Centralia

Novel

That neighbor girl was sunbathing again. She was only sixteen, but Liv Peters didn’t like her. The girl was in her husband’s English class at the local high school, and Liv could tell that he’d taken a shine to her. It was the middle of July and Missy was lounging around in a canary yellow swimsuit. 

The screen door slammed shut and Missy bolted upright on her towel. 

“Didn’t mean to startle you.” Liv leaned down to uncoil the garden hose that her husband left it up to her to handle.
 
“I wasn’t startled,” Missy said. She shielded her eyes to see Liv better. 

“Nice day, isn’t it,” Liv pronounced, though she was wearing thick socks that made her feet itch, and a long terry cloth jacket that doubled as a robe. No matter how warm the weather, Liv’s house was always cold. 

“It is,” Missy agreed. She lay back down and raised her knees.

“You know that too much sun’ll give you cancer,” Liv said, though the sight of Missy so golden-brown in the bright green grass made Liv wish, for just a second, that she could join her.  

“Lots of things cause cancer,” Missy said, rolling onto her stomach. 

Liv looked at Missy’s yellow swimsuit made wet in places by the sweat she let run wild.

 “Why don’t you spray me,” Missy said. 

“I beg your pardon?” Liv asked. Her robe felt wet under the arms, and she was ready to go back inside and bask under her low, cool ceilings and their twisting, turning fans. 

“Why don’t you spray me to cool me down?” Missy repeated. 

Liv looked at Missy. Without warning, Liv pointed the hose at her and let loose enough water to kill the kinds of plants Liv usually watered.

 “Ah,” Missy sighed. “That’s better.” Her nipples were raised under her yellow bikini, and she looked ready to shiver. The water rolled off the book cover which was as slick and smooth as Missy’s skin. 

Impossible Things

Novel

Waking up is personal. Everyone does it differently. Some sleepers just need to be shaken. Others ask me to draw on their backs with my finger until they open their eyes. I trace simple shapes: checkered picnic blankets, triangle sandwiches, bottles of wine… In the span of my career as a Watcher, I may come close to running out of methods. I’ve left ice on sleepers’ foreheads—watched the cubes grew soft around the edges and bleed into the pillowcase. 

“Was I crying?” some sleepers ask when they awake.

“No,” I say. “You were laughing. That’s just drool.” I offer them a chance to place their bets on being happy.

For Bruno, softly humming, “The Ants Go Marching One by One” while pinching the back of his neck does the trick. He can’t be late—he is the cardiac surgeon-in-chief. Before me, there were small catastrophes: Bruno so exhausted from sleepwalking, that he entered the operating room without shoe covers. The “operating theater” has a stringent dress code. “Theater” is a fitting name, since what the average human wants these days is to be the extra in their own drama or comedy—the one who gets to stand on the sidelines and still get paid. They think real life lies behind their screens, where there are photos of them sipping wine while the sun sets over boats that do not belong to them. Who says we can’t have it all? their smiles seem to say. Watch us lay virtual claim to all of it.

Hardworking Bruno is an exception. He is the comedy type, although he thinks he’s partial to drama. He doesn’t know I watch him smiling in his sleep. When I ask about his dreams, he describes tragicomedies: “I slipped and stabbed myself with a scalpel.” He laughs. Poor Bruno. He tries so hard to keep people alive, but he acts like a dead man already. No women, or cars, or Scotch. Not even a dog. I am his only luxury.

Longer On This Earth

Linked Stories

The fib had already yielded more than it cost him: a multi-million dollar home with a view of the bay, and Sofia leaning against the wall like a living caryatid. Just outside the master bedroom window, Herman could see the great, rust-colored behemoth known as the “Golden Gate.” Except it wasn’t really golden, and traffic moved at such a crawl that the city’s gate functioned more like a dam. In some ways San Francisco was more trouble than it was worth. Its cliffhanger streets were so steep, there was no middle ground. But Sofia took it all in stride. She made traversing the city’s extreme ups and downs seem like floating down a catwalk built especially for her, and she met homeless men’s supplicatory glances with a look that said they were worth more than they were asking for. In her bold green coat and cherry red scarf, she reminded Herman of the wild parrots rumored to live at the top of Telegraph Hill. People wore themselves out to catch a glimpse of her.