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  1. Barrel Fever
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My fear smells like damp wood, so I built Marty Jr. a playpen. I made it myself with my own two hands. When Marty returns from work he lets the dog loose and I set Marty Jr. in his pen, where I hope he might be safe. Jamboree circles around, trying to get at him but Marty Jr. is smart and knows to keep back from the bars. He stands in the center of his pen, watching. Once in a while he’ll throw something over the top. Last night jamboree ate E.T. The dining room floor was littered with tufts of plush fur and Styrofoam BBs.

This morning I set Marty Jr.’s crib atop a platform — a dining room table I found in the neighbor’s trash pile. I stood on a chair and settled him in, thinking he might marvel at this new perspective. “Look at you,” I said. “On top of the world.” He cried then and when I went to comfort him he grabbed my hair and didn’t let go until I popped him across the face. I tell myself that it’s not his fault, that things will be different when it’s just the two of us on our own. And it will be different. I found the place where Marty hides his money. There’s close to three hundred dollars here, enough to take the baby and me to Florida, where it’s warm. We can camp out there, live in the woods until I get a job. Marty would have the national guard on my ass if I were to poison his dog, but I don’t think he’ll care one way or another if I take off with his son. And Vicki — she might think about it for a week or so, and then she’d let it go, saving it up for a year or two down the road, when she’ll turn to the person sitting beside her at the tavern and say, “Did I ever tell you about the time my very own brother ran off with my fucking baby? Did I?”

Barrel Fever

AFTER MALISON

7:45. I ARRIVE at Malison’s hotel an hour and fifteen minutes before his lecture is due to begin at the Pavilion of Thought. The desk clerk shoots me a look that suggests he might be interested in throwing his weight around. Rather than pass him, I take a seat in the lobby, pull out my journal, and light a cigarette. He gives me another look.

“My husband hates for me to smoke in the room,” I say.

He says, “What?”

I say, “My husband, he hates the smoke, so I’m just going to sit here for a moment before going up to our room.”

The clerk says, “Fine, whatever,” and turns his attention back to a little TV set, one of those Watchmans.