a collected atrophy
by free man jung
Blythe Graff was unceremoniously disaffected; the same dusty white van had passed down the long stretch of barren desert back, then forth, & now back once more. No one else lived along the road which crawled up & over the forgotten arroyo seco & ended at what once had been an embalse— now dry too. Long years of little rain had stripped trees to mere bones— carcasses of a luxuriant lore. Figs & myrtle dug their roots & drank deep of the verdant splendor that had then crowned & clothed this land; no trees or green of any sort remained, however The bleak façade of her house— worn & sunbleached— stood like a monument, awkwardly poised against the pale sky & breaking the hardline of the horizon that perpetually sliced Blythe's reality in two.
Sitting & watching the occasional automobile that had made a wrong turn off the freeway consumed most of Blythe's morning. Clumsily, a car would traverse the arroyo & approach the empty basin of the old embalse only to turn around hesitatingly, and then, driving past Blythe again, return to meet the constant passersby on the freeway.
She stood and clutched at the dishtowel tucked into the pocket of her yellow feedsack apron , just above her left knee and headed up towards the house, stepping over a white cat without even noticing it. The ruffles of her apron made Blythe look comical, absurd even, an impression of which Blythe was entirely aware but persisted in wearing the tattered thing nonetheless. It also made her look 'domestic' & tho Blythe rarely even boiled water— subsisting habitually on a diet of pickles, sardines, crackers and canned meat, she thought that the image of the beruffled housewife suited her. She had stood up with the idea to write something down & as she walked, the tall grey edifice loomed substantial & Blythe was struck suddenly by how precarious the whole thing was— as tho all it might take were a great wind to blow this whole place away. This was not, in fact, the case at all.
Her great-grandfather had built the house with his own hands, deep within the whisperings of her nursury lore. When, gold-tinged with succulent ripeness & sensual in their burgundy blush, damascos & figs, had been the livelihood of her race— in a time in which Blythe had never lived, save vicariously thru the miserly lispings of elders who could offer no other proof of their town's former resplendence than the rusty misgivings & ill-will retold verbatim like a chanted mantras. No one could explain why the acequias had gone dry— dug out by Anglo settlers nearly two centuries after the still-flowing ditches dug by the norteños , three hundred miles away. As long as Blythe had known this land, it had been broken & barren.
There was no reason why the desert should have seemed especially harsh, but as she toed the bare wooden steps, vested in just a tinge of weathered red paint at the corners, she distinctly felt the clutches of death about her neck. As far as the eye could see, there was no life, no vegetation— nothing at all except the heat of the midmorning sun. She left her apron on the steps.
She had gone inside to fetch something to write with , but now decided to change her shirt. The neck of her long tee felt altogether too tight & she found a little yellow tanktop with which to replace it. She evaluated her reflection in the tall oval mirror with rim painted Santa Fe blue.
"I was pretty once," she said aloud before falling back on the rough hobnail of the tatted bedspread, meant to suggest bouquets of flowers and shafts of wheat all depicted in unforgiving white. There was a dark stain on one corner. Sometimes Blythe folded it to hide the imperfection, but not today. The room had not changed since she was a little girl, tho she had gone off to college and married TR. When she returned, there was her room, just as she had left it, just as it had always been. On the bed was her teddy bear and on the dresser, a photograph of Daddy— whom she only knew thru the picture. She stood up off the high, firm bed & went to the vanity table. She pulled the graceful faux-gold art nouveau handle and within the small drawer she felt around with her fingertips before triumphantly procuring a little nubbin of graphite. She returned to her lawnchair— stepping over the abandoned apron, shoulders exposed to the blistering sun.
When the dusty white van had passed the third time, she had stood up and gone in search of something with which to write, for in such a moment, she rationalized, one must certainly think profound thoughts; but after returning with the minuscule nubbin of graphite, all she could think was
from within the cañón, there is no horizon.
She studied it a moment, as tho committing it to memory before quickly crumpling the scrap of brown paper & setting it ablaze with the little silver Zippo that she kept on her at all times. It would have been a fire hazard if there were anything within miles that could burn.
Blythe ate whole caserôles in one sitting; she paced anxiously about the upper room at night sometimes when she could not sleep and when she finally did, her mind was invaded by horrid phantasmagora so oppressive that she came to prefer the ritual fits of pacing. Nights out there were so cold, even in summer, that Blythe was always painfully aware of the solitude. Perhaps that is why she spent her mornings out by the road in a green plastic lawnchair, smoking menthols and watching— staring longingly at the pinnacle of converging lines— the very apex, touching the sky— where first, as an imperceptible spot, then gradually taking form and descending the dun pyramid the occasional automobile passed by.
Blythe lived for the moment when a driver would give her a little wave as he passed, tho mostly the went by without even noticing her there. The driver of this van had not waved, so now as she saw it approaching for the fourth pass, she lit another cigarette and decided firmly not to acknowledge him. But as the van came near, it slowed and stopped near Blythe who regarded it with collected indifference. The driver rode on the right side of the van instead of the left and before he had even rolled the window halfway down, he was calling to her, "Blythe Cantú?" The sound of her maiden name left an acrid sting in her ear.
"Graff," she demanded of him, "Blythe Graff."
"The delivery is for 'Cantú'," he said to her. She considered this for a moment. She was no longer 'Cantú,' she had forsaken that name at the altar, and tho he had left, she would forever be 'Blythe Graff,' until the day she died.
"I am Blythe Cantú," she lied. Something within her cringed as tho the infant Christ and the Holy Innocents stared down at her from heaven. The man studied her face as tho he could read the truth in the lines branching out from the corners of her eyes and the edge of her lips. His gaze was heavy and burdensome, such as she had known once before and Blythe blushed. She was reminded of a time when a blush came more readily to the stark pallor of her cheek. She brushed a fly from her forehead. The man handed her an envelope without a word and stepped backwards towards the van, gazing at Blythe the entire time, never breaking, not even as he turned the key and ignited the internal combustion engine— no, not even as he backed into the road and sped off and over the horizon.
Blythe sat for a moment and tried to effect a dignified posture until well after the van had disappeared and even then she waited a few moments more, as if to be certain that she was truly alone before even glancing at the envelope. It said "TR Graff" in the top left hand corner and had an address in Silver City scrawled beneath it.
She pulled at the loose edge of the envelope's closure. His tongue had not moistened that far to the edge, but as she opened it, she was intimately aware of his scent.
"—always such a perfectionist about his handwriting," she said out loud as she turned the envelope over once more.
"I can't imagine him letting someone else—" but she stopped midsentence as she removed the contents. She hadn't heard a word from him since he had left that night— in the rain— he said it was over— he'd met someone else. It so rarely rained that the event had stood out in her mind and yet, at that moment, she doubted her own recollection of the events as they had transpired.
"It was raining that night!" she declared out loud, as tho affirming herself.
The card was generic & disappointing in its impersonal brevity. When she removed it from its canary-yellow sheath and discovered it was not the letter for which she had waited in vain, countless bitter moons alone, but merely some mass-produced form-filled card announcing twins, Blythe faltered. She was determined to read to the end. Instead of a personal message, there was a foto enclosed of two babies— the first tufts of fleecy white hair— an Aryan harshness hiding behind the ice-blue sparkle in each unknowing eye.
"Cabrón finally got what he wanted," Blythe said to herself, "what my body could never give."
The cardstock paper was as dry as an old slate hornbook &, for a woman who had never really worked, her hands were unusually rough. Blythe stroked the outer edge of her finger against the bleached back of the card as she read & the scratching noise horrified her when she became aware of it. She imagined the back of an infant's head bulging from between a pale woman's thighs— slick & glossy with a crown of golden placenta— Blythe thrust the card roughly into her pelvis & swallowed hard to hold back the vomit. She stared into the sun, as tho she resolved to blind herself until a distant-sounding whir called her attention towards the horizon before recanting nearer, for the source of the sound was much closer than she had thought. A man on a bicycle sped past her so quickly that she did not see his face, nor the one after. Two more came, & then a torrent. Droves of men on steel and aluminum zoomed past & Blythe tucked the card back into the envelope. She never cried in front of people.
As the very last cyclist pulled himself with heaving breath past where Blythe still sat, he looked up at her as tho he were disappointed that she wasn't a little more impressed— as tho he had expected wonderment, hollering & ticker-tape, but instead had only met the sun-bleached skeleton of a woman long-spent and well past middle age. After he was gone, Blythe tried to cry, but she was as dry as the old acéquia that had once kept her people's land verdant & lush; instead, she affirmed a vow not to move from the spot where she sat for the rest of the day, should lightning strike her dead, she swore.
In actuality, she moved again, less than an hour after swearing so vehemently that she would not on account of the flies. First, one had bitten her sharply on the ankle, and then again in the same spot. She swung at it with her flat palm but it returned despite her efforts; this time with comrades-at-arms— flies the size of Honey Smacks covered her legs now, in an obscene display that reminded Blythe of a Jodorowsky film she had seen once in college and she decided to head inside, because she had never been one of those sort of people.
The farmhouse, grey and ancient held watch over her, as it had always done, and she decided in that moment that she despised the old house, tho she could never imagine living anywhere else. Inside, the grimy linoleum, once yellow, now a dim shade of white and pulling at the seams from over half a century of the arid climate, made Blythe feel depressed and she could not bare to look at it. She decided to fix breakfast, more out of the habit of routine than actual hunger. She glanced at a tin bowl on the sallow countertop; the blue & white enamel was worn so thin that it was almost gone— a relic, perhaps, of a simpler era. The bowl looked empty from where she stood, but as she stepped across the softened linoleum, a single pale egg became visible in the center— the louse-infested hens had quit laying weeks ago, but Blythe remained stoically unconcerned about her next meal.
She picked the dead weevils out of a jar of white cornmeal she kept on the counter for making atole and measured some into the pot that sat on the stove. When she struck a match & lit the propane stove, the old familiar aroma vaguely touched her nose and she allowed all of the old memories of her mamá to flood her senses. When she came back to herself, the atole had come to a boil & Blythe removed it from the burner. She sniffed at a stale biscuit she found in the bread box before dropping it into the toaster oven. When finally she had collected the elements of her breakfast— atole, biscuit & the lurid egg— overcooked & rubbery— Blythe sunk into herself. She couldn't bring herself to eat the monochrome meal that sat on the table before her. She left it there where it would lay for over a year, slowly but steadily gaining color and livelihood.
That night, Blythe dreamt that she worked for a cruel and demanding patrón— looming over her as she hoed long rows of pumpkins, melons and calabacitas. But everywhere she glanced behind her, there were more weeds than when she had begun. Blythe awoke in a cold sweat. She climbed out of bed— the icy Chihuahuan night air fingered her neck and she clutched the tattered nightgown till it almost choked her. She stepped quietly across the kitchen and towards the staircase that led to the spacious upper room. She paused at the first step and barely touched the peeling yellow wallpaper. A simplistic print of a farmer and his wife in faded gold tones decorated the walls and Blythe resisted the urge to rip the paper down. She slowly climbed the steps with her finger brushing the wooden banister and she thought of how many times before she had ascended that staircase. She thought of rattlesnakes discovered in forgotten closets and orange juice concentrate spilled on the upstairs carpet. When she reached the top step, Blythe tottered slowly and leaned forward as best as she could.
Blythe bowed her head & her consciousness was suddenly expanded— like a dream— wherein the tangible sensation of simultaneously touching & becoming Guadalupana took place. She was only aware of the back of the head— the side that can never be seen on médalos or retablas—round, dark & glossy— shrouded in saline-colored silk, billowing in the wind, but she felt it on her fingertips & it resonated behind her eyes. Rays of golden light, wavering slightly, crowned her glorious in that instant, tho they remained as flat & two-dimensional as they had been on the labels she painstakingly peeled from every novena candle. When Blythe awoke, she was crumpled & balled up at the bottom of the staircase again & she sobbed softly to herself.
When she got up, she no longer felt sad. Her hands were warm as they had never been in her life. She removed her bathrobe & stood in the hall. Blood trickled in a cold rivulet from her forehead but she wasn't surprised. Her body meant little to her now, for the previous grandeur had proved her only authentic experience, tho she knew she would soon forget it. Even now it was slipping away— inch by inch— It seemed that the harder Blythe concentrated, the more hazy the memory became. Every moment lived was a step away from transcendence. She could not bear it.
The wooden boards in the hallway creaked and moaned as she pressed her weight into the floor and approached an ancient desk which was never used near the bathroom at the end of the hall. She pulled the drawer in the dark and felt around inside, pilfering through the stash of minuscule items that had collected therein since the house had first been built. She paused for a moment and glanced at a picture frame that hung on the wall above the desk. Within the frame was a photograph of two boys wearing overalls and in white letters above them was written a joke about farming. Blythe had never understood the joke, and it had almost become ironic to her because of the barren farm that had been swallowed up by the sky. She procured an ancient skeleton key from the drawer that she had never seen used, for there had never been a need to lock the old farmhouse until now.
After locking the front door, she slipped the skeleton key beneath the mat. She took a rosario from around her neck and wrenched the crucifix from the chain of beads— the corpus eroded to an imperceivable lump thru years of contrite remorse. She left the beads on the steps, on top of the apron she had relinquished the day before and pressed the crux into the palm of her hand. Her bare feet trod lifeless the rough thorny grama that clothed the dry earth around her as only the feet of someone born and raised on that terrain might. Blythe forced the images of her childhood, finally and for good from her rakish brain. The stars were scattered thickly above her like spilled salt. Blythe spread her arms wide in silent challenge to whatever the universe had to give. Her heart raced and she felt the old familiar apprehension growing, not waning, within her.
When the sun rose the next morning, Blythe was no longer there— only the shell of what once was a woman, but would not have been recognized by even her closest friends lay crumpled and broken in the dust. Her gown was torn into a dozen or more pieces and her naked form was sunken and draped with wasted effete upon her lifeless skeleton. Scratch lines dried black marred the much-too-pale neck, and the tips of her fingers had been gnawed clear to the bone. There was no one to mourn the death of the woman— no one to cry over her fallen form. The only one who knew she was gone was the white cat whom Blythe had habitually neglected and which now stood in the shadow of the ancient farmhouse mewing and crying and pawing at the lifeless carcass that now baked in the heat of the desert sun.