One D.O.A., One On The Way. Mary Robison

      “Drooling drool,” says Adam.

      “Playing with his own manure,” Saunders says.

      “All right, don’t be little babies,” Petal tells them.

      To me, she says, “Foaming, slobbering, playing with their own manure.”

      [36]

       I’m through reading lengthy bits of scripture into the answering machines of my enemies.

       I’m saying goodbye to Sloppy Joes.

       No more Foosball.

       I’m done hiding up in a tree.

       No more soaking cigarettes in little bowls of paregoric.

      [37]

      We’ve stopped in at a Waffle House, Lucien and I. It’s our first occasion being together outside the van. He looks different, naturally, seated opposite. I’m gazing at him, getting his face instead of his profile. Looking too hard, perhaps. Causing him to check his reflection in the glass between these booths and the team of grill cooks.

      I think it might help to mention the husband. “I have a husband,” I say.

      “I know, I met the two of them,” Lucien says.

      “Well, there’s only one, for the moment, but it can certainly seem otherwise.”

      “So, is this man your first marriage?”

      “No,” I say, “it isn’t. But I still try to keep it, you know, one at a time.”

      He says, “Now, didn’t I hear that your husband’s sick with a health problem?”

      I’m really not sure if yes is the answer, but I give it as one either way.

      “And, someone might’ve also told me, that he’s been that way a long time?”

      “Years and years, it turns out,” I say.

      There’s a guy leaning on the bathroom door over there, asking, “Melissa? Melissa. Are you sure you’re O.K.?”

      [38]

      The twins’ parents are from Cornsilk, Louisiana, and they met in Cornsilk, Louisiana. For some special wedding anniversary they bought a boxer dog named Snaps.

      [39]

      We’re in a front parlor at the twins’ parents’ place. Petal’s on a red leather couch before the tall doors to the terrace. One of the doors hangs open and she’s motioning her cigarette smoke outside. Without conviction. With no real success.

      The room has embroidered pillows, flowers in Italian urns.

      The wind changes and rain sprays in. Petal reaches behind her and bats the door closed.

      I’m wet. I’ve been outside where it’s raining. My hair’s streaming. My stockings are glistened. My shoes are sopped and weigh like turkeys.

      It will stop in a minute. The sky does this—opens and drops another load on the city—every motherfucking day.

      Petal’s in crisp white and navy, lounging on the couch arm, with her legs up under her. She dusts the arm for cigarette ash, clears her throat. She says, “You know, one of the twin spans has been rated critical. I think it’s the westbound, got a two. On a one-through-nine rating scale.”

      I say, “I noticed the pitiful patch job they did.”

      Saunders rolls in and takes a seat on the couch with Petal. He says, “They knew full well the bearings were beat to shit.” He notices my wetness, gives me a smirk.

      “I’ll get to it,” I say.

      Petal and I are often different when Drag & Drop are around. We speak less often, and say less when we do. I don’t understand why. They’re only a couple of men.

      He says, “I read they tried using bridge jacks to support the ones that’re the worst. Only then, I read another thing, said the bearings aren’t even the problem. Although, they’re utter garbage, no question. But, supposedly, the girders and pilings are what’s really terrifying.”

      “The eastbound’s not much better,” says Petal. “It got, I think, a three.”

      “Yeah. That’s so,” Saunders says, nodding. And staring outside, he says, “There it goes again. The goddamn dog, diving into the pond.”

      “What’ll it do? Eat the swans?” I ask.

      “I don’t think it’s focused enough to catch a swan,” says Saunders. “It’ll just stand there in the water, barking at them. Which Father will pretend, all afternoon, he doesn’t hear. When it’s entirely his responsibility, ’cause it’s his fuckhead dog. But Adam always ends up being the one taking care of it.”

      “He’s too sick to go into the pond, though,” I say with a shake of the head.

      “Yeah,” Saunders says. “He’s too sick.”

      [40]

      On the grounds of the parents’ place are winding paths that lead under magnolia trees and under Live Oaks, with branches that reach and meet overhead.

      One path follows a drive to the front gate. Another path leads to the pond.

      The twins’ sister, Julia, drowned herself in that water. No one’s ever said why, and I wasn’t around, and didn’t know her, so I wouldn’t know. But I don’t like that place. It’s got a statue the parents had made—a white stone statue of a girl set about shin-deep in the pool. Then the father added two black swans. They swim in an endless circle.

      People will pause along the wrought-iron fence for a glimpse of the statue. The neighbor kids are always there, always fooling around. They throw stuff, pelt it with stones and sticks, command it to move.

      [41]

      Guardians of Our Health

       Only 1 of the 7 general hospitals is fully operational. 2 are partially open. 4 remain closed.

       The number of hospital beds remains down by 80 percent. Hospitals refuse people.

       Anybody they can’t refuse is given sedatives and left on a gurney in the hall.

       There are no orthopedists. For broken bones, the recommended treatment spot is Houston.

       New Orleans has been unable to fluoridate its tap water since the storm.

      [42]

      Here I am, in the place where my husband left me. If things stay like this, I don’t know what I’ll do.

      The day’s thundershower is over. My power’s not out. There’s nothing whatsoever to keep me from vacuuming.

      [43]

      Saunders needs monitoring today. Petal’s in Jamaica or somewhere and she asked me to go over, check on her husband, make sure everything’s O.K.

      So, here’s his car, parked catawampus at the foot of the driveway. From this point, I can trace his every trip, stumble, and fall.

      He gets out, goes a little way up the drive, veers off, collides with these shrubs and crushes them to hell. Here’s his key chain, and his keys, anybody wants them. Drops his white handkerchief also. I’m sure his wallet’s on the ground here too. Then he trips over the newspaper basket, topples onto a bench, knocks that on its back. Comes to again, gets up, finally makes it to the door, but no keys, he can’t get in. Bashes the doorknob with a rock several times. That does nothing. Breaks the window with the rock, throws it somewhere. Reaches in, works the knob, bloodies his hand but gets the door open, and ah, here he is, utterly unconscious, one, two, three feet inside.

      [44]

      Now Saunders is awake and at his parents’ place, where I chauffeured