Eventually they came to his shelter, which looked like a storage shed. Inside there was a wooden pallet on the ground covered with a few animal skins, various repurposed containers filled with water, some two-by-four shelving holding dry goods. Most impressive was Liver’s stockpile of weapons. “Feel free to take your clothes off,” he said. “You won’t offend anyone.” He removed his hat, then his vest. The trunk of his body was a museum of scars. “If you want, we can wrap ourselves up in mosquito netting while we have sex. Avoid bites.”
Hazel pointed to his torso. “Did you have an invasive surgery?” It was hard to tell what injuries the scars might be from, or whether or not they were from the same occasion. It was hardly fair that Byron could insert a mind-recording device inside her without a mark. Her father’s appendectomy scar looked like an accidental chain-saw bisection, for example.
“I guess you could say that.” He took a jar of moonshine out from under the wooden pallet, poured some into an empty aluminum can, and extended it to Hazel. The liquid inside looked sheeny and a little prismatic, like tears mixed with gasoline.
“What else could you say?”
Liver shrugged. “Beware of motherfuckers.”
He seemed to sense her hesitation in escalating the intimacy. “Wanna wait till it gets dark?” he asked. She nodded and he held up the moonshine jar in agreement. “Nighttime is the right time.”
“You said you had a job?” Hazel mentioned. She didn’t mean it to sound as accusatory as it did; she just wondered. A little selfishly, she supposed. Whatever career Liver had wasn’t cramping his style. Maybe it was something she could get in on one day, if she ever did get away from Byron.
“I’m a gravesitter,” he said. “I visit graves for people when they go out of town, or when they start having sex again after being widowed and feel guilty. The landscapers at cemeteries arrange the gigs for me. I show up, go to the graves they tell me to, and sit for however long the people paid for, then they take a finder’s cut and give me the rest.”
“Do you talk to the graves?” Hazel went over to the pallet and lay down, choosing to breathe in through her mouth. The animal skin covering had a good memory for odor. Liver stayed seated on the end of the pallet, sipping his liquor.
“No. I could charge more and do stuff like that. Singing, reading poetry. People always want me to sing ‘Happy Birthday.’ It’s a visitation, not a dinner show—that’s what I have the landscapers say. If I start agreeing to extras, it will open a whole can of worms.”
Hazel thought about what she might say to bond with Liver. It had been such a long time since she’d tried to get emotionally closer to someone instead of farther away. She didn’t want to fake interest, which was her usual habit. Conversation with Byron had always been easy because he always wanted to talk about himself, and if she listened then it seemed like they were communicating.
Looking around the ceiling, Hazel noted a number of spider colonies. It had been a good while since she’d been around insects or nature in general.
“Did you mention a net?” she asked cheerfully. Liver reached under the bed and shook it out, then brought it down atop the two of them. “Thanks,” she smiled. “You know, if I were hiring you to gravesit someone for me, I think I’d like the fact that you don’t talk. I mean, if I believed that they could hear us. I’d worry you’d start talking and they’d be all, ‘Hey! Where is Hazel? Who is this speaking? May I ask who is speaking, please?’ And sure, you could explain the situation, but they might feel unsettled. If it’s nonverbal, and they’re just like, Someone’s here, then they can imagine it’s whoever they want it to be. Plus it’s kind of more spiritual without talking. Like you’re a monk or someone who’s taken a vow of silence.”
“Talk’s overrated,” he said. Which maybe was a hint, but he’d have to compromise if the night was going to turn out as planned.
“I need to chat with you more to feel comfortable.”
“I figured.” He extended his fuller jar toward her empty jar, proffering a refill, but Hazel had to decline. The earlier shot hadn’t set well. It felt like she’d swallowed a small, sharp-clawed lizard that was scratching around in her belly trying to find an exit.
“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?” she asked. Since Liver wasn’t one for small talk, Hazel supposed they could get straight to soul-searching. “I was married, I technically am still married? To a really bad man. So you’re not going to scare me. Here’s the thing: all of his crimes are done, like, remotely. Through technology and interfaces and scientists. He doesn’t leave his desk. But your hands! They’re dirty and calloused. And looking around your shed, I see you’ve killed a lot of animals then undressed them for meat and parts. Your lean frame holds a great amount of scrappy muscle. I’m guessing you’re somewhat versed in hand-to-hand combat.”
Suddenly it occurred to Hazel that Byron would hear and report anything Liver confessed. Poor Liver would exit his shack to have a pee and be greeted by a SWAT team.
“Actually, never mind,” Hazel corrected herself. “That’s the thing with me: don’t tell me anything you don’t want the whole world to know. Not because I personally can’t keep a secret. It’s more my brain. Long story.”
They sat in silence for a while, the light in the shed becoming darker, Liver occasionally making burps that smelled like butane.
Hazel thought about all the different reasons people have sex that don’t necessarily have anything to do with physical pleasure. There were reproduction, money, influence, apology, revenge. She wasn’t turned on, but she did want to sleep with Liver. For one, it would scandalize and upset Byron. For two, Liver was hugely different from Byron, and nothing seemed more appealing to Hazel than commingling with Byron’s opposite. For three, Hazel hoped she might absorb some of his self-reliance. If there was one person in the world who could make someone better at chopping things down with an ax just by having sex with him, this was the guy.
“I think I’m ready,” she said.
It wasn’t horrible, and that was an improvement from the last sex Hazel had experienced with Byron (“instead of telling me what you like, let me monitor your arousal levels via digital-pulse readout”).