After "Tall Tales from the Mekong Delta," By Kate Braverman

It had been six months since she played a game of croquet.  It was after the clinic.  It was after the separation from her husband.  It was spring.  She had even stopped playing ping-pong.  She walked across a parking lot in the northern suburbs of Pittsburgh.  She was carrying truffles for the Croquet Players Anonymous meeting.  She had the duty of bringing a snack for the meeting.  He started walking next to her.  He was tall and skinny.  His hair was neatly manicured.  She noticed something in the air between them, but could not make out what it was.

"I'm Niles," he said, giving her his hand.

She told him her name.  She held a bag of truffles.  After the meeting, she had to go home and clean the house, then mow the lawn.  She continued to walk across the parking lot.

"You a taxidermist?  You look like a taxidermist," he said.

"I'm a writer," she said to him.

"You look like a taxidermist," Niles told her.

"I'm not a taxidermist," she said.  She was annoyed.

"All right, fine, you're a writer.  And you're naughty.  You're one of those naughty girls from Fox Chapel.  I've seen you," Niles said.

She didn't respond.  He was wearing khakis and a blue sweater.  It was too hot a day for the sweater.  She didn't think that detail was important, she just noticed it and then dismissed it.  She didn't observe, she just looked.  She wasn't frightened yet.

"You play naughty games?  What do you do?  Play ping-pong?" he asked.

"I'm a croquet addict," she told him.

"Me too.  Let's see your blisters.  Show me your hands." Niles reached for her hands.

"I won't have any now." She looked at her hands, then moved them toward his.  "They've healed."

"I can see them," Niles said, looking at her right hand, turning it in the air.  "They're nice."

"But they're gone," she said.

"No they aren't, not if you know how to look for them," Niles said.  "What color is that dog's collar across the street?  What breed is he?"

His back was to the dog.  She couldn't tell.

"Blue collar," Niles said, "Half rottweiler, half Chihuahua.  I observe, I don't just look.  Yeah.  Don't be surprised; Niles is fast, real fast.  Let's go for coffee later."

"I don't think so," she said, "I have to be somewhere."

"You don't think so?  Well, I'll buy you some coffee," Niles said.  "You don't have to pick up that kid until six.  Don't lie to me.  You think I'm stupid.  I'm not stupid.  I know your routine.  You think I'd ask someone to get some coffee without knowing their routine?  I'll see you after your meeting."

She nodded solemnly and continued walking toward her meeting.  It occurred to her, suddenly, that in Lower Kenosha, Wisconsin, writers were treated as demigods.  They slept with the mayors.  They ate Polish sausages.  They were hallowed and blessed, celebrated by infinite polkas, by the consumption countless amounts of cheese and diary products and nothing changed for millennia.  Evenings were yellow, the wondrous, pockmarked yellow of American cheese.  And on the abstract dairy cow, myriad black spots.

After the meeting, she felt herself look at him as she walked out of the building.  She started to walk past him, but he stepped in front of her.

"You know what this is?" Niles asked.  He held something in his hand.  She looked at it.  "It's a ping-pong ball," he told her.  "We're going to go and play some ping-pong."

She shook her head, no.

"Sure we are.  Just come with Niles and everything will be fine.  Yeah.  Take my hand.  I'll take you where you want to go," he said.

She took his hand and felt herself following him.  He led her to a park a few blocks away with a ping-pong table under picnic shelter.  He took out two paddles from a bag he was carrying.  He handed her a paddle.  They were both blue.  He threw the ball and it bounced on her side of the table and she saw her arm hitting the ball back to Niles with her paddle.

"Yeah, that's it, you're just a little girl.  Don't get scared.  Just play the game," he said.  It had been seven months since she played ping-pong.  Her hands began to shake.  He walked toward her.  "Here," he said, "put your arms around me.  Don't be afraid.  Close your eyes." She closed her eyes and saw blue.

She didn't see him for a few days.  She had started playing ping-pong every day.  She sat polishing her ping-pong table in her open garage when he walked in.  His shadow outside had seemed blue from the shade of her garage.  He was holding a blue bag.

"Come here," he said, "there's something I want to do with you."

She stood up and walked to him mindlessly.  She felt like a robbed bakery, the open stoves illuminating the place in a soft, blue hue, projecting blue light onto the pieces of glass all over the floor.

He led her into her front yard.  He opened his bag and began to set up a croquet course.  "You know what we're gonna do now?" he asked her.  "We're going to play croquet."

"But I'm in Croquet Player's Anonymous.  Are you crazy?" she said.  She was annoyed.

"Ah, come on.  Just one game.  They'll take you back.  Come on.  They don't mind.  I do it all the time, all over the place.  Been doing it for years," he said.

"I didn't know that," she said.  It was hard to talk.  He stepped toward her and handed her a mallet.

"Okay, come on, listen to daddy.  Hit the ball with the mallet," he said.  She did.  "Yeah, that's good.  Take another shot," he said.

"Well, I have some business downtown.  I'm out of time.  You have fun.  I took you where you wanted to go, didn't I?  Can't say Niles lied to you, right?" he said to her.

"Yeah," she replied.

Niles walked away.  She started to play the croquet course he had set up.  When she was done playing, she would play again.  When that was over, she would set up another course.  She opened her mouth, but could not speak.  She felt the blisters forming on her hands, saw their blue roots taking hold.  She would join a croquet club.  It would be a blue club, one that would know where she lives and would never let her miss the league match every Sunday afternoon.

Author Bio

If I were an animal?  I'm already an animal, motherfucker.