Designing Morgan

by Lucey Phillips

  “I want the credibility. Ok? Happy? I never won any awards. I never did anything cool with my art. No one noticed me.”

  Sophie took a deep breath. “Ok. I get it. I think you’re supposed to enjoy being creative, not collecting admiration. But I get it. I support you.”

  “Gee thanks.” We were almost to Sophie’s house. I was ready to be alone, but I didn’t know what to say to her or how I was supposed to say goodbye.

  Finally Sophie broke the silence.

  “Have you thought any more about that Tommy guy?”

  “From the craft fair?”

  “Yeah,” Sophie said. “He sent an email to Candy Blue’s web site.”

  “Well it hasn’t been keeping me up at night, but I did kind of wonder how much money he wanted to offer us,” I said. “What if it’s, like, a lot?”

  “I thought about that, too. The email says he wants to meet with us and discuss our options.”

  I wrinkled my nose when she said that. “I don’t know. Seems kind of scammy. And even if it’s not a scam, it’s kind of a weird business model.” I smiled. “He was a hottie though.”

  “Morgan, I never thought I’d say this, but maybe we should just see what he has to say,” Sophie said. “It seems like Candy Blue is on shaky ground. You’re not happy.”

  “Well. Are you happy? Or do you want out?”

  “I love the work. Candy Blue is like my baby,” Sophie said. “I don’t want it to end. Or even change. But sometimes it feels like we’re imploding. You don’t know what you want. A lot of times you’re straight up resentful about your responsibilities to the business. This could be the answer: the business goes on even if this doesn’t.” She pointed to herself and me while she said “this.”

  “What do you mean ‘this’?” I asked. I was starting to cry.

  “Our dynamic—our work partnership,” Sophie said. She was crying now too. “Not our friendship, ok? Just our business partnership—we’ll always, you know, be us.”

  “So we would, like, get other jobs?”

  “Not necessarily. We would have a lump sum and then we’d have royalties,” Sophie said.

  “But it sounds like the work you do would be taken over by them,” I said. “And I know you, Soph. Even if they gave us a huge lump sum and tons of royalties coming in every month, you would find another job. You’d lose your mind just sitting around doing nothing.”

  Now we were parked outside of her house. I didn’t want her to go but I didn’t want to continue this conversation.

  “I guess. But we don’t have to work together to be friends,” Sophie said.

  “No,” I said. “You’ll get married some day and you’ll have kids and I might be doing other stuff too.”

  “I don’t think it will be like that.”

  “Ok,” I said, nodding.

  “Ok.” Sophie opened the door and stepped out.

  7.

  I didn’t realize I was pacing between my bathroom and front door until the third time I almost collided with Franklin in the bathroom doorway. He only followed me around like this when I was nervous.

  Lee was supposed to be here any minute to pick me up for our first date. I would wander toward the front door to look for his vehicle, then back to the bathroom to either pee or check my reflection for any embarrassing weirdness like a spice in my tooth or something tragic dangling from my nose.

  I wore my hair down. I was wearing jeans and a completely impractical tank top. It would be too chilly tonight for the tank top, so I was bringing a hoodie. I just wanted Lee to see me in something that wasn’t shaped like a potato sack, even if it was just for a few minutes.

  Finally I heard a motor idling in front of my house. I looked out the window one last time. It was pretty much the last thing I expected a hipster Ph.D. student to be driving—a big silver pickup truck. It was even up on giant knobby mud tires. I said goodbye to Franklin and headed outside.

  Lee was getting out of his truck. A pretty smile spread across his face when he saw me and said hello. He told me I looked nice, opened the passenger side door, and offered a hand to help me in, but I didn’t need it.

  Tonight he looked a little less hipster than usual, which was a good thing considering we were headed to an A-league baseball game. The crowds at those games were known to get a little rowdy—especially around the seventh inning right before they stopped selling beer.

  He was wearing a T-shirt with some band name I didn’t recognize and he had on jeans and Keene shoes. His eyes were as dark and sparkly as ever. I thought, for the millionth time, this man could be a model.

  “Where’s your mitt?” he asked me with a playful tone. “What if a foul ball comes our way?”

  “I don’t need no sissy mitt! I’ll catch it with my bare hands,” I said.

  Lee laughed loudly and held his right palm up toward me. “Let’s see.”

  It was a corny move, but I decided to play along. I pressed my left palm against his right palm and lined my fingers up with his. My fingertips almost reached his last knuckle. His skin was warm. I was surprised to feel some roughness and calluses.

  “Oh yeah, you’ve got some catching paws for sure,” he said, still smiling.

  “Well, don’t be scared if a ball comes our way. I’ll protect you,” I said with a giggle.

  I couldn’t tell if his laugh was sincere or just polite. I smiled anyway.

  “This is a nice vehicle,” I said. “I didn’t know you were a truck guy.”

  “It’s the glasses, I know,” Lee said hanging his head in pretend shame. “But yeah, in the town where I’m from, in upstate New York, everybody has a truck.”

  He told me about growing up in his tiny town in the Adirondacks. As a kid playing in the forest, he came across arrowheads and other artifacts from the native people.

  “It always seemed so magical to me—that people, families, traveled through those same mountains. We think there were a couple settlements there but for the most part, people didn’t live there, just passed through.”

  He explained how the Mohawk and Iroquois nations traveled through the Adirondacks, fought there, and used the area for hunting more than 5,000 years ago.

  His little monologue gave me that dreamy feeling I get right before I come up with an idea for a new painting or collage or sculpture. I thought about all the materials they would have used for their clothes and tools and homes. I could do an interesting sculpture or even a collection of artworks using those materials. It could explore some big themes, something about disposability versus permanence.

  “Yeah, I get it,” I said. “I definitely see the appeal of what you’re studying. I wish I knew more about it. We only had a couple units on Native American crafts in my art history classes.”

  Later, as we stood in line for tickets, a man and woman in front of us were arguing. The woman was very tall and skinny with blonde hair and black roots. She was probably taller than Lee. She wore short cutoff jeans and a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. A black lace bra was showing through the holes where sleeves had been. The man—maybe her husband or boyfriend—was a good ten inches shorter than her. He was overweight and had a shaved head.

  “I didn’t do anything,” she said to him in a loud, hissing voice.

  “I know what I saw,” the man said. His voice was high-pitched and didn’t seem to fit his body’s build. “You don’t go hugging and grinning at old friends like that.”

  “Nothing’s going on, Dan,” the blonde woman said to him. “Jesus, you’re so weird sometimes.”

  A classier, more mature woman probably would have pretended to ignore what was happening in front of us, but I couldn’t hide my voyeuristic glee.

  I looked at Lee with wide eyes, as if to say: Are you catching this? Free show!

  He looked back at me with a half-smile and he shook his head. Lee actually understood me and conveyed some amused disappointment in my rubbernecking. I totally deserved it.

  The couple ahead of us continued to bicker as
the line inched forward. When the man put his hand on the woman’s arm, above her elbow, and pulled her toward him, the spectacle was suddenly less amusing.

  He grabbed the woman’s phone from her hand. She was thrown off balance, and as she stumbled, one sandal went flying from her foot. The man kept his hand on her arm until she caught her balance. Then the woman jerked her arm away from him and rubbed the spot he had grabbed. He shoved her phone in his pocket. She recovered her shoe and stood with her arms folded across her chest, looking away from him.

  A guilty feeling crawled into my stomach as I looked away from the couple and toward my feet. I felt Lee’s arm rest gently on my shoulders. He leaned down and whispered in my ear, “Sorry about this.”

  I looked up at him and gave him a smile that I hoped told him everything was ok. I felt sorry too—for a lot of things.

  The Highlands Copperheads were playing the Chesapeake Soldiers. It was an embarrassing massacre of our “Snakes.” Well, embarrassing for the actual fans. At the single-A level, you have a handful of really hardcore fans. Then everyone else in the stands is just there because it’s something to do in our small city. It happened to be dollar draft night, so yeah, there was that.

  I tried to pay attention when someone was batting, to make sure I didn’t get beaned with a foul ball in the small ballpark. But other than that, Lee and I didn’t really watch the game. We had plenty to talk about. Sometimes it was forced, new-friend conversation about favorite movies and music. Other times our exchanges had an organic flow of their own and I thought maybe there was some actual chemistry between us—something that went a little deeper than the fact that we were both good-looking people in higher education.

  “Are you sick of people asking you what you’re going to do with your degree?” I asked Lee.

  “I’m used to it. I guess the ‘professional student’ comments kind of bother me,” he said. “But really I get it—people feel like their lives should follow this cookie-cutter career and family flowsheet. If someone steps an inch outside of that—if they go off-script in any way—some people take it as an attack on their own choices.”

  I nodded. “Not everyone in my life is like this, but I do think I’m lucky to have friends and family who can actually be happy for other peoples’ happiness whether that fits their mold or not.”

  “I hope I’m one of those people,” Lee said. He smiled and tilted his box of popcorn toward me.

  It was the bottom of the seventh inning. Lee and I had sampled almost everything at the concession stand and drunk our share of discount beer. It was getting chilly. After I shoved my hands into the front pocket of my sweatshirt, Lee asked me if I wanted to leave, maybe get a coffee on our way home.

  We split up to go to the restrooms on our way out. As I was drying my hands in the bathroom, the crowd erupted into cheers. Something must have happened. Maybe the Copperheads finally got a run. I didn’t see Lee when I left the restroom, so I wandered back toward the stairway to check the scoreboard.

  I stood on my tiptoes to see we’d gotten a two-run homer. The crowd’s screaming died down—except for one shrieking voice. And it definitely wasn’t a cheer. The screams had a raw quality that made my heart pound. Without thinking I ran toward the sound.

  The screams were slowing down now and sometimes they were muffled. It seemed like they were coming from under the stands. They were interspersed with low grunts. I looked around for a police officer or anyone who could help me, but the area was vacant except for a couple of high-school age girls wandering by. I ran through an opening between the stairs and the concession stand.

  Beneath the stands, the gravel-covered ground was littered with cups and food wrappers. It smelled like stale beer. And it was dark. I looked behind me, wondering if I should get Lee. But I couldn’t make my body take me away from the sound of a person who was terrified and probably in pain.

  I walked forward slowly. When my eyes finally adjusted, I could see two bodies in a struggle. One bigger body was a bent over lump. From the ground there were thin, branch-like arms and legs flailing all over the place. I had no idea what to do. I picked up a rock and then walked a little closer. I saw a short, very round body leaning over a body on the ground. From the sound of the screams, I knew it must be a woman on the ground, probably a man standing over her.

  The man was holding the woman’s hair and slapping her face. As soon as I saw the hair I knew who it was—the couple who had been in front of us in the ticket line.

  It took a moment for my mind to put the pieces together. Then, almost involuntarily, a fiery scream burst from my lungs. “Heeeyyy!” I said so loudly and forcefully that my throat burned.

  I threw the rock I was holding. It was pitiful. It only reached halfway to the man.

  “Leave her alone,” I screamed.

  The man gave the woman’s torso a kick and then ran away. I ran toward her and kneeled beside her, garbage all around me.

  Her face was swollen and red, but I recognized her hair and her clothes.

  “Are you ok?” I asked. I reached for my phone, thinking I could call 911.

  The woman responded only with moans and sobs.

  Then I heard footsteps crunching loud and fast in the trash and gravel behind me. I saw a silhouette that I could tell belonged to Lee.

  “Morgan? Morgan?” He sounded panicky.

  “I’m ok,” I said. “She needs the police or an ambulance or something.”

  Lee looked at me carefully then looked to the woman on the ground. He kneeled beside her and asked her “What hurts?”

  She sniffled and rubbed her eyes. “I’m ok.” She started to stand up.

  “Easy,” Lee said. He stayed beside her with one hand close to her back and one hand near her arm. He seemed careful not to touch her. She was all gangly limbs and rocky balance. She leaned forward, placed two palms on the filthy ground, and then scooted her feet beneath her. First she raised her hips and butt up into the air, then stabilized herself, then slowly straightened up and stood. For a moment she reminded me of a baby horse standing for the first time.

  My mouth was hanging open. Lee made brief eye contact with me, his face looking more grave than I’d ever seen it.

  The woman pulled her T-shirt up revealing a pale, muscled abdomen. She wiped her face on the underside of her T-shirt. Then she straightened her clothes, stumbled her first step, and walked gingerly back toward the concession area. Lee looked at me again, this time with wide eyes, and I shrugged.

  “Let’s get you to the medics so they can check you out,” he said. “And let’s find the police.” My heart was still pounding but I felt grateful that Lee was there.

  “No medics,” the woman said, her voice hoarse. “No cops.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked her.

  She started walking faster, turned a corner, and was gone.

  “Well. That was weird,” I said, my voice still rough. I pointed toward his jeans, which were now stained at the knees. “I think you have a skittle stuck to your knee.” I still wasn’t sure what do to. I guess Lee wasn’t sure either. For a moment we just stood there, brushing the dirt off of our jeans.

  Finally he said, “I think we should tell the police.”

  “Yeah, I saw a deputy by the gate to the outfield.”

  We found the deputy and told him what happened. He made some notes and said he would check the security cameras. He thanked us for reporting what we saw, but said without a cooperative victim, the investigation probably wouldn’t get very far.

  Lee and I went back the restrooms to try and clean up after wading through the garbage under the stands. When I left the bathroom, I found Lee standing almost inside the exit hallway of the women’s bathroom. He was drying his hands on his t-shirt.

  “Wow that was quick,” I said.

  Lee looked at me carefully and then we started walking toward the parking lot. “Yeah. Not to be stalker-ey, or anything, but I didn’t like what happened last time we were separated. You ok?”
<
br />   “Yeah. I’m fine. I feel bad for her.”

  “Me too. She probably went home with him.”

  I don’t know if it was empathy or just my adrenaline and blood-alcohol content colliding, but suddenly there were tears balancing on the rims of my bottom eyelids. I kept my head down and more tears came.

  When I sniffled and brought my sleeve up to my face, Lee whispered, “Hey,” as he gently pulled on my arm and then wrapped his arms around me.

  I pressed my face into his chest and hugged him tight.

  “You did great,” Lee said. He stroked my hair. “Most people wouldn’t do what you did.”

  I stopped fighting the tears. He kissed the top of my head.

  We got some drive-through coffee and headed to my house. We parked and sat in Lee’s truck, sipping the coffee carefully, waiting for it to cool. I felt calmer now, but for some reason there was still a fine tremble in my fingertips.

  I looked toward my house. I’d left the porch light and a kitchen light on. From here, my home cast a cozy glow.

  “Have you ever been afraid of the dark?” I asked Lee. It was a weird question, but it had been a weird night.

  “As a kid, I guess. I hated going to the basement by myself.”

  “I still am, sometimes,” I said. “I think it comes with being a creative person. It’s too easy to sense—or maybe just imagine—bad stuff.”

  “Are you going to tell me you believe in ghosts and aliens?” The playful glint had returned to Lee’s eyes.

  I didn’t feel playful, though. That woman’s screams were still sharp in my ears. “No.” I said before a long pause. Lee sat patiently while I tried to decide on the words I needed.

  “I’m trying to tell you that I’m not ready to go home yet—to be in my empty house after what just happened.” I trusted Lee to understand that this wasn’t some sort of move or a coy way of inviting him in to see my bedroom. Even someone with zero intuition would be able to see that my refusal of eye contact and clenched hands were not part of a “come-hither” look.

  Lee nodded and took another sip of coffee. Finally he gave me a small smile said, “I’m not in a hurry to end our date.”