expensively suited shoulder blades. She was draped over the disheveled bed in herred nylon negligee, with the livid marks of ten huge fingers standing out on her throat.
No. Let’s start again.
He was sheathed in green plastic garbage bags, tied neatly all the way down with a row of his own festive neckties, and buried at the bottom of the garden. They never would have found him if the neighbor hadn’t wanted to replace the fence. It was the wife who did it, with a frying pan. He’d been beating her up for years.
As for the other one, she was run through a meat grinder and frozen in little freezer baggies labeled “Stew.” Her daughter wanted the old-age checks. I learned about all of this in a British Rail station, en route to Norwich, because my train was late. You can’t make such things up.
• • •
It was because of the chocolate bars. It was because of the stars. It was because of a life behind bars. It was her hormones. It was the radiation from the wires and phones. It was his mother saying,
You’ll never amount to a hill of beans
. It was because he was so all-fired mean. It was the sleeping pills. It was the frills, on the blouse, under the jacket, over the breasts. It was the blood tests. It was the sigh, thecry, the hand on the thigh. It was the hunger, it was the rage, it was the spirit of the age.
It was a coincidence. It was the wrong bottle. My hand slipped. How was I to know it was loaded?
It was the fear. It was the cold, cold voice of the frozen angel, the voice from the outer darkness, whispering in my ear.
• • •
Mr. Plum, in the conservatory, with the wrench. She saw the wrench and she said,
What’s that wrench for?
And I thought she wanted sex. So I strangled her.
• • •
It was the dog hair on the back seat of the car. It was the bloodstain on the chandelier. It was the fingernail in the pail. It was the chalice with the palace. It was the chicken that did nothing in the nighttime. It was the one detail you always forget, and for that they will come to get you.
Aha
, they will say.
You thought you were so smart
. This is the worst part, just before you wake.
• • •
It was the heart, the too-small heart, the too-small devious heart, the lopsided heart, the impoverished heart, the heart someone dropped, the heart with a crack in it. It was the heart that thought it needed to kill. To show them all. To feel. To heal. To become whole.
ICONOGRAPHY
He wants her arranged just so. He wants her, arranged. He arranges to want her.
This is the arrangement they have made. With strings attached, or ropes, stockings, leather straps. What else is arranged? Furniture, flowers. For contemplation and a graceful disposition of parts to compose a unified and aesthetic whole.
Once she wasn’t supposed to like it. To have her in a position she didn’t like, that was power. Even if she liked it she had to pretend she didn’t. Then she was supposed to like it. To make her do something she didn’t like and then make her like it, that was greater power. The greatest power of all is when shedoesn’t really like it but she’s supposed to like it, so she has to pretend.
Whether he’s making her like it or making her dislike it or making her pretend to like it is important, but it’s not the most important thing. The most important thing is making her. Over, from nothing, new. From scratch, the way he wants.
It can never be known whether she likes it or not. By this time she doesn’t know herself. All you see is the skin, that smile of hers, flat but indelible, like a tattoo. Hard to tell, and she never will, she can’t. They don’t get into it unless they like it, he says. He has the last word. He has the word.
Watch yourself. That’s what the mirrors are for, this story is a mirror story which rhymes with horror story, almost but not quite. We fall back into these rhythms as if into safe hands.
ALIEN
TERRITORY
1.
He conceives himself in alien territory. Not his
No. Let’s start again.
He was sheathed in green plastic garbage bags, tied neatly all the way down with a row of his own festive neckties, and buried at the bottom of the garden. They never would have found him if the neighbor hadn’t wanted to replace the fence. It was the wife who did it, with a frying pan. He’d been beating her up for years.
As for the other one, she was run through a meat grinder and frozen in little freezer baggies labeled “Stew.” Her daughter wanted the old-age checks. I learned about all of this in a British Rail station, en route to Norwich, because my train was late. You can’t make such things up.
• • •
It was because of the chocolate bars. It was because of the stars. It was because of a life behind bars. It was her hormones. It was the radiation from the wires and phones. It was his mother saying,
You’ll never amount to a hill of beans
. It was because he was so all-fired mean. It was the sleeping pills. It was the frills, on the blouse, under the jacket, over the breasts. It was the blood tests. It was the sigh, thecry, the hand on the thigh. It was the hunger, it was the rage, it was the spirit of the age.
It was a coincidence. It was the wrong bottle. My hand slipped. How was I to know it was loaded?
It was the fear. It was the cold, cold voice of the frozen angel, the voice from the outer darkness, whispering in my ear.
• • •
Mr. Plum, in the conservatory, with the wrench. She saw the wrench and she said,
What’s that wrench for?
And I thought she wanted sex. So I strangled her.
• • •
It was the dog hair on the back seat of the car. It was the bloodstain on the chandelier. It was the fingernail in the pail. It was the chalice with the palace. It was the chicken that did nothing in the nighttime. It was the one detail you always forget, and for that they will come to get you.
Aha
, they will say.
You thought you were so smart
. This is the worst part, just before you wake.
• • •
It was the heart, the too-small heart, the too-small devious heart, the lopsided heart, the impoverished heart, the heart someone dropped, the heart with a crack in it. It was the heart that thought it needed to kill. To show them all. To feel. To heal. To become whole.
ICONOGRAPHY
He wants her arranged just so. He wants her, arranged. He arranges to want her.
This is the arrangement they have made. With strings attached, or ropes, stockings, leather straps. What else is arranged? Furniture, flowers. For contemplation and a graceful disposition of parts to compose a unified and aesthetic whole.
Once she wasn’t supposed to like it. To have her in a position she didn’t like, that was power. Even if she liked it she had to pretend she didn’t. Then she was supposed to like it. To make her do something she didn’t like and then make her like it, that was greater power. The greatest power of all is when shedoesn’t really like it but she’s supposed to like it, so she has to pretend.
Whether he’s making her like it or making her dislike it or making her pretend to like it is important, but it’s not the most important thing. The most important thing is making her. Over, from nothing, new. From scratch, the way he wants.
It can never be known whether she likes it or not. By this time she doesn’t know herself. All you see is the skin, that smile of hers, flat but indelible, like a tattoo. Hard to tell, and she never will, she can’t. They don’t get into it unless they like it, he says. He has the last word. He has the word.
Watch yourself. That’s what the mirrors are for, this story is a mirror story which rhymes with horror story, almost but not quite. We fall back into these rhythms as if into safe hands.
ALIEN
TERRITORY
1.
He conceives himself in alien territory. Not his
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