ISSUE THREE: December, 2019

WRECKAGE

by ANTHONY KELLY

            Nobody even lives here anymore. When it comes in the frost drives them all down south to the Keys and whatnot, the tornados. And we’re left here broken and praying that the gutters don’t burst, picking up everyone’s mail and walking their damn dogs.

            Jay’s up early – he’s grunting and scurrying around in the yard with his ear to the ground. He’ll be on his knees, then he’ll stand up, stomp – listen – then he’s still and he waits. It’s quiet in the trees and the wind runs all the way down the back of his coat. He shivers and digs his hands into his pockets. Mumbles to himself.

            I can see his breath out there. It’s thin and sporadic and feeble. His knuckles are blue in the cold and his knees crack as he bends over. He isn’t much of what he used to be, neither of us are. It’s an absolute hole here. Inside, he shuts me down and tells me that no it

-           ain’t rats, M, rats don’t whine the way these suckers are whining. I bet you it’s those damn coyotes again.

            He says coyotes without the e and sits down at the table.

-           Well, why don’t you try the city?

I pour sludge into his coffee and he clears his throat before taking it down. He’s never liked it. It turns him gray. It turns us all gray, really. Skin flaps, hair, chalky pigment always clogging the bathtub.

-           Not much they can do really, being endangered and all that – can’t kill them, you can catch them though, then the city’ll come pick them up or something, I don’t know though that’s just what I heard

His sentences always seem to ramble off into nothing these days. His trajectory and interest constantly meandering and uncertain. He doesn’t even look at me when he speaks. Just examines the sliding door leading out to the yard. Worried about their seals around the top, I bet. Worried about the seals and the snow and what’s coming. I ask him 

-           are you joking? You have to catch them yourself?

-           Yeah, pretty ridiculous honestly, you need some permit, then some other proof of safety. Then they’ll send you this humane trap thing but you have to fill out a bunch of paperwork to get it

-           holy – that’s a hassle. You sure it’s coyotes?

I say it too. The way he does. And I wait to see if he notices. My voice is so much deeper than it used to be. I wait for him – he’s crooked, hunched over and pale. Food and sludge hanging off his lips. But he’s off – squinting, eyes inspecting every corner of every window.

I slurp back the last of my sludge and start to pile the dishes in the sink. He’s already up and running his finger along the edges of the door. He stops and listens. Looks at me and goes

-           hush, for a sec.                                                                                                                       

He holds one finger up – it’s that hum of the winter cold, I know it. But, just under it, there’s a whine, a little bark, a cry. It’s muffled but it’s there. Under the snow and the wind and the ice, stretching everything out. Making us squeal. We know it’s coming whether we’re ready or not.

…

            The house is remote and frail in the winter. It holds a dense, infinite space around it. It shrinks us down. Utterly noiseless and black – forcing us closer and closer together.

The neighborhood is desolate and white as I cross the street over to the Li’s place. The air hurts out here, each breath like fiberglass pricking at my lungs. My hands are deep inside my pockets and I’m knuckling their frozen house key. Hiding my face from the piercing snow. It’s already ripping at my eyes.

They don’t have much mail and I turn to run back home, leaving their dog begging by the door. Even he’ll freeze out here. At least that’s how I justify it to myself. I can barely see let alone walk him around the block.

When I get back Jay’s in what seems like a hundred layers and is heading out back again. Down the ravine this time. Thinks they’re

-           tunneling sort of like, across, like horizontally into the yard –

He’s trying to animate everything with his massive, gloved hands

-           you know? There’s a den, for sure, must be an entrance to it somewhere.

            He’s coughing and gray and I can only see his eyes with that snowsuit on. They used to have color to them, green or something. That’s something people used to tell him, they’d go

-           oh my gosh you’ve got such beautiful eyes

And now they’re all tired and crusted and brittle. I try to smile for him but really can’t anymore. My face is delicate and thin. I can only nod as he turns and leaves without saying goodbye and I watch him struggle to hack his way through the frozen branches and the brush. Then he’s gone. Into the dark and into the white. It’s a lot to handle in that moment.

            So, I sit. I try to read and I make sludge and then drink sludge. I file paperwork and pay the bank and call Ali, who’s having a fantastic time and it’s so warm and you

-           absolutely have to come down next year

            and

-           L and I can’t keep our hands off each other

            and

-           oh we have so much room, don’t worry about it.

            I say maybe and she sighs. The cold continues to moan under every door. We couldn’t splurge on resealing them this year, we thought it’d be fine. He thought they’d survive. I thought he’d hold me.

All I can do is wait and I try to make myself worried or put on a smile. Every attempt more useless. I vacuum our flaking skin off of the couch and watch by the window. Shedding. Slurping. On one side of the room I swear I hear a moan and a scratch. A yelp underneath the floorboards.

…

            It’s warmer today, but they’re still calling for historic lows and the announcers are sounding more ill and uninterested than ever. Nobody even listens to this anymore. They’re monotone, coughing, slurping. Scratching at their faces just close enough for it to be audible. I imagine their nails filled with that grit. The sound is curiously soothing. At least to me, Jay can’t stand it.

            I walk the Li’s dog quickly and let the Henderson’s out while everything’s getting set up down the ravine. The city sent this young, scrawny kid who was hoarse and thirsty and picking at his neck. The shoulders of his coat covered in crust and gray.

            He shakes Jay’s hand and I’m jealous as he leaves and says that if there’s anything we

-           need, give us a shout, I’m guessing tops twenty-four hours, they usually make their way out real quick in this kind of winter.

            And he’s gone. Simple. Only waiting now. Under his breath, Jay goes that

-           guy was a real numpty

Then turns his back and doesn’t waste any time. He’s already made his way to the sliding door again. Leaving me in front hall. I can see him. Already on his toes, trying to stare down the ravine. His breath is on the glass. His coat’s hanging up for once. He seems bare without it. I join him. Trying to have a peek.

-           Freezing in here. Isn’t it?

-           sure is.

I look over and try to move closer to him. I’m not sure if he notices.

My heels are aching. They’re peeling and what’s left of them has burrowed in the carpet. I scratch at the back of my hand and feel my veins. I could pull on them if I wanted to. They’re struggling. Pumping thin, wiry blood. It’s a whisper but it’s a

-           hey

and it’s out there. He’s still and he looks back and right then I’m not sure anymore. Not sure if we still feel human heat.

…

They say don’t take baths. Showers get you cleaner. The research and such. Rubs you closer to the bone, apparently. But I have that bottle of wine that we kept from before everything and I mix it with sludge and sit in the bath. Soaked and hurting I begin to husk everything off of my legs with my fingernails. Picking and then stripping. Picking and stripping.

It’s been twenty-four hours now. Jay’s just checking on the cage. He’s been out there about an hour. Must be freezing. I’m worried about him. Historic lows and all that. I can picture his hands. Even gloved, they’re withering away. It’s late, they wouldn’t walk into that cage this late. This cold. I wouldn’t. Hey

-           M, shit –

            I curl up immediately as the door opens. Water splashes. Knees, chest, ribs.

-           I didn’t hear the shower. Thought you were just in here, I didn’t know I’m

            He closes it too quickly for him to see anything

-           I’m sorry I didn’t                                                                                                        …

-           It’s okay                                                                                                                      …

-           You sure?

It’s still. Then he’s quiet. Then he opens the door again. I’m embarrassed, but I’m the only one that knows that. It doesn’t matter. I know that I don’t have a lot of skin to show. Not anymore. I’m blades of grass. I’m a vacuum-packed milk bag. I’m old and I’m strange. He looks me up and down – he looks scared. But it’s warm. It feels like he knows that I’m here. Then he says, get dressed honey

-           you have to see this.

…

There isn’t anything in the cage when we get down there. The cage isn’t even there anymore. Jay’s ripped it off its mount and thrown it down the ravine. There’s only the hole, wide and deep and black. I point my flashlight inside, and it cuts through the pounding snow, exposing dead roots and strings of earth all tangled up and running all around. He says, that he just wants

-           you to know, that this is a lot and I’m sorry.

-           What do you mean a lot?

            I’m shouting over the wind.

-           I just want you to be prepared – it’s a lot.

            I say okay and he doesn’t let me go first. He gets on his hands and knees and starts to crawl down the hole. Into the dark again.

He only uses his forearms to pull himself along. His feet and knees dragging just in front of me. There’s this hissing, but there isn’t any other movement around us. Just the wind whipping at our backs.

            There aren’t bugs or beetles or worms. The earth is dry and lifeless and I can feel the cold through the elbows of my coat. My breath is thick and appears sporadically through the beam of my flashlight. I hear Jay grunting and heaving himself forward. Further and further down.

-           Just right here

            He looks back, breathing heavily.

-           Look.

            We reach a little opening. I sit up and press my back against one side of the tunnel. He does so on the other. Our legs suddenly cross. Unintentionally, of course. I lose my breath at the sight of it. One of mine between his two. I’m not sure if he notices. He just urges me to look out.

I shine the light into a kind of cave beside us.

-           They didn’t make it.

There were maybe fifteen coyotes there. Frozen to the bone. Gathered and stuck in various postures, like sculptures of great beasts beaten down. They’re clear and luminous and numb. Like glass trinkets or polished porcelain dolls. There’s complete darkness surrounding them. Becoming pearls in the black when they catch my light.

-           They were close. The back of our house is only five, maybe ten feet away. They would have gone right into the basement.

There were two at the back, frozen, mid claw. Desperately tunnelling. Mother and babies in a corner, wrapped up in each other. Just too late.

I try to cry but I can’t. He clears his throat and shuffles around. That’s when our knees touch. It’s warm even though we’re just bone these days. I look down at them. He knows too. I breathe and force my legs around his. They’ve forgotten what that feels like. I want to teach them how to share again. Let them learn human heat.

ANTHONY KELLY is a writer living and working outside of Toronto after graduating with a BA in English Literature from Queen’s University in Kingston, Ontario. He has been published widely both in print and online, in Canada and internationally. Most recently, his work has appeared in BARNHOUSE, Back Patio Press, and sludge lit. He has also written multiple articles for the satirical news site The Hard Times News. In his free time, he works as the poetry editor at Jam & Sand Journal, which he co-founded with three other Queen’s graduates in May of 2019. You can follow him on twitter @anthonydkelly