The n-Body Problem

Tidly hums along with me, matching some notes, on her own with others. She thinks it’s a different song than “Freebird.” Maybe a song she learned in church as a girl. We sit like this humming, laughing at each other, through the evening. I switch the songs from time to time. “Shine On You Crazy Diamond.” “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.” “Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It).” Each time Tildy listens intently at the start, then slaps her thigh, declaring she knows it. She accompanies me with the same melody each time. Eventually, we grow sleepy. Losing ourselves in the solemn fire.

“I’m sleeping on the couch tonight, Mosey. Keep an eye on the fire. Them rooms back there are froze.”

My eyes droop as she pushes logs in on the embers. Droop and drop.

cicada.

I keep thinking spring is coming. I look for signs of thaw. The white mass outside to shrink. I keep thinking it must be late March. It’s not. It’s mid-August.

Tildy has worked hard to keep us alive. Stacking more wood against the house. Bringing it in when the supply inside gets thin. She has lost weight and hums less. At night she holds the Bible open but doesn’t read. She just watches the fire until she falls asleep. I worry for her, not only because she keeps us alive, but because I don’t want her to die. I am her baby. I love her.

Candy disappears one day. I try to calm Tildy by humming “Smoke on the Water.” Eventually she finds the dog frozen in her bedroom. She lays the body to thaw in front of the stove.

Tildy takes Candy in her arms and wanders out into the frigid black August afternoon. I have a renewed fear that she will not return. The fire would go out and I would freeze to death in hours. My Tildy. My Tildy. Don’t leave me.

I want that bottle now. My grape-sized stomach empties in a snap. There is some rice liquid at the bottom of a jar on my tray. I push my lips toward it but can’t reach. The pains are sharp. Not like hunger. More stabbing. I rock back and forth with no clear plan. Either I draw it to me or I fall.

The door opens.

“Somebody’s comin’, Mosey! Somebody’s comin’!”

Tildy lifts me from the high chair and settles on the couch.

“They seen me for sure. Young people. They’ll come.”

Tildy closes her eyes and mouths a prayer. I need to eat.

A rap at the door.

“Look at that, Mosey. Company.”

She lays me on the couch and stands, revealing a baby bottle. I pull the nipple into my mouth and pump.

Tidly opens the door.

“Why, hello!”

I hear a young girl’s voice.

“Hi. We’re freezing. Can we come in?”

The door opens farther. I can tell that ’cause the bottle frosts up. Shoes stomp on the floor. The door is shut.

“Come in! Come in! Oh, you poor loves! You look near dead.”

Three young men sit on the floor near the stove. One turns.

“This is great. Thank you. Mind if I put another log on?”

They haven’t spotted me yet. I am forced to imagine what this looks like. A full-grown man’s head on a larval body sucking formula from a baby bottle. I want to scream at myself. I am grotesque. I forgot about all that.

The young man pulls open the stove door, burning his gloves and drives a log in. The other two are staring at me. Eyes as long as test tubes. They look to the girl standing behind me. I can’t see her. I hear her though.

“Oh! I’m sorry. What’s… who’s that?”

She is being calm. I hear the struggle. The boys have moved back and are looking anxiously to Tildy. Hurry up. Tell us what we’re looking at.

“Oh. That’s Mosey.”

The boys slowly return their gaze to me. I am too much for them and they move even farther back.

“Do you kids want some food?”

They congregate around the kitchen table. Tildy leaves me on the couch. It’s warm here and I have my bottle. I can’t see them.

“You folks been stuck out there for long?”

I hear sighs and low whistles.

“Well, you’re here now and what’s mine is yours.”

Silence follows this. I imagine they don’t know what to say.

“Thank you.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, you’re good kids.”

They eat. I’m not sure what. Something form the warehouse bags.

“I was afraid when I saw you. There’s bad people out in the cold and dark. But I guess you know that.”

“Oh, we do, ma’am.”

More eating sounds. Someone farts and excuses themselves. More eating. I’m beginning to think these kids are a little too polite. A little too wonderful. I bet they want this place and they don’t want to share it.

“I’m afraid the back rooms are dangerous cold. We sleep in here. All huddled like penguins.”

I hear dishes moving. Wonder what they’ll do with those. Tildy doesn’t use dishes.

“You’re very kind.”

“We have money.”

I can picture Tildy’s hands up. Refusing.

“Let’s go sit in front of the fire and listen to your story.”

They arrange themselves on the floor in spots far from me. I look in their eyes for Syndrome. Hard to tell. But if they had full-blown Syndrome, they’d be restless. Manic. They’d talk quickly, abandoning subjects, undermining themselves. If they have Syndrome, it’s incipient.