Melanie Thon - First, Body - Stories

Rain hit the glass. Then Rafael appeared, off-duty, wearing his black coat draped around his shoulders. He washed her face. He said, She likes this. See? She’s smiling . He said, Go home if you’re tired. I can stay awhile .

His coat was frayed, not warm, not good in rain. Maybe he had nowhere else to go. No house, no room, no bed, no lover. Maybe this was the reason for his kindness. Who can know our secrets?

I saw my father in the parking lot, gun propped against a dumpster. He searched his pockets. Found no bullets. He knew Rafael was with my mother. So close at last, and he’d lost her all the same.

I meant to go home and bolt the door. But rain turned to sleet, sent me spinning. One wrong turn and I found myself at the Bearpaw Bar on Evaro.

Animals hung. Buffalo, moose, grizzly. This last one had its hide attached. I thought their bodies must be trapped behind these walls. I told the man beside me I’d break them free if I had a pick and axe. He had pointy teeth, a glad-dog grin. He said, Where were you when they locked me down in Deer Lodge ? His skin was cracked, a Badlands face. When he smiled that way, I was afraid the scars might split open. This Tully bought my third beer, my first bourbon. He gripped my knee. He said, I like you .

By the jukebox, two sisters swayed, eyes closed, mouths moving. Sleepdancers. My father leaned against the wall, watching their smooth faces and the dreamy tilt of their hips rolling. I passed him on my way to the bathroom. His coat was wet. I smelled metal and oil, a gun just cleaned, grease on his fingers.

Too many beers already. I knew how it would be, how I’d follow Tully to the Easy Sleep Motel, take off my clothes too fast to think.

But when I saw my father, I had hope I could be saved. I thought, I won’t do this if you’ll talk to me . I said his name. I whispered, Daddy ?

He didn’t hear. Deaf old man. He looked away.

Listen .

They never brought my son to me. They let me sob, sore and swollen. They let my breasts bleed milk for days.

In every room another girl, just the same. In every room the calm Catholic women said, Gone, a good family .

Listen . There were complications. Narrow pelvis, fetus turned the wrong way. They had to cut my child out of me. Days later, they cut again.

Infection , the doctor said. It has to drain .

One slip of the knife. And a girl becomes a childless mother forever. It’s easy. The good women promised, No more accidents . Between themselves they murmured, It’s a blessing .

Listen .

No father lets you tell him this.

In the bathroom, I tried to see myself, but I wasn’t there. I was black eyebrows and lipstick smeared. The rest of me was hidden, inside the wavy glass. I imagined opening a door, falling on a bed. I saw the marks my mouth would leave, bright blooms on scarred flesh. I saw a spiderweb tattooed on Tully’s hairless chest.

What did I care if some old man judged me?

Listen . I’m snow in wind. No one leaves his imprint.

I went back to the bar, another beer, a third bourbon. Tully’s hand moved up my leg. I’d hit black ice, locked my tires in a skid.

And then, a miracle, an angel sweet as Rafael sent to rescue stranded women. God spit him from the mouth of the buffalo head. Skinny boy in black jeans and leather. He pulled me off my stool. He said, Maybe we should dance .

The old man shot coins into the jukebox. My friend, after all. They were in this together, partners, a father and son with a tow truck, saviors with a hook and winch sent to pull me from the ditch.

Those thick-thighed sisters took care of Tully. One lit his cigarette, one stuck her tongue in his ear. They’d fallen with the snow, melted in my hair. They were my strange twins, myself grown fat. Their nails were long and hard, their lips a blazing red. Angels, both of them. You never know how they’ll appear.

That boy’s big hands were on my back. He whirled me in a dip and spin. His leg slipped between my legs.

What are we doing ? I asked.

Only dancing , he said.

Yes, dancing. There’s no harm in it. But later it was more a droop and drag, a slow waltz, one of us too drunk to stand.

The old man sat at a table in the back, holding his head in his hands. I saw how wrong I’d been. No angels here. The scarred man and the twins left. I was alone, reeling with the boy called Dez.

He ran his hands along my hips, pressed me into him. I said, You’re young enough to be my kid .

But I’m not , he said.

He wrapped his fingers around my neck. He said, Listen, baby, I’m low on cash .

One last chance. I bought my freedom, gave him fifty-two dollars, all I had. He stuck it down his boot. I thought he’d vanish then, blow out the door, a swirl of smoke. But he said, Let’s go outside. This cowboy’s got to get some air .

In my car, he kissed me in that stupid way, all tongue and no breath. I lost my head. Then we were driving somewhere, snow-blind, no seatbelts, nothing to strap us in. I saw broken glass, our bright bodies flying into tiny bits.

I took him home. Who can explain this? His long hair smelled of mud. I found damp leaves hidden in his pockets. His palms were cool on my forehead. He opened me. With his tongue, he traced the scar across my belly. It was wet and new. In a room years away I heard a child crying.

I expected him to steal everything. He touched the bones of my pelvis as if remembering the parts of me, veins of my hands, sockets of my eyes. Like a sister , he said. I thought he whispered Darling just before we slept.

In the morning he disappeared. Took my sleeping bag and cigarettes.

Then the phone rang and a voice said, Your mother, gone .

Imagine.

Everyone you love is missing . The voice on the phone never tells me this. The voice says, Body, arrangements . The voice says, Your brother’s on his way. You can meet him here . I don’t argue. I say, Yes . But I don’t go to the hospital. I know I’ll never catch them there.

Hours gone. While you danced. While you lay naked in your bed . That’s what the voice in my own skull says.

I go to the ravine where the wounded elk staggers between pines. It’s always November here, always snowing. It’s the night my father died. It’s the morning my mother is dying.

Sky is gray, snow fills it. Trees bend with ice, limbs heavy. I climb down, no tracks to follow. Snow higher than my boots already, a cold I hardly notice. I forget my body. How will I find them if they don’t want me?

Flakes cluster, the size of children’s palms now. They break against my head and back, so light I cannot feel them. I glimpse shapes, trees in wind shifting, clumps of snow blown from them, big as men’s fists, big as stones falling. They burst. Silent bombs, scattering fragments.

Nothing nothing happens. Nothing hurts me.

And then I see them. He’s wearing his plaid coat and wool pants, a red cap with earflaps. She wears only her pink nightgown. He carries her. She’s thin as a child but still a burden, and the snow is deep, and I see how he struggles. I could call out, but they’ll never hear me. I can’t speak in these woods. A shout would make the sky crumble. All the snow that ever was would bury me.

Deeper and deeper, the snow, the ravine. He never slows his pace. He never turns to look for me. Old man, slumped shoulders. All I ever wanted was to touch him, his body, so he could heal me, with his hair and bones, the way a saint heals. I hear my own breath. I stumble. How does he keep going?