Coquetry| Wild Honey


When Don arrived, I was still asleep. Six am. Head pushed into a couch cushion, I heard a knock at the front door and ignored it. Knock two: Susan stumbled into the living room, slipped on her cotton robe, and peered into the keyhole: Don! The door swung open. I struggled to sit, shake the man’s hand. Susan grinned: Sarah this is Don; he’s going to stay with us for a little bit. I noticed that his shirt was soaked with sweat and that he smelled like gasoline. A wispy grey ponytail clung to the back of his neck. He said drove all night. Car broke down twice in four days. I frowned bummer man then motioned towards the couch make yourself at home. When I tried to open the blinds, the cord snapped in half, and the blinds crashed onto the floor. A clump of cat fur flew up. Unmoved by the crash, Don sat legs-crossed in the blue recliner, lighting a limp cigarette with an even limper match. In the kitchen I helped Susan put on a pot of coffee. Did you know he was coming? Sort of but I didn’t think he’d actually show up. She served the coffee black. Before adding any sugar, Don asked is it refined? Without waiting to hear the answer, I dumped an entire tablespoon into my cup and took a big sip: so how do you and Susan know each other? Don eyed Susan briefly before answering we know each other from the Melon Group. Susan had only mentioned the Melon Group once. At the time we were delivering a pie to a man in Holt County whose wife had just died. I knew neither the husband nor the wife, but Susan stressed the importance of the trip: I was in the Melon Group with them. Although Susan was my boss at The Center For Alternative Healing, I knew little about her aside from what everyone knew: she possessed this persistent need to do good in the community and in the personal lives of her friends. When my duplex was evacuated for six months due to asbestos, Susan insisted I stay with her. As soon as my coworkers heard the news, they praised her unfailing sense of duty. Cindy, the Resident Therapist, was even so bold as to use the phrase pillar of strength, before adding and to think Susan’s suffered so much herself. Two miscarriages, a damning divorce, and one year spent wandering. Where? Cindy shrugged who knows; she was arrested near Dallas for hitchhiking then came here. *** The day my truck broke down, Susan was nowhere to be found. Standing on the side of the road, I dialed her cell. No answer. At the center the secretary put me on hold for five minutes before saying she is not here right now; can I take a message? When I called the house, Don, who had clearly been sleeping, answered in a fog: hello? Where is Susan? Don said at the acupuncturist. I explained the situation; twenty minutes later Don’s Tercel rounded the corner. Seated on the passenger’s side, I fiddled with the radio till I heard something I recognized. An oldies station, barely audible, why can’t he see how blind can he be? Don rolled down the window: turn it up. A Beatles song. When we got stuck at the train tracks, Don informed me that he had achieved a minimal level of fame in the seventies working as a roadie for Wings. Who? You know Paul McCartney’s Band. God, I smoked so much hash with him. Susan didn’t tell you? Susan had told me very little. The first night I stayed with her, I waited till she left for her stress-management class before inspecting the house. In the living room, I leafed through a few magazines, CDs, stray papers on the coffee table. In the basket beneath the TV stand, I discovered a pipe shaped like a vulva and a tattered copy of Siddhartha. In the kitchen—floor to ceiling wood paneling. The bulk of the food was stacked in the pantry next to a dust-encrusted furnace from the 1940’s. Although I continued to paw through the other rooms, I found nothing that broadened the scant knowledge I had of her. The house existed in a sort of sterility. There was not a single distinguishable personal touch though the house teemed with junk. Fourteen unscented candles, three electric juicers. Even the pictures on the refrigerator looked as if they could belong to anyone in any neighborhood. Not even the couch I slept on possessed a distinct scent; it was as if, over the years, the cushions had retained the personal scent of everyone who had ever slept on them. Often I woke in the middle of the night unable to place myself. *** On Thursday we all crammed into Susan’s Bronco and drove two hours south to visit the Etowah Indian Mounds. A fifty-four acre site with six earthen mounds, a mid-size plaza and village area. Before entering, we took a vow of silence. Without making a sound, our tour guide pointed-out the major landmarks as dictated by the map: two borrow pits, four defensive ditches. Don and Susan walked hand-in-hand, stopped every six steps to hug or kiss or. I stared up at Mound C, peaking at sixty-two feet. The informational brochure read the Etowah symbolize a society rich in ritual. At the end of the tour, a gift shop with glass doors. Don purchased a post-card and wooden necklace carved into the shape of an owl. On the drive home, he said it can’t be denied; Susan and I possess an inherent spiritual connection to each other. *** At six Susan left for her book club. As soon as her car turned out the driveway, Don pulled a palm-sized bong from his knapsack and said lets go out back. Out back: a four-acre stretch of dried grass. To the right a picnic table sat, and to the left, a hammock was strung between two White Oaks. Don said better not tell Susan; you know how she is. I nodded, took the first hit. Stoned after two turns, Don slurred god, this one time Susan and I... He began to sway, spilled a sip of beer. Now it’s not what you think about Susan and me. She’s the one who left.Little by little Don filled in the missing details. When I had asked Cindy at work about the Melon Group, she elaborated little: it wasn’t much really, just some back-to-the-land bullshit. Her ex-husband ran it. Don’s version differed: we set up camp in South Carolina; Susan’s father owned some property there. Before joining, members signed a vow of poverty, agreeing to give all money to the community. The community: 1280 acres and fifty-six hand-built shacks complete with plank flooring, bunk beds, and windows without glass. Rolling up the sleeves of his faded flannel, Don recited the thirty-two Social Standards, beginning with Kindness Always,and ending with The Search for Truth Through the Elimination of Contradictions. I leaned back against the tree: huh? Chest puffed up, Don said we sought to align our beliefs with our actions as much as possible. We believe that humans are one with each other, animals, and the earth. He took another hit, coughed hard: at some point we had close to eighty-five people living off the land but then. More and more, Don’s stories involved a leaving. Marla got pregnant and had the baby in a hospital, not even a midwife, mind you. Costa married his second cousin and no one’s heard from him since. In the end The Melon Group consisted of Don and four other women; however, since Don organized his sex life around an Open Door policy, jealousy was a main-stay. All day the women argued, or worse, stared at each other in stiff-faced silence. What we needed, Sarah, was more men to do the manual labor. You can’t self-subsist without men. From what I gathered, though, Don attracted only women and the occasional restless youth. *** The first night I brought Anthony over, Don shook his hand what’s up brother? Nothing much, man. Anthony took a seat next to Don on the couch. In the kitchen, I grabbed three beers from the fridge and opened them using the spare lighter on the counter. When I returned Beware my Love was spinning on the record player, and Don held Anthony transfixed: yeah McCartney’s a cool dude I guess. Did Sarah mention that I toured with him? I met Anthony three years ago in a psych lab. Since we were the only smokers in the class, we became partners. Whenever we got together, we sat on the floor of his bedroom and listened to records. All Anthony’s favorite musicians, though, were from the sixties. I’ve never done acid but if I did, I’d listen to Jimmie Rodgers not Syd Barrett. I am dreamy about an entirely different generation. Unions not sit-ins; FDR not Kennedy—and never, under any circumstance, Nixon or Reagan. Fuck Reagan don’t even get me started on that cunt.Anthony often ranted: you want to hear about Iran Contra, I’ll tell you about Iran Contra. He ranted fruitlessly; I already agreed, and Don, who had been present at Bloody Thursday needed no convincing: they fucking gassed the shit out of us. Anthony listened, riveted. My friend Terri was arrested and beaten. Don knelt beside the coffee table to roll another joint. As soon as I inhaled, I heard Susan’s car pull into the driveway. Without hesitation I threw the joint into my beer; Don rushed to find something to cover the smell. Emerging from the bathroom with a rusted can of Aqua Net, he sprayed the room till even the cat coughed. *** Late summer sun. We drove to the surplus store and paid cash for a charcoal grill. In the backyard Don wasted sixteen matches and ten sheets of newspaper before dousing the coals in lighter fluid. A single blue flame flickered then flared up. In the kitchen Susan and I chopped fruit for sangria. Our mouths stained red. Slicing open a pineapple, I asked how much longer did Don say he was staying? He didn’t. Seated at the picnic table, we formed a lopsided triangle. Susan to my far left—and Don, a bit closer, on the right. With his eyes already closed, Don motioned with his finger then touched my wrist let’s give thanks. Not to God but the earth itself. Throughout the prayer, his palm remained planted on my wrist—and all our eyes were closed except for the brief instant when I thought the prayer had ended and opened mine only to find that Susan was eyeing Don and I. *** When the center closed for a recreational holiday, Susan urged everyone in the break room to do something outdoors; we’re going fishing. Although Anthony and Don hitched a boat to my truck, we did not fish. Instead we hiked till our hair was matted flat with sweat. We swam. In the lake, waist-deep. After an hour or so, Susan and I paddled out farther. With nothing but our heads above the surface, Susan asked don’t you want to meet someone? In the wake of her rediscovered love, she had become very curious about my love life. In any alone moment, a question: what about Anthony? He’s a nice guy. Susan was a point-misser in much the same way as Anthony. When Anthony graduated from medical school, he used his trust fund to hitchhike from Atlanta to San Francisco. In the weeks before he left, he begged aw Sarah, c’mon, it will be fun. You’ve never been anywhere. Don’t you want to. It seemed I was always expected to be doing something, anything. Anthony called only once while away. From a bar in Oklahoma he beamed into the receiver oh man if you were here. Where? In this cute little dive bar there are real cowboys here. I imagined sitting in that bar with him on a stool that looked chewed, running my middle finger across the top of a chipped glass of whiskey (of course whiskey) and some middle-aged, salt of the earth, holding my pigtails, one in each hand: are those handlebars? I didn’t need to move to feel moved. The “restlessness of youth” confused me. I was satisfied to stand still all afternoon, watching my own shadow shift across the wall. But he’s perfect for you, really, perfect. Susan’s persistence baffled me: it’s just not healthy. There’s this great guy in my stress-management class. And in a tone I had never heard her use before: you got your eyes on someone else? *** Whenever I could not sleep, I stole a cigarette from Don’s pack on the coffee table and sat on the edge of the porch. For days I watched a cockroach I had assumed was dead, but then, one night I saw its left antenna twitch. I stared so long and hard at the cockroach that I almost did not notice Don as he opened the front door and sat down beside me. He offered me his jacket. I slipped one arm in then the other, buttoned it up to the neck. Sliding a bit closer, Don said now we’ve all noticed you’ve been awful quiet lately. I lit one of the stolen cigarettes. Don sidled even closer, took a drag. Pulling me into a tight hug, he said don’t forget you can talk to us, I mean Susan or me, about anything. I did not sleep at all. *** At the county fair, Susan volunteered to work the center’s charity booth. For at least a week prior, she pressured Don to join her. I’m not asking a lot here; just one thing.With each new plea, Don waved his hands aw shit. They argued over coffee. One morning Don was even so defiant as to light a cigarette at the kitchen table, exhale Susan’s direction. His audacity stunned me. On the opening day of the fair, Susan threatened to kick him out twice before slamming the front door fine whatever I’ll go by myself. While Susan was away, Anthony stopped by with four hits of 2C-I. This guy in my chem lab made a batch last week. I know Sarah won’t but I thought you might. Don fingered the bald spot above his left ear: what is it? Anthony laughed like acid but a little more intense. After performing multiple internet searches on the drug, Don said shit why not. By six the boys were tripping hard. Since we did not know when Susan would be home, I drove them to the park. All night they laid in the grass, watching their shadows stretch and shorten in the moonlight. I remained far off, counting down the weeks till my duplex would be ready. When Don and I finally arrived home two hours past midnight, Susan fumed where the fuck have you been? *** At dusk Anthony called come watch the magnolias drop.Sprawled on the floor of his living room, we stared out at the trees, ordered take-in. Four chimichangas, a burrito the size of my head. With our mouths full of salt and grease, we talked about Anais Nin and Henry Miller. I loved Anais most of all because she had a husband on each coast. Two. Anthony said could never get past the abortion. I took a sip of water, folded a tostada wrapper into a triangle, smaller and smaller. Not that she had an abortion but how she wrote about it. When the song on the record ended, another one began; it was not the same song, but I could not tell the difference. Anthony handed me a cigarette, already lit: in the diaries like she was a goddess, something about a purity ritual. I exhaled towards the ceiling; box fan blowing it all back in my face. When I unfolded the tostada wrapper, fifteen tiny triangles. I said think it’s more complicated than that. Anthony rolled another cigarette, paper sticking to his fingertips: what do you mean? Interrupted himself again and again: she didn’t even tell him. I let the silence widen. Anthony ate the last of the burrito: that’s just like you. True, I simply lacked the energy to continue. I stretched out my legs, leaned over, into him. That nothing is anything but itself is almost enough. The first night I slept at Anthony’s apartment, we ate sunflower seeds in bed; a sheet-less twin mattress shoved against the wall. No blinds on the window. He said promise you won’t be creeped if I play my nature sounds CD. I need it to sleep. We listened to Weeping Willow #3. I knew if he turned the light off, I was going to be touched. His eagerness startled. I realized then that he had not touched a naked girl in months; that I could be any naked body belonging to any naked girl, and he would remain this eager, relieved me. When I fucked him, it was as if my body emptied itself out. I was not attracted to Anthony, but I knew that what you did with someone superseded Who They Are. *** Half-peeled moon. Don walked into the living room she’ll be home late. And in almost the same breath want to smoke a little before bed? I nodded, followed him down the hall, into the bathroom. Along the bottom of the door, he placed a wet, rolled-up towel. Opened the window: rain. With no room to turn or sit, we leaned against the back wall, shoulder to shoulder, almost touching but not. With the utmost care, he lit the joint, rolling it between his lips. No breeze. Sweat through our jeans. The frank scent of his body. 6’6 and thick—not fat—big. When he leaned over, ashed out the window, I backed away without knowing why. Knocking his elbow against the sill, he laughed, leaned closer, and closer still: you make me nervous. When the window slammed shut, we propped it open again with a jumbo roll of toilet paper. Don re-lit the joint, said you remind me of Susan except. It wasn’t that I disliked him. When he entered a room, I tensed. He said You’re not like Anthony either in that—. It didn’t matter what Don said in-between, he ended with you yes you or I understand. I took the last ashy hit then flushed it down the toilet. Already past midnight, I laid down on the brown couch, listened to Susan park her car, shuffle across the front porch, unlock the door. Without so much as a glance towards the couch, she headed to the bedroom. Through the walls: Don asked how was—? Their voices lowered. The whole house stilled. There was something inevitable about the sleep that followed smoking where rest was no longer a great and painful finite but the inevitable act of the body slowing like dust settling. *** When Anthony’s lease ran out, he slept on the floor of his storage unit one night before asking Susan if he could move in. Sure, honey. The next morning I woke with a note tacked to my windshield: come by at five to help me pack? After work I drove ten minutes to Ample Storage off Beaverrun. When I unlocked the door to his unit, Anthony was still asleep. I bent down, shook his shoulder once, twice. He opened his eyes. I pointed to the alarm clock sitting on a nearby crate. Anthony stretched, sat up and said coffee? In the left-hand corner, a miniature percolator. While waited for the coffee, Anthony questioned me about Don and Susan. They’re not serious right, I mean it’s not a serious thing between them? I shrugged, poured a cup, shrugged again. At first I didn’t understand his questioning, then, I did. He said Don and I are thinking of taking a trip together. I packed the last of Anthony’s things. Whatever would not fit was donated. After I securing the crates with rope in the flatbed, I asked you sure, now really sure, you want to move in? Anthony huffed, slammed the tailgate shut that’s just like you. I imagined the Don and Anthony getting drunk at their favorite bar and saying my name over and over in a tone not unlike paper being cut. No, I knew better. Don was not talking about me to anyone, especially not Susan who watched my every movement. Just the other day, she cornered me in the hallway. Tugging at the hem of my skirt, she said I know you’ve been smoking with Don, and worse in my own home. I might expect that from Anthony but you? I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out. * Later that night I heard Don and Susan arguing through the walls—then, fucking. A vigorous, full-bodied act. A ferocity I had not heard previously. I heard none of the usual moans—but worse: the actual movements of their bodies. A stretch of tendon, bone-groan as they shifted into whatever position. Through it all Anthony remained unshaken. I propped one pillow beside each ear, hummed a tune aloud to myself until I thought they had finished. A mistake. They began again. I gathered my blankets and walked out into the backyard where I laid down in the hammock. * All day every day Anthony laid on the couch reading books from the library. On Thursday he learned how to plant oregano. On Friday: how to till an acre, when to can tomatoes, six proven stewing methods. After finishing Bernstein’s Guide to Brewing, we decided to brew a Baltic porter. I sterilized the bottles with bleach and boiling water then hung them above the sink to dry; all day they glistened in the sunlight. In sloppy print, Don wrote down the ingredients. Holding the paper two inches from her face, Susan still could not make out his handwriting: now what does this say? Maybe you should just come with us? Don set his pencil down, raised a hand we’re already been through this, Susan. Anthony knows the recipe better than—. They stepped onto the porch. Through the window Anthony and I could hear Susan tear-up I just don’t understand why you won’t come. He stomped his foot not this again. God, Susan. Why can’t you just go alone? Don had a way of making anyone who disagreed with him sound shrill—as if there was no logical conclusion or sensible course of action but his way. I had to concentrate, focus on the facts, to avoid siding with him, by default, every time. *** When the promissory note for Don’s small start-up loan arrived in the post, he signed the last page, said ready to roll? Anthony poured himself a cup of coffee where? Don stood from the kitchen table, walked over to the counter, and poured me a cup: Home Harvest Seed and Supplies. We need to pick up a few things. Don grabbed his wallet and house keys, left a note for Susan hope your workshop went well. Be back soon. Xo, D. Where at once I had taken little stock in Don’s ‘grant-talk,’ I now took him quite seriously. Earlier that morning, at the center’s weekly staff meeting, Susan announced that she planned to take a three-month leave next spring to help Don with the garden. Although unsure whether he would actually make a large purchase, Don insisted on taking my truck in case of emergency. Anthony said we can’t all fit. Sarah could stay here? True, I had no reason to go except my insurance doesn’t cover unaccompanied drivers. Don turned to Anthony you can ride in the back. Anthony’s body remained stiff; his face drained. Don said ha ha, dude. We’ll just sit real close. Since I was the smallest, Don suggested Anthony drive, and that I sit in the middle, one leg on each side of the clutch; Don squeezed in the passenger’s seat, arm pressed against the window. When we turned left, my shoulder smashed into Anthony and Don’s shoulder smashed into mine, pinning me to the seat for a second or two. At some point, Don’s hand settled onto my right knee. Anthony looked down at the hand then looked away. I moved his hand. Two turns later, we pulled into the near-empty Home Harvest parking lot. Once inside, Don asked the front cashier Mark around? Mark was the manager and a local expert on personal-use organic hydroponics. Don shook Mark’s hand: been a while, man. Finally ready to do this shit? While Don discussed nutrient supplements with Mark, Anthony and I wandered around the store until we could hear no voices of our own. We did not talk. We walked into the fluorescent glow light room; rows and rows of half-lit T-5 Tek Lights. Moved on to seed packets. Inspecting an envelope of marigold seeds, Anthony asked are you fucking Don? I slipped on a pair of red garden gloves with blue trim, shook my head no. He said not yet, anyway? I took off the gloves and hung them back on their small silver hook, walked outside. Anthony followed. Leaning against the plate glass window, we split a spliff. Ten minutes later, sat down beneath the purple awning, which made the concrete and our faces look, if not bruised, the same strange yellow-purple. When Don walked outside, he was empty-handed. He squinted in the sun: ordered everything we need. We can start in two weeks. Even sooner. *** The next morning at work, Susan cornered me in the break room about last night. I followed her into her office, shut the door. She motioned for me to sit in the leather chair opposite her desk and said was a little on edge. I stared at the window. Sun through slotted blinds, dust whirring in the light. I stared at whatever was not her: the constellation of pink crystals on the edge of the desk, the yellow filing cabinets, shoved in the corner, decorated with hand-painted flowers. I studied an exploding violet. Susan said Cindy mentioned you asked her if she knew a place you could stay. Although I was not surprised that Cindy told Susan, her swiftness startled. Still staring at the file cabinets, I stuttered a second or two it’s just—. Susan waited for me to continue. When I did not, she stood and walked over to the leather chair: I want you to stay, I mean, we all want you to stay. No matter my excuses. Stay. She pulled me into a hug we’ll need help with the garden. She walked me to the door Don said we will need all the help we can garner. * At night when I laid down on the hammock, I tried to imagine fucking Don but could not picture even the smallest detail. For years I masturbated without real fantasies: the sex acts were never between myself and another. Mostly I came to the image of land. Of standing in the center of an empty field, body obliterated by the space. * Through the kitchen window, light. Someone from inside the house called my name. Although I pretended, I was not asleep when Don opened the kitchen door, walked into the backyard. Shaking the hammock with his bare foot, he said you awake yet? He shook the hammock again. I rolled over: what’s wrong? Pilot light’s out on the furnace. You know how to fix it? The kitchen pantry was lit by a single, excruciating bare bulb. I flipped the switch off thenpointed to the top shelf get the grilling matches. Standing on his tip-toes, Don struggled to locate the matches: can you get me the stool? I dragged the stool over, he climbed atop. Found them. Still towering above, he stared down at me. The cat walked into the kitchen, banged her bowl against the floor for food. Don climbed down, inched forward, and kissed me. Sleep-dazed, I lingered in the kiss; his hands sliding down my stomach. The immediacy of his body, the sheer force of his mouth against mine, pressing down. I backed into a shelf. A jar of stewed tomatoes teetered on the edge a second before shattering across the floor. Wait here I’ll get the mop. Although Don left the pantry, he did not get the mop; he sat at the kitchen table, three fingers laced in the handle of a coffee cup. With his free hand, he lit his third cigarette and asked how long till you move back into your apartment? I grabbed the mop from the hall closet: one week why? Ashing into a flower pot, he said think you’ll still come by and visit. When I opened my mouth to speak, he interrupted, and in a tone of pure mock said yeah, sure I’ll visit. *** Long after Susan and Don have gone to bed, Anthony turned the light on in the kitchen and motioned through the window for me to come inside. I rolled over in the hammock, closed my eyes. For the last two days, Anthony has pestered I have something to tell you; when can we talk? I stared back at him: blank-faced, unblinking. I was storing myself up, taking stock in my own silence. A shut mouth, held breath. When Don woke everyone up before dawn on Saturday for breakfast, I refused his offer. Susan walked out to the hammock and said c’mon Don just wants to bring us all together again. In the kitchen, an impressive spread: pancakes, bacon, grits. When we finished Don cleared the plates from the table and said Anthony and I have decided to take a little trip to the Grand Canyon. We’ll be staying with some friends in Tucson. I asked what about the garden? Don smoothed back his hair there’s always next year. Susan glanced at me, turned to face Don. Without uttering a word, she stood from her chair and walked out the room. Anthony leaned over what’s up with her? Don shrugged and said we’re leaving this afternoon. We hoped you could help us pack. At three p.m. the boys turned out of the driveway. Susan stayed in her room all afternoon, emerging only to pee or grab more tissues. On Monday she called in sick at the center; I arrived to a break room full of questions. It’s just not like her. When I came home from work, Susan was sitting on the couch watching a Kirk Cameron special on the Hallmark Channel. I sat my purse down on the coffee table and asked how you feeling? It took her three minutes to acknowledge my presence, and when she did, it was in the form of a question: what happened the other morning with you and Don? I heard you two arguing in the kitchen. I noticed then that all the windows in the house had been shut for days and that the temperature reached nearly eighty degrees. Two steps towards the couch, I reached over Susan’s head, opened the window and let the breeze in. I said nothing.

When Don arrived, I was still asleep. Six am. Head pushed into a couch cushion, I heard a knock at the front door and ignored it. Knock two: Susan stumbled into the living room, slipped on her cotton robe, and peered into the keyhole: Don! The door swung open. I struggled to sit, shake the man’s hand. Susan grinned: Sarah this is Don; he’s going to stay with us for a little bit. I noticed that his shirt was soaked with sweat and that he smelled like gasoline. A wispy grey ponytail clung to the back of his neck. He said drove all night. Car broke down twice in four days. I frowned bummer man then motioned towards the couch make yourself at home. When I tried to open the blinds, the cord snapped in half, and the blinds crashed onto the floor. A clump of cat fur flew up. Unmoved by the crash, Don sat legs-crossed in the blue recliner, lighting a limp cigarette with an even limper match. In the kitchen I helped Susan put on a pot of coffee. Did you know he was coming? Sort of but I didn’t think he’d actually show up. She served the coffee black. Before adding any sugar, Don asked is it refined? Without waiting to hear the answer, I dumped an entire tablespoon into my cup and took a big sip: so how do you and Susan know each other? Don eyed Susan briefly before answering we know each other from the Melon Group.

Susan had only mentioned the Melon Group once. At the time we were delivering a pie to a man in Holt County whose wife had just died. I knew neither the husband nor the wife, but Susan stressed the importance of the trip: I was in the Melon Group with them. Although Susan was my boss at The Center For Alternative Healing, I knew little about her aside from what everyone knew: she possessed this persistent need to do good in the community and in the personal lives of her friends. When my duplex was evacuated for six months due to asbestos, Susan insisted I stay with her. As soon as my coworkers heard the news, they praised her unfailing sense of duty. Cindy, the Resident Therapist, was even so bold as to use the phrase pillar of strength, before adding and to think Susan’s suffered so much herself. Two miscarriages, a damning divorce, and one year spent wandering. Where? Cindy shrugged who knows; she was arrested near Dallas for hitchhiking then came here.

***

The day my truck broke down, Susan was nowhere to be found. Standing on the side of the road, I dialed her cell. No answer. At the center the secretary put me on hold for five minutes before saying she is not here right now; can I take a message? When I called the house, Don, who had clearly been sleeping, answered in a fog: hello? Where is Susan? Don said at the acupuncturist. I explained the situation; twenty minutes later Don’s Tercel rounded the corner. Seated on the passenger’s side, I fiddled with the radio till I heard something I recognized. An oldies station, barely audible, why can’t he see how blind can he be? Don rolled down the window: turn it up. A Beatles song. When we got stuck at the train tracks, Don informed me that he had achieved a minimal level of fame in the seventies working as a roadie for Wings. Who? You know Paul McCartney’s Band. God, I smoked so much hash with him. Susan didn’t tell you?

Susan had told me very little. The first night I stayed with her, I waited till she left for her stress-management class before inspecting the house. In the living room, I leafed through a few magazines, CDs, stray papers on the coffee table. In the basket beneath the TV stand, I discovered a pipe shaped like a vulva and a tattered copy of Siddhartha. In the kitchen—floor to ceiling wood paneling. The bulk of the food was stacked in the pantry next to a dust-encrusted furnace from the 1940’s. Although I continued to paw through the other rooms, I found nothing that broadened the scant knowledge I had of her. The house existed in a sort of sterility. There was not a single distinguishable personal touch though the house teemed with junk. Fourteen unscented candles, three electric juicers. Even the pictures on the refrigerator looked as if they could belong to anyone in any neighborhood. Not even the couch I slept on possessed a distinct scent; it was as if, over the years, the cushions had retained the personal scent of everyone who had ever slept on them. Often I woke in the middle of the night unable to place myself.

***

On Thursday we all crammed into Susan’s Bronco and drove two hours south to visit the Etowah Indian Mounds. A fifty-four acre site with six earthen mounds, a mid-size plaza and village area. Before entering, we took a vow of silence. Without making a sound, our tour guide pointed-out the major landmarks as dictated by the map: two borrow pits, four defensive ditches. Don and Susan walked hand-in-hand, stopped every six steps to hug or kiss or. I stared up at Mound C, peaking at sixty-two feet. The informational brochure read the Etowah symbolize a society rich in ritual. At the end of the tour, a gift shop with glass doors. Don purchased a post-card and wooden necklace carved into the shape of an owl. On the drive home, he said it can’t be denied; Susan and I possess an inherent spiritual connection to each other.

***

At six Susan left for her book club. As soon as her car turned out the driveway, Don pulled a palm-sized bong from his knapsack and said lets go out back. Out back: a four-acre stretch of dried grass. To the right a picnic table sat, and to the left, a hammock was strung between two White Oaks. Don said better not tell Susan; you know how she is. I nodded, took the first hit. Stoned after two turns, Don slurred god, this one time Susan and I... He began to sway, spilled a sip of beer. Now it’s not what you think about Susan and me. She’s the one who left.Little by little Don filled in the missing details. When I had asked Cindy at work about the Melon Group, she elaborated little: it wasn’t much really, just some back-to-the-land bullshit. Her ex-husband ran it. Don’s version differed: we set up camp in South Carolina; Susan’s father owned some property there. Before joining, members signed a vow of poverty, agreeing to give all money to the community. The community: 1280 acres and fifty-six hand-built shacks complete with plank flooring, bunk beds, and windows without glass. Rolling up the sleeves of his faded flannel, Don recited the thirty-two Social Standards, beginning with Kindness Always,and ending with The Search for Truth Through the Elimination of Contradictions. I leaned back against the tree: huh? Chest puffed up, Don said we sought to align our beliefs with our actions as much as possible. We believe that humans are one with each other, animals, and the earth. He took another hit, coughed hard: at some point we had close to eighty-five people living off the land but then. More and more, Don’s stories involved a leaving. Marla got pregnant and had the baby in a hospital, not even a midwife, mind you. Costa married his second cousin and no one’s heard from him since. In the end The Melon Group consisted of Don and four other women; however, since Don organized his sex life around an Open Door policy, jealousy was a main-stay. All day the women argued, or worse, stared at each other in stiff-faced silence. What we needed, Sarah, was more men to do the manual labor. You can’t self-subsist without men. From what I gathered, though, Don attracted only women and the occasional restless youth.

***

The first night I brought Anthony over, Don shook his hand what’s up brother? Nothing much, man. Anthony took a seat next to Don on the couch. In the kitchen, I grabbed three beers from the fridge and opened them using the spare lighter on the counter. When I returned Beware my Love was spinning on the record player, and Don held Anthony transfixed: yeah McCartney’s a cool dude I guess. Did Sarah mention that I toured with him? I met Anthony three years ago in a psych lab. Since we were the only smokers in the class, we became partners. Whenever we got together, we sat on the floor of his bedroom and listened to records. All Anthony’s favorite musicians, though, were from the sixties. I’ve never done acid but if I did, I’d listen to Jimmie Rodgers not Syd Barrett. I am dreamy about an entirely different generation. Unions not sit-ins; FDR not Kennedy—and never, under any circumstance, Nixon or Reagan. Fuck Reagan don’t even get me started on that cunt.Anthony often ranted: you want to hear about Iran Contra, I’ll tell you about Iran Contra. He ranted fruitlessly; I already agreed, and Don, who had been present at Bloody Thursday needed no convincing: they fucking gassed the shit out of us. Anthony listened, riveted. My friend Terri was arrested and beaten. Don knelt beside the coffee table to roll another joint. As soon as I inhaled, I heard Susan’s car pull into the driveway. Without hesitation I threw the joint into my beer; Don rushed to find something to cover the smell. Emerging from the bathroom with a rusted can of Aqua Net, he sprayed the room till even the cat coughed.

***

Late summer sun. We drove to the surplus store and paid cash for a charcoal grill. In the backyard Don wasted sixteen matches and ten sheets of newspaper before dousing the coals in lighter fluid. A single blue flame flickered then flared up. In the kitchen Susan and I chopped fruit for sangria. Our mouths stained red. Slicing open a pineapple, I asked how much longer did Don say he was staying? He didn’t.

Seated at the picnic table, we formed a lopsided triangle. Susan to my far left—and Don, a bit closer, on the right. With his eyes already closed, Don motioned with his finger then touched my wrist let’s give thanks. Not to God but the earth itself. Throughout the prayer, his palm remained planted on my wrist—and all our eyes were closed except for the brief instant when I thought the prayer had ended and opened mine only to find that Susan was eyeing Don and I.

***

When the center closed for a recreational holiday, Susan urged everyone in the break room to do something outdoors; we’re going fishing. Although Anthony and Don hitched a boat to my truck, we did not fish. Instead we hiked till our hair was matted flat with sweat. We swam. In the lake, waist-deep. After an hour or so, Susan and I paddled out farther. With nothing but our heads above the surface, Susan asked don’t you want to meet someone? In the wake of her rediscovered love, she had become very curious about my love life. In any alone moment, a question: what about Anthony? He’s a nice guy.

Susan was a point-misser in much the same way as Anthony. When Anthony graduated from medical school, he used his trust fund to hitchhike from Atlanta to San Francisco. In the weeks before he left, he begged aw Sarah, c’mon, it will be fun. You’ve never been anywhere. Don’t you want to. It seemed I was always expected to be doing something, anything. Anthony called only once while away. From a bar in Oklahoma he beamed into the receiver oh man if you were here. Where? In this cute little dive bar there are real cowboys here. I imagined sitting in that bar with him on a stool that looked chewed, running my middle finger across the top of a chipped glass of whiskey (of course whiskey) and some middle-aged, salt of the earth, holding my pigtails, one in each hand: are those handlebars? I didn’t need to move to feel moved. The “restlessness of youth” confused me. I was satisfied to stand still all afternoon, watching my own shadow shift across the wall. But he’s perfect for you, really, perfect. Susan’s persistence baffled me: it’s just not healthy. There’s this great guy in my stress-management class. And in a tone I had never heard her use before: you got your eyes on someone else?

***

Whenever I could not sleep, I stole a cigarette from Don’s pack on the coffee table and sat on the edge of the porch. For days I watched a cockroach I had assumed was dead, but then, one night I saw its left antenna twitch. I stared so long and hard at the cockroach that I almost did not notice Don as he opened the front door and sat down beside me. He offered me his jacket. I slipped one arm in then the other, buttoned it up to the neck. Sliding a bit closer, Don said now we’ve all noticed you’ve been awful quiet lately. I lit one of the stolen cigarettes. Don sidled even closer, took a drag. Pulling me into a tight hug, he said don’t forget you can talk to us, I mean Susan or me, about anything. I did not sleep at all.

***

At the county fair, Susan volunteered to work the center’s charity booth. For at least a week prior, she pressured Don to join her. I’m not asking a lot here; just one thing.With each new plea, Don waved his hands aw shit. They argued over coffee. One morning Don was even so defiant as to light a cigarette at the kitchen table, exhale Susan’s direction. His audacity stunned me. On the opening day of the fair, Susan threatened to kick him out twice before slamming the front door fine whatever I’ll go by myself.

While Susan was away, Anthony stopped by with four hits of 2C-I. This guy in my chem lab made a batch last week. I know Sarah won’t but I thought you might. Don fingered the bald spot above his left ear: what is it? Anthony laughed like acid but a little more intense. After performing multiple internet searches on the drug, Don said shit why not. By six the boys were tripping hard. Since we did not know when Susan would be home, I drove them to the park. All night they laid in the grass, watching their shadows stretch and shorten in the moonlight. I remained far off, counting down the weeks till my duplex would be ready. When Don and I finally arrived home two hours past midnight, Susan fumed where the fuck have you been?

***

At dusk Anthony called come watch the magnolias drop.Sprawled on the floor of his living room, we stared out at the trees, ordered take-in. Four chimichangas, a burrito the size of my head. With our mouths full of salt and grease, we talked about Anais Nin and Henry Miller. I loved Anais most of all because she had a husband on each coast. Two. Anthony said could never get past the abortion. I took a sip of water, folded a tostada wrapper into a triangle, smaller and smaller. Not that she had an abortion but how she wrote about it. When the song on the record ended, another one began; it was not the same song, but I could not tell the difference. Anthony handed me a cigarette, already lit: in the diaries like she was a goddess, something about a purity ritual. I exhaled towards the ceiling; box fan blowing it all back in my face. When I unfolded the tostada wrapper, fifteen tiny triangles. I said think it’s more complicated than that. Anthony rolled another cigarette, paper sticking to his fingertips: what do you mean? Interrupted himself again and again: she didn’t even tell him. I let the silence widen. Anthony ate the last of the burrito: that’s just like you. True, I simply lacked the energy to continue. I stretched out my legs, leaned over, into him. That nothing is anything but itself is almost enough.

The first night I slept at Anthony’s apartment, we ate sunflower seeds in bed; a sheet-less twin mattress shoved against the wall. No blinds on the window. He said promise you won’t be creeped if I play my nature sounds CD. I need it to sleep. We listened to Weeping Willow #3. I knew if he turned the light off, I was going to be touched. His eagerness startled. I realized then that he had not touched a naked girl in months; that I could be any naked body belonging to any naked girl, and he would remain this eager, relieved me. When I fucked him, it was as if my body emptied itself out. I was not attracted to Anthony, but I knew that what you did with someone superseded Who They Are.

***

        Half-peeled moon. Don walked into the living room she’ll be home late. And in almost the same breath want to smoke a little before bed? I nodded, followed him down the hall, into the bathroom. Along the bottom of the door, he placed a wet, rolled-up towel. Opened the window: rain. With no room to turn or sit, we leaned against the back wall, shoulder to shoulder, almost touching but not. With the utmost care, he lit the joint, rolling it between his lips. No breeze. Sweat through our jeans. The frank scent of his body. 6’6 and thick—not fat—big. When he leaned over, ashed out the window, I backed away without knowing why. Knocking his elbow against the sill, he laughed, leaned closer, and closer still: you make me nervous.
      When the window slammed shut, we propped it open again with a jumbo roll of toilet paper. Don re-lit the joint, said you remind me of Susan except. It wasn’t that I disliked him. When he entered a room, I tensed. He said You’re not like Anthony either in that—. It didn’t matter what Don said in-between, he ended with you yes you or I understand.
        I took the last ashy hit then flushed it down the toilet. Already past midnight, I laid down on the brown couch, listened to Susan park her car, shuffle across the front porch, unlock the door. Without so much as a glance towards the couch, she headed to the bedroom. Through the walls: Don asked how was—? Their voices lowered. The whole house stilled. There was something inevitable about the sleep that followed smoking where rest was no longer a great and painful finite but the inevitable act of the body slowing like dust settling.

***

When Anthony’s lease ran out, he slept on the floor of his storage unit one night before asking Susan if he could move in. Sure, honey. The next morning I woke with a note tacked to my windshield: come by at five to help me pack? After work I drove ten minutes to Ample Storage off Beaverrun. When I unlocked the door to his unit, Anthony was still asleep. I bent down, shook his shoulder once, twice. He opened his eyes. I pointed to the alarm clock sitting on a nearby crate. Anthony stretched, sat up and said coffee? In the left-hand corner, a miniature percolator. While waited for the coffee, Anthony questioned me about Don and Susan. They’re not serious right, I mean it’s not a serious thing between them? I shrugged, poured a cup, shrugged again. At first I didn’t understand his questioning, then, I did. He said Don and I are thinking of taking a trip together. I packed the last of Anthony’s things. Whatever would not fit was donated. After I securing the crates with rope in the flatbed, I asked you sure, now really sure, you want to move in? Anthony huffed, slammed the tailgate shut that’s just like you.

I imagined the Don and Anthony getting drunk at their favorite bar and saying my name over and over in a tone not unlike paper being cut. No, I knew better. Don was not talking about me to anyone, especially not Susan who watched my every movement. Just the other day, she cornered me in the hallway. Tugging at the hem of my skirt, she said I know you’ve been smoking with Don, and worse in my own home. I might expect that from Anthony but you? I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out.

***

Later that night I heard Don and Susan arguing through the walls—then, fucking. A vigorous, full-bodied act. A ferocity I had not heard previously. I heard none of the usual moans—but worse: the actual movements of their bodies. A stretch of tendon, bone-groan as they shifted into whatever position. Through it all Anthony remained unshaken. I propped one pillow beside each ear, hummed a tune aloud to myself until I thought they had finished. A mistake. They began again. I gathered my blankets and walked out into the backyard where I laid down in the hammock.

***

All day every day Anthony laid on the couch reading books from the library. On Thursday he learned how to plant oregano. On Friday: how to till an acre, when to can tomatoes, six proven stewing methods. After finishing Bernstein’s Guide to Brewing, we decided to brew a Baltic porter. I sterilized the bottles with bleach and boiling water then hung them above the sink to dry; all day they glistened in the sunlight. In sloppy print, Don wrote down the ingredients. Holding the paper two inches from her face, Susan still could not make out his handwriting: now what does this say? Maybe you should just come with us? Don set his pencil down, raised a hand we’re already been through this, Susan. Anthony knows the recipe better than—. They stepped onto the porch. Through the window Anthony and I could hear Susan tear-up I just don’t understand why you won’t come. He stomped his foot not this again. God, Susan. Why can’t you just go alone? Don had a way of making anyone who disagreed with him sound shrill—as if there was no logical conclusion or sensible course of action but his way. I had to concentrate, focus on the facts, to avoid siding with him, by default, every time.

***

        When the promissory note for Don’s small start-up loan arrived in the post, he signed the last page, said ready to roll? Anthony poured himself a cup of coffee where? Don stood from the kitchen table, walked over to the counter, and poured me a cup: Home Harvest Seed and Supplies. We need to pick up a few things. Don grabbed his wallet and house keys, left a note for Susan hope your workshop went well. Be back soon. Xo, D. Where at once I had taken little stock in Don’s ‘grant-talk,’ I now took him quite seriously. Earlier that morning, at the center’s weekly staff meeting, Susan announced that she planned to take a three-month leave next spring to help Don with the garden.
   Although unsure whether he would actually make a large purchase, Don insisted on taking my truck in case of emergency. Anthony said we can’t all fit. Sarah could stay here? True, I had no reason to go except my insurance doesn’t cover unaccompanied drivers. Don turned to Anthony you can ride in the back. Anthony’s body remained stiff; his face drained. Don said ha ha, dude. We’ll just sit real close. Since I was the smallest, Don suggested Anthony drive, and that I sit in the middle, one leg on each side of the clutch; Don squeezed in the passenger’s seat, arm pressed against the window. When we turned left, my shoulder smashed into Anthony and Don’s shoulder smashed into mine, pinning me to the seat for a second or two. At some point, Don’s hand settled onto my right knee. Anthony looked down at the hand then looked away. I moved his hand. Two turns later, we pulled into the near-empty Home Harvest parking lot.
       Once inside, Don asked the front cashier Mark around? Mark was the manager and a local expert on personal-use organic hydroponics. Don shook Mark’s hand: been a while, man. Finally ready to do this shit? While Don discussed nutrient supplements with Mark, Anthony and I wandered around the store until we could hear no voices of our own. We did not talk. We walked into the fluorescent glow light room; rows and rows of half-lit T-5 Tek Lights. Moved on to seed packets. Inspecting an envelope of marigold seeds, Anthony asked are you fucking Don? I slipped on a pair of red garden gloves with blue trim, shook my head no. He said not yet, anyway? I took off the gloves and hung them back on their small silver hook, walked outside. Anthony followed. Leaning against the plate glass window, we split a spliff. Ten minutes later, sat down beneath the purple awning, which made the concrete and our faces look, if not bruised, the same strange yellow-purple. When Don walked outside, he was empty-handed. He squinted in the sun: ordered everything we need. We can start in two weeks. Even sooner.

***

The next morning at work, Susan cornered me in the break room about last night. I followed her into her office, shut the door. She motioned for me to sit in the leather chair opposite her desk and said was a little on edge. I stared at the window. Sun through slotted blinds, dust whirring in the light. I stared at whatever was not her: the constellation of pink crystals on the edge of the desk, the yellow filing cabinets, shoved in the corner, decorated with hand-painted flowers. I studied an exploding violet. Susan said Cindy mentioned you asked her if she knew a place you could stay. Although I was not surprised that Cindy told Susan, her swiftness startled. Still staring at the file cabinets, I stuttered a second or two it’s just—. Susan waited for me to continue. When I did not, she stood and walked over to the leather chair: I want you to stay, I mean, we all want you to stay. No matter my excuses. Stay. She pulled me into a hug we’ll need help with the garden. She walked me to the door Don said we will need all the help we can garner.

***

At night when I laid down on the hammock, I tried to imagine fucking Don but could not picture even the smallest detail. For years I masturbated without real fantasies: the sex acts were never between myself and another. Mostly I came to the image of land. Of standing in the center of an empty field, body obliterated by the space.

***

Through the kitchen window, light. Someone from inside the house called my name. Although I pretended, I was not asleep when Don opened the kitchen door, walked into the backyard. Shaking the hammock with his bare foot, he said you awake yet? He shook the hammock again. I rolled over: what’s wrong? Pilot light’s out on the furnace. You know how to fix it?

The kitchen pantry was lit by a single, excruciating bare bulb. I flipped the switch off thenpointed to the top shelf get the grilling matches. Standing on his tip-toes, Don struggled to locate the matches: can you get me the stool? I dragged the stool over, he climbed atop. Found them. Still towering above, he stared down at me. The cat walked into the kitchen, banged her bowl against the floor for food. Don climbed down, inched forward, and kissed me. Sleep-dazed, I lingered in the kiss; his hands sliding down my stomach. The immediacy of his body, the sheer force of his mouth against mine, pressing down. I backed into a shelf. A jar of stewed tomatoes teetered on the edge a second before shattering across the floor. Wait here I’ll get the mop. Although Don left the pantry, he did not get the mop; he sat at the kitchen table, three fingers laced in the handle of a coffee cup. With his free hand, he lit his third cigarette and asked how long till you move back into your apartment? I grabbed the mop from the hall closet: one week why? Ashing into a flower pot, he said think you’ll still come by and visit. When I opened my mouth to speak, he interrupted, and in a tone of pure mock said yeah, sure I’ll visit.

***

Long after Susan and Don have gone to bed, Anthony turned the light on in the kitchen and motioned through the window for me to come inside. I rolled over in the hammock, closed my eyes. For the last two days, Anthony has pestered I have something to tell you; when can we talk? I stared back at him: blank-faced, unblinking. I was storing myself up, taking stock in my own silence. A shut mouth, held breath. When Don woke everyone up before dawn on Saturday for breakfast, I refused his offer. Susan walked out to the hammock and said c’mon Don just wants to bring us all together again. In the kitchen, an impressive spread: pancakes, bacon, grits. When we finished Don cleared the plates from the table and said Anthony and I have decided to take a little trip to the Grand Canyon. We’ll be staying with some friends in Tucson. I asked what about the garden? Don smoothed back his hair there’s always next year. Susan glanced at me, turned to face Don. Without uttering a word, she stood from her chair and walked out the room. Anthony leaned over what’s up with her? Don shrugged and said we’re leaving this afternoon. We hoped you could help us pack.

At three p.m. the boys turned out of the driveway. Susan stayed in her room all afternoon, emerging only to pee or grab more tissues. On Monday she called in sick at the center; I arrived to a break room full of questions. It’s just not like her. When I came home from work, Susan was sitting on the couch watching a Kirk Cameron special on the Hallmark Channel. I sat my purse down on the coffee table and asked how you feeling? It took her three minutes to acknowledge my presence, and when she did, it was in the form of a question: what happened the other morning with you and Don? I heard you two arguing in the kitchen. I noticed then that all the windows in the house had been shut for days and that the temperature reached nearly eighty degrees. Two steps towards the couch, I reached over Susan’s head, opened the window and let the breeze in. I said nothing.