A Manual for How to Love Us: Stories

by Erin Slaughter

Genres: Literary Fiction; Fantasy Anthologies & Collections; Anthologies; Women's Fiction; Horror

Synopsis

A debut, interlinked collection of stories exploring the primal nature of women’s grief—offering insight into the profound experience of loss and the absurd ways in which we seek control in an unruly world.

Seamlessly shifting between the speculative and the blindingly real, balancing the bizarre with the subtle brutality of the mundane, A Manual for How to Love Us is a tender portrait of women trying their best to survive, love, and find genuine meaning in the aftermath of loss.

In these unconventional and unpredictably connected stories, Erin Slaughter shatters the stereotype of the soft-spoken, sorrowful woman in distress, queering the domestic and honoring the feral in all of us. In each story, grieving women embrace their wildest impulses as they attempt to master their lives: one woman becomes a “gazer” at a fraternity house, another slowly moves into her otherworldly stained-glass art, a couple speaks only in their basement’s black box, and a thruple must decide what to do when one partner disappears.

The women in Erin Slaughter’s stories suffer messy breaks, whisper secrets to the ghosts tangled in the knots of their hair, eat raw meat to commune with their inner wolves, and build deadly MLM schemes along the Gulf Coast.

Set across oft-overlooked towns in the American South, A Manual for How to Love Us spotlights women who are living on the brink and clinging to its precipitous edge. Lyrical and surprisingly humorous, A Manual for How to Love Us is an exciting debut that reveals the sticky complications of living in a body, in all its grotesquerie and glory.

 

Read more

Release date: March 14, 2023

Publisher: Harper Perennial

Print pages: 300

Sample

Anywhere

Days or weeks ago. Zell arrived at my apartment door, her laughter hollow, her hair too short. She’d lost weight since I saw her last, her jaw all angles and edges. She walked right in like it hadn’t been five years since we’d last spoken, and there was a warmth in being with her that made it feel like it couldn’t have been—like we’d been shadows moving alongside each other all this time. She asked me how my day was. We ate white rice from plastic bowls.

Then she offered me a new life like she was offering me a soda, and when a girl like that asks you to run away with her, you do. You take inventory of your little world, shuck off the pieces you won’t miss, and betray the ones you will under the guise of adventure. I had no pets, no plants, no friends who would notice I was gone; my only furniture a mattress, a foldout chair, and a scratched table the last tenants left on the curb. Almost like I’d been keeping my life empty so it would be easier to discard when Zell showed up.

You leave your cell phone on the kitchen counter and throw your clothes into a bag without bothering to fold them. In the car, you catch yourself really breathing for the first time in years, maybe, and it turns out breathing feels magnificent, the glory-dance of lungs. She asked me to run, so I ran, and I didn’t ask where we were going, or why, because it didn’t matter. I was going with her.

* * *

Four days ago, our first day gone. Miles and miles of night, the darkness like a fleece blanket wrapped around us. Zell’s features were lit only by the glow of the dashboard, making it harder to believe she was real and next to me, not the hologram or half-drawn vision I sometimes willed into my dreams as I lay alone in bed. Then the febrile Nevada sun broke the spell, sizzling holes through the cool blue dawn, and she was there: solid, slack-jawed, alive.

She wanted to run so we ran, but first, she wanted to see the Grand Canyon, so we drove through the night from Carson City, past the neon rest stops and quiet drive-throughs, the overpasses brick after concrete brick on the skyline. I drove while Zell slept, the side of her face smashed against the cool glass, her hand coiled around the seat belt like an infant holding its mother’s finger. We parked the car in the packed lot out front, and I bought our tickets at the visitors desk while Zell went to pee. After milling around the gift shop towers of souvenir magnets, we got on a bus and rode through the stuffy morning toward the canyon.

“I always thought you could drive right up to it,” she said. “They make it look that way on TV.”

“Me too.” The natural tone between us still half performed.

“God, buses make me motion sick.” She lifted her hair and fanned the back of her neck with her ticket, looking out the window.

Ten minutes later, we stepped off the bus and gulped fresh air like we’d been drowning. Pale sunlight broke over red-painted ridges, the farthest peaks huddled close like tiny villages, a molten river slicing through the impossible bottom of it all. Zell’s mascara began to melt, from the wind or something more. Then, in one breathtaking motion, her smile bloomed over the crevasse, and I swelled with a wave of déjà vu; this was the Zell I remembered—often cynical and hardened, but every so often a childish wonder spilled out of her, and the crinkles in the corners of her eyes faded. She rolled her gaze toward the white expanse of sky and blotted her makeup. I looked away.

“Weird how we never came to see it before,” she said.

“Who would’ve taken us?”

She was silent for a minute as her hair whipped around her face and she stood there, letting it. Zell’s eyes were bright with whatever it was people came here to find, but feeling things so eloquently, so intensely

, was a muscle I hadn’t accessed in a while. My ponytail lolled, the tip licking one side of my neck, then the other.

She told me then about the time she was seven, when her mom took her camping on a seaweed-infested beach in Texas, the only vacation they ever had. How some muscle dude came over to flirt with her mom and helped Zell build a huge sandcastle; how it made her so happy, having a stranger do something just for her, that she didn’t even notice when they left to go fuck in the RV and abandoned Zell on the shore.

“For years, that was my favorite memory.” She wiped her face on her shirtsleeve, then let out a loud, broken laugh. “What kind of shitty childhood is that?”

Watching Zell look out at the wind and painted dust, I could feel wonder trickling in, inching my chest open, guiding me to a place where I could join her in this moment. She glanced over at me, and I swallowed it down.

* * *

Zell at the wheel, we found our way back to I-40 and stopped at a diner for our first meal in twelve hours. I wasn’t sure if it was the lack of sleep, the flooding brightness, hunger, or the elation of being with her, but I felt a little drugged. Pleasantly delirious, like moving through a dreamscape. Without the GPS on our cell phones—Zell made us leave those behind—we used paper maps to navigate. Being off-grid, untethered from daily life and suspended in the meat of living, gave us the air of real

fugitives. This, too, was adventure, but it seemed more like finding our way back to being human: navigating the world on instinct and landscape alone.

We slid into a sticky booth where the rubber seat pinched awkwardly at my thighs. The waitress brought two sweating glasses of ice water, and Zell drew a heart in the condensation, a ritual I’d forgotten about. I didn’t say, Nothing’s really changed, has it? I didn’t say, I am so glad you’re still in the world. I smiled and said nothing. We ordered three side plates of hash browns to douse in ketchup and split between us, and a pot of coffee.

“So, what’ve you been up to lately? Still in Phoenix?” I asked, wincing at the cadence of small talk.

Zell and I grew up in the unincorporated town of Phoenix, New Mexico, and were used to telling people No, not that one. Years of insisting on the truth of ourselves, until I got older and left, and now when someone asked it was easier just to say Phoenix and let them believe what they wanted to.

Only fifty people officially lived in Phoenix, according to the bug-splattered sign at its limits; mostly people who worked at the factory or the small casino twenty miles north, or who trickled down from the Navajo Nation. You’d think a small town means you know everybody, but in that blip along an otherwise empty stretch of desert, Zell and I knew nobody but each other. Our moms, both basically teens when we were kids, worked as waitresses in the casino together, and then at the Flying J, then as cleaners in the Achilles Motel where we lived for a while. We learned most of what we knew in that brown-carpeted motel room, from staticky PBS and the shadows who walked by the window openly hollering their needs at one another.

She answered, “Yeah. I moved into the house when my mom got sick. Then stayed a while after she died.”

A pang of guilt snaked through me when she mentioned her mom, and to bury it, I asked why she’d decided to go to New Jersey now. Her face lit up.

“The Barrens,” she swooned exaggeratedly. “You know I’ve always been obsessed with the Barrens.” Her eyes sparked and her voice softened into a monologue about the atmospheric mist and moss, the trees, the light filtering through the leaves; a familiar refrain, this fascination she’d carried since our teenage years. In the motel office, travelers would sometimes leave behind random books and when we got bored we’d flip through them, most interested in the ones that seemed scandalous: paperbacks with outdated dating advice, or issues of Men’s Health and Cosmo. It was there in the pile of discards that Zell found Ghost Towns of the New Jersey Pine Barrens. I wondered if all these years later she still slept with it at her bedside, like a talisman.

“I mean, why wouldn’t you want to live in the only American state with an official state demon,” she said. According to her, posers always cited the Jersey Devil, but real enthusiasts knew the forest harbored a whole ecosystem of folklore. She’d wax poetic about how the Pine Barrens were swallowingly lush and alive in every way that New Mexico was a place for death’s leftovers: Funny how they call something so green “barren.” Can’t imagine anywhere more barren than here.

I asked her if she was in some kind of trouble, if there was more to prompt our leaving than she was letting on, and she made a face.

“I just wanna see some trees, Andrea.” She crossed her arms, glancing out the window. “There are reasons to leave, sure, but they’re just reasons.”

I pretended to concentrate exceptionally hard on the sugar packets so she wouldn’t see my face when I asked the next question.

“Are you, like, pregnant?”

She choked out a laugh, and I couldn’t tell if she thought it was funny, or if she was suddenly racked by some crazed grief. “No,” she said. “No, nobody I’ve known is worth getting knocked up by.”

I felt stupid for how relieved I was, even though that in itself didn’t tell me much about Zell’s life since I last saw her.

“I mean, is it drugs though? Like, is it legal trouble, or—why’d you want to leave so fast, and why,” I steadied my voice, hating myself before the words were out, “after all this time?” What I meant was: Why with me?

“You know how it is. The years roll over ’til they don’t anymore

,” she said, affecting a twang I associated with the factory workers back home. “I just don’t want to be found, is all.”

She paused to take a drink, then added, “Why’d you come along, anyway?” Her eyes glittered with a fanglike spark of meanness. It made my neck flush with arousal.

I mumbled something about adventure, and she asked what I was going to do afterward.

“After what?”

“After New Jersey. I figured you’d hang around ’til I get set up, but what are you going to do when you go back to Nevada?”

My stomach dropped. It hadn’t hit me, somehow, that after all this, I’d get on a plane and go back to the same life, same job, same old apartment, the carpet still caked with dirt from Zell’s boots. The thought was unfathomable—to detox from days on days spent in Zell’s presence and return to nothingness.

“I don’t know,” I said. Then the hash browns came and we ate them, silent and fast.

* * *

When we were done eating, Zell pulled a roll of bills from her pocket and paid with the cash we pooled last night. She insisted we couldn’t use our cards, couldn’t leave any trail, and I’d agreed to play along, which meant trusting her fully; so before we left Nevada I drove through the ATM around the corner from my apartment and pulled out my full savings balance: six hundred dollars in crisp, coarse twenties. Zell had brought the car, the maps, what money she could scrounge up: two hundred-ish in crinkled bills, waitressing tips mostly.

I went to the bathroom and rinsed my face, hunched over the automatic sink. I wiped under my breasts and arms with a wet brown paper towel and threw it in the overflowing bin by the door. When I went outside, Zell was sitting cross-legged on the hood of the car.

“Let’s take the scenic drive, go along old Route 66 instead,” she said.

“How much time does that add? I thought we were in some kind of hurry.”

“It’s all about the journey, right? Letting the universe guide us? And mile marker thirteen is right at the exit fork, so that feels like something important. A sign.”

“I thought thirteen was supposed to be unlucky,” I joked, but she barely heard me.

“Anyway, it runs back to the big road eventually. Not like we’ll get lost.”

Zell merged onto the old road, winding and pockmarked, and I adjusted the air-conditioning vents, hoping I wouldn’t get car sick. It was a truly beautiful drive, though, and I forgot my uneasiness. Dwarfed mountains sprouted with tufts of yellow and lilac, the azure sky flat above, and occasional clouds cast shadows on the ground like we were passing under a Macy’s Day balloon. We were

the only car for miles, and I had the sudden urge to stop in the middle of the road, get out of the car, and howl into the sunny emptiness.

But we didn’t. We drove an hour, maybe, the clean-cut wind lapping through the cracked window. And then Zell said, “Oh shit, we’re almost out of gas.”

Out in some parts of the desert, it could be hours between gas stations. We were close enough to the highway, I figured, but who could say how far we’d veered? Once the panic set in properly, the engine began to feel like it was sputtering, slowing.

“Fuck,” Zell exclaimed. “Roll up the window. I can’t think with the noise.”

I did, and she switched off the AC and radio, trying to save every morsel of energy. The car quickly hotboxed in the sun, and in seconds we were sweating something awful, wincing at each dip in the engine’s roar. I got prepared to accept that we might have to walk, it might be our only choice. It was impossible to predict how far. Spiraling into survival mode, I took stock of how much water was left in my plastic bottle, examined the position of the sun in the sky, and tried to guess how long we’d last.

When the heat and tension were unbearable, when I was about to plead with Zell to at least open a window, we turned and saw a sign, then another: two gas stations, one on each side of the road. We exhaled and pulled into the left entrance, and I immediately unbuckled and jumped from the car, the breeze chilling dry the droplets of sweat on my face.

Zell got out and closed the door. Then she paused, fear creeping into her face.

“We can’t go in,” she said. “We’ve gotta go to the other one.”

“Why? What do you mean?” I pressed her, dry mouthed and drenched in sweat. The two gas stations were identical, down to the weathered-away green paint on the pump numbers. I tried to understand how she jumped so quickly from relief to fear, but she wouldn’t give me a reason, only: Something bad is about to happen.

“Please, come on, let’s just drive across the street. It’s not a big deal.”

“Okay,” I conceded, my annoyance overtaken by how visibly shaken she was. The ignition took a couple tries before rumbling awake, and we were able to make it out of the lot before the engine clonked out halfway across the (thankfully empty) road. Zell pulled the car into neutral and I got out to push, gliding the car to rest beside the pump at a wonky angle.

I pumped gas while Zell went inside to pay, and I watched the other station for any signs of Zell’s prediction, noticing nothing of note. Minutes later, Zell emerged from around the side of the building. I was pretty sure the bathroom was indoors, but I didn’t mention it.

“I don’t see anything weird going on over there,” I said, gesturing across the street.

“Ha, well, knock on wood.” She was upbeat again, her paranoia suddenly

 mollified. She rapped her knuckles on the hood of the car.

“That’s not even wood.”

“Everything came from a tree at some point.”

This time, I offered to drive. She turned up the AC, readjusted the vents, and I caught a glimpse of her hand: the grooves of her fingerprints outlined with traces of dirt. Fingernails embedded with slivers of dark moons.

* * *

Three days ago. There was a dog in the hotel office, a weenie: sienna fur speckled with gray, the fattest creature I’d ever seen. His short paws drowned under Shakespearean layers of skin as he trotted from his owner’s calf to the pillow at the corner of the desk. Every time someone entered the office and the bell on the door chimed, the hotel owner’s wife reached into her black satchel and fed him a treat. Many people entered and exited a day, I guessed, though they were one of the last neon signs on an otherwise gutted through road. The blinking green letters squirmed through the incredible dark. I loved that dog.

That night we stopped near Tucumcari, and as we walked to the room, I anticipated one bed and what that would mean. Something between us had sunk back into eternal familiarity, but there were still parts of ourselves we withheld—the parts that revealed in how many ways we were nearly strangers. But the room had two beds, each crowned by a black-and-white poster of Audrey Hepburn hung on the stucco wall.

We undressed efficiently and climbed under the sheets, our psyches plowed by more than twenty-four hours on the road. There was no time to lay in the cover of dark, thinking, overthinking—flooded by that mix of anxiety and reverence I’d begun to associate with these small moments of intimacy. Sleep rolled over me quick and violent.

When I woke up the next morning, I was already braced for Zell to change her mind. For her to be awake, waiting to say, How dumb was this idea. Thanks, though, it was fun. But I was ripped from sleep by the sound of her shutting the door, Dixie cups of black coffee in both hands.

Zell spread the paper maps across her bed. So far, we’d been following I-40, a straight line east, but soon we’d have to navigate north on new roads. She pointed to a thick vein of blue threaded through St. Louis, then Indianapolis; places I’d never been, but that in my mind were painted with the chrome sheen of stainless steel.

We dressed, stuffed last night’s clothes back in our bags, and left the room key on the desk—saving the weenie dog some calories, if only by a little. We settled into the Chevy’s sun-warmed seats and returned to the road.

Here’s the thing about the desert: it represents something to everyone, whether or not they’ve been there. To a lot of people, it means freedom, a geographic incarnation of American individualism as noble, a choice. But like American freedom, it’s only presented in curated fragments: the landscape bordering the highway

, not the endless crannies so far out you couldn’t reach them without heatstroke. Not the ruthless drought, the parched and cracked earth warning of a future that lurks in plain sight, and not the pioneers of the past who ate their own families to drive somebody else’s out of the home they’d inhabited for centuries. Walk into the frame of any promise without knowing what it’s made of, and you’ll get what’s coming. Take the everything you’re offered in one fell gulp, and it will swallow you up.

We’d watched the landscape gradually shift from one end of the Southwest to the other; mountainous bleached Nevada, Arizona streaked red, New Mexico yellow and emerald-tufted, West Texas with its brown trees like arthritic hands. The things that grow here aren’t a miracle. They don’t carry mystic wisdom, secrets about how to mine life from the barren dust. Survival in desperate conditions is not magic; it’s a fuck you, an insistence on being.

Before noon, Zell at the wheel, we broke from one side of the panhandle to the other.

* * *

We whittled away the days in surprisingly incident-free stretches, the landscape flattening out into miles of green. At a little bricked town square near Tulsa, we stopped for booths selling fresh peaches and cantaloupes, and Zell bought a candle from a woman with a port-wine birthmark who said it would “shield her heart from negative energy.”

Often as we drove I remembered us as teenagers, sitting in the same spots in the same car, trailing through the desolate streets of Phoenix and planning how to get gone. Time folding in on itself, one page of history kissing the other. How lucky I was to live long enough to see them meet.

For me, disappearance was mostly hypothetical, but for Zell, freedom always meant New Jersey. A state that notoriously smelled like garbage and exhaust. A state Zell had never been within a thousand miles of, but spent a decade-plus idealizing into a promised land: her mythic beacon of the Northeast, grittier and more authentic than New York, and the forest that survives undisturbed at the edge of metropoles; the ruins of old mills absorbed by nature; whole towns abandoned to the bog, pulled back into the earth by vines and time; the Magic City artists’ commune hidden somewhere in the depths. Basically a glorified campground, she’d once told me, but that doesn’t mean people didn’t find magic there, or make their own. Her eyes sparkled, inhabited by a love you can only hold for something you don’t really know.

Zell, familiar as the earthy-sweet smell of my own bedsheets, still seemed to me a mythical being. Her long black eyelashes, nose with the slightest crook to it, her body all sliding tectonic plates. A tenderness that opened and then shut again before you got too good a look. Zell was a person of extremes, and she invited it, curated it: the worship and the demonization.

She would allow for nothing in between.

We stopped for the night somewhere in Missouri and popped into a gas station across from the motel to buy drinks and chips to take back to our room—too tired to search for a real meal, uninterested in engaging a stranger or shopkeep to ask.

Perusing the liquor shelf, I suggested, “How about a bottle of Jack, to remember old times?”

Zell smiled mischievously. “How about stealing a bottle to remember old times?”

But I stood at the counter lamely while the clerk ran my card through the grimy machine, then discarded the bag in the trash can by the door.

* * *

Two days ago. Four days gone, and we were running out of money. I knew this, even though Zell insisted it wasn’t true. The brick of cash we’d left with was now a single roll of five- and ten-dollar bills, nestled into the breast pocket of Zell’s flannel shirt. She ritually circled the bills around her pointer finger until they stuck like that.

An hour outside Indianapolis, Zell broke the silent rhythm of the road:

“Oh shit, we forgot about Memphis.”

“What’s in Memphis?” I asked. ...