The Song of David

by Amy Harmon

  “You know, David. You were wrong.”

  “About what?”

  “My tells.”

  “Your tells?” I was lost.

  “There was someone, once,” she said quietly.

  I stared at her blankly before realization struck me a heavy blow. Her tells. The night I kissed her. The night I asked her if she was a virgin and told her she lied when she said she wasn’t.

  She walked away, stick tapping, calling her goodbyes over her shoulder.

  I watched her walk down the street, a sway in her step, like she was still hearing Ray LaMontagne. I swore again and walked swiftly to my truck. She could walk if she wanted. But I was going to make sure she got home. I followed her at a distance, watched as she turned the corner to her street, crawled along until I saw her unlatch her gate, and then I flipped a U-Turn and floored the truck back to the bar. I was so pathetic.

  Henry texted me seconds later, telling me she had arrived, just like Millie promised.

  Henry: Amelie is home. Her face is sad. Mohammed Ali practiced abstinence up to six weeks before his fights.

  I laughed and swore simultaneously. Apparently everyone thought I was a manwhore.

  SATURDAY AFTERNOON, HENRY showed up at the gym without Millie. It surprised me a little, as she’d always come with him before, but I shrugged it off, feeling a little twinge of disappointment in my stomach and studiously ignoring it. Her words shot through my mind. There was someone once. I found myself worrying that there was someone again, someone from the school she worked at on Tuesdays, or maybe Robin had set her up again. Millie claimed she hated that, but there was always the exception.

  Maybe it was the disappointment or maybe it was habit, but I lingered a little longer in conversation with some of my female fighters, accepted a hug and a smile from Deanna, a cute redhead who I’d taken to dinner once or twice, and spotted a couple female clients on their chest presses, like any good athletic club owner would. Henry glowered at me from the corner mats, where Cory was showing him how to shoot a duck-under.

  I wondered if he was just feeling neglected, and took Cory’s place, shooting instructions at Henry and critiquing his form, which was terrible, every time he tried to perform the move. His jaw was tense, his movements jerky, and he seemed close to tears.

  “Henry! What’s up, man? We’re just here to learn a few things and look good for the girls. Loosen up,” I teased gently, ruffling his hair.

  Henry shoved at my hand and swung on me suddenly, wildly, one fist connecting with my stomach, the other glancing off my jaw.

  “Whoa!” I half-laughed, shooting a double-leg and scooping him up across my shoulders, WWE-style. I straightened and roared, like I was Hulk Hogan or The Undertaker, and I spun a thrashing Henry around in exaggerated circles until I realized he was pounding and kicking furiously, and not in a way that indicated he was messing around or having fun. I put him down immediately, my arms steadying his shoulders in case he was dizzy. I felt a little dizzy myself, and tried to clear my head. Henry didn’t let up though.

  His face was flushed and his arms were pin-wheeling. I put a hand on his forehead, the way my dad used to do when I was little, my hand palming his head like a basketball, keeping him at arm’s length.

  “Henry! Buddy, we’re just playing. Relax.”

  If anything, he just doubled his efforts to take me out with his scrawny arms and sharp knees.

  “Henry, I outweigh you by a hundred pounds. You can’t fight me, kid!”

  “Manute Bol was seven foot seven!” he yelled. People were starting to stare. Axel and Mikey had stopped grappling on the mats nearby and were watching, both of them breathing hard. Axel rose to his feet and started toward us.

  “What the fu—” I cut myself off immediately. Every time I swore, Henry looked slightly stricken. I’d had to talk to the guys about the every-other-word-is-the-F-word language we all used without thought. We had a huge water jug in the office brimming with quarters from our slips.

  “You’re going to have to explain that one, Henry.” I released my hand from his head and let him come at me again. When he started pummeling my chest, I wrapped my arms around him, pinning his arms to his sides. He immediately started head butting me, though the top of his head barely reached my chin. I nuzzled my head down, trapping his head between the side of my face and my shoulder, the way boxers do when they’re trying to stall, trying to catch their breath, and I was trying to do both as I scrambled to figure out why Henry was so angry about a seven foot seven basketball player.

  “Henry!” I spoke into his bushy hair. “Henry, I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me!”

  “Manute Bol’s grandfather had forty wives.” His voice had dropped slightly, but the fervor was still there, and behind the fervor, tears threatened, and he still strained against me.

  “Seriously?” I laughed, trying to snap him out of it. “Lucky guy.”

  Henry jerked viciously, pulling his head free, nailing me in the mouth.

  I let him go, spitting blood and forbidden words. I think I owed the water jug ten dollars.

  “Not lucky!” he roared. He turned away and stomped to the edge of the mat. He picked up his duffle bag and his sweatshirt and headed for the door. I could only watch, completely dumbfounded.

  “He’s pissed at you,” Axel commented, as if I hadn’t figured that much out.

  “Yeah. He is. Did you know Manute Bol’s grandfather had forty wives?” I almost started to laugh. Henry communicated in the most frustrating way.

  “Who’s Manute Bol?” Axel frowned.

  “Basketball player—one of the tallest to ever play in the NBA. From Sudan, I think.”

  “Hmm. Maybe Henry doesn’t like you having forty girlfriends, big guy.” Axel’s use of Millie’s nickname gave me pause.

  “What? I don’t—”

  “Yes, Tag. You do.” Axel grinned at me like he was proud of me.

  “Henry!” I tore across the gym, trying to catch Henry as he pushed through the front door. He didn’t wait for me, and it took me half a block before I over took him.

  “Henry, the girls at the gym and the girls at the bar aren’t my girlfriends.” Well, they were. But not the way Axel and Henry were thinking. I liked girls. They liked me. But none of it was serious or committed. They were my friends. And they were girls.

  “Amelie?” he asked, still walking.

  “Millie’s not my girlfriend either,” I said softly.

  “Screw you, Tag,” Henry said, so clearly, so simply, that I almost cheered at his direct, uncomplicated response. But the celebration died in my throat as I registered what he’d said and the finality with which he said it. Henry kept on walking toward home, and I watched him go.

  I KNOCKED ON the Anderson’s door at a little after seven on Sunday evening, but it took some persistence to get anyone to answer it. I’d almost given up when Henry pulled it open and hesitated, as if not sure whether to greet me or not.

  “Hey buddy. What’s up?”

  He shrugged.

  “Can I come inside?”

  Henry moved aside and let me in, his eyes on the floor. He shut the door behind me, but he didn’t make eye contact, and I could tell he was still pissed.

  “Henry?” I nudged him softly with my fist, the softest punch I’d ever delivered. His fists balled immediately. Yep. Still mad.

  “Prior to 1900, prize fights lasted up to one hundred rounds,” Henry said woodenly.

  “What round are we on, man? I don’t think I can go a hundred rounds with you. I’m tapping out. You win.”

  “No tap-outs,” Henry said, his jaw tight, repeating something I’d told him in the gym.

  “No tap-outs. Except when you’re wrong. And I was wrong. I’m sorry, Henry.”

  “Amelie?” he asked. I wanted to hug him. He didn’t want apologies, he wanted answers, and I respected that.

  “Amelie is special. She’s not like other girls. She’s not like any girl I’ve ever liked. And I l
ike her, Henry. I like her a lot. But there’s an extra responsibility that comes with loving someone who will need you in a different way, who will rely on you in a different way. I have to be sure I’m ready for the responsibility. Do you understand?”

  “Pig’s bladders were once used as rugby balls,” Henry said softly.

  “Are you calling me a pig, Henry?”

  Henry started to grin, his eyes darting to mine before he gave in, making pig sounds and giggling.

  “You are!” I laughed with him. “I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you make a joke!” I went to sling my arm around his neck, but he did a duck-under and shot in on my legs, just like Cory had taught him. I whooped, leaning over him and wrapping my arms around his thin back and lifting his legs off the floor, his arms still wrapped around my thighs so he was hanging upside down.

  “Pound for pound, the best fighter in the universe! Say it, Henry. Say, ‘Tag, you’re the best fighter in the universe!’” I demanded, laughing.

  “Georges St. Pierre is the best fighter in the universe!” he squealed, releasing his grip on my thighs.

  “St. Pierre!” I roared, and dangled him higher. “Say Tag Taggert is the best fighter in the universe.”

  “Chuck Liddell is the best fighter in the universe!” he cried, wheezing.

  “What? He’s old news!” I protested, though I’d do just about anything to get Liddell in my gym.

  “Tag Taggert is the worst fighter in the universe!” Henry was laughing, a full-out belly laugh, and his face was as red as his hair. I flipped him upright and he swayed on his feet, still laughing. I steadied him and gave him a fake glare.

  “The best. The best fighter in the universe. You hear?”

  “Ronda Rousey is the best fighter in the universe,” he gasped, still-giggling, not giving in.

  I hooted, throwing up my hands. “You might have me there, kid. Speaking of gorgeous, badass females, where is Silly Millie?”

  Henry froze, listening, and then pointed at the floor. Now that I wasn’t making so much noise, I could hear the bass thumping faintly from the basement.

  “Downstairs? Show me the way.”

  Henry turned and padded through the foyer, across the kitchen and dining room, and into a large laundry room. It was neat and organized, like the rest of the house, and I took note of Millie’s Braille stickers on the laundry baskets—a big white one and a bigger red one. I’d never been in this part of the house, and when Henry pointed at a door and immediately retreated, I decided he wasn’t interested in whatever Millie was doing downstairs.

  The door opened above a narrow flight of stairs that immediately made me nervous and dizzy. I didn’t like the idea of Millie navigating them, and images of her tumbling head over heels seared my brain before I forced them back. Millie had grown up in this house, she’d probably been up and down these stairs a million times, and she wouldn’t appreciate me going all caveman over them. Still, I clung to the railing as I descended them gingerly, wondering at my sudden light-headedness. The music was so loud Millie wouldn’t hear me coming, but as I reached the bottom of the stairs, the music ceased abruptly, and someone started clapping and whistling. I halted, surprised, still hidden around the corner.

  “Do I look ridiculous?” I heard Millie ask. “Can I pull it off?”

  “What are you talking about, Amelie?” A female voice answered, and I recognized Robin’s voice from the night at the bar. She had that valley girl vibe to her voice that seemed to be prevalent among so many American women. I like, totally hated it. But Robin seemed nice enough.

  “You are pulling it off! Like, several nights a week, in fact!”

  “But I’ve never attempted this move. I can’t tell how I look, how my body looks, when I do it. It feels like I’m doing it right, but . . .” Millie’s voice trailed off.

  I peeked around the corner, extremely curious. Amelie was facing me, leaning against a tall pole. She was wearing little, black Tag Team shorts and a tank top, her hair pulled high on her head, her feet bare. Robin’s back was to me, thankfully, and I watched as she took Millie by the wrists and pulled her forward.

  Robin moved Millie’s hands up and down her own body matter-of-factly, allowing her to feel the softness at her waist and the roundness of her hips and her belly.

  “That’s more action than I’ve had in months. So pathetic,” Robin said wryly, releasing Millie’s hands, and I smiled, liking her a little more.

  “Now feel your own body, Amelie” Robin insisted, stepping back, and Amelie obeyed, running her hands down her chest, over the swell of her breasts, past her flat stomach to rest on her slightly flared hips. Then she cupped her butt in her hands and snickered, “I didn’t grab your ass, Robin. Come here.”

  “Ha, ha. Keep your hands to yourself, Grabby,” Robin laughed. “I’ve got to draw the line somewhere. But you can feel the difference, can’t you? I’m lumpy. You’re curvy. I’m soft, and you’re sleek. You look the way you feel, Amelie. You have an amazing body. And when you dance, no matter what move you’re doing, if it feels right, I can guarantee it looks right, too.”

  Robin rose another notch in my estimation.

  “Really?” Millie asked.

  “Really,” Robin answered.

  Amelie swung herself around the bar a couple times, almost absentmindedly, her ponytail swinging as she hoisted herself up, executing a perfect split before she wound both legs around the pole and dropped upside down. She handled being upside down a whole lot better than Henry did. She trailed her arms over her head, felt the concrete beneath her palms, and released the pole, scissoring her legs back to a standing position, like she could do back bends in her sleep.

  “I wish I could touch Tag like that. I wish it was okay to ask for things like that. I mean, I’ve felt him smile . . . but I want to feel the rest of him.” Millie blurted, as if confessing something that had been bubbling over.

  I bit my tongue to keep from gasping and wondered how in the hell I was going to get out of this situation without embarrassing everyone involved.

  “Amelie! You naughty girl!” Robin squealed.

  “I’m not trying to be, Robin. I know he has strong arms. I know he has dimples in his cheeks and a cleft in his chin. I know he has a slightly crooked nose. I know his body is hard and his lips are soft. And I know he has big, calloused hands.”

  “Stop it! I’m getting turned on and depressed,” Robin groaned. “Amelie . . . I think Tag Taggert might be the kind of guy who likes women. Period. You know? And you’re beautiful . . . so obviously, he’s going to like you. But . . . that’s not the kind of guy who’s going to make you happy in the long run.”

  “No.” Amelie shook her head, rejecting Robin’s opinion of me, as spot-on as it was. “No. There’s more to him than that. He’s special, and he makes me feel special. Sometimes I think there’s something between us. I can feel it in my chest, the way I can’t ever really catch my breath when he’s around. I feel it in my stomach too, the way it flips when he says my name. And mostly, I feel it when he talks to Henry. He’s gentle. And he’s sweet.”

  Millie shrugged. “But then other times, I think he’s just the kind of guy who is really good at taking care of people, and Henry and I are . . . needy.”

  We were facing each other, twenty feet apart, and Millie had no idea I was there, standing by the stairs at the shadowy end of the long basement, listening as she confessed her feelings for me. I considered sneaking back up the stairs, but the stairs were old, and I was guessing they creaked like an old man’s joints. I was frozen between wanting to hear Millie’s secrets and wanting to hide from them.

  “I wonder if he enjoys touching as much as I do,” Millie mused. “I want him to touch me, and I want to touch him. But I want him to actually like me, the way I like him, and not just the beautiful parts of me. All of me. Blind eyes, knobby knees, big ears, pointy chin. All of me. So that when he does touch me, and I touch him, it will be wonderful and not weird.”


  I wished more than anything that Robin was not standing between us at that moment. I wished I could walk over, wrap my arms around Millie and kiss that pointy chin and whisper assurances in the ears that were a little big, now that she mentioned it. I slid back around the corner and sat down on the bottom stair, resting my head in my hands.

  She’d laid it out. And I’d been lucky enough, or unlucky enough, to hear it. I was lucky because Amelie Anderson was falling in love with me. I was unlucky because I couldn’t pretend that I didn’t know. I’d refused to listen to Moses when he’d called me out on Saturday. I’d refused to examine the kiss in the bathroom or the line I’d already crossed when I’d lain Millie across her white comforter, a comforter I still saw every time I closed my eyes.

  But standing there, listening to Millie spell it out, I couldn’t ignore it any more. I couldn’t. I couldn’t pretend that I had more time to decide. Time was up, and I had to choose.

  I didn’t question my feelings. The feelings had been there from day one. From day one. I’d seen her standing like a shepherdess in the night, her head tilted back, her tongue catching snowflakes, and I’d felt something shift. Three days in, and I’d looked down into her face and felt the ode, a feeling no other girl had ever inspired. And I’d known. Since that day, I had found myself saying things, feeling things, doing things that I’d never done before. Millie had become my favorite sight, my favorite smell, my favorite taste, my favorite sound. My favorite. But that was never what any of this was about.

  It was about me.

  Millie called it the night I’d cleaned the blood from her skin and kissed her silly. Silly Millie. She wasn’t silly at all. She knew the score. And she was waiting for me to decide if I was man enough to love a blind girl.

  Kissing a blind girl is an unpardonable sin, she’d said, taunting me. But she was wrong about that. Kissing a blind girl wasn’t unpardonable. Loving her wasn’t unpardonable either. But loving her and letting her down . . . that was unpardonable to me. That was unforgiveable. That was the part I struggled with.