Flood - Flood by Carmen Machado

When I tell Noah to stop wandering those woods, he tells me to stop nagging him. It’s not a big deal, he insists. Why won't you stop bothering me about it, he asks me. None of the other guys’ wives make such a big to-do about it. I ask him about the “other guys,” and he clams up. He goes back to his computer and ignores my folded arms.

He stops telling me when he goes out, but I always know when he does. He clomps in early in the morning, and slides into bed smelling faintly of pot. In the morning, I find his hiking boots propped up next to the door, caked with red clay and ashes. He is nonchalant about it, and when I ask him where he’s been, he flicks a breadcrumb from his lip with his tongue and comments about the wind.

I follow his path out there one day. He is at work and I take our greyhound, Marietta, who usually accompanies him on each of his outings, with me. As soon as she sees the leash, her sleek body trembles with happiness. I close the door behind me.

I follow the heavy meandering tracks that he has left on the driveway. His red footprints lead out into the street and end at the edge of the cul de sac, twin compasses pointing toward the woods.

The trail pretty much dies at that point, not that it matters. Marietta knows this place. She whines and tugs at her leash, and we stumble through the trees, my sneakers damp with the moisture of the decaying leaves and underbrush. I can see places where the dirt is kicked up, and where heavy bodies have sat down on rotting logs. Marietta drags me another quarter mile, until the trees open up. There is a muddy clearing, a wet black fire pit, and a blue tarp covering a small trailer.

Marietta pulls me to the trailer and gets up on her hind legs, nails scrabbling on the vinyl, a high pitched whine in her throat. I flip the tarp up and find a bag of dog snacks. I pull one out and I toss it to Marietta. While I continue to look, she lolls in the mud and gnaws on it happily.

I shove aside lighters, beer cans, Playboy magazines warped and wavy from moisture. No pot, but they wouldn't store that here, would they? In any case, I can see stubby roaches and cigarette butts littered in the dirt. I feel strange, standing in that clearing, trying to imagine my husband sitting around this fire, casually flipping to Miss July and surveying her magnificent tits. In my mind, the image of my paunchy husband is replaced with one of him as a gangly teenage boy, a crystallization of painful adolescence and premature erections. I love and hate the image; it burns in my throat.

I feel a low rumble in my stomach, and Marietta, treat devoured, looks at me with wide, pleading eyes, begging for another. I cover the trailer and leave, following our footprints back to Whitman Street. When I get home, I wash my shoes. The water runs red and bleeds down the drain.

***

Noah is not the only husband who is sneaking out into the woods. At least three other wives have noticed their husbands' late night excursions. This includes Margie, who takes a swimming class with me at the Y. None of them have seen the clearing, though, and I keep this secret to myself.

"Bill just rolls into bed around four in the morning without a word." Margie adjusts the pale peach straps of her faded one piece and fiddles with her crucifix. She is like me, has somehow reached adulthood without ever learning how to swim. I was afraid of water as a child, and my mother never forced me to take lessons. Margie spent most of her childhood sick and missed those crucial years of water education. When most mothers woke up early in July and drove their wiry, tanned children to local swimming pools to paddle around in the greenish blue water, Margie’s simply kept her home.

I’m not always sure why we take the class – we don’t live near any lakes or rivers and neither of us has a pool – but for me there’s something right about being in the water. I’m not sure how Margie feels about it, though, or why she even does it. She’s pretty quiet most of the time.

"Does he leave red clay on the floor?" I ask, my hands gripping the edge of the worn bench.

"He takes his off in the garage." Margie rolls the pills of the cloth in between her fingers. "He hasn't touched me in a long time." She says this quietly, and the words don't echo in the huge, hollow room.

“Anne and Donna think their guys are going out there, too.”

Our instructor springs up from the bench and stands in front of the class. “All right, we’re going to practice correct water entrance, and then the freestyle stroke. Remember, with freestyle it’s six strokes, and then breathe. Sound good?”

I unwrap the blue towel from my body and slosh through the tepid puddles, sliding over the patterned tiles. When the whistle blows, I jump into the water. The rush of chlorine stings my nostrils.

***

I wake up one night to the sound of the front door slamming. I roll over and stare at the red digital numbers on my clock radio.

12:00. 12:00. 12:00. The numbers burn into the back of my skull.

As everything comes into sharper focus, I can hear the sound of thunder moving away, trace rumbles that slowly dissipate. I flip the quilt off me and walk to the window. I pull it open and breathe deeply. The smell of dust is stirred by sudden rainfall permeating the air.

I walk out of the bedroom and to the stairs. I can hear dishes and cutlery being banged around in the kitchen.

"Noah?" I call.

There is no answer.

I pad down the stairs and walk through the dark living room. In the kitchen, Noah is standing in front of the cupboard, and a single light is on above the stove. He is pulling out plates and bowls and dropping them onto the counter.

"Noah?" My voice cracks slightly.

He spins around, and a paisley print dish is pressed against his chest. He looks at me strangely – not at me but through me, as though he’s focusing on the cheap plastic picture frame directly behind my head.

"Noah, what's wrong?"

He jumps and drops the dish. It hits the tile with a loud clatter and spins lopsidedly.

"God," he says.

I take a step away from the wall and toward my husband. He twitches and backs up, filthy jeans pressing up against the counter. My hands shake; I clasp them together tightly.

"God what?"

"Voice. A voice, God's voice. God."

"Where?"

"In," he pauses and surveys my face, "The woods," he finishes lamely.

I get close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath. "Have you been drinking?"

He opens up the pantry and begins to pull things out. A can of peas. Applesauce. A can of yams the size of my head that I don't remember buying.

"Noah?"

"No."

I rub my temples. Low cylinders of tuna fish, albacore packed in water. Vegetable oil.

"What are you doing?" Dried rice. Brown sugar.

"God says that everything is ending."

I stop moving at the table. Baby food that I’ve forgotten to get rid of. My throat tightens.

"Everything?" The word is strangled.

"The world. The world is too wicked, he's ending it, stopping it, rewinding it. Starting again."

I watch the growing pile. Peanuts. Dried pineapple. I'm allergic to peanuts. Why are they in the cupboard? Who bought them?

"The world is ending and you're taking lime Jell-O mix?" I say.

He turns around and glares at me, stepping past me into the darkness. I see the glow of the streetlight when he opens the door. I turn back to the kitchen and stare at the gaping hole of the open pantry. It is black and yawning, and I gingerly place my fingers inside. I can make out shapes in the shadows, and I tug a can into the light. Lychees in light syrup.

I go upstairs and crawl back into my bed. I lay down with the clock still blinking.

12:00. 12:00. 12:00.

“You promised,” I whisper to the dark. “You promised you wouldn’t end it again.”

I close my eyes. There are bright starbursts behind my eyelids, moving colors and negative impressions of the furniture around me. I fall asleep.

He doesn't come home that night.

***

I wake up to the slow, grinding sounds of construction machinery. They seem faint and far away. I try to sleep through them, but at some point the rumble of heavy wheels is punctuated with loud beeps. Through the hazy gauze of the pleated curtain I see the scoop of a bulldozer rise and dump a load of earth. For a moment, I lay still, dull from the fog of sleep. By the time I am certain it is really a bulldozer, it is reaching down for another shovelful of dirt. I run outside, a threadbare terrycloth robe wrapped around my body.

"Noah!" I scream, and he steps out from behind the bulldozer and surveys me. The hole that has been scooped out of our backyard is big enough for two swimming pools, and almost twice as deep.

"Noah, are you out of your mind?" I run barefoot though the damp earth. “You could have hit a sewage line! A power line! A water main!”

He ignores me. The man behind the wheel of the bulldozer climbs down from his perch.

“We didn’t hit anything, m’am,” he says. “You’ll be enjoyin’ your new pool before you know it.”

I stare at him. Can’t he see this hole is far too big for a pool? I grab Noah’s arm. “Did you get this approved by anyone?” I hiss through my teeth. “Why aren’t you at work?”

Noah shrugs out of my grip. “I quit.”

I sit down in the grass heavily and rip up tiny clumps of weeds, tossing them behind me. “You quit? Did you stop to think where we’re going to get money from? How could you do something like this?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, turning back to the hole. “The world is ending. It doesn’t matter.” He looks up behind me, and I turn around to see Bill walking toward us. He motions behind him, and I can see the trailer from the woods hooked up to his truck in our driveway, stacked with awkwardly tied lumber.

“Hello, Bill,” I say.

He avoids my eyes.

“Jim and Dave will be over later,” he says to Noah, who nods. They walk off abruptly, and I stand up, dirt and grass clinging to the backs of my bare legs. The bulldozer is still. I reach and touch the shovel, and pull off a piece of caked earth. It is thick and soft. I squeeze it between my fingers.

***

At the Y, we learn about treading water. We swim to the middle of the deep blue diving well and scissor our legs, our arms skimming the surface of the water. Margie and I tread next to one another. Donna, our neighbor who lives on the corner of Whitman and Third, treads with us. She talks about her daughter, Kate, who is eight and taking a swimming class in her age group.

“She wanted to learn, so I figured I should too,” Donna beams. “She’s one of the best swimmers in the class.”

Anne Reston, another woman on our street, quietly sits on the side of the pool. Our conversation rises and falls with the volume of the rest of the room, but I watch her kick the water and look at the entrance frequently.

“What’s wrong with Anne?” I ask.

Donna sighs. “She isn’t doing well. Jim left her last night.”

We all inhale sharply. We dip low into the water; our chins arch upward so that we can continue to breathe.

“How awful,” I say.

Later, in the locker room, I ask Anne if she wants to come and have dinner with Noah and me that night. She says yes and then goes into the darkest corner of the room to change.

***

I come home from the Y to find Noah underneath the car. The hood is propped up, and I stand at his feet until he wiggles out from his spot. He rolls over before he stands up. His back is black from the asphalt.

I stare at the dirty car parts that are littered around the driveway. I'm no car expert, but I suspect that the parts on the ground are needed for the car to run. I tell him as much.

"I need these parts for the shelter," he says.

I pick up a thick coil from the grass and turn it over in my hand. My fingers become black.

"You know, when the world ends and you’re gone, I'll need a car. How can I use it if you're taking it apart?"

He sits up and curls his lip.

"It's my car," he says nastily. "I bought it."

I open my mouth to speak, but anger ropes around my windpipe, and I close it again, pressing my lips together until they are white. I walk past him and into the house and toss my duffle bag on the couch. I string my suit up to dry.

Anne comes for dinner. We stand in the kitchen and talk while I slice a cucumber into translucent, watery wheels, ignoring the piles of canned goods that my husband has pulled out of the cupboards and placed sporadically around the room. I am amazed by how much food is in this kitchen, more than I’d ever suspected would fit into the dark cupboards.

We both pick at the meal in front of us. I apologize for Noah and I ask Anne about Jim.

“I don’t know what happened,” she says. “I mean, he’s been acting strange for a while now, but I assumed it was just stress.” Her eyes begin to water. “I miss him.”

I stroke her hand and reassure her that this will all get better. I swear it to her. She smiles and thanks me for dinner. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says, leaving.

Noah comes in two hours later. I am sitting at the dark table, eating a can of Spaghettios. He stands in front of the fridge for a long time.

"My swimming class graduation is tomorrow," I say.

He doesn't answer. I twist around in my chair. His face is eerily lit by the fluorescent bulb of the fridge. I feel the cold from the open door drift over me.

"Darling," I say, softly, "close the door."

He does. The light vanishes, and the kitchen is quiet and still.

“They have graduation ceremonies for that sort of thing?” he asks.

I bristle slightly. “We just show everyone what we’ve learned and they give us a certificate. It’s nothing big or special.” I swallow, hard. “After this, we can advance to the next class.”
Noah stares at me, and then shakes his head as if discouraging hovering insects. "Wait, what swimming class is this?"

"The one I'm taking with Margie. Beginning Swimming for Adults."

"Can't she give you a ride?"

"No." I think of the phone call earlier that day, Margie’s voice so wrung and spent I could almost see her rubbing her crucifix, frantic. "Apparently, Bill has dismantled their car, too.”

He puts down the can opener he’s been playing with. “Fine, I’ll go with you.” He walks past me and out of the kitchen. He’s at the base of the stairs when he speaks again.

“Why on earth are you taking a swimming class, anyway?”

I don’t answer. I can’t. He pauses as though I am actually responding, and then continues up the stairs and into our bedroom. His footsteps creak above my head.

***

Because the car is in pieces, we take the number 38 bus to the Y. Margie sits behind me with Bill. Noah sits next to me, rubbing his knees.

"How long will this take?" He has been anxious since we left.
"An hour," I say. I clutch my duffle bag.

The bus stops two blocks away from the building, in front of a 7-11. Noah turns around and looks at Bill.

"I need some cigarettes," he mumbles. "We'll meet you inside."

He and Bill stand up and get off. I turn back and look out my window. In the reflection of the glass, their figures step into the road, and the cars pass through them like they are ghosts.

***

For the ceremony, we swim two laps and tread water in our new, official YMCA navy blue suits. I stand by the side of the pool and try to concentrate on the movement of the water.

When the instructor blows the whistle I dive in. The bubbles trail me like jet exhaust fishtailing through the clouds. Six strokes, breathe. Six strokes, breathe.

As I swim, a kind of calm washes over me. For a moment I am completely weightless, and I can hear a soft sound, the muffled impression of music traveling through the water. It is soft and feminine, and every cell of mine seems to arch toward it. My molecules constrict and then grow huge, as though taking a breath.

I inhale water and cough when I come up for air.

I end my two laps, crawl out of the pool, and wipe water out of my eyes. The instructor invites any friends or family members to come and stand with me as I receive my certificate. It is thin and a poorly printed job, but my name is on it. I leave damp fingerprints in it, and it curls. Noah is not in the audience. He does not come up.

My instructor shakes my hand as I stand shivering. Not one camera flash goes off. I stand with the rest of my class. Margie comes up and stands alone, too.

***

We get home an hour later. Margie and I part ways in front of her house. When I get to mine, I find Noah in the backyard, hammering. A brief glow from the end of his cigarette illuminates his face. I can see that the shelter is almost done.

Inside, Marietta is moving back and forth frantically and emitting a high pitched whimper. I feed her and take her for a walk. I come home and slip out of my jeans. I suck in my stomach in front of the full mirror. I take a shower, pull on a t-shirt, and go to bed.

Noah comes in later, and crawls into bed in his clothes. My hair and skin are still damp. I listen to him sigh and turn. The bed shifts and creaks. I lean over to touch him, my fingers dancing lightly on his arm. He pulls away, and after a few minutes, his breathing steadies. He’s sleeping.

I try. The clock blinks through my eyelids.

12:00. 12:00. 12:00.

***

I wake up early the next morning, and walk Marietta to the open air farmer’s market. I buy two apples and twist them up tightly in a plastic bag. I walk home, put the apples on the counter, and go lay back down next to Noah.

An hour later, I wake up because he is up and moving around the bedroom frantically, throwing clothes in a bag.

“Noah?”

“It’s today,” he says. “Soon, so soon. Oh God, too soon.”

I watch him from the bed. He grabs the bag and leaves the room.

In the kitchen, Marietta is going nuts. She runs in circles, occasionally breaking from her erratic orbit to run to the back door. She barks frantically and snarls through the glass.

I follow Noah out back, a bag of apples in my hand. The sky is dark with ominous thunderclouds, and a sharp gust rustles the trees. The air is strange and electric, and the fine hairs all over my body go rigid. Noah pulls open the hatch of the shelter with a groan and throws the bag down. He comes over to me and grabs my arms.

“Please come down with me,” he says.

I open up the bag and pull out an apple. I take his hand from my left arm and spread it open. I press the fruit down into his palm. His fingers close around it. I kiss them.

“For the new world,” I whisper. “For the new world, an apple.”

He raises the apple to his mouth and takes a tiny bite. At the taste, his eyes begin to water.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

I don’t answer him. I don’t even know how.

As I walk away, he begins to cry. I can hear his sobs as I walk into the house. I change into my navy blue swimsuit. The clock blinks 12:00. I go to the front porch to sit in my chair. It is the chair that my mother gave to me when Noah and I were first married. It is the only piece of furniture that is entirely mine.

The sky is black and I can hear Noah’s voice above the wind. I hear him calling for me, for Marietta. She looks at me with her large brown eyes and remains at my feet, laying her long head in my lap. After a while, I cannot hear him anymore.

The wind becomes more violent. Across the road, Anne gets into her car in the driveway and sits there. Leaves whip up and down the street, and the ancient trees groan. Next door, Margie sits on her cement steps in a sundress, rubbing her crucifix. On the corner, Donna lays down on her lawn, Kate in her arms. They curl up together, a pair of soft pink commas against the ground.

The sky opens up.

The first fireball falls a few streets away, and I can hear the sound of silence coiling around us all like a sudden blow to the chest, a lack of oxygen. I rub my wedding ring and think of Noah’s steadfast wife, patient and stalwart. Did she step onto the ark and not look back? I close my eyes. No. They pulled her onto the ark. She screamed and wept. She didn’t want to leave her beautiful, sinful world behind.

I press my fingernails into the soft wood of the chair and leave little crescent moons. The mailbox bends to the left. I take in a long, slow breath. Six strokes before I breathe. Six strokes before I breathe.

Marietta whines high and then low. Ashes flutter over the street, remnants of bodies, gulls, airplanes. Fire strikes Margie’s house. Kate screams, and there is no echo. I take a bite of my apple, and the juice is sweet in my mouth. I exhale. When the next fireball falls, my house explodes.