Touching Strangers

by Stacey Madden

  “Watch out—it’s Vampirella and the Albino Kid!” one ofthem shouted, and the others burst out laughing.

  “Must have been a long trip from Transylvania,” another said.

  Aaron remembered the look on Samantha’s face: a calm,glacial hatred.

  “You want to go back?” he asked her under his breath, butshe shook her head.

  Together, they slipped awkwardly into the shallow end. Thewater was freezing. Aaron was uncomfortably aware of the flaccidity of his penis and the retreat of his testicles in the interiormesh of his trunks as he waded about. He felt emasculated byboth the water and the rambunctious alpha-males at the otherend of the pool.

  Samantha crouched to lower her shoulders underwater. Shesaid something that Aaron couldn’t hear, due to the splashing andhollering of the frat boys, so he moved towards her and put hishand to his ear.

  “There must be a lot of chlorine in here,” she said loudly. “The water smells like bleach.”

  Aaron was going to say something about chlorine preventingthe spread of waterborne diseases when one of the idiots said,“Bleach? Maybe it’s just your skin melting!”

  “Haha, yeah,” another one chimed in. “Or it’s coming offyour boyfriend’s hair.”

  “Get out of the pool, Edward Cullen! You’re poisoning the water!”

  An eruption of boisterous laughter echoed through thepool room.Aaron wanted to say something back, somethingclever and vicious and disarming, but his mind was dampenedby anger.All he managed to say was, “Come on, guys, easeup.” It sounded like an invitation to further mockery, and heregretted it immediately.

  The frat boys were all in the pool now, moving slowlytoward the shallow end. Aaron felt like he and Samantha werescraps of chum in shark-infested waters.

  From the corner of the pool came Samantha’s voice. “Iguess you’re a big Twilight fan,” she said, sharply, lookingdirectly into the face of the scruffy, greasy-haired guy who’dmade the reference.

  Aaron saw his friends’ mouths drop simultaneously, beforethey burst out laughing, splashing him with water and shoutingthings like, “Burned by the broad!” and “Jared’s a fag!”

  The one they called Jared tried to laugh it off, but his facebetrayed his embarrassment, as well as his annoyance at beingshown up by Samantha.

  “Hey,” Jared said, nodding at her, his voice prickly withcontempt. “Congratulations on squeezing your fat ass into thatbathing suit. That’s quite an accomplishment.”

  “Fuck you,” Aaron spat over Jared’s friends’ chorus ofOoooooohs, but Jared seemed not to hear it.

  Samantha remained stone-faced, though Aaron knew howshe must feel inside. She’d been complaining to him about herweight recently. He’d told her many times how great she looked,but Samantha wouldn’t have any of it. The truth was the extraweight suited her, made her look robust and healthy—sexy,too—and this Jared asshole knew it as well as he did.

  Finally Samantha nudged Aaron’s arm and turned to climbout of the pool. She did so sideways, hoisting her legs up overthe pool’s edge in a scissor-like motion, so as not to turn herback on Jared and his cronies, though probably also to hide herrear-end. Aaron’s heart was broken for her. He wanted nothing more than to beat the living shit out of Jared in thatmoment—to murder him, even—but he was weak and outnumbered.The safe thing, the loyal thing, was to follow hisgirlfriend out of the pool. He’d already started trying to thinkof ways to make her laugh.

  “Where you going, babe?” Jared called. “Did I scare you and Igor off?”

  Aaron turned to see him wading swiftly through the watertowards them. When he turned back around, he saw thatSamantha was almost at the hot tub, near the exit. Aaron quickened his pace to catch up with her, slipped, and fell hard onto thedeck. He looked up to see Jared’s dripping trunks rushing pasthim.

  “I meant it in a good way,” Jared was saying, as he ran up toSamantha. “I like big juicy asses on chicks.”

  He reached out and touched her somewhere on the hip area,and Samantha spun around violently, her wet hair whipping likea cat o’ nine tails, and screamed, “Ne me touche pas!”

  There was something about screaming it in French, a language Samantha didn’t even speak very well, that froze Jared inhis tracks, reduced him to a foreigner, exposed him as the intrusive groping bully that he was. He held his hands up in the air ina show of innocence, stepped backwards, stumbled, and fell awkwardly into the hot tub, hitting his head on the hand rail.

  Aaron stood up and limped over. Jared was lying limp andunconscious in the bubbling hot water. One of his friends ran outof the pool room to inform the hotel staff, while his other friendspulled him out of the water and lay him face-up on the deck.Samantha and Aaron stood away in the corner and watched.There was a confused tension in the air. Once Jared had beenpulled out of the hot tub, nobody knew what to say or do, whoto blame, who to hate, or how to interpret what had just takenplace. Nobody spoke. All you could hear was the dull whirringof the pool’s water jets.

  An ambulance came. Jared was taken to the hospital. One ofhis friends went with him, the rest stayed behind. None of themso much as looked at Aaron and Samantha.

  Later, back in their room, Aaron told Samantha he lovedher. She said she loved him too. They changed into their pyjamas, ate a tin of Pringles each while flipping channels, then wentto bed. In the morning, they woke up to the sound of a couplein the next room having loud sex. They got dressed, packed uptheir things, and checked out a day early. When Samantha’sfather met them at the car rental place to give them a lift backhome, he seemed to be under the impression they’d come homeearly because they’d had a fight.

  They didn’t say anything to him about the incident at thepool.They had no idea if Jared was even alive, though he wasprobably just concussed.Aaron assumed someone would’vecontacted them if he’d died, or had suffered severe brain damage, especially if anyone thought Samantha was responsible. Butthey heard nothing, and got on with their lives. It was around this time that both he and Samantha decided, consciously ornot, to bury themselves even further inside their cocoon ofantisocial behavior.

  A voice on the subway car said, “Arriving at Yonge;Yonge s tation.”

  Aaron shook himself out of his reverie and exited the train.He knew he had to catch a southbound train from here to get toDundas and the bus terminal. As he waited on the platform, thistime with no desire to read the headlines on the telescreen, hefelt a gnawing anguish in the pit of his stomach from the realization that Jared from the pool looked a lot like that guy Luca—orwhatever his name was.

  *

  Samantha lay on the couch, her head resting in Luca’s lap.They were watching soccer, something Luca had settled on afterflipping channels. To Samantha, it was like watching a bunch ofcolourful insects scuttle around on a green carpet. There seemedno point to it, but then again, there was no point to any sport.She remembered Aaron saying that, matter-of-factly, to theirGrade Eight gym teacher, Mr. Randall, after getting in troublefor running the bases backwards during a game of softball. Butwhat’s the point anyway, sir?

  It was probably the moment at which Samantha began to seeAaron as something more than just a friend.

  Luca had his thick sausage fingers in Samantha’s hair, massaging her scalp. She closed her eyes and tried to enjoy it, but repulsion was there, lurking behind the tingly pleasure, like a spidercrawling toward you while you dream. She liked the way Lucalooked because he scared her. She liked the way he smelledbecause he smelled bad. She liked the way he touched her—theway he fucked her—because it hurt. This kind of tenderness,however, put her off. She couldn’t process it. She sat up.

  “Can you change the channel? I hate sports.”

  “But this is the Champion’s League.”

  “So?”

  He made a noise, some scoff, then his eyes went to herbreasts. “Do you always sit around half-naked, or are you tryingto keep me p
ermanently hard?”

  Samantha shrugged. She felt a shade of self-consciousnesscome over her, and she resented him for it.

  Luca smiled blankly at her then turned back to the T.V.“Aw, come on!” he yelled, at some inscrutable thing that hadoccurred in the game.

  Samantha stood up and went to the bedroom to get a shirt.She didn’t know why she was doing it—she didn’t want to bedoing it—but she was doing it nonetheless. She pulled a plainwhite T-shirt out of her top dresser drawer and yanked it downover her head. It was tight and uncomfortable and she wanted totake it off, but didn’t.

  “Yeah!” Luca shouted, at some other meaningless thing.

  She sat on the edge of the bed for a moment and looked intothe open closet. The sleeve of one of Aaron’s shirts was hangingout of the hamper. Samantha stared at it for what felt like a longtime before she got up and closed the closet door.

  She returned to the living room. “I’m hungry,” she said toLuca. “Go get some Chinese food from the place down thestreet. I’m having a shower.”

  She didn’t wait for him to respond. She swooped into thebathroom, locked the door, and pulled off the shirt she’d just puton. There. She could breathe again.

  The shower curtain lay in a heap in the tub. That’s right—she’d torn it off when they’d had sex. Immediately she thought,I’ll just tell Aaron to bring one home from work.

  “Shit,” she muttered. She’d just have to angle the showerhead toward the wall, be careful not to splash too much.

  As she cranked on the tap and let the hot water fall onto theback of her hand, she felt a calm pleasure flow through her at theprospect of cleaning herself off.

  *

  The elevator in the building was old and wobbly and slow.Luca was glad he lived on the ground floor and rarely had occasion to use it. He pressed the down button again, knowing fullwell it wouldn’t make a lick of difference. The elevator wouldbe there when it was there.

  He’d been put off at first by Samantha’s demand for food, herstorming off into the bathroom and slamming of the door. It wasa very girlfriendy thing to do. Were they not virtual strangers?Two people of the opposite sex, one of whom was in a committed relationship, who lived in the same building and were ferociously attracted to one another—that’s all they were. He didn’tknow her last name, her star sign, her favourite colour, or whereshe was born. All he knew was the feel and taste of her flesh, andthat she was a bit of a nutcase. So why the fuck was he on hisway to pick up some Chinese take-out for them to share?

  The elevator shaft made a rumbling sound. Seconds later thedoor shakily slid open. Luca stepped inside and pressed the button for the ground floor. He thought about chop suey and chicken balls on his descent, and when the door opened again, he wasface-to-face with the pot-head thug from floor six. His face wasflushed and he was sweating profusely, an obscene grin wrappedacross his face.

  “I’m a fuckin’ hero, bro!” he shouted, and clapped Luca hardon the shoulder.

  “That’s cool, man,” Luca said, stepping around him.

  Just then the idiot unleashed a wet, blustery sneeze into his face.

  “What the fffuhh . . . ?” Luca pulled his sleeve over his handand wiped his face. He spun around. “Hey!” he called, but theelevator door had already closed. “Ugh!”

  On instinct he pressed the up button, then realized it waspointless. He’d have to give the bastard a piece of his mind nexttime he saw him. He went to his apartment, wiped his face withsome paper towel, and changed his shirt before heading to theChinese food place down the street. In a matter of minutes, allthoughts of the sneeze had been replaced by the mouth-wateringanticipation of mushroom fried rice.

  *

  The sheets were pink. He was going to have to deal withthat. Dawn grunted as she crawled across the lumpy futon andtucked the corners into place. She got an old camping blanketfrom the closet and spread it on top, smoothing it down. Stoodback and put her hands on her hips. Not fantastic, but it woulddo. At least the room was clean—she’d spent the last hour and ahalf in there with the vacuum and the duster and the bottle ofFebreze. She knew what her brother was like.

  Not that she blamed him. Their ancestral line had beeneither obliterated by cancer or crippled by chronic disease.Health, in the Cordic family, was an anomaly. Dawn didn’tbegrudge her brother his paranoia of future illness. What pissedher off was his inability to recognize and enjoy his own wellness,the fact that he’d never so much as had chicken pox or the croup.Of course she hoped the spot Dr. Zilber had recently discoveredwas nothing, just a benign freckle or mole, but she also hopedthat maybe a scare like this—a true scare, a cancer scare—wouldbash some sense into his sick-obsessed skull. She planned toreserve judgement on the seriousness of the situation until she’dseen the spot herself. Had he said where it was? She couldn’tremember.

  A car horn blasted twice from outside—Martin in the van.

  “Hold your fucking horses!” she called out in the bedroom,though there was no chance of him hearing her. He wanted toget back home so he could watch the rest of the soccer match,but what did it matter? They had to wait for Aaron’s bus toarrive anyway. Men were so thick, it drove her up the wall.

  She put a new box of tissue paper on the nightstand besidethe futon and went out to the van.

  “Relax, will you?” She slid onto the passenger seat andslammed the door. “We’ll get back when we get back.”

  Martin snort-coughed and pulled out of the driveway with out a word.

  Since her mastectomy, her husband only ever expressedanger or frustration in passive aggressive ways, as if yelling at her or slamming his fist on something would somehow bring hercancer back. Instead she got scoffs, head shakes, car horns, andloud silence. Their sex was gentler now, less violent, and therefore dull. She knew he thought of her as a victim still, instead ofa survivor, and she resented that a little. She missed the fighting,of all things, from their pre-cancer relationship. Sometimes she’ddo things to try to get him going.

  Martin turned on the radio to a country music station, andshe changed it to top forty. A Miley Cyrus song blasted throughthe airwaves. Martin simply sighed and adjusted the rear-viewmirror.

  They arrived at the bus station just as a rusted and wobblyGreyhound squealed to a halt at a painted rectangle markedTerminal 2. Perfect timing. Dawn and Martin watched as astream of tired-looking people filed out of the bus.

  After a few minutes, a blond young man with a backpack onhis shoulder and a mask on his face stepped out onto the pavement. He looked wound up, like he was plugged into something.

  Martin made a noise that was not quite a laugh and shook his head.

  Dawn got out of the van and waved.

  STAGE 7: SEPARATION ANXIETY

  It was the post-workday rush at Formula Fitness. Lisa DiBiasesat at the welcome desk, nodding at, but barely acknowledging, the membership cards of the inflowing customers. Sincereceiving Roz’s text message about the first female case ofBuzzard Flu, Lisa had sent four text messages back, and her girlfriend had responded to none of them. She knew Roz was undera lot of pressure and public scrutiny right now, but Lisa’s levelsof frustration with this ridiculous outbreak were obliterating herpatience. It didn’t help that she was stuck at work. She wanted tobe drinking martinis at Wild Indigo with her friends, or sippingwine in bed with Roz at home.

  A hairy man in too-short gym shorts flashed an expiredmembership card as he whisked by the front desk, and Lisa lethim pass.

  She pulled out her phone and started composing text message number five when she felt the annoying presence of someone standing at the desk, waiting to be helped.

  “Go ahead,” Lisa said, without looking up, still tapping away on her phone.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but I think I need to renew mymembership . . .”

  Lisa looked up and saw a vaguely familiar-looking woman ina spandex jumpsuit, her auburn ha
ir tied back in a tight ponytail,the brutal ceiling lights shining down on her freckled shoulders.She was smiling bashfully, and had perfect teeth.

  “Oh. Yes. Of course.” Lisa put down her phone and sat upstraight. As she reached for the computer’s mouse, she knockedover her almost-full-but-ice-cold cup of coffee. The milky-beigeliquid splashed across the desk and streamed down into the auburnhaired woman’s gym bag, which she’d placed on the floor.

  “Oh my God, I am so sorry,” Lisa said, momentarily frozen,before standing up and looking around for something with whichto mop up the spill.

  The woman reached down into her bag, pulled out a whitetowel that was now wet and stained, and slid it up the side of thedesk, soaking up the coffee.

  Lisa bit her lip. “You don’t have to—”

  “It’s fine.”

  “But your towel . . .”

  “It’s just a towel.”

  Lisa thought she might’ve detected a bitchy tone to thewoman’s voice, but then she turned her head and smiled—thatsame perfect, twinkly-eyed smile—the picture of sincerity.

  Lisa exhaled. “You really don’t have to do that.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Once all the coffee had been soaked up, the woman foldedthe towel so the stain was hidden and stuffed it back inside hergym bag. “So,” she said cheerfully. “My membership?”

  “Right, yes.” Lisa scrambled back behind the desk. Out ofnowhere, she was sweating. She hoped she didn’t smell bad. Shepinched her arms against her body as she typed, just in case.“Your name? Sorry, I should know, but it’s hard to remembereverybody.”

  “That’s okay. It’s Vaughn. Mrs. Paula Vaughn.”

  Lisa coughed, as if to cover up the sound of her heart tumbling into her stomach. So the woman was married. Big deal.Like she had a shot anyway. Like she could even do anythingabout it. She was in love with Roz. Who did she think she was,crushing on this woman—this stranger!—who’d just cleaned upher curdled, stinking mess?

  She made a couple of typing errors as she searched “PaulaVaughn” in the computer’s database. Sure enough, thewoman’s membership had expired—over a year ago, at that. Nowonder Lisa’s memory of her was fuzzy.According to her file,Mrs. Vaughn was forty-three, though she could easily pass forearly thirties. For someone who hadn’t been to the gym in awhile, she looked fantastic.