Diane Cook - Man V. Nature - Stories

“I’m thinking of getting an alarm system,” she announces, though she hasn’t been.

“Why?”

“The neighborhood is going down the toilet.”

He looks out the window, expecting to see some crime in progress. Across the street, the neighbors still have Christmas lights in their evergreen shrubs, though it is summer. He takes this as a sign and nods in agreement.

That night she watches the bag in the corner. When car headlights sweep across it, and the neighbor’s Christmas lights blink on the shiny black plastic, the bag looks as if it’s squirming.

Cal is back to test the waters. Afterward he palms the sweat from his hairless chest, wipes it on the sheet beneath them, and points to the bag.

“What’s in that?”

“Children’s clothing.”

“Lydia,” he groans, “I thought we were on the same page.”

“We are.”

“So you’re just collecting kids’ clothes for fun?”

“No.”

“Are you opening a store?”

“I’m not.”

“So it’s junk?”

“I guess so.”

“Then get rid of it.”

She nestles into him for warmth. It’s good he’s here.

“I will.”

Early in the morning, when it is still dark and Cal is gently whimpering beneath a dream, she wrestles the bag down the stairs, then into the backseat of her car. It is surprisingly heavy and unwieldy, and her muscles shake under the strain.

In the rearview mirror she watches the bag. It sits tall and blank against the tan upholstery. She almost hits an old lady crossing the road. When she slams the brakes, the bag thumps against the back of her seat.

At the bridge over the big rushing river, she again wrestles the bag. She rests it on the cold metal railing, and it balances there, the wind seeming to hold it up from all sides. Then she barely touches the bag and it goes over the rail.

When the bag lands, the water closes in, submerging it. Then it bursts through the surface again like it’s gasping for air. The light twinkles all over it, and she’s surprised by how pretty it looks, like something special being showcased in a store window. She wonders if she should have kept it.

The bag floats away, and a few birds give chase. Their dawn shadows weave playfully as they swoop at the bag, and Lydia is glad they have found it. They’ll know what to do. They’re following some instinct that has to do with morning.

There once was a man, a well-known man, we’ll call him “our man,” who could impregnate fifty women in one day.

He could bend a high-heeled dancer over a Dumpster; a waitress across the order counter; a teacher over the hood of her car in the teachers’ lot. You get the picture. He could have any woman he wanted, anywhere he wanted. He could take one and turn, find another waiting, and take her too. We’ve all heard the stories. Remember how he did a row of bank tellers, one after the other? How they begged and huffed and grunted, their faces pressed against their teller windows where they’d stuck a Closed sign when it was their turn? “We’re so lucky!” they squealed. Remember how they all took maternity leave at the same time? Remember the elevator story? That Little League game? Independence Day?

Our man was in his prime, his status secure. His offspring were the most coveted, the most successful, he was a sure thing — he never missed, and he was always ready (which can’t be said of lesser men). Women dreamed of having his babies. Young boys dreamed of being him. Other men knew to keep their distance and their eyes down.

But our man believed all of that was changing.

Impossible, you say? As proof, take that waitress story: When he’d bent her over the counter, the cooks had tried to ambush him. The waitress held them off with a kitchen knife, and they’d had to finish over the prep table, with her holding the knife out, jabbing it at the cooks with each thrust our man gave her.

Our man recognized the look in the cooks’ eyes. They were thinking, That should be me. He knew the feeling. For some young men it was a long-held life goal, and for others it came out of nowhere like a punch. They wanted what he had, and so deeply that they believed they could get it, should get it. They deserved it.

Lately young men had been ambushing our man from dark alleys, following him home, breaking into his apartment and setting traps. He’d had to move. Before, he would have walked unguarded and proud. Now he skulked and wore disguises. He saw the Wanted signs with his picture affixed.

But of all the changes, he was most bewildered by how much he wanted to see the waitress again.

Once they’d finished, he’d asked if she would like to sit with him, have a coffee, talk. He felt a heaviness in his stomach, a need to spend time with her. It was the strangest feeling — he’d never desired a woman twice. But she already had her order pad and pencil cocked and ready. “I work here,” she’d said briskly, and returned to her tables. He’d blushed and felt ashamed. When was the last time he’d felt that?

Now he thought of the knife, of the way she’d jabbed. She hadn’t been protecting him so much as her offspring. But still, the gesture touched him. He felt cared for. He hadn’t felt that since he was a much younger man, but he wanted to feel it again.

Our man returned to the diner, anxious and prepared to ask the waitress to meet him after her shift. He would offer to buy her a sandwich or a soup at a different diner where she could relax. That was better than coffee, right?

But the waitress wasn’t there. The cooks were, however, and they chased our man onto a dim side street, where he was able to lose them. He panted in a Dumpster until it was safe to emerge.

Our man knew of a cave in the big park near the diner. He could wait out the night and go back tomorrow, see if the waitress was working. Tell her he couldn’t stop thinking about her. They could marvel at how weird that was. He had a feeling she would totally get it, and get him.

The sun was bright, and the grass smelled extra grassy because of it. Park animals scampered. Our man kept his head down, slipped behind trees and into bushes when threatening types strode by. He stepped over two different ankle traps he assumed were set for him.

He entered a wide-open space with few hiding spots. A crowd of boys on bikes noticed him. “Hey,” they yelled. They lobbed stones at his head. Our man ran, and the boys chased on their bikes through the gravel paths. Of course it could only be a game for them — they were boys — but the commotion alerted others. An arrow was launched from somewhere in the trees, and it whizzed by our man’s head. A large group of healthy young men began tracking him. But our man is faster than most.

He gained ground by sprinting over a steep hill, and then he heard a sweet voice say, “Pssst.”

A woman in a yellow dress sat on a large blanket in the middle of the great lawn. She scooched over and lifted a corner. Our man dove under, and she laid it back down. She reclined so as to hide his bulk, then resumed reading her book with great languorousness.

Those pursuing our man crested the hill, breathless, and scanned the lawn for some movement. The woman yawned for effect. They ran on, fought with each other for the lead; the young boys were jostled off their bikes and limped away, crying bitterly, pining for the day they would feel like men.

When they were all out of sight, the woman tickled our man through the blanket, and he laughed.

“Shh, they’re very close,” she lied. She rubbed him until his breath quickened. “I’m taking you home with me. It’s safe there.”

Our man was happy to hear that. No one had ever offered him a home. He would stay with her, be cared for, and never have to run again.