The Women

By Sommer Schafer

THE WOMEN, a short story collection by Sommer Schafer, tests women in everyday situations in which the challenge requires a unique, and sometimes fantastical, approach. In 'Mary and the Machine,' the main character desperately usurps a comfort meant exclusively for her newborn. In 'My Little Pet,' the main character finds an unusual and mysterious creature on her doorstep one morning who initially seems to offer her the love she has always desired. In 'The Women,' a women-only book club takes a bloody turn, and in 'The Trappings,' a new mother finds herself and her toddler lost in a wild Alaskan forest until stumbling across a cabin hiding in the woods.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Unsolicited Press
• Release date: Nov 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223720645

Book preview

My Little Pet

I opened the door that Sunday morning to get the paper, and there it was, perched on the marble bench I’ve placed in the tangle of jasmine to the left of the door. It swiveled on its hidden haunches, tucked into a hairy round body, and looked at me with big brown eyes, long lashes stretching up to the sky. Its tiny nose twitched adorably, as if it were making sure I would be kind. Its long whiskers trembled. Well, my oh my, I thought. I extended my arm cautiously, wondering, and it climbed onto my hand, its nails sharp, and up my arm where I nestled it against my chest and it buried its little nose into my armpit. My oh my, I thought. Aren’t you cute.

So I brought it inside, not knowing what it was, never having seen a creature like it before, and went to the couch and carefully reclined against the leather back, warm from the sun coming through the sliding glass door leading to the backyard, my body still a bit stiff not wanting to disrupt or startle it. It burrowed further into my armpit, a beautiful ball of hair and heat, breath and heartbeat. I cupped its little body with my palm and felt its stomach bulging out on either side of its backbone, which made me think that even though I could feel the backbone like a string of tiny jewels, its tummy was plump and therefore it wasn’t starving. That wherever it came from, it had been treated well. But as I sat holding it, snuggling it against my chest in the warm sun, as if it were my little baby, I wondered whatever to do with it? It was clear to me that I wasn’t dealing with a cat here, or a small dog. Neither was it a large hamster, nor a tame squirrel, nor an unusually big-eyed gopher. It was all of the above wrapped into one strange, cute creature that seemed to only want my love and comfort, both of which I was eager and utterly delighted to give. I had been waffling for a long time about whether to adopt an animal from the shelter or not (for one could never be entirely sure what one would get, and since I was at work all day and lived alone, could I provide the home it would need?) and now the answer seemed to have been made for me!

I cautiously carried it to the kitchen where with one arm I put out a bowl of half-n-half warmed in the micro, and slowly, gently lowered my arm so it could walk down to the kitchen floor with ease. Now that it was down, peacefully lapping the milk with a little black tongue, I pulled a can of tuna from the pantry, opened it and forked it onto a plate that I placed next to the half-n-half. I smiled to see it eat the chunks of tuna gracefully, pulling small bites of it into its mouth as if it had etiquette. It also gave me time to see it more fully. A chubby, brown, hairy body. Not long-haired or short-haired, but somewhere in between, though the hair on its rump was longer and skimmed the floor. A short, fluffy tail standing erect. Tiny, domed, see-through ears crossed by even tinier veins. A natural hunching of its back, like a hedgehog. Hairless, slender, three-toed feet. Long, curving nails. The tiniest, sharpest teeth I had ever seen. The biggest owl-like eyes fringed by astonishing long lashes. A flat pink nose. While it was eating, I ran upstairs to rummage through the linen closet, for even though I am alone, I have collected great masses of blankets, sheets, quilts, and throws. I found the softest throw I could find, a faux sheepskin I had bought from Costco last Christmas, light green, a personal favorite, doubled it up and laid it on the foot of my bed. Back downstairs, I sat cross-legged on the laminate floor and watched until it had finished everything. When it was done, I carried it upstairs within the crux of my arms and laid it on the bed I had made for it where it immediately burrowed down, digging its nose into the faux sheepskin, closed its eyes and went to sleep, emitting a steady low rumble from its chest that sounded like a more solemn and contented cat’s purr.

The next morning I awoke to find it under the sheets, nestled between my chest and arm. When I moved and looked down at it, a hot, furry body of beauty, it opened its big eyes and rumbled and opened its mouth into the first smile I’ve ever seen on an animal. The pink, hairless corners of its mouth extended and rounded upward, just like a human’s. It was so tender and utterly surprising that I just had to smile back, and we stared at each other, smiling and cuddling until I had to go to work.

This went on for days, a week; tuna and warmed milk, its strange human-like smile, its low purr-like rumbling, its liking to take long naps in the sun on the wide, puffy arm of the black leather couch. I wondered where it would poop and pee, and at first opened the patio door for it, thinking it would want to relieve itself in my small fenced-in backyard. But it stood on the edge of the patio door, leaning tentatively into the outdoors with its nose twitching, and stayed there until I said, Not for you, huh? and smiled down at it and slid the door closed. I bought a litter box for it and placed it in the downstairs bathroom, but soon discovered it preferred to use the toilet. It would nudge the lid with its head, with just enough force so that the lid wouldn’t bang against the back of the toilet, and then perch over the bowl. Afterwards, it would flush the toilet, spend several minutes licking itself, and emerge pleasantly from the bathroom. Well aren’t you something! I gushed after the first time, completely surprised, utterly taken aback. It gave me its smile and leaned over and I let it crawl up my arm and burrow into my chest, as it liked to do. Where did you come from? I whispered in its tiny ear, and it seemed to answer me with the start of its strange purr.

I was at first hesitant to leave it when I went to work. Would it be there when I got back? Would it somehow find its way out? The other secretaries at the firm could sense something that first day, wanted to know if I was feeling ok. So I said no, I might be a little ill, and left early. I rushed home and threw open the door, and there it was, curled up on the arm of the couch, fully ensconced in sunshine. It raised its head and smiled and then yawned, arched its little back, and slowly came to me. I foolishly burst into tears. I gathered it in my palms and brought it to my face to kiss it, three, four times. I was afraid you would have found some way to leave! I gushed, my nose beginning to run, and just for a moment, a split-second, really, I thought, this, this drastic emotion, is why I’m alone. The following days when I returned to work, the others commented on how well I looked. They wondered if I had done something new with my hair? A new facial lotion? And I thought, no, I am in love.

It and I settled into a comfortable routine, and I soon started calling it, simply, Pet. Mornings, I found it nestled between my arm and chest. It kept me so warm and cozy that I regretted having to leave the bed, to take my shower and eat my breakfast and drive to work. But it followed me; showered when I showered, making me laugh when it shook itself off afterwards, causing its hair to stick out like soft porcupine quills; ate when I ate. At night when we sat on the couch watching TV, its body snug next to my thigh or on my lap so I could stroke it, sometimes I’d share my tea or wine or the bowl of chips or ice cream I occasionally allowed myself. When it wanted to go to bed, it would gently tug at the hem of my skirt or pants, just in the manner of a little kid, or simply place its hairless paw on my arm and look at me with its huge eyes, pupils large and black. I would smile at it tenderly, and it would smile back, and I would extend my arm and it would climb up, one paw over the other, and nuzzle gently into my chest and let me carry it up the stairs to bed. And I would stare at its little body, curled up, its chest rising and falling with each breath, its flat little pink nose tucked into its paws, and I’d feel so lucky that out of all the doorsteps it could have chosen, it had chosen mine.

One morning I awoke, as usual, with it next to me beneath the sheets, and, as usual, it was already awake staring at me with its large eyes and smiling its human-like smile, the edges of its mouth rounded and turned up in a manner that I admit now had always slightly unsettled me. I smiled down at it and caressed its back as I had gotten in the habit of doing most mornings, feeling its soft, squishy stomach under my fingertips and its backbone under my palm. As I caressed it, it did something it had never done before. Still smiling at me, it began to move its jaw up and down so that its teeth clicked against each other. Click, click, click they went, and it sounded like the scurrying of a thousand mice. Its jaw was moving so quickly that it looked more like a tremble, and yet its teeth came together so succinctly and precisely that I realized its jaw could simply move that fast, that precisely, up and down in an impressive blur. I smiled at it, thinking its strange behavior would soon stop, that didn’t each of us have unusual ticks and mannerisms? Certainly I had my share. Yet click, click, click went its teeth, and up and down went its jaw in a blur of hair and pink, and still it smiled. And when the click, click, click seemed to grow deafening and its jaw seemed to want to come unhinged, and yet it still persisted in its strange, wide smile and its unwavering wide-eyed gaze, I asked playfully, Well, whatever is that for, you sweet thing? it simply sank its teeth into the upturned, pale fleshy side of my forearm. During the half second it took me to understand, I felt its jaw and teeth vibrating into my arm, going deeper, and then I shouted, once, and tried to shake it off, reflexively, with more violence than I thought I was capable of. But it hung on, so I shook it again and yelled off!! feeling the pain intensely then. It wasn’t my shaking that did it, I understand now. Though I was shaking it and slamming it against the bed, desperate to get it off, already noticing the slow streaming of blood across my arm, it only let go when it was good and ready. It walked to its faux sheepskin bed, turned once, twice, and sat and watched me as I silently cradled my arm. I watched my blood flow into the cup of my cradling hand and then onto the comforter, which was the pale lavender one I had splurged on and bought on sale from Anthropologie, and which I eventually would have to throw away. And then I looked at it. It had puffed itself into a cozy ball of hair on its bed, and I could hear the soft rumbling of its low purr. It wasn’t smiling, but it seemed to look at me with tenderness, even as the blood crossed my arm and dripped onto the bed.

In the bathroom I looked into the mirror. My face was an unhealthy white except for the pale blue halfmoons under my eyes, which are always there because of my allergies. My hair hung limp over my ears. My pajamas were spotted in blood. The skin of my forearm was growing stiff from dried blood, and for a moment I was sure it had punctured a major artery, that I would bleed out slowly, that this would be the way I’d go and not by cancer or heart disease or dementia or stroke or any other sickness I was sure would get me first, at a young age. So I turned on the shower and let the hot water course over my body. I thoroughly washed my hair and soaped off my body with a bar of lemon soap and an organic washcloth I had bought from the discount rack at Pottery Barn, moving gently over my sore arm. Once out, I toweled off and examined the bite. It had left a perfect imprint of its teeth in my arm. I counted twenty-five little holes, up and down, in two tiny half domes, upper jaw and lower.

When I walked back into the bedroom, my white robe tied tightly around my body as if for some protection, it was there on the bed, not sitting waiting for me, but curled up and asleep. As I slowly walked across the carpet, noticing for the first time the softness against the bottom of my feet, it raised its head and smiled at me sleepily. I sat next to it, pulling the robe over my legs, and felt the edge of the bed lower under my weight. The mid-morning light was filling my bedroom. It and I were bathed in creamy light bouncing against the thick white carpet and the peachy walls and my white terry robe and the crisp white sheets; enlightening the whiteness of the light lavender duvet cover from Anthropologie, my blood stains already browned and dull. I carefully lifted my hand and made toward its tiny head, anticipating the feel of its little skull and hair and heat within the center of my palm. Would it bite again? I forgive you, I said as I stroked its head and followed the knobby string of its backbone, down and over again. It closed its eyes and rumbled. I ending my loving, my forgiveness, by tapping its little pink nose affectionately with the tip of my finger. These things happen, I thought. None of us is perfect.

And so began the rest of our life together, Pet and I. In the shower, sitting in the evening watching a movie, eating dinner (for I had moved its dish to the table so it could join me), vacuuming or dusting or reading, occasionally napping, it would simply become possessed for a few seconds and attack me. I began to wear only long sleeves to work and whenever I left the house, even for the Wednesday night yoga class I took at the community center, which I eventually stopped going to, preferring instead to stay with Pet and watch TV together on the couch. When it grew hot outside, I began to wonder if people would think I was odd, dressing that way, though I thought of my mother who had once suggested I keep my arms covered because I was so hairy, and so in this matter, though it was in no way connected, I consoled myself by, as usual, agreeing with her. My arm was covered with old scars and fresh bites; a horrifying collage of yellow bruises and stitch-like imprints in half-domes across and around my arm up to the fleshy, tendon where arm met shoulder and where Pet especially liked to bite and hang on. Its teeth could go in deeply there, right around that tendon and into my muscles and nerves. Yelling did no good, and pulling it only made it worse. I eventually found that if I squeezed its little body as hard as I could, as if I meant to pop it and explode its guts across the room, which I did at those times, I could make it emit a shrill squeal and in so doing force it to release its vice-like grip.

This made it mad, though. In fact, the only times I saw it mad were when I squeezed it like I did to get it off, to kill it, to save myself, to stop the terrible, terrible pain. But it didn’t attack me, then. It roused itself into a silent flurry of hair and teeth and claw; it moved so quickly I couldn’t see it, only the blur of its brown body that seemed to levitate into the room and take off, tearing around and around the room, throwing the pictures off the wall, leaving behind long, deep scratch marks in the paint and drywall, simultaneously relieving itself so that pee and feces flew everywhere, an open centrifuge. Every once in a while, in the blur and chaos, I’d detect its see-through little ears, pale and veined; its stubby tail. It hummed like a miniature motor. It tore open the cushions of the couch, throwing stuffing into the air and strips of black leather. It assaulted the furniture, shattering the glass frogs I had collected in a display case behind the couch; threw framed photos into the air so they’d drop to the floor and crack (the sickening, deep sound of wood cracking; the shriller, slenderer sound of glass); the pottery I had made in classes at the community center, scattered across the laminate floor in pieces and shards, one of which pierced my bare foot, drawing blood, a day later, for I had grown tired of cleaning up after it all the time. I left its mess for days until I mustered some will to clean, though a part of me wanted to see that mess, to leave it, so that I could see the evidence of its strong will,