Free The Physics of Imaginary Objects (Pitt Drue Heinz Lit Prize) by Tina May Hall Page A

today, I have my chores, so I lace up my tennis shoes and peg the clothes on the line. The sheets bell like sails; the monogram on them is not mine. The weeds are choking the vegetable patch, and I drag them up by the roots. I can be ruthless. I wring chicken necks and drown unwanted kittens. I shot a raccoon last July because he wouldn't leave my trash cans alone. Once, I stepped on a nail that went all the way through the meat of my foot and I just pulled it out and walked on. I birthed three children in the cottage bed, and only one of them lived. In the black earth above the other two, I planted peonies whose heads I cut each spring for my kitchen table. My mother used to say that it was the little things that killed you. My mother told me to tread gently in the woods.
     
    She is closer now. I can feel her. She is a berry, the glossy poison kind. She is the one I care about, not him, all teeth and talk. She is the important one, flesh of my flesh. Who knew that blood could be so greedy? I want to see her, no matter what comes next. I want to see her plump cheeks, her shining eyes, and drink my fill. It is the one thing denied to me, I think, if I'm reading the story right.
     
    When it was my turn, I took the basket eagerly enough. The leaves chattered in the spring wind. The path was soft under my feet. The hood was warm and fleece-lined, and I was clean as a river stone underneath, fresh-shaven, flossed, exfoliated and moisturized. I was more toothsome than the cakes I carried and I knew it. When he appeared, I wasn't surprised, but I could not look away from his mouth. I loved the way he smoked his cigarette down to the very end. Why didn't his fingers burn? Why didn't the whole forest light?
     
    All my married life I wondered which I had ended up with—the wolf or the man with the ax.
     
    This is what I know: there is a cloak bright as a geranium muffled in my closet, the bloodstains dark at the hem; when he talks to her, she cannot help but listen; I will make a flourless torte, the chocolate one with the bourbon, as if this were my birthday; the end will not be painless for any of us.
     
    All those years ago and still I can hear his voice, the growl of it, Hey, baby. He called me chickadee as if I were small and harmless. He ate the cakes with both hands, and I carried an empty basket through the woods.
     
    Ah, the old lady, the old lady. There is no escaping her. She hangs out the wash and stokes the fire. She makes up the bed with the sun-scented sheets. She gasps a little when she catches her reflection in the silver teapot. The teapot shows her the truth; there is an infinite sequence of her, like a nesting doll or a line of dominoes set on end.
     
    I am too old to believe in fairy tales. I feel the glow of her on the dim path to my clearing and I know I'll never see her face. He is the one who will come to me. Again. But this time there will be no endearments. He, or the other one, the woodsman with his musty barn jacket, will proffer it all to her. They are the ones she will thank as she walks through the cottage, touching the gravy boat and the polished stones of the fireplace. She will have never seen such objects in her life. The painting of the ship at sea will stop her in her tracks as she tries to name the exact color of the waves. I have things I would tell her, messages I can leave only in the most homely of ways. Oh, baby , I would say. Chickadee. Hang up your cloak next to mine, next to the others. See the place on the floor where the blood has fallen? You must scrub it with sand to get the stain out. The sheets will bleach in the sun. I've given you everything, the clear days, the smell of smoke in his hair, all the plates and tins and implements. There are morning glories hidden behind the chicken coop. Whichever one you end up with, never tell him the truth about the other—there are some things that shouldn't be said aloud. The pump handle sticks, but when the water gushes out, it is cold