“Now.”
My eyes jumped open; I quickly spread my legs and adjusted the pillow as he swung around and on top of me, his penis red and shiny with rose-scented lotion. He jabbed it a couple times before he found the hole. He thrust very quickly, in and out, then slowed down. A little painful, but the burning warmed away. He inhaled and exhaled in long measured breaths.
“Good to go,” he said, after a minute. He leaned down and pressed his thick lips into mine. It was a little difficult with the beard. He stopped and pushed the bristly hairs away from his mouth. Our teeth knocked.
“I’m thinking of that folk song about the old hen and old rooster,” he whispered, thrusting. “How’s that go?”
“I don’t know.” I wiped my mouth.
“ ‘Cluck, cluck, cock-a-doodle-doo and they tapped their beaks together . . .’ Something like that. Do you want to be on top?”
His eyes were on my breasts. Maybe it was better if they hung rather than puddled. But I shook my head no. I wouldn’t be able to think about my thing in that position.
I pulled my legs together and shut my eyes. It should have been easy but it took fierce concentration to imagine that he was on top of me. I had to erase him completely and reconstitute him, focusing on his imaginary weight as opposed to his actual heft. As always he was very encouraging; again and again he told me to think about my thing. I was nearing peak exhaustion when the real Phillip interrupted.
“Open your eyes.”
To appease him I peeked for a split second and saw his mouth puckered in a tight ring; he was forcing air in and out of it. I quickly shut my eyes again.
Everything was scattered now so I gave up on my thing and tried to imagine the penis in me was my own version of Phillip’s member and that I was doing the thrusting, into Clee. Once I got a hold on it, the scene felt very real. Like a memory.
“Where did you meet her?” I panted.
“Who?” He paused his exertions for a moment and then continued. “In a doctor’s office. A waiting room.”
“Dr. Broyard.”
“Right. Jens.”
She’s reading a magazine and he sits down. He tells her a bit of trivia about the doctor’s wife, how she’s a famous painter. He doesn’t recognize her until he asks for her name.
“Clee.”
He smiles, putting it all together, looking her up and down. What are the odds of them running into each other like this? High. In this waiting room they are higher than average. That’s why I sent her here. He says he thinks he knows her parents.
“You’re staying with Cheryl Glickman? From their office?”
She winces at my name. I’m the woman who just told her her feet smell; I could still see her enormous smile and how it fell. She wanted me and I gave her a referral. Her leg begins to shake with anger; Phillip puts his big hand on it. She looks up at his gray beard, his tufty eyebrows. “What did you say your name was again?”
Even from her desk Ruth-Anne can see what will happen next. Spermatozoon enters the uterus, fertilizes egg, zygote, blastula, and so forth. Jack’s consciousness begins on this day.
I didn’t make him, but I did each thing right so he would be made.
That’s how much I wanted you.
Looking at the baby monitor, I marveled at the web of people that had spun him into being and proud tears swelled behind my eyelids. My son.
“Everything fine?”
I nodded, tucking my joy under my face. Phillip rolled off of and out of me.
“It’s okay,” he wheezed. “I can’t climax either anymore. And it’s probably safer if I don’t try—although what a way to go, right?” He rubbed my sweaty thigh a few times. “I want you to know I’m not afraid of it, but . . .” He swallowed. “No, that’s not true. I’m very afraid of it. But I’m not afraid of being afraid.”
I nodded. What were we talking about? Jack rolled over onto his side and then back again.
“I’ve kept my eyes on it this whole time, ever since I was young—so it can’t sneak up on me. I want to know it’s coming, I want to greet it.”
Death is what we were talking about.
“Oh hello, I’ll say. Do come in. Let me get my things before we go. But instead of getting anything I’ll just let go of everything. Goodbye home, goodbye money, goodbye being a grand and wonderful man. Goodbye Cheryl.”
“Goodbye.”
“And then I’ll go out the door, so to speak.”
I could see the door, me locking it behind him. The bedroom felt strangely cold, almost cryptlike. Jack was on his stomach now.
“I have a will and funeral plan and so forth, but if you don’t mind—”
Suddenly Jack screamed; it blasted from the monitor, ripping through the night.
“—if you don’t mind,” Phillip raised his voice to be heard over the cries, “I’ll tell you some of the details. Have you heard of EcoPods? I’d like to be buried in one of those.”
“I have to—” I pointed at the monitor. Phillip held up one finger.
“They aren’t legal but if you—”
Jack sobbed; I rose to my knees. Phillip looked up at me, his eyebrows furrowed. “This is only the second time I’ve ever told anyone this.”
The baby wailed in disbelief. I had never not come when he cried. I leapt out of bed and ran from the room.
HE WAS CUTTING A TOOTH. A bottle didn’t calm him so I walked him around the house. That didn’t work, so I put the carrier on over my nightgown and strapped him in. I slipped a jacket on and crept out to the porch. My shoes were right there, waiting.
The sky seemed to lighten as we walked. But dawn was hours away; it could only be the moon, or my eyes adjusting. Instead of walking in big circles as I usually did, we covered new ground, block by block. On Monday the man would come about the pergola. Phillip and I would have matching electric toothbrushes. The thing with the phone and his saying now would soon be normal. So would watching 60 Minutes. Jack looked straight up, suddenly calm, his eyes on a pair of blinking lights.
“Airplane.” I rubbed his back. “One day you’ll go on an airplane.” It disappeared, out of sight. The world felt warm and enclosed, as if we were safely inside a vast room. He craned his neck this way and that. I stroked his head.
“All the other babies in the world are asleep,” I whispered.
My legs were hungry to move, almost bouncing with each step. I could go forever, my arms wrapped around the only thing that really mattered, a full bottle in one pocket and my wallet in the other. We had everything we needed. How far would I walk? Could I reach that mountain range in the distance? I’d never really noticed the enormous peaks; they seemed to have risen up just now, lit up by the city. I walked for an hour without thinking a single thought, Jack long asleep against my chest. Most homes were completely dark or lit only by a TV. A man put his sprinkler out. Otherwise just cats, everywhere. The mountains stayed the same size for hours, as if I was pushing them ahead of me with each step. Then suddenly they were right there; I was at the foot of one. Would I feel compelled to scale it? It was hard to see the top now; I leaned back, one hand on Jack’s warm bottom. It couldn’t be seen from this close. I turned around and walked home.
AT FIVE A.M. PHILLIP STIRRED. He started when he saw me dressed, brushing my hair.
“I don’t know if you drink caffeine. I made some oolong,” I said.
His head bobbled over to the steaming cup on the bedside table. His clothes were neatly folded beside it, the electric toothbrush on top. I’d wrapped the cord into a little bundle. It took him a moment to absorb each of these things. Then he slowly stood up and began to dress in the dark. I leaned against the opposite wall and sipped my tea, watching him.
“I imagine the climate in Thailand is great for the lungs. Maybe that’s home?”
“Maybe, I don’t know. I have a lot of options.
”
“Just an idea.”
He buttoned and tucked in his shirt, pulled on his black socks.
“Your shoes are on the porch.”
“That’s right.”
We walked to the living room, our mugs from yesterday sitting in the dark on the coffee table.
“He’s sound asleep but if you want to have one last peek at him . . .” I held out the monitor. Phillip took it but hesitated before looking at the screen.
“Did he seem standoffish to you?” he asked.
“Standoffish? Jack?”
“Maybe I misread him. I felt a chilly reception.” He squinted intently at the sleeping shape. Suddenly he straightened up and handed the monitor back.
“I doubt he’s mine. You know how I know? I don’t feel anything here.” He jabbed his chest with stiff fingers; it made a hollow sound.
I stood in the doorway and watched him put his shoes on; he gave me a small salute from the porch then stumbled down the stairs. I shut the front door, very quietly, and lay down on the couch. Best to try to sleep a little before the day began.
EPILOGUE
The flight from China was full of families and it took a long time to deplane. Then there was an endless line at Customs and the teenager in front of them couldn’t find his passport. Finally they were headed down the long corridor to Arrivals. Moms and dads and husbands and wives at the end of the hall were exclaiming and hugging. As they walked he wiped his face with his hand and smoothed his hair down. She looked at him nervously.
“Are we late?”
“We’re a little late. It’s okay.”
“What if she hates me?”
“Not possible.”
“What should I call her? Ms. Glickman?”
“Just call her Cheryl.”
“Is that her? That woman waving?”
“Where?”
“Down at the very end. With the blond lady. See?”
“Oh. Yeah. She looks old. Clee came too, that’s Clee.”
“She’s so happy to see you—oh, she’s running.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s pretty far.”
“We could meet her halfway—should we run?”
“Really? I have my bag. How about you just run and I’ll catch up?”
“No, no. We can walk.”
“It’s just—my bag. Oh wow. She’s really gonna run the whole way.”
“Yeah.”
“Just go.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, give me your bag. I’ll catch up with you. Go.”
He ran toward her and she ran toward him and as they got closer they both started to laugh. They were laughing and laughing and running and running and running and music played, brass instruments, a soaring anthem, not a dry eye in the house, the credits rolled. Applause like rain.
Read another gorgeous and revelatory memoir by acclaimed author and Academy Award-winning actress Anjelica Huston currently available from Scribner
“These delightful stories do that essential-but-rare story thing: they surprise. They skip past the quotidian, the merely real, to the essential, and do so with a spirit of tenderness and wonder that is wholly unique. They are (let me coin a phrase) July-esque, which is to say: infused with wonder at the things of the world.” —George Saunders, author of Tenth of December
No One Belongs Here More Than You
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would to thank Melissa Joan Walker, Rachel Khong, Sheila Heti, Jason Carder, Lucy Reynell, Lena Dunham, and Margaux Williamson for reading versions of this book and reacting so honestly. A particular thank you to Eli Horowitz, who read many drafts and was profoundly helpful. Thank you to Megan and Mark Ace for the family name Clee, to Khaela Maricich for sending Bowie’s song “Kooks,” and to my father, Richard Grossinger, for permission to excerpt his book, Embryogenesis. Thank you to Michele Rabkin for talking to me about adoption and Alok Bhutada for answering questions about meconium aspiration. Thank you to Jessica Graham, Erin Sheehan, and Sarah Kramer for taking such good care of my son while I wrote. Thank you to my agent, Sarah Chalfant, for saying “you will have a baby AND you will write a novel” and many other boldly inspiring truths. Thank you to Nan Graham for her staunch, unwavering support of my winding path and masterful feedback. Lastly, thank you Mike Mills, to whom this book is dedicated. Your love and bravery and willingness to tangle see me through every single day.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo Credit: Todd Cole
Miranda July is a filmmaker, writer, and artist. She wrote, directed, and starred in The Future. Her film, Me and You and Everyone We Know, received a special jury prize at the Sundance Film Festival and the Caméra d’Or at Cannes. July’s stories have appeared in The New Yorker, The Paris Review, and Harper’s. No One Belongs Here More Than You won the Frank O’Connor International Short Story Award and has been published in twenty-three countries. In 2014 she debuted the audience-participatory performance, New Society, at the Walker Art Center and launched the messaging service app, Somebody.
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ALSO BY MIRANDA JULY
No One Belongs Here More Than You: Stories
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ISBN 978-1-4391-7256-8
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Contents
* * *
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
Miranda July, The First Bad Man
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