Call It Horses Read online

  CALL IT HORSES

  CALL IT HORSES

  —A NOVEL—

  JESSIE VAN EERDEN

  5220 Dexter Ann Arbor Rd.

  Ann Arbor, MI 48103

  www.dzancbooks.org

  CALL IT HORSES. Copyright © 2021, text by Jessie van Eerden. All rights reserved, except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher: Dzanc Books, 5220 Dexter Ann Arbor Rd., Ann Arbor, MI 48103.

  Library of Congress Catalogue-in-Publication Data Available Upon Request

  ISBN: 978-1-950539-25-3

  First US edition: March 2021

  Interior design by Michelle Dotter

  Cover by Matthew Revert

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  in memory of my great-aunt Unabelle Boggs

  ON A NOTEPAD FROM THE DOLLAR STORE I WRITE YOU. A red star explodes around the only one dollar on the cover. There is a break in the cold weather, as if the earth were taking a gasp, all the frozen grass gone to mud. It’s a fissure to step into, or a point of stillness. A letter to you may become a channel, or chute, and could dislodge the thing lodged in me. At various times I have written you scraps on receipts and Denny’s napkins and her untendered prescriptions. Dear Ruth.And in my childhood there were those three years of letters from you and to you, the language always on fire. My thoughts shift like water when I picture these pages in your hands. The mud will freeze again, after this respite from winter. In this liminal mud—I can almost see its steam—something does begin.

  I write you about the dead. I write you to stay alive and, after all this time, I write you, still, to become myself.

  Do you think regions and landscapes can body forth what’s inside a person? I think that. Here in the steaming quick thaw. Back then, before we left, Mave and I could smell our minds rotting in the awful lush of West Virginia mountain summer, the damp sponge of dirt. We were wringing wet, like cats up from the creek; our breathing was gagged with sphagnum moss and fetid swamp weed. And the humid fog of funerals had left a yellowing film on our skin. We had to go, you understand. We had to make it as far as we could.

  If there are indeed regions inside a person, she and I longed for the inner desert region, to meet its physical correlative in the bear grass and prickly pear and quartz and juniper. The smoke of red rock. We longed for an unchoked landscape. I did not know then what the third party longed for—Nan, sitting backseat like a viper. The atlas barreled us forward to cut through our mountains slogged shut with old skunk cabbage and October leaf rot, toward the horse fields beautifully fenced in Kentucky and the Tennessee trees from which ticks would fall into our hair. We would detour to Memphis since Mave, at age seventy, had never seen Memphis, nor had I. Across the blue ribbon of the Mississippi, the atlas held out Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas in their blocky territories, then the New Mexico line dotted down across Interstate 40 and there was Tucumcari, which I love to say aloud, probably a Comanche word for ambush, vocalized and transcribed and retranscribed. The bright line of I-40 would pull us into places dried out, nearer the sun. It would not be your Sinai Desert, Ruth, or your ancient manuscripts studied on sabbaticals, but it’s what we could manage.

  I promised Mave we would make it to the desert, but I’ll tell you now we made it only to the dry windy Texas plains. We didn’t speak when we left. Only the fading hydrangeas spoke their goodbye, without any urgency. On the bypass, our tongues loosened.

  “How long?” Mave asked.

  “Maybe three days,” I said.

  “Portable oxygen has a shelf life.” She deflected her ache onto the highway signs. When she would speak to you, did she also always deflect away?

  The car was a blue Oldsmobile, not in good shape, but its metal seemed lighter for its lightness in color. The car belonged to Nan, but she was demoted to the backseat as a condition of our bringing her along. We floated upon the asphalt, and when the earth flattened the least bit, we tried to give ourselves to the road. Two of us were wives—Nan and me. I thirty-six and she somewhere in her mid-twenties.

  On a rough-lumber table with a vinyl tablecloth, I write this to you. Dear Ruth, can you feel the unfolding of our disaster? I should write each word as carefully and detailed as a hieroglyph. I should choose sensibly, what bird to mean soul, what horse to mean I’m falling fast through time. Each word precious. You taught me that, in the letters you wrote me from your desk in Northampton, which I always pictured as dark wood, wide, strewn with books and, at the corner, a vase of tulips. What promise did you see in me? Anyway, I do think it’s something else—after the words—that might be precious. Once language slips through the sieve, maybe something remains. Maybe a heart beating.

  I WANTED THE DESERT SCRUB TO SHOW ME, FINALLY, whether I was incapable of love, whether I lived too hermetically—“She is too private,” said Mother to Mave when I was a child. The desert dust I would sit down in would body forth my arid solitude. That was the idea.

  “I’ll thatch you a roof for your hermit hut,” Mave once said to me, neither kindly nor unkindly.

  “On the road,” she crooned in the blue car. “I love automatic windows. I want to be windblown. How about you, Nan?”

  Nan sat wounded and further woundable in my rearview, perhaps less viper and more nude bird except for her huge mass of hair flying up and out and over. Black eye radiant at its yellowing edge. She reached up in great transgression to tune the radio, so we all discovered together it was busted. Her arm was a war zone.

  “God, he did a number on you,” said Mave.

  Nan said nothing audible.

  I pictured upon the windshield the squint of Dillon’s dim eyes, his longing to fly jets, stealth bombers, and how he’d braided yarn into my black hair as if a little boy though he hadn’t been a little boy then. But we had been young, pliable. This was now the detailed work of my Dillon—Nan’s arms of bruises, Nan his wife.

  “By what star do you guide your life, Nannette?” asked Mave, slipping the cotton ball out from under the oxygen tubing above her ear to scratch.

  “By what?”

  “It’s okay, you don’t have to talk. Lewd little beast.”

  I said, “Mave. Stop.” But I didn’t mean it.

  “He called me a little whore,” Nan said very small.

  “We should make nametags,” Mave said.

  “That’s enough,” I said.

  “Little Whore, Little Gypsy Moth Hair. In your little apricot shift.” She replaced the yellow cotton ball.

  I heard Ellis shake his floppy ears to get a flea out, then settle, probably with his chin on Nan’s sumptuous leg. Ellis was my husband’s dog but somehow his dense houndbody had found itself in the blue car. There were smudges of nose and tongue on the right-side window of the backseat. I’ll bring him back, Clay, I’d said to myself.

  “Give us the right names in your book,” Mave said to me.

  “There is no book,” I said.

  “What book?” asked Nan.

  It was 1990. October. The Saturday world outside of Nan’s rusty Olds, which was really Dillon’s rusty Olds, was all gray dawn and asphalt and trees thinning then thickening back up just when I started to breathe. None of us had ever seen the desert. When Nan drifted off and flattened her hair against the window, I studied her in the other mirror.

  “Still jealous?” Mave asked me. “You could’ve been his punching bag. You dodged a bullet, as they say.” Nan’s pretty lips parted in her sleep.

  I admit to you, Ruth, the word jealous didn’t touch the hem. I wanted to carve out her stomach and insert myself up through her skeletal system. Rip out her spine like a brittle fish’s, a
nd as I did so, it would sound as though I were running a stick over a xylophone.

  “Not really,” I said.

  Was it her loveliness that stung me, in comparison with my weighted hair and dark gaunt face? No, I think it was her forthrightness, her ease. I understood her to be hurt and groping after something—that I understood—but not her ease.

  Some time passed, or it didn’t pass. Instead time swelled Mave’s lungs, squeezing out the rightful air, her death imminent even from the start, though I wouldn’t admit it. Some silence fell. Time and silence were the big actors now, calling all the shots. When we were about twenty miles out of Caudell, West Virginia on 119 South, away from the smell of swamp and green and the baled alfalfa, Nan roused and wiped her mouth.

  The first time I’d ever seen this girl, I mistakenly thought she’d held a dead baby, and I unmistakenly thought she was starved and stuck.

  “Are we ever going back?” Nan asked, as though she had been dreaming about where she’d unpack her suitcase of silk things, her one spare dress, her makeup and her filthy pictures, and, beneath those pictures, her secret beautiful ones. “Or are we going to stay out there?”

  Nobody answered.

  MAVE TOLD ME ONCE I NEEDED TO WRITE A BOOK, and I said, “Beginning where?”

  “At the beginning, Frankie,” she said.

  “The beginning of what?”

  “Time.”

  We cracked up.

  “Start when we slimed out of the sea,” she said. “Or in your hopeless cosmology, when the god-turtle surfaced and somebody said, ‘Let there be a city on top of her great shell.’” Mave’s strong lips somehow like a vise, as if when opened, there would be mercy, reprieve. But more often, there was brusqueness. More often than that, obfuscation.

  “Begin before words begin,” she said. “Write the chaos and the anthem.” She told me I only had to create something to come back to. Get a little traction, hang a little meat out there for myself. Then go mop my many floors with Murphy Oil Soap and do something with my heavy drapery of hair, then come back to it. She wanted me to write it for her, maybe because she’d given up on her own work years before.

  I once wrote you sheaves, Ruth. I wrote letters to say everything, and sometimes to not say anything but only to shape the day with my hands, to make sure it happened, as surely as the scuff on the porch floor when I pulled the screen door open. For a brief time, I wrote you daily in my sprawling child hand. When I received your letters about the life inside words, about hieroglyphs of peregrine and bread, about flowers, you rendered back to me myself in a more whole form, which I saw the way an animal sees water up ahead, through the trees. I am unable to write a book for Mave. I can only write to you, about her: the chaos and the anthem.

  Why did she and Nan and I load into the beat-up blue car and head west that October in 1990? I’ll go back about a year and a half before that, to a night in early spring, 1989, to say what happened. Beginning in the fertile dark of Mave’s dining room—your Mave, your love and one-time student, and my Mave, my aunt and guardian. Here, nameless, fusty cells divided in a Petri dish of dark. Begin before words.

  That spring night, I walked from my house to Mave’s through our break in the fence to retrieve her from where she sat on the unmopped dining room floor with no lights on. The overhead was burnt out. I picked over cardboard and books by feel and found a sweater to pull over her foul sleepshirt. She went all deadweight, exaggerated, and let me strongarm her to the concrete slab of front porch glommed with old TVs and encyclopedias and potato skins growing hair. Debris born from porch light, as though uttered by it.

  Her mind itched, she would’ve said if I had asked. Drink is a good scratch. This was one of her bad days.

  I propped her up in the patio chair. I had not come for her as much as for myself. I got a Pilsner from her fridge and split it into two pint jars. She situated thickly into the chair and took a sip to ease herself from hangover, and she smelled my uncertainty, ripe as her odor.

  “What’s Miranda think?” she asked, as if we were in the middle of a conversation, which I suppose we always were—a dense forest of it. Mave had called me on the phone because she hadn’t been able to get up off the floor, her body able as ever, breath strong at that time, legs all muscle, but mentally immovable from her pool of large unwashed shirt. Healthy as a horse, she’d say if I asked, but as she raised the Ball jar to her lips I saw that she’d scraped her knuckles somehow.

  “Why does it matter what Miranda thinks?” I said. “What do you think?”

  Mave rubbed her dirty shirt and sweater against her tired breasts not strapped down by their compression bra. She surveyed the moods available and settled on the one in which she knew Aunt Miranda would have been the better mother to me after their sister, my mother Margot, had died. So: the deflection. Go ask Miranda.

  The porch light stretched far enough to show where a clan of crocus had unsutured the ground. Near that, a tight peony bud shivered at the ghost of a bird. I looked over toward my empty house in which I’d lived my entire life, first with my parents, then as an orphan, with Mave as my guardian but we stayed in our separate houses, which everyone found strange. My window lights ever within sight through our break in the barbed wire and the wild rose. I could smell the grass trying to remember itself in thaw, the blades stretching toward the notion of summer. About a mile out on the ridge, the lights of the bronze plant glowed a dome over the town. I wanted Mave to sleep then wake up. Only once had I found her with a handgun nearby, her Browning pistol. Only once had I raised my head terrified that she’d used it.

  I scanned the porch—an old butter churn, the three TVs with burned-out picture tubes, the potato peelings in a Shop ’n Save produce box. A gun could disappear in so much junk. “Miranda says I’ll think myself into the grave. And she says I’m thirty-five with no kids, I’m a part-time janitor, and the State Road has benefits.”

  “The State does have benefits.”

  What Miranda said was that if I didn’t marry Clay Good I’d end up like Mave. When I was a child, what Miranda said was, “My sister is very bright, but can’t you see that it has done her in?” Miranda’s eyes teary, her housedress neat and trim, and her mantle as wife and mother of four bowing her back but also relieving her of any doubt, of any discernible restlessness.

  “And she thinks his gospel band sounds professional,” I said. “The Good News Boys, like a cassette tape.”

  “Christ.” Mave laughed. I felt some danger pass. We sat for a while, setting our pint jars on top of the never-used electric butter churn missing a part, then I rinsed them in the kitchen and filled them with water and she drank hers. The doubt, the restlessness, was all she and I knew. Moths flitted to the light without hazard. I stepped down off the porch to snap off two purple crocuses for her and put them in my jar on the churn.

  I had peered out through the kitchen curtains in Clay’s mother’s house, eyes peeled for the sarvisberry, but there was only bud-green, mostly brown and black, and Clay saying that’s where his mother Lottie’s trailer would go. He’d stood a few feet away from me, a head taller than I, smelling of blacktop and work gloves. His gaze gentle. In the corner of the kitchen sat his guitar case with a sticker on it that said I Am the First and the Last with the name of the Baptist youth camp underneath. His hound Ellis slept beside it. Clay’s band had a song about The Great I Am, the First and the Last. Alpha and Omega. I wondered what lay between the First and Last, in the middle, and how cramped was the bookended space, or how vast? Lottie’s trailer would go right there and block my mind’s route to the woods.

  “You think I should marry him?” I asked Mave.

  “Who am I to say?” She squared her shoulders. “You even want a kid?”

  I didn’t answer. Lottie’s curtains were muslin, homemade. They muffled things. A child was a muffled idea to me then, with no real legs or arms or fever.

  “Inconsequential is what I think,” Mave said. “You should write your book.”
/>   “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “A book about what?”

  She never said. She mused, flicked through her file-cabinet mind and internal shelving where miniature versions of all your books sat, passages flagged and memorized, and where her memories of you stayed sealed. Her thoughts telescoped. My mind shrank from hers sometimes, and sometimes kept pace. I told her Lottie would move into a trailer he would put in back, by the woods.

  “But it’s her house. She’s lived there a century.”

  “I know.” I lit a cigarette and offered, but she said no. “Since when?”

  “Since I got the patch.” She slipped off one natty sweater sleeve and showed me the flesh-colored bandage on her upper arm. “It makes me dream in blue. I’m just doing it for Miranda. They said I’m overdue for everything, the tit microwave, the butt scope, some pelvic spelunking. I said I’d check my schedule.” She rubbed below her breasts where the daily indentations probably never left the skin. Her mannish body filling the oversized cotton tee.

  Mave’s aloneness was a bleached bone tended and preserved and shining. My own was a bone beginning to whiten. We didn’t speak of it. And about you, Ruth—we never spoke of you. She hoarded privacy. Had she not raised me up to be the same? You raised yourself up, she’d say, defensive. I grew up strange and thin, independent but tucked into her body, somehow curved to it, adopting her seclusion. Once, I asked her to make me look pretty. She braided my hair at night, while it was wet. In the morning it looked like it had gotten caught in a machine. We cracked up.

  On a few occasions, when she was almost blackout drunk, she did talk about you, still cryptically, but I could piece together a scene or a moment. I knew some kind of accident had left your leg unusable, a thing you dragged, such that your travel to the Sinai to study ancient texts was already a memory when you met Mave. But you loved to dance in private. I gathered this from one of her tirades that had her waltzing in her dining room, kicking trash left and right, chip bags and cellophane casings, singing scraps of Billie Holiday off-key. There was a tall empty room in your house on Aldrich Street with only a tapestry tacked to one wall with red elephants and trees on it. Apparently, you kept a record player on the floor and danced only when Mave was not there, but once, she found you dancing, awkwardly with your bum leg, making and unmaking an invisible bowl with your arms, as if dancing in ceremony around a fire, and at the door she startled you so badly you pulled into the tapestry and wrapped yourself up. She laughed; you hid like a child. I loved picturing you like that, hearing the record play, encountering a Mave unwrecked.