The Seventh Mansion Read online

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  He comes downstairs at noon to find Erik at the kitchen counter, pouring coffee into a thermos. Get dressed. You’re coming with me. Xie pauses in the doorway. What? To work, Erik says. Why? I don’t want you lying around all day. Xie rubs his brow. Dad, I’m not. Erik cutting him off, grimacing as he swallows his coffee. Just get ready. Fifteen minutes later in the truck, dozing against the glass, news on: ice melting at both poles, whales eating plastic bags, California still on fire. Erik spins the knob. They drive for half an hour and stop at a strip mall, where two other men wait in a gutted office space, ripping up old carpet. They nod, smileless, when Erik introduces them. Xie looks at the floor. You’re gonna help me install that, Erik says, pointing to a toilet and sink stacked in a hallway. And we have to take the old stuff out. Xie tucks his chin into the neck of his hoodie. Everything, even the things they have to get rid of, look brand-new. In the bathroom his hand keeps slipping on the wrench. Sweating in gloves several sizes too big. No window. The other men begin laying down carpet pads, each shot with the staple gun echoing down the hall. Dad, Xie says. Dad. Erik grunts beneath the sink. Yeah. I have a blister. Erik frowns. From what? Xie shrugs. Go get a Band-Aid from the truck, Erik says. Xie brushes the dust from his knees, goes outside. Fresh air. Beyond the ugly blunt stucco pine trees feather the horizon, surrounding the university in the hills, a liberal hippie arts school Erik hoped would entice him with its vegan meal plans and social justice majors. But he’d had all that in California; it wasn’t different buildings, different people, different schools that he had wanted but something else, something he recognized in the woods as soon as he saw them. Hey, a voice calls, behind him; Xie stops a step shy of the truck. Little sip of air. Hey, I want to talk to you. Xie looks over his shoulder. A middle-aged man, thick beard, jean jacket, peeling away from the wall of a doughnut shop. You’re that kid, right? That’s you? Xie blinks. The guy comes in close, jacket brushing Xie’s sleeve. Kid who messed with the Moore place? Going around with your black shit and taking people’s property? Xie steps back. They’re not property. What’d you say? They’re animals, Xie repeats. They’re not property. Like hell they’re not, you know how much you cost that family? Actually, yeah, I’m paying for it, Xie says. So. Don’t really need the lecture. You mean your daddy’s paying, the man corrects, finger in Xie’s face. Consequences of your actions mean shit to people like you, self-righteous tree-hugging faggots. Shut up, Xie whispers. The man grabs the front of his hoodie, yanking Xie into an almost-embrace. Don’t fucking mumble when you talk to me. Xie closes his eyes. Thinks of Moore on his back. Breath on the side of his face. The man lets him go with a shove and Xie stumbles, back against the truck. The man spits, turns. You watch yourself, hear. Inside the building the men are unrolling a tarp, perfectly visible through the windows. Xie gets a bandage from the glove compartment, spreads it over the burst blister. When he walks back into the building the men clear their throats. In the bathroom Erik is twisting the new taps into place. What took you so long. Gesturing at the gloves. Xie pulls them on, picks up the little bits of junk everywhere: shredded plastic, splinters of wood, loose nails, paint chips. One by one into an empty paint can. When the can is full Xie puts it in the back of the truck, then climbs into the cab. Peels off the sweaty gloves. Sleeps. When he wakes he sees Erik crossing the lot, blotting the sweat from his brow as he gets inside the truck. How’s your hand? It’s okay. Erik nods, long suck of his teeth. You want to go back in? No, Xie says. Silence. A sparrow lands on the hood of the truck, shivers, flies off. You know I just want things to work, Erik says. Here, I mean. For you. That’s all. Xie gazes from blacktop to roof to sky. I know, Xie says. Erik rubs his face. They used to laugh about how Xie’s first word was No. For a year no matter what anyone said Xie would yell, No no no. If something scared Xie—the noise from the clock or the car engine or the air conditioner—Erik wanted to show Xie how it worked. Kneeling beside him, saying, Look. Trying to prove there was no monster lurking in the machines. But Xie refused to look. Bad, he said about the air conditioner. Bad the car engine, bad the clock. Erik insisting, We have to learn to live with these things. Tick tock. Rumble. Roar. No.

  * * *

  Xie has been to the public library only once, with FKK; they had gone to find books about animal liberation and found none. When Leni complained to the librarian he had told them, We are a general interest facility. Which made Jo laugh out loud as she smacked a stack of romance novels. You mean we should be reading this shit instead? At which point they had been asked to leave. I’m supposed to be here for a, um, tutor, Xie says, approaching the front desk. Greg, the librarian, says, Yes, I am aware. Cool gaze behind his gray glasses. Xie glances around the room; shallow rows of dark metal shelving, half full, surround a bank of tables with ancient computers, chess games, magazines. A man sits near the water fountain, taking notes from a dictionary. Everything smells like dirty laundry and old glue. In the children’s area a woman in a blue jacket waves, a huge yellow sun cut from construction paper stuck to the window behind her head. Xie shifts the strap of his bag over his chest. He could leave. Doesn’t. Tugs his jeans up, shuffles to the table. The woman stands, reaching for his hand. Strong grip. Hi, Xie? I’m Karen. Mid-twenties, green eyes, thin strawberry blond hair to her shoulders. Backpack on the desk like a student’s, full of folders. He sits, knee jumping beneath the table; he has to think hard to stop it, then it stops. How are you? Karen asks. Fine, he says, looking at the smiley face someone scratched into the tabletop. Good, she says. It’s nice to meet you. He glances up, then back down. Karen takes a deep breath. So, we’ll be meeting three times a week for three hours to go over the assignments. Sliding him a schedule, pointing with a pen. I have your course books here; we’ll discuss the readings and whatever homework the school assigns, which you’ll turn in to MacAdams on Fridays. At the end of each month I submit a report about what we’ve covered here and that’s pretty much it. The bathroom’s just that way, you can use it whenever you need. And we have a fifteen-minute break around noon. Sound okay? Xie clears his throat. Mm-hm. It looks like you had a bit of a rough time with math last term, she says, consulting one of her folders, so why don’t we start with that. She opens a textbook, tucks her hair behind her ears. I was looking at some of your past work and it seems like this is where you get stuck; can you tell me what you’re thinking when you get to this point? Watching him repeat the problem. There, she says, gently, you left out a step. The librarian stares; Greg knows, everyone knows, does Karen? She must. That I tried to help them but they died anyway. There you go, she says, nodding at the end of the hour, Xie’s pencil worn to the wood. You’ve got it. Karen puts down her pen, pulls a lunch bag from her backpack. You can’t eat in here, Greg calls. Yes, we know, she says. Xie follows her outside. Karen settles on the steps. He hesitates, then sits beside her. Tipping trail mix from the pocket of his hoodie into his hand. Do you live nearby? she asks. Yeah. Near the creek. That’s a long walk for you, she says. He shrugs. I don’t mind. I like the woods. You have brothers? Sisters? No. Just your parents? My dad. What does he do? He’s a, um, contractor. She uncaps a bottle of iced tea, drinks. And you’re from California. He squints. Don’t you know all this already from a file, or…? She shrugs. Just curious. She peels plastic wrap from a sandwich. Pieces of ham, clotted with mayonnaise, spill from the sides as she lifts it. He grimaces. Why do you eat that. Oh, that’s right, she says, almost to herself. You don’t eat meat. I don’t eat animals, he corrects. I don’t know why anyone does. Karen’s back stiffens against the step. I’m sorry if it offends you. Silence. Neither of them looks at the other. Sun soaking the steps. Xie rubs his chin on his arm. Rises. Goes back inside to sit at the table, looking at the stacks of folders, books, the paper, the pencils, her green pen. The last time he ate meat he was twelve years old, after the spill: Xie was Alex then. Even miles from the beach, they could smell something off; at first they thought it was the sandwiches, ham pressed hot in the pockets of Erik’s
windbreaker, but the closer they got to the beach the stronger the smell became, noxious, chemical. They parked at their usual spot, yellow tape blocking access to the beach beyond. A black ribbon flat against the horizon; that was the water. No trace of blue. On the rocks below the lot a half dozen pelicans huddled together. Coated from beak to foot in oil. Don’t touch them, his father said. Someone will come help. But there was no one. The black sea lapping the sand. Those bewildered eyes. He watched as one of the birds collapsed, its head twisted sideways against its neck. His father pulled him away. The fire on the water burned for two weeks; the beach remained black for a year. Sea turtles, dolphins, whales, gulls, crabs, otters, fish rolled up by the waves in the tens of thousands. Oil on meat on sand. No stopping it. Xie got headaches, bloody noses; he was always tired, couldn’t sleep. His mother standing in the doorway. Stop playing games, you’re fine. But his father was never angry. Scared of what he saw. Xie curled in the dark. Unable to make it from one room to another. The people who used to go to the beach just went somewhere else. Life as usual. Slumped in his seat as his father fed gas into the truck he suddenly couldn’t stand it. Stopped standing it. He opened the door, started walking. Alex, his father called, but he was not Alex anymore. He poured out all the milk in the house, threw packages of lunch meat to the dogs next door, sold his computer for a bike. When he was thirteen the beaches turned yellow again but he still smelled the oil, still saw the birds collapsing against the rocks. He refused to fill his prescriptions. Chose a new name. A new town. As if he could outrun it. The clock ticks. Karen stays outside, giving him or herself a moment. Xie’s knee trembles beneath the table, all the blood in his body pounding. Nowhere to go. He draws a skull in the margin of his homework. Erases it. Presses the tip of his pencil, hard, against his jaw. Two more hours. By the end of the day, three billion animals will be dead. You just sit there.

  * * *

  In the afternoon Jo and Leni are waiting for him in the library parking lot, leaning against the hood of the Jetta, Leni in tight plaid pants and Jo in ripped jeans and a black tank top, hair fully spiked, both of them wearing more eyeliner than Xie can really understand. Hey, he says, Shouldn’t you be in school? We called in sick, Jo says. Get in, loser. He climbs into the backseat. Leni leans to look out the windshield as Karen comes down the steps, shading her eyes against the sun. Is that your tutor? Yeah. You like her? She’s okay. Too bad she’s not hot, Jo says with a smirk. Like he would even notice, Leni says, and Xie shakes his head. Where are we going? he asks. Jo pats coconut oil on her thick lips, smacks them together in the mirror. I’ve been emailing this guy, Peter, who runs an environmental colloquium at the university, which is kind of a lame crunchy hippie thing, but he told me last week that he also runs a secret meetup for radical activists. Invitation only. So we’re invited? Xie asks. The girls grin. What do you think?

  The meeting is in the basement of a Unitarian church forty-five minutes from town. A couple dozen people wearing Crocs and battered boots, cargo pants, canvas jackets, beanies, leaning against the walls or grouped on folding chairs, drinking beer or tea or cups of kombucha. The room cool, damp, wood paneling on the walls weirdly domestic, like a rec room in some ’70s duplex. Xie pushes his hands deep into the pocket of his hoodie. Leni bends to re-strap her boots, shin-high and glossy. Are those new? Yeah. Jo got them for me. They’re vegan leather. He elbows Jo. Where’s my new boots? She elbows back, hard: In the dumpster along with the rest of your shit. A guy with a bushy red beard and pink cheeks enters from a door on the opposite end of the room, raising a hand in their direction, big smile, small sharp teeth. Hey, wow, thanks for coming out, he says. I’m Peter. You’re FKK? Jo nods. Yeah, this is Leni, Xie. Warm hand taking each of theirs in turn. We heard about the action you guys did at the Moore farm, Peter says. Really inspiring. Xie glances at the girls; Jo lifts her cup up, like, cheers. I’m sure Jo already filled you in, but we’re an anarchic organization, Peter says. There’s no official affiliation, no leadership, though we share a lot of the same values and goals concerning the environment with a lot of the more radical biocentric groups out there. We’re here to make connections, share resources, support each other in whatever we’re doing. We just ask that you don’t talk about what’s discussed down here with people who aren’t members, so everyone stays safe, okay? They nod. Cool. I’m really stoked for you guys to meet Nova, Peter says. She’s going to have a lot to share with us about her work with E.A. Yeah, we can’t wait, Leni says, glancing at Xie, who just nods like an idiot. Let me introduce you to some people, Peter says, arm out, and when he and the girls turn toward the rest of the group Xie hesitates, his anxiety as high here as anywhere, even though these are all supposedly people like him, like FKK, people who care about the things he cares about, why can’t he enjoy it? Maybe he just. Needs some air, to pee, to get a drink of water, something. He jogs up the stairs, turning down the hall at the top, head down. Running straight into a body. Shit, he breathes, sorry. A girl lifts her head from the water fountain, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. Taller than Xie, a few years older. Dark hair pulled back. A fresh scar on her forehead, bright purple, as thick as a finger, carved from temple to temple. The flesh on Xie’s neck prickles. She looks at him, black gaze half blank. Did you need to use this? No, Xie replies. I was just going out for a sec. Oh, she says. Me too. Eyes scanning the wall opposite. Neither of them moves toward the door. If Peter comes out here tell him I just can’t, you know, she says. Continuing a thought begun before his arrival, not directed toward him but aware of him, rooting him to the floor. Soft voice. At odds with her wide square face, her thick shoulders. Rocking slightly on the heels of her ballet flats, too big, in fact all of her clothes wrong for her, a white button-down gaping at the chest, black skirt wrinkled, tight, as if borrowed from a friend not quite her size. I mean, does it make sense? At all? Sitting in that … shitty room with their craft beers like they do every week, so ready to change the system. How? By—what, shopping at the nearest co-op? The people who think they’re in charge love this shit, okay. They are fucking laughing their asses off every time Peter buys an energy-efficient light bulb. She sticks her arm out, sudden, a packet of crackers in her hand. He flinches. You want this? She smirks. Someone gave me this shit like I want to eat it. Because it’s vegan. She rolls her eyes. Oh, well, in that case I’ll eat the whole fucking box, right? Never mind that what it actually is is garbage wrapped up in a piece of garbage that I’m supposed to enjoy while we all huddle down there in the dark like a bunch of fucking cockroaches, signing our little petitions begging Mr. So-and-So to please not let the frackers pour poison into our drinking water when the problem, the problem is that the idea of clean water in the first place is unimaginable. The environment is always already trashed. You look at a tree and it’s garbage and you look at the soil and it’s garbage, the air, the water, it’s just future garbage, all of it, so who is going to give a shit? Nature is a vacation, it’s boring, it doesn’t even exist. Do you realize that? It’s not even fucking out there, because no one can see it, and if you see it, I mean if you really think you know what the earth even is, if you think you’re a part of it, that you want to serve it instead of destroy it, then you are fucking crazy, okay? You’re a ghost trying to save a corpse. She rubs the scar above her eye, grimacing. He tries to say something but she puts her hand up without looking at him, head down, an exhausted animal listening to its own blood. Two days ago I saw a man step on a caterpillar, she says. And when I told him to watch out he looked at me, truly confused, like, What? And I pointed to the ground and the caterpillar’s guts were stuck to his shoe and he still said What. She shakes her head, narrowing her eyes on the door at the end of the hall. You can’t convince people to see what isn’t there. It’s too late. So you might as well just pull a trigger. She rips the elastic from the bun at the back of her head, hair tumbling against her collar as she turns away from the fountain. Wait, he says; but someone is coming up the stairs, calling her name. Nova smiles at Xie, f
urious, eyes bright, before heading for the exit, forearms hard into the crash bar as she spills out into the night, the black ridge of ash trees pricking the horizon, crowning her dark head.

  * * *

  They walk to the car, Xie’s arms wrapped tight around his waist, Leni tripping in the gravel, scraping the toe of her new boot. Damn. Laughing, giddy from the past two hours, the girls talking at a table with a handful of other women while Xie listened, exhausted, mute. Peter outside trying to track Nova down; neither ever returned to the room. I don’t know about you all but I need to get fucking high, Jo says, you want to spend the night? Xie wanting only to sleep, too tired even to think of walking through the woods, he doesn’t say yes or no so they just drive to her house. Filing into her big white kitchen. Gleaming concrete counters, a bowl of green apples. Jo reaching into the violet light of the enormous refrigerator, filling her arms with beer. Xie takes an apple from the bowl. Upstairs Jo opens their beers on the lip of her desk, sucks the fizz from each before handing them around. Xie stares at the label on the bottle. Don’t worry, it’s organic, Jo says, just drink it. The girls on the bed, him on floor, his back against the nightstand. Deep carpet. He puts his hand in it. When he helped his father pull up carpets in California he was always amazed by how much filth lay beneath them. You can’t really keep anything clean. He sips the beer. Hates it. Likes it. Jo rolls a joint, careful, Leni trying to help her but Jo elbowing her away. Stop, let me do it. Licking the paper closed, quick zip of her thumb to seal it, twice. Leni lights the joint. Passes it down to Xie. He inhales. Not coughing. Like he’s done it before. Bitter, sappy. Jo’s low whistle and Leni swatting him on the knee, That’s it. Quick swallow of beer. The joint goes around, no one speaking. By the last hit Xie is heavy all over. Tipping the bottle to see what’s left, skinny slop at the bottom, drink that too. What’d you guys think, Jo says. Should we go back? For sure, Leni says with a sigh. Everyone’s so nice there. I wish we could have met Nova, though. I heard she’s a fucking badass. She’ll be back, Jo says, leaning to stub out the joint, last exhale from the side of her mouth. Xie gazing at the big window over Jo’s bed, ghost of light against the glass from the security beam over the backyard. Leni scoots down the mattress until she is half on top of Jo, leg thrown over her hip. Soft wet sound of their kissing. Xie can’t imagine what it would be like with a girl. With anyone. He doesn’t know why. He picks the skin off the apple, eats it. Leni making a sound like being gutted, Jo murmuring, It’s okay, slow down, slow down. Xie sucking the juice from the fruit. Sour. Like the beer. Thinking of. That picture. Somewhere. Some book. Of a statue, a skeleton, hip cocked, grinning toward an upraised arm. Holding its own heart in its hand. Set at the head of a tomb of a prince in the 1500s, in France; Xie had never seen anything like it. Sensual, strange, triumphant. He’d thought of bodies like that before but for the first time there was proof, that someone else had thought bones were beautiful, too, he had been, what, eight? Nine? And already afraid of what it meant, to like something like that, to want it, knowing it had to be a secret. Jo breaks off the kiss, sitting up to open another beer. You all right down there? Yeah. His voice hovering somewhere beyond him. Imallright. Jo holding the bottle for Leni, tender. Stroking her hair. Xie on his hands and knees. What are you looking for? Gold, he says, maybe out loud. Leni’s laugh smothered in the side of Jo’s huge breast. He used to imagine coming home to a body like that prince’s. Lacing its fingers between his. How do you explain that. To anyone. He puts his face against the carpet. Almost to the bathroom. Just stand up. Xie. What. Seriously, are you okay? Yeah. Please don’t vomit on the carpet. I won’t. Promise. I promise. Swear. All three giggling. Pinkie-swear. The girls at his sides, holding his arms, haul him up and to the bathroom. He leans in the doorway, I’m fine. You sure? He nods. They close the door. He opens his fly, hand against the wall, dark blue tile, the closest Jo’s parents would let her get to black. The toilet bowl gleams. Everything pristine. The maid comes to clean four times a week. He snorts. Cock in hand. Hates the way it feels, pure flesh, useless. Look in Jo’s mirror. Tray of scented soap. You will be sick. You are sick. She said it, didn’t she, she looked right at you. Not a judgment, but an exhortation. You can’t make people see what they don’t want to see but it doesn’t mean you have to give up seeing. Finished pissing. Clumsy wipe of the seat. Sit. Sleep here. Head against the wall. It’s a body you want. Someone’s arms. Around you. That’s all. Tears on your face. You don’t notice. Night.