So there’s nothing quite like the genius of Stanley Kubrick to underscore the absurdity of our present Wag-the-Dog war on Iran. In Dr. Strangelove: Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964), General Jack Ripper is a lunatic starting WWIII over an issue of foreigners invading our country to steal our “precious bodily fluids.” His monologues sound like an RFK Jr. press release. The IMDB website description is a good beginning to this comparison: “A mentally unstable American general orders a hydrogen bomb attack on the Soviet Union, triggering a path to global nuclear holocaust that a war room full of politicians and generals frantically tries to stop.” We only have to make minor edits to sum up our current international crisis: “A mentally unstable American President orders a missile attack on the Islamic nation of Iran, triggering a path to global holocaust that politicians at a war room in Mar-a-Lago, while noshing on boiled shrimp and cocktails, do everything to encourage.” Their exuberant glee in the destruction of another country and the killing of many “foreigners” is particularly disgusting. Reports are coming out that military officials are telling our troops that Trump has been anointed by Jesus to start Armageddon. (“One combat unit commander reportedly said that the war is ‘part of God’s divine plan’ and that ‘President Trump has been anointed by Jesus to light the signal fire in Iran to cause Armageddon and mark his return to Earth'” (https://www.democracynow.org/2026/3/4/headlines). Our Secretary of War now brags about having “no mercy.” Lord help us.
So I came to appreciate the genius of singer/songwriter Tom Waits much later than I should have, even if I did know the Eagles version of his song “Ol’ 55” in early college years. (Waits thought their version was “antiseptic” and wasn’t a fan. I agree. His is so much better.) In fact I thought of him as more of an actor than a singer, having seen him in Jim Jarmusch’s Down by Law (1986) and as Renfield in Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992) back in the day. Now I have a greater appreciation for his amazing body of work, both as musician and singer/songwriter, that I consider his acting to be a minor side-gig.
But here it is 40 years after Down by Law and Waits shines in another Jim Jarmusch film, Father Mother Sister Brother (2025). The film is a triptych of sorts, three stories concerned with family, mainly the prickly dynamics between adult children and their aging parents. Waits plays the Father, an old, wiry-haired bespeckled man living in “the boonies,” as his son (Adam Driver) and daughter (Mayim Bialik) put it. He’s estranged from them but they (reluctantly and rather stiffly) come to visit. All is not what it seems.
There’s a wry humor to their interactions. His messy place in the sticks is actually a lovely home with a gorgeous view. And Waits or Father is not exactly being honest in his dealings with said offspring. Adam Driver does a great job as a somewhat staid and uptight grown-up son, who drives a Range Rover and appears to live a comfortable life in some city (I guessed New York). Driver is a terrific actor and as funny as some of the moments are, he never breaks character and plays it straight, which only makes it funnier.
As previously mentioned, the film consists of three separate stories. It takes place in three different locations (Upstate New York, Dublin, Paris), with no connection between the characters, but thematic links, motifs, and details connect them: Each features some skateboarders, a Rolex watch, color-coordinated family apparel, and the phrase “Bob’s your Uncle.” The first story is mainly comic, the second sad, and the third sweet. Although the film did get some good reviews, it didn’t even come to my local theater. Father Mother Sister Brother deserves much better, deserves a big audience. Jim Jarmusch is one of our greatest contemporary filmmakers. He made Johnny Depp’s best film, for Chrissakes—the great revisionist Western Dead Man (1995). While flimsy thrillers like The Housemaid (2025) get much attention a diamond like this gets lost in the shuffle. The world isn’t fair. But we all know that.
So the lives of professors are fodder for contemporary fiction and film, as evidenced by these two respective gems: the recent Julia Roberts’ film After the Hunt (2025) and Morris Collins’ just-published novel The Tavern at the End of History. Having been a professor for some 35 years I know from my own anecdotal knowledge what many professors’ lives are like—mostly unglamorous and busy, often scrabbling for attention in their respective fields, often juggling students and classes and meetings and administrative work. In After the Hunt overall Julia Roberts makes a convincing professor/administrator. She’s tense and harried throughout the story, check. She doesn’t talk shop with her husband much, check. She mostly seems to keep her students at arms’ length, check.
But there are some stumbles in her depiction: During one party scene both students and faculty are discussing the upcoming chances of two professors going up for tenure. In my experience few students would even know that process was unfolding. Most professors are smart enough not to comment upon such a drama-laden event. (Unless, of course, they aren’t particularly bright or have little Emotional Intelligence, which certainly happens often enough in the professor world.) The students and faculty alike are also boozing at this party, which used to be standard practice for academic events . . . back in the day. Now we all have to be much more careful. And the party scene sets up the most dramatic event in the film—which is why, in real life, we’ve come to avoid parties and drinking in general. They’re not unheard of, but more staid and careful than they were in the past.
One thing I think both novel and film get right: Students can sometimes try to bring down to earth the faculty whom they admire (or whom they simply study with), as an act of maturation, as a way to break free of their mentor’s influence, similar to the way teenagers often rebel to claim their own identities. In Morris Collins’ novel The Tavern at the End of History one of the main characters, Jacob, is essentially fired by his university for bad behavior with a troubled student. It’s not a sexual dalliance. It’s not a cheating scandal or accusations of plagiarism. What exactly leads to his firing? At one point Jacob says, frustrated by said student, “Fuck off, Joshua.” The fact that Joshua attempts suicide soon after this altercation doesn’t help Jacob’s case.
Would that act be enough to cause a professor to be fired? Maybe. The implication here is Jacob is not a tenured professor, but an adjunct or Visiting Professor, which is generally on an annual-contract basis. After Joshua’s failed suicide attempt he launches a complaint against Jacob. Universities, for good reason, don’t want to litigate professor/student squabbles.
On the other hand the “bad behavior” in After the Hunt is more more serious and damaging: There are accusations of sexual assault. The professor vigorously denies these, but subsequent details in the film cloud the picture. Audience assumptions are both scrambled and reinforced. By the film’s end the academic world seems to have been turned upside down, to some extent, with surprising winners and losers. In both stories the professors seem to be lost, in different ways, and emblematic of the fraught relationships common in contemporary universities.
So years ago a good friend of mine had seen the new Coen Brothers’ film A Serious Man before I had and I asked his opinion. He liked it but added, “It’s very Jewish.” Which, now that I know the movie well, is accurate, but at the time I thought it was dismissive. There was an implication that only Jewish audiences would understand all of the film’s underlying meanings and themes. This may well be true. Coming from a mostly Anglo-Irish Catholic ancestry (with a smidge of Jewish forebears) I realize I may not appreciate and understand all the meanings, hidden or not, but I still consider it one of the Coen Brothers’ greatest films—and that’s a rarefied category, rubbing shoulders with Millers Crossing, The Big Lebowski, No Country for Old Men, and Barton Fink. Morris Collins’ new novel The Tavern at the End of History shares that distinction, and pithy summation: Yes, the story it tells is very Jewish. But it’s also a story that transcends ethnic and cultural boundaries. You feel for the people it describes, and follow them wherever they go. Which, oddly enough, is the state of Maine.
The first character we meet is Jacob, a man in trouble. Like Larry Gopnick of A Serious Man, Jacob is a professor—or, more accurately, was a professor. Both Larry and Jacob seem not to have handled their academic careers quite smoothly. In A Serious Man Larry’s tenure is in some doubt due to disparaging letters the tenure committee is receiving, while in The Tavern Jacob is fired for his clumsy dealings with a former student who tried to commit suicide. Both seem earnest, high-minded, and teetering on the brink of . . . something, most likely unpleasant and life-altering. Both have wives who are having affairs. Both have a quest: In The Tavern Jacob travels to an art auction to recover a piece of Jewish art stolen during the Holocaust, while in Serious Man Larry faces a temptation: He’s in financial peril and has a brother who needs an expensive lawyer, and has been offered a thick envelope of cash to fix a student’s failing grade.
About halfway through The Tavern it becomes something of a Country Manor narrative: Most of the novel unfolds on a somewhat-decrepit estate on the coast of Maine called Nod, which evokes the biblical Land of Nod, where Cain was exiled, but also suggests a sleepworld, a dreamworld, as many other references to dreams reinforce. Country Manor or Country House novels have a rich British tradition: Think Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None (1939), or better yet, Martin Amis’s Dead Babies (1975). At this estate in Maine Jacob and others are all gathered at the island home of Alex Baruch, the philosopher accused of falsifying his Holocaust-survivor memoir. A stranger arrives, Eli. He enters like a Ghost of Christmas Past. When his bad behavior at dinner is rebuked by Baruch, Eli launches into a story/fable (supposedly from the Talmud) about the need to accept strangers in your home and offer them kindness. It made me think of the Invisible Knight anecdote in Sir Thomas Mallory’s Le Morte d’Arthur, in which the quest for the Holy Grail is initiated from an act of violence in a castle: a Knight broke the covenant that a guest should not assault the lord in his own castle. (The Knight was getting revenge on the Invisible Knight, who had killed many.) Which is all to say Collins evokes a classic myth about the role of gratitude and hospitality, thorns and all, which is a recurrent theme. But Eli’s appearance also has striking similarities to the curious epigraph-like beginning of A Serious Man, in which a dybbuk arrives at a righteous man’s home and his wife recognizes him for what he is, rather than what he claims to be. But that intro/epigraph also ends with a mystery: The presumed dybbuk has been stabbed in the chest, but is he actually a dybbuk? Eli performs the function of a dybbuk at times in The Tavern at the End of History, with Baruch more than once insisting he’s a dead man. The novel ends with multiple twists and much fireworks not to be revealed here. It’s a mesmerizing book and a testament to remembering a past that so many others are trying to forget or to claim never existed. It takes place in 2017, during Trump’s first term, around the time of the Charlottesville white-supremacist riots. It’s as relevant in 2026 as it was in 2017 or 1945.
So I’ve never given the actress Kate Hudson much thought: She’s Goldie Hawn’s daughter so I’ve probably unconsciously (and unfairly) dismissed her with the ubiquitous “nepo baby” label (see under: Gwyneth Paltrow). I liked her in the unlikely Larry David comedy from years ago, Clear History (2013), starring opposite Jon Hamm, and remember her as the sexy groupie in Almost Famous (2000). And that movie is a good comparison for this moment: 25 years later she just made her best film yet, and for my money, deserves the Best Actress award this year.
I won’t give much away here: This is a terrific movie and I don’t want to spoil it for others. I’ve seen most of the films up for Best Picture and all but one up for Best Actress and this is my favorite so far. Kate Hudson doesn’t even look like herself. Which makes it more “real.” (As Hollywood movies go, of course.) No doubt the Director (Craig Brewer) deserves some credit. They don’t glamorize her and make her seem too pretty in this “Based on a True Story” (we know how that goes) narrative. She actually looks like a somewhat frowsy “tribute” singer (at first she’s doing Patsy Cline songs) who falls for another tribute singer (Hugh Jackman) and unites to create a Neil Diamond tribute band. It’s funny and touching, and mostly free of indulgent-musician/diva nonsense. Part of the humor is how Do It Yourself their band, publicity, and act is. But there’s plenty of drama and that’s where the touching moments occur. Plus Hugh Jackman gives his signature, over-the-top performance. He must be the greatest ham actor of his era. I think this role as a Neil Diamond impersonator ranks up with his magician role in the knockout Christian-Bale film (2006) The Prestige. Now that is a great movie.
So as a devoted National-Park aficionado I learned of Randall K. Wilson’s A Place Called Yellowstone: The Epic History of the World’s First National Park last Spring when it was announced as winner of the Barbara and David Zalaznick Book Prize for the best work of history of 2024. I’ve read five or six books of Yellowstone lore and this is the best book for the Big Picture of the park.
It details the park and area’s history from its super-volcanic origins to the present day, from its surprising distinction as the world’s first national park in 1872 to the devastating fires of 1988 and the reintroduction of wolves in 1995 as beyond. It’s full of fun facts, such as Jim Bridger’s early explorations and discovery of the thermal features, that led it to be nicknamed “Bridger’s Hell.” It became a National Park while the Indian Wars were still unfolding and at times pioneers were camping there while Shoshone and Nez Perce still roamed the area. One of my favorite discoveries was that the south shoreline of Yellowstone Lake held a trove of Native American archeological sites. I spent a week kayaking the lake and camped at various locations on the south shore, a gorgeous, isolated lake-scape.
Fog rainbow on the southern shore of Yellowstone Lake, after rainstorm.
It’s the largest alpine lake in North America and is stunning. As far as wildlife goes we saw wolf tracks along the shore, had a Pine Marten in our camp, and were amused by a Short-eared Owl that swooped and dove above our heads while hunting insects. The campsites were outstanding and scenic: Usually we were perched on a plateau above the lake, as in the photo below.
Every campsite had an impressive bear-pole rigged near camp, where you could hang your food for protection from the grizzlies, but some of them also had the metal bear boxes, which made for great kitchen-organizers.
Metal bear-proof storage boxes.
With most of the campsites perched above the lake we had gorgeous views the whole time.
The paddling can be rigorous: Winds tend to blow from west to east on the lake and our paddle out from the West Thumb boat dock was relatively easy, while our return trip some six days later was a constant fight against the wind.
The photo above was taken in blue-sky weather, but during our week of paddling we had storms every day, and more than once were caught on the lake in wind and rain. The weather could change quickly. When we woke in the morning the lake would tend to be calm and foggy, and by afternoon the wind would pick up and create waves.
Dawn on the lake.
The storms tended to arrive after noon and before sunset, so the lake would often be calm while we were eating our dinner and enjoying the view.
It was September during our visit. Although there were few aspens on the southern shore of the lake the foliage showed nice Fall color.
And there were still wildflowers blooming.
Lastly I think my favorite moments were the quiet evenings watching the lake. We saw a few other paddlers during our week but not a single one camped close by. We didn’t hear or see Loons on the lake (although I have other times) but there were many geese and ducks.
Sunset looking across the lake to the north and east sides.
So a couple years back my wife read Candice Millard’s excellent nonfiction book The River of Doubt: Theodore Roosevelt’s Darkest Journey (2005). She raved about it and I put it on my reading list, but somehow or other I ended up reading another more recently published Candace Millard book first, River of the Gods: Genius, Courage, and Betrayal in the Search for the Source of the Nile (2022).
In our era of satellite GPS coordinates and Google maps it’s hard to imagine the quest to discover the origin of the Nile (and particularly the White Nile) that consumed the Royal Geographical Society and British explorers in the 19th century. Millard’s book focuses on two fascinating men, Richard Burton and John Hanning Speke, who joined forces for a time and helped solve the mystery. (Ultimately it’s revealed that the White Nile originates flowing out from Africa’s Lake Victoria—or in waters of the Kagera River: it’s complicated.) Both men seem brilliant in their own ways and slightly mad for even attempting travel in eastern Africa. Their journey ends up taking several years and both explorers are close to death more than once. They battle disease, bizarre, hostile tribes, tropical heat, snakes and insects and a daunting landscape, all just to identify where the waters first start flowing that eventually become the mighty Nile River. For a somewhat romanticized (and charming) version of the story, see the film Mountains of the Moon (1990), starring Patrick Bergin and Iain Glen, who do a good job of bringing these daring explorers to life. It’s a story of heartbreak and suffering, marred by egos and the acclaim fought over by these 19th century figures.
If I were to quibble about their exploits I might note that they were so infirm from various diseases and injuries that at times they had to be carried by African porters. The notion of their “discovering” the Nile is a bit suspect, of course, but they did travel—with quite a bit of assistance—to deepest, darkest Africa and trace its source . . . kind of. (They still weren’t quite sure even when they returned to England.) But as difficult as their journey was, Teddy Roosevelt’s expedition of 1912 to map an Amazon tributary known as Rio Duida or “The River of Doubt” matches it at every level, with less assistance and more foolish chutzpah. (An odd note of thematic and historical intersection, their Amazon journey unfolds in 1912-13, soon after Hubert Darrell’s disappearance in far northern Canada, circa 1910-11. See post below.)
As an enthusiastic backcountry paddler (mainly kayaks and inflatable rafts) their preparation for this expedition to the Amazon seems laughable and perilous. The man in charge of organizing it had never been to the Amazon and knew little about float trips. Teddy Roosevelt thought it would be something of a lark. He had recently lost a reelection campaign for President and was looking to distract himself from that sense of failure and disappointment. It wasn’t until they were already in the Amazon that he got the idea to float the River of Doubt from its source to another tributary of the Amazon, where it was known to flow. They quickly and somewhat haphazardly changed their plans and embarked on a tortuous trip into the jungle. The descriptions of their misery are impressive: Insects bothered them constantly, they ran short on food, their boats were left behind due to transportation problems, so they had to rely on dugout canoes. These are fine for flat-water rivers or lakes but the River of Doubt was frenzied with waterfalls and rapids. By the end of their months-long journey Teddy Roosevelt is very near death. Teddy’s son, Kermit, is also a major character in the story. Of the two books I found River of Doubt to be a more enjoyable read. Although I knew bits and pieces of Teddy Roosevelt’s biography, I learned much more about the man, and found him to be fascinating and even inspirational. He’s a pillar of strength, honor, nobility and wisdom compared to the venal creature whom we now call President.
So I have great admiration for the hardy, crusty souls who can live and survive well in the rugged outdoors—people like the enigmatic free-style explorer Hubert Darrell, who began life as an Englishman and ended his days in far northern Canada, south of the Beaufort Sea, in the Northwest Territories. He was an amazing man whose life ended too soon.
In between his early years and his untimely death he accomplished what few mere mortals could ever hope to do: Alone, he traveled on foot (often snow-shoeing) around the far north of Canada, walking hundreds if not thousands of miles, towing a toboggan. He eschewed dog teams pulling sleds, claiming they were more trouble than they were worth. He worked as a guide for various other explorers, and was feted by no less than Roald Amundsen, first person to reach the South Pole in 1912.
Roald Amundsen
The description on Amazon offers an introduction to the book that serves it well: “In November 1910, explorer Hubert Darrell vanished in the uncharted wilds of the Northwest Territories. A prospector who had been swept up in the Klondike Gold Rush, Darrell later made his name as an expert guide, trapper, and restless wanderer who ventured where few others dared. At a time when travel by dogsled in the North was the norm, Darrell became legendary for traversing thousands of kilometres alone and on foot; ranging over mountains and across windswept tundra from Alaska to Hudson Bay. During his epic journeys, he helped rescue sailors trapped in sea ice, led Mounties on their patrols, and even guided some of the era’s most famous explorers. Roald Amundsen, the first person to reach the South Pole, held Darrell in awe, remarking once that with men like him, he could go to the moon. Contemporaries regarded Darrell as the hardiest, most competent explorer of his day. Despite clues reported by Inuit trappers and Mounted Police inquiries, his fate remains a mystery. While his disappearance sparked headlines around the world, Darrell’s name would soon also vanish from the history books, ironically, just as surely as he had in the wild.”
It’s a good book and something of a mystery story: Shoalts (the biographer) personally returns to remote locations in the Northwest Territories to try to solve the mystery of how Darrell died, where and when. By the book’s end he has a plausible scenario. But more importantly the reader comes away from the story with respect and a certain amount of affection for the undaunted Darrell, who chose an isolated life and ended up dying alone. The History Channel series Alone often features Canada’s Great Slave Lake as its drop-off location for their survivalists, who compete for prize money of up to $500,000. That’s for surviving alone in the far north for usually around three months. Darrell did it for many years. He also sounds like a nice guy and a good man.
So I saw the new Rachel McAdams star vehicle Send Help, directed by no less than Mr. Evil Dead himself, Sam Raimi. It’s way fun. As it’s just released and in cinemas, I’ll avoid spoilers as much as possible. As you can guess from the poster below, this isn’t a film reveling in the quiet moments of domestic despair, ala the much-acclaimed Norwegian film Sentimental Value (2025). It’s more like in-your-face Action/Satire.
It’s not quite as gnarly as it looks.
But here’s a connection that’s worth mentioning: It compares nicely to another Sam Raimi gem, Drag Me to Hell (2009), though it is less horror/more comedy: Both films feature a put-upon young woman in an office environment. In both stories the young woman is urged to go “above and beyond” the job’s requirements in order to be eligible for a promotion. And in both stories said young woman does not get the promotion she most certainly deserves. But all that is a distraction of sorts—or more accurately, motivation for the action. It’s not really about the job, or whether or not she gets the promotion. The stakes are higher than that. The drama is Life or Death.
Still one of my favorite Sam Raimi films.
Most of the action takes place on a small island in the Gulf of Thailand. Since I traveled to Thailand last spring it all looked familiar. It makes for a great movie location, with cliffs and beaches and jungle as backdrop to the survivalist plotline.
Maya Bay, Thailand
Rachel McAdams plays Linda Liddle, superficially the office goofball but actually the savviest employee for business-sense and numbers-crunching. That doesn’t impress the company’s nepo-baby topdog, Bradley, played well by the actor Dylan O’Brien. He’s a callous creep who has led a pampered life and doesn’t know a thing about survival in the outdoors, while Linda is a survivalist who has auditioned for the TV series Survivor, but who also seems more suited for the better reality series Alone, because Linda would excel at the survival tasks but likely fail at the social-maneuvering expected of the Survivor particpants.
Fun fact: No Alone contestant has ever been eaten by a Grizzly Bear.
Although McAdams is known for many roles I have to give a shout-out to one of my favorite comedies of the last decade, Game Night (2018). Jesse Plemons as their cop-neighbor who pines for his ex-wife is pure genius, and Rachel McAdams has great chemistry with Jason Bateman.
Great comic film
Send Help isn’t as good as Game Night . . . I think. I can’t actually say for sure because I missed the ending! Our theater was evacuated due to fire alarms. I’ll have to finish it later, but it was in the final minutes. Someone’s eye was getting popped out.
Note: This story originally appeared in the online literary journal Solar, Spring 2022. For this one, if you think “genre,” think Gothic. It’s “Based on a True Story,” kind of.
According to his father, the neighbors who lived in the house behind them were conservative Christian weirdoes. “Stay clear of those two,” he said. “Give them a foot in the door and they’ll have you down on your knees, praying for salvation. Or nail you to a cross somewhere because you don’t.”
The neighbors were brother and sister. The brother a vet back from Afghanistan, missing a leg. He didn’t talk to people.
The woman walked over to their house and knocked on the door. The boy answered. She smiled at him and asked if he knew much about God? He was eating peanut butter crackers and shook his head. He didn’t want to open his mouth to talk and show her all the mashed-up crackers and peanut butter. “Well don’t you think it’s about time you found out? Jesus loves you, you know.” She had a nice face and was exactly the same height as he, so they looked directly into each other’s eyes.
Her forehead and cheek were unlined and seemed to glow with a waxy sheen. She had fine pale hair at her temple and scalp line as if they wanted to grow onto her face and cover it, like the Wolf Lady he had seen on the internet. Like her face was an open field in a forest of pale wispy hair. Her eyes a curious color, a dark blue tinged almost violet. She was maybe a little younger than his mother but she dressed in old-timey clothes. She wore a sun bonnet on her head, with white lacey straps tied neatly at her chin. Other faint wisps of her sandy hair curled out beneath her bonnet, at her neck, and the bonnet, which was a pale blue like baby boy clothes, ruffled in the wind. They lived near the shore and it was always windy. The boy guessed she wore the bonnet to keep her hair from being tangled.
“Who’s at the door?” shouted his father. He was upstairs, in his dark room, developing pictures. “Tell them we don’t want any.”
The woman heard that, and did not waiver. “Take this,” she whispered, handing him a pamphlet titled The Watchtower. “Read it, okay?”
He finished chewing and swallowed, then nodded. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll get right on it.”
She frowned, just a little. Turned her head. “Was that a joke?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I’m serious.” He held up the pamphlet. “Got nothing else to do.”
She kept staring at him. Looked behind him, over his shoulder, into his house.
“Who is it?” shouted his mother. She was in the living room, watching TV and working on her laptop like always.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “Just the lady who lives behind us.”
“Oh, okay,” she called out. “What does she want? Does she need something?”
The woman kept standing there, staring at him with a Mona Lisa smile on her face. “Lady,” she said, squinted her eyes. “Is that what I am?”
He didn’t know what to say. She didn’t seem to be a weirdo at all. “I don’t know,” he called out to his mother. Speaking to her in a softer voice he said, “What should I tell her? She wants to know what you want.”
The woman made a face like that was a trick question, one which she didn’t know how to answer. She held one finger to her plump lips and tapped, three times. “I want,” she said, pausing, “you to read that pamphlet. Then we will talk about it.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll do that.”
She nodded and started to leave—took a step backward, still looking into his eyes—then stopped and stuck out her hand. “I’m Genevieve,” she said.
Before he could take her hand she wiped it on her skirt and apologized, told him, “I’m sorry. It’s this heat I guess. My hands get so wet.”
He shook her warm and damp hand and laughed. “Pleased to meet you, Genevieve. I’m . . . .” And for a second he forgot his name. She let go of him and put both hands in the air as if she were trying to catch something, ducking and miming like she was playing baseball, in the outfield trying to catch a pop fly, until he finally remembered, “. . . Patrick.” And then her hands grabbed the air, and she closed her fist on the sound of his name, and put one hand into the pocket of her long dress. “Next time, then,” she said.
She made a little curtsey, turned, and walked down the gray concrete flagstone path to the white sidewalk, turned sharply, and headed down the street. She’d have to walk around the whole block to get back to her house from that direction. He started to call out, tell her she could cut through his yard. He held his tongue. It didn’t seem right, yelling at her like that, on the street and everything.
“Is that woman still here?” called out his mother.
“She’s gone,” he said. But he watched her walk to the intersection of Ibis Street, passing through the palm tree shadows, the brown palm fronds swaying and crackling in the wind above her. A pair of teenage girls, wearing flipflops and swimsuits and floppy T-shirts, passed her at the corner. When she couldn’t see them, they turned and made faces, giggling. One of them held up her phone and took a picture of the woman walking away.
He wished he had done that.
After that he watched her all the time. The woman in the house behind his house. The only thing that separated their yards was a weedy, sand-filled alley, where at night hunchback raccoons ransacked trashcans. It always smelled like garbage and dead things. Plus the salt spray that coated everything. Otherwise what separated their yards was just two stretches of gray chainlink fence.
His father told him that the brother was an angry guy back from serving in the Marines. His leg had been blown off and now he wore a prosthetic. “But if he walks by, whatever you do, don’t stare at it. That’s rude.”
The neighbors’ yard was a lush green square of St. Augustine grass, with four palm trees, one in each corner. A flagpole in the center, atop which flew a large Confederate flag. The woman mowed the grass every week, usually on Fridays or Saturday afternoons. The boy watched her from a tree house in his backyard, a plywood platform hidden up in the live oak branches. His mother said he should be careful up there. He could break his neck. His father thought it was good for him, would get him in touch with nature and shit. He helped the boy saw some two-by-four scraps and then hammer them into the oak trunk for a ladder, up to a vee-shaped spread of branches, onto which they nailed a sheet of weathered gray plywood they kept in the garage to cover the windows if a hurricane might hit. The boy took to spending his afternoons up in the tree house. He told his parents he was reading and doing homework. He was in ninth grade and making good grades, but he didn’t have a close friend. If she came into the yard he spied on her.
She had a precise way of mowing the grass. Push the loud mower down the length of the yard in the center, turn left and go to the back corner, turn left and go back to their patio area, turn left and back to the place where she started. With each time the mowed area became wider and the dark green grass area in the center became smaller and smaller until he imagined he was in the center of the square, and she mowed the last spot, chopping him up into little pieces. Then he would wriggle on the ground, all the little pieces of him moving at once, chopped up and squirming and giddy.
The boy mowed grass, too, for money. Several neighbors paid him and he was saving up for a PlayStation videogame console. The weed-eater was the worst part. It made a high-pitched buzzing sound. The sun was hot and it was always humid. He took off his shirt to mow some yards but then the mosquitoes in the high grass bit him like crazy.
From the treehouse, he could see the windows on the backside of their house—their backside faced his backside. The house was nothing special: a two-story box with sage-colored aluminum siding, a small concrete patio behind the downstairs sliding-glass doors. Five windows upstairs, which he guessed to be (left to right): bedroom, bathroom, hallway, bathroom, bedroom. The three center windows were small squares. The outside windows, right and left, were larger rectangles. Late at night he snuck out to the treehouse and sat there watching. The right-hand window filled with golden light. A lamp on a nightstand. Gauzy curtains over the window. The figure of the woman, standing behind the curtains. Through binoculars, he saw her, standing there in her nightdress. Looking in his direction. He wondered if she could see the glint of reflection from the security light onto the binocular lenses. He wondered if she could see him when he stood up, coated by moonlight there in the tangled oak branches.
Wearing a long white nightgown with ruffles at her throat. Her dark brown hair was long and flowed down each side of her body as if her head were a stone in the center of a milk chocolate river. He took a picture with his iPhone but all you could see was a fuzzy glow of their security light and a vague square shape of house—with, on the right, one golden window—like a licked butterscotch throat lozenge.
The brother drove a red pickup truck and was the only one who seemed to leave the house. He left in the afternoon and came home in the night, late. Sometimes the boy could hear him yelling at the woman and telling her things, how she needed to clean up all this crap, how they couldn’t live like this anymore. Once he came out on the patio with an armful of stuffed animals. The boy watched through his binoculars. The brother moved pretty well for having a fake leg.
There must have been a dozen stuffed animals: Through the binoculars he spied a penguin, a fox, and a bear in a canoe. “This is for your own good,” he shouted at the sliding glass door. Behind the glass, the dim figure of the woman, standing there, her hands holding her head, her mouth telling him to stop. Her brother opened a barbecue grill and placed the stuffed animals inside, then squirted lighter fluid on them and tossed a match.
They burst into flame. The boy wanted to rush out there and knock them off the grill, but he didn’t. “It’s time for you to move on,” shouted the brother. A skinny man with a pegleg and a big adam’s apple. He wore crocs and cargo shorts. “Enough already,” he said as he opened the sliding glass door. “What’s done is done.”
The next week after her brother burned the stuffed animals, an ambulance came to their house in early evening. The sky was a violet color and the Confederate flag in their backyard popped in the wind, its grommets pinged against the metal flagpole. The boy could hear the crackle of the EMTs radio but not what they said. The flashing lights pulsed against the palm tree fronds like an outdoor disco. His father peeked out the back windows and said, “Uh oh. Trouble in paradise.” His mother said she hoped it wasn’t anything serious.
Another week went by. The brother’s truck never left the driveway. On Saturday the woman mowed the backyard up in one strip toward his yard, where he sat cross-legged watching her from the treehouse, turned left, and when she came to the corner of the chainlink fence, in the shadow of the corner palm tree, she tripped. The boy saw her fall to the ground. The lawnmower engine stopped. She just lay there in the dark green grass, half in the shadow of the palm fronds. At first the boy expected her to get up and brush herself off. She didn’t.
He climbed down from the treehouse and went out the chainlink fence, liftng up the latch and swinging out the gate, with its gray metal Irish Setter figures on top of the gate frame. He walked up and spoke to her through the fence, her lying on the ground like that. “Are you okay?”
“Shhh,” she said. “There’s a snake.”
Between her and the palm tree trunk lay the dark olive shape of a huge snake. The boy guessed it to be a python because they were all in the news now, how the swamps and marshes were full of them, how they grew big enough to swallow a child. This one was like a black and dark green log that stretched from the palm tree to the chainlink fence and slowly squirmed away.
“Can you get up?”
“I don’t want to scare it,” she said.
“I’ll be right back.” The boy ran to his father’s garage and found the garden hoe, ran back to her and passed through her fence, slowed down when he got close. “I’ll kill it,” he said, holding the hoe in both hands and raising it high. “I got a hoe.”
She sat up and straightened her bonnet, which had twisted around. Her eyebrows crinkled. “You will not.”
“Those things can bite.”
She smiled, squinting up at him in the sunlight, a halo around his head. “So can you. Should I hit you with a hoe?”
“I’m a person. Not a snake.”
“We’re all god’s creatures.” She wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her arm. “It’s too hot out here,” she added. “For me and Mr. Snake.”
He stood there, awkwardly, hoe in the air. He wore gray sweatpant shorts and a T-shirt that read You May Not Rest Now, There Are Monsters Nearby. “Why’d you fall?” he asked.
“I got all twisted up.” She rubbed her ankle and said she was afraid it would be swollen.
He asked where her brother was and she just looked at him. After a minute she said, “He’s gone.”
“Gone where?”
She kept rubbing her ankle, and started to hum a faint, sweet tune. “Gone?” she asked. “Gone to Dallas. The big D.”
He took her hand, which was warm and damp, and she pulled on him as she got onto her knees, then stood up, rising up to his height, like she was being inflated. “Thank you,” she said. “For not killing Mr. Snake.” He turned to look and it was in the other neighbor’s yard now, their problem.
“Did he get a new job?” asked the boy.
“Who? Donald?” She brushed herself off and started to limp away. “No. He doesn’t work. He’s injured. Or disabled, I guess you say.”
“Oh. Okay. Well what does he do?”
“Do? Mainly he just drinks.”
He let it go.
“Come on,” she said. “I’ll give you something.”
He followed her as she limped toward her house. “You want me to finish mowing?” he asked.
“No. Oh, well. I guess.”
“I don’t mind.”
She stopped and stood there. “You could?”
“I don’t mind,” he repeated.
“I’ll pay you.”
“That’s okay. We’re neighbors, right?”
She nodded. “I’ll pay you anyway.”
“I won’t let you.”
She turned her head to one side. “Stubborn one, aren’t you?”
“Principled.”
“Come in when you’re done. I’ll make us something to eat.”
The boy got her mower going and followed her shrinking-grid pattern with geometric precision. Before he finished it began to rain. The woman came out on the concrete patio and stood under the awning, waving at him. He waved back. He wouldn’t stop until he was done. The last square of grass had the flagpole in the center and he was soaked with cool rain when he stood beneath it, wind blowing the flag sideways, a spray of droplets speckling his face as it popped off the fabric with its blue X against the red background, his hair plastered to his head. He felt a tug on his shirt and turned around to find the woman, now wet and bedraggled, pulling on his T-shirt and telling him to get inside.
In the kitchen, she said, “Look how wet you are. Here.” She handed him a towel. “You look like a wet rat.”
The boy wiped his face and laughed. “Thanks. Call me The Rat.”
The woman untied her bonnet and set it on the table. “I’m wet too. Let’s be rats together.”
Dripping all over the kitchen floor, he toweled his hair and looked around the room. A wall calendar with an illustration of Jesus with a woman prostrate before him, as if kissing his feet. An old green table in the center, with a bowl of apples and bananas in the center. She left and came back with a pair of bluejeans and a western shirt with pearl snap buttons.
“Take off your things and put those on,” said the woman. “We’re wet and making a mess of everything, aren’t we?”
“I’m sorry,” said the boy.
“It’s not your fault. Go on now.” She made a shooing motion with her hands and smiled her little Mona Lisa. “I won’t bite.”
The boy stood there, holding the jeans and shirt. “You mean here?”
“Here. Where else would you go?” She reached out, took both of his shoulders in her hands, then turned his body. “You face that way. No looking.”
He heard some clothes ruffling and feet shuffling. “Go on now. I want to put these in the dryer.”
He took off his shirt and hesitated, and before he could stop himself, glanced behind him. The woman had pulled her dress down and was facing away from him, standing barefoot in her white brassiere and her bottom in white underpants, kicking the dress to the side and stepping out.
He unzipped his pants slowly and as quietly as he could and pulled them down. They were soaked and heavy. He stumbled, standing there, trying to get his feet out of the cuffs. As soon as he could he pulled the blue jeans on, put his arms through the shirt sleeves. When he turned around the woman was watching him.
“Isn’t that better?” she asked. Her dark hair was long and wavey and he tried not to stare at her. She was like a different person.
“Warmer,” he said.
“Warmer is good?”
He nodded, staring at the graceful lines of her collarbones, like wings.
She reached a hand out to him. “Come here. I want to show you something.”
He took her hand and she led him through the formal living room, with a striped hard-looking sofa and no TV set, to the garage. A floor of cool gray concrete, the smell of wood shavings. The garage door pulled shut. An amber Yield sign nailed to one wall. In the corner was a low white freezer with a black cord plugged into a socket on the wall behind it. Above it, an illuminated bar sign with the legend The Wiggle Room in loopy lime-green cursive neon script at top, and below the title, silhouette images of a blue martini glass and a red go-go dancer.
Genevieve saw the boy staring at it. “Isn’t that a hoot?” she asked. “Donald put it up there just to irritate me. Now I kind of like it.”
The boy asked where he got the thing. She said it was from a bar he used to visit. “He bought it for two hundred dollars when it closed down. But if I asked him for that much he’d yell at me. How money doesn’t grow on trees.”
Otherwise the garage was mostly empty. Cardboard boxes in the corner, a stack of Watchtower pamphlets on top. A cricket hopping across the floor. A weight-lifting set in the center, with a wide black bench in front of it. No car. She led him to a rough wooden table upon which were dolls arranged around a small wooden farm set. “What do you think?” she asked. “Do you recognize it?”
A house and barn made of Popsicle sticks. A tiny corral in which stood four plastic horses. Behind the farm scene was a good-sized cotton-candy-looking dark cloud shape with a wide top that narrowed to a small funnel at bottom, suspended by wires.
“Watch,” said the woman. She flicked a switch on the table and a buzzing noise commenced from the cloud: It began to twirl and spin around, slowly at first, then gaining speed. The narrow bottom of the cloud wobbled and skittered across the table, and almost knocked over the Popsicle stick house. “Oops,” she said, and flicked the switch. It slowly quit turning and the buzzing sound diminished. “Donald made it for me.”
The boy looked at her. “It’s a tornado, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “Bingo. But what tornado?”
She took his hand again. Hers was wet and warm but he didn’t pull away as she made him get closer and lean down on the table. He had to hold the blue jeans waist to keep them from falling off. “Look.” She pointed to the small doll of a girl in pigtails, wearing a blue and white dress, holding a little dog. The dolls were about eight inches tall, about the size of Barbies, and roughhewn. The girl stood next to a mean-looking woman in a man’s hat, standing astride a bicycle with a basket in front, pointing at her. The woman said they were corn-husk dolls, made from corn husks.
“The Wizard of Oz?” he guessed.
“Oh, you’re a sharp one, aren’t you, Patrick?” said the woman, not letting go of him but putting her other hand on her heart and fluttering her eyes.
“Looks pretty obvious to me,” he said, not knowing if he should pull his hand away or not. She was squeezing him and pulling him closer. “That’s Elvira Gulch, isn’t it?”
The woman laughed. “It is indeed.” She let go his hand and touched his cheek. “No one has ever recognized it before.”
“Way cool,” he said. “Kind of weird, too.”
She made a funny face, scrunching up her eyebrows. “Donald said it was a stupid waste of time.”
“Who’s Donald?”
“My brother.”
“Oh, right. Well. Brothers are like that, aren’t they? Always giving you a hard time.”
She picked up the Dorothy doll and held it in front of his face, ventriloquizing, “Did you ever read what I gave you?”
“What?” he asked, laughing.
“The Watchtower,” insisted corn-husk Dorothy.
“A little,” he said.
“What’d you think?”
He shrugged. “I’ve heard of Jesus before.”
“But not that much?”
“Not really. Not much. I mean, my parents? They think it’s kind of kooky.”
“It is not. It’s the light,” she said, letting go of him and lifting her hands and the corn-husk Dorothy up to the heavens—in this case the exposed two-by-four rafters of the unfinished garage.
“Okay. Well. To them it’s kind of kooky, so I don’t want to get in trouble.”
She smiled. “You’re kidding, right? Your parents wouldn’t get mad at you for finding Jesus, would they?”
He grinned. “Maybe.”
“Well, I never,” she said.
He laughed.
“Why are you laughing?”
“People don’t say that anymore.”
She smiled her little smile and lifted her chin. “I do.”
“It’s old timey. I mean, I like it. In an old-timey way.”
On a shelf above the workbench was a stack of dark blue books. She took one down and opened it up to show a page of large coins, set into slots in the book. She told him Donald was a coin collector or numismatist. “Here,” she said, working out two bright coins and holding them out to him. “Take these silver dollars. They’re rare. Worth a lot more than a dollar.”
The boy said he couldn’t do that. He was glad to mow the grass for her and wouldn’t take any money, silver dollar or paper money. “It’s just a favor,” he said. “Neighbors do each other favors.”
Before he could stop her she reached out and stuffed one of the coins into his jeans pocket. “It’s yours now,” she whispered. “You can’t give it back.” She stared at him and looked odd, in the dim garage light. Her lips were slightly ajar and her eyes seemed to be looking into him, expecting something. The violet color faintly visible in the dim blue light. Outside the sound of rain gushing out the gutters and splattering on the driveway.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” She smiled and turned her head. “How can you not know if you’re hungry or not?” She let go of him and pushed his chest. “You either are, or you aren’t.”
“I better go I guess. My p’s, you know, they’ll be wondering where I am.”
“Your p’s?”
“Parents.”
“Oh.” She reached out and took his hand again. “But you’re next door, at your neighbors?”
He raised one eyebrow. “But they don’t know that, do they?”
“Maybe that’s a good thing,” she whispered, looking away from him, squeezing his hand. “I have Eskimo Pies,” she added.
“You mean the ice cream sandwiches?”
She nodded. “Ice cream bars,” she corrected. “I love them.”
“Well, yeah. I could go for that.”
She smiled and walked over to the freezer. He followed her but a few feet away she paused and stopped him, putting a warm hand on his chest. “You wait here.” When she opened the freezer he couldn’t see inside, and she kept her body in the center of it, blocking the view. “Just one second,” she said. “They’re in here somewhere. I don’t want you to see. It’s such a mess.” She barely lifted the freezer lid, and rummaged around inside, feeling with her hand.
“You want me to help?”
“No. I’m good,” she said. A moment later she turned around and held two Eskimo Pies to her chest. “The best part of the pie is the wrapper.” She opened one and peeled back the foil wrapper, making sure not to tear the illustration of the Eskimo in his fur suit and rainbow on the cover. “He’s such a happy little Eskimo. Here,” she said. “Open your mouth.”
He hesitated but saw that she was serious. “Well, I don’t know.”
“Come on.” She came close to him and stood at his same height, with the black chocolate-covered ice cream sandwich in front of his mouth. Close enough to smell the tang of her body, her wet hair. “Bite.”
She eased it into his open mouth and let him take a little bite, then pulled it away. “That’s enough,” she said, and laughed.
His phone started to vibrate. It was his Mom texting him, asking Where in the world are you? He showed the woman, who squinted at it, then told him to shoo. “Next time,” she said.
He finished the Eskimo Pie before he walked in the backdoor of his house, and hid the stick. In his room he locked the door and took the silver dollar out of his pocket and rubbed it between his fingers. He liked the warm feel of it. It was dated 1925, the head of a woman with spikey hair on one side, an eagle on the other. He slept with it beneath his pillow.
The next day the boy rode his bike past Genevieve’s house and wondered if she was home. Her brother’s red pickup truck, parked in their driveway, close to the street, now had a red-and-white For Sale sign taped to the windshield. “$7K OBO. 512 729-2355.” Why would the woman’s brother sell his truck if he just moved to Dallas? The boy was almost old enough to drive. Next year he would be. He wondered if he could buy it. Maybe his parents would help him. Maybe he could mow her grass for a few years.
Days later, when his parents were at work, he watched her yard from the treehouse. With his binoculars he looked at all the windows and the patio. Through the sliding glass doors he could see into the living room: Two bare white feet and bare legs prone on the tan carpeting of the floor. That’s all he could see from his angle. It appeared to be a body lying lifeless on the floor.
He climbed down from the tree house, passed through both gates, and walked up to the back of the woman’s house, watching the sliding glass doors. When he got close the sun came out from behind clouds and the reflection of the light on the glass doors blinded him from seeing inside. He cupped his hands against the glass to make a shadow to see through the reflection.
The woman was lying face down, on top of a sleeping bag, her head on a small pillow. She wore only a nightgown that was hiked up to her hips. Her skin so white it seemed to glow, her dark hair tangled and curling off the pillow, and her legs open to show her darkness below. He stood for a second, staring, his shadow crossing over her white skin. He wondered if she was sick or dead or if he should go for help. She looked like the victim of a sacrifice or an attack.
She stirred, squirming and wrapping her legs around the sleeping bag, burrowing into the pillow. He heard a sound and glanced behind him, but it was just the flag, luffing in the wind. When he looked inside again the woman was staring up at him. He stepped back, hurrying sideways, out of view of the sliding glass doors. His heart pounding, he walked quickly through her side yard, past her driveway with the red pickup truck parked in it, out to the street, then the long way around on Ibis Street back to his house. His mother pulled into their driveway just as he was walking up to the door. She rolled down the car window and asked, “So where have you been?”
“Nowhere.”
She made a face. “What are you up to, Pat? Nowhere is no place to go.”
“I just went for a walk.”
“Right,” she said. “You never go for walks.”
“Okay, if you really want to know,” he added. “I got a moon pie from 7-Eleven.”
“I told you not to eat that crap.”
“That’s why I didn’t want to tell you.”
She got out of the car and asked if he would carry in the groceries for her. “And no more sweet things,” she added. “Sugar is poison.”
When he got off the bus the next day and walked past her house, the woman opened the door and waved at him. He waved back but put his head down, kept walking. “Patrick,” she called out. “Come here a second. I want to ask you something.”
She wore one of her long dresses and no sun bonnet, a gold crucifix at her throat. When he got to the door she wasn’t smiling and asked if he could come in for a second. He said that he probably shouldn’t. He needed to do some homework.
“Please?” she asked.
“I guess so.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I’d appreciate it,” holding the door open. He stepped inside and she told him, “Follow me.”
She led him to the garage.
“Does your mother know what you’re doing?”
He realized she was angry. “What do you mean? Doing what?”
“Spying on me.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I saw you yesterday when I woke up. You were looking at me.”
He told her he wasn’t spying on her. He just saw her lying on the ground and thought she was sick or something. When she asked how he could see her from all the way across the yard, he told her he was bird watching with binoculars.
“So you were spying on me, then, weren’t you?” She stepped close to him. “You’ve been looking at me at night, haven’t you?”
He didn’t know what to say. She was breathing hard through her mouth. “Kneel on this bench. Hands and knees. Here.” She pointed to the weight-lifting bench. “On your hands, and on your knees.”
“Listen, I-”
“Do you want me to call your mother? Tell your parents what you’ve been doing?”
He was breathing hard now. “No.”
“Do it.”
He got on his hands and knees. It was so quiet he could hear a cricket chirping. He was wearing khaki shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. They dangled awkwardly as he leaned over, and he felt her knock them off his feet, the slap sound of them falling to the concrete floor.
“Look at the wall,” she told him. “Beg forgiveness.”
He stared at The Wiggle Room sign bright with its loopy lime script. “Please don’t tell my parents,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean anything.”
He felt as she reached around his waist and unbuttoned his pants, yanked them down. She tugged his white underpants down to his knees. “There. How do you like that?”
He didn’t know what to say.
“I’m going to teach you a lesson,” she said. “You don’t want me to call your mother and father, do you?”
“No.”
“So you’re not going to tell them anything, are you?”
“No.”
He heard her moving around the room. She took a leather weight-lifter’s belt from off the rack of free weights. Then she was behind him. The basement air was cool and he had goosebumps on his skin, tingling.
“This is what Donald used to do to me when I was bad.”
He felt a sharp slap against his bare behind. She spanked him three more times with the belt. He could hear her breathing and yelping, just a little, with each swing. “How do you like that?”
He didn’t know what to say. It stung.
“Were you looking at me, asleep on the floor?”
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Good,” she said. “At least you’re telling the truth.” She spanked him again. “Are you going to do it again?”
He promised he wouldn’t. He heard faint sounds, her voice choked with emotion. “What if I want you to?”
He didn’t know what to say. He waited for more and then felt fingertips on his skin, lightly touching him. She said she hoped she didn’t hurt him. “You have red marks,” she added.
He told her he was okay. Could he get dressed now?
“I’m not a good person,” she said, starting to cry. “I’m a horrible person and I want you to know that. To know how horrible I am.” She put her cheek against his back, then kissed it, and told him to get up, helping him pull up his pants and touching his bare skin as she pulled them up. Then she got him to his feet and took his hand, led him to the freezer. “Open it.”
A gush of white mist escaped the freezer when he lifted the lid. Outside rain began to fall and spatter on the metal roof of the garage, gutter down the driveway. When the mist lifted it revealed a bulky bundle wrapped in a checkered quilt filling up the freezer, with boxes of Eskimo pies and frozen peas and hashbrown potatoes jumbled on top. She told him it was Donald. He died after he came home from the hospital and she didn’t have money for the funeral and she needed his disability checks so she was going to keep him there. “Here in the Wiggle Room,” she said. “It’s better this way, you see?”
The boy said he wouldn’t tell anyone.
Donald complained of aches and pains all the time. “It was for his own good,” she added, reaching into the freezer and giving the body wrapped in quilt a tender pat. “He was in misery, you see? Out of which he’s now put. I was arranging his pillows and he just stopped breathing.”
“I’m sorry,” said the boy.
“He didn’t like anything. He thought women were evil because he never had a girlfriend. I told him how can women be evil if God created them? And he said yeah but he just pulled out a rib, and it was a bad one. They’re a trap, he said. But I’m a woman, I told him. Don’t go bragging about it, he said. You’re my sister, but give you half a chance? You’d be like the others too.”
The boy said it was wrong for a man to say a thing like that.
She handed him the belt. “Here. You take this.”
The boy told her he should leave now.
The woman made a small motion with her head, turning it to one side, as if trying to hear him better. “Will you help me be a good person?”
He told her he really had to go now, that his parents would be worried. They’d be calling any minute. But she didn’t seem to be paying any attention to him as she crossed the room and got into position on the bench. On her hands and knees. Then she asked him to come over and bring the belt. Told him she was bad and she deserved it.
He said he had to go home now.
“You don’t want me to tell your parents about you watching me, do you? You know what they do to peeping toms?”
“No.”
She said they would castrate him. That it’s a law. “You have to do this,” she told him. “You have to save me. It’s the only way.”
He stood there with the belt in his hands, the sound of hard rain rattling on the metal roof.
