What Are You Afraid Of?

the clay is vile

theclayisvile S If once, a thousand times. John quickens passing that eyesore. He’s not afraid, not particularly afraid, yet the sight of the house speeds his heart, makes him think of the house, the burden of it, nothing but. History, warred and yet unsettled, speaks everywhere, from the horribly orange tin roof to the windows marred by spider-cracks to the small balcony threatening to free itself from the second story, taking out anything, anyone gawking, lingering below. A doorless white refrigerator rules the front porch. Cats, black and gray and bluish black, swirl from the refrigerator’s rusted shelves, swatting flies, biting tails, and stare toward the road as if expecting someone—anyone!—who might mix up their time. 38 Someone must live in the house. What to make of the Victory Garden in the front yard? Normal people would condemn such a thing to the back of their properties, the unsightly tangle of binder-twine and posted seed-packets proclaiming tomatoes “tomatoes” hidden from view. John recognizes pepper plants, stalks of sweet corn at least two feet in height. Aluminum pie plates clatter, strung up to discourage birds. Maybe it’s because he runs so early that he doesn’t see anyone here, that there’s no one, ever, to connect to this house. Of course there are stories, wisps of tales relating madness and hard luck. Due to the house’s desperate state, due to its current look of abuse and misuse, it can be nothing else but haunted. For most people, the house is fortunately far enough from town, a horrible thought that’s only entertained in passing, a wrong turn down the wrong road. No car or truck or motorcycle has ever taken up the space of the driveway as far as John knows. There are no comings and goings, other than sighs that come directly from the house. John hears them: old air caught and sweeping through rooms. He imagines ghosts on top of ghosts, packed and compressed until all individual spirits have given way to, combine to form, one large powerful mass. Always he turns to watch the house disappear behind him as he runs. He’s not sure why. Maybe because he needs to know it’s gone. Each and every morning as he rounds the turn of the road, the house blinks, then cedes completely to trees and fog, and then, always, John slows to the normal cadence of his five-mile run. The blonde hairs on his arm glisten with sweat and dew. He thinks then of Nathan, still sleeping, how he will wake Nathan with force once home, how Nathan will murmur and whimper lost in the last dream of morning, before John and Nathan will kiss and roll together in that first part of their day together that isn’t sleep. the clay is vile 39 S So often John is the first to slide from the sheets after sex, leaving Nathan to linger among the intimacy of pillows. In the bathroom, John switches on the radio, the same morning station, and studies himself in the mirror to be sure nothing has changed—no crow’s feet, no timelines creasing his forehead. Then he shaves, always pleased to see how young he can look, not a day over twenty-five, a ripe age. Nathan’s only twenty, a kid, the way John likes, preferring to be the stronger, in control of the relationship, thus having the option—should it ever arise—of using force to end arguments, decide decisions, have his own way. He, like Nathan, has lived in the small town of Sinking Springs, Pennsylvania, all his life, except for the brief stint at the state college, satellite campus, needing only a month to realize what he’s looking for couldn’t be found in books. He and Nathan met by mistake in the aisle of the SuperFresh—what’s said about supermarkets is true!—and they’ve been living together for six months. “To save money,” John says. “What we have can end at any time. We’re not married. Certainly not.” John fears he’s the less smart of the pair. Nathan reads and reads, clutters their small, usually neat house with novels and scraps of paper scribbled with interesting quotes. Sometimes, drinking prune juice for his slow digestion, Nathan talks of going to school. “Maybe an education is just the thing...