SINCERELY, YOUR LOVING WIFE

By Ben Greenman / @2019

From forthcoming collection of stories, as yet untitled

It was not a red-letter day when she got and read the letter from Ledbetter. He had led her astray but then led her back. He kept her on track, or at least that’s what he said. He told her that in bed. He insisted. She made a fist just thinking about it. But maybe he was right about it. He said he had the gift of second sight and she could not doubt it. 

When the letter arrived she had returned from a drive. She spent a while eating. She was reading. The letter stopped her cold. She dropped her paperback, popped a pill out of a blister pack and downed it. A sound escaped her lips. She felt memories in her hips. She put the letter underneath her chair and said a prayer. She ran until her lungs burned to confirm that she was alive. 

She reviewed what she knew of this man, this writer. She tested herself. Her chest felt tighter.  

Ledbetter had not married her but he had asked her if they could operate in that mode. That was a kind of code. They had carried the idea in their hearts. They had sworn they’d never part. He owed her and she was his debtor. And still—and here she popped another pill—she had left. He was bereft. He had said so on the phone. He possessed a pleasant baritone.

She ate some more, felt hate in her core. She read the letter. It said that he’d been better. It said that he doubted he’d ever move on. It wondered about the assumptions she was under regarding people in her bed. His language was vague but she got the gist, made another fist. With her other hand she held her head.

The letter wasn’t right. She crumpled it up with all her might, her chest still tight. She tried her best to think of men other than Ledbetter. She thought of Sam from the fruit stand, of Hiram from the airlines, of her ninth grade teacher Mr. Meacham, of Lloyd Meacham his tall tan son, of Officer Kenneth Lombardi, who had impounded her car some years before. She thought of the Emperor Wu-ti, a historically significant horse-rustler who had brought Imperial China to the brink of destruction. She thought of Linc, of Stink-Brained Philip, of Gasoline Jerry, of Tony Romo, of Batman, of Perry Como. She thought of all the men she had met and all the men who had met her. But in the end, she knew she had to send a letter back to Ledbetter. She could not pretend otherwise. She closed and opened her eyes. She grabbed a pen and collected her strength again.

PERFECTLY PATIENT

By Ben Greenman / @2019

From forthcoming collection of stories, as yet untitled

She watched, not from her car window, but from his, looking across the field, focusing on the two teams competing, remembering the scoring that had already occurred, the cheers that had followed, the careful way the players took their time setting up new scores, the perfect patience with which their minds moved their bodies into place. Not just remembering: cherishing. Mountains backdropped the scene. Her husband was next to her, looking out the same window. He was both leaning in too close and not paying attention, and she thought about saying something, but she knew that if she complained his face would tighten with what could be violence, if she was not careful. She corrected herself: if he was not careful. Her shrink had taught her to make that correction. And also to say “thank you” and “I’m sorry” less, and “I don’t care” not at all. Her shrink was a wise old man who called his bicycle “mine steed” and every can of soda he drank “mine silver chalice.” His advice helped her but more importantly he made her laugh. Her husband never made her laugh. He focused on her too intently and couldn’t put across any real ideas of his own. Coming to watch was not his idea. She had brought it up a week earlier. He had ignored it. She did not bring it up again. That was another piece of advice from her shrink: Don't repeat yourself. Then one morning he had announced that he would drive her to the field at the foot of the mountains. He did not explain the change of heart but from questions he asked she was able to ascertain that she had said something in her sleep about leaving, and that he had planned the trip as a countermeasure. He committed to his performance fully. He talked about the players whose names he knew: there were maybe two or three. He tacked the schedule on the wall. The morning of, he set the alarm for early, made breakfast, supported every choice she made as she got ready. “Choice of clothing, choice of scent, choice of where the razor went.” That was her shrink’s song. He sang it when she talked about altering her appearance. She wanted more hair on her body or less. She wanted more revealing clothing or less. She wanted a thick natural odor or artificial citrus. But she worried the wrong choice would put her husband off. “Who gives a shit?” her shrink said. “If it puts him off, put somebody else on. Not me, of course. No thanks. I’m as old as a commandment. I shalt not. But if you ever want to give me a peek, let me know. It would warm mine cockles of mine heart.” He knuckled his chest merrily. Would he ever stop making her laugh? She was dreaming about putting someone else on the night she talked in her sleep about leaving. In her dream she had hair most everywhere and smelled both of herself and of grapefruit. She couldn’t wait to tell her shrink about the dream. Maybe she’d even give him a peek. She politely ate a few bites of breakfast though she was always saying that it was not a meal that interested her. She must have said that a thousand times over the years. Her husband frowned when she scraped off most of the breakfast into the trash but said nothing. He packed up the car in silence and drove all morning with his jaw set tight. “Looking forward to the game,” he said, though it was fact a match. “Nice day,” he said, ignoring the crushing heat. “We’re here,” he said, before they were. “I like this better than I though I would,” he said, leaning in too close, not even looking. “Matter of fact, I’m glad we did this.” She knew he was lying—facts were never like that—but she didn’t care. She watched the match, cherishing the players’ patience. On the field a girl scored a goal, not her first.

SYMPOSIUM

By Ben Greenman / @2019

From forthcoming collection of stories, as yet untitled

A thing is coming up out of the ground. Everyone is scared and everyone knows that everyone else is scared, which scares everyone more than the thing coming up out of the ground, though that’s scary, too, “proof of certain death,” murmurs one person, but then another person turns toward the that person, shakes her head, turns toward all the other people, not shaking her head any longer, and explains that everything is proof of certain death, that death is certain, doesn’t need to prove itself, that it’s more a question of when rather than if, and this thing that’s got everyone scared, that’s got everyone knowing that everyone else is scared, has a similar approach, doesn’t furnish a timetable, that there’s no ticking or darkening or heating up or even a shadow thrown sundial-style across the ground where they’re standing, and she shakes her head now again, impatiently, “the thing,” she says, “about this thing,” and she’s speaking haltingly, fidgeting the end of a pigtail, “is that it’s just a symbol, and a symbol only scares people who can’t look past it or through it, so that’s where we have to look, we have to step away from it so it doesn’t take over our way of seeing,” and she’s speaking faster toward the end, more confident, now, hands out in front of her, free of fidget, palms up in persuasion, and that’s the pose that’s recorded on the wall in crude red brown-paint and discovered thousands of years later by archaeologists who determine that she was set upon by the panicked mob and torn to pieces, just steps away from the thing coming up out of the ground. They also determine that the paint was made from powdered minerals mixed with blood.

A FAMILY OUTING

By Ben Greenman / @2019

From forthcoming collection of stories, as yet untitled

The father goes to see the daughter, who’s in the bin. Or is it the mother going to see the son who's in the bin? “Don’t call it the bin,” says the child. “That’s an insulting characterization. The people here are struggling through a phase in their life, all hoping they pass through this time, that time passes through them.” Or is it the parent who speaks? Neither speaks. No one speaks. They sit on a bench, out in the courtyard, an alphabet book perched on the pads of the reader’s thumbs, pages turned in faith for the read-to, there’s an anteater, there’s a ball, there’s a cow. The clues are getting simpler as time passes through the book. “I’m calling it the bin,” says the child. “And you can’t stop me.” The parent sighs. “I’m the one who’s calling it the bin,” says the parent. “And you’re the one who can’t stop me.” The child looks at the parent. The child looks for love in the parent’s eyes. The parent’s eyes stay fixed on the book, still on cow. What’s next? Is it doll? Is it dog? Is it duck? The daughter looks at the father. The son looks at the mother. Both are afraid to turn the page. One lifts a corner. The picture is revealed, In part: a mound of dirt, a cross, a shovel. One releases the corner. The picture is concealed, in full. Time does not pass. Behind them, massed in the courtyard, leaning out of windows, fingers wriggling like worms in the spaces behind the leaves of trees, are all the other children in the bin, all the other parents, too, murmuring, yelling, buzzing, grumbling, shrieks and susurrations. Everyone is speaking.

BAKERS

By Ben Greenman / @2019
From future collection.

These bakers are all going to die. The one with glasses, the one without. The one who runs fast, the one who drives. The one with the worried face, the one who always manages to assume an air of preternatural calm. The tall, the short, the strong, the weak, the hopeful and hopeless alike. The inspector will come in the morning and pick up a stale loaf from the ground where it has fallen. Hard as a rock in his hand. He’ll set it back down—investigators and photographers will follow—and make for the back room, but he knows what he’ll find before he gets there. Dead bakers, lined up neatly, hats white, shirts white, laundry-fresh, free at last.

LITTER

By Ben Greenman / @2019

From forthcoming collection of stories, as yet untitled

Once there were dogs. They were in the neighborhood. They gamboled and panted. Tails wagged. Then boys with stones began to move in to the houses, first on the north side of the street, then on the south side. They weighed those stones in their hands and flung them at the dogs. Many were struck and injured. Three were killed. The rest ran off. 

Only one boy held himself apart from the violence. He became a historian of the neighborhood. He became me—or rather, I was already that boy. The history of the neighborhood weighed on me like an illness. I remembered what I had witnessed and recorded it all in a series of notebooks. I numbered them up until nine or ten and then lost count.

Over one summer I made of an acquaintance one of the other boys. He was as bad as the rest, but with hope of improvement. I invited him to my house to read the chronicle I had written. He sat at a chair in my kitchen, my notebooks piled next to him on the table, and read without saying a word. When he was done with the first notebook, he went on to the next. When he was done with the second notebook, he stood up. “In this neighborhood we did our best,” he said. “People can say all kinds of things. That cannot be stopped. But there is no sense of how the dogs wronged us. They took our food. They fouled our lawns and carpets. When we tried to stop them, they barked at us and frightened us, and when we tried to stop that, they bit us.” 

That boy stayed standing. “I had a dream the other night,” he said. “I was locked in a cage, with little hope of ever getting out. I understood that it was the neighborhood, but also that I was being punished for what we had done to others. At that moment a pack of dogs appeared. ‘Kill him,’ said one. ‘Starve him,’ said another. A brindle terrier stepped in front of the cage. ‘I cannot do that,’ he said. I was so relieved. I woke feeling more kindly toward the dogs, or at least less angry. That set me on the path which brought me in time to this kitchen.”

He stopped his story. I came to believe that we were friends. Only a friend would share such a story. We met in my house once or twice a month for years. Eventually we were young men, drinking too much whiskey, making too much of ourselves and too little of the girls who lived a few streets over. It was said that they had dogs, too, and treated them with kindness.

One day we made a pledge to visit them. We set out at dawn.  All along the first street was a series of caverns. At the corner was a sheer rock face. As we passed the second street we heard a loud crack, followed by a rumble. My friend clutched his ears. I clutched mine. It was thunder, betokening rain. We turned back. We’d meet the girls some other time, I told him. I was trying to cheer him up but the effect was something else entirely. As we rounded onto our corner, he turned to me. “I wish I there were dogs here,” he said. His face was wet with tears. “I’m going to read the rest of your notebooks,” he said. “I promise.” We walked down the middle of the street, neither on the north side nor the south, careful to avoid the lawns and the stones all over them that had been thrown there but never picked up.

CORRESPONDENT KEN

By Ben Greenman / @2019

From forthcoming collection of stories, as yet untitled

Here is a letter dictated to me by Ken, a man I see sometimes in my gym. He is older than the rest of the regulars, which prevented me at first from approaching him, while also creating in me the idea that if I did approach him, our conversation would be longer and more involved than those I had with the younger members of the gym, interactions that were mostly limited to raised hands or nodded heads, occasionally a word or two about a standout performance by an athlete the day before. I was right. When I finally introduced myself to Ken, he skipped straight over any pleasantries we might have exchanged me and asked me if I could take dictation. I was surprised by the specifics of the request but not by its general tenor. It was precisely the level of engagement I had expected before I spoke to him. “I can,” I said. He explained that he had damaged his hands, or more precisely poisoned himself with alcohol and the resulting tremors so that he could no longer keep them still, and that that much of the time he spent in the gym was in fact a novel physical-therapy regimen designed to steady him to the point where he could at least hold a telephone up to his ear. I wrote what he told me down without embellishing a single word. 

Dear J. —

Here, he took pains to explain that the J. was an initial rather than a name, and that prudence and a protective instinct prevented him from revealing the full identity of his correspondent. I nodded. He resumed.

Dear J—

To endure this level of contempt at this stage is confounding. We marched together for years, you and I. We fought side by side. We married, which was not easy in those days for two men. Think of all that we had to overcome. It was like fording a river without knowing exactly where it was. Danger rushed by in rapids beneath us for longer than we imagined. We crossed to the other side. And then what? When we were on dry land, when our bodies could be at rest and our minds came to be, that is when you chose to take your leave. 

What is wrong? I asked you several times. At first you would not answer at all. You merely turned away from me. In the fourth or fifth month you came forward with a list of grievances, most of which I felt were ordinary in the course of doing this kind of business: a partnership or what a weaker time would have called a “relationship.” I endeavored to address them in a timely manner. You wanted more time with me? Done. You wanted to sometimes pick our vacation destinations? Done. You wanted me to take a more active role in decorating, which had always struck me as boring? I could do that. I began to draft a letter back to you explaining that none of the things you were asking were impossible or even especially unlikely, but then I found myself more and more angry that you had not simply raised the issues with me when we were together. You escalated the issue to a point of no return, retreated down the other side of the peak, and then wrote your note. The more I thought about it, the more indefensible I felt your behavior to be, and I set aside the letter in which I planned to explain that I could accommodate your concerns and wrote this letter instead, in which I am explaining that your cowardice, more than anything I ever did—any words spoken, any drink drunk—has ruined things. You can go to hell. When you get there, don’t look for me. I’ll be elsewhere.

Love,

Ken

This was Ken’s letter. Again, I changed nothing, not a word. When I had finished, he seized it from me eagerly and read it back to himself, his hands shaking. “Ken,” I said, “were you happy with this J.?” 

“Is a strong man happy in the presence of corrosive weakness?” he answered. Now his tone was oracular. “Here,” he said. “Look.” He gave me a photograph. It was of a young man in a baseball cap, long hair matted on his next. He stared straight ahead as if he had been confronted, but his eyes were bright. Next to him, at a picnic table, sat a younger version of Ken. He held a beer can confidently in his right hand. His features were finer then. Next to them on the ground were two beautiful dogs, terriers of some kind. Why had he not mentioned the dogs? I thought. I almost cried it out. Instead, I handed the picture back to him. “Nice,” I said. He echoed the word as the photograph in his hand fanned the air between us.