by Heather Levy
WALKING THROUGH NEEDLES
Heather Levy
The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Heather Levy
Cover and jacket design by Mimi Bark
ISBN 978-1-951709-38-9
eISBN: 978-1-951709-45-7
Library of Congress Control Number: available upon request
First hardcover edition June 2021 by Polis Books, LLC
44 Brookview Lane
Aberdeen, NJ 07747
www.PolisBooks.com
To Bambi for accepting every part of me,
even the sharpest pieces.
“Pain. I seem to have an affection, a kind of sweettooth for it. Bolts of lightning, little rivulets of thunder. And I the eye of the storm.”
—Toni Morrison, Jazz
Chapter 1: Sam, 1994
Sam twisted her old yellow ducky blanket, the one her grandma said she was swathed in at birth, and wrapped it tight around her throat until she couldn’t breathe.
Slowly, she counted. She thought of Arrow’s lanky body stretched out in the next bedroom, the one that had been the untouched guest room for so many years. She moved her fingers between her legs, found the spot until the familiar tickle grew. She made it to seventy-three, but the May evening was too warm and muggy, the covers clammy beneath her. She couldn’t concentrate enough for the tickle to explode heat throughout her body, so she removed her blanket from her neck and nuzzled it instead, trying not to cry again.
Sam wished for rain and thunder, for the windows of the decaying farmhouse to shake from it, the glass rattling in tune to her pulse. She wasn’t scared of storms, but Arrow was. He’d make any excuse to come to her room if there was the tiniest burst of lightning. She’d see his little jump after each flash outside her window and smile knowing she’d always have that over him, no matter how tall he got. He might be almost sixteen, but she was a year older and taller than most guys at her school. Sometimes she’d forget his age because he was strong and hard like a grown man. Like his father, Isaac.
When she thought of Arrow and Isaac infiltrating her house, her insides boiled with the unfairness of everything. She never asked for a stepfather much less a stepbrother. She never asked for any of it—the small courthouse marriage only three months after her mama met Isaac, Isaac and Arrow moving into the farmhouse when the tulips shot out of the ground all cheerful and bright just to quickly shrivel back to nothing—but her mama said it would be good to have a male influence, whatever the hell that was supposed to mean.
Sam looked at Isaac and saw someone too sure of himself to be trusted. He sauntered through her house like he’d built it with his own hands.
Isaac’s hands. She tried not to think of them, tried not to study them when Isaac was working on the farm, but it was difficult. They were beautiful. Large, long fingers, and tan so that the pale half-moons of his fingernails appeared vulnerable, like she could take a needle and easily poke it through the soft pinkness. If he had been born during the Renaissance, Michelangelo would’ve used him as a model. She had sketched pages and pages attempting to capture his hands, but he was always moving, constantly on to the next task with that unnerving sureness.
The only thing Sam had ever been sure about was getting out of Blanchard. She never went as far as saying she’d leave Oklahoma; the thought was too scary to imagine beyond visiting all the famous museums up north, a region of the country as foreign to her as living with males in her house. Knowing Isaac and Arrow had lived all over Oklahoma, even outside the state, Sam couldn’t help thinking they knew more about the world and would use it against her, make her feel naïve for having always lived in a tiny town. They didn’t know she was smarter than them because she listened when people thought she wasn’t. She knew things Isaac wouldn’t want her mama to know. She had overheard the stories about why Isaac and Arrow moved from Anadarko to Blanchard, and she would use the knowledge if she had to.
Her old border terrier, Hades, barked somewhere outside, the sound muted as Sam wrapped her blanket around her neck again, twisted it tight, tighter. She thought of Isaac’s hands, of Arrow’s sad, big brown eyes. She wondered if Arrow felt the same as her, if he wanted to be somewhere else, far away.
She imagined him in her room, watching him touch the knickknacks on her long dresser, his hands pausing then reaching out to her, caressing her face, his fingers lowering and pressing into her throat.
Tight, tighter. She counted again, her hand working faster, Isaac’s hand, Arrow’s hand, moving in her, through her, the tickle spreading wider and warmer, Arrow’s eyes pleading something, his mouth grazing hers, the blackness behind her eyes lighting up white, then heat blazing through her in sharp spasms.
She loosened her ducky blanket, gasped for breath. She knew she had come close to passing out this time. Somewhere in the fuzzy pleasure of the moment and losing count, she thought, I could die. This time was different, though. She had pictured faces, not just disembodied hands. The thought burned her cheeks so much tears came.
She’d had too many shameful thoughts since Arrow and Isaac moved in, and she often imagined God opening the ground below her, sucking her into fiery lava, her skin and muscle melting away and exposing bone like that scene with the Nazis in Raiders of the Lost Ark.
When Sam had these thoughts, she wanted to slip out of her body, pretend the thoughts belonged to someone else. She had a strong urge to go to the old guest bedroom, Arrow’s room. When she was younger, she used to sneak out of her room to sleep on the guest bed when she missed her daddy. She’d imagine her daddy sleeping next to her. He’d call her his little Biscuit, same as Grandma Haylin, and she wouldn’t even ask him why he wasn’t sleeping in the downstairs bedroom with Mama. She wouldn’t ask him why he left and never came back.
She rarely entered the room now since Arrow took it over. It didn’t smell the same. When she used to splay her body on the guest bedroom mattress and press her face into the pillow, she’d detect the hint of Aqua Velva and Marlboro Reds, the essence of her daddy. Two months of Arrow in the room and she could suck and suck, but all she could smell was the faint scent of laundry detergent and the same musky teenage boy smell that filled the school gym after PE.
Once, when she wouldn’t leave his room, her chest aching to find her daddy’s scent again, Arrow threatened to sit on her head and rip out a fart if she didn’t get out. Not wanting to leave, she made like she was stealing his headphones. He had held her down on the bed, his face inches from her own, so close she could almost lick his downy facial hair.
She closed her eyes with that image of Arrow, his warm breath on her face, her body trapped under his weight, and her hand slid into her underwear again.
***
Sam stared at her cold scrambled eggs. Since she was able to talk, she had told her mama of her deep hatred for scrambled eggs, but Isaac liked his eggs beaten to death so it didn’t matter what anyone else wanted anymore.
“Sammy, eat your breakfast.”
Sam wished the death stare she gave her mama would somehow shoot some awareness into her brain like when Grandma Haylin did it. Since her stroke last year, her grandma’s left side didn’t work as well, and she typically didn’t leave her room until the first soaps came on, but Sam knew she was up early as soon as the smell of fresh biscuits beckoned her from her bed.
Grandma Haylin pushed the plate of biscuits toward Sam and winked. “Go on—take another. Probably be another month before I feel like making them again.”
/> Her mama pouredd Isaac’s coffee and set the pot down, one hand on her round hip, the other running through her ash blonde hair in exasperation. “I’m serious, Missy. You only have five minutes to eat before you need to leave.”
“I am eating,” Sam said with a mouthful of biscuit and jam.
Her mama shook her head. “Your eggs.”
“If I eat them, can I take the car?”
Arrow smiled a little from across the table. Probably thought Sam would drop him off in style for some girl to see. No way.
Her mama went back to pouring coffee for herself, and Sam felt a no coming, which would mean walking a half-mile to the high school with Arrow shadowing along.
“Not today, Sammy. I’m working an extra shift at the shop, and your daddy’s working late at the Hunt farm.”
“He’s not my daddy.” Sam hated when her mama forced daddy on her in front of him.
Her mama huffed out a sigh, and Sam dared a look in Isaac’s direction.
He returned the look with his cocky grin before turning to Mama. “Jeri Anne, honey, I can drop you off at the shop, take a break to come getcha later.”
Her mom set a mug of coffee—light cream—in front of Isaac. “Are you sure? That’s awfully far.”
“It’s no problem. Let the girl enjoy herself while she’s young.”
“Well, okay then.” Her mama leaned over and kissed Isaac’s cheek before sitting at the table, murmuring, “Sweet man.”
Sam caught Grandma Haylin’s smirk.
Without missing a beat, Arrow asked, “Can I get a ride?”
Before Sam could say no, her mama pointed her fork at her. “What do you say to your daddy? Letting you drive our car today.”
Sam was surprised Grandma Haylin didn’t remind everyone that the car, a blue 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle, belonged to her. Just because she rarely drove it anymore didn’t mean she gave it up.
“What do you say, Sammy?”
She tried the death glare on her mama again. Still nothing.
Sam stared directly into Isaac’s eyes and released the most apathetic “thanks” she could manage before shoveling cold eggs into her mouth as fast as she could.
“Arrow gets to ride with you,” her mama said.
Sam spit out the half-chewed eggs, shooting Arrow a death glare that worked this time.
Sam tried not to think of the night before in her bed as Arrow fiddled with the Chevelle’s radio. She glanced at his hands, his fingers, and a pleasure-tremble went through her so fast she missed a stop sign.
“Holy shit,” Arrow said, slapping the dashboard. “Can you please not kill us?”
“Whatever. I’m a better driver than you’ll ever be.”
“Try driving the Hunt’s old ass tractor.”
“No thanks. No desire to be a farmer.”
Arrow laughed. “But you live on a farm.”
Sam looked over at him struggling to dig something out of his backpack.
“What?” he said. “Your plans don’t include marrying some redneck asshole and spitting out eight kids?”
“Hell no.”
“Me either.”
This time Sam laughed. She realized it was the first she’d laughed in weeks.
Arrow smiled at her as he finally found what he was looking for—one of Sam’s Greek mythology books—and set it on the armrest.
“I forgot to give this back yesterday.”
“You finished it already?” Sam tried to stifle the fear she always got when introducing someone to books she loved. Not even her best friend, Chrissy Baker, feigned interest in Greek mythology. “So, what’d you think?”
“I don’t like that Pan guy.”
The fear transformed into thrill at knowing he’d read it and formed an actual opinion.
“Why not?”
“He’s just creepy.”
She felt Arrow turn towards her, but she kept her eyes on the road.
“Okay, so he stalks that nymph chick who clearly doesn’t want him and has to ask that river god to make her into some reeds just to get away from him, and then Pan makes her into a fucking flute so she’ll never get away from him. He’s creepy.”
Sam grinned. When she read the same story to Chrissy, her friend thought it was romantic how obsessed Pan was with Syrinx.
“Did you know the word syringe comes from her name? Syrinx, syringe.”
She caught Arrow rolling his eyes.
“Is everybody’s life sad in Greek mythology?”
“No,” Sam quickly said, but then she couldn’t think of a happy story.
“Why were you crying last night?”
“What?” Arrow’s question was so unexpected, Sam’s brain felt like it had short-circuited for a second.
“Last night…I heard you when I went to the bathroom.”
“I wasn’t crying,” she lied. She knew her face was redder than boiled beets. If he heard her crying, he might’ve overhead the other things she was doing in her room.
Arrow paused a long moment before saying, “Okay. But, you know…if you were and you want to—”
“I wasn’t, okay? Jesus, mind your own business.”
Arrow shut up after that, but she refused to feel bad for him. People didn’t cry into their pillows for other people to overhear them and want to talk about it.
She had missed her daddy. That was it. Usually, she could tuck the feelings away and not think about them, but seeing Isaac doing the things her daddy used to do—leading grace before meals, feeding the goats, kissing her mama—it killed the stupid hope of her daddy coming back after ten years. She knew he’d never come back. She didn’t even know where he went. The only things he left her were his chestnut hair and dark eyes.
Sam pulled into the high school’s parking lot and found an empty spot.
Arrow paused before opening the passenger door. “I’m sorry you were sad.”
Sam looked at him, and he seemed like a little boy with his big eyes, his face so eager.
“Get out, Eric.”
He flinched at hearing his real name spit at him. Her mama had done the same before when Sam would get angry and call her Jeri; it was as if she had called her a bitch.
Arrow’s jaw tightened, and she thought he might be angry, something she hadn’t seen in him yet. She wanted to see him angry, but she didn’t know why.
He didn’t look angry, though. Disappointed, maybe. Like her mama.
“Meet back at the car by four,” she said, softer, but he had already slammed the car door.
Chapter 2: Eric, 2009
Eric Walker spread thinset on the floor, careful that the grooves he made with his trowel were deep enough to secure the bubblegum pink ceramic tile he was about to gently press down. God bless fucking America—pink tile.
Apparently, Mrs. Burkart thought remodeling her bathroom with a new neon version of the original pink tile he tore out was “restoring” her historic home. She was a frosted cupcake of a woman, all sprinkled cheer and spray-tan—likely some administrative assistant for an oil and gas bigwig.
No one was around, so Eric had cussed loudly as he destroyed the 1940s blush-pink subway tile. It reminded him of an old farmhouse he once lived in and of a beautiful tall girl who hated the pink bathroom they had to share.
Eric set a new plus-sign spacer, laid more adhesive, pressed another tile, set another spacer—over and over until the small bathroom looked like the inside of a Pepto-Bismol bottle. When he finally stood up, his left leg buckled under him until he regained feeling. His shitty leg. If anyone ever asked about the jagged scar on the back of his upper calf, he told them it was from an old football injury although he’d never set foot on a field. Only a handful of people knew the real story and half of those people could be dead now for all he knew.
Mrs. Burkart’s Persian meowed loudly, and Eric stopped buffing the last of the grout dust from the fresh tiles. Like every other day that week as he worked on the
bathroom, the cat was warning him of her owner’s arrival. Mrs. Burkart walked over to check out his finished work, the cat twisting to get free from her arms and doing a good job of snagging a silky blue blouse that probably cost more than his entire outfit, work boots included.
The woman gave up and released the cat. “So, you’re all done, huh?”
Eric surveyed the space again to make sure every pink tile was dust-free. They were. “Yeah, looks like it.” He heard his voice crack from underuse and shifted his weight to his right leg.
Mrs. Burkart held her large red Coach purse, but she didn’t open it. By the way the sun filtered through the bathroom window, Eric estimated it to be damn close to five. He needed to hit the bank before it closed, but Mrs. Burkart continued to stand there, admiring the work done.
“This looks so great. I can’t wait to take a bath in here.” She looked at him and smiled, the creases around her eyes deeper than he remembered. Maybe she was older than he thought, but the fake tan made it hard to tell. “You ever sneak in a shower when an owner’s at work? Just to clean up?”
He looked away from her and muttered, “No.”
“You can sneak one now, if you want. Pretend I’m not here. Or not.”
He glanced up to see her smile again, the kind that made his groin tingle and tighten.
He almost accepted her offer, but the oppressive August heat made him think the better of it. He needed the cash for a new air condenser unit a hell of a lot more than he needed this frilly woman. “Uh, thanks, but I gotta head out. Got another job early in the morning.”
“On a Saturday?” The smile sagged a little in disappointment that her handyman fantasy wasn’t going to happen. “Sure. Okay.”
After she cut the check, Eric hopped into his black F-150 and sped over to the woman’s credit union, which was way south in Midwest City, the opposite direction of his home in historic Gatewood. He would’ve gone to his own bank, but he knew there’d be at least a three-day hold on the funds with the ninety-seven dollars he currently had in his account. He had more than that on hand, but he liked to keep his money close.