By the time most people left, their expressions had scrunched and darkened. They went from bubbly to still. Though nothing particularly bumming happened — no carpet sizzled, no paintings moved, the rooms’ wallpaper did not peel — as soon as any buyer had been through one or two rooms apiece their eyes began to swim with blank foreboding. Their cheeks sunk, glazed and pocky. Good natures became terse. Hands stayed in pockets. Dry lips. Some spoke of hearing cymbals or a pressure in their chest.
And yet each person who came to see the home by the next day had made an offer — some as large as two or three times what the father and mother asked — enough to buy another house plus many other things. The house was wanted. There was wanting. People left long garlands at their door. They brought cake and wine and called for updates. Who what when where why when how would they know who what when what was going to have the house. The mother bit her lip and wrung her hands. She had their lawyer put forward motion with the couple now on hold. She liked the couple—knew them—but now, more money. She praised god they’d not yet signed. Into the evening, sensing their fortune, the giddy mother went around and polished doorknobs and floors and faucets until she could see things in the shine.
The family all slept straight through the next several days, contorted. They did not hear the ringing phone. At certain points their eyes might open, not quite seeing, while all around the house went on.
COPY SLEEP
In his sleep the father saw the copy father in the room beneath their room. The copy father stood with both hands clasped behind his head, as if hunching for explosion or a sit-up, though the remainder of his body remained taut. The copy father hung an inch above the ground. The copy father looked up through the floor between them with his eyes stuck on the mother in the bed. The mother had moved to sleep so that her feet were on the pillow and her head was somewhere tucked down tight beneath the covers. The father could hear her grousing, breathing sickly and all wet. She kept asking the same knock-knock joke question over and over again, never getting to the punch line.
The copy father wore a yellow mink coat and a choker necklace with diamonds larger than the father had ever seen. Had the father received his copy of the current issue of Enormous Women, had his mailbox not been swarmed with bugs, he would have seen this exact getup on page forty-four. The father would have recognized the woman in the picture, though he would not be able to name her name.
The copy father spurted gobs of water from his mouth. When the water hit the copy father’s chest it sizzled, and when it hit the kitchen floor it sunk right in.
In the backyard — through the kitchen window, through the floor — the father in his bed saw so much light — as if someone had dragged the universe into Adobe Photoshop and bucket-filled the sky a nonexistent color. Most other nights, even in the day, were nothing like this — burst beyond seeing, beyond size.
In the father’s sleep the house was exactly as it was on most days except when you opened the door that led to the garage instead of a garage there was another house made of blue flowers that you could go inside or eat, but the father did not see this room — he just knew that it was there. In his sleep the father could not move. His arms were soldered to his sides. His shoulders were pinned back on the mattress and his feet felt very large.
Through the floor the father watched the copy father climb the stairs.
Through the walls the father could hear the copy father breathing in the hall. Heavy, labored breathing. It shook the bed frame and the lamp. It shook the mother in the bed beside him and she was laughing. She sounded high, shook with a shudder in her extra clothing and her fat. The way she breathed in with the copy breathing made him feel hazy, grazing, tired.
The copy father stood outside the master bedroom with his face against the door.
SOMNAMBULIST
In her sleep the mother heard someone at the bedroom door and she stood up out of the bed. The mother walked to the bedroom door and listened. The mother nodded, cracked the door. On the bed behind her the father’s mouth and eyes were open, though he did not blink. The mother saw the father shudder.
The mother left the bedroom and walked down the hall and stairwell and outside. Overhead the night was full. Overhead the night had opened and all throughout it there were words. Words made of skin or spit or coffee. The mother followed one certain sentence through the sky in a straight line. The mother walked on mud and gravel, concrete, glass, and stone. The mother’s feet began to bleed a trail.
The sentence led to the front door of a house. The mother went in through the front door and locked it shut behind her. In the house the lights were off. Black lights, floodlights, stacked in masses. Several billion unburned bulbs. The mother went into another room. She went into another room. In the fifth room there was a glow and someone standing in the corner.
Long white walls.
Sleeping bees.
The mother left the house through a certain window some time later, leaving blood marks on the sill.
The window led into the backyard. The backyard was full of sand. The mother walked into the sand up to her hipbones. The mother folded her flat hands. With the grace of nowhere, the mother tucked her chin against her chest and fell headfirst into the sand.
Inside the sand there was a door. Through the door there was a hallway. There again the mother slept.
INVOCATION — INVITATION
In his room awake now the son sat hunched over her computer typing into a chat box with a 45-year-old man. The 45-year-old man had contacted the son via a social networking website that the son did not know he’d joined. The son and the man had exchanged email addresses and written back and forth for several weeks. The last email from the 45-year-old man in the son’s inbox bore the subject heading RE: RE:RE: RE:RE: RE:RE: RE:RE: RE:RE: RE:RE: RE:RE: RE:RE: RE:hi.
The 45-year-old man said he had a wife and an ex-wife and two kids about the same age as the son. He said he lived nearby.
The son was not aware he was online. The son felt like he was sleeping. He didn’t realize any of the things he’d said to the man in all those emails.
The son had told the 45-year-old man things he’d never thought he’d tell another, things he didn’t even know were true until he typed them, until the words were coming from his hands.
He told the 45-year-old man about the knife he’d stolen from the small store in the mall, and how from there he could not stop himself from stealing knives wherever he went; how he’d taken more than two hundred knives from different places in the past several weeks alone and he had them all there in his closet; knives from restaurants and shops and other homes; straight razors and safety razors and kitchen knives and plastic knives and steak knives and pocketknives and knives emblazoned with special logos and with his own name and Ginsu knives and knives for scraping and knives for fighting and butter knives and butterfly knives and a knife he’d taken out of a blind man’s hand in the street.
The son had told the 45-year-old man about the night he’d taken his father’s car in the sudden idea that he must drive, a sudden image of some warm location appearing at sudden to him with the hottest shower spraying hard against his head, a place that right now she must go, and in the night he’d went and had been driving, though he could not see over the dash, and how he’d felt his body moving fast across the land toward that lit spot calling for him to come forward, to move into its hull and stay and sleep, until suddenly from in the fold of darkness there appeared an enormous gleaming dog, a dachshund several times the average size, and how it had come unto him so fast even in unseeing that there was no time for him to spin the wheel, and he’d hit the dog and heard it go underneath the car and there was squealing and blood had sprayed over the glass, the son had become so shook up she couldn’t stop the car or take his cold hands off the wheel and he kept driving without slowing, he drove and drove, and when he found he’d somehow gotten home again he washed the blood off of the car, he scrubbed the car’s skin with baby diapers, the way he’d seen his father do, taking care, and though the blood came off the car it would not come off him and it did not smell like blood.