Diane Cook - Man V. Nature - Stories

“You have to be nicer,” she warned.

“I’m nice.” He picked up a penny that had landed in his lap and chucked it back. The crowd booed.

Jane laid a seared steak in front of him, yawning.

“You should sleep,” he said.

She rolled her eyes. “There’s no time.”

They ate. When Greg had finished his steak, Jane passed him the rest of hers. “Why don’t you give that to them?” He was trying to be nicer.

She imagined them setting upon the meat like dogs, turning over lamps and tables, hurting each other. She would have to dress their wounds all evening. “No, there’s not enough.”

Just then a man sauntered into the kitchen. Like he owns the place, Jane thought, flushing with anger. She recognized him. He had a tent by her mailbox and went through her mail. She’d bought a shredder because of him. But she noticed the crowd of people in the doorway winking at her. A few gave her a thumbs-up sign, and she realized they liked this man.

“You gonna eat that?” the man drawled, pointing to the chunk of steak that sat between Jane and Greg.

“Who do you think you are?” Jane asked. She made her voice hostile, but really she wanted to know.

There was something rogue about him. Like he would be a bad addition to anyone’s life. But his eyes were saggy and kind, like a dog’s. He extended a hand. “I’m West.”

“That’s not your name,” she said, crossing her arms.

“No, but I wish it was.” He smiled then, and she could make out deep dimples hidden beneath his disorganized beard. The discovery made her blush.

Greg stood. “Excuse me. This is a private dinner.”

West breathed deep. “And what a delicious private dinner it is,” he said, and winked at Jane. “Why don’t you share?”

“I am sharing,” she said.

“Are you though?”

What did he mean share ? She felt like a victim of sharing. She’d tripled her grocery budget and had given in to the requests for sugar cereal. She’d instituted nightly storytelling around the bonfire for the children. As she spoke, those at her feet tied and untied her shoelaces or drew vines around her ankles. They stayed up past their bedtime because their parents took too many sips from the whiskey flasks they’d insisted she provide. The parents tottered around the yard flashing her tipsy grins. But other times she knew she’d displeased them. She’d taken on Greg’s student loans in anticipation of their wedding. She’d heard grumbling that it meant less for everyone else. Is that what West was saying? Was she expected to pay off everyone’s loans?

She pulled the plate to her and methodically sectioned the meat. Greg said, “Honey,” in protest, but West put up his hand and Greg quieted.

She chewed and swallowed each piece. She mmm ed like she loved every bite, though she thought she might be sick. West watched her mouth do this work, and then he smirked and winked again.

Later in bed, Greg pouted. “Why did you eat the steak?”

The steak still felt lodged in her stomach. Like she’d eaten a golf ball. “You didn’t want it.”

“But you gave it to me.” Greg rolled over and clicked the light off. “You gave it to me .”

When Jane found herself in the same room as West, people winked and made kissing noises. Notes were passed to her at the kitchen table. West likes you.

“But I love Greg,” she would say.

They would shrug. “But don’t you like West?”

She did like West. She couldn’t look at West without imagining his tongue on her skin. She wondered if he was a doting or selfish lover. She wanted him to be selfish. She thought from his smirk he might be, and she liked the idea of something that required no compromises, no special kindness, no giving. Just taking. She found the stuff of love hard to juggle with all the other stuff like cooking, cleaning, yard work. When Greg left for a week-long business trip, she felt relief for many reasons.

West became a fixture inside the house then, where there was so much more to be gotten than mail. He played music in the evenings, thumping out songs he’d written on the piano. Secretly, Jane liked to watch him play these songs, and at times she suspected that he played them for her. One must have been for her, because at the chorus West sang her name over and over again. The tune drifted into the kitchen, where she was sandwiched between two knitters, their needles and elbows jabbing her with each stitch. She could see West’s back when he leaned in and out of the piano emotionally. The parlor was full of people, and they all laughed behind their hands and said, “Aww,” like they’d just seen a baby. When West finished, everyone was quiet. From the ridge high above the house she heard the hollow echo of gunshots. Some night hunting. Or someone else’s mast year gone wrong, perhaps.

Jane climbed the stairs to her bedroom, and they all watched her. She slid into bed and flicked off the light. A moment later West arrived and slid in beside her. She invited him to do what he wanted. She felt used and generous all at once. After, she asked if that was what he’d meant by sharing.

West moved in permanently. He brought nothing with him. As a first act, he moved Greg’s things to the front lawn where they were picked through by the crowd and eventually by a weepy Greg. West dealt with the mail, paid the bills, answered correspondence. Jane hadn’t expected him to be helpful, but he was. He let Greg’s loan payments default. She knew it was happening but pretended not to.

Inside the house, people patted her on the back.

“We never liked him,” they said of Greg. “He was so needy. He tried too hard.”

Jane didn’t bother to explain that he hadn’t always been like that. He’d been fun; it had been nice, easy.

Her mother welcomed the news. She too had never liked him.

“If he was so awful,” Jane asked, “why did all these people come?” Now that her engagement was off, would they leave? That had been her hope.

“Oh honey, there’s more to you than some boy and some job. Maybe there’s a secret in you. Maybe there’s something in you that’s about to burst.”

Jane liked this idea.

Jane hadn’t thought she wanted much from West. But he was steady and calm and she found herself relying on him more and more. As her feelings for him grew, so did the crowds. They doubled, then tripled. The old house shuddered under the weight. Parties went on all night. Sometimes into the mornings. The cushions of Jane’s couch were deflated, all her curios had disappeared from her curio cabinet, all her books from her bookshelves. People drank and accused one another of slights. Fights broke out regularly now. People got injured. Ambulances came. The sirens screamed up and down her street, a seemingly endless loop of extreme alarm.

At night, Jane and West whispered under bedsheets so no one could hear.

“What made you come and live by my mailbox?” Jane asked him once.

“I just had a feeling I should.”

“I’m glad you did.” She felt him smile in the darkness.

West always fell asleep first, while Jane remained awake, holding him or holding his hand, listening to the night commotion in her house. All Jane wanted was to eat a nice, quiet dinner with West, to get to know him better without so many bodies pressing into them, living their love vicariously. But that possibility seemed farther away than ever.

On movie night, Jane and West couldn’t find an empty spot on the couch. The floor was covered, head to toe. They stood in the corner and balanced their beers and popcorn. People grabbed fistfuls from their bowl until the popcorn was gone. They wiped their buttery hands on Jane’s pants.

A large plaid-clad man was controlling the remote. A home renovation show was on.