Migratory Animals by Mary Helen Specht Page B

various currents, no obligation—the spotlightof attention dispersed through the group like light through a prism. But in time Alyce saw this for what it was, too. Just a party. As transitory and insubstantial as bird-watching. A way to pass the time. Drinks emptied and refilled. Dishes dirtied and then cleaned, dirtied again. Stories told, retold, forgotten. Did you hear the Flaming Lips are playing at Stubb’s? Have you read the story in the latest New Yorker ? How about them Cowboys? Nothing that she’d hoped would fix her—love, motherhood, art—ever had. It was enough to make you want to curl up in bed and go to sleep and never wake up.
    But Alyce couldn’t hide in the kitchen forever. Sliding the perfectly sliced pieces of the paragon fruit onto a platter, Alyce noticed a walking stick insect lying still along the white door frame, trying unsuccessfully to blend in with the wall. For the creature’s sake, Alyce looked away and, in the way all of them had learned to do in one way or another, pretended not to see it.
    Just before sunset, Harry was corralling everyone in order to usher them to the small cliff that rose from the other side of the creek. Alyce took him aside, sitting him down gently on the porch next to their sons, who were eating more watermelon, faces a smear of pink. Their boys were both good eaters and Ian, the youngest, liked to give people names based on food. Usually, Harry was “strawberry pancakes” and Alyce “fried eggs.” At the moment, she felt her yolky goo leaking like an open wound.
    â€œHarry, do you mind if I stay here? I’m just not up to it. I’m sorry.”
    Her husband pursed his lips. She could see him trying not to snap at her.
    Taking a deep breath, Alyce shook her head to indicate that she was just being silly. She forced herself to stand. “If we’re quiet, we might see deer.”
    â€œYou’ve been saying that since we moved here,” Jake whispered.Alyce reached out to feather his hair but instead let her hand just float there above his head like a halo.
    The group had to walk back up the road, traverse the low-water crossing over the creek, and then cut through a field to approach the cliff from the side where the cedar was penetrable. Behind the house the mowed lawn devolved into wildflowers, big blooming prickly pears and waist-high grasses shimmying in the hot wind. In the meadow was a dried-up pond and oaks and cedars that didn’t quite obscure the view of a development springing up along the ridge.
    Alyce made a mental list of things on the ranch that could kill you: rattlesnakes, water moccasins, a fall from the cliff into a half-empty creek. These thoughts were shiny coins in her pocket.
    As they walked along with the group, Harry handed Alyce a bota full of wine, and she slugged from it, a red trickle running down her chin. It tasted a little like watermelon, she thought. As she handed it back, their hands brushed, and he smiled in the intimate way that made his cheeks crinkle, a smile that said: Here, this is my gift to you. This party, this artistic fellowship we didn’t really need. He seemed to be smiling the words: I’m here because I love you. She tried to remember what it felt like to be in love with him, but she couldn’t even recall how long they’d been married. Ten years? Eleven? Her mind felt fuzzy. An image flashed: of Harry, in college, too self-conscious to dance at parties usually, and Alyce plying him with shots and beers, saying, “Bottoms up, baby. Bottoms up,” until he allowed himself to be dragged to the makeshift dance floor, Harry grooving slowly like an uncoordinated facsimile of an underground jazzman as he twirled Alyce in circles, she dancing fast and frenetic, tossing her hair, releasing everything into the music.
    When the group of partygoers reached the edge of the cliff, choked as it was with trees and shrubbery, they pushed throughuntil