You go to his mother’s house first. She wants to show you how to make wedding pie. Says that you will need to know the recipe by heart, it’s the only thing that will make him happy when he is having a bad day. You are sure you know other ways but that would not be appropriate to mention in front of his mother.
His mother pulls five ponds of venison from the fridge. She says, “I have already prepared it for you so don’t worry about having to watch my knife as carefully.” She carefully cubes the meat as you watch. His stomach, that is still in your hands, gurgles. You think it is a happy sound, or at least anticipatory. His mom moves so quickly it is hard to follow but before you know it, she is placing the meat in a bowl of vinegar and peppercorn. “Let it marinate” she says. You don’t know if she means the meat or his stomach, but you nod and pretend like you understand. She makes you watch her for hours as she handmakes the crust for this meat pie. When she’s done, she wraps it tight in aluminum foil.
His mom places a gentle kiss on the red top of the cooler you carry after you pack the stomach in the dry ice. She grabs your hand before you can make your way out the door. Her eyes said louder, quicker than any of her words could don’t hurt him. My life is in that cooler. You try to convey your own response, try to muster up some kind of understanding. You don’t think your own eyes were quite as expressive, but she did let you walk out her house.
His brain is being kept safe at his best friend’s house. Or well inside his friend’s garage. The man doesn’t even introduce himself when he lets you in the house. Instead, he just points towards the garage door and tells you to help yourself. He must have known you were coming so you guess it is alright. You think to check the fridge first, maybe he is keeping the muscles cool next to the beers and take out containers. When that turns up nothing you check under the hood of the car he’s been restoring since before you met him. He says it is his passion project and he has been working on it with his boys since they could hold a wrench.
Underneath the hood of the car is an engine that probably hasn’t been touched in months. You don’t see any residue from where his fingers could have touched. You would know if any of his nails had fallen off in the hood. There weren’t even traces of his scent. Nothing that could have clued you into where his brain now resides. So, you slam the hood back down. You check the glove compartment instead. Surely, it’s inside there. It was not.
The garage feels like it may compress in on itself as your breath tried its best to resist escaping your lungs. The fumes of gas and sweat and beer burn your nostrils as you force air in and out. You think maybe you’ll be trapped in an endless loop like this. Never finding the parts you need. Until everything goes quiet. You hear the friend call out your name. He’s standing and watching you at the door. He calls your name again, perhaps to make sure you are paying attention to him.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “We actually haven’t been out here recently.” You nod, not trusting your tongue to form a sentence. You haven’t really trusted your own body much these days anyway. He wraps his hands on your shoulder and walks you into the living room. There on the couch is his brain. The stem wriggles around in irritated, as if upset that you took so long or maybe displeased that you found it at all. The warm muscle tissue is heavier than you expect it to be. It's slightly damp and smells like boiling oil. Little shocks go up your arms as you attempt to keep your fingers light on the grey matter. The friend doesn’t help you back out to your car. Instead, he just positions himself deeper into his side of the couch.
His previous finance is the last person you visit. You go on a night when the moon is full and glinting silver. She’s had his hands for a while, and you think that may make her hesitant to part with them. His tongue is somewhere inside her home as well. When she opens the door, you take her in. One of his hands is wrapped around her neck. The fingers stroke her skin gently, as if to keep her calm. The other is in her hair, holding her high ponytail in place. She wears both accessories like a second skin, though you don’t think she is also wearing his.
Before you can go to introduce yourself, she reaches in her mouth and pulls out his tongue. You don’t mean to, but you track the movement of the two muscles as they disentangle from one another. There is still a line of spit connecting them when she speaks. “Did he show you that thing he likes to do?” You don’t know what thing she is referring to, but you force the tendons in your neck to move your head up and down.
She gives you a grin, her teeth are too sharp, and drops the writhing tongue into the hand you didn’t know you had outstretched. Your own stomach rolls but you attempt to hold her gaze. “He gave me these as a gift,” she says as she pries his first hand off her neck. “Said they were mine if I gave him the ring back.” The fingers left light marks as each was forcibly lifted away. The other hand tangled in her hair as she shook out her ponytail. “Good luck.” His hands are in yours after that. Strands of her blonde hair are embedded under his fingernails. It feels coarse to the touch. You wonder what your hair feels like to him.
You find his feet on the beach. His toes are encrusted with a thick layer of sand. They are antsy. You think they might make a break for it if you get to close. Instead of grabbing them immediately you plop your body down next to them. The cooler of body parts touches the ground right before you do. The sand flies up around you, some of it stinging your arms but you ignore it. You look out on the ocean. The seas are calm on the surface, gentle waves are lapping up on the shore. A gentle pace is set by the incoming tide. No one else is around. It is just you and his feet. You think maybe you should feel cold or chilly at the slightest, but you don’t. Instead, you feel warm all over. Like a low grade fever has worked its way through your body when you weren’t paying attention. You wonder if his feet are warm.
At once you imagine chucking the cooler into the sea. You wonder what all that salt would do to his intestines. You wonder what all that salt could do for him. Could it erode him down into someone new? You make to stand and his feet arch as if he is going to take off in a sprint. You think how you never did find his heart.
