I’m
pretty knocked out from a big week at work, and I’ve been fighting off a
tension-induced migraine all weekend. Ergo, I have no scintillating or witty takes
on any topics today. (“But what makes
that different from any other day?” you may justifiably ask, but please don't.) Since I’m drawing a complete blogging blank
here, I figured I’d toss up one of my short stories that was published last
year in Big Pulp’s anthology, “Apeshit!” I hope you enjoy it!
The Gibbon Remedy
They
said these gibbons were special, just for the girls, and to Sweeny this made
sense. Girls and monkeys went natural together. The gibbons were going help
them feel better about the war, the teacher said.
“They are called ‘therapy monkeys’ and they
are very costly to train,” Sweeny explained to her mother, who was having her
day in bed. Sweeny had rehearsed this on her way home. It made her feel
knowledgeable. “Monkeys have diseases in their spit,” her mother said. “Stay
back from the cages.” She signed the permission slip, turned to the wall, and
covered her head with the quilt. “Now be an angel and bring mommy an
egg-and-toast.”
It
was hard for Sweeny to sleep, thinking about the gibbons. The encyclopedias had
almost all been used for fire, but they still had F-G. She read that gibbons
are frugivorous, diurnal and arboreal. She repeated these words in a whisper:
frugivorous, diurnal and arboreal. A mystery. The libraries were long-gone and
now Sweeny had to find mysteries wherever they presented themselves: A glass tube of vanilla lip gloss skittering down an alley, two long wrinkled hands cupping a
lighter, a blue foam roller stuck in a raspberry bush. But the monkeys would
have real mysteries; eye mysteries. Gibbons, she read, went together each
morning to the edge of the woods and sang to let everyone know which part of it
was theirs.
Sweeny
put the book down and pulled the rags out of the hole in the floor to see if it
had gotten black-dark outside yet. The
hole was left over from the war, but Sweeny couldn’t remember if had been there
years or only months. It was black-dark, and Sweeny smelled the comforting burn
of pesticide. Through the hole, she sang a high, meek song about their frailty,
about her mother’s days in bed and how little they could ask for nowadays. She
crammed the rags back in and fell asleep with F-G open on her stomach, the
gibbons hugging her ribs.
They
were taken to the monkeys in a dirty mint-green bus with ripped-up seats. Sweeny
sat next to Fionna, who wore boy’s plaid shirts and used to chew gum all of the
time back when you could get it anywhere. Sweeny had always admired Fionna’s
easy-going ways. “What if a gibbon tried to kiss you?” Sweeny asked Fionna. “If
he took you in his big fat arms and pushed you against the cage bars and tried
to kiss you?” Fionna yawned. “I’d scream,” she said.
They
all had to get out of the bus and be counted and put T-shirts on over their
clothes before going into the low hut that held the monkeys. The T-shirts were
green and yellow and read “Go, Go Gibbons! Experience for Youth.” Sweeny was
proud of hers. A full-hipped young woman in glasses and a baseball hat came out
from the hut and waved at them. “Welcome!” she shouted. She said her name was
Patty! She told them not to strike the monkeys, throw things at them, make
noises, or mock them in any way. She told them to keep their hands to
themselves and be respectful of the monkeys because they were shy, just as shy
as people could sometimes be. She told them that these monkeys were specially
trained to be loving towards children, but even they had their limits. She told
them that they were not to wander off on their own and they were to do what
their guides told them at all times. Sweeny listened impatiently to the woman’s
preamble about their cutting-edge monkey therapy program, and finally found
herself heading into the odoriferous hut. She looked around for the gibbons but
at first there was just museum stuff, a boring man talking when you pushed a
button, and a life-sized diorama of monkeys in a rain forest.
But
they kept heading down some straw-covered stairs and Sweeny felt dizzy when she
could actually hear the snorts and grunts of the gibbons. “Your gibbons,” said
Patty, “have been hand-selected for you based on your personality type.” Sweeny
didn’t recall telling anyone about her personality, but she figured maybe they
watched of that sort of thing now because of the war. “We would like you to
interact lovingly with your gibbon. To trust him or her. To explore the joy of
sharing with them.”
Sweeny
was assigned to Apartment 18, “Roland.” They unlatched the door to his pod and
let her walk right in. Two smiling young people in polo shirts, a man and a
woman, stood outside, clutching clipboards. The room was empty, but she could
sense a lurking, musty presence nearby. She sat down in the thin straw on the
floor and ducked her head demurely. Then she began to sing again, her weak,
high song. She felt a brightness upon her; a rustle from above the platform,
two black eyes. Then, a thick rubbery hand, pressing into her tiny bones.
Sweeny was crying from fear now, but the hand stayed. She opened her eyes and
looked at Roland. He pulled his lips back and patted her hand. He released her and
ran to a wooden box in the center of the room, where he pulled out a blue
spinning top and pushed it at her. Sweeny took the top and spun it hard. Roland
shook and made hooting sounds as the top hummed and blurred across the
floorboards. There was a clatter as the top sputtered to a stop on a soft spot
in the wooden floor. Roland clapped and screeched.
Sweeny
crawled over to the top, curled her fingers around the rotted wood, and pried
it loose. A cold green rush of air filled her mouth. She glanced at the
clipboard people, but they were looking down and writing something. She yanked
again, and again, and peered down into a windy vacuum through a hole about the
size of her nine-year-old head. She quickly grabbed some straw and the old wood
and shoved it all back into place, then made the “come here” gesture to Roland,
all while watching the clipboard people closely. Roland lumbered over to her
and hunkered down. Sweeny pointed to the hole and put her finger over her lips
in a “shhh”. Roland hugged himself tightly and sucked on his lips. Sweeney
whispered to him and moved back to the center of the room.
“What
else do you have to play with, Roland?” she asked loudly. The clipboard people
smiled and made a notation. After they had played with a beach ball, an abacus,
and a pop-up book, the clipboard people blew a whistle and Roland began
dragging all of the toys back into the chest. Sweeny winked at him when she
shook his hand goodbye. Afterwards the girls got rice cream and a free book
mark at the gift shop.
That
night, after her mother had fallen asleep to the radio, Sweeny took the rags
out of the hole in the floor and leaned in. This time she sang of Roland the
Guardian, the great monkey protector and God of all Guardians. She sang of his
devotion and his suffering. She sang of his courage and selflessness. She sang
of his cleverness with counting and his gracefulness with beach balls. She
stuck her head far down the windy hole and howled for Roland, guiding him with
her voice. She shone her penlight into the hole and winked it on and off. But
Roland didn’t come, and her mother slept all of the next day, even when Sweeny
got back from school.
Sweeny
went out the stoop and sat in the cold, sour air, watching for a mint-green bus
to take her back to the monkeys. But very few vehicles came down the street
since the war, and Sweeny got hungry. She went inside and made egg sandwiches,
but when she went to wake her mother, her mother didn’t move or open her eyes.
Sweeny covered her back up and went to the living room and sat her on bedroll.
She ate both of the sandwiches and fed the crumbs to a trio of ants.
The
next morning Sweeny stayed home in bed with her mother, waiting for her to open
her eyes. But throughout the day, her mother’s skin grew cooler and her eyes
never opened. Sweeny knew that this was death, that this is what it did to a
body. She took a clean rag from the basin in the bathroom and carefully washed
her mother’s face with it. She brushed out her hair and covered her up to her chest
with the quilt. They didn’t have a phone, so she wouldn’t be able to call
anyone until she went to school. She would have to tell the teacher. Sweeny
made a glass of powdered milk and sat next to the hole in the floor. She wanted
to sing but she couldn’t open her throat even to drink the milk. She only
wanted to sit as still and rigid as she could. She would not move again. No
matter what, she would not sing, just sit. She would take only the number of
breaths needed for bare survival. She would not allow thirst or hunger to sway
her. She would let the mice scramble over her legs and wouldn’t move a muscle
on her own behalf.
Sweeny
woke up in the night, cold and uncovered. Her hair was wet and matted, and her
eyes were crusty. She decided to try to scream. She sat up and opened her
mouth, but she could not make noise. If she could not sing again, Roland would
never come. She put her head into the hole in the floor and managed a weak
whistle. The whistle gave her strength and she found herself able to make a
small grunt, then another, then, finally, a long, resonant bellow. She screamed
and screamed into the hole, until she began to frighten herself and stopped.
In
the morning, she got on the bus for school. She had not taken her sink-bath or
combed her hair or changed out of her clothes. She sat in the back alone and
turned her head away from Fionna when she tried to sit next to her. At lunch,
she told Mrs. Morgan about her mother. Mrs. Morgan took Sweeny to the sick room
and there were phone calls. The other kids got to go to the gym to play for the
afternoon. Someone brought Sweeny a cheese sandwich and a sliced tomato and hot
chocolate. Mrs. Morgan was crying. When the hallways were clear, Sweeny opened
the door to the sickroom and left the school. She left her book bag and ran and
ran and ran, stopping only to vomit up the tomato and chocolate.
When
she unlocked her apartment, her mother’s bed was empty. Sweeny made up the bed
and went back to sit on her bedroll. She imagined Mrs. Morgan opening the door
to the sickroom and gasping. Everyone asking where is Sweeny where is Sweeny oh
where did Sweeny go. Sweeny thought it would be a good song: Oh where oh where
did Sweeny go, well a-hunting with her monkey-oh, heydy-hiedy-hiedy-ho. Where
oh where did Sweeny go, well she went a-swimming with her gibbon-oh. Sweeny
began to sing. She felt gut-punched with a wild joy. She spun and cackled and
did her mad-woman dance, a dance she only did alone in the night when they had
a fire and there was thunder. When she began to cramp, she stopped and laid
down, her ear on top of the rags on top of the hole in the floor. The sun moved
across the ceiling then across the back wall, going sticky and thick then
vanishing altogether. No one came for her, but they would. She would be
adopted, or go to a Home. There would no gibbons because of their diseased
spit. They wouldn’t have a hole in the floor or any mysteries.
In
the night, her heart began to thud so heavily that it hurt her ears. Her heart
tripped like heavy feet on a bad floor. Thunder sounded in her head but it was
not weather-thunder, it was monkey-thunder, blood thunder, it was the song of
the gibbons claiming their stake in the world, massing in hordes to sing their
song of boundaries, of home. She thrust her hand into the hole in the floor and
waited for Roland. When finally his clumsy, dry, familiar hand found hers, she
held on.
--Kristen McHenry
1 comment:
Quality literary fiction is this tome by this master writer. Clearly!
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