The n-Body Problem

Dixon thinks he’s different now. He wants to have a different past. If I was to mention that he has worn dead children he would think me vulgar. You don’t know anything, he’d say. Dixon wants to believe that he held out as long as he could. That if he’s a hero he’s only doing what anyone would do. And if he’s evil, it’s only the role he is forced to play. I expect him to cry. The doctor comes in and goes to the sink.

“Hi.”

Dixon is being ridiculous in this setting. The doctor turns, surprised.

“There’s beds upstairs. Lots of food in the cellar. Preserves. Tins. Some household medicines. Some antibiotics.”

“What’s Y doin’?”

“He’s checking the barn. We can kill a cow. How long are we here?”

Dixon pushes the remaining letters to the floor. He opens the fridge and gas erupts from rotting food. He gags and closes the door.

“I dunno. WasteCorph is gonna be looking for me to check in. They’re gonna have lots to say aphout Pheeton.”

The doctor has been washing her hands for ten minutes.

“Beeton was fine.”

She swipes a cloth from the oven door and pats dry her hands.

“I have no problem with Beeton.”

Dixon slumps a bit. She has cheated him. The doctor stares at me for a long minute. She takes in a sharp breath and looks at Dixon.

“I would like to have sex. Can you?”

Dixon laughs with his loose face.

“Nophe.”

The doctor is disgusted.

“Oh, that’s right. You only fuck parts of people.”

Dixon stretches his neck as if that will change how he appears to her.

“Go fuck the phoy. He can. I think.”

The doctor drops the cloth into a silver trash can.

“I will. Thank you.”

bounty.

The dog proves to be a nuisance. It circles the house in the tall grass waiting for us to come out. It grabbed Y again and he managed to gouge out an eye before it rolled off him. Dixon doesn’t seem overly worried. I think it’s a game he likes. He likes to send Y out. The doctor spends a lot of time upstairs alone. She showers several times a day. They eat beets and jam and beans. For a while the doctor tried to breast feed me but no milk came. I eat bean juice. There is lots of time to think here. The days are slow. If a car goes by on the road it’s a major event. We hide and shout and sit in the dark. Dixon is thinking more than anyone. He sits and stares at things. Or he finds things in the house to read. He reads grocery lists. Recipes. He hunts for journals and diaries but finds none. He sits with a receipt in his hand and thinks. He rubs and curls the receipt until it’s a ball in the palm of his hand, then he drops it. I know what he’s doing. He wants to show the relic that he cares about these people’s lives. I know he doesn’t. I know he would do obscene things to them after they were destroyed. He has been looking at me differently. This slow world is revolving us. Y comes in with the dog. It is draped across his shoulders. Headless.

“Would we eat dog?”

Dixon pushes back his chair and rises.

“Phut it on the phicnic table. We’ll clean it there.”

Y stands for a moment.

“Don’t I get a hurray or something?”

Dixon seems drunk.

“Oh. Yeah. Sure.”

Y holds the base of the tail at his shoulder and wags it.

“I slew the beast!”

Y looks to me. I am not that type of person anymore. You don’t look me in the eyes. Methusela Syndrome. That’s what you got. Accelerated aging.

“Okay. I’ll get some knives.”

I can only see the tops of their heads gathered around the picnic table. They are skinning it. Gutting it. Seems to me I’ve seen cows in fields around here. Surely we could snatch one at night. Y holds the dog’s head up. Gore slaps his forehead. They’re doing this because it keeps them in touch with the mission. The doctor has taken to roaming the house topless. It arouses me but I have no penis. Some veins throb in my anus. That’s my limit. She is washing her hands at the sink. Her back is broad and white. It’s a cooling sight. They are hammering Rottweiler hide to a sheet of plywood. They want to dry it in the sun. The sun is a joke. Nothing dries in the sun. Maybe the wind. The cold, wet wind. The doctor pulls the window pane to the side. She tries to close it in a single swipe but it jams and she gives up.

“I’m not eating a fucking dog.”

The doctor dries her hands, points at me then leaves, climbing the stairs to her room.

Dixon and Y spend the afternoon outside butchering the dog and digging a fire pit. Y finds an iron pole to skewer it. I can see they are laughing. They toss guts and skin and legs and head into a barrel, then sticks. They pour gasoline in. It flares out in a massive ghost ball then dies out. They give up.

The doctor runs down the stairs and out the door. Something’s up. I wish they wouldn’t close my case. I wish they’d let me in. I can see Dixon’s serious face as he listens to the doctor. Y is bent down, probably turning the dog.

Dixon comes in first and goes up the stairs. The doctor follows him. Y tries to come in but Dixon sends him back.

“You stay outside.”

Y takes a step back but stays. Listening.