The Seventh Mansion Page 7

  * * *

  Jerry drives because his mother can’t get out of bed. She took Xie’s hand, little rub of his knuckles with her thumb. ’Bye, honey. Be good. ’Bye, Mom. In the car a medal of Saint Christopher hanging over the mirror. Xie squints. Are you Catholic? Jerry’s eyebrows, What? The medal. Oh. Oh, yeah, no, that was just—my sister gave that to me, kind of a joke, because of the way I drive. It’s for protection or something. That’s Saint Frances, Xie says. What? Saint Frances is the patron saint of drivers. Not Christopher. Oh, is that right? But I thought Francis was the animal guy? Xie’s brow furrows, No, Frances with an e, she was— Xie shakes his head. Never mind. Quiet as they pull onto the freeway. Endless road. Tom Petty on the radio. Hey, Xie, Jerry begins, voice falsely bright. I wanted to have a little talk with you. Xie scrubbing his forehead with his palms, thinking Shut up shut up shut up. You know, we’ve noticed, your mom’s noticed, how you seem—like it’s hard for you to enjoy things? Do you think that’s fair? I mean, I really respect that you’re interested in certain diets and protecting animals and stuff but it seems like those sentiments are being expressed in a, in an unhealthy sort of way. How so? Well, like getting in trouble out there. I didn’t get in trouble, Xie says, sharp, thinking: I’m not the one in trouble, you are, they are, everything is. I think your parents would disagree, right? I know your mom has been really concerned about everything that’s happened. I mean, we just want you to think about how your actions might affect your future. College, that sort of thing, right? Xie nodding. No prophet is acknowledged in his own village. Saint Christopher swinging against the mirror as they stop suddenly. Xie’s knee banging into the dash. Jerry yelps. Sorry! Guy cut right in front of me, jeez. Gripping the wheel. Two yellow rubber Live Strong bracelets on his wrist. Could you drop me off at the train station, Xie says. What’s that? Could you, he enunciates. Drop me at the train station. What for? Xie’s head back against the seat, eyes closed, almost dead. Taking his last breath to say, Because I’m taking the train, you fucking idiot.

  * * *

  As soon as he is off the train he is blinded. Gold from horizon to sky. Stumble into it. Erik’s hand on his shoulder. You okay? Xie smiles. Yeah, fine. The city far behind him. Into the car, P. in the backseat. Black sockets in the mirror. Roll down the window. Fresh air. Chin on the glass. How was it, Erik asks. Xie sighs. She washed my clothes. With Tide. Shit, Erik laughs. Xie laughs, too. They eat bean burgers, play cards. After dinner Xie says, I’m really tired. Tries not to rush up the attic steps. Climbs into bed, pulling the blanket over his head. Hand around the back of the skull, cradling it to his neck, as close as he can get, leg between leg, chest to chest. The smell of him. Dust and. Clean. Where were you. P.’s hand between his legs. Xie holds his breath. Doesn’t matter. Here now. Long caress. Black under the blanket. Slipping his fist beneath the ribs, the heart right here. Scooting down to lick the hips. Arm oiled from wrist to shoulder, to ease it again through the pelvis but this time from behind, pillow beneath the ribs, the oil everywhere, spine wet, scapulae, two fingers sliding through the foramen in the skull, steady, delicious. I’m inside you. Yes, beloved. Still stroking. It goes. On and on. P. behind him. Hand to spine. Knee to knee. Are you close. Fuck, don’t stop. Don’t stop. The pressure of P.’s presence, almost unbearable. Why are you like this. So strong. I can’t. Stand it. Xie on his back. P.’s head between his legs. Don’t think. What it would look like. To anyone else. His face between your thighs. Hands beside your cock. Mine. Yes. Yours. Whimper. Fingers deep in the sheet. Turning to lift your leg over the body, come darkening the bone. How careful you have to be, with a body like this, or it will be destroyed. You can never forget, for even a second, what it is, what it needs. Do they all deserve it, every creature of the earth, to be touched like this, fucked, loved, adored, a stone, a sea, a fox, a tree. Can you see everything as a body that is crushed if not cared for, a body capable of ravishing and waiting to be ravished, gently, completely, by life itself.

  * * *

  I have your grades, Karen says, pushing at a yellow envelope. Congratulations. You’re barely passing. Folding her arms. Something intimate about her anger, as if she has the right to care this much, what does it matter to her if he passes or not, she gets paid either way. He sniffs. Hands in his hoodie. She lifts her chin. Well? The clock ticks. He doesn’t want to touch the envelope, to look at her. He should just. Go. Knee jumping. Who does she think she is. Who he is. She stares, nostrils flaring. Finally he leans forward to slide the printout from the envelope. Scanning the slim column of Ds, a single C, in algebra, surprise surprise. Chewing his lip. He rubs his nose. It’s not you, I just. She looks at him. Oh, I know it’s not me. Xie backed into silence. Wary. I mean, either we’re doing this or, I don’t know, she says, chin wrinkled. Stripping a hangnail from her finger. I’m sorry, he says. No, Xie, you’re not sorry. I don’t need you to be sorry. Sitting back, hard, chair leg skipping against the carpet. Look, it’s the last day before break, so let’s just get your reading list in order and set up the date with the counselors—Xie startled, I have to talk to them—? Of course you have to. Why? You have to meet with them every semester, Xie, Jesus, have you not been paying any attention? Gesturing with the envelope. Xie rubs his hair with both hands, head down. She takes a breath. I looked at the packets you’ve been turning in and it’s different work, Xie, you’re not giving them what we’re actually doing in here. That’s—you have to explain that to me. Xie shifts his feet beneath the table. I just don’t want them to have it. Have what? Anything. Anything real. From me. Of mine. She looks at him. What do you mean, real? He looks back. Doesn’t answer. Then why not quit? Your dad? He shrugs. Yeah, I guess. She doesn’t say, You’re so stupid, you’re doing twice the work to screw no one but yourself, she just lets what he’s said hang there, her eyes still dark. Well. I guess you can do what you want. We could just sit here and do nothing. Voice shrill at the edges. He blinks, head back. What? she says. You don’t want to do the work, don’t do the work. Gnawing viciously on a thumbnail. Karen, he says, and she shakes her head. I’m pregnant. Immediately raising her palms as if to ward off the effect of her words. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry. Silence. She opens a textbook at random, pushes it toward him. He pretends to read it as she sits, chewing the same nail. He writes something meaningless in his notebook, turns a page. An hour limps by. She checks her watch. Do you want to get something to eat? Xie asks. Karen shakes her head, shoving her things into her bag, careless. Take the rest of the afternoon off, she says. The zipper of her jacket cracking against the table as she stands. Enjoy your break. He tries to catch her eye but she looks past him, keys in her hand, on her way out when Greg stops her, asking her for something, a book past due. I don’t have it, she says, and when he tries to insist she repeats, louder, almost yelling, I don’t have it! Her bag banging against her hip as she walks out the door.

  * * *

  Midnight Mass. A pocketful of mushrooms. P. stripping a piece of bark from a tree; Xie eats it along with the mushrooms, old medicine, flavor of soil and wood, that hint of poison in each; too much and you will be sick, just enough and you will be healed. A wreath nailed to the church door, pine needles sprinkled over the steps. Light in all its colors coming through the glass. He stands near the cabinet, back against the stone, pushing the hood from his head. A woman in a red coat turning to look; she smiles. Xie smiles back. The priest in a white gown. The room fuller than he has ever seen it; ten, maybe a dozen people. Smell of incense. Sound of singing. Christmas carols. How does he know all the words, he wonders, when he can’t even remember ever singing them before. But maybe he did. In school or. Somewhere. P.’s cabinet open, the case full of poinsettia plants, plush red leaves stroking the sword. The parishioners line up to eat the body, to drink the blood. If you really believed that was what you were doing, how did you explain it to yourself, how did it feel. Like excitement or dread or. Something else. Passion. Putting their lips to the cup. The woman in the coat crossi
ng herself in front of the cabinet, head bowed; P. behind her, touching his hand to her head, her gray hair stirring. The parishioners raise their arms for the last prayer. Xie slips out, P. following. As soon as the church is behind them Xie takes P.’s hand, greedy, jealous, pressing it to the back of his own head: I am the only one you may touch, no one else. P. pulling him close, mouth against Xie’s forehead. Do you miss it? Miss what, beloved. Being there. P.’s cape stroking the grass as they step into the woods. I was never there, beloved. A nuthatch swooping through his shoulder. His face the color of the trees, fresh milk poured against the night. The nuthatch, along with two-thirds of all bird species in the town, in the state, in the country, will have vanished by the end of the century: to look at the face of the bird, folding its wings on a branch, is to look at the past. A ghost. A corpse. Do you know what a mass extinction event is? Yes, P. says. A rapture. Let me show you. Drawing a line along the base of Xie’s head, that spot where the skull meets the spine, both bones so vital, so vulnerable, split in a second, a great flash of light, white as pain, as pure, the spasm of every nerve’s journey interrupted, and then a fountain of blood, gushing up to splash the sword, burning, a rejection of everything; a bone is an atheist, and the sword is Christ, taking his last breath.

  * * *

  At the doctor’s office. No reason, his father said, just a checkup. Careful not to say: You’ve been acting weird lately. Staying out late. Sleeping in. Dark circles under his eyes. Always distracted. New lock on the attic door. So. Twenty minutes to town. Long wait in the lobby. Some fish in a tank, weaving through a hunk of neon plastic. Thin bright bodies. Violet light. There is a woman asleep on a bench, her head tipped against the wall, her purse on her lap. Mouth open. Lipstick on her teeth. You crush up the bodies of bugs to get a red that deep, carmine, he can’t remember if it’s the actual blood of insects or something else. Smashed-up carapace. Brains. Guts. Erik sighs, legs twitching. What are you reading? Xie tilts his book to show the cover, on which a woman in a white gown looks up in astonishment at the shining figure of Christ: Interior Castle. Is it good? Erik asks. Xie shrugs. It’s okay. Who’s it by? Um. A Spanish nun. A mystic. Erik squints in surprise. A nun? Xie nods. What does it mean? The title? It’s about. Um. Praying. And how when you get really good at it, it’s like you move through these different rooms, which she calls mansions, but the mansion is God or something, or the way to God, and the better you pray the deeper you get inside it. And then what? And then … you get into the seventh mansion and you. Um. I don’t know. Die or marry Jesus, or. Go to heaven. Huh. Are you into praying now? Xie’s knee jumps, little laugh. Um, no. It’s. Just. For school. They’re teaching Catholicism in your school? No, I—it’s history. English. Historical English texts. I thought it was written in Spanish. Xie sighs. I mean, it’s just a book. For reading. Erik shrugs. Okay. Glad you’re enjoying it. Xie looks back at the page. He thinks that people to whom God grants these favours must be angels; and, as this is impossible while they are in the body, he attributes the whole thing to melancholy, or the devil. Teresa doesn’t say how you know it’s not melancholy, those favors, only says that when you feel God you know it’s him, though elsewhere she says there are people who think they know the difference but are mistaken, so how could you know which one you were, right or wrong? He folds the corner of the page. Nurse calling his name. He follows her into a beige room that smells like Band-Aids. Asked to undress; cold in his underwear, shifting his ass on the paper-covered table. A panel on the ceiling painted blue. For a few months in the city he had a therapist who had a painted panel on her ceiling, too, a woman who was always smiling, even when she asked him if he ever thought about harming himself, if he ever felt like he wanted to die. He never answered. The doctor comes in, a middle-aged man with a gray beard, looking at a chart. Hello. Squinting. How do you pronounce your name? Xie clears his throat. Zee. Like the letter. The doctor sniffs. Huh. Interesting. Setting the clipboard on a desk. So. Just a checkup today? Fingers on Xie’s neck. Fleshy thumbs. Xie tries not to move his head away. Light in his eyes, his ears, his throat. Hands against his chest, his back. The blood work you did earlier showed some mild deficiencies, the doctor says. You’re vegetarian? Vegan. So no dairy, eggs, fish? No animal products, Xie says. Well. That’s fine, as long as you watch your iron. Do you take a multivitamin? No. Scribbling something on the clipboard. You should. You’re underweight. Any issues with fatigue? Sleep? Xie shakes his head. No. Convinced there is some sign on him. A smell. A scar. Does he smell like bones to other people. Do other people even know what bones smell like. I see in your history you’ve taken Paxil. You still on that? Little inhale. No. Are you experiencing any symptoms of depression? Anxiety? Xie brushes his hair from his eyes. Thin paper rustling beneath him. You sexually active? He blushes. No. Well, stay safe if you decide to be. Gesturing with his pen to a basket of condoms on a shelf next to a coverless children’s book. Making some note on his clipboard. You’re all set, the doctor says. Take those vitamins. Out in the hall the woman is there, rubbing her front teeth with her pinkie. Smiles at him. She’ll be next, on her back, this man’s fingers inside her. He doesn’t know how women can stand it. How anyone stands someone getting inside. He has to turn sideways to get past her. His father waiting in the reception room, reading Interior Castle. You don’t know what he thinks, when he isn’t thinking about you. You never ask. You don’t know if he prays, and if he does, to whom; you don’t know what he believes, what he hopes, what he wants. In every room of every mansion Teresa describes the soul struggling alone; to get to the seventh mansion it must leave everyone and everything behind. But she never says why. Dad, Xie says. Erik looks up, folding the book in his hands. Hey. All done? Everything good? Xie’s mouth jerks into a smile. Everything’s great.

  * * *

  At the store, shopping for New Year’s dinner. The girl at the checkout someone from MacAdams. Eying him up and down as she moves his things across the scanner. Hey, she says. He nods, quick glance then away. Money crumpled in his fist. She squints at a package of wheat gluten. What even is this stuff? Xie shrugs. It’s um. Wheat for making seitan. What? It’s, um. Gluten. Just. Protein. She looks at him. Huh. Handing him his change. Haven’t seen you around lately. Yeah, I’m. Working with a tutor for a while. Off-campus. Oh. Well. Happy New Year. Outside it’s beautiful. Pure cold. Blackest sky and snow, in huge flakes, swirling in the lot. Ahead of him Karen hurries to her car, fingers hooked through plastic sacks full of groceries. Hey, he says, fingers brushing her arm, tentative. Hey, she says, turning to smile at him, genuine, radiant; so this is how she looks, he thinks, when she is happy. He takes her bags, cold hand brushing against hers. You with your dad? No. She gestures with her keys. Get in and I’ll drive you. I’m okay. You don’t even have a coat. I don’t mind. Well, at least come and warm up with me a minute. Opening the door for him. He tries to find a place to put his sneakers down among the trash on the floor; water bottles, napkins, gum packets, an empty pharmacy bag. Sorry, she says, leaning to pluck a brown banana from the dash. She rolls down her window, tosses the banana into a hedge, rolls the window back up. She runs the heat, rubbing her hands together in front of the vents. So. I’ve been thinking about you. He makes a face. No, I have, she says. Nothing bad. Laughing. You always expect the worst. I do? I mean, you always have this look like someone is going to give you bad news. He scratches the side of his face. Are you gonna give me bad news? Little smile. Hands in his hoodie. The opposite, I hope, she says. Look, next semester we can just forget all the MacAdams stuff. Read what you want, study what you want, talk about whatever you want to talk about. It really doesn’t make a difference to me whether or not you learn algebra. I don’t want to get you in trouble, he says. Don’t worry about it. As long as you understand the consequences, it’s fine with me. Better than fine. It’s not like I enjoy all the stuff, anyway. A pause. She ducks her head toward his, trying to catch his eye. What do you think? Yes? No? I, he starts. Confused by how different she see
ms, all that anger vanished. Maybe she decided. To be happy. So he should be happy, too. He nods. Okay. Thank you. She puts her hand on his wrist. You’re welcome.