The Girl in the Flammable Skirt

THE REMEMBERER

My lover is experiencing reverse evolution. I tell no one. I don’t know how it happened, only that one day he was my lover and the next he was some kind of ape. It’s been a month and now he’s a sea turtle.

I keep him on the counter, in a glass baking pan filled with salt water.

“Ben,” I say to his small protruding head, “can you understand me?” and he stares with eyes like little droplets of tar and I drip tears into the pan, a sea of me.

He is shedding a million years a day. I am no scientist, but this is roughly what I figured out. I went to the old biology teacher at the community college and asked him for an approximate time line of our evolution. He was irritated at first — he wanted money. I told him I’d be happy to pay and then he cheered up quite a bit. I can hardly read his time line — he should’ve typed it — and it turns out to be wrong. According to him, the whole process should take about a year, but from the way things are going, I think we have less than a month left.

At first, people called on the phone and asked me where was Ben. Why wasn’t he at work? Why did he miss his lunch date with those clients? His out-of-print special-ordered book on civilization had arrived at the bookstore, would he please pick it up? I told them he was sick, a strange sickness, and to please stop calling. The stranger thing was, they did. They stopped calling. After a week, the phone was silent and Ben, the baboon, sat in a corner by the window, wrapped up in drapery, chattering to himself.

Last day I saw him human, he was sad about the world.

This was not unusual. He was always sad about the world. It was a large reason why I loved him. We’d sit together and be sad and think about being sad and sometimes discuss sadness.

On his last human day, he said, “Annie, don’t you see? We’re all getting too smart. Our brains are just getting bigger and bigger, and the world dries up and dies when there’s too much thought and not enough heart.”

He looked at me pointedly, blue eyes unwavering. “Like us, Annie,” he said. “We think far too much.”

I sat down. I remembered how the first time we had sex, I left the lights on, kept my eyes wide open, and concentrated really hard on letting go; then I noticed that his eyes were open too and in the middle of everything we sat down on the floor and had an hour-long conversation about poetry. It was all very peculiar. It was all very familiar.

Another time he woke me up in the middle of the night, lifted me off the pale blue sheets, led me outside to the stars and whispered: Look, Annie, look — there is no space for anything but dreaming. I listened, sleepily, wandered back to bed and found myself wide awake, staring at the ceiling, unable to dream at all. Ben fell asleep right away, but I crept back outside. I tried to dream up to the stars, but I didn’t know how to do that. I tried to find a star no one in all of history had ever wished on before, and wondered what would happen if I did.

On his last human day, he put his head in his hands and sighed and I stood up and kissed the entire back of his neck, covered that flesh, made wishes there because I knew no woman had ever been so thorough, had ever kissed his every inch of skin. I coated him. What did I wish for? I wished for good. That’s all. Just good. My wishes became generalized long ago, in childhood; I learned quick the consequence of wishing specific.

I took him in my arms and made love to him, my sad man. “See, we’re not thinking,” I whispered into his ear while he kissed my neck, “we’re not thinking at all” and he pressed his head into my shoulder and held me tighter. Afterward, we went outside again; there was no moon and the night was dark. He said he hated talking and just wanted to look into my eyes and tell me things that way. I let him and it made my skin lift, the things in his look. Then he told me he wanted to sleep outside for some reason and in the morning when I woke up in bed, I looked out to the patio and there was an ape sprawled on the cement, great furry arms covering his head to block out the glare of the sun.

Even before I saw the eyes, I knew it was him. And once we were face to face, he gave me his same sad look and I hugged those enormous shoulders. I didn’t even really care, then, not at first, I didn’t panic and call 911. I sat with him outside and smoothed the fur on the back of his hand. When he reached for me, I said No, loudly, and he seemed to understand and pulled back. I have limits here.

We sat on the lawn together and ripped up the grass. I didn’t miss human Ben right away; I wanted to meet the ape too, to take care of my lover like a son, a pet; I wanted to know him every possible way but I didn’t realize he wasn’t coming back.

Now I come home from work and look for his regular-size shape walking and worrying and realize, over and over, that he’s gone. I pace the halls. I chew whole packs of gum in mere minutes. I review my memories and make sure they’re still intact because if he’s not here, then it is my job to remember. I think of the way he wrapped his arms around my back and held me so tight it made me nervous and the way his breath felt in my ear: right.

When I go to the kitchen, I peer in the glass and see he’s some kind of salamander now. He’s small.

“Ben,” I whisper, “do you remember me? Do you remember?”

His eyes roll up in his head and I dribble honey into the water. He used to love honey. He licks at it and then swims to the other end of the pan.

This is the limit of my limits: here it is. You don’t ever know for sure where it is and then you bump against it and bam, you’re there. Because I cannot bear to look down into the water and not be able to find him at all, to search the tiny clear waves with a microscope lens and to locate my lover, the one-celled wonder, bloated and bordered, brainless, benign, heading clear and small like an eye-floater into nothingness.

I put him in the passenger seat of the car, and drive him to the beach. Walking down the sand, I nod at people on towels, laying their bodies out to the sun and wishing. At the water’s edge, I stoop down and place the whole pan on the tip of a baby wave. It floats well, a cooking boat, for someone to find washed up on shore and to make cookies in, a lucky catch for a poor soul with all the ingredients but no container.

Ben the salamander swims out. I wave to the water with both arms, big enough for him to see if he looks back.

I turn around and walk back to the car.

Sometimes I think he’ll wash up on shore. A naked man with a startled look. Who has been to history and back. I keep my eyes on the newspaper. I make sure my phone number is listed. I walk around the block at night in case he doesn’t quite remember which house it is. I feed the birds outside and sometimes before I put my one self to bed, I place my hands around my skull to see if it’s growing, and wonder what, of any use, would fill it if it did.

CALL MY NAME

I’m spending the afternoon auditioning men.

They don’t know it. This is a secret audition, come as you are.

“No really,” I say to the beanpole man on the Muni with eyes so tired you can see death lounging in them already, “do you prefer cats or dogs?”

He smiles at me in this tolerant way. I can’t tell you exactly what I’m looking for, but I’ll know it when it happens. I want to be breathless and weak, crumpled by the entrance of another person inside my soul. I want to be violated by insight.

“Cats, no question,” he says, pill-rolling with his fingers. He’s drugged out, but I don’t care. What I care about is dogs, and I am disappointed.

I thank him, run a hand through my hair and go back to sitting at my surveillance spot, front row, facing backward, right behind the driver who winked at me when I came on.

I wear dresses on the subway. I have a lot of money from my dead father who invented the adhesive wall hook. He invented it when he was in his twenties and the world scrambled, doe-eyed, to his doorstep — no one cares for nails anymore. He died when I was three so I never really knew him enough to miss him and there are millions of dollars for me and my mom, and she isn’t a spender. So it’s just me! It’s all me! I don’t much like expensive cars or gourmet dinners; what I love are fancy dresses. Today I am wearing maroon satin, a floor-length dress with a V back and matching sandals with crisscross straps up my ankles. My ears are lit by simple diamond earrings. I look like I should know how to waltz, and I do.

The men are pleased when I come on the subway because I am the type who usually drives her own car. I am not your average subway girl, wearing black pants and reading a novel the whole time so you can’t even get eye contact. Me, I look at them and smile at them and they love it. I bet they talk about me at the dinner table — I give boring people something to discuss over corn.

The beanpole man stands up to exit and nods to me. I wiggle my fingers, bye. His death eyes crinkle up in a wise way and I almost want to chase after him, have him look down on me with that look and tell me something brilliant about myself, unveil my whole me with one shining sentence, but there’s really no point. He couldn’t do it. His eyes crinkle up because he’s been in the sun too much — he doesn’t even know my name.

I think I’m done, that I’ve checked out the whole car, when I see that behind the older woman in the dull beige suit who keeps trying to sleep, there is someone I didn’t notice before. The shy man. He is leaning against the window, wanting a cigarette and not looking at me. I go sit down right next to him.

“If you smoke out the window,” I tell him in a low voice, “no one will notice.”

“What?” He’s about ten years older than I am, and his eyes are bright, watery even.

“I won’t tell if you smoke.”

He gets it and blinks. “Thanks,” he says, but he doesn’t move.

My dress is slithering all over the orange plastic seat, sounding like a holiday.

“So, what’s your name?” I ask.

He has his head looking out the window, watching the dark cement flash by. The back of his hair is matted down, like he’s just woken up from a nap.

“Or where are you going?” I say louder.

He turns to me, eyebrows up.

I lean in a little. My hair falls forward and I can smell my shampoo which smells like almonds. “I’m just curious,” I say. “What stop?”

“Powell,” he says. “Your hair smells like almonds.”

I’m so pleased he noticed.

“Do you prefer dogs or cats?” I ask him, even though I don’t really, at this exact second, need to know.

“You ask a lot of questions,” he says.

“Yes.”

“Well.”

“What?” My dress isn’t holding to the seat, I could slide right down to the floor.

“I prefer,” he says, “whichever turns around when you call its name.”

He may be shy but he looks me in the eye the whole time.

The train strains to a stop and he stands up to slide past me. But I’m up with him. The bottom of my dress is dusty from the floor of the subway and I’m thinking it looks sort of vintage that way. He presses on the handle and he’s out the door really fast, and I just barely have a moment to look at the car I’ve been surveying and watch the people watch me exit. A man with a briefcase smiles back but the women all ignore me.

I float behind the shy man for a few blocks; he’s up the escalator and onto Market Street and doesn’t notice my burgundy shadow behind him until he ducks into a retail shoe store and then I’m hard to miss. The salesgirls are on me in one second, I have Purchase written all over me. So they think. This is a lame shoe store.

“Hey,” says the man, “you following me?”

“May-be.” I saunter over to a pair of shoes and pick them up even though they’re so ugly and poorly made.

“Those are one of our best sellers,” says salesgirl number one who has lipstick on her front tooth.

“That is not a good selling point for me,” I tell her, “and you have lipstick on your tooth.”

Her head ducks down and she rubs her forefinger on it. “Thanks,” she says in a quiet whisper, like it’s a secret, “I hate that.”

The man has left the store — one second of conversation with a stupid salesgirl on my stupid part, and he’s gone. The store owner is behind the counter watching me glance around at the racks of shoes and he tilts his head, indicating the staircase behind him.

“You his girlfriend?” he says.

“Maybe,” I say again. Really: if the shy man didn’t care at all, if he hadn’t looked at me with a certain sly hunger then I wouldn’t be here. But he was half there with me, I saw him thinking about the heavy sound the satin would make piled on his floor, I saw him wondering. He may have wondered very quietly, but that still counts.

I thank the store manager by placing one solid hand on his shoulder and squeezing it. Maybe someday I’ll come in here and buy fourteen pairs of shoes from him. Not like I’d wear them, but I could go give them to homeless people who must like a change every now and then. I’ll buy practical shoes, cushioned soles, no heels or anything. You probably walk a lot when you’re homeless so heels would not be a good choice.

The staircase is fairly dark but you can still sense the glare of the daylight outside so it doesn’t feel scary, just cool and slightly musty. Luckily, there’s only one apartment at the top of the staircase. I try the door and it’s open. For me, it’s more nerve-wracking to knock than to just go on in. He’s sitting in his living room with a beer and no shirt, watching TV. He looks at me, sort of amused, not really surprised.

“Persistent dress lady,” he says, “you are one persistent cookie.”

I love being called cookie. I love it. I love it.

I go to sit next to him on the couch.

“Do you know how to waltz?” I ask.

He flips a few channels and then turns off the TV. “So what’s the deal?” he says. “Are you a prostitute?”

The thing is, I’m not offended. This makes me feel like he’s getting the sexual vibe which makes me feel good, you know, alive.

“No,” I say. “I just like you. Do you have plans tonight? It’s Friday night, maybe we can do something.”

“I have plans tonight,” he says. He looks at his watch. “It’s two o’clock. In six hours.”

His chest is tan and a little bit doughy, soft nipples that look like a woman’s. For some reason it’s hard for me to even look at those nipples. They look so fragile, like fruit pulp waiting to be cut into wedges and served up in an exotic kiwi salad. It makes me want to crawl on top of him and put my thumbs on his soft fruity nipples and press down on them hard like they’re elevator buttons: hey, baby, take me to a higher floor. I wonder if he’s feeling lucky, I mean how often does a beautiful girl follow you home and come into your house? That’s lucky. That’s what guys wish for.

“So.” He leans back on his couch and grabs a cigarette from the side table. I knew it. “I suppose I’d like to cut that dress right off of you.”

“Really?”

“Yup.” He takes a long drag off his cigarette and then stubs it out. Maybe I should be scared, but I’m not. There’s the sound of all the cars and buses going by on Market Street, and it reassures me.

“Knife or scissors?”

He smiles. “Knife,” he says.

“I don’t know,” I say, “that’s a little much, I think, for me.”

“Scissors.” He relights the butt in the ashtray and smokes it again.

“Okay. Scissors.”

“You can let go of that incredible dress as easy as that?” he asks.

“I can.” I have a bank account the size of your apartment, I’m thinking. I can see, on his bathroom door, an adhesive hook holding up a black T-shirt.

He goes to his bedroom and comes out with a pair of orange-handled scissors. He walks slowly even though he knows I’m watching him. Back on the couch, he doesn’t sit any closer to me but just takes the hem and slices up, up past my hip, waist, side of my breast, under my arm, down the sleeve, up around, to the shoulder, snip at the neck. I feel like he took a letter opener and gently opened me up; he did such a neat job of it. Leaning back on his side of the couch, he replaces the scissors and surveys his work. I smile at him. The next move should be his.

“I don’t think I’m going to touch you,” he says.

I’m there, waiting, body cooled by the breeze coming in off the street through the window behind us.

“What?” I know he can see my breast; it’s right there; I can sense it out of the bottom of my eye.

“Nope.” He stands up and looks around.

“What, are you going to tie me up or something?” I slide out my other arm so that my upper body is exposed, just my legs and waist still swathed in maroon satin. His couch is kelly green and it’s an interesting contrast. I spend a minute appreciating this.

“Tie you up?” He goes to the refrigerator and pours himself a glass of water. “No. I don’t do that shit.” He doesn’t seem to even notice that I’m half out of the dress.

“Hello,” I say, “what is going on here? You just opened up my dress.”

“Yeah,” he says, “thanks.”

“But we have six hours,” I tell him, “you said we have six hours.”

“Well,” he says, sipping the water, the counter between us, “what would you like to do?”

I’m up off the couch which means the dress is on the floor and I’m naked in high heels. Which is maybe how I’ve wanted to be all day, those straps crisscrossing up my ankles like painted snakes. I take the water out of his hand and hop up on the kitchen counter and pull him to me with my feet. Then I kiss him, smoke taste still on his lips which are cold from the water. He keeps his mouth closed and I press my body to his. “Six hours,” I say, “is a long time.”

“Lady,” he says, “I don’t think it’s going to happen here. I wanted to cut your dress. I don’t really want to fuck you, that’s just not what I’m looking for today. Sorry if that was misleading.”

He has his water back in his hand. I take it from him and have a sip. It’s just water.

“Yeah, well,” I tell him, “it was. I do think cutting up someone’s dress is misleading.”

Stepping back, he exits my feet without difficulty, and looks straight at me, into me, like he did in the subway, the way that I love. He leans against the refrigerator and a magnet drops to the floor.

“You want to be tied up?” he says then. “I’ll tie you up.”

If I need to scream, out of the millions of people on Market Street, one of them will hear me. Someone would hear me and do something. I can scream really, really loud.

He leads me to his bedroom which is very plain, nothing on the walls, an unmade bed. He has one chair at a desk and he puts me in it and goes to his closet and removes two belts. He starts to weave one of the belts through the slats at the back of the chair and around my hands.

“Bedroom or living room?” he asks, his voice sort of flat.

“Living room, please,” I say.

Lifting me up in the chair, he brings me into the other room. My arms are already bound so he begins on my legs with swift, efficient hands. The window is still open, and I’m thinking about where I should aim my scream just in case.

It seems like he can’t tie both legs effectively without another belt so he reaches down and whips the one out of his jeans, which then sink a little lower on his hips. I can see the broken angle of his pelvis. His nipples are still soft. I lean down, feeling like a deer in a trap, and dare to kiss one of them, bite it a little, those sweet soft fearful nipples.

“Hey,” he says, “I’m doing something here.”

I lean forward to try to kiss him again but he has stepped back, and I can’t move. He circles the chair and tests the belts. I arch my back. My breasts are poking out like cones, my nipples are not soft. He goes to the couch and turns on the TV.

“You go imagine what you want,” he says, “tell me when you want to be untied.”

I jump the chair around some so that I can see him.

“What do you mean?” I say. He sticks his feet up on the coffee table, and starts to gently fold my dress.

“Just what I said.”

“You tie me up just to tie me up?”

He puts the dress in a neat pile next to him, and runs a hand through his hair again. Why does everyone but me look so fucking tired? I get too much sleep. He takes a deep breath. “For right now,” he says steadily, “I’m going to watch TV.”

I watch with him for a minute; it’s a show about Mozart. But I can’t really concentrate because behind the TV is the bathroom door with the hook and I can’t stop looking at that. My father was a millionaire, I want to tell him. You can’t just tie up a millionaire’s daughter and not fuck her. You can’t just tie her up while she’s naked with maroon sandals strapping her ankles and a taut stomach from ten million sit-ups and watch television! Who do you think you are?

I want to jump the chair over and pounce on him, but I can’t steer it very well, so instead I turn my head around and stare at him, first seductively and then like a pain in the ass.

He looks up after a while. “Yes?”

“I’m bored,” I say.

“You want to go home now?”

“But we have six hours.” It comes out sounding whiny. I wait for him to react, but he doesn’t tell me to shut up and then unbuckle his pants with one quick rip. His face is kind, still tired, cheeks slack. I want to lay his head on my chest and soothe him, poor man who lives alone in this shitty apartment. Poor man. Let me love you here on your green couch for the street to see, let me offer you something magical in the space between my breasts. Please. Please. Let me.

“Lady,” he says again, “you ready to go home?”

I’m thinking about the walk home. I’ll have to go into one of the stores and buy myself another dress. I’ll borrow one of his T-shirts, or if he doesn’t let me, then I’ll wrap the satin around me like a towel. The salesgirl will note the strange outfit but acknowledge the fineness of the material, and decide I’m a good bet. She’ll tell me her name and hang up my choices while I still browse around. Maybe I’ll tell her the story of this dress, but leave it open-ended. And she’ll giggle, for after all, I am the customer. I’ll take a cab home in a new glorious brocade cream-colored gown. My apartment is big and I have a big TV. I have a velvet couch and it’s one of a kind. I have cable. I have better reception than this stupid nipple man. I have a remote control that can work through walls.

I look at him again; he’s lighting up another match to continue smoking that same first cigarette.

“No,” I tell him, slumping back down in the chair. “I don’t want to go home yet.” He turns to look at me. “Is that okay?” I ask.

He gives a little nod. “That’s fine,” he says, leaning forward to change the channel. “So. Game show or the news?”

“Not the news please,” I say. He clicks the knob three times over. The game show host looks really old. The shy man puts his elbows on his knees and he starts to call out answers to the trivia questions. I close my eyes and listen to the noise of winning fill the room.

WHAT YOU LEFT IN THE DITCH

Steven returned from the war without lips.

This is quite a shock, said his wife Mary who had spent the last six months knitting sweaters and avoiding a certain grocery store where a certain young man worked and looked at her in that certain way. I expected lips. Dead or alive, but with lips.

Steven went into the living room where his old favorite chair stood, neatly dusted and unused. I-can-eat-like-normal, he said in a strange halted clacking tone due to the plastic disc that covered and protected what was left of his mouth like the end of a pacifier. The-doctors-are-going-to-put-new-skin-on-in-a-few-weeks-anyway. Skin-from-my-palm. He lifted up his hand and looked at it. That-will-work, I-guess, he said. It-just-won’t-be-quite-the-same.

No, said Mary, it won’t. That bomb, she said, standing on the other side of the chair, you know it took the last real kiss from you forever, and as far as I can remember, that kiss was supposed to be mine.

That night in bed, he grazed the disc over her raised nipples like a UFO and the plastic was cool on her skin. It felt like they were in college and toying with desk items as sexual objects. Her boyfriend of that time, Hank: Let’s try a ruler. Let’s measure you, Mary. Let’s balance a paperweight on my dick. I’m over that, Mary thought. I want lips now. I just want the basics.

She didn’t say anything, but began to shop at the other grocery store again.

The young man there had always had lips but now they seemed twice as large and full and incredible, as if his face was overflowing with lip. While he ran her milk and eggs and toothpaste over the electronic sensor, she couldn’t stop looking at them, guessing what they tasted like. The warm, salty taste of flesh.

Good to see you, he said, moving those lips. It’s been a while.

Mary blushed and fiddled with the gum at the counter.

Just take a pack, he told her. I won’t tell.

Really? She looked at the flavors and picked cinnamon.

Sure, he said, smiling at her, glancing around to see if his manager was in sight. Think of me while you chew.

She blushed again, pocketed the gum and then grabbed her two full bags in both arms.

Need help? he asked. Let me help you.

Okay. She passed the weight to him, and he walked her to the car which was parked near the river. While he placed the bags into the trunk, she was taken by the desire to join them. She wanted to sit in there and invite the man in with her, shut the trunk down and lock it and just make love and eat groceries until they suffocated or her husband needed the car.

Back at home, Steven was in the bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror. Mary stood and watched him touching the disc with his fingertips, a bag under each arm, until he felt her and turned around.

Honey, he said, back-so-soon! He took the bags from her, peered inside them and — oohed- and — aahed- over her food choices.

Oh-Mary, he said, God-I-missed-you-so-much. In-that-ditch, when-I-thought-of-you, I-saw-an-angel. His voice broke. I-saw-Mary, my-angel, in-this-house, with-these-bags. You-brought-me-back-home. He reached out his hand and fingers trickled down her arm.

She kept her back to him and shoved tin cans into the cupboard. Maybe, she was thinking, if you’d concentrated better you’d still have lips. Maybe you’re not supposed to think of your wife at the market while people are throwing bombs at you. Maybe you’re supposed to protect certain body parts so she’ll be happy when you come back.

But instead she just piled the cans one on the other, edge to edge in tall buildings, kidney beans on top of tuna. She turned to Steven.

You’re alive, she said, and hugged him. You’re Steven. He pressed the disc hard to her cheek and kissed her, — -, and she held herself in and tried not to shatter.

Steven ate more than she remembered so she was back at the market in two days. The young man was there, and she offered him a stick of the same cinnamon gum. He grinned at her.

Thanks, he said, taking a piece.

She touched the back of his hand while he was writing her driver’s license number on the check, and said, Do you take care of yourself?

He looked up at her. What do you mean?

I mean, what if they called you to fight in the war? Her hand was stilled on his.

He snapped his gum. He drew a little gun on a corner of her check. No, he said, I don’t think I would do it. I think I’d run away, because, you know, I don’t want to fight in the war. I mean, how would you do it anyway? How would you know what to do? He drew little bullets coming out of the gun and sliding down the side of the check, near where her name and address were printed.

Mary nodded and placed her license back into her wallet.

I know, she said, me too. I would move away somewhere else. I wouldn’t leave people and maybe never come back. You can’t do that to people, you know?

Right, he said, looking up at her: I know what you mean. The most unbearable thing is losing someone like that.

Oh no, she said to him, wrapping the plastic handle of the bag around her wrist several times, I don’t think so. I don’t agree. The most unbearable thing I think by far, she said, is hope.

At night Steven twitched with nightmares. He never used to; he used to sleep straight through the night, and Mary would carve shapes into his back with her stub of a fingernail and watch the goose bumps rise and fall like small mountain populations. Now he was bucking in and out of the sheets and she still carved the shapes and the goose bumps still emerged, but they didn’t calm him. She wondered what he was seeing. Sometimes she woke him up.

Steven, she said, it’s okay. You’re here. You’re back.

He looked up at her with a frame of sweat around his face and breathed out. -Mary-, he clacked, it’s-Mary.

It’s Mary, she said. Yes. That’s me.

He held her so tightly she was uncomfortable. She wiggled loose and finally fell asleep for a couple of hours but woke up again in the middle of the night and left the bedroom. Steven was sleeping quietly, his back to her, arm out, palm open, belly sloping down to the sheets. She tried the TV but everything was either without plot or in the middle so she couldn’t understand what was going on. Clicking it off, she went and sat in the backyard, on the edge of the patio with its red paint chipping. The sky was oddly light, but it was nowhere near morning.

Leaning down into the dirt, she began to dig a hole. The dirt was grainy and soft and lifted out easily, and she wondered why she never took up gardening. It’s supposed to be so soothing, she thought. Perhaps that is the soothing that I need.

She leaned down into the dirt and dug until there was a hole a few feet deep. She placed her feet in it.

I built this hole, she said, now what to put in it? She wandered in through the kitchen to the hall closet, opened it and saw the three sweaters she knit for Steven At War piled on the shelf by the sewing machine. There, she said, my sweaters. He won’t want these. No one wears sweaters here anyway.

She lugged all three sweaters outside and gently folded them, placing them on top of each other in the hole. She remembered knitting them, singing songs into the thread about Steven, pretending she was keeping him alive although she knew he was dead. He had to be dead. She was just more honest with herself than the other wives. With each purl and knit and knot, she felt the coldness of his stiffening legs, the draining of color from his cheeks, knew that never would she feel his forearms warm and veined around her waist, never again would his voice whisper praise into her ear.

She let the dirt dribble through her fingers over the pile of sweaters and it slid down the sides, slowly filling up the space, covering the colorful sleeves. Dead sweaters, she thought. Isn’t that funny, the way it turned out?

• • •

At the grocery store, the young man was wearing a gray button-up shirt and looked particularly handsome.

I was hoping you’d come in, he told her. I was thinking about you.

Really? His skin was so young, so new.

I get off in just a few minutes. He looked at his watch. Do you want to go on a walk or something? We’re right by the river and I could use a break before I go home.

She watched the bag-packer put the eggs haphazardly on top.

Sure, she said. Why not.

She packed the bags in her trunk again and after a beat, pulled out the bouquet of gardenias that she’d bought because they’d smelled so strongly. She waited for the young man, feeling like a bride. After a minute, he exited the store without his apron, let loose, looking younger.

This way, he said, come this way. Nice flowers.

She felt embarrassed and asked him to hold them for her, which he did, blooms down. They walked side by side and she was aware of his breathing, easy and confident, and aware of his lips. Lips, she thought. I really really miss lips.

The river leapt over stones, gurgling as rivers do. Its voice lowered and deepened as they walked and the young man told her about his life, about how this was his summer job away from college and one day he wanted to own an art supply store. Interesting, she told him, that will be an interesting store to own. You will buy many different colors of paint.

Yeah, he said. I like paint.

The river was speeding up. It made a rushing noise, rocks breaking up the water into foam.

I want to throw myself in, she thought. I want to crack up on those rocks.

She looked at the young man.

Can you swim? she asked.

Oh, yeah, he said. I’m a great swimmer.

Would you rescue me, she said, if I went in? Because I’m not a good swimmer.

Went in that? He pointed to the river just in case there was a choice he didn’t know about. It’s cold in that, he said, and fast. Not a good idea to go in there if you can’t swim.

But, like I said, she said, would you save me?

He seemed confused. This was not what he expected from her. I guess I’d try, he said, you know, if it was really dangerous. He took a step back. She walked to him.

I’m glad, she said.

He stepped down to a lower plain so he was suddenly her height and she went into his face and kissed those lips, reminded herself. They were so soft. She kissed him for a moment, and then she had to move away; they were too soft, the softness was murdering her.

Hey, said the young man, nice.

Mary sat down on the ground and felt like she could not possibly survive with something that soft in the world with her. The two of them could not exist together. No. The young man sat down, he wanted to kiss her again but she said, I have to go now. Did I tell you I was married?

No, he said, I didn’t know you were married. He looked to her hand and pointed to the ring. Oh, right. Check it out. Cool.

She thought about Steven and the disc and about pressing her lips down on those plastic curves, pushing hard on them until she pressed her face into his. Pushed past his skin and through his bone and into the quiet warm space underneath, her eyes shut, cell to cell, both unarmed. In there, she thought, inside his mind and flooded with blood, without windows or doors or her knitting or his chair, maybe in there she could hold their faces in her hands and consider something like forgiveness.

She stood up and the young man reached out his unflowered hand, wanting to pull her to him, wanting her attention again.

Really, he said, I would rescue you, you know, what you were saying before.

Yeah, she said, I’m sure you’d try.

She started back along the path and he followed her. He was so young, he just talked about himself again and she tuned out and watched the shadows of the trees cut lines into the ground. She kicked a few rocks. Back in the parking lot, she held out her hand and grasped his for a second. He had a firm grip.

Come back, I’ll give you more free gum, he said, handing her back her flowers.

Okay, she said, I can always use free gum.

He walked away, looking confused, not really sure what happened, if he was rejected or not. Mary threw the gardenias into the passenger seat, climbed into her car and drove home. She forgot the rest of the groceries and left them in the trunk. Later, when she went to get them, it was only the milk that had spoiled, releasing its warm dank odor on the air.

Instead she scooped up the flowers and went in to see Steven. He was in his chair, taking a nap. She stood above him and watched him twitch, his hands fluttering as if he’d been drugged. He was in her house: her husband, the love of her life. He was back. He made it. He left; he returned. She wanted to know him again, to enter the nightmare and be in there with him, to fight the demons with her own good weapons. She wanted to join him, but the chair was too small and his brain was his only and all she saw in the ditch were sweaters and a too light sky.

She reached out to shake him awake but her hand stopped in the air and wouldn’t go farther. No hand was reaching out for her. Stirring in his sleep, he let out a clipped yell. Mary kneeled on the carpet.

Steven, she whispered, I miss you so, but everything is fine at home.

Steven, she said, the neighbors got a dog and I am growing out my hair.

She bowed her head. Removing the plastic wrap, she very carefully kissed the bouquet of gardenias and then placed it onto his stomach.

Here love, she said, I brought you some flowers.

She kept her head low. Steven stirred and eyes blinking, woke up to the smell of the gardenias.

— Mary-, he said, — flowers-, how-beautiful.

She put her hands over her ears and started to cry.

THE BOWL

Let me open it up for you.

There’s a gift in your lap and it’s beautifully wrapped and it’s not your birthday. You feel wonderful, you feel like somebody knows you’re alive, you feel fear because it could be a bomb, because you think you’re that important.

When you open the wrapping (there’s no card), you find a bowl, a green bowl with a white interior, a bowl for fruit or mixing. You’re puzzled, but obediently put four bananas inside and then go back to whatever you were doing before: a crossword puzzle. You wonder and hope this is from a secret admirer but if so, you think, why a bowl? What are you to learn and gain from a green and white fruit bowl?

This is when you think about the last lover you had and feel bad about yourself. This is when you stand with your pencil poised over the crossword puzzle and stare at the wall. This is when you laugh out loud, alone, to yourself, at something funny he said once about crossword puzzles and feel ridiculous for still being able to be entertained by this lover of yore who slept facing the wall and wanted less than you wanted.

You want a lot.

You go to make yourself a cup of tea and while you’re prepping your mug you spill the sugar all over the floor. It’s sticky and gets all over your feet; this bothers you; you go to take a shower. As the shower water steams up the bathroom, it reminds you of the unfinished tea, and you dash naked into the kitchen to make sure you haven’t left the burner on. The house a pile of ash with just the bathroom standing. You stand in front of the stove. The stove is off you say to it. You are off. You look at each burner in turn, then the oven part. All off. You go to take a shower and ignore your body. You use a soap puff brush instead of your hands, and when it’s done, you’re fresh and clean and disengaged and anybody.

At work: your boss has died. Really, you find out your boss has died of a heart attack, yesterday, in his shower, and your first thought is if you’ll still have a job and your second thought is mean, like you wanted him to die anyway. He was a bad boss. At your desk, you feel guilty and not sure what to do; you have no boss, what are the rules? Who can you ask? You make a few lists of things to do and then sit still and do none of them. You think about the bowl and wonder if it has to do with your boss dying, was it some kind of message. You decide it is not a message, but mere coincidence.

At lunch you order steamed vegetables because you’re remembering that you have a heart too. You feel humbled by your heart, it works so hard. You want to thank it. You give your chest a little pat. When the vegetables arrive, they are twelve on the plate, high green and matte yellow, sliced into fancy ovals and diamonds to disguise the fact that they taste so bad. You pour lemon butter all over them but feel like a big cheat. After several broccolis, you leave the restaurant with your plate still half full and shiny with grease to go visit your brother. He works in the fire department and is handsome in his outfit. You tell him your boss is dead, and it freaks him out. He wonders if he could’ve saved him, had he been there, you know, he knows CPR. Your brother has your face, but a better version, you look better as a man. You think about the women who have loved him and looked into his face while he entered their bodies, and how that’s your face, almost, but also definitely not. You feel gypped.

“Andy,” you ask him, “will you set me up with a fireman?”

He laughs. “Sure.” You’ve never asked this before, you wonder if he thinks you’re kidding.

You go home early because your boss is dead. The fruit bowl sits there, some strange reminder of something you can’t remember. You put the bananas back on the counter and fill the bowl with warm water. You let your hands soak in it, this feels really nice. You sing a little song to yourself, about fruit and bowls and warm water, a song you just made up. You wonder if you’ll go out with the fireman after all, and if you do, will he kiss you? Does a fireman kiss slow or urgent? Will he lift your shirt or run off to water things down just when it’s all seeming better?

You lie down flat on the orange carpet and close your eyes. You are feeling very lonely. There is a knock at the door, and at first, you wonder if you made it up because you are so lonely. But then there’s another knock, and this one is too emphatic to be part of a fantasy. This one is not a nice knock.

You look into the peephole. There’s a man in a suit. You wonder if he’s here to investigate if you killed your boss or not. You open the door.

“I’m here,” he says, “to retrieve a bowl.”

“What?” His eyebrows stick out from his face, adding great depth. He is an older man, he looks as though his life is not making him happy.

“I’m here to retrieve a fruit bowl. I think one of them was delivered to you this morning by accident. All wrapped up? A green fruit bowl?”

You are stunned and confused, it was not for you after all? You empty out the water, and hand him the fruit bowl and he nods. He drips the remaining drops of water onto your welcome mat. The man seems very displeased, and you think it’s something you did, but then realize it has nothing to do with you which is depressing. He tilts his head down slightly in apology, and leaves with the bowl. You shut the door behind him. You want it back. You want the bowl back. You open the door to yell after him, sir, that’s my bowl, it came to my house with my name on the wrapping, that’s my bowl, sir, give me back my bowl. But he’s gone. You go to the sidewalk to look down the street, but he’s gone. All you can see are three kids on bicycles, circling their driveways, seven years old, turning tight circles in their driveways because they’re too scared to go where there might be cars.

MARZIPAN

One week after his father died, my father woke up with a hole in his stomach. It wasn’t a small hole, some kind of mild break in the skin, it was a hole the size of a soccer ball and it went all the way through. You could now see behind him like he was an enlarged peephole.

Sharon! is what I remember first. He called for my mother, sharp, he called her into the bedroom and my sister Hannah and I stood outside, worried. Was it divorce? We twisted nervously and I had one awful inner jump of glee because there was something about divorce that seemed a tiny bit exciting.

My mother came out, her face distant.

Go to school, she said.

What is it? I said. Hannah tried to peek through. What’s wrong? she asked.

They told us at dinner and promised a demonstration after dessert. When all the plates were cleared away, my father raised his thin white undershirt and beneath it, where other people have a stomach, was a round hole. The skin had curved and healed around the circumference.

What’s that? I asked.

He shook his head. I don’t know, and he looked scared then.

Where is your stomach now? I asked.

He coughed a little.

Did you eat? Hannah said. We saw you eat.

His face paled.

Where did it go? I asked and there we were, his two daughters, me ten, she thirteen.

You have no more belly button, I said. You’re all belly button, I said.

My mother stopped clearing the dishes and put her hand on her neck, cupping her jaw. Girls, she said, quiet down.

You could now thread my father on a bracelet. The giantess’ charm bracelet with a new mini wiggling man, something to show the other giantesses at the giantess party. (My, my! they declare. He’s so active!)

My parents went to the doctor the next day. The internist took an X ray and proclaimed my father’s inner organs intact. They went to the gastroenterologist. He said my father was digesting food in an arc, it was looping down the sides, sliding around the hole, and all his intestines were, although further crunched, still there and still functioning.

They pronounced him in great health.

My parents walked down into the cool underground parking lot and packed into the car to go home.

Halfway there, ambling through a green light, my mother told my father to pull over which he did and she shoved open the passenger side door and threw up all over the curb.

They made a U-turn and drove back to the doctor’s.

The internist took some blood, left, returned and winked.

Looks like you’re pregnant, he said.

My mother, forty-three, put a hand on her stomach and stared.

My father, forty-six, put a hand on his stomach and it went straight through to his back.

They arrived home at six-fifteen that night; Hannah and I had been concerned — six o’clock marked the start of Worry Time. They announced the double news right away: Daddy’s fine. Mommy’s pregnant.

Are you going to have it? I asked. I like being the youngest, I said. I don’t want another kid.

My mother rubbed the back of her neck. Sure, I’ll have it, she said. It’s a special opportunity and I love babies.

My father, on the couch, one hand curled up and resting inside his stomach like a birdhead, was in good spirits. We’ll name it after my dad, he said.

If it’s a girl? I asked.

Edwina, he said.

Hannah and I made gagging sounds and he sent us to our room for disrespecting Grandpa.

In nine months, my father’s hole was exactly the same size and my mother sported the biggest belly around for miles. Even the doctor was impressed. Hugest I’ve ever seen, he told her.

My mother was mad. Makes me feel like shit, she said that night at dinner. She glared at my father. I mean, really. You’re not even that tall.

My father growled. He was feeling very proud. Biggest belly ever. That was some good sperm.

We all went to the hospital on delivery day. Hannah wandered the hallway, chatting with the interns; I stood at my mother’s shoulder, nervous. I thought about the fact that if my father lay, face down, on top of my mother, her belly would poke out his back. She could wear him like a huge fleshy toilet seat cover. He could spin on her stomach, a beige propeller.

She pushed and grimaced and pushed and grimaced. The doctor stood at her knees and his voice peaked with encouragement: Almost There, Atta Girl, Here We Go — And!

But the baby did not come out as planned.

When, finally, the head poked out between her legs, the doctor’s face widened with shock. He stared. He stopped yelling Push, Push and his voice dried up. I went over to his side, to see what was going on. And what I saw was that the head appearing between my mother’s thighs was not the head of a baby but rather that of an old woman.

My goodness, the doctor said.

My mother sat up.

I blinked.

What’s wrong? said my father.

Hannah walked in. Did I miss anything? she asked.

The old woman kicked herself out the rest of the way, wiped a string of gook off her arm, and grabbing the doctor’s surgical scissors, clipped the umbilical cord herself. She didn’t cry. She said, clearly: Thank Heaven. It was so warm in there near the end, I thought I might faint.

Oh my God, said Hannah.

My mother stared at the familiar wrinkled face in front of her. Mother? she said in a tiny voice.

The woman turned at the sound. Sweetheart, she said, you did an excellent job.

Mother? My mother put a hand over her ear. What are you doing here? Mommy?

I kept blinking. The doctor was mute.

My mother turned to my father. Wait, she said. Wait. In Florida. Funeral. Wait. Didn’t that happen?

The old woman didn’t answer, but brushed a glob of blood off her wrist and shook it down to the floor.

My father found his voice. It’s my fault, he said softly, and, hanging his head, he lifted his shirt. The doctor stared. My mother reached over and yanked it down.

It is not, she said. Pay attention to me.

Hannah strode forward, nudged the gaping doctor aside and tried to look up inside.

Where’s the baby? she asked.

My mother put her arms around herself. I don’t know, she said.

It’s me, said my mother’s mother.

Hi Grandma, I said.

Hannah started laughing.

The doctor cleared his throat. People, he said, this here is your baby.

My grandmother stretched out her wrinkled legs to the floor, and walked, tiny body old and sagging, over to the bathroom. She selected a white crepe hospital dress from the stack by the door. It stuck to her slippery hip. Shut your eyes, children, she said over her shoulder, you don’t want to see an old lady naked.

The doctor exited, mumbling busy busy busy.

My mother looked at the floor.

I’m sorry, she said. Her eyes filled.

My father put his palm on her cheek. I grabbed Hannah and dragged her to the door.

We’ll be outside, I said.

We heard her voice hardening as we exited. Nine months! she was saying. If I’d known it was going to be my mother, I would’ve at least smoked a couple of cigarettes.

In the hallway I stared at Hannah and she stared back at me. Edwina? I said and we both doubled over, cracking up so hard I had to run to the bathroom before I wet my pants.

• • •

We all drove home together that afternoon. Grandma in the backseat between me and Hannah wrapped up in the baby blanket she had knitted herself, years before.

I remember this one, she remarked, fingering its soft pink weave. I did a nice job.

My father, driving, poked his hole.

I thought it might be a baby without a stomach, he said to my mother in the front seat. I never thought this.

He put an arm on her shoulder.

I love your mother, he said, stroking her arm.

My mother stiffened. I do too, she said. So?

I hadn’t gone to my father’s father’s funeral. It had been in Texas and I’d just finished with strep throat and everyone decided Hannah and I would be better off with the neighbors for the weekend. Think of us Sunday, my mother had said. I’d worn black overalls on Sunday, Hannah had rebelled and worn purple, and together we buried strands of our hair beneath the spindly roots of our neighbor’s potted plants.

When they returned, I asked my father how it was. He looked away. Sad, he said, fast, scratching his neck.

Did you cry? I asked.

I cried, he said. I cry.

I nodded. I saw you cry once, I assured him. I remember, it was the national anthem.

He patted my arm. It was very sad, he said, loudly.

I’m right here, I told him, you don’t have to yell it.

He went over to the wall and plucked off the black-and-white framed photograph of young Grandpa Edwin.

He sure was handsome, I said, and my father rested his hand on top of my head — the heaviest, best hat.

After we arrived home from the hospital, Hannah and I settled Grandma in the guest bedroom and our parents collapsed in the den: our father, bewildered, on the couch, our mother flat-backed on the floor, beginning a round of sit-ups.

Fuck if my mother is going to ruin my body, she muttered. Fuck that shit.

I brought a book on sand crabs into the living room and pretended to read on the couch. Hannah promptly got on the phone. No really! I heard her saying. I swear!

My father watched my mother: head, knees. Up, down.

At least you can do sit-ups, he said.

She sat-up, grit her teeth, and sat-down. Some good sperm, she said, nearly spitting.

It’s miracle sperm, my father said.

Excuse me, I said, I’m in the room.

Miracle? my mother said. Make it your dad then. Tell your fucking chromosomes to re-create him.

Her breasts leaked, useless, onto her T-shirts — cloudy milk-stain eyes staring blind up at the ceiling. She did a set of a hundred and then lay flat.

Mommy, I said, are you okay?

I could hear Hannah in the other room: She died in October, she was saying. Yeah, I totally saw.

My mother turned her head to look at me. Come here, she said.

I put down my book, went over to her and knelt down.

She put a hand on my cheek. Honey, she said, when I die?

My eyes started to fill up, that fast.

Don’t die, I said.

I’m not, she said, I’m very healthy. Not for a while. But when I do, she said, I want you to let me go.

I was able to attend my mother’s mother’s funeral. I kept close to Hannah for most of it, but when the majority of relatives had trickled out, I found my mother huddled into a corner of the white couch — her head back, face drawn.

I sat next to her, crawled under her arm and said, Mama, you are so sad.

She didn’t move her head, just petted my hair with her hand and said: True, but honey, I am sad plus.

Plus what I never asked. It made me not hungry, the way she said it.

She stopped her sit-ups at ten-thirty that night. It was past my bedtime and I was all tucked in, lights out. Before she’d fallen asleep, Hannah and I had been giggling.

Maybe I’ll have you, I said, stroking my stomach.

She’d sighed. Maybe I’ll have myself, she’d whispered.

That concept had never even crossed my mind. Oldest, I hissed back.

After a while, she’d stopped answering my questions. I prodded my stomach, making sure it was still there and still its usual size. It growled back.

I heard my mother let out a huge exhale in the den and the steady count: three hundred and five, three hundred and six, stopped.

Stepping quietly out of bed, I tiptoed into the hallway; my father was asleep on the couch, and my mother was neatening up the bookshelves, sticking the horizontal books into vertical slats.

Mommy, I called.

She didn’t turn around, just held out her arm and I went right to it.

My baby, she said, and I felt myself blooming.

We sat down on the couch, curled together, my knees in a V on her thigh. Her side was warmer than usual from the sit-ups, even a little bit damp. She leaned her head against mine and we both stared ahead, at the closed drapes that were ivory, specked with brown.

I’m hungry, I said.

Me too.

We stood and went to the refrigerator. I found some leftover spaghetti. My mother opened the freezer doors, rummaged around and brought out half a cake.

I never knew there was cake in there, I mumbled, stuffing a forkful of noodles into my mouth.

It was chocolate on the outside and sealed carefully in plastic.

This was from Grandma’s funeral, she told me.

I blinked. No way, I said. The marzipan one? I loved that cake.

You tried it? My mother unwrapped it.

I ate at least three pieces, I said. It was the best food at the wake by far.

She cut me a thin slice and put it on my place mat.

Most ten-year-olds don’t like marzipan, she told me. It’s Grandma’s favorite, marzipan is, she said. You must’ve gotten the taste from her.

I nibbled at its edge. It was cold and grainy from the freezer.

Delicious, I said, savoring the almond paste as it spread out in my mouth.

My mother cut herself a piece, grabbed a fork from the drying rack and sat down across from me.

Why do we have it? I asked.

She shrugged. You know some people keep pieces of wedding cake, she said, taking a bite.

In the morning, my father was holding the photograph of his father in his lap.

Edwin, I said. Handsome Grandpa Edwin.

He pulled me close to him. Grandpa Edwin had thick brown curls.

He really was an asshole, my father said.

I started laughing: loud, full laughter.

He put a hand over my mouth and I laughed into his palm.

Sssh, Lisa, he said. Don’t laugh about it.

It’s funny, I mumbled.

Don’t laugh at a dead man, he said.

I had a few left in me and I let them out, but they were half their big belly laugh size by then.

How’s the hole? I asked, when I was done. Does it hurt?

Nah, he said. It’s no big deal.

Can I see?

He raised his thin undershirt.

Can I touch? I asked. He nodded. I gingerly put my fingertips on the inner circle; his skin felt like skin.

So where do you think it went? I asked.

What, he said, the skin?

Everything, I said: the skin, the ribs that were in the way, the stomach acid, all of it.

I guess it’s all still in there, he said. I guess it’s just pushed to the side.

I think it’s cool, I said, imagining a new sports game kind of like basketball that revolved around my father.

He put his shirt back down, a curtain falling. I don’t, he said. But it didn’t kill me, he said, and I’m grateful for that.

• • •

At dinner my grandmother cooked her famous soup with tiny hot dogs floating in a thick bean broth.

I missed this soup, I said, I never thought I’d eat this soup again. This is my favorite soup in the whole world.

Hannah promptly lost a piece of bread inside and poked around the bowl with her fork.

Let’s hold hands, said my mother, before we start.

I swallowed the spoonful in my mouth.

I grabbed Hannah’s hand and my grandmother’s hand. One was soft and mushy and the other one was soft and mushy, but different kinds of soft and different kinds of mushy.

My mother closed her eyes.

We never say prayers, I interrupted.

We are today, said my mother.

I bowed my head.

So what do we say? I asked, looking down into my soup which was bobbing along. Something about bread?

Sshh, said my father. It’s a silent prayer.

No, it’s not that, said my mother, I’m still thinking.

Ow, Hannah told my father, you’re squeezing too hard.

I think we’re supposed to be thankful, I hinted.

Hannah turned and glared at me. Shut up, she said. Give her a second.

My grandmother was quiet, smelling her soup.

Needs salt, she whispered.

My mother looked up.

I’m not sure what to say, she said. Her eyebrows furrowed, uncertain.

Let’s make it up, I said. I squeezed Hannah’s hand and my grandma’s hand, and at the same time, they squeezed back.

I’ll start it, I said, and we’ll go around the circle.

My mother looked relieved. Good, she said, that sounds good.

I would like to say thanks, I began, for my parents and my sister and for the special appearance of Grandma … I turned to Hannah.

… And for Grandma’s soup which is the best soup and is way better than that fish thing we were going to eat. She faced my father.

He cleared his throat. There’s usually something about survival in good prayers, he said. Thanks for that.

My mother gave him a look. That’s so impersonal, she said.

He shrugged. I’m on the spot, he said. Survival is important to me.

My mother looked us all over and I could see the candle flame flickering near her eye. Her gaze held on her mother.

We all waited.

It’s your turn, I said, in case she’d forgotten.

She didn’t look at me. She stood up, breaking the handlinks she had made, and sat close to her mother.

My father began eating his soup.

I have a cake from your funeral, she said.

I felt myself lift inside. I squeezed down on Hannah’s hand. She said Ouch.

Cake? my grandmother said. What kind of cake?

Marzipan cake, my mother said.

My grandmother smiled. Marzipan? she said. That’s my favorite.

I stood up; I wanted to be the one; I went to the freezer, opened it, dug around and found the cake wedged beneath the third ice tray like a small football.

Here, I said. Here it is.

My mother grabbed it out of my hands.

Just a taste, she said.

Let’s all have some! I said. We can all eat funeral cake!

Just a little, my mother said.

Oh come on! I said. Let’s make it: into five pieces.

My mother looked at me.

Okay, she said. Five pieces. Her face looked lined and tired as she cut up the cake. I passed a piece to each of us. My grandmother bit into hers right away.

Mmm, she said. That is good, now that is good.

My mother did not eat hers. She wrapped it back in the plastic.

My grandmother kept eating and oohing. I bit into mine. Hannah gave me hers; she hates marzipan. I nearly hugged her. My father ate his quickly, like an appetizer.

I remember, said my mother, we all thought you would’ve liked it. We said you would’ve loved it.

My grandmother licked her lips. I do love it, she said. She pointed. Are you going to eat your piece?

No, said my mother.

Can I have it? she asked. I haven’t had such good marzipan in I don’t know how long.

No, my mother said, closing her fingers over her piece. I want to keep mine, she said.

Oh come on, said my father, let the lady have her cake. It was her funeral cake for God’s sake.

I finished my slice. I still had Hannah’s.

Here, Grandma, I said, Hannah didn’t want hers. I slid the whitish slab onto her plate.

Thank you dear, my grandmother said.

I want to keep mine, my mother repeated.

Hannah began on her soup. Her spoon made dull clinking sounds on the bowl.

The soup is good, Grandma, she said.

Mmm-hmm, said my father.

My mother sat still at her place. The plastic-wrapped cake sat next to her spoon. She didn’t touch her soup. The hot dogs stopped floating and were still.

I’ll eat yours if you don’t want it, I said to my mother.

She pushed over her bowl. I pretended I was her while I ate it. I imagined I was doing the eating but she was getting nourished.

When I was done, I asked: May I be excused?

No one answered, so I stayed.