Things You Should Know(10)

Her mother rolls over and sits up.

“Something is not right,” he says.

“It’s the season,” she says.

“Unseasonable,” he says. “Ben got a call in the middle of the afternoon. They said his house was going downhill fast. He had to leave early.”

“It’s an unpredictable place,” her mother says.

“It’s not the same as it was, that’s the thing,” her father says, putting on a dry shirt. “Now it’s a place where everybody thinks he’s somebody and nobody wants to be left out.”

She gets out of the pool and goes to the door, pressing her face against the glass. They don’t notice her. Finally, she knocks. Her father opens the sliding glass door. “I didn’t see you out there,” he says.

“I’m invisible,” she says. “Welcome home.”



She is back in the pool. Floating. The night is moist. Vaporous. It’s hard to know if it’s been raining or if the sprinkler system is acting up. The sky is charcoal, powdery black. Everything is a little fuzzy around the edges but sharp and clear in the center.

There is a coyote at the edge of the grass. She feels it staring at her. “What?” she says.

It lowers its head and pushes its neck forward, red eyes like red lights.

“What do you want?”

The coyote’s legs grow long, its fur turns into an overcoat, it stands, its muzzle melts into a face—an old woman, smiling.

“Who are you?” the girl asks. “Are you friends with my sister?”

“Watch me,” the old woman says. She throws off the coyote coat—she is taller, she is younger, she is naked, and then she is a man.

She hears her mother and father in the house. Shouting.

“What am I to you?” her mother says.

“It’s the same thing, always the same thing, blah, blah, blah,” her father says.

“Have you got anything to eat?” the coyote asks.

“Would you like a carrot?”

“I was thinking of something more like a sandwich or a slice of cheese pizza.”

“There are probably some waffles in the freezer. No one ever eats the waffles. Would you like me to make you one?”

“With butter and syrup?” he asks.

The girl nods.

He licks his lips, he turns his head and licks his shoulder and then his coyote paws. He begins grooming himself.

“Be right back,” she says. She goes into the kitchen, opens the freezer, and pulls out the box of waffles.

“I thought you were on a diet,” her mother says.

“I am,” the girl says, putting the waffles in the toaster, getting the butter, slicing a few strawberries.

“What’s this called, breakfast for dinner?”

“Never mind,” the girl says, pouring syrup.

“That’s all you ever say.”

She goes back outside. A naked young woman sits by the edge of the pool.

“Is it still you?” the girl asks.

“Yes,” the coyote says.

She hands the coyote the plate. “Usually we have better choices, but the housekeeper is on vacation.”

“Yum, Eggos. Want a bite?”

The girl shakes her head. “I’m on a diet,” she says, getting back onto her raft.

The coyote eats. When she’s finished she licks the plate. Her tongue is incredibly long, it stretches out and out and out, lizardly licking.

“Delish,” she says.

The girl watches, eyes bulging at the sight of the tongue—hot pink. The coyote starts to change again, to shift. Her skin goes dark, it goes tan, deep like honey and then crisper brown, as if it is burning, and then darker still, toward black. Downy feathers start to appear, and then longer feathers, like quills. Her feet turn orange, fold in, and web. A duck, a big black duck, like a dog, but a duck. The duck jumps into the pool and paddles toward the girl, splashing noisily.

“These feet,” she says. “They’re the opposite of high heels and still they’re so hard to control.”

They float in silence.

She sees her sister come out of her room. She watches the three of them, her mother, father, and sister, through the glass.

She floats on the raft.

Relaxed, the duck extends her neck, her feathers bleach white, and she turns into a swan, circling gracefully.

Suddenly, she lifts her head, as if alerted. She pumps her wings. Her body is changing again, she is trading her feathers for fur, a black mask appears around her eyes, her bill becomes a snout. She is out of the water, standing on the flagstone, a raccoon with orange webbed feet. She waddles off into the night.

Below ground there is a shift, a fissure, a crack that ricochets. A tremor. The house lights flicker. The alarm goes off. In the pool the water rolls, a small domestic tidal wave sweeps from one end to the other, splashing onto the stones.