Authors: Maryse Meijer
Heartbreaker (16 page)
I closed my eyes, kneeling. His whiskers twitched in my hair, his nose against my ear. The woods were so close, and the camp seemed like a blight in the middle of it, along with Lauren and Ray and Marcie and Wilson and all the rest of them. And what was I? Something in between the camp and the woods, something between a blight and whatever the fox was. Beyond us I heard glass cracking and Lauren's harsh whisper, Ben's hysterical giggle.
Do you love me? I said, looking at the dirt, stirring my finger in it. He stopped my finger with his paw. I didn't want to look at him. I just looked down at my finger and his paw, the thinnest parts of us, trying to imagine a universe where they could be part of the same body.
I just want to go, I said, but we stayed right there.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
He didn't come Monday night, or Tuesday; by midnight on Wednesday my stomach was the size of a walnut, shriveled and queasy. I tried to think: What eats foxes? How long do they live? How old was he? What diseases could he get? He could have been shot by some jerk with nothing better to do. He could be decaying in a pile of leaves or dragging a damaged limb through the underbrush, dying a slow dripping death, and I wouldn't know or be able to do anything about it.
I didn't sleep. Every sound sounded like him coming through the screen; the pillow against my cheek could have been his fur. The temperature dropped again and Lauren demanded we close the window; I told her no.
Why not? It's freezing, she complained.
I have asthma, I said. I can't breathe.
Bull, she said, but the window stayed open and he didn't come and I imagined the worst.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
In the cafeteria the next morning everyone was going crazy over their rations of turkey bacon; the cook dropped some onto my plate, even though I didn't ask for it. I pushed my fork into the tough strips of flesh, expecting blood.
You need your protein, Wilson said, tapping me on the shoulder as she walked by. I pushed my tray away.
What's wrong? Lauren whispered, bending over her tray, and she seemed genuinely concerned. I closed my eyes, my arms crossed around my stomach. I could hear everyone chewing and swallowing and gulping and cutting and I wondered how I could have ever thought eating was a good idea.
I think she's sick, Lauren told Patton, and when he put his hand on my forehead I fainted.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
I spent the day in the nurse's office. I ate half a chicken cutlet and sweet potato fries at dinner and Wilson smiled; when I got back to my room the window screen had been replaced and the sash was locked. I looked at Lauren and she shrugged. I stomped out and threw up everything into the toilet, pinning my hair to my chest with my arm.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
We were running in the woods. A quarter mile from camp I saw him, tail high, slipping through some trees. I stopped, the front of my shirt soaked through; a weird noise escaped my throat, a little cry or part of a word, a word that started out to be his name before I realized his name didn't exist.
He had something in his mouth: a sandwich, maybe one of the tuna fish triangles from yesterday's lunch. Whoever was on garbage duty must have dropped it, or else he'd found his way inside the kitchens and snagged it himself. The group was moving ahead, and I dropped to my knee, pretending to tie my shoe.
You okay? Patton called, looking over his shoulder. I nodded, waving to signal that I would catch up. I watched Patton's butt jump through the woods and then took off sideways into the brush, stepping fast through the trees where I'd seen him last.
He hadn't gone far; he was only a little ways from the path, circling a hole at the base of a rotting tree trunk, the sandwich in his mouth. Something snapped beneath my foot; he turned. Our eyes met.
He wasn't alone.
Clustered near the den was another fox, smaller and redder than him, and two kits, pressed against her side. Littered all around were candy wrappers and crusts and pits and cores: Food trash. Familiar trash.
My
trash.
What the fuck, I breathed. The kits reached their snouts to the sandwich; he dipped it to their mouths, not taking his eyes off mine as his kids nibbled the tuna fish from his lips.
I thought you were dead! I shouted, shaking. I was hot all over, my throat tight, like someone was stepping on it.
Who are they? I demanded, pointing at the others. Did you have them the whole time? Were you ever going to bother to even
tell
me?
He looked at me, so still except for the soft movement of his sides as he breathed. The other fox flicked her tail. The kits' eyes gleamed like glass beads.
Garbage garbage garbage
was all they heard when I opened my mouth.
Gobblegobblegobble.
You're an asshole, I said, my palm sliding against a trunk, splitting away a tiny piece of skin. I picked up a twig and threw it. The other fox hissed; the kits curled behind her. He just stared.
Do something! I yelled.
He did nothing.
Crouching, I looked for a rock and I found one, a big one, sharp all over the top. Even with both hands I could barely lift it.
I ate deer meat once, I said, swallowing hard. I kicked a dog when I was ten. Don't think I can't do it. I can. I will.
What do you want from me
, his eyes said. I dropped the rock. He blinked. It was dinnertime and they would be looking for me and when they found me I would be in so much trouble.
I put out my hand. He came close. I dug my fists into his fur.
Â
Many, many thanks to my literary foxmother, Kathe Koja, whose work shaped my own so many years ago. You continue to set the bar. Thank you for lighting the way.
To fairy godfathers H. Peter Steeves and Matthew Specktor, whose faith opened doors, thank you.
To Meredith Kaffel and Emily Bell, the dream team, for all your guts and grace and wisdom. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Thanks to all at FSG for making this book a book. To Joachim Brohm for spotting those cars on fire.
To my father, and the little one lost along the way, thank you for being.
To William and Charlotte, my good ones, you are my joy.
And to my twin, my muse, without whom these stories would and could never beâthis is all, always, for you.
Â
Maryse Meijer
's work has appeared in
Meridian
,
The Saint Ann's Review
,
Reunion: The Dallas Review
,
Portland Review
, and
actual paper
. She lives in Chicago. You can sign up for email updates
here
.
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CONTENTS
Â
Farrar, Straus and Giroux
18 West 18th Street, New York 10011
Copyright © 2016 by Maryse Meijer
All rights reserved
First edition, 2016
Grateful acknowledgment is made to the publications in which these stories first appeared, in slightly different form:
580 Split
(“Whole Life Ahead”),
Joyland
(“Fugue”),
Meridian
(“Home”),
Portland Review
(“Heartbreaker”), and
Reunion: The Dallas Review
(“Shop Lady”).
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Meijer, Maryse, 1982â author.
Title: Heartbreaker: stories / Maryse Meijer.
Description: New York: FSG Originals, 2016.
Identifiers: LCCN 2015041556|ISBN 9780374536060 (paperback)|ISBN 9780374714840 (e-book)
Subjects:|BISAC: FICTION / Literary.|FICTION / Short Stories (single author).|FICTION / Psychological.
Classification: LCC PS3613.E4264 A6 2016|DDC 813/.6âdc23
LC record available at
http://lccn.loc.gov/2015041556
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