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  LIVING THINGS

  LIVING THINGS

  A NOVEL

  Landon Houle

  Living Things

  Copyright © 2019 by Landon Houle

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of both the publisher and the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Book design by Mark E. Cull

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Houle, Landon, 1985– author.

  Title: Living things : stories / Landon Houle.

  Description: Pasadena, CA : Red Hen Press, [2019]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019018063 | ISBN 9781597098397

  Subjects: LCSH: South Carolina—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3608.O85544 A6 2019 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019018063

  The National Endowment for the Arts, the Los Angeles County Arts Commission, the Ahmanson Foundation, the Dwight Stuart Youth Fund, the Max Factor Family Foundation, the Pasadena Tournament of Roses Foundation, the Pasadena Arts & Culture Commission and the City of Pasadena Cultural Affairs Division, the City of Los Angeles Department of Cultural Affairs, the Audrey & Sydney Irmas Charitable Foundation, the Kinder Morgan Foundation, the Meta & George Rosenberg Foundation, the Allergan Foundation, the Riordan Foundation, Amazon Literary Partnership, and the Mara W. Breech Foundation partially support Red Hen Press.

  First Edition

  Published by Red Hen Press

  www.redhen.org

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I wish to thank and gratefully acknowledge the following publications on whose pages some of these stories first appeared: “There You Are” appeared in Dogwood, Spring 2018; “Living Things” appeared in Masters Review, Summer 2016.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  A New Calibration

  Some Threat of Explosion

  First-Time Users

  Living Things

  Where We Go

  About Those Planes

  Rare and Imperiled

  Sisters

  There You Are

  Of Wolves

  Driving Lesson

  PROLOGUE

  It’s late, but the girl is still here.

  She’s still here with Old Man and Sister. Old Man with the twisted foot, Old Man asleep in the chair, and the girl and Sister at the teacher’s desk. Sister’s hair loose and yellow under the drafting lamp. Sister’s hands gone to claws. Say Sister, the girl speaks. But Sister makes not to hear, and the girl rolls her lips, quits.

  For her, a chipped cup, and for Sister, a platter of beads from which she plucks. Holds one to the bulb. The threads inside, thick blue ropes and some red.

  The girl’s hand on her belly. The girl’s hand on the cup. Old Man snores and chokes, and Sister says, The way it turns.

  She moves the bead, and through it, the girl sees veins, cut glass, some small living flash.

  It isn’t nothing, Sister says.

  How, Old Man says in his sleep.

  Sister pulls the thread through her mouth.

  Old Man says, How, and the girl starts.

  Old Man says, Now, and the girl grinds her teeth.

  Now, Now.

  Platter and cup. Thin spinning leaf.

  What’ll happen? the girl says.

  And Sister studies what she’s making. See there, she answers. See the way they all catch.

  A NEW CALIBRATION

  Still morning but for the worse. The quarter sun bore down on the dew, and the town sweltered and shone. To some eyes, it was lovely, dull things asparkle—hydrants and dumpsters and the trashy little signs that marked the shops around the square—but what glittered couldn’t last in such heat. What now was shining was one morning closer to rusting all the way through.

  Already, May Fly felt the damp heat creeping up the seams of her shirt. The festival was in full swing, and something was flapping in May Fly’s head so that she was light enough to very nearly float above the oily asphalt. The world before her shimmered and went fuzzy, particularly when she found herself standing in the steam of the barbecue pit, the grill whereon various slabs of still-bloody meat recognizable as hips and legs and wings dripped and spat.

  She’d had last night three-quarters of a bottle of cherry cough medicine and perhaps this made the day louder than it would have been otherwise. Preacherman on the corner playing his sermon songs from some strung-up speakers. A small dog barking. And there at the courthouse a lady they called the Spin-Wife telling everybody to stand up, to put their hands together.

  May Fly ducked down and moved through the people, some she recognized, others she didn’t. It was a little like swimming, which she wished she was doing just now, diving under the blue water at the city pool, moving so fast, so easily against all that weight. She tried to remember the sudden chill, the sharp burn in her nose even as the edges of the iridescent world before her spun in ways they shouldn’t have. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s bologna.

  Viva said they could go somewhere real nice once May Fly did what she had to do.

  Pizza? May Fly said, and Viva said, Yeah. Whatever.

  May Fly was in the front yard of the courthouse where they had hauled in some metal bleachers for the kids and the old folks. All the great and great-great grannies were down on the first couple of rows, petrified women with knitted blankets on their laps, fossilized faces nearly hidden under sun hats and black wraparound glasses.

  Mama Powell, May Fly’s grandmother, was too young for this crowd. She’d be over at the church, selling her pies and changing money for the benefit sale. May Fly wouldn’t have to worry about Mama Powell. Viva had promised that.

  This was the talent show, and on stage a boy in a store-bought sheriff’s costume played a plastic recorder. It was more squeaks than notes, but just to the side of the stage, Spin-Wife bobbed and tapped as if the racket was a familiar tune. When it was over, when the boy took the recorder away from his mouth in a great string of spittle, Spin-Wife told everybody to give it up for Little Charlie Whitehead.

  May Fly clapped, but she kept moving. She wasn’t here to watch the talent show or listen to Preacherman or play the carnival games, though she did, for a minute, linger in front of the balloon booth—all those animals on strings, a giant stuffed dog which she liked in particular and fancied even more for the way one eye was so clearly sewn upside down. She studied that dog for some time, but then a man threw a dart and a balloon popped and May Fly flinched as if she’d been asleep standing up. She slapped her face, a bug she felt crawling there. She was back now, back to where she had no choice but to be.

  May Fly didn’t have money to pop balloons, but Viva said what she was doing was a kind of game. There was a set of plastic checkers at the house, and since Viva didn’t want to play—Ain’t good at that sort of stuff, she said—May Fly learned to play herself. That is, she played a different version of herself. One May Fly was careful and thought a long time about her next play. But the other May Fly took more risks. Sometimes she moved without thinking. Sometimes she just jumped.

  Viva said, You look at that board. You’re making sure you see everything, she said. Right?

  Viva flicked May Fly on the ear. Hear me, girl? she said, and May Fly nodded.

  That’s right, Viva said. It’s the same thing. You’re gonna look around, check things out. You’re gonna figure out when and where to move. And then, Viva clapped in May Fly�
�s face, you get the prize.

  May Fly listened and when Viva asked if she understood, May Fly said, How come you can’t go? Why’s it gotta be me?

  Viva laughed and her silver tooth caught the light in a way that made it look black. Her hair, when she had it done, fell in tight little curls but was, just now, a series of tangles and rats. Viva shook it off her face but it fell right back. Because, she said, people notice me.

  Loose lines of snickering teenagers and mothers with strollers and bored finger-snapping men trudged around May Fly. They scratched at bugs and made faces at babies and ate meat off sticks, plodding from table to table as if in chutes, as if they too had no other place to go. The vendors were set up in stalls around the square, and there was Preacherman, and there were games, and there was a gray-headed woman from the waste water department passing out pamphlets about rain barrels. There were handicrafts—tables lined with ugly wooden toys and signs decorated with cute sayings: HOME IS WHERE THE MESS IS. And there in front of the Merle Norman was Miss Rawley, the plant woman.

  May Fly knew Miss Rawley, had been to see her one Saturday afternoon with Mama Powell. Miss Rawley lived with her mother and sold plants out of a clapboard which, at one point, had been painted a patriotic blue but was now more weathered wood than anything. To her credit, Miss Rawley probably didn’t know the difference. The house might have been in pristine condition as far as she knew because Miss Rawley had a beautiful pair of smoky eyes that were like most pretty things in that they were nearly useless. One eye, jewel that it was, even had a tendency to wander back toward the bone, and when Mama Powell asked how much is this one, Miss Rawley had to feel the leaves. She had to feel the little knotted buds to know that it was a geranium.

  Miss Rawley’s mother was still mobile, but she was white-haired and tiny and couldn’t have been any younger than eighty-five, and she spent most of her time in a lawn chair underneath a shade tree where every branch was hung with a homemade wind chime.

  She’s blind, May Fly said when they were back in the car. The backseat was full of red geraniums, and though they didn’t smell exactly, there was what you could call an odor of dirt and greenery and living things. She’s blind and she plants all those plants.

  Mama Powell looked like she was shaking her head, but she was also looking both ways not once but twice before she pulled out onto Main. Some things, she said, you don’t need to see to know.

  At the festival, May Fly didn’t bother hiding even though Viva said she needed to make sure nobody saw. May Fly just stood in the middle of things, her hard flat belly sweating through the screened faces of three Disney princesses. Her eyes shifted and worked. There was old Miss Rawley selling chimes from her lawn chair, and the younger Miss Rawley feeling her way through the pots. She stooped to touch this leaf or that dirt. Some of the pots she watered from a rusting can. There was a lawn chair for her too, and underneath was the purse that held the billfold from which, May Fly saw, Miss Rawley was making change.

  This place is stupid, Viva had said, and May Fly knew she didn’t mean Black Creek exactly. A place couldn’t be stupid or smart or rich or poor or black or white or good or bad. A place was only what it was, and May Fly understood that Viva meant the people. They don’t watch out for things. They don’t think anything bad’s gonna happen ever.

  They were in the living room. Viva was on the couch, and May Fly was on the floor with her cheek pressed up against Viva’s leg.

  They think, Viva said, everything’s just gonna be happily ever after. She made a hissing sound. Air funneled around that silver tooth. Maybe for them that’s true.

  Viva had a paper party plate balanced on her knee. She was breaking up a bud, and for May Fly, who’d seen this maybe a hundred times, her mother’s hands might have been snapping peas for supper. She moved her head so that her ear was tight against her mother’s skin. In science class, they’d talked some about bodies, nothing anybody really wanted to know but just some vague stuff about bones and veins and blood. May Fly pretended she could hear these things moving and working. She could hear everything that was inside of her mother.

  I used to be that way, Viva said. I used to think everything would be okay. You learn, though. And I learned that good and quick.

  What May Fly could feel without pretending was the vibration of her mother’s voice. She could feel that in the knee and the bone. She rubbed her fingers against her mother’s skin. She smelled the weed, the earth in it. It was better than the other stuff Viva sometimes smoked, the junk that reeked like burnt marshmallows and a pan somebody left on the stove.

  People like us, Viva said, we got to make our own good.

  May Fly blinked and squinted against the brighter light. On stage, Spin-Wife was asking how everybody was doing this morning. She was yelling at them. Come on! she screamed at the grannies. You can do better than that!

  A higher sun, and May Fly’s mind startled into a wild starving flutter. For a minute, she wasn’t sure what she was doing. For a minute, she only saw the auras of things—a glowing Miss Rawley mottled by dark blotches, the shadows of leaves and black spots for black pieces.

  And red for red, Mama Powell said. She’d been the one to teach May Fly how to play which sometimes, she said, amounted to biding your time. It might seem like you’ve got yourself stuck in a corner, but you don’t. You’re just waiting, see there. You just need the right opportunity.

  May Fly opened her eyes wide, and she swallowed until the spots disappeared, and it wasn’t long—ten minutes, a half hour—before old Miss Rawley pushed herself up and out of the lawn chair. She stood without moving, and around her, the metal chimes flashed in the sun, and for a few terrible seconds, old Miss Rawley, framed in all that glare, was staring right at May Fly. But she was only regaining her balance, letting the blood back into her legs as Mama Powell did when she’d been sitting too long.

  Old Miss Rawley pulled up the waist of her pants and took a few tentative steps toward the younger Miss Rawley. They reached out to each other, and stood there, the one holding up the other. Then old Miss Rawley let go and set off in a slow and painful hobble in the direction of the porta-potties.

  On stage, the next act was a troupe of dancers May Fly’s own age, and if she’d looked, she’d have recognized a few of them as homeroom classmates. They gathered in formation, their little fingers on the brims of their costume top hats. The music began, and it was a loud poppy number, a voice more robot than human. The feet stomped in a kind of brigade, and up close, the song played loud enough to chatter the speakers, but May Fly didn’t see her classmates. And as she moved in, what she heard, even louder than the music, was all those wind chimes. Most of them were made of forks and knives hammered flat, and in some winds, they made a sound that was less musical than frantic, and Mama Powell, who’d spent a number of years in Oklahoma, told May Fly once that when she heard that clattering, she couldn’t think of anything but tornadoes. The way the wind blew and the sky turned yellow, and you knew you better hunker down. You knew a bad one was coming.

  On stage, the children were dancing, and at Miss Rawley’s booth, a couple with a baby was looking at a nice rose bush. Miss Rawley went over to them, and May Fly knew she was telling them what a rose liked and didn’t like. Miss Rawley was talking about the rose like it was a person, like it was capable of feeling and thought and action all its own. May Fly knew what Miss Rawley was saying even before she could hear it with her own ears, even before she was ducking down and swiping the red leather billfold and tucking it into the loose waist of her shorts.

  Lady Banks, Miss Rawley said, will outlive your grandchildren.

  May Fly was sliding around Miss Rawley now.

  She smells just like violets.

  Miss Rawley knew the geranium well enough, not just by touching it but by sniffing the air, a scent May Fly had tried to catch. So maybe Miss Rawley did know that her house needed painting, and maybe she knew that May Fly was close. Maybe there was something about May Fly that cou
ld be sensed without seeing.

  Suddenly, the music came to a quick stop, and there was the thud of so many bodies, seven sets of show-stopping splits. In the thin applause that ensued, May Fly nearly ran but held herself to a fast walking clip.

  The Spin-Wife said, Make some noise for The Stars and Stripes!

  May Fly thought she heard somebody yelling. She thought she heard somebody calling after her, but she told herself it was just Preacherman. Preacherman was calling after everybody all the time, saying the world was gonna end, and they were all going to hell unless they stood up, unless they took that first step, Lord. And he was singing now, Preacherman was. They had to ask. They had to get on their knees and beg for forgiveness! Please, Lord, Preacherman sang. Give me life!

  Things were turning in May Fly’s stomach, but she kept walking. She did what Viva told her. She didn’t turn around.

  On TV, when they had TV, May Fly had seen the way suicide bombing worked. She’d only caught the last half-hour of the movie, and she didn’t understand why the man did what he did, only how he did it. The way he put on a vest strapped with dynamite. How he moved like old Miss Rawley, like a person in pain as he made his way into a tall building constructed, it seemed, entirely of mirrors. The man in the movie said a prayer in another language and nodded as if in some response just before he reached inside his coat and pressed the button.

  May Fly felt Miss Rawley’s red billfold, hot and sticky against her belly. She stuck her hands in her pockets, holding up her baggy shorts as she walked—struggling not to run—the five blocks from the square, past the paper mill, and down the tracks to the little white house with the dirt yard where she and Viva stayed. Viva said it wouldn’t be any different than checkers, but May Fly felt more like the man in the movie. Like, at any minute, everything might explode.