The Heaven of Animals: Stories by David James Poissant

lightweight frame people had these days, the four wheels that swiveled and turned on a dime. The set had been a present from Kate’s parents, a wedding gift as practical as they were. They’d tried saving the marriage, her parents, offering to pay for fertility treatments or pay off debts, anything they thought might be wrong. When the dilemma proved ineffable, they offered money for a marriage counselor. But Kate’s mind was made up. Brig wondered whether her parents knew the way it had gone down, or whether they blamed him, whether they assumed he’d left their little girl. He wanted them to have the whole story. He didn’t know why, but he wanted that.
    Lily tossed Pharm Rep onto the coffee table and held out her hand. He tapped salt onto her skin, then tapped some onto his own.
    “You first,” she said, which should have been his first clue. He licked the salt, took the shot, bit the lime. The liquor was cheap. It scalded his throat going down, then churned, syrupy and lava-hot, in his gut. He handed Lily the smiley face mug.
    “Count me down?” she said, and Brig did.
    On three, Lily licked her hand and downed the tequila, but she didn’t make it to the lime. She was coughing too hard, flapping her hand in front of her face, eyes watering.
    “Oh my God,” she said. “Oh my God.”
    “The lime gets the taste out of your mouth,” he said, but she waved him off.
    “I thought it would taste like a margarita.”
    She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She rubbed her shoulder. He wondered whether the arm ever itched or burned. One late-night documentary had taught him about amputees and the phantom limb pains they sometimes got.
    “You know how I promised to tell you if you were staring?” Lily said.
    He nodded.
    “You’re staring.”
    He apologized. He took the mug from her hand and finished the shot. More throat scouring, more burn.
    Lily said nothing. Her unused lime segment sat on the table, and she touched it with one finger. It rocked back and forth, a little green boat.
    “What are we doing here?” he said.
    “How do you mean?” She scooted closer so that their legs touched, and Brig stood.
    “Enough,” he said. “This is getting weird. Can I just come right out and say that this is getting weird?”
    “This got weird an hour ago,” she said.
    “And whose fault is that? Who took off her clothes? Who got me high?”
    Lily laughed. She stood and Wolverine stood with her.
    “I’m five foot four with one arm. You really think I could get you to do anything you didn’t want to?”
    She moved to him, pressed the full length of herself against him, hard, and put her lips to his neck. She didn’t kiss him, just let her lips lie there, soft, warm worms on his skin. Then she pulled away and pulled his hand with her to the bedroom.
    .   .   .
    A year, he’d waited for Kate’s call.
    “Call me when you get there,” she’d said. “Just so I know you’re safe.”
    He’d waited a month, then called. He got the machine with his voice still on it, and he left a message. Maybe he’d waited too long. Maybe, waiting, he’d hurt her feelings. But he’d been afraid to call without good news. Because, if he called with good news—proof he could get a job, hold it down, contribute to society and all that—maybe he could make her see he’d change, that, short of being the kind of happy she wanted him to be, he could at least be useful.
    He left her his new number and the address to his apartment. He told her what he’d been up to, told her work was good—a lie—and the city was safe—another lie. He told her how, just that morning, a quail had crossed the parking lot, identical brood trailing her like the miniature middles of a Russian nesting doll. Kate loved nesting dolls, had kept a dozen on the mantel in their home. He talked until he heard a beep, then called back and picked up where he’d left off. He told her everything he could think to say except that he missed her, which he