Red Clocks. Leni Zumas
time this week.
They say grass-fed has the best fats.
Which might be entirely common. Maybe everyone pictures it, maybe not as often as twice a week but—
A little animal is struggling across the road. Dark, about a foot long.
Possum? Porcupine? Trying to cross.
Maybe it’s even healthy to picture it.
Closer: burnt black, scorched to rubber.
Shivering.
Already dead, still trying.
What burned it? Or who?
“You’re making us crash!”—from the backseat.
“We’re not crashing,” says the wife. Her foot is capable and steadfast. They will never crash with her foot on the brake.
Who burned this animal?
Convulsing, trembling, already so dead. Fur singed off. Skin black rubber.
Who burned you?
Closer: it’s a black plastic bag.
But she can’t unsee the shivering thing, burnt and dead and trying.
At the house: unbuckle, untangle, lift, carry, set down.
Unpack, put away.
Peel string cheese.
Distribute string cheese.
Place Bex and John in front of approved cartoon.
Upstairs, the wife closes the sewing-room door. Sits cross-legged on the bed. Fixes her stare on the scuffed white wall.
They are yipping and pipping, her two. They are rolling and polling and slapping and papping, rompling with little fists and heels on the bald carpet.
They are hers, but she can’t get inside them.
They can’t get back inside her.
They are hurling their fists—Bex fistier, but John brave.
Why did they name him John? Not a family name and almost as dull as the wife’s own. Bex had said, “I’m going to call the baby Yarnjee.”
Is John brave, or foolish?—he squirms willingly while his sister punches. The wife doesn’t say No hitting because she doesn’t want them to stop, she wants them to get tired.
She remembers why John: because everyone can spell and say it. John because his father hates correcting butchered English pronunciations of his own name. The errors of clerks. John is sometimes Jean-voyage; and Ro calls him Pliny the Younger.
In the past hour, the kids have
Rolled and polled.
Eaten leftover popcorn stirred into lemon yogurt.
Asked the wife if they could watch more TV.
Been told no.
Slooped and chooped.
Tipped over the standing lamp.
Broken an eyelash.
Asked the wife why her anus is out in space when it should be in her butt.
Slapped and papped.
Asked the wife what’s for dinner.
Been told spaghetti.
Asked the wife what does she think is the best kind of sauce for butt pasta.
The grass-fed beef grows blood in a plastic bag. Does contact with the plastic cancel out its grass-fedness? She shouldn’t waste expensive meat in spaghetti sauce. Marinate it tonight? There’s a jar of store sauce in the—
“Take your finger out of his nose.”
“But he likes it,” says Bex.
And broccoli. Those par-baked dinner rolls are delicious, but she isn’t going to serve bread with pasta.
Sea-salt-almond chocolate bar stowed in the kitchen drawer, under the maps, please still be there, please still be there.
“Do you like having your sister’s finger stuck up your nose?”
John smiles, ducks, and nods.
“When the fuck is dinner?”
“What?”
Bex knows her crime; she eyes the wife with a cunning frown. “I mean when the gosh.”
“You said something else. Do you even know what it means?”
“It’s bad,” says Bex.
“Does Mattie ever say that word?”
“Um …”
Which way will her girl’s lie go: protect or incriminate?
“I think maybe yes,” says Bex dolefully.
Bex loves Mattie, who is the good babysitter, much preferred over Mrs. Costello, the mean. The girl when she lies looks a lot like her father. The hard-sunk eyes the wife once found beguiling are not eyes she would wish upon her daughter. Bex’s will have purplish circles before long.
But who cares what the girl looks like, if she is happy?
The world will care.
“To answer your question, dinner is whenever I want it to be.”
“When will you want it to be?”
“Don’t know,” says the wife. “Maybe we just won’t have dinner tonight.”
Sea-salt-almond. Chocolate. Bar.
Bex frowns again, not cunningly.
The wife kneels on the rug and pulls their bodies against her body, squeezes, nuzzles. “Oh, sprites, don’t worry, of course we’ll have dinner. I was joking.”
“Sometimes you do such bad jokes.”
“It’s true. I’m sorry. I predict that dinner will happen at six fifteen p.m., Pacific standard time. I predict that it will consist of spaghetti with tomato sauce and broccoli. So what species of sprite are you today?”
John says, “Water.”
Bex says, “Wood.”
Today’s date is marked on the kitchen calendar with a small black A. Which stands for “ask.”
Ask him again.
From the bay window, whose frame flakes with old paint possibly brimming with lead—she keeps forgetting to arrange to have the kids tested—the wife watches her husband trudge up the drive on short legs in jeans that are too tight, too young for him. He has a horror of dad pants and insists on dressing as he did at nineteen. His messenger bag bangs against one skinny thigh.
“He’s home,” she calls.
The kids race to greet him. This is a moment she used to love to picture, man home from work and children welcoming him, a perfect moment because it has no past or future—does not care where the man came from or what will happen after he is greeted, cares only for the joyful collision, the Daddy you’re here.
“Fee fi fo fon, je sens le sang of two white middle-class Québécois-American children!” Her sprites scramble all over him. “A’right, a’right, settle down, eh,” but he is contented, with John flung over his shoulder and Bex pulling open the satchel to check for vending-machine snacks. She’s got his salt tooth. Did she get everything from him? What is in her of the wife?
The nose. She escaped Didier’s nose.
“Hi, meuf,” he says, squatting to set John on the floor.
“How was the day?”
“Usual