Unconventional

by J J Hebert

  I mimic her by spreading my arms, and she slips into them. “It’s good to see you, Leigh.” As I begin to squeeze, I glance over her shoulder and see who I think is her father. Suddenly, I feel awkward and let go. I feel my face blush and see hers do the same as she turns to the man and says, “Daddy, I’d like for you to meet James.”

  He takes a step closer to the door and extends his right hand. I follow suit, and with our hands interlocked, he shoots a disapproving stare in my direction.

  “James Frost. Nice to meet you,” I say, unlike my rehearsal.

  He releases my hand and waves me inside the house. “Come this way,” he says. “I’ll put on a pot of coffee.”

  * * *

  “So, James, Leigh tells me you’re in the cleaning business,” says her father from a billowing chair near the picture window—the largest chair in the living room, his seat of superiority.

  I slouch in the loveseat. “My father owns a cleaning business,” I say, tone wobbly. “It’s not the most glamorous type of work, but it’s honest work, and it pays the bills.” With widened eyes, I glance at Leigh, who’s sitting to my immediate left, then turn my attention back to her father across the room.

  He says, “I’m curious. What type of cleaning is it?”

  I’m shrinking. I swear, I’m melting. I take a deep breath, swallow, and reply, “I clean carpets, floors, bathrooms. Toilets are my favorite.” The last is an attempt at a joke, but he doesn’t crack a smile. I see humor isn’t his forte.

  “Where is it that you clean?” he asks, folding arms over his chest.

  I don’t want to answer his question, but I can’t ignore it. Lying isn’t an available option either. I can’t lie because Leigh is right next to me, and even if she wasn’t, she almost certainly told him where I work, so a lie would only backfire.

  Here goes nothing: “I clean at the school a few minutes from my dad’s house.”

  He swipes a hand through his white-streaked hair. “Oh, then you’re a janitor . . .” He rubs his scruffy chin.

  “I don’t necessarily see that as a fitting description, actually. Cleaning’s what I do for work, not who I am. I’m much more than mopping and vacuuming and cleaning toilets. Like you’re much more than building things.”

  “I see,” he says in a stern tone.

  Leigh speaks up. “James is a really good writer, Daddy. He wrote a novel and it’s out with all sorts of people in the publishing industry. He’s gonna get it published soon.”

  I turn to her, shocked; she hasn’t even read any of my work. I see that she’s trying to help me out of this predicament, but I’m not sure this is the route in which to travel.

  “A novel, huh?” her father says, his eyes suspicious. “Not bad. What type of a novel is it?”

  “Fantasy.” I move my right arm onto an armrest, shaking slightly. “It’s called The Forsaken World.”

  “Catchy title,” he says, “but, generally, I find fantasy offensive.”

  “What about it offends you?” I ask.

  “Does your book contain sorcery or magic of any type?”

  “Yeah.” I think I know where he’s going with this.

  “You’re aware of the Bible’s views on sorcery and magic, right?”

  “I know the Bible doesn’t find either particularly appealing, but I can assure you that the so-called sorcery and magic in my novel isn’t real. I delved into ancient languages—Old Norse, for instance—and picked out words that I thought sounded mystical. Then I gave those words to my characters to use for magical spells. But a lot of the book—the beginning, for instance—doesn’t contain any magical elements.”

  Leigh intervenes once again. “He’s very creative, isn’t he, Daddy?”

  Her dad sighs. “James, if I might ask . . . what church do you attend?”

  “I can’t say that I attend church, sir.”

  “How unfortunate,” he says.

  I suppose tolerance isn’t one of his strengths either.

  * * *

  Leigh and I have been on this hiking trail for about forty-five minutes. The wind is brisk. The sun’s rays cut through the color-turning leaves overhead. Streams flow on either side of us, creating peaceful splashing and spraying sounds. A green sign in front of us says SUMMIT 0.5 MILES AHEAD.

  She reaches out her hand. I accept it into mine.

  “I don’t think your dad likes me very much,” I say. Not that it should matter to me, but for some reason, it does.

  She turns to me as we continue to move. “He’s not an easy man to please,” she says. “I’m his daughter and I can’t even please him.”

  “He’s not pleased with you?” I sound as shocked as I feel. “How could any parent be unsatisfied with a daughter like you?”

  She smiles. “This isn’t anything new, James. It’s always been like this, since I can remember,” she says. With our hands intertwined, we hop over a couple small boulders.

  Continuing at a steady pace, I say, “If you can’t please him, I don’t stand much of a chance. I mean, I’m sure there are things you do that he doesn’t approve of, but you mostly obey his wishes, and he still doesn’t find pleasure in having you as his daughter? Look at me. Strike one is my job. Strike two is my fantasy book. Strike three is that I don’t attend church.” We cross over a thin stream, hopping on rocks until we reach solid ground on the other side. I say, “I wonder if it’d be easier to get him to like me if I had a more celebrated job or if I knew more about Christianity . . . if I fit the image he has in his mind of the perfect guy for his daughter.”

  “He would be the first to tell you that there isn’t a perfect guy for his daughter,” she admits.

  We come to the end of the trail, to the top of the mountain. Below us, thickets appear spongy, roads weave endlessly through the land, and buildings and houses look pin-sized. We stand hundreds of feet from civilization, miles from a discontented father who should bow before his perfect daughter.

  His face haunts me. I say, “I wish that your dad would—”

  “Forget about him for a minute, will you?” She smiles and wraps her arms around my torso.

  I put my hands on her waist. “Okay.”

  She looks directly in my eyes. “I like you,” she says, “and that should be all that matters.”

  For a short moment, we hang suspended in time, faces and bodies frozen. She is the most beautiful woman I have ever known, physically, mentally, and emotionally.

  Her eyes, the way they smile, they tug at my heartstrings. I look down at her lips. Those soft, luscious lips. I long to feel them against my own. I can’t suppress the urge any longer. I break the freeze between us and move my face toward hers, heart slapping against my chest.

  I hope she’s ready. I hope she wants this as much as I do.

  She doesn’t turn her cheek. She doesn’t spot my mouth, the hideous teeth inside, and pull away. I’m in awe of this woman. Our lips connect, moist and soft. I walk my hands up her back, to her shoulders, to her hair, and I run them through her tresses as our kissing deepens. Our tongues touch and caress. Warmth surges through my body. Unparalleled warmth. She nibbles at my lower lip, tugs at it with her teeth. The embrace grows stronger.

  Our lips part. She looks up at me, her eyes reflecting the sky. “Are you still thinking about my father?”

  I smile wide. “You like me,” I say, “and that’s all that matters.”

  * * *

  Sweeping this floor has never bothered me less. When I clean the bathrooms in a couple minutes, that won’t stab at me either. After yesterday, the first kiss, nothing can. I’ve never experienced this level of infatuation. “In love” is another way to describe my current position.

  My mind won’t allow me to think of anything other than Leigh. I love her radiant smile. I love her eyes, and her long, soft hair. I love her touch, her smell, the feel of her lips on mine when we kiss. I love her skin, that olive skin. I love her voice, her body, those luscious curves. I love how she makes me feel. I love her
accepting nature. I love the way her nose scrunches when she laughs.

  The list goes on and on.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It’s Saturday again, and we lie entwined on a blanket at Troftonfield Lake, gazing up at the twinkling stars. Leigh’s head rests on my chest, her hair pouring over my torso. My arms enfold her delicate body. There’s a chill in the air.

  She keeps her eyes on the stars. “What did you think of my mother?”

  I reach for an answer. “I—uh—uh—” I sound like a chanting Indian. Meeting her skeletal mother fifteen minutes ago wasn’t especially delightful. She didn’t seem keen on getting to know me. At one point, while Leigh and I were getting ready to come here, I saw her mother roll her eyes. My guess is that Architect Guy spoke to her about Leigh’s new boyfriend, my occupation, my fantasy-writing hobby. She wasn’t impressed. That’s ironic; I wasn’t impressed with Leigh’s mother either. Especially after what she said, with a smirk, when Leigh nibbled on a peanut butter cracker in the kitchen: “You keep on eating.”

  “Mom wasn’t your cup of tea, was she?” Leigh asks. She rolls over onto her side, looking in my direction.

  “Does your mother usually make remarks about your eating habits?”

  “You mean does she usually crack fat jokes?” she asks.

  I nod. We’re on the same page.

  Her eyes darken. “Yeah, plenty of fat jokes.”

  I grimace. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

  She shrugs. “Ah, I’ve gotten used to it.”

  “It doesn’t affect you at all? I have a hard time believing that.”

  “I don’t know if I’d go as far as saying that her words don’t affect me. I try to ignore her when she shoots nasty comments my way.”

  “So you’re saying she’s been cracking jokes about your weight for a while now?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Leigh says matter-of-factly. “She’s said she doesn’t know where I got my body from, that I couldn’t have gotten it from her. She’s called me Porky and Piggy.”

  “I hope you don’t buy that crap,” I say. “You know you’re not fat, right?”

  She isn’t. Not even slightly.

  “I don’t like my body. I wouldn’t mind losing five to ten pounds. I’m too curvaceous.”

  “Too curvaceous? You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I say, sitting up.

  She sits upright. “When I was little, let’s say ten or eleven, or somewhere around that age, whenever she saw me eating a cookie or any type of snack, she made sure to let me know that I disgusted her.”

  I shake my head at this nonsense. I want to go back in time and stand between Leigh and her mother. I would stare into her mother’s narrow face, shake her by the bony shoulders, and say, “Do you realize what you’re telling your daughter, the impact it’s going to have on her?” Then I would say, “If you ask me, you’re the disgusting one!” Afterward, I would let Leigh eat all the cookies and snacks she wanted. I would call her Princess. I would tell her she’s perfect.

  I snap out of the reverie, eyes on Leigh’s shadowy face. Perhaps I can invalidate her mother’s detrimental words. “You’re beautiful,” I say. “You’re a princess. You’re perfect.”

  “Thank you,” she says. “Thank you.”

  Silence inhabits the beach.

  After a minute, I ask, “What are you thinking about?”

  Through the moonlight, I see her absently rub the side of her nose with a forefinger. “I’m not sure I should say. I don’t want to paint a bad picture of my parents,” she says.

  I smile. “Too late. Now tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “My parents promised to get me a cat,” she says. “I was thirteen and they said if I got straight A’s, they’d buy me one.”

  “What made you think of this?” I inquire.

  She bites her lip. “Bitterness,” she says. “They’re so thoughtless sometimes.”

  “They didn’t get you a cat, did they?”

  Her jaw clenches. “Oh, they did. A stuffed cat, that is.” Her eyes glisten in the moonlight. “They knew I thought they were gonna bring home a real cat. They laughed and smirked when I opened the box. I cried a lot that day.”

  I hug her. “I’m sorry. That’s awful. They should never have done that to you.”

  She pulls her head away from my shoulder, looks up at me. “I’m going to miss you, James.”

  “What do you mean? I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I am.” She looks at the blanket. “My parents and I are going to the Dominican. We’ve had a trip planned for about six months.”

  “How long will you be gone?” I ask.

  Her face twists into a grimace. “Three weeks.”

  The news punches my gut. “Will we still be able to talk?”

  She sighs, looks up at me. “My cell won’t work out there.”

  “We won’t be able to talk for three weeks?” I ask, troubled.

  “You have to understand, when we first booked the trip, I didn’t know you even existed. If I had known we were going to get together, I wouldn’t have agreed to go.” She pauses, her eyes thoughtful. “I can’t back out now. My parents paid for my ticket. They’d be outraged, considering the circumstances, dropping them for a guy, and all.”

  “I understand, Leigh.” They paid for her ticket? I guess they are capable of treating her kindly.

  “I’d much rather stay here with you,” she says. “I want you to know that.”

  “I’ll miss you,” I say. “I want you to know that.” I kiss her forehead, and she smiles.

  * * *

  Color is progressively disappearing from my world. Leigh has been gone for six days, unreachable in all forms. No visits. No phone calls. No e-mails. I imagine her sipping a tropical drink, walking along an endless beach, basking in the glory of the sun, and I want to be there with her. I want to lie next to her on a blanket, soaking in the rays, even though the sun would bite my pasty skin instead of kissing it. I want to wade in the ocean, even though I’m fearful of water. I want to stroll the length of the shore with my shirt off, even though I have the body of an undernourished boy, and I should never be shirtless. Of course, I want to do these things without her parents tagging along.

  I think of Leigh’s father, his unappeasable nature. I flash on Leigh’s mother, her bitter remarks. I picture the three of them on the beach, walking, talking, and Leigh is having a miserable time.

  “Your bathing suit is far too revealing, Leigh.” Her father expresses his displeasure.

  “A girl your size shouldn’t be wearing a suit that small,” her skinny mother says, smirking.

  It is two-thirty in the afternoon. Dad’s getting his car worked on, and I have the house to myself. I revel in the solitude of this space, writing. My fingers strike the keys of my laptop. This is my outlet. When I was younger, it was baseball—how good it felt to thump the ball with the meat of the bat and watch it soar, to run those bases unhurriedly as the ball fell over the fence, to throw a knee-buckling curveball, to strike someone out looking. Now it’s writing—how good it feels to create an emotionally genuine scene, to infuse pieces of myself into the characters I’ve created and live vicariously through them, to be all-powerful and all-knowing.

  It is three o’clock, and I decide it’s time to get some fresh air. I throw on a flimsy jacket because it’s breezy outdoors, then I step out, crunching through the fallen leaves of the front lawn. I arrive at the end of our driveway and resolve to go a tad further. Before I realize it, I’m at the end of our road near our mailbox. Since pulling the publisher’s rejection out of this box, I haven’t been checking the mail, for fear of encountering a similar situation. Today, somewhat healed from that fateful day, I open the mailbox. As when I last checked the mail, I grab a stack of letters and bills and flyers. Unlike last time, however, there are two envelopes in the stack addressed to me. The envelopes bear the return addresses of literary agencies to whom I sent my work. I don’t open them here; instead,
I return to the house, mind racing.

  What if they didn’t like it? What if it wasn’t good enough?

  I step into the house and dart to the couch, where I sit, tossing Dad’s mail on the cushion to my left. In my right hand, I hold the two envelopes. Hands shaking, I open the first one and read the letter, which states:

  James,

  Sorry, no thanks, not for me.

  William Lochman

  I set the paper aside, head wagging. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Quivering, I tear open the other envelope and read the second letter:

  Dear James Frost,

  Thank you for submitting your work to Fairbanks Literary Agency. Unfortunately, the provided materials didn’t strike a chord with us, and we will not be offering you representation.

  Sincerely,

  The Staff

  Fairbanks Literary Agency

  I’ve been shot in the chest. I throw the letter on the carpet, put my head into my hands, and weep. I hear a mocking voice: You’re not good enough. They don’t like you. Loser. Sissy.

  The voice sounds so familiar, but I can’t place it.

  * * *

  I stand at the mailbox on yet another day, the wind whipping across my face, heart smacking my chest. I reach into the Vessel of Doom and remove another mound of mail. Three addressed to JAMES FROST today. I don’t wait to get inside to rip the first envelope open and read:

  Mr. Frost,

  Thanks for your letter of inquiry, but THE FORSAKEN WORLD doesn’t sound right for me, so I’ll have to pass.