Her ability to compartmentalize bewildered Greta, who was unable to put Big Swiss’s box in a box. In fact, Greta thought about Big Swiss’s box every four minutes and was beginning to feel like a dude. Except she also felt more ladylike—or at any rate, Big Swiss treated her like a lady. Big Swiss never showed up empty-handed. She regularly brought wine, flowers, candy, and other gifts. So far, she’d given Greta a pair of cashmere knee socks, real gold earrings, and several robust houseplants. Greta had never felt so wooed.
Now Big Swiss’s car pulled into the driveway. She shouted for Greta in the yard. As usual, Greta wanted to go straight to bed, but Big Swiss insisted on taking the dogs for a walk across the field and into the woods. She brought supplies: two pair of snowshoes, two bottles of hard cider, two manuals for identifying trees and birds, and one knife. The knife, called a karambit, had been given to her by Luke, ostensibly for protection. The blade was sharp but small and had a crescent curve resembling a claw. Greta could only imagine using it for suicide, but, according to Luke, the karambit had been an agricultural tool before it became weaponized, and had been popular among Indonesian women. The women would tie the knife in their hair and use it to rake roots—or rapists, if necessary. Big Swiss seemed entirely comfortable with it, however, and even demonstrated the various striking motions—slashing, hooking, hammering—before using it to gently scrape bark off a tree.
“Smells like cream soda,” Big Swiss said, holding the bark to her nose.
“Fascinating,” Greta said drily.
Sabine owned some of these woods, but not all of them, and with everything covered in snow, Greta had no idea where her property ended. Clearly, the deer stands belonged to someone else, along with the hunting shack littered with nips and empties, and the abandoned cabin full of charred furniture and weird Christian books.
“Let’s free some of these trees,” Big Swiss said. “See how the saplings are leaning over? Their limbs are trapped in the snow.”
Like an evangelist healing the crippled, Big Swiss went from tree to tree, pulling at limbs, standing back to watch them catapult upward. The trees made a whooshing sound as if sighing with relief, and their bark seemed to weep in gratitude. Big Swiss looked exalted. She began throwing herself at each tree as if on a holy mission.
“Isn’t this satisfying?” Big Swiss asked breathlessly. “Don’t you feel uplifted?”
Greta looked around. There were still dozens of prostrated saplings, and she suspected they wouldn’t be leaving until every single one had been liberated. But Greta was only interested in liberating Big Swiss of her clothing and ordering her to spread out on the bed.
“Can we get out of here now? We’re wasting time.”
“We have to earn it,” Big Swiss said. “Besides, you know I like to get really, really cold.”
“Your brain reminds me of Siberia,” Greta said. “Which is strange because your down-there is like South America.”
“South America is a continent,” Big Swiss said. “With fourteen countries. The climate is extremely varied.”
“Chile.”
“Things are really fucked-up in Chile right now,” Big Swiss said. “And it snows there. You should try living in the world or, I don’t know, reading a newspaper.”
“Ecuador,” Greta said. “And pardon me, but you couldn’t pick David Bowie out of a lineup.”
“You couldn’t find Ecuador on a map if your life depended on it,” Big Swiss said. “At least I know where the hell I am and what’s happening. Which way is north?”
Greta pointed toward the house.
Big Swiss shook her head and pointed at a random tree. “What’s this?”
“West?”
“It’s a woodpecker hole,” Big Swiss said. “Look, you need to go into the woods with someone who knows things. But the person who knows things also needs you, the person who knows nothing. We need each other.”
Why was she obsessed with this person? She was humorless. It was like having an affair with Kierkegaard or B. F. Skinner. The only comedy Big Swiss approved of was anticomedy. Andy Kaufman eating ice cream, et cetera. Greta chugged the rest of her cider and considered sticking her head in the freezing creek. Instead, she dipped her bare hand in the water and brought it to her mouth.
“Don’t drink from there,” Big Swiss snapped. “Eat snow instead.”
“I’m not eating snow! Are you insane?”
Big Swiss pointed at a tall, slim tree with beautiful blond leaves clinging to its branches. The leaves, long dead, had never fallen. Greta approached the tree and shook it vigorously. The leaves didn’t budge.
“Why do you hate nature so much?” Big Swiss asked.
“Everything seems so overdetermined,” Greta said.
Big Swiss consulted her tree manual. “That’s a beech tree you’re assaulting.”
Greta missed the beach. She missed seeing sand fly as Pi?on attempted to dig his way to China. Digging had always been one of his favorite activities. Not anymore. Now he was all caught up in his own torrid homosexual affair. All he seemed to want was to hump Silas’s legs, ass, and face. He’d been chasing Silas for thirty minutes, but the snow was too deep. Silas leapt through it like a wolf; Pi?on, exasperated, resorted to humiliating bunny hops.
“Poor Pi?on,” Greta said. “He belongs near the sea.”
“He’s a dog,” Big Swiss said. “He’s wearing a puffer vest. How much did you spend on that?”
“Do you even like dogs?”
“My first dog was named Ruderboot. He was nine when he disappeared in the middle of winter. We got a lot of snow that year and I couldn’t find him anywhere. In spring, I was on the school bus and there was Ruderboot on the side of the road, thawing out, his legs sticking straight in the air. I hadn’t seen him in five months. All the kids were pointing at him, but I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t make a sound for two weeks.”
Greta melted. She reached for Big Swiss’s hand and held it.
“Sorry you had to go through that,” Greta said. “How awful.”
“Before we buried him, I asked our neighbor, Lars the butcher, to cut off his head,” Big Swiss went on. “I wanted to hang his skull on my bedroom wall. I still have it, all these years later.”
Greta stiffened. She was beginning to see a pattern. If she tried to comfort Big Swiss during a rare display of vulnerability, Big Swiss turned to stone.
“What kind of name is Ruderboot?”
“It’s German,” Big Swiss said. “For ‘Rowboat.’？”
Row, row, row your boat, gently back to the house. Pi?on’s sweet little feet were frozen, so Greta carried him on her shoulders, even though she could feel Big Swiss judging her. Once inside, she placed Pi?on on his beloved sheepskin in the antechamber, loaded the stove, and waited in bed.
* * *
WITH MEN, Greta had always thought of her vagina as a blind driveway. The men drove in and out, but it was largely hidden from Greta, and there was no convex mirror that allowed her to see the entrance, the strange comings and goings. But now that she was behind the wheel, so to speak, and Big Swiss’s driveway was so clearly marked, Greta could see every exquisite detail. In fact, she’d become addicted to watching herself go in and out, and resented having been deprived of this view for so long. Of course, the view was overly familiar from porn, but it was altogether different when the POV was your very own.