by Paula Garner
“I don’t want everyone remembering me that way when I’m gone! ‘Dara the dyke’— I can hear it now.”
“It would take the focus off your stump!”
She took a foot off the dashboard and kicked me hard in the arm. “You’re a real asshole, Mueller, you know that?”
“Jeez,” I said, rubbing my arm. “Sorry. I just know you hate being defined by your — by being an amputee.”
I wanted to glance at her to see if I was in for another physical assault, but I had to concentrate; the light was about to turn green, and we were on a slight incline. But she laid her hand on my arm where she’d kicked me and said, “You’re not an asshole. You just know me so well. Sometimes I forget.”
I was so surprised I couldn’t think of anything to say.
The light changed, and as I struggled to find the balance of clutch and accelerator, the car rolled backward. I cursed and sent the car shooting forward by letting up on the clutch too fast. Dara laughed.
“Where am I even going?” I asked.
She shrugged.
So I just kept driving aimlessly, past the library and the fire station, down the stretch of McCormick with all the fast-food offerings, and then up Forestway, which ran along the nature preserve. “What did you say when Abby asked you?”
“I said I was busy.” She shifted in her seat to face me. “Hey. Let’s just go to my house.”
She reached out and laid a hand on my thigh, sliding it upward.
“What are you doing?” I took my hand off the wheel long enough to remove her hand from my leg. Driving a stick was hard enough without having to fend off groping.
“Let’s just do it. We’re both virgins. We could turn that around tonight.”
I looked over at her, baffled. “Are you for real?”
“I just want to know what it’s like! Come on — it won’t take long.”
“Hey,” I said, mildly insulted. “What makes you think —?”
“Once when we were playing the question game, you told me how long it takes you to —”
“Okay, never mind!” Ugh. Now that Meg was in the picture, the wickedly private things Dara knew about me made me feel sort of sick. During that same round of our game, Dara had asked what I did with my other hand when I jerked off — sort of a cheap question, since it couldn’t be reciprocated. But I’d answered it. I wished I hadn’t. I wished I could turn back time and take all that private information back.
“Look, even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t do it when you’re drunk.”
“I’m not that drunk. Come on, we should just do this. Not to point out the obvious, but this”— she waved her stump at me — “is not exactly a dude magnet.”
“Oh, please. It’s not your stump that keeps people away, Dara. It’s you. I mean, you’re cute and pretty and your ass is legendary, but, to be honest, you’re kind of a bitch!”
“Yeah, but that’s not the reason. Do you really think anyone would go out with me with this?” She gestured toward the stump. “People can’t handle it.”
“How would you know? You’ve never given anyone a chance.”
“Well, here’s your chance.”
“I don’t want a chance!”
A small voice in my brain knocked, asking if I was out of my fucking mind, turning down sex. Wouldn’t it be good to have some clue what I was doing, for possible future situations? For an instant I imagined a skilled, confident version of myself bringing Meg to quaking heights of ecstasy with my staggering arsenal of lovemaking skills. But nothing — not my hormones, insecurities, or general cloudy judgment — could talk me into thinking sex with Dara was a good idea.
“Anyway,” I said, glancing over at her, “if you’re going to do it, you should do it with someone who knows what he’s doing. I don’t exactly see a lot of action.”
“Other than with yourself.” She had a way of teasing — part cute, part loaded gun — and I never knew where the balance was going to tip.
“Other than with myself,” I conceded, “and even I don’t think I’m that great.”
That wasn’t true. When I had the privacy, time, and ambition, I actually found myself to be quite excellent. But I didn’t want to talk to her about that stuff anymore. Suddenly it felt . . . inappropriate.
I pulled over onto a side street, parking in front of a string of cookie-cutter McMansions with ridiculously manicured and lit-up lawns. I flicked the gear into neutral, then pulled up the parking brake. “What’s this all about, Dara? Really?”
Instead of answering, she leaned over and grabbed me, pulling my face to hers in a hard kiss.
“Stop it,” I said softly, pulling back.
“Who’s gay now?” she said, enveloping me in a plume of alcohol fumes.
“Right. I’m gay. You found me out.”
She moved back to her side, staring out the window. Her face was ungodly pale in the light of a streetlamp. She closed her eyes. Holy shit, was she about to cry?
I had never — not once — seen Dara shed tears. Not even in the throes of phantom limb pain so bad that I could hardly stand it.
I hesitated, then decided to take a chance. I reached out to her across the gearshift, half expecting her to punch me. But she leaned over and collapsed into me, pressing her face into my chest.
We sat like that till Dara suddenly hiccupped violently, which got us both laughing.
We went to El Grande Taco — a cheap, dimly lit, hole-in-the-wall of a Mexican restaurant, and I took advantage of Dara’s preoccupied and semi-drunk condition by ordering a giant chile relleno burrito that oozed with so much cheese it made me giddy. Dara ordered a Dr Pepper and nachos and proceeded to eat salsa verde straight, dispensing it from a squeeze bottle onto a spoon.
This was yet another in a series of simple motions requiring colossal effort for a one-armed person. She propped the spoon on a few carefully arranged tortilla chips, then squeezed the salsa onto it. She then set the bottle down, lifted the spoon to her mouth, and repeated. Because she still had the hiccups, occasionally the whole spoonful sloshed onto the sticky vinyl tablecloth before it could make it into her mouth.
Watching was painful. I’d tried being one-armed a few times in the privacy of my home, just to see what it was like — doubling my arm up in my sleeve so I couldn’t use it — and it was just a matter of minutes before I felt like shooting myself.
Our waitress reappeared as we were finishing up. “Can I get you anything else?” She wore a snug, low-cut T-shirt that framed her magnificent cleavage. They were a sight to behold, those breasts — jostling and beguiling whenever she poured water or set something down.
“Uh, no, just the check,” I said, staring hard into her eyes to prevent my gaze drifting south and scorching my retinas. Dara’s eyes, however, were glued to the splendor, at which point I found watching Dara more interesting than watching the breasts.
When the bill came, Dara pushed her purse at me. I opened it, and as usual it was a mess of crumpled bills — even some hundreds. She had no shortage of cash, that was for sure — something you’d never guess by the car she drove.
On the way home, she fell asleep in the car, despite my jerky driving. I walked her up the front steps and let her lean on me as she punched in the security code and opened the door. I handed her the car keys and gently pushed her inside. I’d have to walk home, but it was nice enough out that I didn’t mind. And I could probably use the help digesting the metric ton of cheese I’d just consumed.
“Mueller?” she said suddenly, swiveling back around and leaning out the crack of the door.
I waited, but she didn’t say anything. “You want me to come in?” I asked.
She glanced down and lifted a shoulder. Her version of yes, thank you.
“Okay,” I said, stepping inside. “But behave yourself,” I added, in case she had sex on her mind.
She rolled her eyes, closing the door behind us. She dropped her keys next to a marble sculpture of some dude’s head on a polished mahoga
ny table in the foyer.
Dara’s house reeked of wealth. It was modern — lots of shiny surfaces and abstract art — and sometimes there were cleaning ladies working. My modest split-level house was small by comparison — cozy, my mom called it. And it was kind of outdated — midcentury modern, my dad called it. And my mom did the cleaning (except for the laundry and ironing, which was my dad’s inexplicably happy domain), although about once a month Mom went ballistic and made us all do “deep cleaning,” which meant organizing closets or shampooing carpets and stuff like that. When she got this way, my dad would say to me quietly, “The smart money’s on shut up and do it.” He didn’t have to tell me twice — not when Mom was stomping around talking about not being our goddamned personal servant and reminding us what century this was.
I followed Dara into the kitchen, which was lit only by the light of the hood range over a granite island the approximate size of Manhattan. Empty beer bottles littered the counter, and next to the sink sat a half-eaten frozen dinner, which made me feel awful. My mom was a great cook, and her part-time work-from-home job writing a medical newsletter gave her plenty of time to pursue her culinary interests. And here my motherless friend was home alone eating TV dinners.
Dara took a can of soda out of the fridge and opened a bottle of pills.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“For pain.”
“You sure it’s safe to mix with alcohol?”
She waved me off with her stump, swallowing the pills.
I shook my head. “You really worry me.”
“Don’t worry about me. I hate that.” She took her soda and headed up the wide, curving staircase. I followed. She went into her bedroom and then into the attached bathroom. I sat on the bed. On her dresser sat the mirror box, the magic bullet for phantom limb pain. I’d come here with her several times, when the pain was bad enough that the hand-rubbing trick wasn’t cutting it. I’d seen how quickly the pain dissipated when she put her right arm in the mirror box and watched what appeared to be two symmetrical arms moving in concert before her. It was astonishing.
On the floor next to her dresser, a beat-up Stoli vodka box was filled with her swim trophies, medals, and ribbons, most collected from the years before the accident when she was virtually unbeatable. Not one of them was displayed on a shelf or hung on the wall, as mine were at home. The day I got my first ribbon at a meet, my parents put up a shelf and hooks in my room so every stupid ribbon I ever got could proudly be displayed. But Dara’s were heaped in an old box on the floor like so much trash.
I heard the toilet flush, then the water running and the scrubby sounds of toothbrushing. She emerged a minute later in sky-blue panties and a paper-thin white tank top. I started to worry that she was going to try something, but she just pushed past me.
I got up as she slid between the covers. “Tuck me in?” she asked, then turned onto her side, facing away from me.
I wasn’t entirely sure what she meant; she was already under the covers. I remembered the times I put Mason to bed. Usually I’d read him a story and then tickle him. I was pretty sure that wasn’t going to work here. Awkwardly, I patted at the covers around her.
Dara reached out and grasped my wrist, and then guided my hand to her head. Ah, okay. She let go and I stroked her hair.
My eyes drifted to a framed photograph on her bedside table that I’d never really looked closely at before. A string of beads with a boxy sort of cross was draped over it, which seemed odd because Dara was about the least godly person I knew. I reached out and quietly slid the beads to the side to see the picture.
A spotlight illuminated a ballerina, onstage in full regalia, in a pose that radiated grace and discipline and beauty. My insides turned to jelly at the resemblance — that lean, muscular frame. That dark hair. That doll-like face with the small mouth.
“Who’s this in the picture?” I murmured.
“Mama,” she said softly.
Mama. I felt like bawling. I mean, I knew she’d had a mother, obviously. But seeing her, seeing the resemblance . . . The idea that Dara had once called someone Mama . . .
“She’s beautiful,” I whispered. “You look like her.”
A slight nod.
“What are the beads?” I asked. “A rosary?”
“Her chotki,” she murmured. “Same idea.”
I touched the black tassels that hung from the cross. “Was she religious?”
She nodded. “We used to go to the Russian Orthodox Church.”
“Do you believe in God?” I asked.
“I don’t believe in anything.”
I felt so empty, thinking about everything that had been taken away from Dara. As you scratched at her surface, the enormity of the hole underneath exposed itself.
“But my mom believed. I feel like if I keep the chotki with her picture, it sort of, like . . . blesses her.”
I couldn’t take much more. It was too fucking sad. I got up from the bed.
“Can you wait until I fall asleep?”
“Okay.” I sat back down next to her.
“Don’t turn off the light in the bathroom when you go.”
“I won’t.”
I waited until her breathing became even. Then I crept out and hoofed it the two miles home.
IN ENGLISH ON MONDAY, MR. CHAPMAN asked if anyone would be willing to share their sonnet with the class. When no one volunteered, he glanced around the room. “No one? Otis?”
I shook my head, my face heating up. No fucking way.
He shrugged and asked us to turn them in. I spotted some Post-its on Kiera’s desk in front of me.
“Hey, can I borrow a Post-it?” I whispered to her.
She tossed her shampoo-commercial hair, sending a pleasant current of fragrance in my direction, and pulled off a Post-it. “You can even keep it,” she whispered.
I took it and wrote NOT FOR LIT MAG! on it. I stuck it on my sonnet and passed it forward.
Kiera looked down at it and then peeked at me from under a fringe of lashes so heavy that her lids must be chronically fatigued from holding them up. With a coy smile, she started reading quietly, “Beneath your window our magnolia stands —”
“Hey,” I whispered, lightly jabbing her shoulder. “Quit it.”
She turned to me. “I love your poetry,” she whispered, lingering on the word “love.”
My face went from hot to hotter.
Fortunately, the guy in front of her turned around and grabbed the papers from her hands before she could read further.
She turned back to me. “I liked the picture of that tree you posted. Is that the magnolia?”
This girl was connecting the dots way too well.
“So whose window is it under?” she asked.
I fumbled incoherently for a reply, but fortunately Chapman started class.
By that night Meg’s silence was really getting to me. So I sent her a riveting and provocative message:
How’s it going?
I stared at the words on my screen, suddenly unable to account for my high GPA.
To kill time as I waited for a reply, I snacked, flipped through my poetry journal, and read one of Shafer’s stupid links: 100 EUPHEMISMS FOR MASTURBATION! Somewhere between “mangling the midget” and “punching the clown,” a response came from Meg on instant message.
HER: Otis? What do you remember?
ME: About what?
HER: Me. Us. Anything. Everything.
ME: Everything? That’s a lot of things.
HER: Tell me.
Good God, how was I supposed to know how much or how little to say? I wished I could see her face, have some idea what she was after — not just at the moment, but with the whole visit this summer. Why was she coming back? Was it just to help her dad settle in? And what did she want from me? Was I one of the reasons for her visit? Or just a side note, a minor attraction on her tour of memory lane?
But I couldn’t ask any of those questions, not without sounding accusato
ry or egotistical — or pathetic. So I opted for “random” instead:
ME: I remember when you lost your grandmother’s amethyst ring and you were terrified of your mom finding out. But she never did. (Has she?)
I wondered if I was getting too close to the subject of her parents, of their separation. I didn’t know whether to ask or pretend I didn’t know about it or what.
HER: No, thank God. But that’s probably the last thing on her mind these days. Okay, what else?
ME: I remember . . . that your favorite flavors of ice cream were dulce de leche and salted caramel. Really, anything with caramel in it.
HER: Oh my God. Yes. Still true.
She didn’t have to prompt me to keep going; it was like I’d opened the Meg floodgates, and I couldn’t stop even if I’d wanted to.
ME: I remember when you told me the code to your diary lock to prove to me that you trusted me. I also remember the code: 5-1-4
HER: I can’t believe you still remember that!
ME: How could I forget? It was the day we first kissed. May 14.
HER: You knew that’s what it was?? I didn’t even know you knew the date!
ME: Some things a man doesn’t forget.
HER: You never told me you knew what the code meant!
ME: Ha, no, because what if you’d chosen the number randomly?
HER: But you knew.
ME: Suspected. Hoped.
HER: What else do you remember?
I hesitated, suddenly feeling exposed. I could go on for days about all the things I remembered about Meg. But what about her? What did she remember about me — about us? And what was she really after, anyway? Confirmation that I hadn’t forgotten her, that I would be excited to see her? Or something else?
ME: I think I’ve covered enough for one day.
HER: Please, Otis?
Oh God. Why did she have to do that?
ME: Meg. Please don’t say please.
HER: Please.
Somebody stop me. . . .
ME: I remember that first kiss.
It was like missing your exit on the highway. It’s done. There’s no turning back. You’re on a new route now.