Rooms(40)

Now Minna is quiet—surprisingly so. Her face is perfectly composed—a look of relief—as though she has finally, after a period of exhaustion, been allowed to sleep. Christopher Deber, of Deber & Sons, does all the work, and I can’t help but see: the animal haunches rising and falling under the tented sheets.

Then: a gust of air, of Outside. A twinge in our side: the kitchen door opens, and Amy runs into the house.

“Oh, no,” I say. “No.”

Sandra says, “Here comes trouble.”

“Do something,” I say, as Amy heads for the stairs.

“Mommy!” Amy calls, but not loudly enough—not so loudly that she can be heard over Chris’s grunting.

“This is terrible,” Sandra says, but I can tell she doesn’t mean it.

Amy is on the stairs. Chris is saying justlikethathuhyoulikeitlikethat and Amy is running, running. I try to think myself past the steps, out of the banister, into her feet. Turn around, I want to scream. Go back.

“Mommy!” she singsongs. Not loudly enough. She is almost at the landing. Two more steps. One more minute. Chris lifts and thrusts, lifts and thrusts.

Then: a miracle. Amy trips. She stumbles on the last stair and falls flat on the landing, hard, on an elbow. Instantly, she begins to wail.

Minna snaps her eyes open. She launches Chris off her; he practically flies off the narrow bed, hitting the ground with a thud.

“What the—?”

“Shut up,” she says.

“Jesus, I was just about to—”

“I said shut up.” Her voice is low and urgent. She is looking not at him, but at the door, which is open a crack. “Get under the bed.”

In the hall, Amy picks herself up, sniffling. “Mommy,” she wails. For just a second, I have the overwhelming urge to reach up through the floorboards, to wrap myself around her.

“What?” Chris climbs to his feet, covering his Thing with one hand. His body is long and pale and lumpy, and his chest glistens with sweat. “I’m not going to—”

Minna looks at him. “Get under the bed,” she says calmly. “And don’t say a word. Don’t cough. Don’t f*cking breathe. Do you understand me?”

“Christ,” he mutters. But he gets on the floor, lying down on his back. He has to uncup himself, and though I don’t want to see It, I have no choice: there it is, socklike and pathetic, already shriveling, the animal that leads men, hot and panting, through their lives. Then he wriggles, wormlike, under the bed, seeping his sweat into our floorboards, pricking us with the sparse constellation of hairs that grow from his shoulders to his waist. His heart stutters against the floorboards—staccato, irregular, bringing memories of other heartbeats. Ed, pounding; Maggie, sucking; Thomas, fitting his body to mine. Sandra, lying naked on the bed, and a small brown spider traveling her neck, her chin, her open mouth, and disappearing finally into the darkness of her throat, where I could no longer see it.

For a second, I truly hate Minna.

“In here, sweetheart!” Minna is rearranging the duvet, so it pools over the side of the bed, concealing Chris from view. She tugs the sheets to her chin, sweeps a hand through her hair.

Amy comes to the door, sniffling. She stops when she sees her mother in bed. “What are you doing?” She wrinkles her nose. I wonder if she can smell it.

“Headache, precious,” Minna says, with an exaggerated sigh. “I was taking a nap.”

“I want to nap, too.” Amy bounds toward the bed.

Minna shoots out one hand. With the other, she keeps the sheets at her chin. “Don’t come in here,” she says, too sharply. Then, in a normal way, “I might have germs.”

Trenton comes in after Amy. He leans—or rather, collapses—against the doorway. “What’s up with you?” he says.

Minna flashes him a dirty look. “Migraine.” She reaches out and touches Amy’s chin. “Princess? How about you wait downstairs so I can talk to Uncle Trenton, okay?”

“I want to nap,” Amy insists.

“Come on, Amy.” Trenton takes a step forward and puts a hand on Amy’s shoulder, drawing her away from the bed. “I’ll meet you downstairs, okay? It will only take a second.”

“What the hell?” Now that Amy is gone, Minna doesn’t bother controlling her anger. “I thought you were going for more boxes.”

“Forgot my wallet.” Trenton shrugs. “We got all the way to Oakbridge, and—”

“Jesus Christ, Trenton,” Minna explodes. “What the hell is wrong with you? I ask you to do one goddamn thing—”

“What’s wrong with me?” Trenton backs out of the room. “It was a mistake. You don’t have to be such a bitch about it.”

“Don’t you dare call me a bitch.” If Minna were not stuck in bed, naked, I’m pretty sure she would get out of bed and slap him. She lies stiff, white-faced, for several long minutes, until she hears Trenton pound downstairs again, until she hears the front door open and then slam. She keeps her sheets at her chin. She leans her head against the headboard. Otherwise, she is frozen.

“Can I come out now?” Chris’s voice is muffled.

“Yes,” she answers.

He wriggles out from the bed and stands again. This time, he doesn’t bother cupping. His Thing has returned, now, to its normal, shriveled state, and again I think of an animal that has retracted, burrowed away to nurture its hunger.