Pasha Malla - The Withdrawal Method

Sue-Jane shovelled a forkful of okra into her face. "Eat, eat."

Karel watched, marvelling at the silent tenacity, the icy resolve. He was used to meals with his parents hollering at each other across the table, occasionally roping him into diatribes on the decay of social values or the price of auto insurance. This absence of conversation now seemed wrong. He opened his mouth to speak, and as he did Sue-Jane looked up, meeting his eyes. She gestured at his plate with her fork. Karel ate.

WHEN KAREL GOT back to the trailer that night, his cousin Wayne was out, presumably off playing pool at some nearby tavern — how he spent most of his free time. Wayne was only two years younger than Karel but looked about eighteen, with a Frida Kahlo moustache and the spindly arms and legs of a prototypical heavy-metal enthusiast. The day Karel moved in, he brought his cousin a case of beer as a thank-you gift. "Shit, dude — we're family," Wayne said, smacking Karel on the back hard enough to leave a mark. "I'll take the brews, but if you can't count on your family when the chips are down, what the fuck? Am I right?"

The trailer park sat on a hill that overlooked the town, twenty identical little hovels made of plastic and glass, wheels lifted off the ground by concrete blocks. The inside comprised one long, narrow room: the kitchen by the front door, a small living space that housed the Tv; Wayne's waterbed was sectioned off by a curtain near the far wall. Karel slept on the couch.

Alone, the Indian meal a solid brick in his gut, Karel got out his laptop and spent a few hours on the Internet, looking up bonobos and relentlessly checking his email. Within the reams of spam promising him larger genitalia and smaller mortgage rates were two emails: one from the newspaper back home that Karel deleted without reading and another from his mother. This he opened with some trepidation.

Hi, Honey.

Just checking to see that things are working out. People here have been asking after you, if you're doing okay. Also, the lawyer dropped by with the paperwork for the countersuit. We all think you should really consider it. Let me know and I'll send everything to you at Wayne's.

Love, Mom

Karel read the message again and considered a response. With a sigh, he tabbed over to the Trash icon and clicked. Then he made his way to the couch, lay down, and, after masturbating efficiently into a sock, fell asleep.

That night Karel dreamt he was at the end of a chain of monkeys, meticulously picking burrs and insects from the chimp in front of him. His own back was thick with fur and alive with crackling, crawling things; but while he slaved away, fingers sifting, hunting, flicking, no one offered to take their turn and groom him.

THE NEXT DAY, Sue-Jane and Karel hardly had a chance to talk: the craziness began at nine in the morning with the first patient appearing pale and wide-eyed at the Pet Therapy door and ended when the last of the children were collected by nurses at a quarter to five. Sue-Jane was occupied pretty much all day, regulating the petting of dogs or the feeding of goats — younger children had this tendency to drink from their bottles — or monitoring the handling of two chinchillas on loan from one of the hospital's more prominent donors.

Meanwhile, Karel kept a supervisory eye on Ewing.

Karel found it difficult to imagine the lustful urges that had possessed the chimp that one unfortunate afternoon. Ewing did his routine for any kids who ventured outside — hooting, throwing things, jumping up and down — all in a carefree, charming way that from his seat on a nearby stump warmed Karel to watch.

At one point, he got up to join in. Ewing was in the midst of turning somersaults around the pen, but when Karel came near he stood up and shuffled nervously over to the playroom door.

"Whoa," Karel said, trying to sound jokey. "Guess I'm not wanted here."

He went back to his spot on the stump, smiling stupidly. Minutes later, Ewing returned to entertaining the kids, who squealed and clapped with delight.

When Sue-Jane made an appearance outside at the end of the day, Ewing clambered over, leapt up into her arms, and clung there like a giant, sinewy spider. The kids circled around cheering and Sue-Jane laughed. When the bonobo's penis began to engorge, Sue-Jane dumped him on the ground, scolding him harshly. Ewing slumped away, while Karel observed quietly from his spot in the corner of the pen.

THURSDAY OF KAREL'S second week Sue-Jane announced at a few minutes to five that they would be dining together again. After stuffing themselves in relative silence they tottered out into the parking lot, located their respective automobiles, and went their separate ways.

Driving home, Karel wondered if these suppers together weren't some sort of incentive set up by the hospital, part of Sue-Jane's job description. Or maybe they were friends? Karel felt himself figuring her out slowly, like a game of Clue, putting her together with little mental check marks, tick, tick, tick, hoping at some point it would all become clear — who, where, with what murderous implement: Sue-Jane.

THE FOLLOWING Wednesday produced another invite. As SueJane's customary assault on her dinner began, Karel brought up one particularly sad-looking girl who had spent the entire afternoon trying to teach Jiva the macaw to say, "I love you." The girl had stood there, index finger reaching through the bars of the cage, coaxing, repeating in a parrot voice: "I love you! I love you! I love you!"

"Man, wasn't she sad?" Karel said. "I think she was in for a marrow transplant."

"You want to talk sad?" Sue-Jane wiped some chutney from her face with her sleeve. "In my religion we are in a period of suffering of twenty-one thousand years."

"I didn't know you were religious."

"Well, I'm doing my best."

"And how much longer do we have to go?"

"About eighteen thousand years."

"Only eighteen thousand? And after that?"

"Twenty-one thousand years of even worse suffering. All hope will be wiped from the earth."

"Oh, fun."

Sue-Jane had somehow fit a piece of potato the size of a child's fist into her mouth. She sat with her cheeks ballooned out like a squirrel's, looking unsure what she might do next.

"So, what then," asked Karel, watching her, "after there's no more hope?"

Sue-Jane held up a finger and looked into her lap. Her jaw churned; she swallowed, gasping. "Rain for days and days, then everything is born again."

"And that'll happen when?"

"Forty thousand years. More or less."

"Oh, okay. I'll bake a cake." Sue-Jane shifted then, and Karel felt something — her knee or hand — brush his thigh. He looked at her and noticed, for the first time, the light dusting of fuzz that ringed her face. Leaning in, he lowered his voice to what he thought was an appropriately solemn tone. "So, if your entire life is just suffering, what's the point?"

"You do your best while you're here. You make your life worth living."

Karel felt it again, something warm against his leg. This time it stayed there. "By doing what? Like being good to others?"

"That's the idea."

"And what about yourself?"

Sue-Jane moved away. Whatever had been touching Karel was gone. She gestured at his plate with her fork. "Try the dhal, Karel. It's delicious."

THE FOLLOWING NIGHT, Sue-Jane said nothing to Karel, just nodded and was gone out the door, not even waiting to walk together out to the parking lot. Karel drove home through the city and out to the suburbs, pulled into the trailer park, and locked up the Neon with a robotic chirp. He stood for a moment in the dusk on the steps of Wayne's trailer, looking out over the glow of the city, all those homes producing all that light.

Inside, Karel heated up some dried pasta and store-bought sauce and ate with his computer on his lap, checking his email, erasing messages, writing to no one, scouring the Internet for bonobos, for porn, for whatever.