The Seventh Mansion Page 3

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  Fifteen minutes late. Head down as he approaches Karen and then just sits there. No hello? she says, eyebrows raised. Hi, he mumbles. You want to give me your algebra homework? I, um, don’t have it. She presses her lips together, looks away, then back at him. Why not? He shrugs. Sorry. You just didn’t get to it or you didn’t know what you needed to do, or…? He smooths his hand against his knee. I just, uh. Didn’t. Do it. Long silence. He can feel her deciding whether to be angry or let it go, help him or not help him. He pulls out his algebra book. Thinking of what Nova said, about Peter and the others in the basement, like cockroaches, if she thought that was bad what would she think of this, a supreme waste of time, but what choice does he have. Karen leans forward, pencil lifted; they do the homework together. It takes them an entire hour. No, it’s wrong, look, check the formula, she says, and he checks it, he tries, paper worn through where he has to erase again and again. Finally he passes the paper to Karen for the last time. Hallelujah, she sighs, sitting back in her chair. Glances at the clock. Could you give me a sec? she says. I need to make a call. He shrugs. Sure. She stands, bumping her thigh into the lip of the table, looking at her phone. Goes outside for five minutes, ten, fifteen; he can see her through the window, pacing around her car before leaning against the door, head down. He waits. A child and its mother stare at him from another table, a box of broken crayons between them; he pretends not to notice. Opens a textbook at random, reads. Karen returns, tapping his shoulder with something wrapped in wax paper. Here, she says. What is it? Peanut butter sandwich. What’s in the bread? She snorts. Nothing. Wheat. He looks up at her. Xie, it’s vegan, I promise. No corn syrup, all-natural, the whole nine yards. He takes it. Thanks. They sit on the steps. He eats half of the sandwich, slow, picking out a seed from the bread to drop on the concrete for the ants. Chin on his knee. Some girls picked you up the other day. They your friends? Yeah, that’s FKK. FKK? It’s their—group name, like a thing they started. For animal rights. Ah, Karen says. Compatriots. I guess, he says, watching as the ants surround the seed. What kinds of thing does FKK do? Xie frowns, chin wrinkled against his jeans. Actions. Actions? Like, protests, or signing petitions, writing to politicians. What kind of protests? Um. Just, against factories and stuff. We did one last year. At the outlet mall. In Alliance? Yeah, that one. We downloaded these signs from the PETA website. He shakes his head, remembering. THE PRICE OF YOUR FASHION IS MURDER. Pictures of cowhides piled in leather factories, rabbits being de-furred, silkworms poured into vats of boiling water. Jo screaming through a bullhorn for ten minutes before it started to rain. They’d stood there for two hours, silent except for the occasional FUCK YOU from Jo whenever someone called them idiots or freaks or told them to go home. Xie suggested maybe no cursing. She told him to fuck off. Leni rubbed Jo’s shoulder. Jo told her to fuck off, too. Only one person, a teenage girl with a lisp, had stopped to talk. What are you guys protesting? Leni tried to answer but Jo cut in, saying, Those clothes in there, they’re made from animals killed in factories, do you get it? Not to mention sweatshop labor in third world countries where kids work twelve hours a day in shitty conditions for a dollar a day to make your sneakers. The girl looked down at her shoes. Leni said, Here, take a flyer. Trying to smile. The signs bled in the rain. Little river of dye into the gutter. They tossed everything in a dumpster behind the Gap. I thought it would feel good, you know, to do something, Xie says. Like, I thought it would feel like it mattered. But it didn’t. Karen shakes her head. That sounds kind of depressing, she says. Yeah. It was. They eat for a while in silence. Karen finishes her sandwich, rubbing peanut butter from her thumb onto the thigh of her jeans. Would you do it again? she asks. He squints. Go to a protest? No, she says, gesturing, what you did. On the farm. Xie tugs a piece of loose skin from his lip. The ants work a piece of the seed loose, carry it away. He nods. Yeah, why? You don’t think I should have? Karen shrugs. I’m not saying that, I just think it made a lot of trouble for you. Xie taking a sip of air. Face hot. At least they got to run. For a little while. Silence. Karen’s eyes on the side of his face. He pours some crumbs into the dirt beside the step. The ants make new lines. Quiet. He sniffs. Thanks for the sandwich, he says. Karen swallows. You’re welcome.

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  On the way home he goes again to the broken tree, its leaves browning; detached from its crown the birch has no way to digest the light, leaving the trunk to starve. He strokes its sides. A beautiful thing, still. He lies beside the tree, head on the root, and sleeps.

  * * *

  When he gets home there are two backpacks in the hall, full of camping gear. I thought we could take a trip this weekend, Erik says, folding laundry at the kitchen table. To the lake. Don’t you have work? Erik shrugs. I took the weekend off. For what? Just for a change. Unless you have other plans. No, Xie says, That’s fine. Thinking of the birch, reluctant to leave the woods, he doesn’t need to go somewhere else but maybe that’s the point, Erik uneasy about all the time he spends in the same place, alone. And the lake is beautiful and he is asking you, so. You’ll go. Watching the gas gauge on the hour drive, how much burned up so you can get away from the place you came to in order to get away from somewhere else. Nice weather, his father says on the hike in. How’s school been for the girls? Good. No one bothering them? Xie shakes his head. When the police asked Xie if he’d acted alone he said yes; but Erik knew, without saying it aloud, that the girls had been there. Part of him upset, maybe, that they have escaped what Xie has not, punishment in all its forms, but it was Xie who had stopped, who had let Moore find him. They’re quiet the rest of the way. Shifting their packs. Dull crunch of leaves, heavy blue sky. A pebble in Xie’s sneaker, bruising the arch of his foot. Here okay? Erik asks. Xie looks around the clearing, small scatter of trash from the previous campers, blackened ring of stone for the fire. Xie pathologically clumsy with the tent, dropping his end or twisting it the wrong way around, stumbling over the stakes. Erik rattling the nylon. Xie, will you pay attention. Fire slow to start. Evening birds in the trees. His father carving up a piece of wood with a folding knife, thumbing off the rotten bits. What are you making. Star. Is it hard? Shrug. A little. Shavings in a tiny pile between his knees. I’ll show you how if you want. Xie snorts. I can’t even hold a wrench for two seconds without getting a blister. Erik’s small acknowledging smile. You could learn. Can you get us some more kindling? Xie drags a pile of branches to the pit. Don’t burn too many of them, it’s not that cold, he says, wiping his hands on his pants, and Erik nods, glancing up from the star. I know. Xie walks to the lake. Sore foot shoved into the weed-choked shallow. Afraid of spiders. Lie back. Nest of weeds nudging his hair. Thick gash of stars striping the sky. Lake water numbing his toes. He can smell the branches burning. Stirring the water with his foot. Voices creeping up through the weeds. Men, five or six. Boots just a few feet away, they’ve almost gone past when. Someone calls. You okay there, little man? Had a few too many? Xie says nothing. They move on. But back at the camp those same men, sitting around the fire, plaid jackets and big arms, his father holding the half-finished star. One of the men turning, So this one’s yours? Erik nods. That’s my son. Cheers, little man. Drinking from a fresh can of beer. Xie wonders what his father looks like to them, sharp cheekbones, delicate despite his height, all that lean muscle, voice still crisp with his childhood Danish. I’m going to bed, Xie says, heading for the tent. Groans from the men. Come on, sit awhile, we won’t bite. What’s your little sign on your shirt mean. It means fuck eating meat, he says, and the men explode into laughter, hooting. Dang, boy. To Erik: You got a live one there. Xie crouching into the tent, on his belly in the sleeping bag, listening. They drink and laugh and Erik laughs, too, quiet, and then they go. His father putting out the fire. Hiss of hot wood. Clatter of cans. A branch breaking in the distance.

  * * *

  He wakes up curled against his father’s back, cheek between his shoulder blades. Erik too still to be asleep, muscles tense, Xie’s
first impulse to pull away but. Don’t. You never touch him, he only touches you, less than he wants. So. Stay there a minute. Holding your breath. Finally Erik turns to face him and Xie rolls onto his back, away. Good morning. Morning. Sleep okay. Yes. You. Yes. Xie’s heart pounding. He swallows. Gets off the blanket. Granola out of a bag for breakfast, water in the ancient enamel mugs, feet pushed up against the stones of the dead fire. Heard something last night, Erik says. What do you think it was? Don’t know. Deer, probably. Xie smiles. You thought it was a bear. Erik shrugs, also smiling. Maybe. Be careful, he says, Xie off to forage, saucepan in hand. I will. Just beginning to recognize chickweed, ramps, oniongrass, but it’s the wrong season for those; stupidly excited when he finds blackberries, a few walnuts. He cuts some chanterelles, pinching the leathery stems. It’s early still, with that raw feeling he finds only in the woods, chilly, hungover, as if, even after dawn, the trees are still shaking off the night. He digs a hole to piss in, he can’t do it like his father, against a rock, into the ferns; he hates to piss at all in the woods, never mind shit. He holds it. No matter what you do you are poison here, disturbing something, hurting something, you’re no John Muir or Thoreau or whoever the fuck understands how to live. In this wood alone there are three hundred species at risk of extinction: the black rail, the nuthatches, the gray fox, and you just tromp around pissing like a dumbass. He walks for hours, until the saucepan is full. Wading along the lake, jeans soaked to the shin. Harsh white skin of light on the water. Head back to camp, early afternoon, where Erik is reading, book cracked in half so Xie can’t see the cover. Looking up as Xie tucks a handful of mushrooms in his mouth. Are you sure none of that is poisonous? Xie shrugs. Pretty sure. Erik sets the book down, kneels to start a fire, lining Xie’s wet sneakers and socks on a rock to dry. Easing beside Xie, hands flat on his thighs, rubbing his jaw against his arm. How’s it going with Karen? Fine. She’s nice? Xie nods. You don’t get bored at home? No. Erik fills a pot with water, sets it over a tiny gas stove. You can still graduate with your class, you know. If you get through these next few months. I know. They eat spaghetti, crackers, tomato sauce. The walnuts are bitter, they spit them into the fire. His father sings a song in Danish. Xie lying on the ground. His father was in a choir growing up and can still achieve a chillingly high note, a boy’s note, so out of place in that long body. What are the words about? Erik smiles. Loving your country. Xie sings part of it with him, hiding his voice inside his father’s. Later Erik swims, a blond dot way out in the water, impervious to the cold, while Xie walks the perimeter of the lake. They build another fire, eat beans. When Erik goes to the tent Xie stays, stroking the dirt with his shoe. The stars look like chips of bone. Blue. Yellow. He lies on his belly. Rubs his hips against the ground, mouth open. A low breeze caressing his back, his ass, he lifts his hoodie to feel it, fingering his spine. The taste of stone, blood loud in his ears, dirt in his lashes, yes, it’s here, the body, beneath you, all the bones you could want. The earth held together by the dead. Grimacing as he moves, feverish, low moan on the wind. Hips jerking once, twice, then still. In the morning Erik finds him curled near the firepit, cheek pressed against a twig. Clothes cold. Xie, why didn’t you come inside? Slow focus on his father, thick swallow, gritty teeth. Jesus. Rubbing his face against his sleeve. What time is it. Six-thirty. Erik’s firm grip, Up you go. Shaky legs. Eat breakfast, take down the tent, hike to the car. Red dots where the mosquitoes bit. Come dry on your thigh. The sun flat in your face, burning.

  * * *

  He doesn’t tell his father where he goes with the girls on Friday nights and Erik doesn’t ask, assuming, maybe, that they are going to their usual haunts: the vegan diner, the university bookstore, Jo’s house, as if they have nothing better to do than just hang out, as if what happened over the summer was an anomaly and not the start of a trend or lifestyle or whatever it was that going to the meetings meant they were doing; Xie doesn’t know what it means, doesn’t ask the girls, just gets into the car. They arrive early, help Peter set up the folding chairs and the card table full of snacks, barbeque jackfruit jerky and compostable bowls of gluten-free chips, Jo pumping Peter for information about the history of the group, its other members, which he provides without hesitation; he knows where everyone was born, where they went to school, what jobs they’ve had, what other organizations they’ve been a part of, when and if and for what they were arrested. Shit, you’re the feds! Jo says, pointing mock-accusingly at him. Peter laughs, hands up. Guilty as charged. When the others come filtering in he stays with Xie while Jo holds court on a battered couch, Leni perched next to her, giddy, shy, bony shoulders hunched beneath her thin coat. Peter pours himself a cup of hard cider, offers one to Xie, who takes it, hand shaking, it’s so stupid, why don’t you ever just. Calm down. Jo says you guys did some work with PETA, right? Peter asks. Xie shrugs. Just protest stuff, nothing official. No, that’s good, I mean obviously PETA is basically a corporation at this point but that’s where a lot of people start, almost everyone here went the same route. PETA, Greenpeace, all that crap. You don’t think it’s good? Peter holds his hand up. No, no, it’s all good. Some people don’t mind being told what petition to sign, where to shop, who to vote for, but I really struggle with the essentially conservative position of mainstream activism. It’s too slow, it’s too rigid, it’s too indirect, right? If you’re really thinking about food production, about what you’re eating, eventually you have to look at land, you look at climate, you start thinking beyond species and you realize that change has to be less about amending the existing system and more about—the big stuff. Peter smiles. Sorry, preaching to the choir. Xie glances at the stairs. Is Nova going to be here? Peter blinks. Nova left last week, I don’t know when she’ll be back. She’s full-time in Central America now, with Earth Alliance. I wanted to ask, actually—did she say anything to you? In the hall? Xie shifts. Um. No, she didn’t. Oh. I thought I heard her voice up there. What happened to her face? Xie asks. Peter looks over the rim of his cider. You didn’t hear? She was filming an illegal clear-cutting operation in Guatemala and she got caught. Unfortunately, some of those guys carry machetes. Peter swallows, gesturing with his cup. I just don’t get why she did it that way. Heck, she has a whole camp of people doing work for E.A., any one of them would have gone with her. But she didn’t tell anyone and she didn’t look after herself. It’s like she wanted something bad to happen. Maybe she thought it would be easier on her own, Xie says, maybe she was just trying— Nothing’s easier on your own, Peter interrupts, sharp. That’s the first thing you learn. People with that mindset—they’re either in prison or they’re burned out or they’re dead. I knew a girl, a couple years ago, who made a pact with a group obsessed with extinction, every member tying their life to an endangered species, not just mammals but insects, plants, fish, whatever. Her thing was a moss that only grew in the montane forests in Bolivia, where she was born. Everything, her whole life, was about that list. She isolated completely. If a conservation group wasn’t focused on exactly that thing, she wouldn’t deal with them. In her mind, this was it. This was how she was going to make her point. And when the forest was gone so was the moss and so was my friend. Peter rubs his brow, sweaty, the heat on in the basement, too hot for the weather. I support Nova a thousand percent, but I don’t think getting hurt or hurting yourself or someone else does the right kind of good. The work we do can be scary, it can be hard, but it doesn’t have to be lonely and it doesn’t have to be about despair. Peter drains the cider from his cup. I mean, damn. What a waste, you know? Quiet. It just makes me mad. How long have you been doing this? Xie asks. Twenty years. Lines all around his pale blue eyes. Xie looks at his own cup, still full. I’m sorry about your friend. Peter pats his back. Hey. Thanks. And thanks for being here. Me? Yeah, you. Xie flushes. Um. I haven’t done anything. Oh, but you have, Peter says. You will.