Dove Season

Dove Season I can only work places that allow a smoke break. I don’t smoke. My problem is different from that. My problem looks magical to other people, but it’s a compulsion, something I can’t resist, the way some people need coffee at the exact same times every day, or a sugar fix, or drugs, I suppose, although that’s taking it further than I like. I fly. Specifically: I walk quickly for a few steps, then I bound forward a few steps more, and then I leap and I flap my arms (I am not joking) and by now I’m airborne and I can hover there, but I prefer to swim. I like doing butterfly. I arc both arms at the same time, wide big arms, feels beautiful and graceful and strong to do it that way, and I kick my feet together behind me in the dolphin kick I learned on swim team when I was little (before I could fly), and my body sort of undulates, although that sounds awful when I say it that way, but it’s that kind of writhing forward thing a snail does, front end forward, big arm stroke, head dips down, butt comes up, here’s the dolphin kick. I can cover acres of ground like that. I once air-swam from one end of a three-mile park to another all during my ten-minute smoke break. I know, it sounds awesome. You wish you were me. I get it. I used to have flying dreams. We all have, right? Where you’re being chased by the bad guys and suddenly you realize if you run just a little faster and flap your arms, oh my gawd, you’re lifting up, you’re just out of their reach, you’ve escaped, you’re safe, and now you might as well keep flying and seeing what that’s like before you wake up— Except all of that happened to me and I didn’t wake up. Turns out this was my life now. All fine, all good, except for the compulsion part. Remember I said about that? Because it turns out something like this isn’t really as voluntary as you’d think. You can do it whenever you want, sure, but you also have to do it. If you don’t, you feel sick and edgy and jittery and weak. You feel nauseous. You feel like you’re going to jump out of your skin if you can’t break away right now and do your walking-running-flying bit, and as soon as you do, as soon as you’re airborne again, it’s like all the jittery, frayed endings of your nerves have been knit back together and fixed. It is a fix. I admit it. And I need it every single hour. So no. No thank you. I refuse. Can I go now? Because my hour was long past—long past. Did they not get that? Did they want to see what would happen? Of course they did. Tricky government men with their tough-guy too-tight short-sleeved buttoned-down shirts like they don’t know they should go up a size and stop strutting around their gymmed-up pecs like a woman wearing a small when she’s a 36. Come on. Boring. I’ve seen it. I told them as little as possible, but I know I said too much. As the time ticked by I was becoming more desperate, and you say things. They count on that. But then the door opened, someone new coming in, and quick as a lark I was up and out of my chair, out the door, running, running, desperate for open air. “Miss Stemple? Marnie?” He was running after me, the shorter, younger one with the tight blue shirt, sweat stains in his pits, crooked front teeth but good thick brown hair, not a bad face overall, but still. Effen government men. They’d had me in there for over three—THREE—hours, studying me, questioning me, thinking they were convincing me (“Service to your country … make a huge difference … fulfill your purpose. Don’t you want to fulfill your purpose, Miss Stemple?”) F you, I made a mistake, that short-necked guy from accounts payable with the Hitler-looking comb-over saw me, friggin saw me, and if he thinks this is serving his country by calling the feds and telling them he saw a flier, some woman right there from his own office, then F you all, and THREE HOURS, my heart was racing, cold clammy sweat was pouring down my face, my heart was going 500, my eyes were already scanning out the windows for where I could go, someplace tall where I could fly, but there was nothing, no place, not even a few trees on the medians, and still I ran full out. “Marnie!” I could hear the gym guy’s flat government feet pounding hard against the fake tile floor, but I was running faster than he was, faster than anyone ever can, because I can do that (run, run, flap), it’s my life, and the hour, you idiots, did you think I was lying about how it feels? Exaggerating? You think it’s funny? Something I can turn off? Burst out the doors, everyone looking, but I couldn’t help it, I was dying, I was crying and dying, then finally run, run, flap, flap again, and gawwwwd. Oh gawd. The air the freedom the lift the pleasure the release the relief the HEAVEN. But crying. Sobbing. So relieved and happy and anguished. Butterfly. My beautiful butterfly stroke. And all those people down below shielding their eyes with their flattened palms, staring up at me so amazed, some of them applauding. F you! Don’t you understand what you’ve done? Because now I have to leave again. Leave immediately. Can I even go home first? Pack a light pack? Get it slung over my back and get airborne again before the feds show up and surround me? What would they do? Bring a net? Shoot me? Tranq me? Still crying, snot running down my chin, but the air swishes it away. The air beautiful air. If I say it’s like a lover it sounds like I love this. Like I want this. I don’t. I want what everyone has. “How long have you had this power?” “It’s not a power.” “Of course it is, Miss Stemple.” “Then a gift,” said the other one, the older one with the tight tan shirt. “Call it a gift.” “It’s not a gift, it’s not a power, can I go now? Can you legally hold me? This is America. You can’t hold me.” (Checked my watch, even though I didn’t need a watch to tell me it was past an hour. Way past an hour. Feet tapping the floor. Jittery. Nerves thrumming. Come on, come on, I have to go. If someone had to pee now would you make them sit here and wet themselves? Can you do that to someone who’s not under arrest? Am I under arrest? This is physical. It’s real. I’ve gotta go—) Two minutes in the beautiful air. That’s all it ever takes. I could already feel my heart beating normally again, loving me again, all of the pasty clammy sweat dried off my skin. They were in their government cars. Had to be. They knew my address. They were already driving to my apartment, I knew it. All that furniture I bought over the past six months. Thinking I could stay. Thinking because the office was right across from the park, all those lovely dark tall trees, I could hide it better this time. Get into the trees and just flap straight up. No big deal. Just a quickie, then right back to work. But that flippin stalker with the Hitler haircut—did he follow me? On purpose? Or was it just his luck to see me step, step, leap, flap, straight from the ground to the boughs ten feet up? Did he rush back and call right then? Did he take pictures? The feds never showed me pictures, but they were awfully confident if it was just someone calling on a tip line. Had to be more. I’ve gotten sloppy. I’m only twenty-eight. Too young to be so lazy. Go where? Maybe back to Pinedale, Wyoming. No one ever saw me there. I was Marjorie Dunham there. Strictly cash, my ex-husband is still looking for me (no ex-husband, lie), let’s not use my social security number, he might find me. Marjorie wore corduroys and sweaters and knit hats and comfy boots. She had a cat, some stray that showed up one day and stayed. Marjorie had friends. Not many, but even one feels like a dream. Marjorie had plenty of trees, glorious trees, right there outside her little rented house in the woods and right outside the insurance office where she kept books. Marjorie was happy there. Until she wasn’t. Then how about Millie? Millie drove an old beater truck and lived in Clinton, Iowa and even dated a few times before realizing that would never work, someone noticing you leave every hour, even in the middle of the night? Ha ha, I’m a vampire. No, seriously, I just love the night air. Come back to bed… No, seriously, I have to leave… By now I could see my apartment building. Corner unit, bottom floor, because it’s no help to live up high on a top floor, I still always need those few steps and the leap before I can flap. No obviously government cars. What would they drive? Black sedans? White? Would all the cars look the same, four or five of them all in a row? I couldn’t see anything like that. I came down my usual way into the trees half a block away, then jogged toward my building, heart racing again as I scanned the streets looking for suspicious people and cars. It was a risk, I knew it. For what? A few favorite items of clothing? A wad of money hidden in my closet? No cat this time, no friends to say goodbye to, so why was I even bothering? But I was and I was at my door now and I quickly unlocked it and ducked inside. Then I stood there, back against my door. Looked around. What was my life? That couch, the laptop (scooped that up, not too heavy to weigh me down), no photos, no mementos, my favorite sleep shirt—stuff that in the pack, too—a comfortable pair of shoes, underwear, sweats, that’s enough, you have to go, Marnie, go— Bam bam bam! “Miss Stemple?” Bam bam bam. “Marnie? Please let me in. It’s just me. Ted. I’m alone. Please, let’s talk.” Ted. The one with the crooked teeth and the thick brown hair. Other places I’ve lived had back doors. Not this one. Windows? Yes, but not feasible. Small and hard to open. Dammit dammit dammit. Knock, knock, knock. Politely. “Please, Miss Stemple. I want to make you an offer.” I ran away from these guys once, I could run again. But not now. There was no way now. I was full up again on flying. Enough to last me at least another hour, maybe even a little bit longer. But you can’t trust a government man. Well known. But I was trapped. I looked out through the peephole. I only saw him. My heart was speeding. My skin felt clammy again. But it was only fear, not the compulsion, so I could deal with it. I took a deep breath and unlocked the door. He really was alone. And the pit stains on his tight blue shirt were even bigger, as if he had run all that way while I flew. He smelled a little worse than he did even in that cooped up tiny room. But not so bad I didn’t let him in. We stood there on the little patch of linoleum right inside my door before where the matted brown carpet began and we took the measure of each other. “I know you don’t want this—” he started. “I don’t.” “I know you don’t trust us.” “I don’t.” He held up his palms. “No weapons.” He patted his tight shirt. “No wire.” He patted down his pockets and lifted his pant hems and showed me he wasn’t wearing or carrying anything that I might object to. “It’s just me,” he said. “But please, I have to know. I have to understand. Just you and me. Will you tell me?” I took a step back, onto the safety of the dark brown carpet. “Tell you what?” “Why?” he said. “Why you really don’t want to do something with this wonderful gift of yours?” “Because if you had it…” “Right,” said Ted. “That’s what I’m thinking.” “That’s what everyone would think.” “Tell you the truth,” Ted said, “I’m about dying here. I could really use a glass of water, if you don’t mind. But then I’ve got all day. And all night, and tomorrow and next week.” “You think you’re just staying here until I talk?”