Needles

Alba comes down hard on the fish head. She looks to see her foot submerged in blood and gelatinous goo. The sun glints off iridescent fish scales and hot white pavement. She notices graffiti that is popping up all over the city – a stenciled monkey head, smoking a cigarette, with its middle finger pointed directly at her. Well, fuck you too, she thinks. Her sneaker is ruined and she’s late for a very important appointment and she stepped on a fish head and the Chinese guy who mans one of the fish stalls leaning his elbow on a tank that Alba swears holds a live piranha is smirking at her. And how did that fish head end up on the sidewalk instead of in the garbage? Huh, monkey boy?

Bodies whirl past in a furious sweat - muscled bodies, shiny bodies, fleshy bodies, bodies that seem to have been dipped in orange and red oil. Even though it is already 4:15 in the afternoon, the sun remains vengeful. The tar streets are liquefying, and Alba starts to tremble. The heat has embalmed the other bodies as well, and they merge into a pulsating ribbon. Faces blur into one, hungry human being. Alba stops to buy a 7-Up to quench her thirst.
She’s going to be late if she doesn’t step on it. She forces her way through the winding streets of lower Manhattan. Tourists hug each other close, greedy to land a good deal. They buy cheap, plastic jewelry and watches for their relatives back home. Chinese locals crowd vegetable stalls. Chickens hang upside down by their nooses, glistening and golden in restaurant windows.

A young Chinese woman with greasy hair muscles a stroller into Alba, jamming her knee. A current of something Alba can’t name - a jolt of a memory - is sucked from her brain. The baby in the stroller is rotund, grotesque, like a blimp baby floating in the Macy’s day parade. He holds a red lollipop that is shaped like a bell. Alba and the young woman lock eyes for a few moments, like they are the only two people within miles.
“Excuse me, do I know you?” Alba asks, but the girl looks away. A horn screams. The child squeals with laughter. When the girl veers the stroller into the swarms of late afternoon shoppers, Alba notices that she has a limp. Her right leg swings from her hip like it desperately wants to fly away from the rest of her body.

Alba jumps onto the elevator with ten other riders, all of them Chinese. They have impassive, tired faces. She wonders if all these people work on Saturdays. Or are they also visiting acupuncturists, trying to relax and ease the pain. She’s not trying to fix her pain, exactly. She’s there to have a baby. She and Jon had been trying for just over a year. Both of them were getting close to 35 and had taken all the requisite tests – her tubes were clear and hormones regular, Jon’s sperm count was good to go. Alba’s friend Sue suggested that she see an acupuncturist. It had helped Sue get pregnant with Sam.
Alba steps into an office filled with virile, thick-leaved Birds of Paradise, Snake plants and Aloe Vera. The Doctor emerges from the other room. Petit and seasoned, she wears black heels, an Oxford shirt and a short skirt. She is an unflappable woman, Alba thinks. But still, she loves the babies, their fleshy mounds and toothless smiles. Whenever a client brings one by, the Doctor claps and whistles at them, suddenly unshackled from her cool exterior. Alba finds this heartening because they are babies. But she’d also like to be humored, to have the doctor sing soft lullabies in her ear. If no songs are to be sung, maybe, for once, they could have a normal conversation. Unfortunately, Alba doesn’t speak Mandarin and the Doctor’s English is poor. And, what could they talk about, really? The stifling heat or record-breaking temperature of 102 degrees? Yet, Alba longs to ask the Doctor about the photos of children that line her desk, or for advice about the houseplants she can’t seem to keep alive – the African violets, Gardinias, Calatheas. Only her Ferns remain healthy year round. The others deflate every winter, like they’re simply waiting for the soil to devour them.

The Doctor motions Alba to the tables draped in white paper. A woman lies motionless on one of the cots. With all those needles jutting out of her skin, she reminds Alba of a praying mantis, except for the straight blond hair that falls to the floor. The woman’s veiny feet, rigid against the table, cause Alba to wince.
“Feeling okay?” the Doctor asks.
“Yes, pretty good, “ Alba replies, gathering herself. “But I’m sweaty.”
“Did you go to bathroom, clear out bladder?”
“Yes.”
Alba wonders about the other woman on the table: is she trying to get pregnant also? Are all the women who visit this place trying to get pregnant? It shouldn’t be so difficult. Billions of creatures, from among millions of species, procreate everyday. It’s the most natural phenomena in the world. Alba wonders if infertility isn’t their own fault, humans that is. Or maybe planet Earth cannot sustain another white, American baby. Or maybe it just comes down to Alba. She remembers the time she called her mother a bitch. Her mother just stood there, speechless. No time out in her room, no soap in her mouth, no limits on television viewing. No punishment at all.

The Doctor has disappeared. Alba remembers the plants lining the windowsill. Their leaves climb to the ceiling, tentacles reaching for the latch that will provide them fresh air and more of that low-slung, late August sunlight. Greedy, little fuckers, Alba thinks. She undresses and puts on the gown the Doctor has left for her. She nestles her head on a heart-shaped, red silk pillow. She knows she looks like a boy with the new haircut.
“I like your hair short. You look younger,” Jon said, when she returned from the salon. “It’s sexy.”
“I’ll grow it back.” Alba blew snot into a tissue and assessed her profile in the mirror. “It’ll be lustrous again. I’ll dye it sable brown, like a good breeding mare. It’ll bring us lady luck.”
Alba ponders her naked body cocooned in the striped, cotton cloth. As it goes with her bedtime ritual, she is compelled to grab her waist, measuring the fat. She manages to grab at least an inch of flab. Just a few years ago, she would lie on her back, tummy sunk inward and hipbones protruding. She loved to feel the smoothness of her thin skin against the bony pelvic girdle. It reassured her that she was fit, that she could control her body’s trajectory. But then she got some bad news. She would have to undergo surgery to remove one of her ovaries and a cyst the size of a grapefruit that had encased the ovary. On a follow-up visit, the OB/GYN mentioned that Alba’s cyst was the largest she had seen in a thirty-year old woman. Alba’s chances of getting pregnant had decreased by a third.

Alba cranes her neck to peer out the window. It’s dinnertime. The crowds flock to restaurants and cafes. A general hum that vaguely sounds like chanting resonates from the street. Although it is pleasing, it also alarms Alba. Just as she’s about to name what bothers her, the thought drifts away. The Doctor has returned, and her treatment begins. The Doctor opens Alba’s robe and lays a towel over her thighs and hips. She touches her calves. They are sensitive, ripe. The Doctor swabs rubbing alcohol on them and her wrists, forearms, ears, head and belly. She spikes a needle on the inside of one of Alba’s legs. A spasm rides down her muscle, and a tingling sensation lodges in her right foot. Alba jerks back in pain.
“Take deep breath,” the Doctor says, blunt, as usual.
Alba normally keeps her eyes shut when the Doctor is working. The darkness helps her forget the needles and why she needs them. But today, she glimpses a two-inch dagger between the Doctor’s fingers. In order to distract herself, Alba breathes and focuses on the space between her eyes, like the Doctor has trained her to do. Alba’s deep breath accompanies a needle in the other calf. There is less throbbing this time. Another needle pricks her right wrist. Her hand is on fire. Then another pinches her left wrist until electricity radiates to that hand. More needles slice into her stomach. Alba feels nothing with these entries. Her womb is numb, thick with fat and scar tissue from the surgery. After twisting a needle in the top of Alba’s head, the Doctor leaves to assist another patient.
Alba usually relaxes at this stage of a treatment, giving in to the warm flood of energy, or chi. But today, she can’t forget the points where the needles stick out of her body. She imagines each needle, burrowed deep in its resting place, slowly sliding under her skin and into her fat, her muscles, her tendons, her bones, her organs. The needles disappear down her digestive tract, and slip into to her lower intestine, ready for expulsion. But the holes in her flesh remain.

Alba hears a scream from outside. Hundreds of footsteps patter on the cement. They gather into a furious stampede. Whispers emanate from the crowd, crushing one another with a buzz that reminds Alba of bees gathering at a honey trough. The whispers metamorphose into indecipherable chattering, then into coherent shouts of “what happened?” And “someone call the fucking police!” Or so Alba thinks. It’s difficult to make out what is going on in the rest of the world when she is on the table.
The Doctor listens to a patient in the adjoining room.
“I have a sciatic nerve that keeps me up at all hours of the night. I’m taking Percoset to help ease the pain. I recently started taking Ambien to help me sleep, but the drugs don’t work. I just feel drowsy, like I’m sleepwalking through the day. At night, I’ll doze for 30 minutes, then wake up with searing back pain.”
“Do you remember your dreams?” the Doctor asks.
Alba hears another scream. Gunshots litter the streets. She doesn’t know much about guns, so it’s difficult to identify what has been fired. A rifle? An AK-47? A glock? Has someone been shot? Many people? Sirens toll, swelling to a fevered pitch. Helicopters hang low in the sky. Alba thinks her eardrums will perforate from all the noise. She will find out what happened when she leaves the table. For now, she must lie very still, so she can have a baby.

“The dream I had last night is one I’ve had before,” the patient recalls. “The sky is vast. I wander through an open field. Something or someone propels me forward, but it’s unclear where I’m headed. So I just walk west. The sun radiates such intense heat, the grass has burnt and turned brown. The winds carry the dry blades as if they were reeds in a swamp. I feel I might choke on particles of dust. I see mountains in the distance and sense there are cliffs nearby. If I’m not careful, I will tumble down into their dark caverns. Suddenly I hear music. I come upon a violinist, who plays a famous Bach concerto. I am bewitched. I follow the melody to its completion because the tune calms me. When the musician finishes his song, I offer him a dollar, but he refuses to take the money. He hands me a pink carnation that I put in my hair. After he disappears, I realize I’m on my own again. I notice acacia trees in the distance. I run towards the trees, hoping for a pool of water or to meet someone I know. As I approach the oasis, I come upon my childhood friends who I haven’t seen in fifty years. They have gathered under the trees. My husband is there also - and my children too. They are all whispering, but turn silent when they recognize me. They refuse to speak to me. My face and throat turn red. My stomach churns in fear. Why do they ignore me? What have they said about me? Am I even there at all?”

Another, blistering high-pitched scream interrupts the dream. Alba fears someone has been shot. Is it possible that someone is being tortured? Because she is stuck on the table, Alba can only speculate about the crime that has been committed – or is being committed. But she is sure it is brutal. No one screams like that without good reason.
“Yes, you so cute, Joy. You so pretty.” The Doctor has entered Alba’s room with baby Joy in her arms. “You my baby? You my baby?” the Doctor keeps cooing and giggling. The Doctor ignores the sirens and the helicopters and the gunshots and the screams. Joy's mother and everyone else in the Doctor’s office seem oblivious to the horror that is taking place just around the corner. Aren’t they concerned? Aren’t they even curious? Alba wonders if they know something she doesn’t, or if she has been barred from an exclusive club. The top of Alba’s head starts to throb. A swelling ripples down her legs and lands in her feet. Her breath grows shallow until she’s no longer aware of her throat, lungs, and diaphragm. Fluorescent bulbs in the office flicker on and off, and her eyelids tighten against the strobe-like effect. She pictures gray dust swept up by the wind. A ferocious tornado thickens in her skull. She enters a trance halfway between wakefulness and sleep.

Alba is certain that a young woman has been shot. It makes complete sense. Someone shot her because innocent girls get tortured and raped and left for dead all the time. Alba imagines two men taking aim. A bullet pierces one of the girl’s feet and another gets lodged in one of her hands. The two brutes leave the girl to struggle alone in a room, on the twentieth floor of a crumbling, factory building. Perhaps the girl is a seamstress. Maybe she came from a small, rural province in China, seeking a better life in New York. She has an uncle and aunt who live in Flushing, Queens, who have taken her in. She works here, on this island, to save money to send back home. She must be young, eighteen or nineteen at most, barely out of school.
The young woman sews in the factory all day, every day, on 12-hour shifts. She has been obedient but has done something to infuriate the foreman of the factory. They are lovers. He is married, and she is his concubine, virginal and pink, with swollen lips and black eyes. Her hair smells of jasmine because of the incense she keeps in her room. She dabs rosewater on her neck, so it blends with her sweat, like Alba’s grandmother used to do. This drives the foreman crazy. He can’t get enough of her. They meet when they can, mostly after work, making love on the sweatshop floor even though it is covered in sawdust and frayed threads.
The foreman loves her but is frightened. The girl has told him she is pregnant with his baby. If his wife finds out, she’ll threaten him with divorce. He can’t bear to be without his children, and his wife keeps a tight accounting of their books. He would be lost without her, even if he doesn’t care for her anymore. The foreman decides that he must get rid of the girl. He hires hit men who wear black masks to do his dirty work.
Alba realizes that she was wrong - the woman wasn’t shot in the foot and the hand. She was shot in the heart. Pools of blood slide down her chest, as she lays slumped over. She is dying, alone, blood shrouding her from help. Unfortunately, the assassins have escaped. Quick and undaunted by American authority, the police will never find them. More sirens erupt from the street. The crowds congeal into a mob. Some scream obscenities in Mandarin, others in Cantonese. The Caucasian police officers can’t understand a word. Their square jaws clench down hard. Their eyes steel straight ahead. They remain alert for any spontaneous acts of violence. Tourists stand aghast, shaking their heads in pity and fear. Deep in her anger, Alba decides that this mercy is a ruse, feigned to throw off those who seek the truth. Most tourists are secretly grateful for a story of depravity to dazzle their friends back home with. It affirms their opinion that it’s better to live where they live than anywhere else in the world.

The police arrive too late. The girl is pronounced dead at 6:46 pm. Alba wonders how close the murder scene is to the Doctor’s office. She knows she must lie still - there is nothing she can do. She will find out what happened to this poor girl once she is able to walk again. She will let the angry voices in the crowd carry her to that horrible place.
Alba feels a chill loosen her body from the grip of heat. She feels like she is floating on the lake that she and Jon visited a few summers ago in upstate New York. As she drifted aimlessly and the sun skimmed the trees, Alba sensed the day wouldn’t last much longer. A few weeks earlier, she had lost her ovary.
"You’re okay. You don’t have cancer." A disembodied voice roused Alba from the anesthesia. "Can you hear me? The biopsy came back negative. The cyst is benign. You're alive."

“How you doing?” the Doctor asks.
Alba’s time is up. She barely feels the needles leaving her body. When the Doctor pulls out the last one - the needle deep inside her calf - Alba flinches, until the pain dulls into numbness. She feels cold and shivers under the Doctor’s watchful gaze. She holds the robe tightly to her chest. Alba thinks her feet must be blue. The Doctor grabs them and warms her toes firmly.
“Good luck,” the Doctor says. “Year of Dog good luck for babies. You get baby soon. And remember, no cold liquids. Warm water good to drink to make baby. And if you get period, call right away.”
Alba rises from the table and puts on her clothes. She is dizzy but relieved to be standing. She wants to ask the Doctor about the plants. She knows she shouldn’t, because the Doctor is busy, but she just can’t help herself.
“Doctor A., you have such healthy plants. They are so big and strong. But there isn’t much sunlight here. What’s the secret?” The Doctor's smile reminds Alba of a two-year old child, in the sandbox for the first time. It’s as if the Doctor has seen a roly-poly baby with outstretched arms and legs, swimming in the air, floating towards her. She’s just an embrace away from that mercurial baby. That’s how much those plants mean to her.
“No secret. But plants very old.” the Doctor replies.

And that’s all Alba gets from her. But it doesn’t really matter because Alba remembers the dead girl. She pays the $100 fee and races to the elevators before they can leave her behind. When she arrives at the first floor, the night guards are waging bets about the baseball game on TV. Their laughter seems forced, like they are jockeying for attention or propping themselves up against failure. If they stop this standup routine, their team might just lose the game.
Alba opens the glass doors. Heat and pollution and noise punch her hard in the face. She falters, twisting her head back and forth. The evening is lit purple by millions of lamps and television sets and the coming storm. She runs to the next block, nearly knocking over an old lady with a cane. She looks for the locals trying to get the story; for the tourists nodding their heads; for the hit men lost in the titanic crowd; for the police arriving too late; for the uncle and aunt crying in their apartment; for the EMT workers pronouncing the young woman dead; for a girl lying still in the corner of a large room, filled with hundreds of gray sewing machines that have been switched off until tomorrow morning. But instead, people pass her by, chattering one minute, silent the next. As she turns her head upward, a flock of crows part the darkening sky, uncertain of where they are headed.

Melt

Frank Jr. leaps from behind the dining cabinet, a plastic pistol clenched in his fist, rattling the china Alice acquired from her wedding registry twelve years ago.
“I’m gonna kill you, you rat bastard,” he screams.
“Do you want to give me a friggin’ nervous breakdown?” Alice snarls. He’s been horsing around with his brother for hours, creating concoctions from spaghetti, eggs, hot pepper flakes, parmagean, milk, Wonder bread, garlic - blending the ingredients in the Cuisinart, timing who could drink the potion faster. But Alice really lost it when they started playing mafia in her living room. Frank Jr. was imitating John Gotti - zipping in and out and around the furniture, evading the law.
Shaun grabs Frank Jr. by his t-shirt collar. This throws the bigger boy off kilter, and he trips over his own feet. Frank Jr. lies on the carpet, and Shaun aims his scrawny fist directly between his eyes. “Bull’s eye,” Shaun creaks.

Frank Sr. had finally left Alice – he claimed for good - and she feels like just sinking in the velvet couch to watch some Home Shopping Network without any more distractions. She’s been eye-ing the $700.99 necklace for weeks now. It’s a little more expensive than the other jewelry they sell, but still, it’s absolutely perfect for her. She imagines the thick strand of 14-karat gold encircling her neck, plunging between breasts that she works damned hard to keep firm. The necklace will match the little black dress that Frank Sr. bought her, that selfish bastard.
“Go outside and play. Dad just bought you a new jungle gym set.”
“But mom, it’s like 100 degrees out there. There’s AC inside. We’ll go play video games in the rec room,” Frank Jr. offers.
“Goddammit, show some appreciation. Your father worked his ass off for that new set. Do you know how much it cost? Take your younger brother outside right now!” Alice wanted to raise the temperature on the AC anyway. It had been set at 65 degrees all week. Now that she and Frank Sr. were separating for real, she had to watch the cash flow. And gas had just jumped over $10/gallon.
“Dad has plenty of money. You said it yourself a thousand times.”
“Frances Anthony, don’t give me lip – money doesn’t grow on trees,” Alice snaps. “You can take cool showers when you come back in. Then I’ll make you some cheesy sandwiches in the microwave. I think we have cheddar or American slices in the fridge. I’ll let you watch whatever you want on TV tonight.”
“Can we see the one about the super strong guy who flies around in his spaceship - the one with the robot friend who shoots lasers out of his eyes?” Shaun asks, his eyes wide with the expectation of great things to come. Alice always felt that Shaun was easier to reason with than anyone else in her household. Even when he was a toddler, when she and Frank Sr. went to a movie or theater in New York City or dinner with their friends at the mall or when she left the boys with the nanny while she ran some errands and went to the gym, Shaun seemed to understand her needs.
“It’s called Astro and Bolts, dummy,” Frank Jr. says.
“Sure, we’ll watch whatever movie you guys want. I just need some quiet time right now. Can you give Mom a little space, please? It’s been a really hard day – a hard week, in fact.” Alice sighs, “Dad has left, this time for good, I’m afraid. He hasn’t been on his best behavior.” Frank Jr. shoots her a dead-on stare. And what about you, the look accuses. Well that one takes after his father, Alice calculates. Too smart for his own good and not afraid to show it.
She punches the buttons on the wall to deactivate the alarm. “Outside now,” she says. “Or you’ll go to bed without dessert.”

Shaun opens the curtains and slides the French doors wide. A rush of thick, humid air muffles the living room. He bounces outside and heads straight for the jungle gym. Frank Jr. grabs his toy gun and a bottle of Gatorade from the fridge.
“You win,” he says to Alice. “Are you happy now?”
He steps into the light and slowly closes the glass doors, like he’s locking himself away forever. Their eyes hold fast, each one daring the other to glance away. Really, she’s not asking too much. She just needs to relax in front of the TV set for an hour or two. She feels the need to buy herself something, anything that will make her feel beautiful. She deserves that much, doesn’t she?
“Did you hear me,” Frank Jr. asks. “I said, you win.”
When she doesn’t respond, he slumps his shoulders and turns from her gaze. His squat body casts a sharp shadow against the cement, which fades to a fuzzy mess when he steps into the brown grass. Alice immediately feels remorse. If only she could stop him from growing up. If only she could freeze her ten-year old boy the way he is now - the sweet, dried sweat on his skinny body - he wouldn’t become like his father, or any man for that matter. Alice opens the doors and screams, “Don’t forget to drink your liquids. You don’t want to get dehydrated!” The sun sears the side of her face.
“Well, maybe you should go buy us some more Gatorade then, because we’re running out,” Frank Jr. replies. “There’s only one more bottle in the fridge. Didn’t you check before you went grocery shopping yesterday?” Alice slams the doors in their moorings and re-activates the security system.

“Mom’s really pissing me off,” Frank Jr. says to Shaun, kicking his sneakers in the dirt. Dust settles in his laces. “I’m too old for this stupid jungle gym. I’m not a kid anymore. Dad really bought it for you because you’re a brat. You’re a stupid baby.”
Shaun glides through the air, using his legs to propel the swing as high as he can. “I am not,” Shaun finally says, after three rotations.
“I need a new bike. Or a motorized scooter. Something fast that’ll get me to the baseball field at Pike’s Turn,” Frank adds. “The series is coming up, and I’m sick of mom driving me there.”
“You’d never make it on a bike. It’s too far. Just let mom drive you, okay?” Shaun lets the swing come to a standstill and wipes sweat from his brow. His shirt is drenched, and he takes a swig of the Gatorade. “I’m so thirsty,” he says, chugging the liquid as fast as he can.

The yard is two-acres vast and dotted with shrubbery and a few magnolia trees that failed to flower in the spring. An oak with drooping leaves sits prominently in the center. A hundred years old, it’s the fulcrum that holds the rest of the yard in place. But its bark is dry and rotting. A gardener warned that the tree would have to come down soon, before they split and cracked a head open or smothered someone to death. He said it happened last winter, in the next town over, to a healthy, 40-year old man. He had a heart attack but luckily made it through surgery alive. After that incident, the man had the gardener saw his beloved maple tree to a stump. “It’s sad to see a beauty like that go,” the gardener added. “But that’s the way the world is, these days.”

Alice drops into the folds of the couch and clicks on the cable. A brunette wrapped in gold chains purrs from the screen. Next item up is the heart and pendant and earring set with an 18-inch box chain. This luxurious group says you’re worth it. Get that perfect diamond appearance with Absolute cubic zirconia, exclusive to our station. The hostess strokes the necklace around her throat as if she was grooming fur on her chest. Alice read somewhere that she used to be a porn star. She grabs two cookies from the breadbasket. Why the fuck not, she thinks. A cookie doesn’t have too many calories. And she’s alone in an empty 4-bedroom house in the middle of suburban New Jersey with no plans on a Saturday night. A little sugar won’t hurt. Maybe it’ll help lift her spirits, and she’ll get along better with Frank Jr.
All you men out there, now is the time to buy that anniversary gift or something special for her birthday. I bought a set for my mom for Mother’s Day, and she can’t get over it. Alice decides she’ll have to share custody of her sons with Frank Sr., or it’ll be the end of her. Boys need men in their lives, or they become unwieldy and wild. She’ll call her lawyer on Monday and draw up divorce papers. She’ll definitely get the house, at least half their assets and the SUV. Frank can keep the Lexus for all she cares. Really, why did Frank have to leave now? It is the worst possible time - the bills are piling up, the driveway needs to be repaved. They’ll have to rent an apartment for him, in addition to paying the mortgage. Maybe she’ll have to ask for more hours at the realty office, but then who will drive the boys to their activities? They’ll have to fire Betty. Alice will have to clean the house herself.

This 14 karat-graduated, byzantine link 17-inch necklace is absolutely gorgeous. I wore it to a wedding on Saturday night, and I’ve never gotten so many compliments in my life. I’ve only got 500 amazing pieces left. This is while supplies last. I’ve already sold 20 today. Alice feels that she might fall asleep if she turns the air conditioning down. Instead, she sneaks three more cookies and pours herself a rum and Coke. The ice cubes crack like Alice’s own splitting headache, the one that began in her temple and has now spread to the base of her skull. When she flops back down on the couch, it creaks and rolls slightly across the wood floor. She scampers to the bathroom in the parlor, so she can weigh herself. The scale tips to 135 pounds. She must stop engorging herself with cookies, or she’ll be alone forever.

Warning - intruder at front entrance of house a voice chants through the speakers in the hallway. Warning - intruder at front entrance of house it repeats. Alice runs to the monitor in the den, wondering if Frank Sr. forgot his keys. Maybe he’s come back to her! Instead, she spies a thin, distorted man in a white shirt and jeans through the fish-eye lens. Warning - intruder at front entrance of house.

“Watch where you swing that thing! Are you an idiot or something?” Shaun shouts as he swooshes down the slide, tumbling forward onto his face. Frank Jr. has cleared his head by only a few inches. Cocking his bat, he is the last man up in the inning, and the bases are loaded. The crowd shouts his name. He swings and lines in a homer, making it all the way to second base.
“Pass the Gatorade,” he says to Shaun. “I’m thirsty. I think I can whip Joey now. He’s pitching tomorrow. I think I can hit a double if I just take his curve ball a little lower than usual.” His shirt caked with grime, Shaun hands him the plastic jug.
“You almost drank the whole thing, you moron,” Frank Jr. says. “Don’t you know how to conserve? What do they teach you in fifth grade, anyway? Don’t you remember when Dad took us on that camping trip near the lake by Grandma’s house? He said not to drink all the water at once – that we had to hold back, let our saliva quench our thirst? Do you remember how he taught us to screw the cap on properly, so none of the water would drip out?” He tilts the bottle, until what’s left of the Gatorade drips onto his tongue. “God, this tastes weird. Did you put something in here? Did you spit in here, Shaun?”
“No way. That’s gross.”
“Well, it doesn’t taste like Gatorade, that’s for sure. It tastes like plastic or something strange. It’s thick, like syrup. It’s sticking to my tongue.”
“Want a piece of gum?” Shaun draws a pack of Wrigley’s from his back pocket. “Ooh, gross, it’s stuck to the wrapper!”
“Just hand it to me.” Frank Jr. nibbles the gum from the paper, until all of it is has disappeared.
“I think we should just go get some water from inside,” Shaun says.
“Screw that. I don’t want to deal with her right now. She’s in one of her moods. I’d rather die from thirst.”
“Yeah right. You’re so full of it.”
“Just watch me,” Frank Jr. replies, the gum filling the holes between his teeth.

The man at the front door has come to check Alice’s wiring. Alice doesn’t remember calling for help. “Our lights and appliances are working fine,” she says.
“The city is getting pretty strict about energy consumption. We’re checking all the houses in your neighborhood, to make sure everyone’s up to code. We’ll rewire an entire house, if necessary.”
“I didn’t make an appointment. Do you have a work order?” she asks.
“Right here, ma’am,” the stranger says, pointing to a greasy piece of paper. “Signed by Frank DiNunzio.” Its Frank’s signature all right – slanted forward, the Nunzio a blur of ink - always in a rush to get to the next appointment with a client. Frank probably faxed the form from his law firm months ago. Why doesn’t he tell her these things? If she hadn’t noticed him walk out of the front door with two suitcases in the security monitor last Sunday, she would have worried for weeks that he simply evaporated into the thin air.
“We’re kind of low on money these days – how could we possibly pay to rewire a house?”
“Ma’am, most people are energy efficient. And if you’re not, it won’t cost you too much to rewire. The customer only pays 10% of the fee. The taxpayer pays for the rest. Now the SUV sitting in your driveway, you might want to reconsider that puppy. Big gas guzzler. Lucky for you, the government hasn’t outlawed them yet. It’s a hybrid, I assume?”
“Yes. It’s only six-months old.” The man is about 25, with blue eyes and dimples. Alice thinks he’s cute, almost a boy, so fuck Frank. Let him pay the city 10% to tear apart their house, let him pay for everything.
“Would you like something to drink, maybe a cold beer?” Alice asks.
“Can’t drink on the job ma’am. But I’d love a coke, lots of ice.” He’s cocky, sure of himself, about the age Frank Sr. was when Alice first met him. And he’s charming, like her husband used to be, before his ego entered the stratosphere from making partner at the firm.
“Yes, of course you would,” Alice says, looking him up and down. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”
“I’ll start to check your outlets, ma’am. And I’ll also need to look at the circuit breakers.”
“Good thinking,” Alice says, as she dashes to the kitchen.
And in a moment I’m going to tell you about our cultured golden South Sea pearl 14-karat pendant.
“Oh, you’re watching Cindy. I love Cindy,” the man says, as he climbs up his ladder. “I bought my girlfriend a bracelet from her last month. She got all weepy when I gave it to her. I’m thinking about buying her a ring when I get the cash together. I’m thinking of asking her to marry me.” He unscrews the base of the chandelier. “But I’m just not sure if I’m ready.” After he climbs down the ladder, Alice hands him a drink. She has fixed herself another rum and coke.
“Well, don’t rush into anything,” Alice says. “Is that enough ice for you?”
“Perfect, just the way I like it.” Alice watches his Adam’s apple bob up and down while he slugs down the soda. “Hot day,” he says when he’s finished.
“But hot is good, don’t you think?” Alice asks, swirling the liquor around the tumbler. “I feel so relaxed, like anything could happen, anything at all. And it’ll all be okay, don’t you think?” She notices him staring at her glass. She laughs, “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not normally a big drinker. It’s just that my husband left me this past week, and I’m all alone in this gigantic house with two growing boys. But it’s such a relief to know that our electricity output will be up to code. That’s one burden off my shoulders. Thank goodness you came today. You’re a life saver.”
“You might want to watch the air coming out of the vents. Your AC is set pretty low,” he says. “Big waste of energy.”

“Gotcha!” Frank Jr. says, pointing his gun at Shaun’s temple. Shaun sits cross-legged in a mound of dirt, throwing a baseball up and down in his mitt.
“Aren’t you too old for toy guns, Frank?”
“Shut up, Shaun. Everyone knows how cool this gun is. It’s not like it’ll hurt anyone.” Frank Jr. throws the gun to the ground. “Let’s play catch. I need to warm up my throwing arm for tomorrow.”
“I’m sleepy,” Shaun replies, hanging his head low. “Do you think mom will let us back inside?”
“C’mon, don’t be a wimp. You need the practice. Aren’t you playing shortstop? Your arm has to be primed. You don’t want to lose the game, do you?”
Frank Jr. throws the ball dead center into Shaun’s mitt. Shaun tosses it back but throws short, and Frank Jr. has to run to catch it. He sighs heavily, shaking his head. “You’ll just have to learn the hard way.” He winds his arm behind his head and propels the ball forward and up with full force. Shaun runs backwards and collapses onto his butt, as the ball sails over him. He rises, dazed and swaying. “Your throw was too long,” he manages to say. Then his body sinks to the ground.
“Jesus F-in’ Christ, Shaun! What the hell happened? Did you just trip over your own two feet? You can’t do that tomorrow! You have to hang tough.”
“I slipped. I slipped on something wet. I think I might have twisted my ankle.”
Frank Jr. walks to where Shaun is sitting and notices a puddle of black gook slathered on the ground. A holster juts out from its center. Frank Jr. dabs his finger in the sticky sludge. It reminds him of rotten tree sap. “It’s the gun – it melted,” he says.

Alice wants to confide in the electrician. There’s something about the softness of his eyes that tells her he’s trustworthy. He seems like a receptive young man who’s grown up among a generation of men who were trained to listen. “Well ma’am, your circuit breaker looks good. All the outlets, electrical appliances, lamps, wires – they all look up to code. I’ll just mark it down here, that you’re all good.”
“Wouldn’t you like to stay, have a nice cold beer?”
“No thanks, I have to get to the next job.”
“Do you want something to eat? I could make you a cheese sandwich. The boys love them. My husband – or my ex, not sure which he is yet, ha ha - does too. I can melt the cheese on bread in the microwave.”
“No thanks, really. I have to be going.”
Alice leans forward and whispers in his ear, “Well, do you accept tips?” He steps back. “No, we’re not allowed to take cash. I make a decent living, so no worries.”
“I’m not worried. I just thought you might like something extra for your effort.” Alice winks at him. “Wouldn’t you like to relax for a few minutes and watch more Cindy with me?” Alice smiles, fluffing the pillows on the couch. The electrician stares at her. “C’mon, it’s a comfortable couch. I’d like to get to know you better. You’ve been such a big help.”
The man grabs his ladder. “I’m not into that type of thing. I have a girlfriend. I really hope you work things out with your husband.” He shuffles across the marble floor.
“My buddy Fred, he’d be into it. He just did a housewife last week. Maybe you should look him up in the phone book. Fred Filagree.”
“You don’t understand!” Alice screams. “Jesus Christ, I didn’t even get your name? What’s your name?” she pleads, slumping into the couch.
“Tom,” he says and then slams the door.
Person leaving front entrance of house. As if the voice had to remind her. Alice is hungry, hungrier than she can ever remember being. She knows she’s not supposed to snack. She’s supposed to be dieting. She snags a 200-calorie Slim Fast from the fridge. She guzzles it down, but it doesn’t push away the hunger. She smears mayo on Wonder Bread and slips American cheese between two slices of bread. She gobbles the sandwich down, but her stomach still growls and aches, demanding more. She throws another sandwich in the microwave. Nuke for one-minute for the perfect cheesy sandwich. It bubbles and bursts yellow craters. She tears at the food with her teeth and tongue, practically choking as she gulps it in big chunks. Her throat burns, but her stomach is still hollow, needy, a black hole. She is starving. She takes ice cream from the freezer and squeezes hot fudge sauce on top. Blurp, blurp. She thrusts spoonful after spoonful into her mouth and licks the bowl when she’s done. The melted cream drips down her cheeks. Her tears meld with the milky, brown liquid. She is crying.

A fuse blows. The lights go out in the kitchen and den. The air conditioning shuts down. The house is dark except for sun that streams through the curtains. Tom has fucked up. Someone is banging on glass. Intruder at back door of house, the voice assures her. Well thankfully the alarm is still dependable, she thinks. She looks at the monitor. It is Frank Jr. Intruder at back of house. He’s on his knees, pounding on the doors. He looks strange, like his nose got smashed in, and it is oozing blood. What have those boys been up to? Can’t they stay out of trouble? She peers at the monitor again. Frank Jr. seems shorter now, like he’s lying on his stomach. He’s struggling to bring his fist up. He looks so lonely, and then she remembers that she’s lonely too. Maybe they can cheer each other up! Frank Jr. could do imitations for her and Shaun. It’ll be like the old days, all of them at the dinner table together, laughing at his jokes. He’s got quite a talent. She’ll enroll him in acting camp next summer. If he hones his skills and works hard and gets into a good college, well, who knows, maybe he’ll even become famous. Then he’ll be able to take care of Alice in her old age. She’ll be so proud.
She pulls the curtains apart but the sunlight pierces her retina. Alice is temporarily blinded. When she regains her sight, she looks down to see Frank Jr. lying in a puddle of pink goo. His legs are missing! He’s just a stump! She tries to open the doors, but they are jammed. She punches the buttons on the wall but forgets the code. She tries ten different permutations, but none work. She’ll have to break the doors down! She lifts a chair and repeatedly hits it against the glass, but it keeps bouncing back. And then she remembers that years ago, they fitted the doors with shatter-proof glass. It is more resilient and economical in the long run, the salesman told them. And the boys won’t hurt themselves or smash the glass with a ball, he added to seal the deal.
Breathing heavily, Alice takes in the horrible ruin that is now her backyard. A swirling brew of pinks, greens, yellows, blues, purples, oranges, and blacks simmer from the ground, about to spill into the neighbor’s yard. Steam rises as high as the satellite dish. The oak tree floats downstream. The jungle gym is gone. Shaun is missing. Frank Jr. holds his forehead between his hands, his remains seeping between the cracks of cement. If she could only open the doors, she would touch him. She would save him!

The telephone rings. Alice fumbles over herself, tumbling to the desk, picking up the receiver. “Thank God you called, Frank! We need your help! The boys are melting! They’re leaving us, and it’s all my fault. You have to come home!”
His voice sounds even younger and more fragile than before. “Ma’am, it’s not Frank, it's Tom. I hope I'm not bothering you.” He’s called to apologize for everything. He says that his work has become shoddy, that he’s not feeling like himself these days. Sobbing, Alice tells him not to worry, no one is feeling right anymore. Why doesn’t he come over and they’ll talk about it? She’ll make him a cheesy sandwich and raise the temperature on the AC. She promises, if he'll come over, even for just a little while, she'll xxxx.