1. COPY FAMILY<\/p>\n
When the family came to live in the new house, they found another family already there. An exact copy of their family\u2014a copy father, mother, and son. The copy family members stood each in a room alone unblinking. The copy family would not speak when spoken in to\u2014though they had heartbeat, they were breathing. Their copy eyes were wet and stretched with strain. Their copy skin felt like our skin. Their copy hearts beat at their chests. <\/p>\n
The father flicked the copy father on the arm there by the window in the kitchen\u2014the window where on so many coming days the father would look out onto the yard\u2014the yard where the copy family had moved and laughed and dug and thought and fought and seen the sky change color. The father watched the copy father flinch. The copy father\u2019s fat ring finger had on thirteen copy rings. In the copy father\u2019s copy eyes the father could read his other\u2019s current scrolling copy thoughts: <\/p>\n
This is our house. <\/p>\n This is where I am.<\/em><\/p>\n 2. HOUSES<\/p>\n The father\u2019d bought the house with paper money. He\u2019d worked for years and years. If asked he could not say for certain what the work was. Mostly all he did all day any day was look into a blank screen flush with light. Sometimes the father looked at porn or ads or sports scores, but mostly just the light. The father had fat fingers.<\/p>\n Throughout his life during sleeping the father\u2019d swallowed many things\u2014spiders, dust and dirt, wood shavings, pillow lint, eggs, hair, and rings. He had enough now in his stomach to open a small store. He would not give up. <\/p>\n The only thing the father\u2019d every really wanted, the only thing, was to host a game show on TV. He\u2019d wear a bolo tie and comb his hair this way and that way the mirror, rehearsing his scripted text. He could have maybe settled for just appearing on a show sometime\u2014any of them<\/em>\u2014though he had no mind for trivia and his reflexes were just sad.<\/p>\n In the nights before the new house, the father walked up streets peeping through windows. He\u2019d seen the light in other houses. He\u2019d seen people in their beds\u2014sometimes moving in the darkness to the bathroom or the stairs. He\u2019d seen so many bodies fuck. In one house he\u2019d seen someone reading about a father at the window in a book. All the houses touched by wire. The grain in the glass in the windows in the frames in the walls in the rooms in the houses in the yards in the streets went on and on. <\/p>\n The father wanted a certain kind of life to give his family. He wanted a house described by all of who he\u2019d been\u2014or who he\u2019d been then\u2014or that other time\u2014or\u2014and\/or\u2014who? The father had not asked the mother or son what she or he thought before he bought the house. The price had been stupendous. Unbeatable. The father could not remember where he\u2019d found the listing. He could not remember what he did not remember\u2014nor would he want to, would he ever. From the outside the new house looked like many other houses.<\/p>\n There were many things the father did without his wife\u2019s permission. <\/p>\n 3. WHAT ELSE COULD THEY HAVE DONE?<\/p>\n The family took the copy family and they set them on the back porch. The father carried the copy father and the mother the copy mother and the son his. The skins of the two families smushed together grunting. Their sweat became commingled. <\/p>\n The copy family members did not wink or speak or cause commotion. The copy family did not cry.<\/p>\n The only thing that made the family different from the copy family was instead of teeth the copy family\u2019s mouths were lined with mold. The copy family\u2019s breath came out cold and made no sound.<\/p>\n The son wanted to play dress up with his copy body but the father smacked the son across the head. The father hated when his son played girl games. The father bought the son a new neon football for Christmas and his birthday every year. The father also bought the son a football on the father\u2019s birthday, a form of begging. Sometimes he found he could convince the son to come out into the yard, though no matter how soft the father threw the ball or how close they stood together, the son could never catch. Even right there. Even touching. <\/p>\n The son\u2019s hands and fingers always itched. Sometimes the itching spread into his knee. Sometimes the only thing about the son at all was all the itching. The son felt older than he looked.<\/p>\n 4. PRETEND TO NOT BE THERE<\/p>\n In the new house wrung with coarse light, the father locked the doors and sealed the eaves. He had the family play Pretend To Not Be There. They waited to see if the copy family would simply disappear or go away. They waited several hours, peeping. Later they hooted and shook their arms, made fire. They copy family would not retort. The mother found the copy family\u2019s TV dinners in the freezer and from the floor the family ate: defrosted veggie medley, veal cordon bleu. There was even a little cheesecake wrapped in black plastic. The family felt run through. They felt their bodies rumble, squealing. The son asked to take his leftovers out to the dog. He pointed through the window. The father smushed his face against the glass. The dog was an exact copy of the dog the father and mother had had before the son\u2014a chubby Dachshund, dust-gray and well groomed, with a bell around its neck. The dog had come down with diabetes and fell into the mud in the backyard. The dog had been the sweetest dog. The copy dog lay at the copy father\u2019s feet and struggled just to breathe. The copy dog looked into the father\u2019s eyes. The father sent the son to bed. He and the mother went with the son into the certain room they\u2019d let the son himself select\u2014he could have had many other rooms. The bed was deep and clean and padded. The parents took turns kissing the son on the brow, the wrists, the thumbs, the mouth, the teeth, the back, the stomach. The son went right to sleep. Just after, in the hallway, the father touched his hand against his lips, feeling for the cells that\u2019d come off in transference\u2014what parts of himself he\u2019d left upon the son. <\/p>\n 5. THE COPY MOTHER, IN PARTICULAR<\/p>\n The father and the mother stayed up well into the evening watching the copy family stand. The father and the mother agreed they had to do something\u2014something\u2014what?<\/em> They could not go on like this, even a little. The copy family had not moved an inch. They could call police but what would happen? Light from the backyard\u2019s sensor-triggered floodlamps clicked on and off without clear provocation. <\/p>\n The copy family would not go away. The father worked himself into a state, shouting curse words, splaying arms. He went out to the car and got a softball bat he\u2019d used for pick-up games in college\u2014he\u2019d not once had a hit, though he\u2019d been beaned more times than he could count on all the hands in all the houses on the street where his house stood\u2014he could often still remember how the ball felt each time, banging fast into his muscle\u2014how his chest would scrunch and then expand\u2014how sometimes he seemed not there at all. The father stood at the window with the weapon. He threatened legal action. He spoke in unintended rhyme. He said his own name to the copy father. The copy father seemed to have more hair than the father himself did.<\/p>\n By the time the morning came on gnawing, the father had collapsed. He lay fetal-curled on the laminated kitchen floor, his back against the fridge door, shook. The mother stood over the father. The mother took the softball bat away. She smoothed a blanket over her husband. She covered up his head. She turned on the radio in the intercom that\u2019d been wired to broadcast through the house. There wasn\u2019t music, but people talking. She turned it louder. The voices filled the house. She went out on the porch and stood among the copy family. <\/p>\n There she was.<\/p>\n 6. SMOTHERING, THE MOTHER\u2019S KNOWLEDGE OF<\/p>\n In the copy mother copy\u2019s face skin the mother saw the way the years had run her down\u2014the slow stretched lines of older versions sunk to layers\u2014the cheekbones taut and caked with rouge. The mother hulked her copy body off the ground. The mother carried her copy body in the weird light strumming downward off the shifting sky in sheets. She moved through the crunched grass to the concrete to the swimming pool the house had come with. Her copy body hummed hot and burbled. The mother held herself the way she\u2019d hold a massive baby. She threw her copy body out into the water, watched it splash down, watched it burp. The copy mother did not struggle. The pool was green with straw and algae and old rain. The mother could not see the bottom. The water stunk. A string of silent glassy bubbles rung up from the copy mother\u2019s copy head. Her body sunk into the muck and did not rise. Along the top the mother watched a scrim of pollen slosh in waves. The windows of the house next door were all cracked open and opaque. The house next door to that house did not have doors or windows, walls at all.<\/p>\n 7. CLOSER<\/p>\n The mother found the copy father\u2019s skin felt rather pleasant\u2014softer than her husband\u2019s\u2014responsive to her touch. She spread her fingers in the short soft hair over his forearm. She whispered in his ear. She said the things she\u2019d meant to say. <\/p>\n She closed the copy father\u2019s eyes.<\/p>\n When the copy father\u2019s body hit the water, his polo shirt soaked darker several shades. The copy father\u2019s skin became distended. The water boiled. The copy father\u2019s copy body tried a while to stay floating on the pool\u2019s surface in the muck but the mother pushed it down. She held it under with her foot and then the pool net. The moon hung over the backyard had a sliver missing from its center. <\/p>\n Suddenly the mother felt a voracious thirst for pork.<\/p>\n 8. THE COPY SON, IN PARTICULAR<\/p>\n The mother returned from what she\u2019d done then to stand above the copy of her son. There was very little about his copy body that betrayed any major difference from the son\u2014in fact, if the mother didn\u2019t know for sure already the son was upstairs curled in the new bed the father and the mother had bought him\u2014no more nits yet in the mattress, nothing eating where he slept<\/em>\u2014if she wasn\u2019t sure for sure the true version of her boy was up there with his dream eyes spinning in his head\u2014wasn\u2019t he?<\/em>\u2014if she hadn\u2019t put him there herself\u2014she wasn\u2019t sure that she could tell him from this child here\u2014this child with the same scar along his forearm like the one the son had gotten fallen fainting from a tree\u2014he was not supposed to have been walking yet\u2014he\u2019d been bedridden for so long\u2014trying to reach the sun, he\u2019d explained later<\/em>. This child here had the same black pockmarks where disease had come into the son\u2019s body, searching his flesh for what it wanted\u2014when the son had stayed alive the doctors seemed more nervous than relieved\u2014how peculiar, they kept saying, it\u2019s against science<\/em>. This child here had the same blonde bowl-cut hair like the son, hair the mother could barely bring herself to snip, every inch of him her precious\u2014such nights she\u2019d dreamed of his insides, swimming deep inside his cells<\/em>. This child, this boy\u2014he was made of her, and she was made of him. <\/p>\n No, the mother could not bring herself again to do the thing she\u2019d done twice just now already. The mother peeped through the window from the outside to make sure her husband was still sleeping, curled. Under the blanket, she watched him wriggle. The father had always been a rowdy sleeper. Most nights he kept the mother up straight through till morning. The mother slept most in the day, if ever. The sleeping father spoke in languages the mother had not heard\u2014if she\u2019d heard them she could not remember<\/em>. The sleeping father chewed his skin to bits. <\/p>\n In a hurry, slunk and brooding, knowing what the father, waking, might have to say, the mother fire-lifted her son\u2019s copy body on her shoulder and carried him silent through the night. She moved into the dark lip of trees grown up and out around the house, into which no fake light showed. She carried the body through the thick murk, keeping careful not to fall. The earth around was eaten up with tunnel. There was wobble. There was grease. There were animals out here somewhere. She could hear their tiny teeth. There were holes in the soil that led to somewhere. The mother moved by feel. The mother carried her son\u2019s copy body through the forest through a tunnel lined with crud. Through the tunnel came a clearing. Set in the clearing there was wire. The wire scorched the mother\u2019s hand. Still she knew what she was seeking. She knew that she would know. <\/p>\n When she arrived in, at, and\/or among some small exact place, the mother set the copy son\u2019s soft copy body down.<\/p>\n *<\/p>\n
\nThis is my house. <\/p>\n