by J J Hebert
“I don’t know,” he says calmly, like he’s not even going to pretend that he gives a crap.
* * *
Dad left ten minutes ago to go to a friend’s house to exchange Christmas gifts. I hear a knock at the door but don’t answer. Instead, I sit on this floor, holding the iPod Dad bought, staring vacantly into the screen, pondering our previous conversation.
A knock at the door . . .
Another.
Another.
I’m paralyzed. My world is about to turn upside down. I don’t think Dad was bluffing. He wants out of this place. He desires to go out and live. And honestly, I can’t blame him. He’s worked so hard. He needs to find some happiness, right?
I hear the door handle jiggle. The door opens, and Leigh appears holding gifts. “You didn’t hear me knock?” she asks.
I set the iPod on the floor. “I’m sorry,” I say, eyes on her troubled face.
“You’re white as a ghost.” She places the presents in front of the door, approaches me, bends over, puts her hand on my forehead. “You don’t feel hot.”
She sits next to me. I tell her about the conversation Dad and I had.
Now she’s white as a ghost. “But what about us?”
“I’m not going anywhere.” I empathize with her fear.
“You wouldn’t move to California with your dad?”
“And leave you behind? No way.”
She half-smiles. “Good.”
Then we trade presents; I give her two boxes from underneath the tree and she hands over the two she brought with her. I open gifts first—a leather jacket, black and smooth, and a collage of photographs from different points in our relationship. I tell her that I love the gifts, and I thank her.
“I’ll want to add more to the collage, so you’ll need to stick around,” she says, serious.
I smile, tap on her first gift. “Your turn.”
She unwraps and opens the box to a framed Bible verse. I went to a Christian bookstore, asked about a Christmas gift for a woman her age, my girlfriend, and the owner led me to this one.
She reads the passage: “‘Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.’” She looks up at me, her face radiant. “This is one of my favorite passages,” she says, smiling. “How’d you know?”
“I didn’t.”
“Love withstands everything,” she says, setting the frame on her lap. “Do you believe that?”
I nod. Within the chasm of my soul, however, I’m uncertain.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven.
Six. Five. Four.
Three. Two.
One.
Happy New Year!
Leigh and I hug beneath the firework-lit sky. We cheer and clap, blending with the crowd on this snowy hill overlooking the bay. I revel in this moment, kissing her deeply and passionately.
* * *
I’m sitting at my desk, about to dive back into my rewrite. I open the file and stare absently at the screen. Another year has rolled in. Last year, at this time, I certainly didn’t think I’d be reworking The Forsaken World after receiving twenty rejections and kudos from not only Mitch and Arthur but from Barbara Johnson, the former head of creative writing at UNH. Also, at this time last year, I hadn’t yet received the letter from Robert Frost, the one over my left shoulder, and I hadn’t met Leigh, and I definitely didn’t know that Dad was going to start looking for a new place to live and work. Wow, what a difference a year makes!
I wish I were psychic, like a palm reader, only one that isn’t a fraud. Then I would know what to do next. In the meantime, I can set goals for myself. I open a blank Word document and begin typing the goals as they roll into my head. No particular order:
1. Get this rewrite done.
2. Keep flossing and brushing my teeth twice a day.
3. Get engaged? See where things go with Leigh. Time will tell. Always does.
4. Somehow get a literary agent to give me a chance. This might come before the engagement thing. Who knows? Or I won’t get engaged and I won’t get an agent to look at me. Ooops . . . these are supposed to be goals, positive reinforcements. My bad.
5. Get published? Forget the question mark. GET PUBLISHED! Exclamation mark instead.
6. Marriage?
An unusual number of goals, six, but that’s how many I have. Lofty? Yes. Realistic? Perhaps and perhaps not.
* * *
Last week, I bought Boston Celtics tickets, nosebleed seats deep in the balcony. Leigh and I are on our way to Boston, in my car. She would have driven, but she expressed her fear of driving in big cities. I respect that and told her I would be glad to drive. This is my chance to take the wheel, to give her a break from driving; she does the bulk of it in our relationship.
“Hopefully we’ll see a good game. Last night the Celts weren’t so hot.” I blend with the traffic, foot tapping at the brake.
Leigh watches the road, tense. “Yeah,” she says.
“Yeah” this and “yeah” that; I’m uncertain of her today. Why so quiet? The radio is off—because I don’t like the added stimulation in traffic—but I had it on most of the ride because the silence between us became awkward and I needed something to fill the empty space.
“Are you feeling okay?” I ask.
She comes out with her favorite word. “Yeah.”
I don’t believe her. “You’re not excited?”
“I am.”
“You don’t look it.”
“I don’t?”
“No. And you’re not acting like it, either.”
“I’m thinking.”
“About what?”
“Nothing.”
That’s what she says when she’s thinking something but doesn’t want to reveal what that “something” is. “You can’t be thinking nothing,” I say.
“It’s a nice day. Sunny. Cold but sunny.” She provides a weather report, clearly her way around the topic.
We arrive at TD Banknorth Garden, the home of the Celtics and the Bruins, and I park in a garage near the arena. We walk across the street, yards apart, passing snow bank after snow bank, no holding of hands, no touching of any sort, alienated from one another. We come together near the entrance, where I hand her a ticket, and ask, “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah.” Her vocabulary doesn’t differ. She steps in line, ticket in hand. “Nice day. Sunny. Cold but sunny.”
I step into line behind her, detached. One wouldn’t realize we are in a relationship. “You’re not acting yourself,” I say. “Are you—”
She snaps over her shoulder. “Quit asking me, all right?”
Her words stab into me. “Okay. Sorry.”
A ticket taker—a person who takes tickets for a job, and definitely has a life outside of this—rips our tickets and leaves us the stubs. Leigh and I find our seats, two chairs in the most pitiful place in the Garden. The ball players look insignificant and nomadic from up here. Hard to believe they stand over six feet, each of them.
“This view is going to make me dizzy,” Leigh says, arms on the rests, looking down on the players, those ants, watching their warm-up.
“I’m sorry,” I say, as if I’ve committed a crime. “These are the best I could get.” I feel my face flush.
The game begins, after the announcing of the Celtics players and a brief show of lights. I can’t concentrate on the game, thinking of her abnormal behavior, wondering if there’s anything I might have done to cause this estrangement. I glance over at her, this woman I don’t understand. She ignores me, eyes on the game. The fans cheer. Leigh and I don’t.
I’m tired of our lack of touch, our lack of connectivity. I sneak my hand onto her armrest and subtly touch her forefinger with
mine. She doesn’t respond, not so much as a look in my direction or a twitch of her finger. It’s like she’s been freeze-framed. This is not the Leigh I’ve grown to enjoy, to love. This lady is an imposter. I move my finger onto the top of her hand, start rubbing in a circular motion. No response from her. I slip my hand into hers and she pulls away, a mannequin coming to life, shocking me. She scratches her face, as if she truly has an itch. I feel rejected, unwanted.
Halftime arrives and we don’t stand, we don’t speak; we simply observe our surroundings, the dancing cheerleaders, the mascot—a fake leprechaun who uses a trampoline in front of the hoop to propel himself high enough to slam dunk—and a guy who tries to hit a three point shot for five grand but misses.
I had high expectations for this game, this event for the two of us, a time to grow closer, to have fun together, to do something out of the ordinary, but it’s flopping, as are the Celtics.
An idea comes to mind, one of the oldest flirtations in the book, a way to touch her nonchalantly. You see it in the movies. The guy yawns, raises his arms over his head, pretending to stretch, and smoothly lands an arm over her shoulders.
I mimic the movies.
She slouches and looks oddly at me—like girls from the past—out of the corner of her eye. Her face grows bothered. Considering her obvious displeasure, I pull away, crestfallen.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Leigh and I see one another only three times in the month of February, hardly a serious association. We go through the motions of a relationship—talk on the phone a few nights per week, discuss our jobs, nothing meaningful. Our relationship is hollow, owing to deficient communication on her part and mine; I bury myself in writing, and she in her work, which leaves us minimal time to focus on us as a couple. I assume she’s afraid I may leave (follow Dad, if he goes), thus she’s only going to get close enough—and put forth as much effort as necessary—to maintain the relationship. Nothing extra.
Valentine’s Day is uneventful. We go out to eat at TGIF and swap presents; she gives me a Bible and I present her with a plain silver bracelet I found on clearance. She doesn’t let me touch her—no hugging, no kissing. I become standoffish toward her, angry, passive aggressive. I pick up the Bible from time to time, skim through pages, but mostly use it for a doorstop. She asks me on several occasions whether I’ve been reading it. “No. No, I haven’t,” I say, my voice petulant.
* * *
The snow banks diminish and Daylight Savings Time isn’t far. Leigh and I are at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, which was my idea. Leigh has expressed her liking of museums before, and I thought this would bring us closer. The plan doesn’t seem to be working. I’m dead tired after a late night of intense writing, and I can barely keep my eyes open. I need five, ten, twenty energy drinks. Now.
We come to the Egyptian exhibit. The air is stale, dry. Ancient artifacts sit in cases on all sides of us—a sculpture in granite of the head of the goddess Bat, a wall tile of a Nubian chief, a sarcophagus of Queen Hatshepsut, a sandstone statue of King Tutankhamen’s head. I try to start a conversation with Leigh.
“That’s cool.” I point to a mummified cat behind glass.
She glances at the cat but is much more interested in the glass-encased ancient bowl she’s been eyeing. This doesn’t make any sense to me; a dead, bandaged cat is much more fascinating, in my opinion. I join her at the clay bowl, examine its red exterior, its yellowish interior, its curvy lines and strange symbols.
I read the description below the glass. “This thing’s been around like eighty times longer than us.”
“I know,” she says, jaded.
I go to hold her hand, to touch her. She stuffs her hand in a pocket before I can follow through. The refusal gives me a boost of energy, the equivalent of at least two or three cans of Red Bull.
“That’s it,” I say, bearing teeth like a cornered fox. “I can’t take this anymore. What’s wrong with us?”
Her eyes move around the room. “Umm . . . can we do this somewhere less public?”
Screw that. “I don’t care if people hear us,” I say. There’s only one other couple in here. They’re heading toward the exhibit’s exit, holding hands, smiling, goading me into jealousy.
“I do care,” she says.
We watch the couple—the Perfects—leave. “Tell me what’s going on,” I command, as though I have power in this relationship. “We can’t keep acting like this, pretending nothing’s wrong.”
She slants her head, acting Bush-dumb. “Huh?”
“You won’t let me touch you.”
We gravitate to the middle of the room, near a case full of idol statues.
She frowns. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”
“About what?” I tuck a hand in my pocket.
“We rushed into this relationship.”
“Are you having regrets?”
She wags her head. “Not regrets, per se.”
“Then what?”
“My parents.”
“What about them?”
“They don’t approve.”
“No crap.” No sugarizing of the moment. “You’ve been thinking about that?” I ask.
“James, what if we were to go further with this relationship? I don’t know if I could handle the animosity forever.”
“They hate me?” I ask, for some reason acting shocked.
She takes her time. “Pretty much.”
“Why, though?”
“They say you’re not marriage material, and you’re not the type guy I should be with.” She pauses. “Mom says you won’t be able to support a family. They think you’re a starving artist and always will be.”
My veins pop. So the Grim Reaper and Uncle Sam think I’m undeserving, eh . . .? “You don’t believe that, do you?”
She doesn’t verbalize an answer.
“They don’t even know me,” I say, anger boiling my blood. “They only know what I appear to be—a janitor, a starving artist. They don’t know me.” I watch her unexpressive face. “Look at what they’re doing to you, Leigh. Look at the power they have over you. The influence. You’re being controlled!”
Unmoving, freeze-framed again, she doesn’t say a word.
I do: “Think about it. What have they always done when they don’t approve of the things you do?”
After a second, she conjures an answer. “They make it difficult.” Her face looks surprised, like, Wow, I amaze myself.
“And don’t you see how messed up that is? They manipulate you.”
She’s speechless, like, Wow, James is right and I don’t want to admit it.
I’m not without words: “They don’t like what you’re doing, so they make it so unbearable that you feel you have no choice but to submit to their wishes.”
She doesn’t want to hear this, changes the subject. “I’ve been looking for a new job, James, and I don’t know where I’m gonna end up.”
“Is that why you’ve been so cold to me?” I ask. “I don’t know where I’m gonna end up either. . . .”
She looks at the floor, speaks in a feeble voice. “I don’t know what to say.”
* * *
Winter vanishes like a healthy relationship with Leigh. I’m roughly halfway done with the rewrite of The Forsaken World. Unfortunately, it’s not easy focusing on my writing, sitting here at my desk, because of the chaos around me. For starters, Leigh called me last night and totally shocked me:
“I got a new job, James!” she said, ecstatic.
“Where? Doing what?” I asked.
“In Portsmouth, the seacoast.”
Oh man. That’s an hour away. “Doing?”
“I’ll be working for a management company.”
Furthermore, I’ve been thinking all too often about my future, what I’m going to do if Dad leaves, where I’m going to live, and whether or not Leigh and I will be able to sustain our relationship.
Something else that doesn’t do my writing any good is the little time Leigh
and I spend together. This should be positive for my writing because I have free time on my hands, but the sadness I have for our loss of intimacy depletes my creative juices. We are still in a relationship, technically, but because we see barely any of each other, and because of our lack of communication in general, it doesn’t feel like we’re dating, let alone that we’re friends. In effect, these days, we’re acquaintances.
* * *
This afternoon, Leigh will move into a small apartment in Portsmouth—the New Hampshire seacoast, the place of her dreams and of our earliest times together. I offered to help, but she said it would be best if I left it to her father and brother. I can understand where she’s coming from; she doesn’t want or need moving day to be more stressful than it already is, and her father and I clashing would definitely create additional stress.
I try to write but can’t stop thinking about Leigh and her new apartment. I’d love to be there with her, instead of her father and brother. She and I could get her moved in, then go out and celebrate, do dinner and a movie, touch and caress and kiss in the back row of the theater. I miss the way things were between us in the beginning—hugging, kissing, holding hands.
* * *
She calls me on the first night at her apartment, scared.
“I feel so alone,” she says, as if she’s a castaway on a deserted island.
“Want me to come over?” I ask. “I can keep you company.”
“I’m not used to this bed.”
“I can be over in about an hour.”
“I keep hearing weird creaking sounds.”
“You’re in a new environment,” I say. “It’ll take a few nights to get used to it.”
“I miss home, my mom, my dad.”
How’s that possible? “Let me just throw on some clothes.”
“But I’m already in bed.”
“You don’t want me to come over?” I ask, wounded.
“It’s late.”