Stories: All-New Tales - By Neil Gaiman & Al Sarrantonio Page 0,5

it was fine, because he was in the middle of his life, give or take a few years.

Sex.

Simple.

He wanted to have sex with everything living. Not literally. He wanted to have sex with most things. Some things—most women. He was a normal man, slipping into middle age. His days were numbered. He knew this, but he didn’t think it. A year was 365 days. Ten years was 3,650. Thirty years gave him 14,600. You have 14,600 days to live. That’s fine, thanks. As he lay on the bed, he felt happy. The urge was gone, because he understood. His mind was fine, but something in him had been running amok. His biology, or something like that. Not long ago, only a few generations back, he’d have been dead already or at least drooling and toothless. Middle age and the autumn years were modern concepts. His brain understood them, but his biology—his manhood—didn’t. He only had a few years of riding left—that was what biology thought. More to the point, a few years of reproducing. And maybe the vasectomy had made things worse, or more drastic, sent messages haywire—he didn’t know.

The human mind was a funny thing. He’d been dying for a ride, so he bit the head off a neighbour’s chicken.

He went downstairs.

-A fox got one of Barbara’s hens last night, said Vera.

-Well, that was kind of inevitable, wasn’t it?

-That’s a bit heartless.

-It’s what foxes do, he said.–When?

-What?

-Did the fox strike?

-Last night, she said. —Did you hear anything when you were looking at the shuttle?

-Not a thing, he said. —Just the astronauts chatting.

She smiled. You’re such a messer.

-About what?

-Oh, just about how much they love Ireland. How’s Barbara?

-In bits.

-Did she say she felt violated?

-She did, actually, but you’re such a cynical bastard.

She was laughing. And he knew: he was home and dry.

It was later now, night again, and he kissed her neck. He bit her neck. They were a pair of kids for half an hour, and still giddy half an hour after that.

-Well, she said. —I’m ready for afters.

Her hand went exploring.

-Back in a minute, he said.

He went downstairs, went to the fridge—two mackerel on a plate. He looked in the freezer, pulled out a likely bag. A couple of pork chops. He put the bag under the hot tap, till the plastic loosened. Then he tore away the plastic and went at one of the chops. But it was too hard, too cold. He gave it thirty seconds in the microwave and hoped—and dreaded—that the ding would bring her downstairs. He stood at the kitchen window and nibbled at the edges of the chop and hoped—and dreaded—that she’d come in and see his reflection—the blind was up—before she saw him, that he’d turn and reveal himself, some kind of vampire having a snack, and she’d somehow find it sexy or at least reasonable, and forgive him, and put her hands through his hair, like she did, and maybe even join him in the chop, and he’d bring her over the wall so they could get Barbara’s last two hens, one each.

He binned the rest of the chop, shook the bin so it would disappear under the other rubbish.

He’d wait for the right moment. The visuals were important; there was a huge difference between being caught devouring raw steak and licking a frozen pork chop, or inviting your life partner to do the same. There was no hurry, no mad rush. No madness at all; he was normal.

He went back upstairs.

She was waiting for him. But not in the bed, or on the bed. She was standing far away from the bed.

-What’s this? she asked.

She turned on the light.

She was holding a head on the palm of her open hand. A small head.

-A chicken’s head, he said.

-Where did you get it?

-I found it.

He was a clown, an eejit; he’d hidden it under his socks.

-It’s Barbara’s, she said.–Isn’t it?

-Barbara’s head would be a bit bigger, he said.

It didn’t work; she didn’t smile.

-Did the fox drop it in the garden? she asked.

She was giving him an escape route, offering him a reasonable story. But it was the wrong one. He’d found a chicken’s head and hidden it? He wasn’t going to admit to the lie. It was sad, perverse.

-No, he said.

-Well, she said, and looked away.–What happened?

-I bit it off, he said.

She looked at him again. For quite a while.

-What was that like?

-Great, he said.–Great.

FOSSIL-FIGURES

Joyce Carol Oates

1.

INSIDE THE GREAT BELLY where the beat beat beat of the great heart pumped life