Megan Bergman - Birds of a Lesser Paradise - Stories

My parents had taken me to Abbet’s Cove for a week when I was ten. We stayed at the Shady Lake Motel, which boasted a fifteen-foot plaster woman in a bikini out front. Back then there were canoes and a diving board, and you could cross the road to the beach. Everyone was barefoot that summer except for the proprietor, who dragged her oxygen tank around the parking lot while the families cooked on the grills and watched fireworks launched from the base. My mother had worried the proprietor was flammable and shooed her away.

We lay on the beach for hours that first full day, my mother covering my father’s back in sunscreen, passing him the occasional beer or sandwich. Sand crabs scurried from one hole to another. I put my feet in the ocean and watched tiny bivalves bury themselves in the sand around my toes. During high tide, small fish came in with the waves and swam the expanse of shallow water. I was fascinated by the lives I saw, so when it came to eating what my father had caught for dinner, I went hungry — I couldn’t bring myself to consume the creatures I’d watched all day. I cringed as my father sucked down raw oysters. I’ve been a vegetarian ever since.

The night I left Nate, the first place I thought of was the Shady Lake. It was the last place I could remember seeing my parents genuinely happy together, and it was close by. I drove up and down Highway 301, saw the plaster woman was gone, and so was the lake. Instead, I found an unnamed vinyl-sided motel run by two Indian women. The sign said only: Free HBO . I stayed there anyway. I wasn’t planning on sleeping.

I took the Bible out of the bedside table drawer for inspiration or comfort. It didn’t help, and neither did free HBO, which in the early hours of the morning seemed to show nothing but soft porn.

One program showed a woman in a purple nightie straddling a motorcycle and pleasuring a man with her manicured hands.

You know you really just want him to take you to dinner, I said to the screen, and tell you how pretty you are. That you’re smart. That you don’t have crow’s-feet.

The day after Rhea’s visit, at breakfast with Al, I worried about Mussolini’s dog. It was warm out, perhaps ninety, and Mussolini had left the dog in the van.

Al! Margie called out from the kitchen, holler at me when y’alls ready to order.

I picked at the laminated specials list.

Fried-egg sandwich? Al asked, scanning the menu he must’ve known by heart.

Biscuits and honey, I said. Remind me to ask Mae for Country Crock in the little packets so I can take some home for the cats.

Mussolini stood in the doorway of his shop, hosing down his sidewalk. He scowled. The last of his hair whipped across his forehead. He wore his khaki pants high and his white-collared shirt tucked in. I tapped on the window. Your dog, I mouthed. It’s hot.

Shhhh, Al said, nodding toward three blue-hairs in the booth next to ours. Those old ladies are sharing recipes for pimento cheese.

Al craned his neck as if that would help him hear better. He flipped to a clean page in his notebook. Beads of sweat ran down his nose. I wondered how much longer he would last with all that lard in his arteries.

Just write down mayonnaise and be done with it, I said, miffed he wasn’t paying me enough attention.

A few minutes later one of the ladies, her white hair curled and translucent, said: And hell or high water I was gonna get married! Won’t no one gonna call me off Daniel. I’m sure y’all was the same way.

Their laughter made me think for a moment that it was a good idea to live in the same town all your life, but I knew better. When your husband cheats on you in a small town, everyone knows, and then you have to move away to hold your head up and stop being the person everyone hugs.

I don’t want people feeling sorry for me, I’d told Rhea when I decided to stay in Abbet’s Cove. I hate that look.

I want my release party to be chic but humble, Al said. I want to remind folks about how good life used to be when people ate butter.

I reminded him these were the same people that pushed tobacco and voted for Jesse Helms. You can’t romanticize the Dixiecrat palette, I said. It’s not good for anybody.

Mussolini tacked up new signs for cannoli and prosciutto. He sat in a folding chair outside and smoked a cigarette as if he was daring customers to come in.

Later, with grits in his mouth, Al imagined talking to Mussolini: Your mozzarella is fantastic, but who wants to buy cheese from a fascist?

Al reminded me of some greasy Buddha, grinning and full, elbows on the table, both chins resting in his hands.

So, I said. Are we seeing a movie tonight?

Sorry, Al said. Dinner with my mother.

Drinks at my place afterward? I said.

Early to bed for this guy, he said, shaking his head.

Wasn’t there a small part of him, I wondered, that wanted to know me better? Undress me?

I pictured Mother Mary, then, and let her clean up the corners of my mind, which had landed in the gutter, wondering just how bad Al looked without clothes on.

Two months ago I had broken my celibacy vows and called Nate. We’d met at Free HBO. There was sand in the sheets. We ripped each other’s clothes off. I slapped his face and bit his shoulder. Afterward, he held onto my hip as we lay silent on the bed, watching a fly on the wood-paneled wall. The fly moved left, left, up, right in logical squares of movement.

I hated myself for giving in.

Every fly, every gnat, is driven by algorithms, Nate said.

You just want me to believe that you couldn’t help it, I said, pulling away.

The fly has more faith in his gods than we do, he said.

You’ve said that before, I said, putting on my pants. Probably about a condor. Math is not a good enough reason to sleep with someone else.

Do you plan on coming home to pick up the rest of your stuff? Your winter socks or your guitar? Nate asked. He swung his long legs out of the twin bed. I just need to know when to expect you.

I no longer expect anything, I said. Not winter or love or the way soy scrapple might make my stomach feel. This year, I’m letting those things sneak up on me, if that’s all right with you.

You don’t know what you want, he said. That’s the problem.

Nate’s divorce papers arrived the day before Al’s party. Seeing the documents made me realize the finality of the situation. I called him.

I have to move on, he said. His voice was soft and serious. I know I’m the one who did wrong here, but I can’t keep waiting.

There’s someone else? I said. The one who rides dressage?

You can keep the silver, he said. And the dining room set. Anything, really.

I don’t care, I said. That stuff only matters to women who need men.

I’m moving back to California, he said. I’ll give you my new number.

I won’t call, I said.

I knew I wouldn’t, but I knew I’d be tempted to. I was over being Nate’s wife, but I grieved the loss of his attention. I enjoyed that part, feeling wanted, feeling like the thing that got away.

I hung up the phone and called Al. I wanted to distract myself.

Margie called to let me know the peach ice cream turned out beautifully, he said. She also mentioned that she saw Mussolini kicking his dog in the street this morning — a real shame.

Someone should intervene, I said.

I know, Al told me, breathing hard into the phone. But this is going to be a fun party. Did I mention I’m gonna hand out my grandmother’s hoecake recipe as a party favor?

You can’t bring hoecake back, I said. People got rickety down here when they ate all that corn.

Have you been crying? he asked.