WHO WE ARE TWO DOLLAR RADIO is a family-run outfit dedicated to reaffirming the cultural and artistic spirit of the publishing industry. We aim to do this by presenting bold works of literary merit, each book, individually and collectively, providing a sonic progression that we believe to be too loud to ignore.
Proudly based in Columbus OHIO
Love the PLANET? So do we.
Printed on Rolland Enviro, which contains 100% postconsumer fiber, is ECOLOGO, Processed Chlorine Free, Ancient Forest Friendly and FSC® certified and is manufactured using renewable biogas energy.
Printed in Canada
All Rights Reserved COPYRIGHT→ © 2018 BY ELEANOR KRISEMAN ISBN→ 978-1-937512-71-2 Library of Congress Control Number available upon request.
SOME RECOMMENDED LOCATIONS FOR READING THE BLURRY YEARS: Curled up in the window seat of a cross-country flight; at a quiet bar on a weekday afternoon; on the couch in an apartment you’re housesitting after you’ve brought in the mail and watered the plants; in the passenger seat of a sandy car with your feet on the dashboard while someone you love enough to be quiet with is driving you home; pretty much anywhere because books are portable and the perfect technology!
ANYTHING ELSE? Unfortunately, yes. Do not copy this book—with the exception of quotes used in critical essays and reviews—without the written permission of the publisher. WE MUST ALSO POINT OUT THAT THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s lively imagination. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The stain of place hangs on not as a birthright but as a sort of artifice, a bit of cosmetic.
—from Sleepless Nights by Elizabeth Hardwick
Table of Contents
01
We could hear them in the walls before we saw them. My mom said she thought it might be mice. We were eating dinner in bed. We would have eaten dinner in the kitchen but the bedroom was sort of the kitchen too, and anyway we didn’t have a dinner table. “Mice,” my mom said. “Shit.”
I spilled my little cup of spaghetti on the bed. I quickly piled the noodles back into the cup but it was too late. The oil from the margarine left a smear on the sheets. “I just did laundry,” my mom said, but she only sounded distracted, not angry.
“What are we gonna do?” I asked her. She shrugged her shoulders. Her mouth was full of pasta. She swallowed. I watched her swallow, watched it go down her throat. I couldn’t stop watching her. “I don’t know,” she said. “Ask ’em to leave?” I didn’t want to finish my pasta because it had sheet crumbs and little specks on it from when I spilled. My mom said to finish it or I’d have it for breakfast so I just took it to the sink and rinsed it off instead. It was cold but it wasn’t dirty anymore.
The chirping started to keep us up at night. At first I was scared, but then I didn’t care because it made me feel cozy. Like we had all the luck, getting to be there together under the blankets, warm and soft while they were stuck scrambling inside the walls. I traced the letters mice on my mom’s back, hoping she’d wake up, but she didn’t. So I just listened. “They’re in there; we’re out here. We are warm and sleepy,” I whispered to nobody. I wanted her to wake up but I didn’t because I knew she was working the opening shift and she’d be mad.
The noise started to wake both of us up. We stirred when they got real