Diane Cook - Man V. Nature - Stories

It wasn’t a good life. But it was a life.

When he felt most lonely, he focused on this: He had been kept. Not cast away to be chased, battled, killed. He was being cared for by a woman who still asked him to touch her again and again, and who, at least for now, believed beyond all proof that he had something to offer. And who, in their closest moments, when our man tried to give her what she most wanted, managed to abandon some bitterness and express something like joy or pleasure or peace. It might be unconscious. It might have nothing to do with him. But he called it love. And as long as he could see it in her, he would be grateful. He would miss her when she wasn’t with him, and with bile burning his throat, he would wait for her return.

Jane stuffed as many of her belongings into her purse as she could. She’d just been called to her boss’s office and she knew what that meant. Nothing good ever came from a visit to the boss’s office. If she was about to be fired, she wanted her things with her.

But in her boss’s office she didn’t get fired. She got a promotion. With a raise — a good one. And a bigger desk. She unpacked her things and sank into her new, better chair. She’d often thought of quitting. The job had been stagnant. The commute was long. But this made it easy to stay. That day, she even enjoyed her drive home. The traffic seemed thinner and no one honked at her.

Then, that weekend, Greg returned from a business trip with a bulge in his pocket that turned out to be a ring box. Jane watched him slide the ring onto her finger. She thought about how, when Greg moved in, his things would mix with her things until they forgot who owned what. And there would be other perks of stability, like knowing what to expect and what was expected of her. She twirled the ring, enjoying its glimmer. It was as if the world had heard what she wanted and had finally decided to deliver.

This was how her year began. And shortly after, the first people arrived.

One morning, Jane found a man and woman sleeping in each other’s arms near her roses. Jane figured they were homeless, though they didn’t have that scruffy look. Perhaps they were drunk and had gotten lost. Their presence unnerved her, but she told herself they would leave in a day or so, and what was the harm?

The next day two tents stood under her willow. A few children ran around, and a man with a long beard moved landscaping stones into a circle.

During the night, Jane’s sleep was disturbed by hammering. She woke to a crowd of men, women, and children huddled under umbrellas, tents, and tarps strung between the trees. There looked to be at least forty people. When Jane peered out the front door, they cheered.

She called her mother.

“Sounds like a mast year,” her mother said. Jane heard a game show in the background.

“You mean this is a thing?”

“Yes, it’s a thing. It’s a thing that happens to trees. But sometimes it happens to people too.”

Her mother explained that some years trees grew far more nuts than in ordinary years. A year of abundance was called a mast year. Somehow, as if the trees were calling to them, animals from all over sensed the tree’s prodigious bounty and swarmed it. They gorged. “I’ll send you a book about it. It’s short. More like a pamphlet.”

“But I’m not a tree.”

“You’re like a tree. You drink water. You’re tall. You’re sweet.”

“Mom.”

“Jane. When people have mast years it’s because they’re having extra good fortune. Like you with your raise and engagement. Don’t you think you’re very fortunate right now?”

“Things are going well, but—”

“People want to join in your good fortune. So let them. You said to the world, ‘I’ve got something you want.’ You shook your limbs and said, ‘Come.’ So they came.”

“Sorry, Mom, but I didn’t ‘shake my limbs.’ I didn’t do anything.”

“Well, sorry , honey, but you did. They wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“Mom.” Jane sighed. She wished she hadn’t called.

“Jane, relax. You’ll love it. You’ll be surrounded by people who think you’re wonderful. Because you are. They’ll feel lucky. And you’ll feel like a saint when it’s over. It’s only a year. What’s one year?”

Jane wanted to tell Greg herself, but he’d already found out from work friends. He made a big show of ringing her bell and presenting her with flowers at the door even though he had a key and could have just come inside. Jane blushed and tried to usher him in, but he caught her around the waist and dipped her into a movie-style kiss. The crowd clapped their hands. Someone yelled, “Woo!”

Greg called out, “This woman loves me .” He puffed his chest.

But once inside, Greg slumped. “Why are you doing this?” he whined.

“It’s just a thing that’s happening,” she said.

“Well, make it stop.”

“I can’t. I don’t know how.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

“Excuse me?”

“Aren’t I paying enough attention to you?”

“Yes, you’re fine. We’re fine.”

“Then make them go away. They’re going to think I don’t do enough for you.”

“But you do.”

“Then why are they here?”

“I don’t know.” She kissed his neck. “Maybe I’m not doing enough for you .”

Jane tried to wake early so she could bring Greg breakfast in bed, but he was already in the kitchen when she came down. On the table was Greg’s signature omelet, cut in two and plated, and mugs of coffee, hers fixed how she liked it.

“I also made a coffee cake, but it isn’t ready yet,” he said. His brow seemed to frown.

“You make coffee cake?” She smelled vanilla and something bitter.

He glanced quickly out the window. “I always make coffee cake,” he said, sounding hurt. The crowd looked hungry.

“Well, great,” she said, settling into a chair, “I love coffee cake,” even though she thought it was just okay. “Is it your signature coffee cake?” she asked, looking at her beige omelet.

“Why, yes. It is.” He laughed with relief, glancing out the window again. “You’re lucky. I’m a man with a signature everything.” His half of the omelet was gone, and he stood to go. He kissed her roughly, as though marking his territory. But then his kiss turned tender, and she blushed. The faces in the window were smeared with achy smiles.

“Be a doll and take that out in five,” Greg said, took two twenties from her wallet, and left.

She dumped the rest of her omelet into the trash. It was nice that he had signature things, but really signature just meant one , and his signature omelet wasn’t very good. She tasted a corner of the coffee cake. It was salty. Jane cut it into pieces and arranged them on a platter. She would tell him she couldn’t stop eating it.

As she pulled out of the garage, people gathered to touch her car. She triggered the door locks. Their clothing wiped the windows. Metal jacket buttons pinged the car like rain. Their faces showed deep concentration, as if they were placing a smell that had once been familiar. They held small trinkets in their hands, wood and stone talismans, stacked brownies tied with ribbons. They offered these to her.

“No,” she said from behind the glass. “You keep those. I don’t need them. Don’t you need them?” The brownies looked good. Her mouth watered. But no, this was what it was all about. They were in need and she could give, and then they would leave, right? She inched the window down enough to slip them the plated coffee cake. Someone in a wool hunter’s coat took it. “Sorry, it’s not very good,” she explained through the crack. “I didn’t make it. I will next time. I promise.”