by Camille Roy
Alice would nod at me from her rocker and smile. I sat down on the floor as her nods tapered off into the rhythm of whatever music happened to be playing. One day I started massaging her shoulders, and I just kept going, pushing her shirt’s large white buttons one after another through their holes. The dark purple shirt slipped down and spread out around her waist. Her tits looked beautiful above it. Her areoles were large; when I gathered up her breasts her nipples hardened. Then she put her shirt back on, like that was the end of a thought.
I kept expecting something more to happen. It had to, because she’d led me to believe it already had, or something.
A visit with Alice possessed so much calming emptiness that I left her room with nostalgia for emotion. Was this good? Well, I told myself, at least it made sense. Where other people had history and personality, Alice had nothing, at least nothing that showed. She had become simple, like an abstraction, with intelligence humming somewhere under the drugs.
3. Stalker
I needed a holiday. When Cheryl appeared in my doorway, slumped and gossiping, I told her this, and she said,
—What, are you having difficulties adjusting?
—Not really. Are you?
We had an uneasy silent moment. Words push up when they’re ready, you know? Think of all the hours you spend not speaking, living without words, in the lather of your incomprehension… Cheryl is probably fucking Sammy, I thought to myself. I envied Cheryl the blazing certainty of being straight. Even though heterosexuality seemed like a sort of suburb, she was one with that planned community. Whereas my little stab at queerness amounted to…a possibly imaginary escapade. I shuddered in the doubt of not knowing what had happened. Uncertainty such as mine was the lowest form of sexual life.
How Sammy had appeared was something of a mystery, but he was the boyfriend, with his pressed slacks and soft New Jersey accent.
I liked Sammy. At nineteen, he was utterly adult, and weary, and so dry that his jokes made the inside of my mouth pucker. People like that sometimes pop out of the grinding machinery of ancient religions. Fuck homelands, he used to say, the way that other people say forgeddaboutit. Cheryl was Jewish. Sammy’s parents were Christian Palestinians and he regarded religion as part torture, part embarrassment.
If Sammy wasn’t around and his name was mentioned, Cheryl’s face wrenched into an odd grimace. At one of those moments she said,
—Should I tell my mother I have a boyfriend, and he’s from Palestine? She loves Palestine, hah hah. Cheryl seemed to sag, with a look more nausea than love, as she did whenever our conversation went anywhere near the topic of Sammy or sex.
And there she was in my doorway, sagging. The stricken look had come back. Whatever she was thinking about, she was making slow and difficult progress. Finally she shook her ponytail and said,
—Come home with me for the weekend.
We left on Friday in a borrowed car, and got to her parents’ house by dinner. They lived in a brick bungalow in a development of bungalows, the post-war type with lots of tiny bedrooms. The streets were wide and curved and empty. Cheryl’s parents’ house was nearly overshadowed by its front yard bushes.
—Pot roast. Oh, fabulous, Cheryl said sarcastically the moment she walked in the door.
—You’re home. Home. Where you belong!
Cheryl’s mother smashed Cheryl against her apron. Cheryl’s brother raised his big hands and clasped her. I noticed that he was…slow. Had she told me that?
—CHERyl, CHERyl…His voice cracked and soared eerily.
Cheryl’s father quietly glided into his reserved spot next to her mom. He shook my hand.
I enjoyed everything: the tiny dining room, the grainy pot roast, the little red potatoes, the green beans, the floury yellow cake with strawberries just for Cheryl. All I had to do was eat and watch and listen to Cheryl and her mother carry on about all the usual school topics, interrupted now & then by Cheryl’s brother Henry’s ragged inquiries. Cheryl’s father said nothing at all.
Henry looked great, so it was a big surprise every time he opened his mouth. His hair was thick and black and his skin was smooth. He had a large square Republican jaw. I judged him to be a little older than Cheryl. In fact, he wasn’t that mentally disabled. He didn’t have a job, but he did volunteer for political campaigns. He had a collection of buttons in his room, all advocating fiscal responsibility.
—Henry is a Republican, Cheryl said, her face twisted up with regret.
It was hours later. Dinner was over and everyone had withdrawn into their tiny rooms. We were in Cheryl’s, which was soft yellow and creamy pink and plushy. Her pillows had fur.
—Well, Henry is not completely…
—Sammy’s not Republican. I wouldn’t fuck a Republican.
That word. I skipped a beat.
—I wouldn’t either.
The silence smiled on our agreement, or so I thought. But Cheryl had entered one of her moods. Her features glazed over, distracted by drama within. I waited, and when she came back, it was with a new quality: stubbornness. She told me she wasn’t using birth control.
—I just don’t want to.
—Do you want to get pregnant?
—Of course not.
Whatever. I didn’t say, Hmm, I had the impression that not using birth control could get you pregnant. Why push it? The truth was I had never used it myself.
She gave me a blanket and a furry pillow and I curled up on her soft rug and listened to her breathing deeply and regularly in her sleep. I was a pea, and this was my pod. Cheryl was my sister pea.
In the morning, I sat with the males of the family, watching a golf tournament on TV while Cheryl and her mother fussed over waffles. At some point Cheryl’s mother walked into the living room with the day’s mail. She stared at a postcard, puzzled.
—There’s a postcard for Camille.
My heart, or something. Nubs of dread sprouted on the broad fields of my tongue. I took the card, which was post-office issue, no picture. On the back was the message Time and Time Again, in shaky spooky-on-purpose script, then the initials W.S.
—What is that? asked Cheryl.
—I’ve been getting weirdo cards, I said, sort of helplessly. They’re all signed W.S. but the handwriting is never the same.
I didn’t tell them this was one of the tame ones.
Everyone shut up and looked at me. I felt crushed. The idea I’d been clinging to, that these cards were related to some wacko but not unfriendly art project, I finally acknowledged to be unlikely. Especially after the W.S. card I’d gotten earlier in the week. I described it to them: a postcard of two black kittens, their eyes gouged with a red ballpoint into gaping blood-stained holes.
—How did she get a postcard here? Cheryl’s mother asked. Someone must be watching her.
—You’re being stalked, Cheryl declared.
—Somebody hates me, I said, frowning uncertainly. I kind of want to kill him.
—Don’t kill him, Cheryl’s brother bellowed. That’s wrong!
Over breakfast, the family discussed what I should do: ignore it, or not, seemed to be the choices. What can I say? It counted, but it didn’t add up.
In truth, heretofore attraction seemed bizarre, anyway, and these cards were just illustrations of that fact, like heavy breathing in a movie. They’d come in the mail, I’d toss them in a drawer and go out.
But now fear arrived. It scrambled my memory of everyone I’d spoken to since I’d arrived at school. On the drive back, I wondered whose rubbery smile, or blank stare, or carefully averted eyes concealed an insane obsession—with me, of all people. I had an enemy. I felt like gagging. Malice as miasma had drifted into my life. I discussed various possibilities with Cheryl but we couldn’t pin anything down. It irritated me terribly that this was by intention.
Little by little, fear was transformed into something more bearable, a weird and electrical edginess. I did all I could to hold it in as we walked back into the dorm, making a beeline f
or my room. We passed Erik. Cheryl grabbed him by the arm and told him to come with us. Erik, looking pained, permitted himself to be dragged along.
I showed them the kitten card. It had a title across the bottom in delicate script: Black Mischief. Red teardrops fell from the kittens’ red eye sockets and dripped from their little white teeth. There was a poem written on the back:
Thoughts of you
cling like dog shit
to my shoes.
—W.S.
I emptied the drawer where I’d been stashing the cards, and handed them over. I hadn’t realized how they’d been piling up. One card showed Jesus in thick 3-D, murky irradiated browns and greens. He was knocking on a cottage door, his eyes soulful as a puppy, with yellow rays spilling around his head. “O earth, earth, earth, Hear the word of the Lord,” was printed across the bottom.
—This is so weird, Erik said solemnly.
—Camille you need to get a diagnosis, Cheryl ventured. For these cards. You need to figure out what you’re dealing with.
Diagnosis! The word itself shone with a bright medical light.
—How do we get that?
—Erik, you’re in a psych class…
—Dr. Marshall? I don’t know. She’s peculiar.
Erik was reluctant to go to Dr. Marshall because… she brought food to class that she hungrily watched her students eat, as she talked about her diet, which was very demanding but which had enabled her to lose over 200 pounds.
—She’s a matchstick with lots of loose skin. That’s okay, but she talks about it in every class. It makes me uncomfortable.
—Well, this isn’t a food issue.
We all looked at the postcards spread out on the bed. Erik sighed.
—Alright.
The following Wednesday I put the postcards in a brown manila envelope and we all walked to Dr. Marshall’s office, which was a few blocks off campus. Erik knocked and we were called into her office. It was tastefully furnished with a walnut desk set and dark green armchairs, atmosphere dabbed with air freshener. The doctor strode from behind her desk, clasped our hands firmly. Her beige suit of heavy crepe hung loosely on her shrunken frame.
—Sit down, she said, with an expansive wave towards the chairs.
Her gestures were still those of a much larger person.
—So what can I help you with?
She carefully studied me. A thin brown cigarette trailed smoke.
I repeated what Erik had told her on the phone. She listened without comment, flicking through the postcards one by one. Then she spread them out on her desk in a fan, examined the postmarks, and sorted them in the order in which they’d arrived.
Finally, deliberately, she spoke.
—These postcards are from a male. I don’t think he’ll try to hurt you. However, you might find a dead cat in your closet.
She put the postcards back in the manila envelope and patted it.
I sagged. My breath released in a gush.
—Thank you, Dr. Marshall, I babbled.
Dr. Marshall gave me a crisp, sympathetic smile, and ushered us out. The whole appointment took less than ten minutes.
—What the fuck was she talking about, Cheryl said under her breath after the office door clicked shut.
—I told you she’s weird, Erik said.
—Guys, stop.
They looked at me.
—This is what we wanted, right? She told me what to expect, and I can handle it. It’s sad of course… but I’ll get janitorial services to clean out the closet.
4. Nadine
It was a peculiar couple of days. Cheryl, looking grim, left town, this time with Sammy. Erik was holed up with his long-rumored girlfriend. He finally told me her name: Jill. I was left alone to wait, with no deadline, for a postcard or dead cat. The waiting dragged on all Friday night and through Saturday morning until I opened my door and found Nadine, her blunt-cut blond hair swinging against her neck. I had met her at field hockey try-outs. I was taking a whack at the ball when she showed up dragging a hockey stick. Neither of us made it to the second round, and we had bonded over that. Now she grinned in my doorway, a lean girl in jeans with skin the color of honey. She came in, we sat around in my room and nothing much happened except her lips pressed into the flesh under my ear. I got so excited I felt sick. I didn’t know what I could do with her, but I thought it might be a long list.
—Be sweet, lady, she said, after I mumbled goodbye.
Sunday afternoon I heard another knock. I opened the door and it was Nadine. She ran her slim hand around my crotch, right in the doorway. Her kisses were almost bites. It was hot and appalling, standing there with Nadine-wholooked-like-a-Breck-girl, my thrills and confusion pulsing outward from her thin, hard lips. Nobody saw, but I was ready in case they did. I felt weirdly legitimate, legs spread to her fingers. Was that the power of her good looks?
We messed around awhile and then went for a walk. One of the frat houses we passed was having a beer bash and Nadine insisted on going in. She entered their wet t-shirt contest, tottering down a plank held up by two chairs, the pink flush of her nipples visible through white cotton. Of course she won—Nadine was perfect—and the frat boys toasted her, beer sloshing over the rims of their plastic cups. After we left, I told her I thought the party was horrible, and Nadine just cackled.
—It could’ve been worse. I could’ve lost the contest.
At my door, she gave me a quick hug and sidled off down the hall. It wasn’t what I expected, but she’d turned the corner before I had time to react. Then I didn’t see her for a week. All that week, whenever I thought of Nadine, the pleasures of girls opened in front of me like a pit. I resolved to just do things with her, like whatever she wanted, if she ever turned up again.
Knock, knock.
—Hey you.
—Hey.
She pulled out her wallet and showed me her hottest latest thing: a fake I.D. that said she was twenty-one. It was greenish and laminated and had a photograph and a thumb print under the title, ‘Official Identification Card.’
—It looks cheesy.
—It works. And I know where to get more, at only ten bucks apiece. I’ll take you. Then we can go to the gay bar tonight.
It sounded like a reasonable plan. We borrowed a car and drove into Toledo, past blocks and blocks of houses with bars on the windows and mismatched shingles. The fake I.D. guy was in his sixties and moved like an old turtle. His garage was full of decaying appliances that at one point had perhaps been candidates for repair. He did his fake I.D. business on a table in the back of the garage. He typed my info onto the card, then inked and squashed my thumb into the box labeled ‘Thumbprint.’ He slapped the laminate on it and handed me my card.
—Wow.
The parameters of adulthood expanded to include me. Touched by the honor. I stuck the card in my rear pocket and walked out of the garage with a bit of a swagger.
Nadine was right about the bar; we flashed our cards and got in with no problem. I wanted to sit and crowd watch, nursing my whiskey sour, but she had other ideas. So I sat in my booth and watched her: Nadine flitting from dyke to dyke, running her fingers through her blond hair and jerking her head back as she flashed her grin. I watched her stop at someone tall and butch, with blue eyes so dark they were strange, and a smile that was right there—direct and warm. Nadine thrust one breast out and stood with her hips cocked, concealing her slightly crooked spine. Her posture pressed her perfect nipples into the white cotton t-shirt. A dazzled shudder ran through me.
Did I like being with her? Could I stand it? It did get me into some sort of beauty bubble; I had to qualify just to get an invitation. That was something. I watched Nadine slide into a booth, and lean over the laps of some laughing dykes. What was she nuzzling?
With an effort I looked down. There were orange & blue lights reflecting rainbows in my glass. Then I watched the different groups rub across one another. Fags clustered at the bar, in a bubble world of sports jackets and
jeans. Occasionally one would break away and prance, the others laughing. The women were raucous and more shabby, sprawled in the pit and the wings off the dance floor. Nadine had told me in this club the dykes were impossible to tell apart from the whores. They looked as though they were all wearing the same mask, and that interested me more than anything. It was the mystery I wanted, I could feel myself headed towards it though I didn’t move.
It’s hard to explain. There was the feeling of my body moving faster than my thoughts—simple forward momentum. Then a drop-off. When you stop you go splat, or something. That’s how you learn what you’re doing.
At last call, she came back to me. I got her home in a cab and we made out in the back. It felt like practice, her thin lips swimming against my neck. I could sense Nadine’s willingness and disinterest at the same time. When the cab stopped I pushed the door open and leaned into the darkness; there was a garage looming out of a grove of white trees with papery bark. Nadine was already trotting around the cab, headed for a side door, up a narrow flight of stairs—her room was over the garage.
I paid, then followed Nadine up into a small studio with not much in it but a mattress, white boards on cinder blocks, and neatly shelved books. Most were by 19th Century American writers. I picked up a book that was on the floor by the bed—a collection of essays by Emerson.
—So this is your private life.
She cocked her hip, lifted the beer, ran her fingers through her hair—the whole bar vocabulary. But she was talking about quiet evenings and philosophy. Jazz, with a background of crickets. I couldn’t even follow what she was saying, it seemed so out of character. She rolled her eyes in exasperation and began pulling at my shirt. When she’d uncovered my belly button she ground her knuckle into it, sending nerve pulses into my gut that grated inside. Nauseating and sexual. Then we were wrestling.
I caught a glimpse of a black window with bare branches pressed against it and her face floated by with a look of weird romance. Somehow my shirt came off. It landed with one shirt sleeve stretched out while the rest made a white cotton pile on the floor. As I jerked my foot around the sleeve she got me off balance, bent over. In a headlock, I let myself fall. I thought we’d roll around among clothes, two girls, smooth and jabbering.