Trembling With Fear 09/11/2022

The Boil, by Nicholas Zielinski

My family clings to The Boil. It’s a yearly tradition for us, and a sense of duty compells me to attend, although often I fantasize about blowing it off. But that’s the thing about visiting family: sometimes it hurts, and the pain can linger for years, yet I keep returning, because—always—when it’s over, I feel better, stronger, more complete.

Preparation for this year’s Boil started at the airport, when the matriarchs—my grandmother and her seven daughters—saw me in the arrivals lane, assessing my appearance. As I loaded my suitcase into my grandmother’s van, the cadre of women discussed how my body had aged since they last saw me, how my hair had grown, how my eyebrows had gotten thicker, how my skin seemed dryer, how much weight I’d lost, and how little I had slept. I agreed about the sleeping. On the way to my grandmother’s farm, I tried to sleep but the bumpy road kept me awake. Still, I kept trying, and when the group thought I was safely unconscious, I heard my aunt whisper, “This is gonna be a good one, I think.”

Everyone knew she was talking about The Boil.

At the farmhouse, the matriarchs and I performed a familiar ritual: the “catching up” conversation which always precedes the event. Meanwhile, in the front yard, a moving truck made a fuss as it backed onto the gravel driveway. And I pretended not to notice when, through the bay window, I saw my uncles unload a twelve-foot-high, stainless steel vat and haul it into the woods, cursing under its weight. Neither I nor the women said anything about it, which is part of the fun. Acknowledging The Boil before it happens is a violent breach of courtesy, like ripping off Santa’s beard.

Later I enjoyed a meal of glazed ham which faded into dreamless sleep. During the night, the men threw a mask over my head, and led me placidly through the woods, as they did every year. The boiler is not meant to see The Boil until the last possible moment, for reasons obscured by history, but I knew every inch of my grandmother’s farm, so the location was not a surprise.

This year, the site was near a ring of giant anthills in the northeastern corner of the property. I could tell because the earth underfoot was gritty, and, when we stopped walking, I felt scores of ants crawling up my legs.

Water in the vat was already boiling when I showed up. I could hear it from my position twenty feet away, bubbling madly with heat emanating from its base of red hot coals.

My uncle’s contracting business gave him access to heavy equipment. Every Boil, he shows up with a crane, which takes some heavy lifting out of the process.

Someone, I don’t know who, strapped me into a harness, and the crane lifted me into the air. I could feel my legs getting damp from the steam as my body dangled over the water. When I was little, this part used to scare me, but doing it every year has forced me to grow a thick skin, and I mean that literally.

These days, I can hardly feel it when my family boils me alive.

Slowly, the crane lowered me into the water. Through great effort, I stayed conscious until the bubbles raged against my neck. It’s a little competition I have with myself, to stay awake as long as possible, so I can observe my skin’s transformation.

Imagine a hot dog submerged in boiling water. Think of the way the casing splits, exposing the meat inside. That’s what happened to me. Like a plastic bag in the microwave, the skin on my back split open, showing a red slash of muscle running up my spine. I passed out before the split, which was disappointing, but I did feel the oil on my chest sizzle underwater, which was a new sensation.

My unconscious state lasted for many days. During that time, I dreamt of men chanting dirges over my bed, and women plunging their hands beneath my skin, rearranging organs, plying tendons, and sewing my skin shut.

When I woke up, I felt a new layer of scar tissue raised over my spine. The tear always happens in the same place, and every year the scar gets bigger. Now it’s as wide as my thigh, and raised so high it looks like there’s a snake hiding beneath the skin.

This ordeal sounds wicked, I know. But there were benefits.

After I’d built enough strength to look in the mirror, I was pleased to see that I looked younger. My hair was shorter, my eyebrows were thinner, I’d gained about ten pounds and my skin had a “dewy” quality. All features the matriarchs criticized when I arrived had changed. Does my scar get weird looks when I go swimming? Yes, and because it protrudes so much, I have trouble sleeping on my back. But, despite the side effects, I never miss a Boil. Because every time the wound heals, my skin grows back thicker. And I look a little more like myself.