Daddy's, page 1
Table of Contents
Epigraph
Title Page
Dedication
MY BROTHER
SCALES
THE FENCE
UNPREPARING
THAT BABY
IT ALL GO BY
FOOD LUCK
WOLF RIVER
THIS ONE
OUT THERE
FINDING THERE
NOTE
PEGGY’S BROTHER
LOVE SONG
TUESDAY
KID
LET
U S
FIFTEEN
SEX ARMAGEDDON
WE WAS
LOOFAH
MARIE NOE - Talks to You about Her Kids
WE
Acknowledgements
Copyright Page
“In Daddy’s, babies mean blood, and nipples are like “lit match heads.” Lindsay Hunter transgresses where others fear to tread.”
—Terese Svoboda, author of Pirate Talk or Mermalade
“Each tiny, diamond story—precise, comic, poised at the edge of surreal—contains one brutal life force tearing itself off the page. You can hold Daddy’s in your hands and feel it breathing.”
—Deb Olin Unferth, author of Vacation
“Lindsay Hunter won’t be caught lie-telling in the name of nice. The miniature stories in Daddy’s are fierce and unapologetic. When the We’s she voices say the axblade was bloody with dirt, what they mean is the neighbor’s swingset creaked and moaned next door and we heard a child’s voice say Never ever. When I’m looking again for my next undoing, I’ll crack open Daddy’s, and get the true news they tell us we’d be better off not hearing.”
—Kyle Minor, author of In the Devil’s Territory
for the city of ocoee, fl, from the years 1986 to 1996 with love to my family and ben
MY BROTHER
My brother tells me monsters set up shop in his closet among his Reeboks and hidden Playboys. Yeah, he says, leaning back and stroking his chin, yeah, you can’t see it but something’s coming for me. Big whoop, I tell him. We drag his record player out and aim the needle at the middle of “Rocket Man.” He makes something up. He says, I got two sisters and they’re both girls. He says, I’m bored to death with all these nightmares. He says, I’m pretty sure Dad’s a pussy.
My brother went to jail a couple times. My sister and I told people, God don’t take revenge. We said, We accuse the world of pretending at the sky. To each other we said, Our brother is in jail. We pressed numbers into phones and hoped for an answer. I got one once and it was, Your brother is a baby giant stupid in a cage. My sister got one and it was, There’s a light around your brother and it’s an ugly shade; pray for something.
My brother called collect and then sat around. He said, You know what I been thinking? I been thinking a lot about Jeopardy! and driveways and sex. He said, I been having sex with the wrong people. He said, Remember how the driveway tilted up and the house looked like a red idiot at the top. He said, I’ll take amnesia for four hundred, Alex.
My brother held the phone up to his ear and pretended it was a horn. My dad watched him on the TV screen. My brother said, Wilma? and my dad got irritated. My brother tried to put on a good show. Dad, he said, I just don’t know what’s wrong with me. Behind him a row of tubas blasted a note and he gestured at them. He said, I got this kind of chorus behind me. He said, They never shut up. He said, I can’t stay on too long I got some soap to drop. He said, I need a drink of something too strong and my dad nodded like a man hanged.
My brother digs a hole and buries most of my dad in it. He says, If we talk nice to it it’ll sprout roses. The record player plays our favorite song. It says, That’s whiskey in your veins and blood on the moon. It says, There’ll never be another night like this. My brother hands me the shovel and says, King me.
SCALES
My brother is a fish, I tell Yesenia.
We’re sitting by her pool. Yesenia is wearing a black bikini and when she stretches I can see her pubic hair. I’m wearing jeans and a sweater. Her weight barely makes a dent in the pool chair; I’m so heavy that if I move slightly I can feel the concrete deck under my ass. We’re tanning under the gray sky, smoking the last of the pot we found in her sister’s sock drawer. Every few minutes I think I hear thunder, or a garbage truck.
Yeah, she says. Wait, a fish? Then, holding her breath, she says, You’re high.
Right now, I hate her. The way she smokes like she’s not really smoking, like she’s just mimicking something she saw in a movie, squinting her eyes and laughing like she would if she was dying of laughter—huc huc huc huc. But I press on.
It’s not like he has gills or anything, I tell her. But he’s been staring a lot, and sometimes when he’s really deep in thought his mouth opens and closes, like he’s gasping for air, and his feet are really flat and wide, like flippers.
You mind if I cash this? she asks, holding up the joint, and then cashes it. You love your brother, she says.
I want to tell her something that would shock her—something like, I had a dream I was licking your dad’s hairy chest, or, The lightning in your eyes looks like cinnamon floss, or, You’re ugly. Something to make her listen. Something to make her see me differently. But I just say, Yeah, I love him.
Let’s go inside, she says. I’m freezing. My nipples are like little rocks—huc, huc, huc. Plus, she says, winding a towel around her dry hair, we can weigh ourselves on my mom’s new scale. It’s digital.
My heart sinks. I’d rather not, I tell her. I had a breakfast burrito and I don’t think it’s digested yet.
Whatever, she says, walking away, her bottoms creeping into her asscrack. Then she wheels on me. You think I care? she hisses. Her hip is cocked; her towel is so tight it makes her eyes turn up. She doesn’t elaborate.
No, I tell her. I don’t think that at all.
I follow her in. Thunder. Definitely thunder.
In her mother’s bathroom, Yesenia stands naked on the scale, her bikini crumpled in the sink. I make a point of looking anywhere but at the scale. I concentrate on a picture of Yesenia’s mom and stepdad standing in a combed white desert, smiling and sunburned.
I hear her dismount the scale, then mount it again. Godfuckingdammit, she whispers. I stare so hard at the picture that their heads come alive, floating out from the frame, circling each other. They get so close I notice what looks like a peppercorn in Yesenia’s stepdad’s teeth.
Get on the scale, Yesenia says. She’s standing in front of me, arms crossed over her belly. I can’t get her into focus—I can still see her parents’ heads floating around, zooming in and moving away, until they finally settle onto her breasts. And then I realize I’m staring at her breasts.
Get on the fucking scale, she says. Her face is red and wet, tears streaming freely.
Yeah, okay, I tell her. I get on the scale and she crouches to read the numbers. Her spine sticks out and in the bright light of the bathroom little shadows collect under the bones.
Ha, she says, standing. I still weigh more than a hundred pounds less than you. She takes her bikini top out of the sink and wipes her face with it. Let’s go find something to eat.
In the kitchen she piles a tub of ice cream, spray cheese, Doritos, a six-pack of Diet Coke, and pretzels onto a tray. We put it between us on the couch and she sits, cross-legged and naked, and watches me eat. Is that good? she asks. That looks really good.
I eat slowly. Every once in a while applause soars from the television and I mentally bow. I don’t even know why the television is on—she watches me, and I watch the food.
I eat until I can’t eat anymore. I’m done, I tell her.
Okay, she says. Good. She puts the tray on the floor and scoots closer. I give her my hand and she sucks my fingers clean. The thunder is so loud it drowns out the television, but I watch it anyway—a talk show, a woman openly sobbing, a child stunned by the lights, the host stabbing the microphone into the audience. Who has something to say? Say something, say something. Yesenia’s mouth is warm, and even though I can’t say I like it, it’s soothing, and it feels good.
When she’s done she flings my hand into my lap. I try not to be obvious about wiping it on my jeans.
This is a dumb show, she says.
I know, I tell her.
She leans in and kisses me, licking my lips, probing my mouth for bits of food, sucking my tongue. I keep my eyes open, watching the fading dots of her parents’ heads dancing around the room.
She finishes, leaning back into the arm of the sofa, rubbing her arms. I’m still cold, she says.
So get dressed, I tell her.
You’re not a dyke, are you? she asks.
I shake my head. No.
She nods to herself. Good, she says. You should go—my stepdad’s going to be home soon.
At the door she says, See you tomorrow.
I leave my bike at her house and walk home. The thunder is so loud it sounds like hunks of sky are crashing all around me. I make it to my street before it starts raining thick drops that sting my skin. I’m drenched by the time I can see my brother at the window, staring out at this sea of rain, his mouth closing, his mouth opening, his mouth closing. I lie on my back in the yard and let the rain fill my mouth. I wonder how long I can stay like this before he thinks I’m drowning. Probably forever.
THE FENCE
My husband, Tim, came home on his lunch hour and we had sex on the floor next to the oven. I could see our reflection in the black glass door and when Tim turned his face toward it I sa
“Hey, hey, hey,” Tim cooed, still on his knees. He scooted over to Marky and scratched his ears and under his collar. “Want me to rub your belly? Let me rub that belly, there we go.” Marky lay on his back, his paws jerking with pleasure.
Tim took his sandwich to go and called me from the car. I could hear him chewing. He said, “I’m still hard. I liked that. Love you.” When we hung up I gave Marky a bacon treat.
After I cleaned myself up I went to the fence and then I went again just before Tim came home—he thought I was out there to greet him, and I let him believe it.
I woke up to Tim’s hand on my arm, trying to roll me over. “Hey,” he whispered, “come here.” When I turned to him I could see over his shoulder that it was 5:13 in the morning. His breath was hot in my face and he didn’t bother pulling my underwear all the way down—just enough so that he could maneuver. He guided me onto my back and then he lay on his side and I folded my legs over his, my underwear stretching from knee to knee. He held me by the hip and pushed himself in. He was done quickly, and he fell asleep with his head on my shoulder. Marky never stirred from his place at the foot of the bed, though he did begin to dream, his legs jerking and his mouth quivering, a low whine coming through his nostrils.
When Tim left for work, his hair still wet from our shower, his fingers playing with my zipper, I turned Animal Planet on for Marky, removed his collar, and went to the fence. It runs the entire length and width of our property, but I have my favorite corner, right where the gravel driveway stops and the grass starts, where I can see the road and if I stretch I can touch our mailbox. The fence is invisible, but it’s there. I wind the vinyl part of Marky’s collar around my hand, holding the plastic receiver in my palm, and then I press the cold metal stimulator against my underwear, step forward, and the jolt is delivered. Like a million ants biting. Like teeth. Like the G-spot exists. Like a tiny knife, a precise pinch. Like fireworks. I can’t help it—I cry out; my underwear is flooded with perfect warmth. I lie back in the grass and see stars.
I try and think of my husband when I go to the fence, but he becomes a distraction, and sometimes when I conjure him up I can’t go through with it, and my trip is ruined.
Tim barely made it through the door. He pushed me up against the doorjamb, tugging at my zipper. His was already open; I could see his bouncing penis through the glass panes at the door as he walked from the garage.
My pants fell around my ankles. We were in an awkward position—my legs couldn’t open enough—so he spun me around and bent me over the table that he threw his keys on each night when he came home from work. Its top was intricately tiled in the shape of a large green turtle, its legs splayed and its eyes weirdly on top of its head. My front tooth caught some of the grout during one of Tim’s thrusts, and when I cried out he said, “Yeah. There we go. Like it, don’t you.” Still, I came, shuddering until my knees buckled, nearly rocking the table onto its side, and then Tim came, heaving at my back in long dry sobs. Marky lazily watched us from his place on the couch, his eyes slowly shutting and then bursting open at every new sound.
“God, I’m starving,” Tim said, his mouth hot and wet at my neck. “Do we have any M&M’s? Peanut?”
He left soon after that, a red Dixie cup full of M&M’s in one hand while the other swatted at his crotch. “Sore. In a good way. You too, I hope,” and his eyes were so full of genuine interest that I pushed him out the door, bowing my legs in answer. He mimed stepping over the invisible fence, looking back to see if I was laughing, and I wondered if my trips out there were the cause of the sudden urgency of our sex life, if he could sense something was different, if the fence worked on him even without him knowing about it.
I watched his car back down the driveway, then I waited for the cloud of dust it kicked up to settle, and then Animal Planet, collar, jolt, wet explosion and sleep.
The phone was ringing when I came back inside. I put Marky’s collar on and let him out, and then I answered it.
“I just saw you lying in a heap in the grass. I told Fred to stop but he said he could see you breathing even though we were going thirty-five miles an hour and that you were probably just sunning yourself. I told him if we see on the news that our neighbor was found dead in her yard and we didn’t stop I’d never forgive him for as long as I live. So you’re fine, you’re alive?”
“I was just playing with Marky. Playing dead.” Cradling the phone at my shoulder, I peeled off my pants and underwear. I could see the bruise under my pubic hair—a sunburst of purple and blue. It was tender and sent a zing of pain through my groin when I touched it.
“I didn’t even see Marky. Well. You want me to come over? You want to have tea?”
“Some other time,” I told her. The brightness of the bruise wasn’t helping—I’d been trying to work up the courage to hold the collar to my bare skin.
“Kiss that husband of yours for me. Bye bye.”
Outside, Marky was running from edge to edge, his body bucking. Twice, he got too close and his body froze and he screamed like his heart was broken, like he was being pulled apart.
Over spaghetti, Tim pulled me onto his lap and rubbed himself against me and finished without even unzipping. He held me there, rocking me and kissing my chest and neck tenderly. I unzipped him and wiped him down with a napkin, wetting a corner with my tongue.
We watched television, his body cupping mine, his fingers in and out of my underwear, idly exploring. Marky was on the other couch, scratching his neck with his back paw.
“Fred called me today,” Tim said. “He said the sounds Marky makes when he runs into that fence are god-awful. He could hear him this afternoon all the way down by their place.”
“He’s just getting used to it,” I said.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Look at him.” Marky was rubbing his neck on the arm of the couch. He’d scratched and rubbed the collar until it was up by his ears. “I think we should get rid of it. Marky doesn’t need it anymore. He knows where he lives.”
I reached into my pants and took Tim’s hand and brought it up to my mouth, taking in the two fingers that had been inside me.
“Oh my God,” Tim said, and grew hard. I guided him in from behind and in the middle of it all my arm landed on the remote and the TV turned off and then flickered on and Marky watched and I wondered if he was waiting to see if it would be Animal Planet.
