PEN America Best Debut Short Stories 2018 Page 8

  She thought still that she could smell him. Not really him, but what parts of him came through the air. She wondered if he could smell her from where he was. Could he almost taste her? Would he want to?

  Usually the whiskey did the job, keeping that dark voice out. But sometimes, when the moon was full, she found herself in stranger tides. She found that dark voice poking holes in her mind, turning into a thousand tiny mouths that said, He’ll look you up and down and then pass you up for one of these white girls.

  But the man was still alone and she watched him. The way he moved took up space. And not just for the sake of occupying space, but because his body—which looked both powerful and full of grace—required it. He didn’t look at her. He also seemed not to notice how she stalked him with her eyes low or how every girl up on the roof tracked him.

  And then his eyes settled on her, which unsettled her. She’d been made. She buttoned her coat and wrapped her scarf about her neck tighter and headed for the door.

  “I’m Jude,” he said as she passed him.

  She almost turned to see who he was talking to.

  “This is the part where you tell me yours,” he said. She could hear his smile as he spoke.

  “Io,” she said with her back to him.

  “Eye-oh.” He said her name slowly. “Unusual name.”

  “No stranger than Jude,” she said. “It short for Judas?”

  “Nah, just Jude,” he said. He broke away from the party. “This party is kinda . . . well, it ain’t shit.”

  “Hasn’t been for a few hours,” she said, still with her back to him. She kept her jacket closed tight, because she’d become aware of her body then. The burden of being noticed.

  She didn’t hear him move, just felt him moving closer. His body heat emanated toward her, sliding through the kinks in her chill like a hot comb. Who notices ghouls?

  “You wanna go somewhere?” he asked. “To talk, I mean.”

  She turned to him then and said, “Uh, no.”

  He stepped closer to her. “Can I at least give you my number?”

  “What for?” she asked.

  “So we can talk.”

  “Ghosts don’t talk. They only moan,” she said.

  He looked at her like she’d knocked some of his wind out. “And I was worried about being forward . . .”

  They didn’t say anything for a moment.

  “You’re weird,” he said, and now their bodies seemed to be leaning into each other like planets falling into the same inscrutable orbit. Momma had always said you’d know when a man wanted you.

  “I have to go,” she said.

  “Graveyard calling?” he asked.

  “Something like that,” she said, turning away. She passed the fallen specters on the way out. They stood in a group, hands on their hips, heads shaking. Their bodies still bore the traits of their deaths. One of them said, “What’s wrong with you?”

  IO SETTLED IN on a bench and watched buses pass, not catching any of them. She hadn’t even looked to see where they were going. She thought of Slim Jimmy and a little about Sola, but mostly about the many ways in which a night with Jude could have gone. It wasn’t long before the other Ios showed themselves and took turns hitting her on the back and saying, very close to her ears, “He was out of your league anyway.” Sometimes their cries became so loud that she was sure others would hear. She decided to forget the night by counting passersby, but as Jude came into her line of sight, she realized he was still in her crosshairs. She put her hood up to hide herself as he passed, only to get up and follow his tracks to Johanna’s Coffeehouse. She stood on the other side of the glass, because she felt safer there.

  Was the glass there for his protection or for hers?

  It turned out that Jude wasn’t a coffee man. He preferred tea, with lots of sugar. Io watched as a blond-haired girl tore several packets and mixed them in behind the counter. The girl leaned into him, tossing her hair over her shoulder. She bared her chest for him. She had the most saccharine sweet smile that Io had ever seen. Io was sure that smile was sweet enough to sugar Jude’s tea by itself.

  Jude sat in the corner alone and Io watched him flip through a book that had been resting on the bookshelf beside him. She imagined him inviting her in. She imagined what they’d talk about.

  “I like sweetness. It’s my kryptonite,” he’d say.

  Io took her tea without sugar and her coffee black. “My mom said sugar is of the devil.”

  “Where’s your mom from?”

  “Below the Mason-Dixon line.”

  He’d laugh then. The kind of laugh that caught in your chest and clawed at your insides, splitting them. Io supposed she hated those kinds of laughs. Those kinds of interactions too. Perhaps any real interaction.

  “You look . . . pensive,” he’d say after a few sips.

  “I am,” she’d say. “I’m just thinking.”

  He’d lean into her in a way that muted all of the noise around them and knit them up tight. “What are you thinking?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Not about forever, I mean. Just right now,” he’d say.

  She’d shrug. “Honestly?”

  He’d nod.

  “I’m thinking of why I came here with you. I don’t know you. I’m not sure if I like you,” she’d say.

  “Fair enough,” he’d say, taking another sip.

  “But even more so, I’m thinking about our relationship. And I don’t mean we’re in a relationship. I mean how we are in relation to each other.”

  “Go on.”

  “Like how every time you meet someone, even if you just bump into them on the subway or accidentally knock into them on the street, it’s a relationship. It’s like they’ve seen you and you’ve seen them. Probably for the first time in your life, even though you’ve been stomping around in the same spaces probably for a while now. Or maybe not at all. Or maybe they just got to town and you had the audacity to run into them. To leave your impression on them. And for them to leave their impression on you. Like, who do you think you are, right? Who do we think we are?” She’d take a sip of her coffee and come back to herself. “I usually don’t talk that much. Sorry.”

  He’d lean back in his chair and stretch a little. “I’ve been told that I have that effect on people. They just bear their souls to me. I like to listen.”

  “It shows,” she’d say. His eyes were almond shaped. She’d let herself admire them then, but only a little.

  “I was just gonna head home in a few,” he’d say then. “You’re welcome to come. No expectations.”

  “No expectations?” She’d wonder if that then was the time to tell him she’d never slept with anyone. She’d decide against it.

  “None.”

  “Momma told me not to go home with strange men. She said strange men turn into strange animals.”

  “Momma might be right,” he’d say.

  From there, Io would walk home with him and he would show her his skin. She’d see that it was made from flesh that smelled like warm spices and that it tasted like cayenne pepper. Io would find this out. Jude would find out that Io held honeycombs. That she was a stinging thing. That she was prickly and also soft. That her skin was electric. And how they arrived at this moment when they both realized they wanted each other would be a convergence of limbs and soft strokes. Teeth and hair and scratches. Warmth and wetness and the rush of blood. She’d climb the walls of him and he’d welcome her mouth with tempered muscle and veins. Together they’d make a chimera, even if only fused at their spines and where their hips met. It would be then that Io would wish for that cold night air and its chill to find them under the mountain of blankets on Jude’s bed. She imagined that his loft was artfully decorated, but she’d only see his pillow.

  IO WALKED, FEET beating hard against pavement. She passed houses, banal driveways, sprinklers that were still on. Midnight showers. She stopped short and stood under a canopy of
trees on her left. She saw the moon pierce through clouds and smog and bathe the woods in white. It must have been there, covered in moonlight, that she first sensed it. It was a barely-there sensation that made her ears perk up, like a dog whistle singing that which only she could hear. She couldn’t make it out among the trees. Partially hidden by branches and the rest of it by shadow. Or perhaps the rest of it wasn’t there. And maybe it never was.

  She felt it walking close, and sometimes far away. Fast, and sometimes slow. On all fours and on two feet. On all fours again. Eyes to the ground. She listened for its feet and for its breath. For its pause and its start. It tracked her, never moving in front of her. But in the periphery it rested. An intangible shadow thing lurking, prowling. Its body seemed strong. She imagined visible breath from the cold night puffing through its nostrils. A long, forked tongue. It followed at a hundred yards away. It kept its distance and she did not look at it. She did not hear it stop. And though she wanted to, she did not relieve that tension in her neck to turn to it. Where were the Ios now? Had they been run off by the lurking thing?

  It felt familiar, she realized. Like something she had known. Like something that she almost knew. Or had perhaps once known. That Which Followed stalked her home.

  She let herself in the house, keys knocking against her wrist as her hand shook. As That Which Followed waited and did not draw closer. She did not look for it under moonlight. She did not look for it when she was on the safe side of the door or when she closed her window before bed. She left it waiting for her, down below.

  THAT NIGHT SHE dreamed of a dark body covering her own. Of strong legs prying hers open. Of her welcoming it. Of sharp teeth dragging across her skin. Of warm breath. Of cold wind. She dreamed of the blue porch.

  WHEN SHE AWOKE in the woods, in sunlight, underneath trees and laying on rocks, an ache had set up shop in between her thighs. There was a buzzing there. Honeycombs. Like a hive lived there. Like she’d been colonized.

  SHE RINSED THE dirt off first and then touched herself in the shower until she felt her breath hitch in her throat. She finished, but the buzzing soon returned with a pointy reckoning that almost stung. She clenched. She squeezed.

  She was strategic when taking out her weave, which was ruined by the mud. She clipped out the pieces of thread that held the weave together and let the whole thing unravel in the sink. What was left were the coarse curls of her hair, and tender scalp. She kept the nails long.

  SHE HAD A hole in her stomach when next she woke. It needed filling. For breakfast, she ate eggs and a piece of steak from the fridge, raw. She ran it under the sink in hot water to get the ice off. She thawed it and spiced it.

  Momma came down at quarter after seven wearing her bathrobe and her head scarf. She wore full makeup—Io, I can’t leave the house without my face on—and big pearl earrings. She kissed Io on the cheek. “Didn’t hear you come in last night.”

  Io scooted forward on her stool and crossed her legs one way and then the other. “I got in late.”

  Momma slid the coffee filter in and closed the top with a snap. “You be careful because the news said there were some robberies a couple of nights ago and some man was talkin’ about how he saw a coyote or somethin’ like it in the woods.”

  “We don’t get coyotes,” Io said. A lightning strike snapped through her, making her shiver below the waist. She throbbed.

  “I know,” Momma said. “Where’s mine?”

  “Eggs are on the stove,” Io said, uncrossing her legs and then crossing them again.

  Momma busied herself with the business of making toast and putting her cold eggs in the microwave. She poured herself a big cup of coffee and sat down beside Io.

  “Since when do you eat your meat rare?” Momma asked. “It’ll make you sick.”

  Her walls thrummed against each other. Buzzing. Rippling. “I like it like this.”

  “Since when?”

  Buzz. “Trying something new, Momma. That all right?” The meat slid through her teeth easily, blood filling up the cavity of her mouth with each piece. But she wished it was warm. And that it was fresh.

  Momma tore into her toast. “I guess, but don’t come cryin’ to me when you get sick.”

  “I’m already sick,” Io said.

  EACH TIME SHE woke up in the woods, it was after she’d dreamed about a black dog standing over her. This reminded her of a story Momma told her on her sixteenth birthday about the Rougarou. Momma told her that when Grandma Pearl told it to her, she’d called it the Swamp Wolf of Nawlins. Grandma Pearl told Momma that the Rougarou wasn’t a what but a who. Grandma Pearl told this story to Momma on the porch right before Momma left for prom. Grandma Pearl pulled Momma close and said. “In ’dem trees, it waits. Watchin’. It’s hungry. In the swamp. Dat thing.

  “It can smell a man on ya,” Grandma Pearl told Momma. She said that when it caught the scent of a girl who was now a woman, it saw her blood. Grandma Pearl didn’t know that the only thing that watched Momma was Momma’s cousin, Perry. Or that Momma had lost her virginity in the backseat of Aunt Rena’s car. Perry: age twenty. Momma: age twelve. Details: unclear. Momma had left the part about Perry out. She’d just laughed to Io and said, “Just an old story.”

  IN CLASS, THE buzzing moved from between her legs into her head and her chest. She felt the prickling of small hairs protruding from places where it had no business being. Her bones moved under her skin, popping, muted, a mortar and pestle grinding in her sockets. She rolled her shoulders. They rolled back.

  And on her walk home, she felt That Which Followed, following closely. Perhaps it never left, but just retreated when the sun chased the shadows off. Under moonlight it was relentless and it stalked her at close range, but she did not look at it. She didn’t know much about it, but what she did know of it was that it was the same height as her.

  IO SAT IN a bath, because that seemed to ease the buzzing in her stomach. She searched buzzing, head, stomach, legs, vagina on her phone. It returned no results.

  THE BUZZING FELT sort of like bites. Like a thousand tiny mouths hummed on her skin and had colonized her head and chest. Had spread between her thighs, and to her hair, her nails, and her ears. It was also accompanied by an itch in the deep tissue of her skin. This was soothed, slightly, by laying on the bathroom floor and excessive masturbation. This did next to nothing except increase her affinity for bloody, sinewy, raw meats. She picked up a pound of steak and chicken livers from the grocery. She ate them out of a brown paper bag while Momma was at work.

  IO SAT IN a bath, chest buzzing, and searched black dog on her phone. It returned several results.

  SHE AWOKE IN a cold sweat. She turned on her fan and went downstairs for water. She wandered down, holding tight to the bannister, searching for the last step. Momma was sleeping on the couch when she passed, but she saw something cast in shadow roving near.

  That Which Followed stood over Momma on two legs with claws long and sharp perched just above her torso, back hunched, hair sprawling from its body. A mane of black hair. Its teeth dripped saliva onto Momma’s head.

  “Stop,” Io said. “Leave her out of it.”

  That Which Followed didn’t move. It kept its stance, but pointed to the door. A few seconds later, the door crept open soundlessly.

  “Okay,” Io said.

  Io wandered past the park and down Bright Street to the wood’s edge, trailing That Which Followed at twenty paces. That Which Followed walked into a clearing of trees on two hind legs. Once she passed through that invisible mouth, that threshold, the buzzing ceased. She imagined that the woods were the swamp, that these were one and the same. Wasn’t a swamp just the woods drowning? But this swamp’s water was clear blue instead of the murky green it should have been. Bluer-than-the-porch water. She backed away from it.

  “It isn’t supposed to look like that,” she said to That Which Followed. To the Ios: “Why is it so blue?”

  That Which Followed circled her
then, nipping at her ankles and snarling. It urged her in.

  The Ios raised their voices and Io thought how wonderful it might be to see them die. She unzipped her dress and stepped out of it, and let it sink underwater. She waded farther in, and could see her wavy reflection in the water. She looked so unlike them. And the water felt nicer than she thought it would, and warmer. She could hear cicadas in the trees. She could feel the swamp water touching her ankles and then her knees. On the bank of her imagined swamp sat her phantom selves dressed in white. Sacrificial white. Sacrificial rites. One held a knife. One held a spear. Their faces were half naked and half tribal paint. They wore many rings.

  “The water is so nice,” she said to the Ios. She knew they could not stand for her to enjoy something without them enjoying it more. “Come in.”

  Io invited them in one at a time. The swamp changed to green as they entered, and stained their white clothes. She pushed their heads underneath the water. She held them there for many beats. Beat. Beat. Beat. Io-in-Red succumbed. She’s dead. And when one was done, she invited in the next. Io-Leather-Skirt. She struggled more than her sisters. But the flailing ceased. Io could feel each death in her own body and in her own breath. She felt the pain and then the release.

  That Which Followed met her at the swamp’s edge and allowed her to take its hand. She realized that the hand she held was first a claw and then her own soft hand. And then nothing. She saw Jude sitting there on the bank, watching. She felt the bones in her arms elongating and her skin spreading to meet the new demands of this new body. She let her neck crack and split. She let her feet lift off of the ground and rest on her haunches. She let the black hair crawl to her fingers and then her toes.

  This body was wondrous. It was trees and dry ground. It was sold rock and steel. She let a feral cry escape her lips and let the water capsize her.