This story won the Antietam Review fiction prize in 1998. There are certain stories one revises and revises forever and this is one of them. Here are the first few pages.
The Book of Hands
As Natalie jogged her usual route, she thought about The Book of Hands. Just yesterday she came across it again. Twice she'd spotted it in different places, misshelved. Her fellow librarians looked at it from time to time, passing it back and forth, flipping the pages, laughing about what it meant if they had tapered or curved fingernails, what the husband's Mount of Venus had to do with temperament or sexual drive.
Natalie had not looked at the book; she figured it would probably say that the shape of Matthew's hands meant he was good with them, that he knew how to put things together, how to take them apart, that he was loyal and showed perseverance on a daily basis.
After the third mile she slowed and took in her surroundings. She could name the buildings with her eyes closed. Laundromat, deli, Mexican restaurant. In the four months she had been living with Matthew she had come to feel at home in his neighborhood. She was friendly with the young couple who ran the health food store, the Korean couple who owned the market on the corner. Knowing these people gave her a sense of belonging--these people and--of course--Matthew.
She had met Matthew in Washington on a library exchange program. Her boss had sent her to learn the CD-rom cataloging system. On her third day, when she was filling in for a librarian at the circulation desk, Matthew came in, looking for a book on carpentry. He stood before her, his veiny workman's hands hanging by his sides like boxing gloves. The fingers were square and thick; the nails clean. Two days later those same hands picked her up and laid her between the slabs of plywood in his house. They glided over her legs and claimed favorite spots--here, here, here. He liked the soft valley below her hip bone the best.
At the airport he said, "Stay here with me."
Natalie's mother turned pale when she heard the news. "You don't know this man," she said, hands on her hips. "You don't know how he is when things get bad."
"I'm going." Natalie continued to pack. "I've been waiting twenty-four years to leave." Her mother didn't understand the power of love, the sweep of it, the way it picked you up and took you to a place you couldn't imagine.
Natalie pulled the key out of the pocket inside her running shorts and opened the door to Matthew's house, a two-story townhouse he'd inherited from an aunt. The rooms were filled with items from yard sales and flea markets: an old fan, two air conditioners, a broken nail gun he said he would fix. One day he'd need the things. Natalie loved his confidence, his self-reliance. Her move to Washington was a step in that direction; some friends thought the move impulsive, but Natalie knew it was right. She hadn't remembered anything feeling so right in her whole life.
Inside, the classical music hovered above steadily. The library gave a similar comfort--rows and rows of books, quiet voices. Sometimes when she walked down the aisles, she reached out and brushed the book spines as if they were old friends.
She went into the kitchen to get water out of the refrigerator. Matthew was leaned against the doorway, holding her bottle.
"Oh!" she said, bringing her hand to her chest. "You scared me."
"I always scare you," he said, smiling.
Her heart had picked up.
"You're getting faster." He handed her the water. "You must be running eight minute miles." His body was square and muscular. Whenever they curled up on the couch, watching a movie or reading, her fingers absently traced the veins in his arms.
As she brought the bottle to her lips, she stopped. He was eying her body.
"What?" she said.
"Those legs," he said. "Little girl legs."
It was true, but she didn't like being called "little girl" anything. She'd been a little girl too long.
She opened the refrigerator door. On the top shelf was leftover rabbit stew. Matthew had shot the rabbit and she had cooked it with rice and baby carrots. At home Natalie's mother had done the cooking. Now that Natalie had started her own life, she, for the first time, could see the appeal of the kitchen. Cooking calmed her, perhaps that was also true for her mother. Natalie could work with her head down so long, chopping, measuring, mixing ingredients, that she'd look up to find that clouds had broken into rain.
"So what were you thinking about for dinner?"
Matthew put his hands in his pockets and brought out his Swiss army knife. "Something bland."
"Oh right." She remembered he was strict when he hunted--no spices the night before, nothing with a sharp odor. Since the day they met he'd talked about bowhunting. "You just have to experience it," he said. They had planned to go together tomorrow morning.
"What time do we leave?"
As he walked toward her, he opened the scissor to his knife. "About four."
He had mentioned how "intense" he felt up in the treestand.
The small blade was next to her thigh and before she could move, he snipped. "Loose thread." He held it up. Then he pulled her close to him and moved his hands up and over her hips. She could feel his breath in her ear. "I love this body," he said.
When Matthew nudged her awake it was pitch black. Stumbling, she put on long underwear, dark pants, two sweaters, and hiking boots.
In his pick-up truck he opened up a tiny bottle of doe urine, dabbed some on his neck, and told her to do the same. "Covers the human smell," he said. Natalie was pleased to be part of this ritual.
They walked a half mile to Matthew's treestand, a small platform about twelve feet up among the branches. That high she could smell the tree's bark and was on eye level with the birds.
Matthew placed the bow in her hands. "Try it," he said.
It was awkward and heavy. She tried pulling back the bowstring but the arrow kept slipping. "How do you--"
"Shh." He was at the edge of the treestand, looking down.
She thought she heard leaves rustling. "What is it?"
"Shut up!" he whispered. "A buck."
Natalie held out the bow for him.
"No," he said, shaking his head in a serious, insistent way. "You do it." Before she could protest, he moved behind her, positioning her. His hands on top of hers pulled back the bowstring.
"I don't know how to--"
"Quiet," he whispered. "See it?" His grip tightened; she couldn't wriggle her hand out if she tried.
Between tree branches she saw the buck. He stood perfectly still, head craned forward, mouth chewing hesitantly. Natalie wondered if he sensed something, if, like humans, he had a gut instinct.
"O.K.," Matthew said. "Now!"
Natalie's eyes narrowed. What happened was beyond her control--the arrow was released--by her?--she didn't feel anything--she didn't do anything. One second the buck was eating, the next he lay on his side, bleeding.
"Oh my God," she said.
Matthew took the bow. "Perfect." He looked down at the buck. He smiled. "That was perfect."
"But I didn't--"
"You were great." He hugged her, pressing his face against hers, but his cheeks were prickly and scratched against hers like sandpaper.
