The Seventh Mansion Page 6

  * * *

  P. glows so strong in the morning, at the window, making signs on the glass. Check the body to make sure. Nothing hurt or broken. How long can it last, this way, outside the cloistered air of the cabinet? A lifetime, at least. Wrap the sheet around the body. Dress. He makes bread, then cooks the oats that have been left to soak overnight, ready for his father, who eats them with an entire package of fake bacon. Can you die if you eat too much soy? Erik had asked once, faux-casual; Xie just shrugged. Probably. Goes out to the garden. The broccoli ready to harvest, the cauliflower, big creamy heads cradled in green. He runs his hands over them, lifting the leaves, checking for decay, mold, insects, disease, the same as he checks the body every morning. Moore probably does the same, every day, walking his rows of mink, making sure nothing will spoil those silver furs. Another kind of farmer. Deer surround the house. Flicker of ears in the fog. He struggles with the stupid hose. Glitter of dew in the webs clinging to the eaves. The morning sun on P.’s teeth. In the attic he wraps the body in a blanket, pulls the sheets from the bed, and carries them to the garden to shake free all the dust from the body, settling finer than ash on the pumpkins. When the sheets are clean he hangs them in the cold sun. The only sound the pins creaking and the wind ruffling the crowns of the trees and the water smoothing the stones. Xie’s sleeves pushed to the elbow. P. stroking the tender flesh at the inside of his forearms. How soft you are here. How like silk. The sheets pressing against Xie’s legs. Immense stillness. The sun so strong and the air so clean and the smell of the sheets and earth and turning leaves. Xie closing his eyes. There are eight beds now and two cloches for the carrots, parsley, radishes; all of it his doing. Rows of jars in the pantry; counters covered with chickpea seedlings. P. chewing a stalk of grass. Thumbing the wrinkled leaves of the mint. Everything feels something, knows something. The heads of the nasturtiums nodding in the breeze. Every stalk and leaf stirred. Soaking up. And P. in the mint, Are you not also a child of God?

  * * *

  He hasn’t been to the city since they moved two years ago, but for Thanksgiving a plane ticket arrives in the mail, his mother on the phone: You’re not even going to school anymore, what is so important out there that you can’t come see your mother for a few days? Because there’s a body here, he wants to say; because I can’t leave it. When he tries to refuse his father takes the phone, says, Of course he’ll come, he can’t wait. He exchanges the ticket for one for the train, adding two days to the trip but there is no way he will get on a fucking plane and he wants to tell her so, but Erik shakes his head. Just take the shuttle to the airport so she can pick you up. Why? Erik digging his palms into his eyes. You know why. The watchword of their life in the city being, Don’t upset your mother. So. Long goodbye to the body. P. off in the corner, liquid, not touching the sheet. The body resting on one hip, the knees nested together, the feet like bunches of twigs, brown and yellow, tangled at the base of the blanket. Skull turned into the pillow, tight jagged lines meeting where the three plates of bone fused solid, back when the body was a baby and the skeleton still soft, swimming inside its sea of flesh. He takes the hands in his. How light its touch is, mothlike, a creature devoid of violence. What if. Something happens. Nothing will happen, beloved, P. assures him. But when he shuts the front door he feels the sudden absence of them both. Turning to look over his shoulder. Where are you. The attic window dark. He takes his keys from his bag, hand against the door, but Erik calls, We’ll be late. Xie hesitates on the step, stomach cold, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Drops the keys back into the bag. Alone on the train, just. Sleep through it. Neck bent. Hood over your head. The hours melt over the windows, light to dark, dark to light, a man asking you to move your bag off his seat, thigh touching yours. Shrink up. Almost there. Finally at the station, then shuttle to the airport and Ellen with her enormous sunglasses and gold sandals reaching for him. Reek of jasmine and shampoo. Oh, my baby, she says, kissing his head. You have your bag? This is it, he says, indicating his backpack. Honey, that’s all you brought? Yeah. Travel light, I like that, Jerry says, clapping his shoulder with a grin, loose cotton shirt and long shorts, younger and shorter than Ellen, who leans against his side as if unable to stand without him propping her up. Backseat of their pristine SUV freshly vacuumed, air conditioner blasting. Ellen pats her hair. Gosh, you’re skinny, honey, you know that? Your dad says you do all the cooking. I don’t remember you being into that, are you sure you can manage it? How are your studies with that tutor? I saw her photo online, she’s very cute, his mother says. Very cute. Xie scowls. What does that have to do with anything. Ellen glancing at him in the mirror. It might actually be for the best, you know, this tutor, a more structured environment might speak to your learning style. She huddles around a compact, plucks a stray lash from her eyelid. The edge of her dark hair, almost as dark as his own, ironed flat as a sheet of paper. She slides her sunglasses back on. Do you have friends you want to see? He puts his head against the seat. No. Usual traffic. The car barely moving. You should have let me take the bus, he says. She snorts. Buses get caught in traffic, too, you know. Endless ribbon of asphalt cut into the dry hills. Treeless. What would P. make of this landscape. Does he even know it exists. Are you hungry? Jerry asks. No. Eating a handful of almonds. Once at the apartment heading to the bathroom with his bag, crouched on the tile to unfold a square of flannel. Splinter of bone no bigger than a needle. Jagged on one side from where it fell away from the marrow. Five minutes, ten minutes, Xie wedged between sink and tub, the bone beneath his thumbs; this is where you used to come to look at that photo, of the skeleton at the head of the tomb, you left it beneath a stack of towels in the cupboard once and when you looked for it again it was gone. Ellen at the door. Xie? Do you need something for your stomach? Not answering. Erik in the house, not knowing. The body above his head. Please let it be okay. You kiss the bone. Fold it up, tuck it away. Water on your face. Everything in the apartment fresh, faultless: white tile, gleaming mirrors. But so small. No room anywhere and outside no yard, no land, you can hear every move anyone makes in this place. Jerry whispering to his mother, Just give him some space, he’ll warm up. Drink from the tap taste of fluoride and lead spit it out. Whisper. Come get me. Curl on the floor. Close your eyes. Wake up.

  * * *

  I’m going out for a minute. Ellen at the table, eating macaroni salad. Where? To the beach. Jerry nodding. Good call. The weather is freaking unbelievable. I read they’re finding dolphin corpses on the beach, Xie says. Ellen scrapes up more macaroni. Jerry scoffs. That’s some sonar thing. Xie shaking his head. There’s no Navy testing in this area. Jerry’s brows go up. Hm? Navy testing, Xie repeats. They’re the ones that use the sonar that affects marine mammals. Jerry’s indulgent smile. I’m pretty sure it was something to do with sound that caused those dolphins to get mixed up. Xie shrugging, hand on the door. Pretty sure it’s more likely that the half-million tons of oil spilled into the ocean four years ago have something to do with it but. Whatever. Slipping out. Careful not to let the door make a sound as it closes. Such sun. Treeless. And the pavement. Blinding. Ellen lives just three blocks from the beach; he and Erik lived several miles inland, on the east side, but he came here every weekend. All the garbage in the water, bodies in the water. Fishermen gathered on the cliffs, tossing white sea bass and mackerel into buckets. On the pier once he kicked one of those buckets over, the fish pouring, green and silver, back into the sea. The fisherman, barely older than Xie, yelling, What the fuck! as he chased him, hands almost on his back but Xie jumped in front of the cars passing through the toll arm, the fisherman shouting for someone to grab him but no one did. He avoided the pier after that, even though a part of him thought he should do it again, do it every day, get arrested, get hit, who cares; a year after the spill the fishermen back out there, willing to eat or sell whatever they could find in that dead water. Xie steps off the boardwalk into the sand. Usual jam of people, bright blue water. He climbs over the long flat piles of shale.
Not a single starfish or anemone or crab in the tide pools; instead thin lines of orange on the rocks, and on the sand three dense fists of tar. He makes a shallow bowl with the hem of his hoodie and scoops them up. Sound of volleyballs thrashing against nets. Laughter. Watching the tar balls tremble as he walks home. The oil harmless if left in the ground but poison up here, if you put something where it doesn’t belong it dies or it kills or both. Not its fault. He doesn’t look again at the water, dazzling behind him. At the apartment he dumps the tar directly on the kitchen counter. What’s that? Jerry says, chopping garlic. It’s tar from your perfectly recovered beach. It’s what? It’s oil, Xie says. Washing his hands with half of a lemon. His mother looking over her shoulder from the stove. Xie, what’s wrong with you, get that off the counter. We’re eating in an hour. I’m not eating. His mother protesting, shoulders up, The turkey is free-range. It’s organic. I made sure. Mom. I stopped eating meat three years ago. She flaps her hand. Well, eat the potatoes, then, I don’t care, eat the green beans. Jerry slides the tar into the trash, the balls trembling against the bag of turkey guts. How is Erik? she says, leaning forward to try the gravy, lips peeled back from her teeth. He’s fine. Jerry, she says, and Jerry turns, sleeves rolled, rubbing his hands. What can I do? The turkey, she says, and he actually replies, Oh, boy. Xie puts the potatoes and green beans on the table, opens the can of cranberry sauce, slides it onto the plate. You need to cut that. I know. Cutting it. Beautiful color. Congealed blood. The table only seats two comfortably. Barely room for the stuffing, the gravy boat, the rolls. Cut glass dish full of butter. Xie touches his silverware. Think of it like. A dream. The two of them sitting there. Smiling at each other. Jerry leaning to rub her thigh. Thank you for this, honey. Jerry folding a piece of skin into his mouth. Xie dips the roll in a smear of cranberry sauce. Gets through a couple bites, spits the last into his napkin. Don’t you want some vegetables, Xie? Jerry asks. I don’t eat animal products, Xie says, and Jerry, confused, staring at the green beans, How is this— Butter, Xie interrupts. Butter is from milk, which is from cows, which are animals. Jerry blinks. Gosh, I didn’t even think of that. Sorry. His mother’s fork hitting the plate every time she stabs up a forkful of food. There is music on, something classical, cheerful. What are you thankful for. The yellow walls and white woodwork. Gleaming steel appliances. The vintage china plates with real gold on the rims. Silver candlesticks. He goes to wash the dishes while they finish. Come watch a movie, she calls, and they do, Xie on the floor, his head against the leg of the couch. In the middle of Home Alone 2 his mother touches his hair. It’s so soft, she says. Jojoba oil, he says. Mm. She falls asleep and Jerry carries her to bed. Their door shut. Xie stares at the television. Turns it off. He opens a window and instead of the sound of the stream the sound of traffic, the browning fronds of the palms dotting the boardwalk, endless stream of lights through the glass. Distant scent of ash from a fire somewhere in the hills. His mother laughs in the other room, about to get fucked by Jerry. Nowhere to go. Xie punches his thigh, once, twice. Doesn’t feel it. Knuckles pressed between his teeth, bone seeking bone, You fucking bastard, are you real? Then show yourself.

  * * *

  He wakes up. No clothes. He left them folded on his backpack. He goes to the laundry. Yanks the clothes from the dryer. His mother drinking coffee at the counter. I thought that could use a wash, she says. He holds his hoodie against his chest, breathing through his mouth to avoid the hideous smell of Tide and lavender dryer sheets. Yeah. Thanks. Dresses in the bathroom. Blue bruise on the side of his thigh. He makes sure everything is in his bag. Flannel and splinter of bone. Safe. Xie, his mother says. Her thin smile, slick with gloss. I thought we could go shopping. Shopping? For clothes. What, he says, no, I don’t need any clothes. My treat, she says, and he sighs. Only if we go to the flea market. But there’s an outlet mall, she says. I don’t want anything new. But that’s what you need. You can get stuff that looks new at a lot of places, he says. And it’s cheap. Fine. Okay. But no holes and no rips or stains or anything that smells. He rolls his eyes, tosses a pillow at her. She shrinks from the pillow as if from a punch. Xie, don’t. Scowling. As if she can’t tell that he’s just playing. Sorry, he mumbles. They walk to the market, jammed with people, stalls, dogs, bikes, the crowds fattened by the holiday. His mother puts on her sunglasses, dipping her head, thin hands shaking. It’s very busy, she says. Mom, it’s fine, he says. Both of them breathless. Sweating. What to do in a crush. If you are being crushed. He herds her onto a side street, marginally quieter. Takes a breath. Oh, this is cute, she says, fingering a flannel shirt. Isn’t this what you wear? In the country? He blinks. Um. And it’s warm, she adds. You can wear it over your T-shirts. No, I just. I wear this. Tenting his fists through the pocket of his hoodie. Well, what do you wear on the days you don’t wear that? No, I wear it every day, he says. Well, it certainly looks that way, Xie. Girls don’t like a ragamuffin, she says, looking through the racks. He digs through a box of jeans, finds a pair he likes. Gray. No holes. His size. Goes to the seller, a young man with hair to his shoulders sitting in a lawn chair, legs crossed, headphones on. Hey, Xie says. Reaching into his bag. I’ll give you some jam for that pair of jeans. The guy guffawing, What’d you say, man? Xie shrugging. It’s good. I made it myself. And the guy reaching a skinny arm toward the jars, examining them. Blackberry, no shit, he says. His mother coming down the aisle with a shirt in her hand. Xie, what are you doing? Just bartering. Bartering? As if he’d said, Selling heroin. The guy grins. Okay, dude. Deal. Taking the jars. Xie slinging the jeans over his shoulder. His mother openmouthed. The guy scooping out a finger of jam. Hey, man, this is incredible. Leaning forward for a high five. Turning toward Ellen. You got anything for me, lady? And his mother putting her wallet back into her purse, saying firmly, No, as if teaching them both a lesson.