After Birth by Elisa Albert Read Free Book Online Page B

him, he stares back. Old/new face, death-wary but fresh. Are we blinking? Are we breathing? What now? I feel bad for him. The squirrel and newborn Walker, too. What a predicament, being here, alive. It can only end badly.
    Will picks up the trap with these huge thick canvas gloves, puts it in his truck. We sit on the stoop.
    He accidentally brushes the side of my thigh, and there’s a current there, of course there is, just how it goes, we’re all grown-ups here. After a while he speaks.
    How’s writing?
    Whatever.
    I actually have no idea what you’re writing about.
    Me neither.
    He waits.
    Girls , I say finally. I’m getting my PhD in Algorithms of Girl.
    He is prepared to take me seriously, and what a gift that is. So the least I can do is take myself seriously for the moment.
    I wrote this thing for my master’s about how feminist organizations very frequently tend to implode and it got published in this journal nine people read and so I got this fellowship to turn it into my dissertation and I sort of went with it.
    There’s a great series of row houses opposite us. Beige, navy, dark green, burgundy. Contrasting trim on each. A bunch of people had wanted that fellowship. Good for me.
    So why do feminist organizations implode?
    Because women are insecure competitive ragey cuntrags with each other. In a nutshell. A lot of the records of some of the better-known ones are, like, in archives. Women in women-only groups just rip each other to shreds.
    He laughs. Then I laugh, which feels like clean air, spring water. It’s not until you laugh again that you realize you have not laughed in a long-ass time.
    I used to be really into, like, Adrienne Rich, and Andrea Dworkin—God, Andrea Dworkin. I’m this little radicalized undergraduate dyke freak screaming myself hoarse at Ani DiFranco shows, and next thing you know I’m blazing through a master’s, now I’m in line for a doctorate.
    That’s pretty cool.
    I guess, except I don’t care anymore. My advisor’s pretty much given up on me, and soon the fellowship will run out and I can stop pretending, like, just admit that it’s a bust and I’m not up to it. Then I have no idea what to do with myself. Maybe have another baby . This is meant as a joke, and I say it all mocking, stupid-like. But it’s so not funny, I’m dizzy.
    I pick up a piece of forgotten yellow sidewalk chalk and scribble. It’s not until you really talk to someone that you realize how infrequently you actually talk to anyone. I feel like Will likes me, weirdly enough. Paul does exquisite fucking, problem solving, logistics. Paul follows instructions. Paul is an excellent driver. Paul makes sure we don’t bounce checks. But Paul does not necessarily keep me company. And who can blame him?
    Will lights a cigarette. I reach for a drag. This is the longest conversation we’ve ever had. The drag is a mistake.
    I think I, ah, sort of lost my mind this year?
    Ha ha ha ha ha. Ha ha ha ha ha ha!
    Yeah , he says finally. I think a lot of women go through that.
    What, abandon their dissertations?
    Lose their minds. Having a kid.
    Sitting on this here stoop requires my full attention. The second drag is also a bad idea. It’s windy and cold and I’m not wearing a hat or gloves. My nose is running.
    Thanks for the squirrel assist.
    No problem.
    We could climb into his truck and drive until we hit the farthest ocean, never come back. Things like that have been known to happen.
    Instead we go inside. I offer tea, which he declines, like I’m trouble.
    Sorry , I say, out of nowhere.
    No , he says, leaving. He’s wearing a gray plaid flannel shirt and it’s the same gray as his eyes, goddamn it.
     
    She was not beautiful, my mother, but is remembered as such, small recompense for dying young.
    My father, when pressed to talk about her, admits she was “moody.” Which is deeply hilarious, like all euphemisms.
    Bitch from hell , I scrawled in my diary at nine. Made her only child call her Janice. Used