All applause is false with my friends, my friends here, here now. They get in my car, one at a time, and I need a big car for I seem to have many friends. They all knew I would win. They have faith in me, they say, hands dry and steady as they pour the drinks. My friends speak smoothly, like generals, as they congratulate me with the hush of a hand over a crowd. They are clever like generals and look like generals. But I've only seen generals on the screen, so we share the same lie.
My friends feel welcome in my home. They bring their girls and bring girls for me. The girls leave their long hairs in my sink and their slips on the floor and they never leave. They crush grapes into my hand and slide their tongues along my neck. Words hang from their mouths like flesh, hiss from their lips and drip like cold fire.
My girls have long nails. Long nails. They like to sharpen their nails and their wit at my table with saws. My girls say they can't breathe. They choke when they swallow grey tears and they scratch at pink smears on their glasses and laugh. My girls smash ashtrays and cry and I can't breathe around the scent of their skin. My girls look at my children over the tops of sunglasses. They put down their drinks, touch their heads, force a smile. My children speak of hate when they unpack weekend bags. My children measure and weigh everyone I know until they have them on shelves or in boxes, in closets, doors closed. My children don't laugh. Ever. My children don't drink yet. They sit cross-legged, watch cartoons without a smile and push toothpicks deep into dolls. Shadows pass long over their arms at the pool and bumps prickle like flesh on a bird, but pencils scribble, red then blue, until lights flicker pink alive.
My son hates the cat, drops a bowl on its bruise grey fur. My daughter hates Janice and Susan and Kim, and Linda hates my daughter. She brushes her hair with dry crackles, as my daughter holds her neck rigid, mouth tight, and keeps reading. Julie throws Tigger in the trash and leaves two-twenty-twos and gin on a chair. Asia pushes french fries in her mouth, eyes go from line to line, and my children don't blink or breathe or speak until the cigarette burns Asia's fingers and they smile. My son hates me on TV. Runs from the room, screaming, hot hands across his eyes. I ask him, what is it, what's wrong? Monsters are on TV too, he says. If I can crawl in his room, so can they.
My daughter hates Christmas, hates school, hates root beer. She draws pictures of creatures I've never seen, but pin them to my board just the same. Asia hates my children. Refuses to clean the tub, not again. She leaves with the top down and I smoke her Camels.
My wife has a new boyfriend. His name is Henry. My children hate Henry. They kneel on chairs at McDonald's, poke at brown food, tell me Henry has yellow teeth, yellow skin, yellow eyes. They sit in the back of the car, arms touching, squinting at hair lashing their eyes. But they don't move, don't blink, don't speak, only sip their drinks, straws white, straws dark, as I take them home.
I open the trunk, carry blue and pink bags up the walk and say I'll phone. But my wife says no, the breath short, sharp, whistles and her teeth strike the phone. You fought, you fought, you won, she says. I won. You won, they said in court and shook my hand. They knew I would win. Custody shines like copper, like sun on water, like dropping toys in my pool. They pack their bags again. Many more this time. My wife squeezes their rigid bodies as she chokes on snot and thick tears. Henry peeks out from behind the white curtains.
The evening ink seeps through the screen, invades my dreams like blood. I awake, mind frozen, breath caught, little hands to my throat. Diane jumps up, hair aflame, and yanks my boy from the bed. "He's too old to sneak in here with us," says the hissing. She pulls him away, flesh rippling, crotch black, nipples cold and sharp as pins, as frost. Then it's dark once more. She slides across the sheets, coils the knots of her flesh around me. "I wish we were alone all the time," the night whispers.
Debra slips into Diane's skin. She unloads a carton of red and brown books. My son watches, frowning, hands plucking his groin. "This one's for you," she says. He takes it, holds it, looks at me, then lays it on the floor. Debra slips into the pool, like an eel, no ripple. She pops out beside my daughter, plucks at the thread of red between her brown buttocks. She says my daughter's name, says she knows they'll be friends. My daughter stops the tape, pulls it out, calls Debra a cunt and leaves. Debra smiles, slides back in, darts along the bottom near the drain where it's calm.
At night Debra reads to my children. My son has his head on her lap, his breath on her crotch, his thumb in his mouth. My daughter stares ahead, reads a book of her own or draws pictures. She announces she's sleepy before the last page. Debra holds me, rubs me, tells me she loves me. She asks me if I still think of Susan. I look out the window, at the blackness surrounding. Which one was Susan?
Debra sticks a note on the fridge. I leave it, never read it, and it's gone by dark. My daughter breaks a red crayon that night and cries. I try to hold her but she won't have it. "I'll never cry again," she says. I believe her.
Brenda does a back flip off the board. No one watches. She has Eva, thirteen, small bones, shattered green eyes. A ruby hangs always around her neck, a gift from her dad. I rub white cream on Brenda's spine as she purrs and I stare at the gap between Eva's sharp hip bones.
Brenda crawls into my study when the threat of sleep is lurking. She takes my penis in her mouth as I sip J&B. "I love you Sam," she says, and my name isn't Sam and she cries against my scrotum, penis shrouded in webs of fine hair. My erection grows harder. Brenda talks of scripts and actors and films until Eva screams, "Shutup! Shutup!" My son doesn't utter a word for three days. My daughter stops eating.
I lie still, eyes pass one line again and again, but it's useless. I look up. It's Eva. She stands with her arms at her side, tiny white breasts thrust out, pink nipples. She tugs down her panties, arms trembling, legs shaking, and stops when they reach her knees. Tears drop on her stomach, spittle vibrates on lips, on teeth. I put my book down, slowly. She bolts from the room like a deer. On Ventura, my daughter spits in her face. Eva clambers out at the red light and I drive on as Brenda claws and screams.
I sit in my study as they load up, Eva weeps over something lost. My children and I eat pizza for dinner and my daughter shows me her doll's new necklace. A ruby, she says, a gift from her dad. I put them to bed, read Dr. Seuss aloud with Black Russians, and vomit until dawn as my children cling to my legs and beg me not to die.
My son can't swim, cries when I call to him from under the board. He runs, falls, bites
through his lip. Sherri moves in and the cat floats to the surface one morning in the warm
water and mist.
Born and raised in British Columbia, Canada, Michael Kalesniko has worked as a high school English teacher in the Arctic, a bartender in Britain, and a hotel receptionist in Greece. He is currently working in Los Angeles as a screenwriter and recently won a national screenwriting award.
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