Excavation: A Memoir

by Wendy C. Ortiz

  Mr. Ivers leaned over my unmade bed, scanned the photos, hmmming and pointing, “Hah! There’s Veronica. Oh look, Brian’s mid-prank in this one!” I barely registered his comments. He kept moving around the room, investigating with long glances everything adorning my walls. My blood felt like it was pushing a fast path through me.

  I abruptly abandoned my replay of the afternoon and got up to change the record to one I cherished as a mere twelve-year-old, a radio hit by the British band Human League. I threw myself back down on the bed, the springs recoiling against my back. I sang along in a mock British accent, Here comes the mirror man! The clock’s digital face told me that there were still hours to go before my mother would be home from work.

  My eyes darted around the room, looking for other tiny remnants he might have honed in on while he was here. He hadn’t stayed long, didn’t linger, just enough time for a well-planned tease of tongue and touch.

  I believed Jeff and I were friends. I wanted to be content with this much. I thought of his new mantra, his insistence that love never enter the picture, at least not the kind you fell into. I let out a sigh and waited for the needle to pick itself up. The record revolved dumbly on the stereo.

  The night before on the phone we had mapped out this first visit, certain my mother and father would be at work, no danger. Then he changed the subject.

  “Wendy, you need to promise me that you’ll pursue writing.”

  “Yep,” I answered.

  I enjoyed the reaction I got from him, the urging, the near-pleading, when I acted blasé, uninterested, supremely casual as he spoke of my future.

  “Journalism, magazines, something. You could be a lyricist, anything. I just hope you follow through.” I hear him take a drink and swallow. “I want you to give me back that paragraph you wrote, the one I assigned. I’m going up to my mom’s next weekend and I want to show it around so they can see what kind of talented kid I’m dealing with.”

  “Uh, okay,” I answered. I switched the phone to my other ear, which felt equally hot and uncomfortable. “I just have to look for it. I think I threw it away.”

  Would he ask me again? Did he really want to show it off? It all sounded so weird to me, so unnatural, this extreme interest and praise.

  I was still writing my book, which was becoming harder to keep in one binder. And the notebook I had to write for his class had become more about sharing my thoughts and feelings with him than anything else.

  “You just have this thing,” he continued. “Unlimited potential.” He rambled on and I tuned out, his language a mixture of melodramatics, earnest coaching, and fortune-telling guidance. “I’ll put you through college if I have to,” he said.

  I listened. I couldn’t take this seriously. Of course I’d go to college, but right now I wanted to be left alone with my Stephen King books. I wanted to read Khalil Gibran when I feel inspired to, but I wanted to read the words slowly, savoring them, continuing my underlining of beautiful images and profound insights I didn’t completely understand.

  Still, I hung onto the words. Unlimited potential. The words reminded me of things spoken in the midst of familiar, fertile dreams.

  I thought about his words and rearranged myself on the bed, scooting myself down and onto my side, my hands meeting underneath my ear in a prayer-like pose. My knees pressed against my chest. It felt far more satisfying to consider the tangible elements of the past day. I lifted myself on an elbow and let the fingers on one hand trace the areas beneath my breasts, where a small field of hickeys hid like violets under my t-shirt. I thought of the butterfly of his tongue landing on my stomach, my hips, in a feathery, fickle manner that made me squirm. I allowed the reliving of the day to take place yet again, the colorful re-imagining in my head to rewind, play, rewind, play. It was a scene I lost myself in, that could overpower the other words he said that I wanted to forget.

  “Don’t fall in love with me, Wendy. I fear that. So don’t do it. Because it just wouldn’t work out.”

  My stray hand found my hip. I wondered what happened to his fantasies of marriage down the road. Would it be a marriage without love? Did he know something about this kind of existence? Why would anyone want that kind of existence?

  Love, love, love. I can think it. I just won’t say it, I thought. I could make him believe anything.

  I drifted off to sleep until the sound of my mother slamming the screen door woke me, pushed me back into the world of teenage girls who weren’t in love, who couldn’t be in love with their English teachers.

  JULY

  1987

  A song by U2 became that summer’s anthem. It played constantly on the radio, the signature electric guitar ringing out in my mother’s car as we drove to the grocery store. It cried out from other people’s cars, and on the boardwalk of Venice Beach. No matter which way you turned the dial, it was playing somewhere in the summer of 1987.

  “So, have you found what you’re looking for?” Jeff asked me. We were listening to the same radio station, and I heard the electronic echo as the song played over our phone line.

  “No.” I looked down at my bed, its sunny, flowery fitted sheet, unchanged for more than two weeks now. “Not quite.” I wiggled my toes, awaiting his response, hoping I hit a nerve.

  There was a pause, and a noise that sounded like it was coming directly from Jeff’s throat.

  “It seems like the women in my life are always saying that,” he finally said with a self-deprecating chuckle.

  I sighed and pressed my lips together. I was developing an intimate relationship with the act of lying. I wrestled with this new association silently, in between the sentences in our every conversation.

  On another night, we got disconnected, and I tried calling him for the next half-hour. All I got was a busy signal. I punched the numbers again and again, getting more confused and annoyed by the second. I called the operator. She told me that his line was “in use.” I told myself he’d merely unplugged his phone, not questioning why he’d do that in the middle of a conversation with me.

  An hour passed and my phone rang, sounding shrill and angry. Jeff. He laughed, sounding high as a kite.

  “So, my phone just shut down for a while there,” he said between cackles. “And when I plugged it back in, it rang, and I figured it was you all pissed off at me thinking I hung up on you. I said, ‘Well, now, I thought you might be calling me back,’ and it’s fucking Fara, man.”

  I continued listening, feeling an urge to slam the phone down, to punish both him and his girlfriend, who had just appeared again, out of nowhere, in the middle of our phone conversation.

  “So, she says,” his voice turned high-pitched and squeaky, “‘Is Jeff there?’ and I said, ‘Oh, yeah, it’s me! I thought you were someone else!’” He paused again to cackle and take a swig of, no doubt, a beer. “And then she says, ‘Were you talking to some little bitch? Your line’s been busy for a whole hour and you weren’t home last night!’”

  My breath caught when I heard he wasn’t home the night before.

  “So I just told her I was talking to my dad and my phone got fucked up somehow,” he finished, his voice getting smaller and slightly strained as he pulled away from the phone to reach for something. He returned to the mouthpiece, his voice suddenly loud and important. “I’m gonna call her back now. I just wanted to let you know what was up. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

  I murmured assent. He hung up. I had been silent the entire time. He seemed not to have noticed.

  ✵

  It was startling to not see Jeff most days of the week like I had when school was in session. I knew we would see each other before long, at my classmate Tony’s confirmation party. I knew this party had something to do with religion, but I neglected to inquire further.

  Jeff was on Tony’s A-list. Tony’s parents loved Jeff, his ability to coach a winning junior high basketball
team, his infectious humor.

  My mother dropped me off at the low-lit, cavernous Italian restaurant.

  I walked in and my eyes fell on Jeff, already throwing back Coronas with a big grin on his face. Properly attired in teacher-wear, he had a gray cardigan draped over a chair and his tie loosened just to the point of being noticeable. Our eyes met and a sexual thunder crested over the room that no one else seemed to feel but me.

  This late afternoon event had been marked semi-formal. I had to sort this out for myself, not having been invited to much that required anything formal or semi-formal. The mid-length, form-fitting dress I wore felt like a costume. In fact, I felt strange being around Jeff and kids I’d mostly grown up with, wearing this weird dress. Jeff was loose, gripping cold bottles of beer, one after the other, his tie ever closer to coming completely undone.

  When the other fourteen-year-olds tried to cajole each other into slow dancing, Jeff immediately arrived at my side, asked me, insisted, insisted more urgently, until I gave in and our fingers met. He situated one hand on my lower back and the other in my hand. Sickly sweet sentimental tendrils reached out and attached themselves to my heart as the sounds of the song “Stand By Me” played over the low-budget speakers. Tony’s dad moved around the room with a bulky video camera, capturing images of Renee and Sheila giggling and pointing at the other kids dancing, heavy-metal Laura sulking in the corner, and me and Jeff slow-dancing. Jeff’s breath smelled of beer as he whispered, “I have something to tell you. Later.”

  Nervous, I tried not to look any of my classmates in the face. I jumped when Jeff suddenly called out “Joe!” over my shoulder. “Get a shot of us!” I turned my face into his shoulder, feeling my pantyhose clinging to my legs unnaturally, the ringing in my ears, fear shaking its wings in my heart.

  Jeff turned to the video camera as Tony’s father lingered on us. In a booming voice he said to the lens, “C’mon, Wendy, show the camera how much you love Mr. Ivers!” I kept my eyes on my feet and hid a smile as we moved slowly among the swaying adults and teenagers.

  “You look so hot in that dress,” he cooed at me when the camera and Tony’s father fell away into the darkness. “You know, dancing can be kinda like having sex with your clothes on.” He pressed me closer and I tried to peer nonchalantly over his shoulder to see who, if anyone, was looking at us.

  The song ended and a faster one started up. I moved away from him, realizing I was backing away, trying to smile. His inhibitions were clearly gone. He seemed miles away as he danced hypnotically to the beat.

  I couldn’t eat by the time dinner was served. Jeff stationed himself near me at all times, as I attempted conversation with my classmates about the advent of high school, the newness of having to buy a uniform for the Catholic school most of us would be attending in August.

  “Wanna have sex?” Jeff stage-whispered from behind me as I talked to Renee in a corner. I turned and he was gone. Renee’s face looked pinched and we laughed nervously. Shit. She heard. I steered the conversation to her, asked what classes she would take in high school, how she felt about the uniforms we had to buy at the store across the Valley.

  “I gotta leave early. Got tickets to see the Dodgers,” Jeff said by way of farewell as evening set in.

  “Okay,” I said. I sighed and wondered what time it was and when my mom might pick me up. I wanted to hold onto the curious thrill of his body near mine and the empty wake he left when he notified me of his departure. I left the banquet room and followed the signs to the restrooms.

  Jeff appeared at the door of the women’s bathroom before I could open it.

  “Oh my god. I can’t believe this.”

  “Believe it,” he said, and then, “Check it out. Make sure no one’s inside.”

  I peeked in, glanced at the one stall. Its door was wide open. I looked back at him and nodded. He gave a dramatic look-see of the immediate area. No one was nearby. We charged inside and he locked the bathroom door.

  Gripped tight against each other, my back touching the cold tiled wall, his tongue found mine and the taste of beer hit me, the smell of his cologne tickling my nose. His hands traveled swiftly, urgently cupping one breast. His palms found the hard, icy wall. I arched my back so that I was pressed against him, timidly testing to see if he was hard.

  “I love you.”

  We kissed again, and I closed my eyes. He pulled away.

  “I love you,” he repeated. I heard the tone of surprise. I stood there, letting my back relax into the tiled wall, imagining little cartoonish birds and stars flying around my head, whistling stupidly.

  “Tell me who you love,” he said, his hazel eyes inches from my brown ones.

  Silence. I held my breath and listened for footsteps, my mind wildly calculating how we could leave this place unnoticed, wondering if he was really going to take off with the friend he brought and seemed to ignore and just go to the baseball game like nothing momentous had occurred. Frustration began to boil in my belly, rippling out into my arms.

  “C’mon, Wendy.” He dropped his head. I looked at his mussed black hair. I wanted to kiss him, touch his head, press my body to his again. “Tell me who you love,” he said to the floor, then raised his head to search my face. My throat seized and I blinked back surprised tears.

  He stared at me a moment. “Okay, tell me who you like.”

  “You,” I murmured, looking down at my white low-heeled shoes. One ankle was twisted, the smudge on the inside right shoe glaring at me. He lifted my chin with a finger and his mouth was on mine again.

  He pulled away.

  “I hate wanting you so bad,” he said to the sink, and I was introduced to the uses of “love” and “hate” in the same scene, one in which I was a featured player. I was painfully aware of the clothes, the ridiculous dress, his suit, how artificial and clumsy the fabric felt against my skin.

  “I’ll call you tonight for sure, but it’ll be some time around one a.m.,” he said, touching my hand. He unlocked the door, peered out, gave me a wicked smile and stole away.

  I stayed in the bathroom a minute more. I turned on the faucet and let the cold water splash against my palms.

  I forced myself to rejoin the festivities in the banquet room. My mother picked me up soon after and drove me home, inquiring about who was at the party, if everyone was going to the same school the following month. I answered, feeling as if my mouth was full of words in another language. The phone didn’t ring once that night.

  I found out days later that the friend Jeff brought to the party and ignored had asked who I was.

  “He asked me, ‘Who was that girl in the blue and white dress?’”

  I quickly switched the phone receiver to my other ear so I wouldn’t miss his answer.

  “So I told him: ‘That’s the girl I’m going to marry when she turns 18.’”

  I heard him spit out the shells of sunflower seeds and pop some more into his mouth. He laughed. I swallowed and tried to laugh, wanting to believe, loving his voice, hating the possibility of untruth. Then I changed the subject.

  ✵

  2:30 p.m. Days later. My house was wavy with heat. I wore gray wool shorts and a cotton eyelet blouse.

  I was experimenting with clothes. The turtlenecks couldn’t be touched in the swelter of summer. They hung in my closet forlornly like dark shells. The shorts felt a little scratchy on my thighs and my legs felt prickly from the shaving I had just given them in the shower. The radio was tuned to a classic rock station, and a band Jeff told me about, the Moody Blues, was playing. I half-listened to the words. My mom wouldn’t be home until four, or later. Thank god, I thought, Maybe there’ll be some traffic. Maybe she’ll stop to get a pint of Popov.

  I was barefoot and had all the lights turned out because it was so fucking hot I couldn’t bear electricity. I trotted from my bedroom, yellow-tinted with the blinds open and sun touching
the room, to the dark cave of the living room. I flitted from room to room, peeking out my bedroom blinds, moving the front door just a tad this way so I could see out the screen door, which was locked, but could easily be broken and entered.

  My hair was longer than it was during the school year. It was just to my shoulders. I had played with Sun-In, but resolved to apply more drastic measures soon, like full-on bleach.

  I heard a car pull up.

  It was Jeff.

  I pretended not to notice until he was practically at the screen looking in at me.

  “What’s up?” he asked with a knowing smile, and I allowed him in. I shut the door behind him. I wanted him to feel at home, to recall the last time he was here with fondness, to stay awhile.

  2:45. We were moving from room to room. This time he made fun of the clutter surrounding the bed of my childhood. I wondered silently if we would be using this bed for anything today. I hated its springs that felt unpredictable, sharp. He nodded, assessing what was mine, as if comparing it to the last time he was here just weeks before, searching for miniscule changes. His eyes hit the yellow carpet, the small areas on the wall where I’d handwritten in markers my own poetry, plus lyrics I heard on 106.7 K-R-O-Q, Rock of the 80’s! Then he turned around and started leading us back to the living room.

  I was kicking myself now. Why the hell would a twenty-eight-year-old man want to hang out in a fourteen-year-old’s bedroom, anyway? I tried to leave the disappointment behind in the abandoned bedroom, the ungranted wish that he would want to sit down, admire my things again, touch each one and connect it to me. Instead, I was following him down the hallway, feeling a gap open between us.

  We were back in the cool of the living room. The swamp cooler whirred above our voices. The olive green carpet lent itself to the darkness, as did the couches.

  But then there were the mirrors.