Free Nightwork: Stories by Christine Schutt Page A

husband wants. She, he says, wants to pitch her umbrella elsewhere.
    Where?
    I am standing here with the gerbils, who are loose again and scrabbling over my bare feet.
    There is broken glass on the floor.
    I can’t help what happens.
    The kitchen is sprung like an army knife, and I am in a hurry.
    I have thrown open the window and am moving fast to catch these gerbils with only my hands. Firstthe girl, who is trembling and trying to nip me—I swing her by the leg out the window; she is gone. Then I make for the boy, hiding in a corner.
    I think he thinks he is safe; he doesn’t move. Lost, pointless, filthy boy.
    I toss him underhand—just like rice.

STEPHEN, MICHAEL, PATRICK, JOHN
    S he wanted to touch the sister’s back as she saw it in the light beyond the door where she stood, breathing through her mouth, a spy on the sister in the sister’s house—yet waited for, welcome.
    “You see that yard?” the sister asked. “That’s my garden.”
    Gray morning yellowed here and here and pinched with ribbed red leaves. Impossible to believe that they had slept through to winter again or that this was April—and snow, she in the bedroom with the sister, and somewhere around the house the sister’s husband, caulking windows maybe, wrangling locks. Not much seen, this husband, but she sometimes heard him brush against the wall, bulked shoulders and the clack of buttons. The sound reminded her of parts of him, thehusband’s black hair shocked off his wide wrist, his hairy fingers fixing things.
    The sister said, “I see a doctor now. I’m on a medication.”
    “What kind?” she asked. “Since when?”
    The sister said, “Since it happened,” folding blanket squares and sacks that crackled with static, the sister’s hands had snagged on the clothes. “And the sparks,” the sister said. Even pulled apart, hand-ironing, the sleepwear had stuck to the sister’s palm, and the tips of her fingers had felt coarse to the sister.
    The sister said, “I raked the little clothes like leaves into giant bags and lugged them to the basement.” She said, “I tossed them. I didn’t care where they landed.”
    The sister said, “Want to know how you can help? You can throw out the flowers. Burst tulips are obscene—black and dusted parts exposed. They don’t dry shut or turn to paper. They are never quite dead.”
    She saw the husband in the yard was waving something away.
    “Maybe the dog,” the sister said. “You’ll hear him howling. It’s all very gothic. The neighbors are afraid of us. Everyone, I think, is afraid of us.”
    The sister said, “The food I buy spoils on the drive home, and you’ve seen what has happened to my doors. The strips of torn-up bedclothes are to warn off the birds. There is nothing we can do about the howling.”
    The sister’s hands were cutting into pillows, when what she had expected—what she always expected—wasto see fleshier hands, the sister’s once, flushed on flushed breasts under cover of their bedroom.
    She said, “What can I do to help?”
    Tucking in the bed tight, beating the pillows, the sister said, “Talk,” and then they didn’t.
    White sheets and pillows, white lace curtains very white, and the way the room was arranged, she saw, the high bed, the nightstands, the mournful dresser, all was familiar, was their mother’s room, early morning. The light was a salt in her eyes, but she kept blinking into it.
    Spit-writing names on the wall, she remembered, and spying on their parents. The sister had dared her to look.
    “What do you see?” the sister had asked her.
    “Nothing,” she had said, when what she had seen was Mother heaving on the stairs, carrying her wrong babies low—Stephen, Michael, Patrick, John.
    Her sister stood close to the mirror on the door. “I’m glad you’re here,” the sister said.
    She said, “I hope,” and stood near enough to watch the way the soft powder caught in the small lines of the sister’s skin, the sister