slides down the cream-colored couch
and onto the ivory Tibetan-wool rug.
She shakes the girl. You soiled yourself.
She brings fresh clothes, sponges the
girl. Scrubs rug and couch. The stench
is unbearable.
I’m so sorry, the girl says.
It’s ruined, the mother says.
The girl offers to save up to buy a
new couch.
The mother sighs.
Mom, the girl says. Will you take
me to the E.R.? Please?
Outside, the wind blows; snow slides
off the hedges. The moon’s three-fourths
full. In the forest, shots ring out.
Tomorrow, the mother says, I’ll speak
with your father.
- That night, the girl flies over the
forest. She sees the bear in the cave on
the ledge, the foxes in their dens, Mihos
hunting mice in snow; she sees the boul-
der she often climbed as a child; in the
valley, the school; farther off, the neigh-
boring town, the train tracks that go
elsewhere.
In bed, the mother ponders: What
if the girl died? Would her husband
love her as he did before the children?
“High? This place is off the goddam charts.”She sees the two of them lying on a
beach ... she’s lost weight ... she al-
ways does when they go somewhere
tropical ... her allergies improve ... her
husband touches her, desires her. She
knew, when they met, she recalls. Knew
he was different, though not how or
why. Knew she’d protect him. That she’d
love him until the day she dies.T
he father wants to relax with a beer
and saltines. But the living room
smells bad.
Hey! he greets the girl. Are you still
on the couch? Something smells funny!
I wonder what it is?
The girl says it’s probably her.
The mother pulls the father into the
kitchen and updates him.
The father visualizes thousands of
dollars flying out of his bank account.
Do you think we should take her to
the E.R.? he asks.
The mother dissents. Gretyl’s tem-
perature is only a hundred and two.
The father hesitates. The daughter
looks pale. But the E.R. costs money.
He’s always been a good father, he
thinks. He’s only ever loved the child.
He worked himself raw to buy her ex-
pensive clothes, food, art, music les-sons. If he borrowed moments for him-
self sometimes, just a couple of times
a week, when she was small, it cost her
nothing; the things he allowed him-
self were always done with love. He
placed a pillow gently over her face so
that she wouldn’t see or remember. But
she’s grown morose. Won’t sail with
him anymore, or play checkers. Her
sisters were worse: mean, sarcastic, and
careless of the pain they caused. He’s
surrounded by women; he receives no
thanks, only criticism. Were the girl
gone, his mind volunteers, he could
leave the mother. Everyone understands
that a child’s death destroys a marriage.
He could remarry. Someone sweet,
young. He’d be free.
He considers Gretyl, on the couch,
unable to move.
Recently, she’s grown figlike breasts
and a faint mustache. But he still loves
her.
He sighs.
Grethilda hesitates. She has a solu-
tion, she says. She’ll book the girl with
an excellent doctor!
Oh. Hans brightens. Dr. Blood!- Hansa and Piece of Shit each call
their parents and beg them to take
Gretyl to the E.R. They contend that
she likely has appendicitis; if the par-
ents don’t drive her to the E.R. now,
she’ll die. The mother responds that
she, the mother, already took the girl
to one doctor, and tomorrow they’ll
see another.
At 9 p.m., the cat yowls. It sounds
like an infant being sliced up. The
mother tells the father to put it down.
The father goes outside with a rifle and
an open can of tuna fish. The cat’s
M.I.A. He puts the can down, hides
around the corner of the house, and
waits. Soon the cat appears; it stops
thirty feet from the can. The father
calls, in falsetto, Here kitty kitty kitty.
He shoots. The cat turns tail, but there’s
an ungodly scream. The father gets it,
he’s sure, before it runs off.
T
he morning’s crisp, golden. A di-
amond crust covers the sagebrush
fields. Ice daggers glint from the eaves
of the roof. Ravens atop the telephone
lines watch as both parents haul Gre-
tyl to the car.