Scott Spencer: A Ship Made of Paper

He weeps.Stops.Drinks.Belches.Stares.Weeps.Weeps.Tries to talk himself down, as ifhis life were a drug, a bad, a terrible, a most power-ful and devastating drug that he must survive while it works its way through his system.

He has lost everything, and there is nothing he can say to himself that can change that.

Kate will never trust him with Ruby again.

Recoil.Try to think ofsomething else.

Hampton.No.Not now.Something else.

Monkey mind swings from branch to branch.

A perfect, pulverizing memory offalling down those stairs.

My God, there is no safe thought, nothing in his mind that is not lethal.

Ruby’s hands.Kate’s kiss.

Those boys in their masks.

That rocket’s fire in the deep wooded night.

And then, most terribly ofall, wherever the monkey swings there is Iris.Her shoes.The smell ofher scalp, her breath.The ten thousand de-tails ofher life fill the tree and then fly off, a terrifying flutter ofwings.

Cut the tree down, pull out the roots, and a river takes its place.And in that river she is there.Her hands, the taste ofher, her hair, her darkness, her car, her keys, what she might say next.

The phone is on his lap, but it does not ring, nor can he dial it.He cannot hear her voice, not that voice from the porch. If that’s how you want it.

Hours pass.Darkness bleeds across the floor, he pushes his chair back, afraid to have it touch him.

Then, atlast, the phone rings, but he does not answer.It chirps in his lap, the machine comes on, he hears his own terrible voice, and then a dial tone.Night fills the room like floodwater.He lifts his feet, tucks them beneath him.

At eight o’clock, Iris arrives.He first sees her headlights flare against his windows, then he hears her footsteps.She lets herselfin with-outknocking.

“Daniel?”she says softly, into the darkness.

He clears his throat, afraid ofhis own voice.“Right here,”he says.

She fumbles for a lamp, turns it on, the bulb dull, quite helpless against the night.She is wearing a redT-shirt, baggy shorts, sandals.She is holding a clear blue plastic container offood.

“What are you doing?”she asks.

He can tell by her face what he must look like.There’s nothing to do about that now.

“Thinking.”

She sighs.She understands what that means.

”That was so terrible, Daniel.I’m sorry.”

“ You’re sorry? Oh my God, Iris.I don’t even know what to say.”

“There’s nothing to say.Look.”She holds the plastic container higher.

“I made some rice and beans.Are you hungry?”

“I don’t know.”

She takes his hand, pulls him out ofhis chair, and leads him to the relative neutrality ofthe kitchen.She seats him at the table, opens the con-tainer, and then finds a fork in the silverware drawer.She sits across from him, gestures for him to eat.

“I put a little extra hot sauce in it,”she says.“The way you like it.”

He tastes it.Its hotness feels cleansing.

”And hardly any salt,”she says.“I’ve noticed you never salt your food.”

He takes another bite.He hasn’t eaten since yesterday.He sees her glancing quickly at her watch.

“You have to leave?”he asks.

”No.Well, actually, soon.”She gets up, carries her chair next to his, and sits again.She runs her fingers through his hair.

“Who’s home?”he asks.

”I’ve got somebody new, a really sweet Jamaican lady named Sandra.”

She crosses her fingers.“Want to see something?”She stands, lifts her T-shirt, exposing her belly.“Look how fat I’m getting.”

“I don’t see it.You look the same.”

“Are you kidding? Look!”She grabs an inch ofskin, shakes it.“I might be pregnant.”

Daniel struggles to keep his expression detached.But he thinks if

only. He takes another mouthful ofher food.

“That would be all we need, wouldn’t it?”says Iris.

”Do you really think you might be?”

“I don’t know.I sure feel bloated.Who knows? Maybe we can be one ofthose couples who think they can solve the world’s problems by cre-ating a new race, or a non-race, or whatever.”

“That might be a good idea.”

She smiles, shakes her head.“I actually have to go.I told Sandra I’d be right back.”

“How’s Hampton? Nelson?”

“Let’s not even talk about them.Can you do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“I have to leave, honey.I’m sorry.”

“Thanks for the food.”

“You were starved.”

“It’s good.Soul food.”

“Not really.There’s no ham hocks or any ofthat old-timey crap.”

“It’s still soul food.”

Iris kisses his forehead, strokes his hair again.

”Do you still love me?”

“Yes,”Daniel says.

”This is so hard.”

“I know.”

“Don’t you sometimes wish…?”

He reaches for her.“No,”he says.“It’s too late for that.There’s no turning back.”