92 MARCH 2020
“Ick.”
“I don’t know. What a way to
go. Or to not go. To stay forever.”
For the second time, the
mothers look to see if the
children can hear what’s being
said. No curses, but a conver-
sation that skirts precariously
close to the most taboo topic:
mother death.
“Had you been drink-
ing?” L tries to lighten things
up again.
“Not even a sip, hon.”
“You sat down?”
“I lay down. And to be
honest,” J says, “it was hot. It
was sexual. Like the way giv-
ing birth is sexual. An animal.”
“Birth is sexual? I think I
missed something.”
“Oh Christ.”
Now the conservative
moms get to look pained.
“You’re funny, J.”
“I don’t mean to be.”
“Then you shouldn’t tell
people that about the trees. I
mean, you can tell us, but—”
“But no one wants to hear
about a middle-aged mom
having sex with a tree?”
“Wait. You had sex with
a tree?”
“Maybe sex is the wrong
word. Or else maybe the tree
just wasn’t that into me.”
“Huh?”
“I think I mean decom-
posing.”
“Rotting: the new sexy.”
J smiles. “It’s definitely
more intense than screwing.
Rotting is wild.”
“Is wild the point?”
“I think so?”
“Not me. I like baking cup-
cakes and watching Netflix.”
“Me too.”
“My cousin has a cabin in
the mountains. You should
rent it from her, J.”
“I like hot baths.”
“So do I,” J says. “I love hot
baths.”
“The woman disintegrated?”
“I don’t know.”
“I know you don’t know,
but what do you think hap-
pened?”
“Maybe she needed a hid-
ing place. Maybe she did just
need to poop. Or else the
woods beckoned her. Maybe
the woods needed her. She
was watching the game and a
leaf caught her eye and waved.
Then suddenly a thousand new
paths she’d never considered
before seemed possible.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, but imagine
this woman at Career Day.” J’son the PTA. She’s a real leader,
booking Career Day presenters
for the high school, which is
kind of funny since J doesn’t
exactly have a career. “This
woman could tell the kids
something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know, something
like ‘Listen, I do not give a
fuck about soccer, kids. Hon-
est,’ she’d say. ‘Us versus Them
is bullshit. You’re more than
little warriors.’ Maybe she’d
even say, ‘Listen, I went into
the woods. I lay down on
the forest floor and became
nutrients. And it was amaz-
ing, kids.’ Then she could
give them a brochure: ‘HowI became part of the forest.’
Then at least they’d know
their options for real.” J pauses,
takes a measure of the room.
The mothers say nothing for
a moment.
“Are you the woman, J?”
J shakes her head no.
“I’m sorry?” A is uptight.
Insecure. Righteous. She’s a
fitness instructor. Also, she’s a
Career Day presenter. Also, she’s
a soccer coach. “Are you mak-
ing a joke of this? This woman
might have died. She might
have been somebody’s mother.”
We pause our chatter again.
We have already lost somemothers here, and it is bad.
The only thing worse than
that is when we lose one of
the children.
“You think she harmed
herself?”
“There’d be a body if she
had.”
“Unless it disintegrated.”
“It couldn’t do it that fast.”
“ ‘It’?” A is really upset.
“Please. Please,” J says. “I’m
telling you something won-
derful. Don’t make it dreary.
Please. Come on.”
“It sounds like you’re saying
death is great. And I don’t think
it is. It’s bleak and cold and it
hurts us.”
“It hurts the living.”“Yeah.”
“Plus it sucks.”
“Well, I just want to know
if the woman is safe.” A’s got
her hands on her hips. That
sort of righteousness.
“ ‘Safe’? What the fuck is
that?”
“I want to know she’s alive.”
“Alive is safe?”
“I just want her to stay a
mom,” A says.
“We all want that. I mean
if she even was—is—a mom.”
“You’re not thinking of
hurting yourself, are you, J?”
“I’m telling you something
strange and beautiful is in the
woods. God is in the forest. No.
Wait. God is the forest. Or not
God. Silence. Or—”
“What the fuck, hon?”
“I don’t know. Forget it.
Forget I said anything. Please.
I’ll be embarrassed tomorrow.”
“No. I get it, J. No offense,
L, nice party, but how many of
these have you already been to
this year?”
J remains neutral, unsum-
marized. “I didn’t come back
from the forest because my
kids were waiting. I came back
because look: cabinets, doors,
floors. You don’t have to walk
into the woods to know the
forest. IKEA, motherfuckers.”
“But this wood’s dead.”
“Yeah. And you’re not
scared of it. You don’t hate it
for dying. We should be more
like the wood.”
“More dead?”
“Less separate with life and
death. I feel like I’m keeping a
dirty little secret all the time,
trying to hide something. Then,
someone gets sick and it’s like,
oh shit, it’s her fault she’s going
to die. She did something
wrong. Not enough moistur-
izer or exercise or something.”
The mothers look stricken.
“Are you sick, J?”
“No. I don’t know.”She was watching the game
and a leaf caught her eye
and waved. Then suddenly
a thousand new paths
she’ d never considered before
seemed possible.