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432 pages, Paperback
First published September 4, 2018
When Joan was with her first husband, they liked to get high, eat candy, and challenge each other to competitive games -- say, jumping over the sofa from a standstill, pitching dirt clods onto a tin roof, or holding afternoon-long wrestling bouts in the tableless dining room of their farmhouse. This was during a time when her husband wore patched overalls with no shirt, and Joan wore cutoffs and a famous halter top made from two bandana handkerchiefs tied together; they had a willow tree that looked like a big hula skirt, a collie dog, and a blue bong. Life was fresh and new, and they were learning everything: that dill pickles were actually small cucumbers, that oregano started out as a leaf, that going back to the land meant you should remove your top if somebody needed a hanky.
She and that husband were so perfectly matched in spirit and sensibility that they were like littermates, tripping each other, rolling around, hopping on each other's backs, getting rug burns. Sometimes, depending on the quality and quantity of the dope, they forgot themselves during their wrestling matches -- Joan yanking on vulnerable areas and scratching, him clamping her head under his arm, poking a finger up her nostrils. Then they struggled in earnest, tugging and swearing, worrying the dog, until finally Joan's husband got fed up and pinned her. Just like that. Pressed to the floor and straddled, her wrists manacled in one of his hands.
It was always shocking, that utter helplessness, as though she were one of her own childhood dolls being laid to rest after a session of playing. When that happened, just for a moment fear would bloom inside Joan, dark and frantic, uncontainable, at the sight of her husband rising above her, foreshortened and monumental, like a tree growing out of her chest.
He listens. He hears Cassandra's breath, her creaking harness. The primitive croaking of a moorland bird that has never apprehended music. Water seeping from every surface, oozing and dripping and trickling, and a gurgling like the laughter of small children setting nutshells to sail and watching them bob and founder. Grasses sighing, and beetles and worms crawling among the stems and burrowing down between them. Roots pushing into the thin soil and sliding around pebbles and rocks and seams and veins, knotting them in place, hoarding them, hiding them.
...This was the part of the journey that he loved best: the streetlamps gave way to the idea of countryside, and there was a song on the radio as the road opened up ahead. The music made him feel like he could keep driving forever. It was a love song, or a sad song. It reminded him of a time in his life, some town he was in, he could not say where. The loss of that place made him unsure of this one. Or indifferent -- as though he could clip an oncoming car and it wouldn't matter. And he didn't know what he was thinking, until a truck bellied past, sucking the air from the side of the car. It gave him a fright. He checked all the mirrors and shifted in hi seat, set his hands more deliberately on the steering wheel...