Diane Cook: Man V. Nature: Stories

I suck at a bottle to demonstrate.

“The whiskey won’t last, but I’m sure we can think of something. There’s other liquor. I have port. Several vintages. All told, Gary, we have a pretty nice life.”

He yawns. Perhaps he’ll take this moment to drain another bottle. He gazes toward my neighbor’s house.

I’m wondering if he’s heard me when he mumbles, “We’re homeless.”

I don’t know what he means. “Don’t be absurd,” I say. I’m certainly not homeless. And neither, now, is he.

But then I think maybe I do understand his meaning, looking at the lapping endless sea, which for once stretches beyond metaphor and actually is endless.

Homeless is a term of destitution. We’re not hanging out of windows, waving blankets; we’re not trod upon by soggy feet like my neighbor. But undeniably we are experiencing a lack. I respond, “Friend, we are worldless .” I let my new word linger.

Gary sniffles and paws at his face, and then I see a glistening on his cheek.

“Gary, are you crying ?” I mock tenderly.

He scowls and pulls the blanket right up under his nose, clutches the whiskey close to his heart, and pretends to sleep.

I hear murmuring outside the house.

A boat creaks offshore. A sail of ragged cloth, multicolored swatches crudely stitched together, barely registers the wind. I can make out the figures of two men swim-walking their way to our door while others wait in the boat. They gaze admiringly at the house. As they should.

“Gary,” I hiss.

A minute later he shuffles into the entryway, bringing with him a scent of something savory. Not whiskey, I notice, and think it odd.

“Men are coming. See what they want.”

Gary peeks out from behind the drapes, allows his eyes to adjust, and nods. I hand him a knife and he slips out the front door to meet the men.

He returns with a note in a bottle.

“They’re from next door,” he says, slurring slightly.

“They have a boat next door?” Should we have a boat? I hadn’t thought about surviving outside my home. Would I even want to? It seems so awful out there. But maybe it’s something I should get Gary on, just in case. Boatbuilding. How turn-of-the-century.

The note is scrawled on the back of a soup label:

Dear Neighbor, might you have some food and water to spare? My men will ferry it over. We are running dangerously low. Might you have some room to spare? I’ll send clean women and children. We’re greatly overcrowded. The walls seem to be buckling. I am concerned. Respectfully.

I crumple the letter. The nerve. “No way.”

Gary looks surprised, which surprises me.

“But we have spare food.”

“What do you know about food?” I yell.

“You said we had more than enough.”

“I did not!”

“You did.” He sulks.

“That was before. We’re running very low. You eat too much.”

“We have a lot of food,” he mumbles again.

“I suppose you know best. I suppose you’re the decision maker now. I guess you’ll be telling me we should invite them over.”

“Would it be so terrible to let some in?”

“Yes!”

Gary looks up at the grand staircase, considers each wing. “There’s room.”

I throw my hands up. “You’re unbelievable! He’s scamming you!” I’m ashamed of the squeal in my voice, but I can’t control it. “His house was always a wreck. Cracked windows. Bricks crumbling. His vines on my side of the fence. His portico has always looked like that. His house is buckling ? Well, his upkeep is for shit.”

Gary gazes longingly at the upstairs hallways, as if fantasizing that they are crowded with laughing children and pretty women.

“They’ll ruin everything. Our life. They’ll eat more than their share. They’ll waste water. They’ll drink your whiskey, you know they will.”

Gary blushes and looks down at a smudge on the golden maple floors, licks a finger and squats to rub it out. “I don’t care,” he mutters into the smudge.

“I’ll make it simple for you, simple guy. If you want to be with them, then leave.” Even as the words come out, I want to take them back. The rest of this life feels impossible without Gary. But I shouldn’t have to give up a life I enjoy to harbor the foolish masses. What’s the point of living if you can’t have the life you want?

Gary turns his gaze to me, and I don’t like the look. It’s like we don’t even know each other. He slips the knife from his pocket and strides out the door.

They are having words. I can’t tell if Gary’s is one of the voices. Maybe the men are begging to be let in, and Gary is merely listening, hearing them out. That would be so like Gary.

But maybe the men are begging to be let in and Gary is saying yes. That would be a different Gary, I think.

Then I hear yelling and the grunts of a struggle. The sound escapes across the sea; there is nothing to stop it. I hide in the closet. A lone trench coat hangs there. I wrap myself in it.

A cry of pain leads to the sound of men splashing in retreat.

The front door is opened, then gently clicked shut, as though I am a child and Gary is taking care not to wake me. Feet shuffle away. I crack the door and see the knife lying in the center of the rug. It is smeared with blood and sea scum. I would like to dress his wounds if he has any, but I don’t move.

From the study comes the clinking of bottle to glass. A glass this time. What civility. I’m ashamed for doubting him. He knows what is at stake. He is a loyal friend. All is well.

The new ocean is changing the weather in awful ways, and it’s been cold for days. The sky dumps fluffy fist-sized snowflakes, and then in a blink we are pelted with hail the size of clams. Clumps of sea ice are forming in eddies. The chimney clogs with ice and snow, and smoke billows in from the fireplace. We cough. Gary opens a window. In comes the smell of the fecal moat. We gag. He closes the window.

It occurs to me that if it weren’t for the neighbor’s overrun house, we might be a little freer in our own. Wouldn’t it be nice to stand in the doorway and enjoy the cold breeze and the view? I never used to have much of a view, just all the rooftops below me. But now I have an ocean view.

I’m angry with my neighbor for opening his doors while I closed mine. We should have more control over the end of days. It should be more pleasant somehow. It’s the end of days, after all.

I sleep under the pall of my resentment, but then I become vaguely aware of Gary’s hand stroking my hair, his sour breath whispering in my ear, Colleen . A lesser man might feel threatened by a drunk fondling him in his bed. But I am not a lesser man. I think it’s soothing. Another’s need is a funny thing. It’s so often cloying. But sometimes, with the right person, it can be the most comforting thing in a day. I find that despite everything, in this moment I feel quietly happy.

A terrible crash wakes me. I reach across the bed, but Gary is not there.

I see nothing through the window, but hear the sea lashing at the side of the house, frantic and high. The clouds are thick like insulation and hide any evidence of a moon. Is it large and full and pulling the tides higher, or is this some kind of grand, irreversible shift in things?

I sink into the cold middle of the bed. Then comes another crash, and yelling, and the unforgettable cracking of heavy beams of wood, of walls collapsing. Screams, splashes, cries for help. If I had to guess, I’d say my neighbor’s house has just fallen to pieces. I don’t want to look, in case I’m right. The surrounding sea would clog with the lifeless, facedown, a simple burial for those who had survived longest. A passing thought: Must I shoulder some blame for this tragedy? I’d believed our stories were separate. I’d begun to think of this earth as my own private sanctuary. Shared with Gary. We could climb higher and higher as the water rose and live out our days in that quaint, functionless widow’s walk, until it too was swallowed. I’d always thought it such a romantic scenario. But with our neighbors washed away, I’m suddenly curious what other story we all might have told together. We’re each of us survivors, after all. What a pathetic end. How desperate. I fall asleep in a surprising state of grief.