?” He looks genuinely puzzled. Frantically I dig through my memories of the conversation. When had I agreed, when had I told him, sure, go ahead, we’ll stay the winter?

“No, Tom, I don’t think so. I thought we said we’d stay till the end of summer, and talk about the winter. I mean, we need to discuss it more. For one thing, I’d need to find a job, and I can’t think what there is in town. And we’d have to have all our stuff shipped down, which means asking someone to pack it up for us. And we’d have to spend the whole winter here, in this tiny place, and try to find decent tenants for our place and hope they don’t tear it to ribbons …”

My voice runs down. The world tilts around me. Déjà vu. I know what comes next. Control becomes very shaky, things seem to have fuzzy edges. I cannot feel the book I hold. It’s like being washed down a chute. First Tom will be puzzled at my resistance, then irritated. I will surrender rather than anger him. We will stay the whole winter in this wretched little place. Despair washes over me, almost a physical thing. No way to escape this, no way at all. The play is written, I must say my lines.

“Lyn, I can’t go to Dad now, when he’s counting on us, and say that … are you all right?”

I nod, swallowing the nauseous lump in my throat. A great wind of stillness is blowing past me, drowning Tom’s voice. Talk to him, I urge myself, watching his mouth move, his head tilt as he coaxes me to be reasonable. I know what he must be saying, but my ears cannot seem to make out the words. Tell him you’re afraid. Tell him they’re going to take him and Teddy away from you, and you will be left alone in the darkness. Tell him. Tell him now.

But his words are flowing like a river, washing past me, barely touching my ears as they carry us inexorably on. “… that we were staying. It didn’t seem fair to leave them wondering. Mom’s got it all planned out. You can use her washer and dryer on Tuesdays, that fits in with everyone else’s schedule. Steffie was really excited. She’s really a sucker for her little nephew, and she gets so lonely around here in winter. She thought it was great that you and she would get some time together. She’s just full of plans for canning and berry picking this fall, and sewing and cooking together this winter. She really wants to pull you into the family, make you feel like part of the gang. She thought maybe you’d want to go shopping, get some clothes more appropriate for this part of the country …”

The white noise comes up again, washing over me like a wave. I stare through it, trying to see Tom, my Tom. They would pull him into the family machine and absorb him. Then Teddy. Then me. First it would be helping out with the big family meals and sewing and washing in the big house. Maybe by next spring I’d be taking care of the chickens, helping plan the kitchen garden. By the year after it would be as if I’d never existed as a separate person at all. We would all live happily ever after. All I had to do was let go. Surrender. Admit they were right in feeling sorry for me. Admit I needed to be fixed. Stop being me and become Tom Potter’s wife.

“Don’t pull at your face like that, honey. You’ll get wrinkles. So, what do you say?”

Fuck you, Tom Potter, you traitor, traitor, traitor. And fuck me, too, because I am saying, “Well, we’ll have to work out the details as we go along, I guess. It’s just for this winter, right?”

“Of course, honey. You don’t think we’re going to live here forever, do you?”

You bet your ass I do. Why do you smile so warmly and go right back to your manual? I look down at my own book, study the shapes of the words on the page. I read a few, they make no sense. So I try counting them. I used to be able to soothe myself by doing this, counting all the words on a page, but tonight it fails me.

“I’m going to bed,” Tom announces, flopping the old manual shut. He stands and stretches, towering over me in the cramped room. “I want to hit the job early tomorrow, get this tractor back on line. So I’ll get a late breakfast with Dad in town. If you want, I’ll take Teddy with me, you can sleep in.” He pauses. I count words, not looking up from the page. “You’re coming to bed now,” he asks, but it isn’t really a question.

“Yeah, in a second. Yeah.” I turn a page, count some more.

He stands over me a few seconds longer. I can feel his contentment, he has it all. He’s come home to his family, to his old familiar world, his wife is tractable, his son is smart, he has it all. He waits for me a few seconds, then shrugs and trudges off down the hall. As soon as he is gone, I feel my shoulders drop. I can breathe, as if the air has flowed back into the space he occupied. I lean back in my chair, setting my book carelessly atop his scribbled notes, listening to the sounds of Tom going to bed. Water runs in the bathroom. Light switch clicks off in the bathroom, then on in the bedroom. Clump of falling shoes, a rustling of clothing. I hear his belt buckle ring against the floor. More rustling and the bed creaks. Silence. The silence grows longer, becomes indignant.

I know just how he is lying in there. His head is almost under the covers, he is curled on his side. He has left the light burning for me. His eyes are closed but he is far from sleeping. Duty calls me.

I arise and click off the kitchen light. Night flows into the room from the uncurtained windows. There was part of a moon, and stars peeping through the partial overcast. Rain tomorrow, maybe. Rain. Rain for the new crops rising in green rows. Good. Rain for the fields.