by Amy Harmon
“Nah. You didn’t. What is she, French?”
“Something like that,” Morg said, and I could see that he was trying not to laugh. “She lives close by and she walks, though. Lou complains about it, but it really is just around the block. I tell him it’ll do his fat ass some good.”
“Huh.” So that was the funny part. I would be walking the new girl home, and it was starting to snow. The French girl. Fine with me. I was too antsy to sleep anyway. I was considering hitting the speed bag until I could wear myself out enough to shut down for a few hours.
On cue, Justine and Lori appeared in the entryway between the lounge and the bar, winter coats belted, duffle bags in hand.
“Where’s Amelie?” Morgan asked, looking beyond them.
“She said she’d meet Lou out front,” Justine answered.
“Lou’s not in tonight. Tag is walking you out. Right, Boss?”
“Right, Morg.” I tamped down my irritation as Morgan laughed again and winked at the girls.
I escorted Justine and Lori to their vehicles in the back parking lot, watched as they pulled away, and then walked around to the front the building, opting not to go through the bar, eager to avoid Morg for the rest of the night. As I rounded the building, I could see the new girl waiting on the sidewalk, face tilted up, letting the fat flakes land on her cheeks as if she enjoyed the sensation. She waited for me, as if she weren’t in any hurry to get out of the cold, her hands wrapped around a long stick that, in the soft light spilling from the bar and the snow falling around her, made her look like a shepherdess in a Christmas pageant.
“Hello?” There was a question in her voice as I approached, and she slid her staff forward just a bit and nudged my foot as I halted. “Lou?”
“Lou’s sick, so I’ll be walking you home.” I answered slowly, flooded with shocked realization as she turned her face toward me. Her eyes were wide and fixed, and I felt a surprising pang from somewhere behind my heart. She had beautiful eyes. They were large and luminous, fringed by black lashes that swept her cheeks when she closed her eyes. But they were vacant, and looking in them made me inexplicably sad. So I looked away, studying her mouth and the straight dark hair that framed her face and spilled over her shoulders. Then she smiled, and the pang in my heart sliced through my chest once more and took my breath.
“Ah, the long pause. I always get those. My mom always said I was beautiful,” she said drily, “but just in case I’m not, will you promise to lie to me? I demand detailed lies regarding my appearance.” She said all this good-naturedly. No bitterness. Just acceptance. “So you pulled blind girl duty, huh? You don’t have to walk me home. I got here all by myself. But Morgan told me it’s the rule with all the girls. He said the boss insists.”
“He’s right. It’s a great neighborhood, but you and I both know it’s still pretty rough around the edges,” I responded, refusing to feel sheepish, refusing to apologize for staring.
She stuck out her hand and waited for me to grasp it.
“Well then, I’ll introduce myself. I’m Amelie. And I’m blind.” Her lips quirked, letting me know she was laughing as much at herself as at me. I reached out and wrapped her ungloved hand in my own. Her fingers were icy, and I didn’t release them immediately. So she wasn’t French, she was blind, and somehow Morg thought that was hysterically funny.
“Hello, Amelie. I’m David. And I’m not.”
She smiled again, and I found myself smiling too, the pang of sympathy I’d felt for her easing considerably. I didn’t know why I told her my name was David. No one called me David anymore. The name David always made me feel like I’d failed without even trying. It was my father’s name. And his father’s name. And his father before him. David Taggert was a name that carried weight. And I had felt that weight from an early age. Then my friends had started calling me Tag. Tag set me free. It allowed me to be young, free-spirited. Just the word itself brought to mind images of running away. “I’m Tag . . . you can’t catch me.”
“Your hands are calloused, David.”
It was an odd thing to comment on when shaking hands with someone for the first time, but Amelie curled her fingers against my palm, feeling the rough ridges that lined the base of my fingers like she was reading braille.
“Exercise?” she guessed.
“Uh, yeah. I’m a fighter.”
A slim eyebrow rose in question, but her fingers continued to trace my hand intimately. It felt good. And weird. The roof of my mouth started to tingle and my toes curled in my boots.
“The callouses are from the weights. Pull-ups. That sort of thing.” I sounded like an idiot. Like a dumb, Rocky wannabe. I might as well yell, “Yo, Adrian!”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“Fighting?” I asked, trying to keep up. She didn’t converse like the girls I knew. She was so direct. So blunt. But maybe she had to be. She didn’t have the luxury of learning through observance.
“Yes. Fighting. Do you enjoy it?” she clarified.
“Yeah. I do.”
“Why?” she asked.
“I’m big, strong, and angry,” I said honestly, smirking.
She laughed, and I expelled all the air I’d been holding since she’d held out her hand in greeting. Her laughter wasn’t girlish and high, tinkling and sweet. It was robust, healthy, the kind of laugh that came from her belly and had nothing to hide.
“You smell good, David.”
I half-gasped, half-chuckled, surprised once more. But she kept right on talking.
“So I know you are big, strong, angry, and you smell nice. You’re tall too, because your voice is coming from way over my head. You’re also from Texas and you’re still young.”
“How do you know I’m young?”
“Old men don’t fight. And your voice. You were singing Blake Shelton under your breath when you approached. If you were older you might sing Conway Twitty or Waylon Jennings.”
“I sing them too.”
“Excellent. You can sing while we walk.” She flicked her stick with a practiced hand and it collapsed neatly into thirds. Then she tucked it under her left arm while reaching toward me with her right. Then she wrapped her hand around my bicep as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And we were off, walking slowly but steadily through the silent streets, the snow falling, the wet seeping into our shoes. I am a guy who can make conversation with the best of them, but I found myself at a complete loss.
Amelie seemed completely comfortable and didn’t offer up conversation as we walked, arm and arm, like two lovers in an old movie. Men and women don’t walk that way anymore. Not unless a father is walking his daughter down the aisle or a boy scout is helping an old lady across the road. But I discovered I liked it. I felt like a man of a bygone era, a time when men would escort women, not because women couldn’t walk alone, but because men respected them more, because a woman is something to be cared for, to be careful with.
“There was a time when everything in the world was more beautiful.” The words fell from my mouth, surprising me. I hadn’t meant to think out loud.
“What do you mean?” She seemed pleased at my statement. So I went with it.
“Well, if you look at old pictures . . .” My voice drifted off awkwardly, realizing she couldn’t actually look at old pictures.
She saved me, gracefully. “If I could look at old pictures, what would I see?”
“They had less. But they had more. It seems like people took more care with their possessions and their appearances. The women dressed up and the men wore suits. People wore hats and gloves and were well-groomed. The way they talked was different, more careful, more cultured. Same language, but totally different. Even the buildings and the furniture were beautiful—well-crafted with attention to detail. I don’t know . . . The world had more class. Maybe that was it.”
“Ah, the days when men didn’t fight for a living and women didn’t dance on poles,” she said, a smile in her voice.
“Men have always
fought. Women have always danced. We’re as old-fashioned as it gets,” I shot back. “We’re timeless.”
“Nice save,” she giggled, and I laughed quietly.
We walked in companionable silence for several minutes when it occurred to me that I had no idea where we were going.
“Where do you live?”
“Don’t worry, big guy. I know where we are. Turn right on the next corner. I’m the old house thirty paces in.”
“You live in one of the old mansions?”
“Yes. I do. My great-great-grandfather built it, speaking of a time when the world was more beautiful. I’m guessing my house isn’t quite as lovely as it once was. But everything looks amazing in my head. Perks of being a blind girl.”
“You said thirty paces. What? Do you count steps?” I could hear the amazement in my voice and wondered if she could too.
“Usually. But I’m less observant when someone is walking with me. I know where the sidewalk ends, where the trees are, the potholes too.”
“That’s amazing.”
“Well, I grew up here and I could see, once. I can still see it in my mind. It’d be harder if I had to start over in a whole new place.”
“So what happened?”
“A rare disease with a fancy name you would probably forget as soon as I said it. We didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late. And even if we had known sooner, there probably wouldn’t have been anything anyone could do.”
“How old were you?”
“Eleven.”
I swallowed. My life had changed at eleven too. But in a totally different way. Before I could comment, Amelie came to a stop.
“This is me. This is it.” She snapped her stick back out and tapped it in front of her, turning toward a little wrought iron fence and stopping as her stick rattled against it. She released my arm and stepped away, feeling for the latch on the gate and releasing it easily. The house was old, turn-of-the-century old, if not older, and it was still stately, though the smattering of snow and the darkness camouflaged the yard and the large, wrap-around porch that had seen better days. Light shone from the upstairs windows, and the walk and the steps were clear. Amelie seemed comfortable traversing them, so I stayed by the gate, waiting until she was safely inside. She stopped about half-way down the path and turned slightly.
“David?” she asked, raising her voice as if she wasn’t sure I remained.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for walking me home.”
“You’re welcome.”
I waited until the front door closed behind her before I turned away. The snow had stopped and the world was so still I sang to keep myself company, closing my eyes now and then and counting my steps, wondering how it would be to not see at all, and wondering how a blind girl had ended up dancing in my club.
(End of Cassette)
Moses
MILLIE REACHED FOR the tape recorder, sliding her fingers along the buttons until she reached the one she wanted. Then she pressed it down and Tag’s voice ceased. She sat gripping the player as if she were holding onto the memory. The room was filled with expectancy, with anticipation. I’d heard it in Tag’s voice, felt it in the care with which he remembered the details, and felt his wonder as he retraced his steps. He’d pulled me in, and I’d forgotten for a moment where I was. But now I felt awkward, intrusive, and I wanted to put my hands over my ears.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about him, and I couldn’t get that Blake Shelton song out of my head,” Millie said softly. “He was nice. And strong. I could feel his strength as he walked beside me. That night I actually dreamed about the way his arm felt against my hand. Right after I lost my sight I still dreamed in pictures. I loved it because I could see when I went to sleep. But as the years have gone by, my dreams have started to look more like my reality. I still dream in pictures sometimes, but more often than not, I dream in smells and feelings, in sounds and sensations.”
Millie’s voice was hushed like she was thinking out loud, like she’d forgotten I was there at all. I thought maybe I should speak up, before she told me something she would rather keep private, but she continued suddenly.
“I’ve gone on a few blind dates.” She smiled in my general direction, letting me know that she was aware of me after all, and I laughed, which is probably what she intended.
“Blind, blind dates, I mean. And I’ve gone on a few dates with blind guys I actually knew beforehand. One guy I dated insisted on being called ‘visually impaired.’” Amelie made finger quotes in the air. “I don’t really understand that. To me it’s like calling someone ‘melanin deficient’ instead of calling them white. People are so weird. I am a white, blind girl. I am a twenty-two-year old, white, blind girl. Can we just call it like it is?”
I laughed again, wondering where she was going with this, but happy to let her talk. I wondered briefly if she knew I was black. It was kind of an amazing feeling knowing that for once, it truly didn’t matter.
“I’ve dated guys who can see too—you know, the visually unimpaired.” She smiled at the label. “Not many of them. But a few. My cousin Robin usually sets me up. And I’m pretty sure every one of them has been extremely unattractive. Ugly, strange, warty, and generally rejected by other women. Which is okay. I can pretend they all look like a million bucks, and I’ll never know any different. The image in my head is the only one that counts, right? But once Robin tried to set me up on a date with a deaf guy, and I put my foot down. It wasn’t that he was deaf, exactly, but how did she think we were going to communicate? Robin sometimes thinks that because I’m disabled, I can only date guys with disabilities. Because, of course, no one else would want me, right?” Millie’s voice caught, and she smiled immediately, laughing at herself. “Uh oh. Struck a nerve there.”
“That isn’t true,” I challenged.
“It’s true sometimes,” she whispered, and I could tell she was wondering if the truth had gotten to be too much for Tag.
“I found myself hoping David wasn’t a good looking guy. I hoped he wasn’t good looking because it didn’t matter to me, and it would make him less desirable to everyone else. I thought if he were homely, it would make him more open to someone like me.” She let her breath out slowly, almost sadly.
“But I knew he was beautiful. It was in the way he carried himself, his confidence, his kindness. I thought about asking the girls at work about him. But I chickened out. I didn’t want them to laugh at me or to feel sorry for me. I told myself maybe we could be friends. He seemed open to that.”
I didn’t know what to say. I was fascinated. But I didn’t know what to say. Millie just sat, gripping the tape recorder between her forearms. Then, without further comment, she pushed play once more.
THE STAGE BECAME an octagon on Tuesday for fight night, and on Wednesday Amelie wasn’t on the schedule to dance, which Morgan informed me as soon as I walked in, smirking like he’d really pulled one over on me.
“What’s with you, Morgan?” I asked, dumbfounded and just a little pissed. “You act like it’s a big damn joke. What? You hire the blind girl as a prank? That’s an asshole thing to do.”
Morgan threw up his hands and protested, all the while laughing like that was exactly what he’d done. “She came in here with her stick, looking more like Helen Keller than Heidi Klum. No makeup, hair in a messy ponytail wearing a big coat and snow boots. Kinda frumpy, you know? She said she wanted to apply for the job. Vince was tending the bar that day, and he and I thought maybe you had put her up to it. Like you were punking us or something. So we said, sure. You know me. I’m always up for a good laugh. She waited for her audition with all the other girls, and amazingly enough, everyone was really nice to her. The girls kind of took her aside. Next thing we know, she’s in the cage, wearing a little tiny pair of shorts and a skin-tight top, hair loose, working that pole like a pro.”
Hearing Morgan describe Amelie’s audition make me feel slightly sick to my stomach. It shouldn’t have. If he
’d been talking about Justine or Lori, or any of the other girls, I wouldn’t have thought twice. But I didn’t like thinking about Vince and Morg looking at Amelie, laughing and leering when she couldn’t even see them doing it. Morgan continued, completely unaware of my discomfort.
“She was good enough that we knew you weren’t messing with us. And she seemed pretty damn determined. Excited even. And, I admit, I thought it was funny.”
“Hilarious.”
“You gonna fire her, Boss?”
“Now, why would I do that?” Morgan was really getting on my nerves.
“She’s not as popular as some of the girls. Couple of the guys complain that she doesn’t look at them when she’s dancing.”
“Isn’t it enough that they get to look at her?” I shot back, irritated.
“Hey!” Morg raised his hands in surrender again. “Don’t shoot the messenger, Boss. She can’t carry a round card on fight nights, so we’re a little short there.”
“We’re not short there, Morg. We have four other girls totally capable of working fight nights,” I replied. The girls who danced at Tag’s also got to prance around the octagon, announcing the rounds.
“Okay. If you want to keep her, that’s cool. She’ll be back in on Thursday, just in case you wanted to have a talk with her about sexing it up a little. You know, maybe dancing with her eyes open.” Morgan was laughing again.
“Morg?”
“Yeah, Boss?”
“Go home.”
“Wh-what?” Morgan’s chuckle skittered to a halt.
“I’ll help Vince finish out the night. Go home.”
Morgan pulled on the hand towel he always kept over one shoulder and rubbed his hands nervously.
“But—” Morg attempted to argue.
“You think it’s funny to laugh at a blind girl. That kind of worries me, Morg. Makes me wonder about what kind of man I have managing my bar. See, there are two things I hate.” I held up my thumb and my pointer finger and counted them off. “Bullies and bitches. I never knew you were a bully, Morg. Now, don’t bitch, or I’ll have two reasons to fire you. Go home. And if you want to come back, you will rethink your sense of humor. You got me?” My voice was mild, my posture relaxed, but I didn’t break eye contact with my bartender, and I watched as Morgan dropped his eyes and shifted uncomfortably, as if waiting for me to change my mind. When I was silent, he threw down his towel and reached for his wallet and keys that he kept stashed beneath the bar.