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{the only way out of idaho} aaron hellem Tiny red spiders crawled out of her nose. I’d never known Idaho like that. How does that feel? I asked. She drank from a plastic cup that she found in the bathroom. She said hotels were supposed to give them to you. For this reason, she said. The liquid was the color and texture of motor oil. She’d boiled the buttons down and made a potion. Then: there were spiders, and I didn’t want to get close to her. Calm down, she said. The night before we were in Utah. I think. We were headed back to Seattle. Both of us needed to see the ocean to make sure it was still there, that no one had stolen it, forced it into bottles, hid them in various vending machines across the country. Neither of us wanted to think about what might happen if we had to go to Colorado to find twelve ounces of it. Or Oklahoma for another twelve ounces. She licked at her lips and her tongue dripped like it was covered with honey. When she opened her mouth, out flew a swarm of bees. I don’t like it here in Idaho, I said. She handed me the cup. It isn’t going to make it any easier, I said. Remember the ocean, she said. I lied back on the hotel bed. I saw sunlight dancing on top of the waves, and the waves lulled back and forth like a cradle. Porpoises rose up out of the water and leaped wonderful rainbow arcs and dove back below the surface. I see it, I said. I felt her lips pressed to mine. Her tongue pressed against mine, heavy and thick like two bears. I kept my eyes closed. Saw seals instead of spiders. But what if it wasn’t there? The porpoises leaped out of the water and over the edge of the earth, into a place where they floated around and cried for help. Their cries sounded like breaking champagne flutes. The seagulls spoke of prophecy. Cited prior prescient foretelling. Boats turned around, and went back the way they came. It couldn’t be saved. I opened my eyes. She spun her web around me. Delicate sturdy buttresses in the corners up near the ceiling. She worked over me, moving back and forth across the bed, over it, underneath it. Her web was made of angel’s hair. Why didn’t you tell me you were in a family way? I asked her. She spoke in clicks and spit out web, strung it on the wall, around the bedposts, licked it into place like she was sealing an envelope. I didn’t understand the things she tried to tell me. Two of her legs braced herself on top of the bed. Two of her legs held me in place. Two of her legs fastened webbing to the ceiling. There was no other way to get out of Idaho, get back to the ocean. To say goodbye one last time. I’ve heard them cry, I said. She spit on me and I dissolved. Down to a size capable of being consumed. She swallowed me whole where I would decompose in her belly, allotted a bed on which to wait my eventual disintegration. There were other beds, too. A nursery, of sorts. There were babies, but they weren’t crying. They sucked each other’s thumbs. Each other’s small bald heads. Red raspberries rose to the surface of their skin. Splotches of color spread on their bodies like a contagion. One of those unlucky babies would have to leave eventually, would be regurgitated and sprung out into the world. It would have to figure out the edges for itself. I rolled over onto my side. Come hither, progeny, I said. Feast on your father for strength. You will need it to survive. They came at me all at once. Their mastication a fusillade. I always knew there was only one way out of Idaho, and it wouldn’t include a resurrection. I heard wedding bells. Smelled the red tide. Whichever baby would leave had to know it would never come back. I drew a map on my head with the blood seeping from my open wounds, and showed them where to go once they were free. Showed them what to do to pay the hotel bill. They told me to lie still. It would be over soon. I wanted to be able to dig in the dirt like a worm. Wanted to be a delta and feel the silt wash away from me and into the gulf, just like I was being undressed. Sounds faded slowly until it was silent. Until, all of it was silent. |
