Lucy Zhang
Before the suicide, Hunter tells me fungi are the key to terraforming other planets. They're the only things that have the potential to organically break down asteroid regolith. And then you've got oyster mushrooms taking in hydrocarbons and spitting out sugar. Of course, fungi live on dead things, decomposed nutrient goodness, so there have to be other organisms to spice up the biodiversity. You can even build structures from desiccated reishi mycelium—it won't stand up against a chainsaw, not that normal drywall would either, but definitely against a hammer. Hunter is convinced mushrooms are the answer to everything, although I'm more skeptical.
"Can you think of anything that tastes amazing, gets rid of dead stuff, and can provide shelter?" Hunter asks. "I don't think so."
"Let's talk about this later," I say. Hunter is like a mouse, afraid of everything, yet also explores the most inopportune of places. The witch down the block cuts off mouse tails as noodle replacements—a low carb, high protein alternative. The witch scares Hunter. I tell stories about how she slow cooks naughty children until the broth turns opaque, how she rolls their meaty parts—the belly and thighs—into logs and braises them in soy sauce. I say these things so Hunter learns not to cause trouble; society isn't nice to those who act up, and kids tend to do so all the time. Hunter will only leave the house with me, but I often have to run errands and can't bring along children, so Hunter stays indoors doing whatever kids find interesting these days while I calculate how long a bag of rice and carton of eggs will last us. Ovalbumin causes my throat to close up, but thankfully Hunter tolerates eggs without an issue; kids need protein to grow, I can get by without much. It's easier during the weekdays when school occupies Hunter and I return to the boss who hates my guts for tattling on him for harassing several female coworkers, but he can't insta-fire me because I'm a "diversity hire"—not that I want to keep working here, it's just risky to go weeks without health insurance while looking for a new job. The other women won't talk to me because they think I'm a whistleblower who trails chaos in my wake, which might be true though I wish it weren't. I stay quiet these days, tapping the keyboard whose printed letters have nearly faded, ignoring the glances or bustle of everyone leaving in groups for lunch, returning refreshed with lattes and cappuccinos. Silence is the best course of action—this, I know now.
"Psilocybin mushrooms can help with PTSD and loneliness," Hunter says. "Isn't that perfect for astronauts gazing into an empty universe, pinpointing the speck that is the earth?"
"Can you not bother me right now?" I've been assigned a week-long assignment with a deadline of tomorrow. Hunter disappears from my side. I can hear the clanking of bowls and mugs. I don't remember how long has passed after I look up and see a microwaved bowl of rice topped with pickled radishes and canned sardines on the table next to me, no longer warm.
Hunter discovers the witch doesn't eat mouse tails. She uses the glue box traps which Hunter discovers while we are walking by to visit the downtown market for new shoes. Hunter has begun to sprout and feet are the first to grow. After the discovery, Hunter ventures outside more often, although he's still wary of the witch. I return to an empty house most days and set my backpack on the ground to sip another cup of tea before pulling out all the papers I need to review. Hunter normally returns before I'm asleep, I think.
"I've been looking for mushrooms," Hunter says.
"They could be poisonous, I don't think you should be doing that. Don't you have to finish school work?"
"I'm smart enough to identify poisonous mushrooms from harmless ones."
I realize I should probably review Hunter's homework. At that age, I misspelled half the vocabulary words we were forced to memorize thanks to no one catching my mistakes in my notebook. It didn't matter in the end though. Grade school is so anal; everyone misspells words as an adult. Hunter places an armful of mushrooms in a bucket. My stomach growls. I pry open the fridge, greeting the face and bill of a roast duck head I'd begged for from a restaurant about to throw out the carcass even though chunks of meat still clung to the bones. I don't have the patience to simmer soup out of a duck face. I shut the fridge. Sleep sounds good. As my bedroom door swings closed, I hear Hunter's shuffling feet behind me.
Sometimes Hunter returns bruised, although I can't remember if it was actually dirt. Hunter says the aliens did it because they're afraid we'll destroy their planets and wipe out their populations, so they need to stop all mushroom innovation.
"Why can't you hang out with friends instead of doing all this fungi hunting?" I ask.
I drop Hunter off at a park where a lot of similar-aged kids play. The park has a kiddy rock climbing wall, three different types of swings and a huge playground set, as well as benches and tables around the corner where I sit and massage my temples before crushing the pen in my fist and trying not to rip the paper with the ballpoint. I grind my teeth. My boss laughed at me for eating rice mixed with leftover soybean pulp, another donation from restaurants after they'd cooked their fresh soy milk. He asked why my food was as white as his skin before spilling coffee over the edge of my desk, so now I need to redo everything outdoors on this bumpy wood table crawling with ants.
When I'm done, Hunter is waiting on the curb. It's dark outside, but not so dark I can't make out the outline of the monkey bars and Hunter's body.
"How'd you get all these bruises?" I ask.
"What bruises?" Hunter spins around as though trying to find them on himself. I rub my eyes. I tend to see things when I'm tired.
"How are your friends?"
"You mean my peers."
"Sure, whatever you call them these days."
"How is work?"
"Well, I've been doing it all day and night. I suppose it just is. Why do you have to choose work, of all things, to talk about?"
"Do you think we can start over on another planet? Or do we still have to run maintenance on our lives over here, take care of global warming and stuff, update our mail forwarding address?" Hunter asks.
"We can't even survive on another planet," I say. "That'll never happen."
Hunter looks down, toes pointed inward, fingers laced. Hunter murmurs something I can't hear. Or maybe I can hear but I'm not paying enough attention to be sure. I lay my head on the table and close my eyes, faintly remembering some shuffling and clinking before I fall asleep. I wake up the next day, too late for my morning ritual of barley tea which calms my nerves enough so I don't lash out in front of my coworkers. I nearly don't notice Hunter sitting against the wall, knees bent to chest, chest hugging thighs, back curling like a roly-poly, head resting on a makeshift pillow from Hunter's kneecaps.
"Shouldn't you be in school?"
Hunter blinks slowly. Normally Hunter's replies come snappy. "School?" Hunter asks.
I find out Hunter hasn't been going to school for months. When I ask why, Hunter shrugs, tilts a mug full of water on its edge until it nearly spills, plucks a mushroom from the bucket, strokes it like it's divulging its medicinal properties or growth requirements, sorts the mushrooms into piles. I try to pull Hunter's arm away and make eye contact. "Why? Don't you want to play with your friends?"
"They think mushrooms are stupid. They dumped my last batch down the sewer."
"That's just kids being kids. Don't bring your mushrooms to school. Do what the other kids are doing for fun." To be honest, I've thought of dumping Hunter's mushrooms into the trash can too. The only reason I haven't is because when I'm not working, I'm passed out and Hunter takes care of knotting all the plastic grocery-trash bags and putting the trash out by the sidewalk curb. "Are they even still alive after you've plucked them?" I wonder. I don't like the thought of dead things in the house, but the mushrooms have been around so long I can't smell any decomposition, or maybe my sensitivity has deteriorated.
"Ok," Hunter says. "Ok" is the last thing Hunter says to me. I quit my job shortly after, leaving my hair tangled, keeping the curtains closed, eating congee for breakfast, lunch and dinner, letting my lips crack and fingernails grow brittle. When I build enough courage to spend more money on myself, I buy fresh shiitake mushrooms from the grocery store—the ones that smell like meat after you sautéed them long enough with onions and garlic. It's strange not having anything to do, not having to worry about waves of work, and without a dependent, I no longer care much for health insurance. I throw away Hunter's mushrooms, toss them right over the fence into the woods. As I do so, the witch walks by and spits on my lawn.