The Heaven of Animals by David James Poissant

Author:David James Poissant
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster

The Geometry of Despair

II. Wake the Baby

Lisa sleeping. Lisa turning in sleep, moonlight sliding cheek to chin. She kicks. She wakes, watches me.

At last, she says, “Another one.”

“Which one?” I say.

“The one where she’s five,” Lisa says. “She was five and we called her Junie.” She uncovers herself and stands. “Would we ever have called her Junie?”

Lisa moves to the bedroom door.

“Please don’t,” I say.

“I won’t wake him,” she says.

In a minute, in the other room, Michael is crying.

. . .

The next morning it is Sunday and we take Michael to the park. We sit on a bench and watch the big kids climb the jungle gym. Lisa holds Michael in her lap. He laughs and points when birds fly overhead.

“Let him crawl,” I say.

Lisa ruffles the grass with the toe of her sneaker. “It’s dirty,” she says. “There’re bugs.”

“It’s nature,” I say. This is not really true. The park is a twenty-acre rectangle of green at the city’s center. Stand anywhere in the park and you still hear cars whiz by. But there’s a playground, a walking trail, a duck pond. It’s the best you’re going to get downtown.

“Do you want to see the ducks?” I say.

Michael gurgles. He’s not quite a year old, and he’s not walking just yet, another thing Lisa worries about, though the pediatrician assures us that he’s fine, he’s healthy, that all is well.

“Let’s go see the ducks,” I say.

Lisa holds Michael close as we walk the pond’s perimeter. We find another bench and sit. Some of the ducks paddle our way, and this really gets Michael going. He reaches. He waves. He shrieks.

“You like the duckies?” I say.

“Gaaaauuuuu!” Michael says.

There’s no fishing allowed, but an older man in overalls stands with a bucket and rod on the other side of the pond. He tips his hat, and I half-wave.

The diaper bag is in the car, so I look through Lisa’s purse.

“Anything to eat?” I say.

“Animal crackers,” Lisa says. “But those are Michael’s.”

“Not for me. For the ducks.”

“Oh, don’t do it,” she says. “You know how much I hate that.”

“But he loves it,” I say. “Don’t you?” I say to Michael. “Don’t you love when Daddy feeds the duckies?”

I find the crackers, pull out a lion, and snap off its head.

The head in the water excites the birds. Soon, there are a dozen of them: a mallard with its scaly green cap, a couple of drab brown ducks, a white swan with a tumorous orange knob sprouting from its beak. There’s a cluster of sleek, black and tan Canada geese, all honking, their heads bobbing on question-mark necks.

I fling crackers, and Michael squeals. I’ve done this before, but, this time, something is different. The birds are louder, closer, like they’ve been promised food all day and I’ve just now shown up without enough to go around. They’re frenzied.

I take a step back. They hurry forward on their little yellow dragon feet, wings flapping, beaks shish-kebabbing the air.

“Gaaaaaaa!” Michael screams.

“Honey?” Lisa says.

I’m out of crackers, but the ducks, the geese, they keep coming.

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