Diane Cook: Man V. Nature: Stories

In the light of day, my neighbor’s house is still standing. The top of the building has caved in on itself. Some bodies float in the surrounding waters, but not many. The bobbing corpses lack the gravitas I imagined. I leave bed to fix myself a plate of crackers and peanut butter.

As I approach the landing, I hear hushed voices and I see my neighbor in the entryway with Gary. They lean in to one another, whispering. It all looks quite friendly, which is surprising.

“Howdy, neighbor.” I try for blitheness.

They look up, caught. I scan Gary’s face for clues, then my neighbor’s.

My neighbor has tried to clean himself up a bit. His clothes look pressed in spots, like he has laid them between stacks of books to mimic the effect of steamers. But they are pieces from different suits, clashing directions of stripes on the jacket and pants, and a checkerboard shirt. His beard is roughly trimmed; big chunks of hair are shorter than other chunks, like he cut it with children’s scissors. He looks to be wearing some kind of makeup, a powder or rouge for color.

My neighbor nods in greeting. “We had an accident,” he wheezes haltingly. “The roof. Fell in. Top floor. Many dead.”

“I know, we heard,” I say, mustering horror. Gary looks distraught. Then I say, “We heard it fall, I mean,” so my neighbor doesn’t think we’d heard from someone else, as though it was gossip.

“I saw the bodies in the moat,” I say.

My neighbor looks ashamed and sputters, “We had to. The disease. All the others.”

I notice that Gary’s suit is rough and wrinkled. I reach out, fondle the fabric. It’s damp.

“Gary, have you been swimming ?”

My neighbor coughs. “Neighbor,” he says, beginning a plea.

“What do you want?” I ask, trying to sound friendly, but I can tell by their faces that my tone is pure stone.

“We have to hold up the ceiling.”

Gary clears his throat. “There are big posts in the basement.”

I snort. “There are not.” I’m looking right into his eyes, and they are mossy green and clean like he is fully awake. We are so close; his breath in my face smells sweet, like warm milk. Then I remember: there are posts in the basement, from the renovation on my Doric columns. Why does Gary know my house better than I?

I glare at him, preparing to accuse them of something, but then my neighbor begins to cry. Gary clamps a hand on my neighbor’s shoulder to comfort him. I’m alarmed. Those are my hands.

Sea-foam curls around my neighbor’s galoshes, and I suddenly feel woozy. I step back, hug my cardigan close, and realize I’ve become pointy, emaciated. I’m swimming in this sweater; the cuffs hang off me like I’m wearing my father’s clothes. Is this even mine? Haven’t I been taking care of myself? I look at Gary. He’s lean. But I don’t think he’s leaner than usual. What is going on here?

“He’s going to take the posts,” Gary says, making it sound utterly ordinary to give something away. He tightens his grip and guides my shell-of-a-neighbor inside. “Watch the rug,” he says, and instinctively I’m grateful. He’s thought of me. Of us. Of our things. I try to offer him my most thankful smile, but he is already leading my neighbor through the basement door. “I’ll help him,” he calls back over his shoulder.

Of course my neighbor will need help. The posts are big and long and were almost too much for the builders to get down there in the first place. And my neighbor is clearly starving. But again, I’m surprised by Gary. When they come out of the basement, I notice that Gary’s feet aren’t stumbling. He appears strong, almost. He is speaking in full sentences, not slurs. He’s concerned and not angry. He directs my neighbor, who is bent and shaky, barely able to hold the post up, toward the door. Gary stands tall, the post balanced easily on his shoulder, like he doesn’t feel the weight. I want to check my food supply, but I know that would be wrong. It’s his house too.

I watch them float the posts over and disappear into my neighbor’s house. I bolt the door. When they come back, let them knock. But then I think, no, it’s Gary. I draw the bolt back.

I stoke the fire all night and wait for the splashing sound of Gary crossing the moat and returning home. I deserve an explanation. I can’t sleep without him.

In my neighbor’s house, lit by candlelight, I see a crowd gathered around Gary. He appears to be giving a speech. His head is bowed and his hands cover his chest like they are protecting a wound. He is not throwing bottles and sulking. And when he begins to weep, the masses gently reach to comfort him; they place hands on him. My neighbor steps through, the people breaking apart for him, and he and Gary embrace. Gary sobs into his neck.

I crawl to the liquor cabinet. One bottle of whiskey remains. I cough down half and then hurl the bottle at the great window.

I check my food supplies. They don’t appear diminished beyond reason, but I suppose there is more food gone than there should be. Didn’t there used to be one more pallet by the bed? But that’s easily explained by Gary starting to eat. Had he? I couldn’t remember him ever sharing a meal with me, though he always kept me company while I dined. I could live off this food for a while longer, definitely till the end, which feels closer than ever before. But that’s not the point, I think as I urinate into the fireplace. Dense smoke erupts and smothers me. I double over, breathless. I wrench the window wide and gasp in that putrid moat. Dawn is breaking. A bloated and sun-bleached cow drifts by, its hide rippling with bugs, its tail end chewed off by some animal, its methaned stomach still intact and about to burst. That will be me. Pale, bloated, and raped in some feeding frenzy by what still lives.

Why did he leave?

Who said he could leave?

The water in the moat has an eerie heft, like it is about to become slush. I find firm ground near the corner of my neighbor’s house, and soon I emerge. Water sloshes out from under my clothes and from my pockets; salt and sand grit my mouth.

I hear the noise of much life inside, hundreds and hundreds of people, but as I pass in front of a window, the commotion stops. When I knock on the front door, it’s like the whole world holds its breath. I press my ear to it. Nothing.

“I know you’re in there,” I yell. “I can see you all from my house.”

I hear a cough from inside, and a quick rush to stifle it.

“You stole my food.”

Silence.

I pull a note card from my pocket, kept dry in a plastic baggie. It’s an eloquent reminder for Gary of our comfortable life at home, of how I saved him, of our friendship, and of the contract he signed. I find a crack at the top of the door and try to push the note through. Something stops it midslide and pushes it back out.

Gary.

I know it’s him on the other side. I palm the door and press my cheek against it. It is slimy with algae. I feel painted onto it.

“Gary!” I yell. “Let me in! I’m cold and wet.”

The moon is full. The tide will be high. The water is waiting for orders. I think it wants this house as much as I do.

I could still make it home. I might still touch the bottom of the moat if I head there now. But for what? People begin moving around again inside my neighbor’s house. I hear the march of many feet up and down the staircase. A piano is tuned. They are carrying on. I notice for the first time that my neighbor’s house sits slightly lower on the hill than mine. We truly were at the height of land. It was not my imagination, or merely a boast. I’m awash with sadness.

“Gary. We had it all.”

I sit down on the stoop, and the water rises to my knees. Small fish circle my legs like they are playing a game.