Beach House
The Backyard: The boys, Nathan and James (more men than boys but still thought of as boys by their mothers), sit by the pool and discuss Kanye West. It’s not what they really want to talk about, but it’s interesting enough that it distracts them from what they really want to discuss—what they can’t stop thinking about. Sometimes distraction is enough. They have no idea how to speak of what they so badly want to say out loud, or if the other would even understand, yet they worry they might explode or implode or some horrible, impossible combination of both if they can’t pull it from their mind and release it into the salty sea breeze.
What’s on Nathan’s mind is the dead rat that crawls into bed with him every night. James isn’t visited by a dead rat at night, so that is not what he wants to talk about. What James wants to speak of is his angel.
The Living Room: Nathan and James’ mothers, Janice and Theresa, laze comfortably on the couch, knees inches apart, wine glasses in hand. The deep red liquid swirls as they laugh, chat, and playfully slap each other’s thighs. The more they drink, the softer they speak—though their laughter remains a roar. They refill their glasses, but their speech stays low. If their husbands want to hear what their wives are saying from the kitchen where they’re drinking beer, they will have to stop talking and joking and strain their ears to listen. Their husbands don’t stop talking or joking or strain their ears to listen. Don’t they want to know what we’re saying? The women think. We could be talking about how lazy they are or how they lied to us last week or how unimpressive their penises are or how they don’t love us like they used to. They continue to talk quietly and laugh loudly.
The Backyard: I think Kanye’s gone crazy, Nathan says. I bet he’s doing all sorts of drugs that are destroying his brain.
Nathan aches for sleep yet is haunted by the idea of it. This is because of Nathan’s companion, the dead rat. It’s a truly horrific looking dead rat. It’s slightly bigger and heavier than a softball, has one eye dangling out of its socket and a bloody chunk has been bitten out of its left side. If the rat’s appearance wasn’t sickening enough, it loves to cuddle with and talk to Nathan until the greenish-blue light of the morning glows through his windows. In its coarse, raspy voice, the rat uses his post-departure omniscience (as he calls it) to whisper what will happen.
He’s going to die, the rat said late last night with a chuckle. Nathan was thinking about his friend Jean who had started using heroin. You need to save him, or he will die. The rat didn’t want to be forgotten or left alone. Its dangling eye sparkled as it swung in and out of the lines of moonlight that bled through the blinds. Nathan tried to push the rat off his chest, but the more he struggled the more he felt its bristly, sticky fur rubbing up against him as it nestled itself deeper between his lungs, beside his heart. What can I do? Nathan asked the rat. I’ve tried to be a good friend. I’ve tried to be there for him. I left when I thought that would help. Maybe he needs me to go back and be there for him now? Or maybe I should have left earlier? Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. The rat’s worm-like tail flopped up and down with delight as Nathan tried to forget everything he cared about. Thank you for keeping me warm. It said. I miss the feeling of having a heartbeat. The rat meant it. It loves Nathan, and it loves what Nathan loves.
The Kitchen: Marc and Tim, Janice and Theresa’s husbands, drink beers in the kitchen. The beers are cold, and they enjoy each sip of the cool liquid. We needed this vacation, they say to each other. Work/responsibility/kids/hobbies/upkeep/the wives/lingering-anxiety/despair have really been affecting us lately, making us tired, they say with different, more reasonable words. I’m lost. Their eyes gleam to each other as if they were both the lighthouse and the boat in a thunderous black storm. I’m not good at this, any of it. How do I be good at it? I love these people. Their beers are cold though. They enjoy this. Does love fade, or do we tuck it into our sleeve slowly like a magician preparing for an act? Neither has an answer, so they take another sip. Our team has been good this year. I like how our team is winning.
The Living Room: The women listen and notice that their husbands’ talk of work has turned into a talk of sports. One of the women says you’re so bad loud enough for anyone in the kitchen to hear, then slaps the other’s foot. Giggle lasciviously. Then they will listen. The women agree that their sex lives aren’t what they used to be. They discuss their book club book in which an unhappily married woman leaves her husband and kids to be alone then engages in a steamy relationship with an enigmatic man. The woman gets ostracized by her friends and family and is killed by the man in the end. Is the point of the book that women should bear any and all misery, or women can’t leave their families without consequences, or there is no happy ending for women who desire men? Neither has an answer. They bring their wine glasses to their lips.
The Backyard: I can’t tell if Kanye’s gone crazy, but I don’t blame him if he has. I can’t imagine having the entire world scrutinizing my every move, James says.
James prayed for an angel to help guide him in becoming a better person so he could build a life of love and joy for himself and those around him. She appeared one day when he was doing nothing but admiring an old, venerable oak tree. After flying down in a beam of sunlight carved by branches, she danced in the air around James’ head, leaving a trail of warm light in her wake. Instantly, James fell in love. She was about the size of his hand, was built of and emanated shimmering golden light, and had broad powerful wings protruding from her delicate feminine figure. What perplexed James was that she never spoke. How would she guide him to be better without giving him any answers or advice? All she did was fly and dance and play with nearby birds and bugs and dogs. James realized he could learn from her actions. When she would stop dancing and flying and playing, he knew he was veering from the path he wanted to walk.
Desiring to be good, James tried to tailor his actions to get the reaction he desired from the angel. This made her deeply unhappy, to the point where she stopped playing and dancing. Disturbed by her listless, aloof state, James carefully thought out every action, considering what a good person would do if she/he was in James’ situation. He became frantic and obsessive, looking to her after everything he said, did, and thought to gauge its benevolence. This drained the angel even more, so much so that she no longer raced through the air but only hovered near James’ shoulder. James felt as if his heart had been replaced by smoldering coals, coals that would set him ablaze if he didn’t move carefully.
Deciding he needed to do better and work harder, James stopped hanging out with friends and playing video games and helping his family around the house. Instead, he replayed every moment over and over in his mind so he could dissect any instance in which he might have acted incorrectly.
After weeks of relentless remembering and dreaming and dissecting, the angel still wouldn’t dance or play and seemed to be getting visibly dimmer. Again, James decided to do more. He stopped sleeping and instead spent all night imagining every scenario that could happen the next day so he would know how to behave.
Two nights ago, when James was sitting on his bed planning for the day ahead, out of the corner of his eye, he saw tiny golden sparkles fall from the angel. The sparkles were feathers from her wings.
Without thinking—breaking a rule he can’t recall being told or inventing—James addressed the angel directly, more prayer than anything: I asked for you because I wanted help being happy and compassionate and better—and I knew I couldn’t do it alone—but now I can barely think, barely move I’m so tired, and every moment I plan for happens differently than I thought it would, so I do the wrong thing, then you get sad, so I get sad, and things only get worse and worse and worse. James fell back onto his bed. His eyelids were heavy, and as they dropped, he thought without meaning to: Fuck happiness. Fuck love. Fuck people. Fuck the angel. Fuck the future. Fuck me. James’ thudding heartbeat slowed to a gentle drum, and a strange, barely recognizable feeling washed over him: calm. Then something incredible happened: the angel sang. The song was so beautiful, so soothing, so moving that he broke into a fit of laughter and hot cleansing tears poured from his eyes. Her voice (though it was more instrument than speech) embraced him like a mother rocking her swaddled baby to sleep. It carried him deeper inside himself. Love, joy, and freedom radiated from him and into him, making him feel as weightless as the angel when he first encountered her. Before her song ended, he fell into the deepest and most restful sleep he had ever known.
When James woke up the next morning, the world looked brighter and more welcoming than it ever had before. Once again, the angel flew and danced around his room. Seeing her happy, he smiled. But, like the shadows framing the shafts of light on his floor, the joy of seeing her happy made him remember why she became sad: because he made mistakes, because he failed her. Then he remembered he didn’t plan for all that might happen that day, and the smoldering coal, which just moments ago felt as if it had burned out, set his body ablaze. James wanted the calm back; he needed to feel good again; if he felt good and calm, then he could be good and calm, so he begged the angel to sing. She shook her head in disappointment.
The Living Room: The only time the people we love listen to us is when we force them to. Why? Why aren’t they interested in what we have to say? They used to care. The women look into each other’s eyes. Their sky-blue irises and night-black pupils are too vast, too infinite for the most advanced spaceships or submarines.
What is the difference between want and need? The women make a joke about their boobs sagging. They laugh too hard, as if it was a conjured laugh. Drops of wine nearly spill from their glasses. I would tell you that their wine tastes of blood; I would tell you this because it is not wine in their wine glasses but blood, their blood, poured into wine glasses; that’s why they need to drink so much. I would tell you this, but the women don’t notice the taste of their wine, which is their blood. They only notice the people they love not noticing like they used to.
The Kitchen: What do you think our wives are talking about? Marc and Tim say. Probably how to annoy us next, they respond. Hollow laughter echoes. They recall a time when they were younger, when they knew exactly what to say to women. Whispering honest, lovely words into their ears, wrapping their arms around them, playfully biting their shoulders—the men knew exactly what to do to make their wives happy. The memory loosens their fingers—fingers that were firmly gripping their cold beers. How do we become playful again? They ask. I like you because we are playful together, and when I am playful I don’t ache anymore. I can breathe easy. And no one gets hurt. Not you. Not me. Not them. Their attention wanders to their wives who speak softly, laugh loudly, and teasingly slap each other’s legs. Why are they happy and lighthearted with each other but so severe with us? They look into each other’s eyes, still beckoning, still longing.
We want them to be playful again, the men say. We want to be playful with them again. We want back what we have lost: her, me, love. What can we do? Nothing. Nothing we do has the effect we want it to. We mess everything up every time. Another sip of ice-cold beer. Then another. The beer is so cold the condensation turns to snowflakes which gently rest on the side of the bottle, or fall slowly, almost weightlessly to the floor. The snowflakes melt when the men touch them with their fingertips. After a while, their fingertips become numb and turn florescent blue. They get an idea. More than that, they realize their lives have culminated to this moment: their confusing childhoods, the partying in college, the move to the suburbs, the yard work, the fiddling with appliances, the fixing of broken pool pumps, the beer drinking. It has all lead to this.
The Backyard: Their conversation about Kanye reaches a natural stop, so Nathan and James lie back in their lounge chairs. They stare at the puffy white clouds floating by. The sound of their fathers tinkering with the pool rouses them, but they quickly lose interest. Nathan’s phone buzzes. It’s a text message from Jean: Hey man. I am so sorry. I’ve treated you like shit… Ur an important friend to me. I’m done with it and going to rehab. I know it might not have seemed like it, but you helped me in more ways than you know. Thank you. I wanna buy you a (non-alcoholic) drink when I get out… Nathan smiles and replies, I’m proud of you. And of course. Looking forward to it. He lets his eyes fall. He waits, anticipating the feel of the rat’s wiry fur dragging along his stomach, but this time he waits with patience and welcome. Despite getting closer and closer to rest, the dead rat doesn’t appear. If Nathan could kill the dead rat he would—but not without hesitation, and he would mourn for it. It loves what I love, Nathan thinks.
Maybe it’s the warm sunlight or the scent of the sea or the fact that Nathan is a trusted friend, but James lets his eyes fall as well, willing to let the angel do and feel whatever she pleases.
Nathan and James fall asleep. They are both very tired.
The Backyard: First, Marc and Tim drain the pool. Next, they empty the fridge of beer and make trips to the local liquor stores, convenience stores, and grocers. Finally, they fill the pool with ice-cold beer. It takes a long time, and the florescent blue numbness creeps all the way to the top of their hands as they melt thousands upon thousands of snowflakes sleeping on the sides of the beers. Despite being outside in the hot summer sun, the beer in the pool stays ice-cold. When the pool is filled to the brim with beer—beer so cold it’s nearly slush—they take one last look at their once playful wives and sleeping sons, then they jump into the pool together. Slowly, the air trapped in their lungs releases, each bubble freezing before it can escape to the surface. Numbness caresses every inch of their bodies. Unable to move, their eyes say, Look, we have done it. Me and you. We have done it. Everything will be better now. Everything will be better.
The Living Room: Where have our husbands gone? The women ask. Why do they always leave when we need them most? Why is no one here for us?
Their wine glasses are empty, so they take out their blades.
The Attic: Amy, James’ younger sister, gazes into a kaleidoscope she found in an old chest. She enjoys the beautiful, ever-changing shapes and colors.