Iceland review - 2019, Síða 118

116
Iceland Review
– No.
– We don’t want to get flies in here.
– I’m not the problem.
– Don’t be like that.
*
A stocky teenager lies on his stomach and attempts
to root around in a flower bed. He has a hazy mem-
ory of having hidden some treasure around here at
some point. As he digs, earth collects under nails he
hasn’t gnawed off yet. He doesn’t get far because the
ground’s frozen. He’ll have to wait until spring and
turns onto his back.
*
If the mother and son blow into their flowerpots,
they can see everything writhing with life. Teeny
tiny white larvae constantly moving in the dark
soil. That’s what fungus gnats look like before they
mature. This disgusting mass is just a heap of nurs-
lings. When they’ve reached adulthood, they hang in
the air and fly erratically about, much to the displea-
sure of the mother and son. The mother hasn’t man-
aged to read the morning paper in many days. She
feels like the flies don’t want her reading the news.
There are fruit flies in the kitchen. They’re red-eyed
and bloated and have no sense of propriety. The
mother and son have stopped leaving food out on
the table. They’ve cleaned out the garbage cupboard
and swept every last crumb out of every drawer, off
every shelf. The fruit flies always return. They’re
attracted to the mother and son’s mouths, which are
always curved in a grimace. Whether they’re happy
or sullen—their mouths are always like that.
– I think I hate these flies. I don’t hate anyone, but
I hate them.
– It doesn’t do any good to hate them, dear. We’ve
got to get rid of them.
– How? They want to be here is all.
– I don’t know. Maybe get some spray.
*
The teenager is walking down the hill. He finds an
empty soda can and steps on it so that the ends
clamp around his shoe. He drags his foot along the
sidewalk. The can and sidewalk make an unpleasant
sound, but the teenager wants to see how far he can
go without it falling off his foot. He makes it half-
way down the slope before the squashed can slides
off his shoe. He climbs up onto a concrete wall and
thrusts his hand into his pocket in search of a pack
of cigarettes.
*
In the hallway, divides the fruit flies and fungus
gnats. The gnats are the mother’s, while the fruit
flies belong to the son. They’ve gotten really good
catching the flies. They can be seen through the
window, clapping around and grabbing what looks
to be thin air. To anyone that sees them through the
window, it looks like the mother and son are danc-
ing to music with no beat. They turn on their heels
and in circles, clapping and flailing. The son’s face
is beaded with sweat. The droplets glint in the light
of the fire out back. Some of them run together and
drip down his face. The salty liquid blends with the
dried coffee around his mouth and together, they
hurl themselves off the cliff of his chin. The mother
is wheezing, grey-haired, and shiny and sweat has
formed a heart-shaped splotch on the front of her
dress. The teenager stands in the street, watching
their dance through the window.
*
The old stove stands in the middle of the kitchen.
The mother squats, cleaning off the food scraps and
spatters that have collected on the wall behind it.
The air in the kitchen has gotten cooler. Even so,
the mother is still hot from her exertions. Her grey
hair is dirty and she’s wearing a cotton dress with
a low neckline. Her chest is sweaty. The son comes
into the kitchen and silently watches as his mother
cleans. He looks at her upper arm, which has atro-
phied, the skin hanging over fat and muscle like an
oversized sweater.
*
The fire polishes off the corrugated iron house just
before darkness falls and there’s nothing now but an
orange glow in the middle of a coal-black square.
*
The teenager sits on top of a concrete shed on the
schoolgrounds. There’s a dance going on, but he
doesn’t go in. Through the window, he watches his
classmates sitting and laughing, eating chips from
bags, drinking soda from plastic bottles, having slow
dance competition. He could go in, but instead, he
wanders around the schoolgrounds in an unzipped
parka. Sometimes, he has a cigarette and holds it
with the lit end pointing toward his palm, as if to
hide it. His teacher is wearing a 90s sweater, jeans,
and dress shoes. He comes outside and the outdoor