Love Bites

by Annabelle Costa

  “I, um…”

  “Great,” he says. “I’m taking you to dinner tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  My mouth falls open. God, he’s smooth. “What if I have a boyfriend?” I say, thinking of Jamie.

  “I don’t think you do,” he says, “but honestly, I’m not too worried either way. After all, this is kismet. The universe planned it.”

  The word “no” is on my lips. I’m ready to tell him thanks but no thanks. But instead, I find myself reciting my address for Hunter, who plugs it into his Android. I don’t know why I’m doing it. As the words leave my mouth, a voice in my head screams out, “Brooke, what are you doing?” But I’m helpless to stop until I’ve given him both my address and my phone number. And I gape unattractively at him as he kisses the back of my hand and tells me he’ll see me tomorrow night.

  He bows at me after that and takes off. As I watch him go, I’m seized by the most intense feeling of longing I’ve ever experienced. The feelings I have for Jamie are a combination of sexual attraction and friendship, but this—this is something entirely different. This is something deeply primal. It’s like a voice in my head is chanting:

  You want to go out with Hunter. You want to be with Hunter. You want to give yourself to Hunter.

  So… I guess I have a date?

  Chapter 7: Tom Blake

  December, 1905

  It’s the first snowfall of the season, which means as soon as I get out of bed and eat breakfast, I head over to Mrs. Perkins’s house across the road to shovel snow. Mrs. Perkins is a widow who lives all alone and one of the oldest ladies in town. Every year I shovel a path from her front door to the street so that she can leave her house. I do it before I even do my own house, although that is next on the list.

  Then I plan to go over to Mary Eckley’s house and see if I can do some shoveling for her.

  My boots are soggy before I even walk ten feet in the snow. I’m wearing the gloves my mother knitted for me, but my fingers gripping the shovel still feel frozen. Hopefully, Mrs. Perkins will invite me in for a hot tea when I finish the job—usually she does. She is a nice lady who often comes to our house with cakes she’d baked that she has no one else to share with.

  Except when I get to Mrs. Perkins’s house, I see that a path has already been cleared leading to her front door. I stare at the shoveled ice for a moment, baffled. I’m so perplexed that I don’t see the flash of white flying at my head until the snowball hits me square in the face.

  “Oh no!” a voice giggles. “I’m sorry, Tom! I meant to hit you in the chest!”

  I wipe snow from my eyes and focus them up at the girl standing before me. Mary Eckley, wrapped in a worn wool coat with the sleeves fraying at the edges, gripping a shovel in her left hand and covering her mouth with her right.

  “I always shovel for Mrs. Perkins,” I say dumbly.

  “Yes, well.” Mary shrugs. “You got here too late, didn’t you? I’ve already done the job.”

  I gaze at the clear path with amazement. “You did this?”

  She clucks her tongue at me. “I keep telling you I’m not helpless.”

  I have no doubt about that. I started bringing a satchel with me to school so that I could carry Mary’s books home while still carrying my own, leaving one hand free for the growingly common privilege of holding her hand, yet it’s clear that she’s very capable of fending for herself. I’ve walked by Mary’s house and seen her chopping firewood—something my father would never allow my mother to do. It’s not women’s work.

  “Now,” Mary says, “I just need to work on my aim.”

  With those words, she scoops up some snow in her gloves and hurls another snowball in my direction. This one hits me in the chest. I hesitate, not sure if it is proper to throw a snowball at a young woman, especially one I have intentions with. But after the third snowball hits me in the face, I decide I’ll take a chance.

  Mary screams with delight when my first snowball hits her in the shoulder. Before long, we have hurled dozens of snowballs at each other. I’m tossing gently, but Mary is going for blood. Her umpteenth snowball hits me in the shoulder and I lose my balance, slipping and falling in over a foot of white powder.

  “Are you okay, Tom?” Still giggling, Mary rushes to my side, although the snow is so deep and slippery that she falls too, only inches away from me. She laughs as the snow grinds into her red curls, her nose pink from the cold. “Oh no.”

  I struggle to sit up in the snow, but it occurs to me then that Mary is lying next to me. Despite the cold, I can feel the heat radiating from her slim body. She is so beautiful—her deep red hair laced with icicles, her cheeks flushed, her green eyes clear and full of joy. Her laughter dies and I realize we are both staring at each other. As much as I know it would be improper, I want more than anything in the world to lean forward and…

  I want to…

  “Tom,” Mary whispers urgently. “Kiss me now. Nobody will know.”

  Something is troubling me. The urge I feel tugging at my chest is something I can’t identify. It isn’t that I want to kiss Mary. I want to kiss her, of course, but there is something else. Something more powerful.

  “Tom?” she whispers again.

  I lean forward until my lips are an inch from her face. The craving has intensified so that I can feel it down to my bones. Kissing her will not satisfy me. Even lying with her as man and wife will not satisfy what I want from her. I want something else. Something I can’t identify.

  Or something I don’t want to identify.

  “Tom Blake!”

  This time I hear the shrill voice of Mrs. Eckley ringing out through the frigid winter air. I thank God she didn’t catch me kissing her daughter. The both of us sit up in the snow, exchanging guilty looks.

  “What are the two of you doing down there?” Mrs. Eckley demands to know.

  I scramble to my feet before offering Mary my hand to help her stand next to me. I glance at Mary and see that she is stifling a laugh. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” I mumble.

  “We were just shoveling snow, Mama,” Mary says. “For old Widow Perkins.”

  “Shoveling snow,” Mrs. Eckley repeats. She shakes her head at us. “I think this snow has been shoveled quite enough now.” She looks me up and down. “Tom, if you’re so keen on shoveling snow, you can come over to our house and shovel our path.”

  I’m relieved to get off that easy. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mary winks at me and starts off in the direction of her house. I go to follow the Eckley women, but before I do, I hear something. A voice. A voice speaking in my ear even though I can’t see another soul on the street aside from the three of us:

  Take her, Tom. Devour her.

  _____

  Before it gets dark tonight, I chop firewood out back—enough to hopefully get us through the week. It’s grown so cold that we’ll have to keep the fire going all the time. Ma is worried about it going out and not being able to start it up again.

  After I finish, I return to the house, carrying a load of wood and also the axe. I can hear the sound of my father’s voice from the parlor. He is shouting, but I can’t make out the words. Then I hear a crash.

  I drop the logs I’ve been carrying, but for some reason, I hold onto the axe. I grip it in my callused hand, rushing in the direction of the noise. It has grown dark and the room is lit only by the oil lamp. The first thing I see is my father standing in the middle of the parlor, his right hand balled into a fist, his neck red. The second thing I see is my mother sprawled out on the floor, a vase shattered beside her, the flowers and water it had contained spilled out onto the floor next to her.

  “Ma,” I murmur.

  Pa whirls around when he hears me, and I can tell from his bloodshot eyes that he is drunk. I don’t know why he hit her, but the truth is he doesn’t need a reason. Not a real reason. One night he hit her because she didn’t ask him how his day at the shop had gone and didn’t she care? Another night he hit her because she asked hi
m about his day at the shop and it wasn’t any of her goddamn business.

  “What the hell are you doing here, boy?” Pa snaps at me. “Aren’t you supposed to be chopping firewood?”

  “I finished,” I say, keeping my eyes trained on my mother. Her golden hair is disheveled and she is trying to brush it from her face. “Ma, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, Tom,” she says quickly. Her voice sounds dry and crackly. “Just… go to your room.”

  I don’t move.

  “This is none of your business, boy.” My father’s voice is slurred. “If you’re done making yourself useful, you can go on upstairs.” He snorts. “Don’t be a big shot. Unless you want some of what she got…”

  I look down at my right hand, still clutching the axe. I can see my next move. I can see myself lifting the axe…

  “You hear me, boy?” Pa growls. “I tol’ you to get on upstairs…”

  Lifting the axe. Swinging it against my father’s neck.

  Blood spraying everywhere. Bright red blood. Pooling on the floor.

  It would smell just like the fresh beef in Mr. Sullivan’s cooler.

  “Tom!” My mother’s voice jars me out of the scene unfolding before my eyes. I’m so startled that I drop the axe. It clatters to the floor and I step back, horrified by what I’d been contemplating.

  “I’m going,” I manage. I race up the stairs as fast as I can, leaving the axe behind.

  If my mother hadn’t shouted my name, I would have done it. I would have swung that axe at my father’s head.

  Or would I?

  I’ve never even been in a fistfight with another boy. The thought that I could do something like that… well, it’s unthinkable. That’s all there is to it. And although I hate what my father does to us, he’s still my father. I would never…

  I can’t think about this anymore.

  Chapter 8: Brooke

  Jamie and I agree to meet up at his apartment prior to the post bar mitzvah festivities, because neither of us wants to be there alone for even a minute. I show up a few minutes early because I was already dressed and I got tired of pacing around my apartment. I ring his doorbell and nobody answers, so I try the doorknob—unlocked.

  I push open the door to Jamie’s ultra-clean apartment. I’ve teased him before about being a neat freak (unlike me), but I know he mostly keeps it this way because he doesn’t want to snag his leg on a pair of jeans lying on the floor. He’s got a woman who comes to clean once a week.

  “Jamie!” I call out when I don’t see him in the living room.

  Jamie comes out from the hallway leading to his bedroom and he’s sitting in a wheelchair. I already knew that he uses a wheelchair a fair amount around his apartment, but it throws me off a little whenever I see him in it. On his part, he seems mildly embarrassed.

  “Let me just…” He grabs onto the arm of the sofa to pull himself into a standing position. It takes him two tries to get back on his feet, and then when he reaches for his cane, his left leg starts jumping in place. He holds onto the sofa, waiting for it to pass, but the second he lets go again, the spasm returns. “Shit…”

  “Uh, are you okay?” I ask.

  “Fine,” he says through his teeth.

  But he’s not fine. He can’t get his left leg to stop jumping when he puts any weight on it. I can see the frustration on his face.

  I look at his chair, wondering if he’d prefer to use it instead of the cane. I don’t see how he’s going to walk out of here, given the issues he’s having. “Maybe you should use the wheelchair for the party?”

  His blue eyes widen. “What? No, I’ll be fine.”

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  He gives me a look.

  “What?” I say. “It’s not.”

  He looks down at his left leg again and behind him at the wheelchair. “Fine. Maybe I should…”

  His ears are slightly pink as he settles back down into his chair. Despite his reluctance, he seems relieved when he gets back into it. He uses his hands to adjust his legs in the footplate, studiously avoiding my eyes.

  As opposed to yesterday, Jamie is dressed casually in a gray T-shirt and blue jeans. It’s really hot out, but I’ve never seen him wear anything besides pants, probably because of those braces on his ankles. There’s nothing wrong with them, but I can see why he might want to hide them.

  We take the elevator the one flight to Mr. Teitelman’s apartment. We have to ring the bell twice, but when he finally throws open the door, he honestly looks the happiest I’ve ever seen him. His gray hair is perfectly combed and he’s wearing what I suspect is his nicest tennis shirt. He beams at us.

  “Brooky!” He leans in to give me a kiss on the cheek, then he claps Jamie on the shoulder. “And James! I’m so glad you both could make it.” He winks at me. “And together.”

  I grin at Jamie. “We wouldn’t miss it.”

  “What?” Mr. Teitelman says.

  “WE WOULDN’T MISS IT!” I yell at him.

  “Let me introduce you to my grandson, Eli!” Mr. Teitelman rushes off into the crowd of people milling about his apartment. He’s got four children and innumerable grandchildren, so even if it’s family only, it’s a full house. He told me that he and his wife Beverly used to have a house out on Long Island, but he gave it up when she passed on. Too much work.

  A minute later, Mr. Teitelman is shoving a round-faced boy in our direction, who looks like he wishes he could be anywhere but here. He has the same kind brown eyes as Mr. Teitelman and he’s wearing one of those little round hats on his light brown hair.

  “This is Eli!” Mr. Teitelman announces proudly. “Today, he is a man!”

  The boy’s cheeks color. This boy does not look like he’s a man. He doesn’t even look like he’s old enough to grow pubes. But he’s staring at my boobs like a man, so there’s that.

  “Mazel tov, Eli,” I say. I think that’s what I’m supposed to say. I look at Jamie for confirmation and he just shrugs. Jamie’s not Jewish either—he’s a bad Christian like me.

  “Thanks,” the boy mumbles.

  “You must get some food!” Mr. Teitelman instructs us as his grandson wanders back into the crowd. “I got it from Katz’s deli. You know, the deli where Meg Ryan had the orgasm?”

  “What?” I say.

  “You know, in that movie,” he says impatiently. “Where Harold gets introduced to Susan?”

  Jamie and I exchange looks. “When Harry Met Sally?” Jamie finally guesses.

  Mr. Teitelman nods emphatically. “Yes, that’s the movie. When Harold Met Sally. And she has the orgasm at Katz’s deli. So help yourself.”

  I look at Jamie and I can see he’s trying as hard as I am not to burst out laughing.

  The apartment is so crowded, Jamie is having trouble maneuvering in his chair. I can see why he would have wanted to be on his feet for this, but that wasn’t an option. He has to keep mumbling “excuse me” to people in his efforts to get to the dining table.

  The spread from Katz’s deli is impressive. He’s got piles of pastrami, turkey, chicken, and even something that Jamie tells me is cow’s tongue. There are buckets of mustard and coleslaw and several loaves of various colored rye bread. There’s an entire plate of pickles, cut into quarters.

  “Are these knishes?” I ask Jamie, pointing to a pastry sliced into quarters. It looks like potato inside.

  “I think so,” he says, ducking his head to get a closer look.

  I smile. “I was at a catered party with Sydney about a year ago that had deli food, and she convinced a friend of hers that they were pronounced ‘nishes.’ It was hilarious.”

  Jamie grins at me as he puts a plate in his lap. “Was that friend you?”

  “No.” I roll my eyes, but then catch site of a bowl of some mushed up brown stuff. “Is that humus?”

  He squints down at the bowl. “I think it’s chopped liver.”

  “Ew!” I shudder. “I’m not eating that.”

  “You should
try it,” he says. “Maybe it will end up being your new favorite food.”

  “I highly doubt that.”

  “You never know…”

  Maybe I’m not an adventurous eater, but I can say for sure that chopped liver is not going to be my new favorite food. I just know.

  Jamie and I fill up our plates to the brim with deli food before we head over to the sectional sofa. There’s no room to sit when we get there, but when the guests see Jamie, they quickly get up to make room for me to sit with him. I wonder if it bothers him how people always do things like that for him.

  Once I’m settled on the couch, I spread mayo all over my rye bread, then layer it with pastrami and turkey. Jamie is watching me and he grins. “Mayo on a pastrami sandwich? Boy, you’re really not a native New Yorker.”

  “Why not? Native New Yorkers don’t eat mayo?”

  “Not on a pastrami sandwich.” He shakes his head. “That’s blasphemy over here.”

  I roll my eyes. “Sorry, Michigan boy.”

  “Hey, I’ve lived here longer than you.”

  That’s true. Jamie first moved here from Michigan for college. I think he’s about thirty-one, so that means he’s lived here thirteen years to my seven.

  “My parents want me to move back,” he says as he crunches on a sour pickle.

  “Seriously?”

  He nods grimly. “My mom called me last night because she found out that someone was murdered in our neighborhood. She says it’s not safe here.”

  “My parents don’t know about Sydney,” I say. “If they found out…”

  Well, there’s nothing my parents could do to get me to move back to Vermont, but I wouldn’t enjoy the hours I’d have to spend on the phone trying to convince them I’m just fine here. Hopefully, they won’t hear about it.

  “What are your parents worried about?” I say. “You’re a guy.”

  “Like I said to my mother,” he says, “I just won’t date any dark, mysterious men. It’ll be a sacrifice, but…”