5. Wednesday, September 6, 2023
Geoff
A thud against the door wakes him. Or at least he thinks it did.
There’s only silence now, so maybe he dreamt it?
A thick block of pain pulses behind his eyes and his stomach churns ever so slightly.
Something stinks. Ah, the magical effects of drinking both wine and bourbon.
He sees the gray light of dawn outside his writing-studio window; that means he spent the night on his couch and Alice is going to be pissed.
He saw her watching his wine intake at dinner.
He noticed the raised eyebrow when he said he wanted to do some more writing, so he’d promised he’d be back in the house before bed.
Instead he poured himself a double bourbon and scrolled through porn websites until he found something he liked.
He’s discerning when it comes to his pornography; all female participants must clearly be older than his daughter and he wants to see pubic hair, minimal tattoos, real boobs, and a believable storyline.
The requirements of an old man. He knows it. He just can’t get into it otherwise.
He doesn’t necessarily have a penchant for porn.
He just needs to come now and again. He and Alice haven’t had sex since before Lucy died, over a year and a half now.
Even when life was good, they’d gotten complacent about sex, letting weeks, sometimes months, go by.
Then they’d go to a party, have a few drinks, and end up in bed, breaking the dry spell.
Geoff would have liked some more frequency but he knew couples who’d stopped having sex altogether after kids arrived, so who was he to complain?
When Lucy died, they had been in a dry spell, one that persisted through the grief and the effort of trying to make it through each day.
It’s been so long now that Geoff has no idea how to even broach the topic.
Will Alice think he’s insensitive for wanting it?
He has no idea. That’s why, like so many things in their lives, he’s leaving it up to her.
In the meantime, he’ll sneak away and jerk off.
Hence, a double bourbon, a video that fit the bill, and a quick release. Then another bourbon to wash away his shame and boat-fail videos until he passed out on the couch.
Something smells bad, like skunk. He sits up slowly, feeling fragile all over, and picks up his phone. Before tapping on it he catches his reflection in its surface, hair a wild mess, eyes puffy and bloodshot, a sheen of sweat on his face. The epitome of a fifty-two-year-old drunk pervert.
It’s 5:05 a.m. Thinking he might sneak inside for a coffee and a shower in the kids’ bathroom so that he can at least try to appear fresh when Alice wakes up, he pushes himself off the couch.
The skunk smell grows as he reaches the door.
Pulling it open, the smell slaps him like an ungloved hand.
His eyes water and sour bile rises up his throat.
Coughing, he stumbles back when he realizes the damn thing is right there on the bottom step.
He sees mostly red, like it’s been skinned.
Only a hint of black-and-white fur is visible.
Gingerly, he steps over it and onto the lawn, a hand across his mouth and nose to stifle his gag reflex.
Obviously he can’t leave it here; the dog might get at it and the kids will see it.
He heads to the garden shed at the side of the house for the shovel.
The heavy dew on the lawn coats his bare feet in his Birkenstocks and soaks the hem of his jeans, which makes the whole experience even worse.
Shovel in hand, he goes back to his studio.
The birds are up and chirping loudly now, a symphony of early-morning zest and cheerfulness that penetrates his eggshell-soft skull like a power drill.
He eases the shovel under the limp body of the skunk and lifts it off the step. That’s when he notices. The sides of the skunk’s gut are two flaps that have fallen open, revealing the internal cavity. The guts are gone.
“What the fuck,” he whispers.
Geoff looks around the yard and into the trees.
He gets the unsettling sense that something is looking right back at him.
Still tightly gripping the handle of the shovel, he forces himself toward the woods.
He wants this to be over. Flicking the disemboweled carcass off the shovel and into a bed of leaves, he doesn’t even make it out of the trees before he feels a sour belch rising and a torrent of vomit pours from him.
Bending down, he paints the forest floor with last night’s dinner, his double bourbons, and his shame.
Quinn
He has a gaming hangover. His thumbs ache, his eyes burn, and he’s exhausted.
He stayed up until 3:30 a.m. playing Fortnite with his friends from the city, and then some random people he met online.
“A bunch of predators,” his mom calls them.
It was the only way to keep his mind off his shitty first day of school and the fact that he has to go back today and every day for the rest of the school year.
He doesn’t know who he hates more right now, his mom or Max Sheffield.
His alarm goes off. He’s already hit Snooze three times, and he’s rolling over to hit it again when he hears Polly call out.
She sounds scared. He throws off his covers and races to her room, arriving just behind his mom, who gets there first. Polly’s standing near the window in her pajamas, her arms crossed tightly, like she’s protecting herself from something.
“I was opening my curtains, and a bird smashed into my window. I looked down to see if it was okay, but it has no head.” Her voice rises to a screech with the last part. “Look at it,” she demands.
They both go over to the window and, sure enough, lying in the grass only a few feet away is a small black bird, its wings splayed open as though in midflight, its legs sticking straight up, a bloody stump where the head should be.
Quinn looks at the grass around the bird, searching for the head.
Can birds fly so hard into windows that they decapitate themselves?
“I don’t see its head anywhere,” his mom says, both hands on the window as she, too, scans the area. “Was it decapitated while flying? Is that even possible?”
“What are you guys looking at?” his dad asks, arriving last to the scene, as usual.
“A headless bird that flew into Polly’s window,” Quinn answers. “But we can’t see the head. So, it’s like it flew into the window already decapitated. Like something threw it at the window.”
His dad’s eyes go wide for a second and he opens his mouth as if to say something, but then looks over at his mom, closes it, and shakes his head.
Quinn can’t tell if he’s shaking it at himself or about the headless bird.
Either way, the guy does not look good. He’s showered and dressed for the day, but he has puffy bags under his bloodshot eyes.
“It’s so weird,” his mom says, still staring out the window. “Quinn might be right. It’s more likely that someone or something threw it at the window.”
“But why?” Polly whines.
“I’ll go get rid of it,” his dad offers, which surprises Quinn. Normally his mom says that kind of thing and then his dad steps in and says he’ll do it.
His mom turns away from the window and claps her hands.
“No time to solve it now. I have to get to work and, Quinn, you need to get to school.” Only then does she notice that he’s standing there, not in his uniform but in his pajamas.
“What the hell, Quinn? You’re not even dressed. You’re going to miss the bus.”
“I’ll drive him,” Polly offers, and Quinn feels an unusual gratitude for her. “If I can use Dad’s car, that is,” she adds.
His mom looks at his dad. “Geoff, you don’t have anything important to do this morning, do you?”
Quinn notices the tightening of his dad’s jaw that usually comes before a fight with his mom, but this time his dad only sighs and says, “The car’s all yours, Polly.” He turns and leaves the room.
“Well, Quinn, looks like you’ve been saved by your sister.
Try not to be any later than necessary. It’s only your second day, after all.
I’ll make your lunch to speed things up.
” She puts a hand on his shoulder. “I hope today is better than yesterday. I really do.” Before he can shift away from her touch and tell her that the only reason she has to hope he has a good day is because she moved them to this shitty house, she takes her hand away and leaves the room, robbing him of the opportunity.
“Thanks,” he says to Polly, who feels like his only ally at the moment.
She shrugs. “No problem. I want Starbucks anyway. Give me fifteen and I’ll be ready.”
Back in his room he catches sight of his dad through his bedroom window, standing over the dead bird, hands on his hips, looking into the woods, then back down at the bird, then back into the woods.
His nana appears around the side of the house, already dressed in one of her weird, colorful outfits, makeup on, hair done.
Her arrival startles his dad, making Quinn think he must be pretty unnerved by the headless bird.
Quinn’s window is shut, so he can’t hear anything, but he watches his nana say something to his dad, then point in the direction of the pool.
She makes a face of disgust and shivers dramatically.
His dad looks shocked by whatever she told him and then gestures to the bird at his feet.
His nana makes another face of disgust, then clutches at her necklace and shakes her head before they both walk back around the house together.
He quickly gets dressed and goes out to the kitchen, where his mother is making him a sandwich for his lunch. “Turkey okay?” she asks.
“Yeah, sure,” he answers. He heads toward the back door to see what his nana was on about to his dad, but she steps through it and blocks the doorway.