The Seventh Mansion Read online

  * * *

  He walks back through the woods, arms burrowed beneath his hoodie, legs stiff. Snot frozen in his nose. Breath hanging in the air. Fuck, he chants, fuck, fuck, fuck. How did you not think. That this would happen. When you know that nothing is safe, ever, did you imagine that he would keep this for you, the way it is, as long as you wanted it, that the birch would be protected because you love them, because of P., because you are a fucking goddamn idiot. And now you have how many months? Before they come back? When you should have known, as soon as you saw the trees, as soon as you moved here, how to protect them, should have started the first night, it is your responsibility, but you thought you thought you thought. You were safe. Here. You slither through the fence, slip on the log covered in ice. P. drags you across by the wrist. You have to help me. Hush, beloved. Opening the back door. His father stirring a pot of oats for breakfast, turning to watch Xie slam into the kitchen, breathless. Hey, where were you? Xie brushing past. Xie, Erik calls after him; but he doesn’t answer, impatient, can’t explain, unlock the attic door, shut it behind you. Scrubbing your cheeks with the cuffs of your hoodie, What’s the first thing. The only thing you have to do now. Foot striking the mattress on your way to the bookshelf, jarring the body, calm down. Can’t. Hands fast through the stack, all the books about P., about saints, where did you put it, the one Peter lent you, jokingly calling it his “bible,” the only book on the shelf with a spine in green, not gold: Ecodefense. Eyes hungry on the pages: the words are everywhere, the ones you are looking for, see? Back against the mattress, the light crawling over your lap, the photographs of forests, the diagrams, the instructions, the very short list. Of what you will require. A hand. A hammer. A nail.

  * * *

  He calls Jo before he remembers that she and Leni are out of town, somewhere in Florida for a family reunion Jo’s dad insisted she attend, Leni tagging along, they’d made a collective gagging noise but went anyway and now no ride to the meeting, he has to take his bike, thirty-five miles, legs dead by the time he arrives. Breathless at the bottom of the steps, someone with blond dreads glancing at him, Lakota or Lakita or whatever her name is. Dang, did you run here or what? No, Xie says, I just need to talk to Peter, is he here? Rubbing his face with the cuff of his hoodie. Lakota shrugs. He’s on the phone. Xie glances around the room. Fewer people than the last time he was here. No snacks, no tea. A thick crack in the concrete floor, where a rug used to be. What happened? he asks. Lakota smirks. Didn’t you hear? And Peter materializing at his elbow, hand on Xie’s back, Hey, farmer. What’s going on? Xie asks. We’re losing the space. Someone complained about drugs in the bathroom. Which weren’t even ours. They told me today that they’re canceling our lease. Smiling through his anger. I’m sorry, Xie says. Peter shrugs. We’ll find somewhere. We always do. What did you need? Xie hands him a scrap of paper torn from the book. Peter unfolds it. Eyebrows up. How many? I don’t know, a lot. Ten boxes, maybe more. Peter folds up the paper, puts it in his pocket. When do you need them by? Just, um. As soon as you can. Peter nods. No problem. Soft slap of Xie’s arm. I’ll drop them by your house. If you have a minute, we were just gonna talk about the situation in Alabama. The what? The coal project. Oh, I—I can’t stay, I have to go. You sure? Alias mentioned you might be interested. Xie flushes. I’m—I am, but, I have to— Twitch of Peter’s brow, impatient, I’m just asking for fifteen minutes, Xie. It’s important. Xie rubs his head with both hands, anxious breath, shaky, I’m sorry, I just. Suddenly on the verge of tears. I have to run. Peter touching his arm. Hey, what’s wrong? Xie shaking his head, emphatic, Nothing, I just—I really have to go. Peter drops his hand. Okay. I’m sorry, Xie says again, turning to flee, quick jog up the stairs, out the door, Peter’s eyes at his back.

  * * *

  An hour home, mouth dry on the dark roads. Walking his bike through the birch. All the things that make their homes in the wood, the birds, the foxes, the rabbits, the deer, the primrose, the fern, that helpless army, do they know when something is coming, even before it is here? Do they pray? What is the afterlife of a tree slaughtered by a human. A sheet of paper. A table. The beam of a house. A smooth polished bowl, from which the murderers eat their soup.

  * * *

  He spends the day in the woods, starting from one end and walking to the other, back and forth, then weaving through on a diagonal, keeping the line as tight as possible, if you fuck it up start over. Testing himself. If I’m standing right here, do I know, in all directions, where I am. Clusters of crowns. Where the gaps are. Like animals, trees look the same when you aren’t really looking; he looks now. With his hands, his eyes, his ears. Where the traffic is, on what road, the sounds from the house, the light from the church. The sun can tell you, the sky, the stars, the map is full of markers; fallen logs, fox dens, rabbit burrows, clusters of ferns, moss on the stones. Pattern upon pattern. To the east the land rises, just a little; to the west, it dips, you can feel the slope, so slight, beneath your feet. Eventually, even without using the stream or the church or the road for reference, keeping his eyes on the ground, he can orient himself, seeing in his mind the wood in all directions, from any point: I know you. The thrill of it; he slaps the side of the broken birch, the dead center of the wood, and whoops as the sun sinks through the trees until it is gone, the kingdom of the birch burning in the dark.

  * * *

  Erik, Jo, Leni, and Karen in the dining room, waiting for him at the kitchen table. Surprise. Leni’s idea; she smiles, hopeful proud eyes, and he smiles back, shocked to see Karen in his house, a touch of lipstick, hair twisted back in a clip. Erik stands at the kitchen sink, drinking coffee. Wow, Xie says, plucking a leaf from his sleeve; you guys didn’t have to do this. We made you a cake, Jo says. Coconut. We used beet juice for the dye, says Leni, so it’s going to taste a little funny if you eat the frosting. Xie rubbing his brow. Um. Thanks. Erik cuts vegan pizzas and Leni opens bottles of ginger beer. Xie sits. Cheers, says Karen, and they touch bottles. So how old are you? Karen asks. He smiles. Sixteen. How old are you. She guffaws. Rude! Why’s it rude for you and not for me? She rolls her eyes. I’m twenty-eight. Jo whistles. Leni pushes a plate toward Karen. Sorry it’s all vegetables, Xie says, and Karen shakes her head. Looks delicious. How was Miami? he asks the girls; Jo’s big sigh as she frees a piece of bell pepper from its sleeve of fake cheese. The ocean was red. Like, literally fucking red from that crazy algae they have growing down there, and my dad was trying to think of how, like, his company could purify it, you know, with their stupid machines, like the Gulf is just one big fucking faucet. We had to be like, um, no, that’s not how it works, but he is constitutionally incapable of getting it. Leni shudders. What would help? Karen asks. Well, for starters, the complete dismantling of capitalism, probably, Jo says, and Karen smiles, wry. Right. Erik watching, silent as they talk. Xie wonders what he thinks of their little party, a messed-up teacher and two of the least-liked girls at MacAdams. Maybe he’s pleased Xie has any friends at all, his father also a loner, so. How can he judge. If it’s sad for Xie it’s sad for all of them. But why think of any of it as sad. When he loves them all. Leni pushing a plastic bag across the table, Sorry I didn’t wrap it but you don’t believe in wrapping paper anyway, right? Xie wiping his mouth on his cuff. Pulls a book from the bag. Becoming Biocentric: A Guide to Rejecting Anthropocentrism. Open it, Leni urges. He does. To Xie, a Hero for the Earth. Keep fighting. X Nova. Xie grins. Karen leaning to read the title. Can I see? Xie sliding the book to her. We’ve been reading it and it’s so good, Jo says. It’s been out for a couple of years but the information is still super-relevant. Erik uncrossing his arms. How about cake, he says. P. polishing his boots with the hem of his cape in the corner. Pancratius never made it to sixteen. Make a wish. The lights suddenly out and everyone. Singing. Erik lifting the cake over Xie’s head, tall yellow candles lit. All the faces at the table illuminated, watching him. Smell of coconut. Of smoke. What should I wish. Blows the candles out but for a moment a
light, still, in the dark, before the lamp is switched back on.

  * * *

  After FKK leaves he walks Karen to her car. Thanks for coming, he says. My pleasure. They’re really sweet girls. And your dad is nice, too. Sorry he doesn’t talk much, Xie says. Karen smirks. Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, she says. Dropping a small velveteen bag into his palm. What’s this? She shrugs. Present. He pinches the bag between his fingers. Pouring a necklace into his palm. Silver medal. A boy in a field, arm aloft. St. Pancratius pray for us. He’s the patron saint of young people, right? she says. Teresa’d be more obvious, but. He’s a local. Xie’s smile as he puts it over his head, tucking it beneath his hoodie. I love it. I’m glad, Karen says. Make sure you eat more of that cake, yeah? You’re getting skinny. Patting his side. Last smile before getting into her car. When he goes back into the house his father is at the table, elbows spread, leafing through Nova’s book. You know this person? I met her once, Xie says. A few months ago. Met her where? Xie hesitates. At a, um, environmental activism thing. In town? Yeah. Erik frowns. I don’t seem to know much about how you spend your time, he says. Turning a page: What to Do If You’re Arrested. If you plan on doing something stupid, I hope you’ll warn me. We can’t afford another surprise. Closing the book. Xie quiet, gripping the back of a chair. Why do you assume that I’d do something stupid? I don’t, I just—all I want is for you to try. Try what? To just. Be happy. Erik looks at him, steady. Long silence. I am, Xie says. I’m trying. P. opposite his father, very bright. Taking more and more of the room, as if. Marking his territory. Almost all of it, now, his, and Erik in a sliver of shadow. Xie starts to gather the dishes but Erik rises, puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him. Let me do it. Taking Karen’s plate from his hand. Your mother sent a card, he says. It’s on the table. Xie opens it. A hundred-dollar bill and a card with a dog wearing a birthday hat. Hope you have a barking good time. Love, Mommy. He rips the card in half. Folds the pieces into the trash. His father filling the sink with water. Did Karen talk to you? Xie asks. Mm. What did she say? Erik dips a plate into the water. She told me what I already know. Xie frowns. What, that I’m not doing what MacAdams wants me to do? That I fuck everything up? His father’s elbow working in a circle as he scrubs. No, he says. That you are extraordinary.

  * * *

  Two days later Peter at the door. Hey. Fingers deep in his beard. Scratching. Hey, Xie says, and lets himself be hugged, Peter slapping his back, it’s not so bad but. Someone could tell him he could maybe slap a little less hard. Got your stuff, Peter says. Xie helps bring the boxes into the garden, stacking them beneath a tarp next to the compost. Both of them panting, midafternoon and strangely warm, sun hot off the white sides of the house. Xie lifts a flap of cardboard. Six-inch silver nails packed together head to tail. Sledgehammer with a gleaming gold head. If this isn’t enough I can get more. Just let me know. No, this is good. It’s great. Thank you, Xie says, digging in his pocket. Offering the hundred-dollar bill his mother sent. We have a donor, Peter says, shaking his head. They’re free. Xie still holding the bill out. Just, take it. Please. Use it for whatever you want. Rent for a new space, or. Whatever. You sure? Yeah. Peter takes the bill, tucks it into his back pocket. Circles the garden. Nice setup out here, he says. Thumbing the leaves of the leeks. You left in such a hurry the other day. I was worried about you. Xie chewing his lip. I’m fine. I talked about Alabama with FKK. We’re going. Peter lifts his head, sudden smile. Yeah? What about your probation? Xie shrugs. Doesn’t matter. Peter’s grin widens. That’s awesome. Glad we can count on you. Xie nods. Anytime. Peter looks out across the stream. Both of them watching the woods. They’re gorgeous, Peter says. Yeah, Xie says. They are. First buds on the branches. You know what you’re doing, right? Xie nods. Peter’s sideways look. You got help? A breeze strokes the birch. P. leaning against a trunk, silver on silver. Yeah, Xie says. I have help. Peter nods, hand again on his shoulder. Well. Good luck, farmer. And he goes.

  * * *

  The first night it rains. Lightning cutting lavender into the clouds. He has his pack, the hammer, the nails. Gloves. A blade to make his mark. Savage sound of water pounding the roof. In the attic it’s so loud. He waits. Sitting beside the body. Skull on the pillow. Eyes always seeing. Something. What. Dark pools. Blow after blow of thunder. The light in the window. P. with his crown against the glass. Chin on Xie’s knee, cape pooled against the floor. Midnight. One. The rain stops. The clouds melt beneath the stars.

  * * *

  A hundred trees a night. Three nails to a tree. Starting at the north end and working in rows, left to right. He strokes the first damp trunk. His forehead against the bark. The nail pulled from his pack, cold through the gloves: Start at the top. Hold it at an angle. Cocks his arm. Fingers trembling so hard he drops the nail once, twice, bending to feel for it in the dark, wiping his head on his sleeve, please god help me. Holding his breath. P. behind him. Steadying his arm. Bring it down, three times, the nail only halfway through. Now it is the tree that trembles. Lift the hammer again. Clip the head of the nail with the bolt cutters, catching the knob of metal in his fist. The nail flush with the flesh of the tree. Beloved. Kneel at the base. Make the mark, fresh X just above the root. And then up, to the next tree, the moon slipping down through the trunks, dim, dimmer, cold sweat beneath his hoodie, hands wet beneath the gloves, the flesh of the birch much harder than he imagined, the nail squealing through inch by inch, the head of the hammer stuttering across the bark when he misses. Pain from shoulder to knuckle, relentless, he is drunk with it by the fiftieth tree. It hurts them, too, he knows. Don’t flinch. I love you. I’m sorry. His arm burning all through the flesh, the bone, deep ache in his elbow, in his back, dropping nails when his fingers go numb, fumbling with the pack, losing his grip on the bolt cutters, can’t close his hand, blistered skin turned to jelly. He laughs, weeping, he had no idea how weak he was, how fucking useless. Sunk on his knees in the mud. You’ll never do it. You stupid crazy idiot you’ll never get them all and if anything happens to them it’s your fault. Get up. P. says, but Xie stays on his knees, hands loose at his sides, I can’t. P.’s hand in his hair, wrenching his head up. Holds it. Look. And there, against the white bark of the tree before him, a perfect line of blood, falling from crown to root. No sound. No light. There is no P. The wet trunk. Can’t hear himself breathe. The blood is slow, too slow, endless, he knows it will keep coming, calm, inevitable, reflected in all the silver in the air, slow motes of dust, of ash, and the smell of burning: am I a tree now, too? Am I

  * * *

  Or do you think there is a sign where there is no sign

  * * *

  The next morning early to the library, gritty eyed, the night before spent huddled against the body, unable to think, to sleep, bandaged hands curled against his chest. Karen’s car in the parking lot, engine running. He waits on the steps. She doesn’t come out. Two minutes. Five. He goes to the car, leans to look through the window. Her head on the wheel, hair obscuring her face. Hesitant knock on the glass. No answer. Says her name. Karen. Are you okay. The car unlocked, so. Go around. Opens the passenger door. Blast of heat and the smell of her so strong inside. Sweet over something sour. Her arm hanging limp at her side. What if. Dead or. But no, some sound coming from her, mumbling. What? Karen, it’s me, are you. And touching her arm, she lifts her head, what is that other smell. Realizing. Drunk. One kind of panic replaced by another. Here, can you sit up? Her head falling back, mouth open, she swallows. Squints. But can’t. Talk. Did you drive like this? No bottle in the car, but. A thermos in the cupholder. Sniffs it. Pure alcohol. Shit, he breathes. Her heavy exhale, unintelligible murmur. The parking lot not. Safe because. She could get in trouble or. Fired, if Greg finds out, reports her. Hand still on her arm to keep her from flopping over. Her cheek creased from the wheel. All that trash on the floor, clothes and plastic bags strewn over the backseat. Am I supposed to know what to do tell me what to do. Keys in the ignition. Drive her somewhere. Home. Glance
at the library door and then. Kneeling on the seat, lean to grab her beneath the arms and slide her to the passenger side, legs catching on the center console, Xie pushing at her thigh, Karen can you. Move. Her eyes finally seeing him. Xie? Sharp movement of her head forward, almost clipping his nose. Xie panting. Yeah, it’s me. Fuck, she mumbles. Closes her eyes. He grits his teeth, hefting both her legs across the console, her shoe popping off her heel. Backs of her knees damp through her jeans, who knows how long she sat here with the heat on. Flesh slack in his arms, helpless. Settles her into the seat, pulls the belt across her hip. Her head sliding toward the window as he is about to close the door, he has to push her back, hard, shut the door and into the driver’s seat. Looks over the dashboard, slaps the heat off, hand trembling, wiping his face, quick, Okay, he says to himself, okay, putting his foot on the brake as he turns the key in the ignition. The car throbbing to life. Can’t manage reverse so eases forward. Slow through the intersection then. Up past the woods. Karen trying to fish a hair from her mouth. Please don’t move until we stop. On the incline has to. Press the gas. The car darts forward, almost missing a curve. Xie yelps. Death grip on the steering wheel, blisters screaming beneath the gauze. He keeps one foot on the brake the whole time. Almost there. Half a rabbit on the yellow line, bright blood on white fur. Don’t look. Finally his driveway and he puts the car in park, askew, keys out, deep breath. Goes to her door. She reaches one leg out for the ground as if unsure where exactly it is. Heavy lurch onto her feet. His arm around her waist, stiff jacket beneath his hand. Brushing her hair out of his own face. Stumble over the doorstep. Shuffle to the couch. Here, he says. Karen half sits, half rests her head on the arm. Eyes closed. Dry swallow. He gets her a glass of water, a blanket, helps her drink, takes off her shoes. Why did she get so fucked up at ten in the morning. Trying to remember, did I ever smell alcohol on her before? But sure this is the first time. And her driving like this. Or did she start drinking in the parking lot or. Fuck’s sake, Karen. She’s not asleep but trying to be still. Lets her be. Boils water in the kitchen. Makes tea. Quiet. Strong sun through the window, bright square on her hip. Watching her. Such silence. He sits at the table, Nova’s book open, eyes restless on the page and eventually she falls asleep and when she awakes she seems. Better. Blinking, quick turn of her head, Xie—? He gets up from the table. Yeah. She sits, folding the blanket over the back of the couch, clumsy, as if she can’t quite feel her hands. How did I get here? Um. I drove. You drove? Yeah, you were in your car, so. I, um. Drove it. Here. She turns her head from the light and he pulls the curtain across the window. May I use your bathroom. Voice flat, quiet. He shows her and she shuts the door. Running water. He makes toast. After ten minutes she comes out, face scrubbed, her hair in a ponytail. Sits at the table, where he has put her toast, a jar of jam, tea. She eats. Tiny bites of bread. Squints into the tea, steam crawling up her cheeks. Xie scratching his neck. Do you want to see the garden? Karen looks up, blank. Then nods. Knuckles white around the mug. Okay. He leads her to the yard. Stepping down into the dirt. Her hand shading her eyes. Walking around the boxes. Fingering the kale. If there’s anything you want I can. Put it in a bag for you, he says. Breath steaming. Her brow furrowed, brushing the tops of the beets. I could take some of these, she says. Xie pulls them up. Brisk rub of dirt from the skins. What happened to your hand? she says. He winces. Nothing. Karen going over the garden as if judging a science fair project, little frown. You’ve done so much. He shrugs. I have a lot of time. She points to a bunch of kale and he pulls that up, too. She rubs her arms. What are these, she says, jutting her chin toward a purple petal near the fence. Hellebore, he says. Isn’t it early for flowers? Not these. They don’t mind the cold. They’re pretty, she says. Yeah. His sleeve touching hers. She pulls away, holding her arm to her chest. Hard mud climbing the sides of her shoes. Well, she says. She goes up the steps, opens the screen door. In the kitchen he puts the vegetables in a box, adds a jar of jam, a handful of mushrooms. She folds the blanket, takes her mug and plate to the sink. He carries the box to her car, sets it on the passenger seat. Karen waits at the other door, tucking a shredded tissue beneath her nose. Do you have the keys, she says. He takes them from his pocket, puts them in her hand. Thank you. Eyes never meeting his. Why would she come to the library if she. Didn’t want someone to find her. Him to find her. He goes into the house. His father not home until late so stay in bed. Chin on skull. Arm over rib. The body is never cold, never really warm. Will she make it home okay. Will she hate me for knowing. What do I know. That she is sad? That she is alone? That she started drinking and then couldn’t stop. At ten in the morning. Needing it that much. The way he needs the body, long fuck before the woods, no dinner, then out to the trees, three hours, then back in bed, sleepless, it hurts to touch the body but he does it anyway, again and again, and while he dreams of the body there are men dreaming of swallowing the woods.