There Is No Year - Blake Butler [27]
Though the father, in more recent days, had sagged in their decision to get out. Sometimes he seemed concerned with the same fervor as before—the sooner they were somewhere else, the better. He was not sleeping so well either, he complained, though through the night, when home, he snored and snored and did not shake. The mother stuffed her ears with plastic and still could hear him blowing up with sound.
Other nights the father would shake his head and stomp for her even mentioning their moving, then wouldn’t come to bed at all. From their room the mother could hear the father moving around inside the down and upstairs, banging and speaking, the sounds so faint at times they seemed more far away from her than the house was wide—the father barking in wordless fury on his way in or out the door. Some nights he’d bark so hard at such high volume he went hoarse and could not speak again for days. Other times no sound at all would come out, despite the fervor, all the wanting, in his eyes.
The mother’s own eyes now in the yardlight stung, wet and glitchy.
The mother’s body unlocked, unlatched, and opened up her mouth.
WELCOME
The mother welcomed the couple into the house. She did not ask where they’d heard about the listing. She ignored the sudden smell of dog. When they were all in, she closed the door quickly as she could behind them, though some of the bugs got in, as did air.
In the foyer the mother began to say certain things aloud. She walked the couple through the home, spreading her arms in massive gestures: here, look, yes, oh, lovely. The husband seemed to need to lead his wife around. The wife’s body did not move much in any one direction unless directed. Her joints popped a little riddle pop pop pop pop pop.
The mother showed the young couple the kitchen where the mother had just finished putting away all the silverware, which for some reason had come out of the dishwasher more than a little stained—a deep bright brown that could not be washed or rubbed all off.
The mother showed the young couple the guest bedroom with the guest bed that for some reason looked newly tousled, though the mother had made and remade it just that morning, having found the father in it once again. The guest chest of drawers had been moved parallel to where it had been. The shower in the guest bathroom had been left running scalding hot, erupting steam.
The mother showed the couple the stairs to upstairs, the stairs with strip-striped carpet like no other location in the house, which never failed to make the mother dizzy no matter how hard she tried not to see.
She showed them where each night she and her husband tried to sleep.
God, the rooms seemed smaller with someone else there looking, looking.
The mother showed the couple the huge hall closet where the family kept their towels and sheets and a few old blankets and their winter clothes, which for some reason were always jumbled, and always fell out when the door opened no matter how carefully they were stacked, and for which, as it happened now, the mother cursed aloud and apologized as if that never happened, while the couple just stood there looking on. In her periphery, at some angles, the mother sensed she saw the couple wearing different clothes—long black cloaks or running outfits or pleated church suits, or none at all—though when she looked to see again there she would see they were wearing exactly what they had before. Sometimes the woman would be wearing a long locket around her thin neck, sometimes not.
Through the veil the mother could not see the woman’s eyes. Her eyes my eyes—the mother thinking