I Want to Show You More (9780802193742) (2 page)

Your children knock on the guest room door.

I heard a noise, the nine-year-old daughter says, chin trembling.

I just wanted to say hi, the eight-year-old son says, shining his flashlight into your eyes.

You step out into the hallway, close the door behind you, walk them to their rooms. Lie beside them on their beds. Sing to them, tickle their backs.

You smell funny, they say.

IV. Butyric Fermentation: In this stage the body is no longer referred to as a
corpse,
but a
carcass
.

We have to bring it out into the open, you say to your husband. The kids can smell it on me.

There
is
no smell, your husband says.

Please, you say.

Let me do the talking, he says, removing his glasses, which have lately begun fogging up. It's been a long time since you've seen his eyes.

Make me the villain, you say.

You and your husband roll the body up in first a sheet, then a plaid quilt. You tie the ends closed with ribbon left over from Christmas. Together, you carry the quilt into the living room and lay it out on the coffee table.

The children surround the quilt. The four-year-old son yanks at the ribbon; the eight-year-old son pokes the quilt with his light saber.

No touching, you say. Only looking with your eyes.

What's in there, the nine-year-old daughter says.

It smells like when the maids come, the six-year-old daughter says.

That's Mommy's special friend, your husband says.

Why's she wrapped like candy, the oldest son asks.

Mommy's friend was a boy, your husband says.

He looks at you.

Fuck this, he says. Tell them whatever the hell you want.

You tell your children—surprise!—there are toys inside the blanket.

You tell them you forgot to let them open it on Christmas.

You tell them they'll have to wait till next Christmas.

Just think, you say—it'll be something to look forward to all year long.

V. Dry decay: Only skin, cartilage, and bones remain. If bone is exposed, the carcass will be referred to as partially skeletonized.

While your family sleeps, you cut the ribbon and unroll the plaid quilt. You will wash it and fill it with toys. You will let the children open it as soon as you're finished.

You go into the basement and find the two-person sleeping bag your husband bought for your first camping trip together. You bring the sleeping bag upstairs, pull it around the man like a pillowcase, zip it closed. You drag the man into the basement and fit the body—which you can tell has shrunk—into a broken playpen. You push the playpen into the corner with no windows, then cover the body with folding camp chairs, extension cords, leftover buckets of paint.

You arrange things in front of the playpen: a bicycle, an old armchair.

When you finish, you notice that part of the sleeping bag is still bulging through the playpen's mesh side. You kneel and run your hand lightly over the bulge, which is sharp and angular—knee, elbow.

You kiss the bulge. Lean your forehead against it. Close your eyes and imagine it's a cheekbone. You remember how the man wanted you to call him by his childhood nickname; how he said making love—real sex, if the two of you could have it—would feel like coming home.

You remember a recorded sigh, the sound of saliva on his tongue.

Your running shorts begin to sag around your hips. You pluck single gray eyebrows. You don't have the money for the microderma­brasion, dark circle treatment cream, $150 foil highlights. You buy them anyhow. You bring home wispy dresses from local boutiques; they hang in your closet, price tags dangling from sleeves.

You tell your husband you took the body to the dump and he holds you, says he's ready to make love again, undresses you slowly. He is patient with you and generous with himself. You're blessed to be with a man like this. Want him, you think. Want
him
.

You are terrified and certain that the ability to lubricate is connected to the man in the basement.

You grow desperate, watch Asian breast massage how-to videos on YouTube with links to girl-on-girl porn. You watch the porn, then call your husband and beg him to come home
right now,
telling yourself the sin of fantasy is less destructive than the sin of depriving him.

One day you click on the pop-up ads for the Jackrabbit, Silver Bullet, Astroglide for Beginners, Butterfly Kiss.

The next day you order the Classix G Natural, which arrives overnight in an unmarked box. You carry the box into your bedroom, take off the bubble wrap, and set the Classix in the center of your mattress. It arches away from you, veined and purple, suction cup at its base—a wicked, unlovely, purely useful thing.

You sit on the bed beside the Classix and whisper the dead man's name. Then you shove it back into the box and bury it deep in the communal dumpster at the end of your alley.

Come with me, you say to your husband that night. I have to show you something.

Your husband follows you down to the basement. You move the bike and armchair in the corner, then kneel, wrap your arms around the playpen, and shake it.

Listen, you say to the man. I need you to say something. Anything.

From inside the sleeping bag you hear a crackling noise, like pine straw thrown onto a fire.

Something stinks, your husband says.

Just one word, you say to the man. One of our words. So my husband can hear.

Whore,
the man says, his voice muffled.

You sit back on your heels.

What the hell? your husband says.

Adulteress
,
the man says.
Bathsheba, Rahab
.

Your fault your fault your fault,
he says.

What the hell, your husband says again.

Addict
.
Abuser
.

He's not remembering things right, you say to your husband.

My God, your husband says, staring at the playpen. Is that him?

It's not his fault, you say. I think I just killed him too quickly.

Femme fatale
.

He didn't know you, your husband says.

He puts his arm around you.

I'll take care of him tomorrow, he says.

The two of you head back upstairs.

Before you turn out the light, you turn and face the man in the playpen.

Don't worry, you say. I won't remember you like this.

Ladies and Gentlemen of the Pavement

I'm in Start Corral Three, two corrals behind the elite runners. We're packed in tight. My bare legs are pressing into those of the men and women around me. The old man beside me, known as the Whistler, has skin the color of weathered pine. He keeps licking his lips and jumping in place.

I recognized this man as soon as I entered the corral. I read about him in
Runner's World
. His name is Jim but he's called the Whistler because of his exhale. They say you can hear him coming a quarter-mile away. The Whistler is eighty-three, and claims that before he lies down to die he's going to finish a marathon in every one of the contiguous United States, plus Puerto Rico and the U.S. Virgin Islands. Today's race—the Chickamauga Battlefield Marathon—is in Georgia, state number fifty.

The Whistler's got a pacer, a lanky teenaged boy who'll run the whole race carrying a tall stick with a sign at the top: 5-
FOOT
CLEARANCE
,
PLEASE
. Also with him is a photographer from
Sports Illustrated
.
She's wearing a pink singlet, her pits already sweating out. It's warm for late September. People are tossing the trash-bag jackets they gave out at registration over the corral fences. I didn't take a jacket. Who needs the friction, given our statues?

I've got mine in a backpack I bought just for this race, a moisture-wicking number with zippers and bungee cords that allow me to shift the statue around when it gets uncomfortable. I'm lucky it's so small. Some people have to wear those framed packs you see on Himalayan hikes, their statues jutting up above their heads. These runners have to be careful not to make any sudden movements. The people around them give them wide berth. It's not uncommon to see paramedics carrying away, on stretchers, runners who've been knocked unconscious by someone's oversized piece of rock.

Runners with smaller ones get assigned to the front corrals. The smaller the statue, the faster you can run.

The elite athletes' sculptures are so small they have them soldered onto rings.

You take up running. You enjoy it. You get faster. Maybe you try a few shorter races: 5K, 10K, half-marathon. Eventually, you want to run the full 26.2. And the minute you sign up,
bang,
you get a statue in the mail. You have no idea what your statue will look like, though the majority are sexual: half-human, half-animal sculptures doing lewd things with their bodies. Creatures with hideously sized phalluses. These types of statues used to shock spectators, startle other runners into a slower pace. Now they're so commonplace you feel nothing when you see them.

It's the Authentic Art that can make you lose it. A heartbreaking bend in the finger of a human hand, a ringlet of hair carved in venous gray marble. These statues are rare. I've never seen one myself, though I once saw a man lying on the pavement in front of a water stop, crying that he was devastated—
devastated—
by the white curve of a woman's breast bobbing in the pack in front of him. I watched this athlete—handsome, broad of chest, not scrawny like most runners—take off his backpack and fling it into the field beside the road. You could see why he did it: a small stone teddy bear with a crooked penis rolled out into the grass.

Such a shame, though, an athlete like that. Taking off your statue during a race disqualifies you for life. You can never get your statue back. You can never sign up for another marathon. You can quit the race, try again another time—as long as you don't take off your statue. Best to leave it on till you get to your car.

Every so often, someone claims the U.S. Postal Service lost his statue. If this happens, you sign a release and you're allowed to run with a sandbag. But you get booed by the spectators. They throw crumpled water cups at you. The volunteers handing out petroleum gel packs will toss you the reject flavors—chocolate mint, cranberry almond.

You can't choose your statue, but you do get to decide how you'll carry it. Some runners, usually beginners, prefer those front-load Snugglies left over from when they had babies. The Snuggly runners end up holding their statues against their stomachs, because of the bounce. They lose their arm-pump and look like they're going to be sick the whole race.

Besides—who wants to
see
her statue while she runs? Not me. They say your statue has nothing to do with who you are as a person, but everyone knows it has
everything
to do with who you are and what you think about. Why else would so many of them be sexual? The ones who get the real art are the granolas who sit around and pluck out their sadnesses on guitars; who drive everyone else outside while they lie on frayed couches and narrate the stories of their bleeding spleens.

Sometimes your average citizens lift from bubble wrap amazing chunks of glory, hallelujah. And then they don't even run the
race
. They're just so
honored
to have received such a thing. They set their statues on windowsills and mantels and keep changing diapers or writing op-ed pieces about the manifold evils of the for-profit health care industry.

My statue used to embarrass me, but I'm okay talking about it now. I especially enjoy describing it to nonrunners, who only wish they had one. With nonrunners I can play up my statue, make it sound better than it is.

It came three years ago when I signed up for the Myrtle Beach Marathon. I'd been racing shorter distances, mostly halfs and 10-milers. You don't need a statue to run in those. But there's no respect in them. They're just
practice
. You can't call yourself a runner until you've finished a marathon with a piece of something strapped to your back.

When I lifted my statue from the box, I thought it was just a plain metal cylinder—brass, a foot long, the width of a coffee mug. Three-quarters of the way down its length, I noticed a tiny erect penis.

“What a dud,” I said to my cat, who was sitting in the downstairs window of my apartment. I was standing in the parking lot beside the mailboxes, the opened carton at my feet. The breeze was lifting Styrofoam pellets from the box and blowing them around my ankles.

“Look here, cat-of-mine,” I said, holding up the statue. “Is this a
joke
?”

The cat was fixated on the pellets. I went inside to call my parents.

“Did it come?” my mother asked.

“It did,” I said.

“Congratulations
!” she said. “Is it—artistic?”

“The folds in the
gown
,” I said. “The curve of the
ankle
.”

“Roger!” she yelled to my Dad. “Pick up the other line!”

They're late on the start. Everyone has to pee. The men are whipping out their units and firing-at-will over the waist-high chain-link fence surrounding our corral. With distance runners there's a unique economy surrounding bodily functions. With a finger we close one nostril and blow snot from the other—without breaking pace—to avoid carrying tissues. I have evacuated from the back end in a number of roadside ditches, with passing traffic and not a square of toilet paper.

The corral scenario is awkward for women, though. The line gets drawn at splatter.

I end up hopping the fence and when I come back I've lost my place next to the Whistler.

At two hundred runners per corral, the total number of people running this race is around eighteen thousand. Those who cross the finish line with their statues on will have their names put into a database. Once a year, on Thanksgiving, they have a lottery: ten thousand people randomly selected to run a statue-free race in Washington, D.C.

Statue
-
free
. These races do not exist anymore. Only the aged remember the days when we could run without a statue, or when people admitted to wishing they could run without one. Now, almost everyone is so damn proud of their pieces of stone and metal. They buy thousand-dollar custom carriers for them, run soft dust cloths over the smooth marble or steel or granite. Some people sleep with their statues, or set them up in their living rooms and tell great winding lies about the way they acquired such cunning pieces of art. They can't get away with these stories in the presence of another runner. We all know how you got your statue, bub: U.S. Priority Mail, same as the rest of us.

I push my way back to the guy holding the
Clearance
sign and wedge in beside the Whistler, who is smacking his lips. His spine is bent like a wire hanger. His statue is so small it's zipped all the way inside his Camelbak. A clear straw from the pack snakes up over his shoulder like an oxygen tube.

Before the gun, the race directors stage a military ceremony in honor of the soldiers who fought in the Battle of Chickamauga, the Confederacy's last big win. The start line is beside a grove of trees stuck through with ramrods. These trees look like acupuncture patients. Rookie soldiers forgot to remove the ramrods before firing. Each ramrod equals one dead Rebel. Some of the trees have embedded projectiles—shells, canisters, bullets. One trunk continued to grow around a canister stuck in its middle, and this tree—a three-story-high sugar maple—looks pregnant.

Now I hear the sound of drums at a slow march tempo, carnival melody on a trumpet, a piccolo feathering out trills. Beside the start line, a company of buzzed-headed soldiers in gray flannel is playing “Bonnie Blue Flag” to inspire reflection upon the Great Lost Cause. The tune does nothing to bolster the mood we're trying to create, which is Hey, hey, let's kick this road's
ass
.

After the song, the Georgia governor gets up on the elevated platform and makes a speech. He's going to run the race too. The copper statue on his back is enormous, a smiling toothless animal of some kind. The etched fur around the ears has taken on a moss-colored patina. He has to crouch to keep the ears from puncturing the canvas tarp stretched over the platform.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the pavement,” he begins. “In years past, we ran without encumbrance”—he grabs onto both sides of the podium—“and this was to our detriment! We
none
of us learned perseverance. The races-of-old taught us sloth and indolence. That time is over, brothers! A new day has dawned, sisters! Today we run to prove we still know how to work, to earn our way, to persevere. We run to prove we're human!”

I don't clap or cheer. I've heard the same speech from the governors of Mississippi, South Carolina, Tennessee, and Alabama.

Just before the gun, the Whistler turns to me. “Ever finish a race?” he asks. The Whistler is bald. His pale temples appear eggshell-thin.

Here's the truth: I've tried five times. Never made it past mile eighteen. I bonk. Twice I've hallucinated and wandered off-course. But I've never taken off my statue.

“Finished seven times,” I say to the Whistler. “Subfour, my last three races.”

My left leg prickles against a hairy calf, while my right presses into the torpid skin of the Whistler's thigh. I think his femur would snap with an abrupt bend of my knee.

The Whistler winks. “Took me twelve races to get to mile twenty-three and figure out the secret. Now I'm just in this to win the lottery.”

I've heard rumors about mile twenty-three. When I first started racing I asked other runners about it. They turned the stink eye on me. Asking for advice on finishing is poor etiquette, like letting your shadow fall across the line of a golfer's putt.

“They've upped the ante for this race,” the Whistler says, lowering his voice. “That's insider info for you. Too many runners trying to beat the system. Rumor is, they're taking care of it this time. Race organizers want to send a clear message to cheaters.”

Since he brought it up, I think I might ask the Whistler about the secret. But the announcer is calling the soldiers to attention. In unison, they ramrod their muskets.

“Runners, take your marks!” Musket tips lower, aim at the gray dawn just above the tree line. We freeze in the best lunge positions we can manage in our limited space. I hear the Whistler pushing air out between his teeth. Shi
you
, shi
you
. And then the muskets fire.

The early miles are a study in managed restraint. With experience, you learn to control the rush of adrenaline, run slower than you feel. The newbies are already passing the front-runners, thinking they must be some kind of athletes. Be frugal with that lamp oil, I want to tell them, it's a long night ahead.

The first two miles, you think about elbows. How to find room for yours, how to protect yourself from the jabs of others. Safest to stay beside a Snuggly runner, though I've not seen one yet this morning. Backpacks are bobbing all around me—everything from tiny pouches that fit into smalls of backs to one statue so large the guy rolled it up in sleeping bags and lashed it, with ropes, to his bare torso. There are always showcase runners like this, who make things more difficult for themselves. At the Country Music Marathon in Nashville, I saw a man running with a two-by-four across his shoulders—this in addition to a life-sized baby orangutan bobbing in his front carrier. And during the Atlanta Marathon, a woman with a bronze two-headed Weimaraner on her back pushed a double jog stroller piled high with books.

Above us the sky is slate, tinged pink just above the trees. On either side of the road are granite monuments the size of refrigerators. They're gray-white, rough-edged, with engraved metal plaques screwed onto their fronts. Behind me, the Whistler has started to emit a rhythmic
scree
sound, which—contrary to what the people interviewed for the
Runner's World
article said—is neither inspiring nor endearing. I veer off-course to check out one of the plaques and let the Whistler pass.