Precarious

by Al Riske

  Jody didn’t seem to care about that. She had an idea: “We could make pizza right here. It’d be fun and it wouldn’t cost much,” she said. “Maybe there’s a good movie on TV.”

  So we all piled into Kyle’s Charger and drove to Safeway to pick up the ingredients. In the store, we went in search of pepperoni, cheese, tomato sauce, and crust mix.

  “How long have you known Kyle?” Jody asked me, looking at a box with a picture of an Italian chef on the front.

  “The note on the basket said he was four months old when we found him on the doorstep.”

  “Bill, would you be serious?”

  “Serious? We hardly know each other.”

  Exhaling heavily, Jody turned to the frozen foods, leaned over the edge of the cooler, and looked for a suitable ice cream for dessert. “I’m really very outgoing,” she said, suddenly swiveling toward me again. “I’m usually easy to talk to. Sometimes I’m too talkative. But you stump me. You really do.”

  I was sitting on the edge of the cooler watching a shapely older woman stoop for a can on the bottom shelf across from us.

  “Why’s that?”

  “You never give me a straight answer.”

  Standing up, straight as could be, I said: “I think I’ll be able to answer your questions now.”

  The gag was poor—neither original nor very funny—but I had to do something. She was expecting it.

  “That’s just what I mean. You know, Bill, if you ever want to let me get to know you, you can start being straight with me.”

  I shrugged and said nothing. I wouldn’t know how to begin clearing up the many misconceptions she had developed—and I had taken a perverse pleasure in fostering.

  “Either you’re a very private person or you like to be drawn out,” she said. “Or maybe you like to remain mysterious.”

  It was just the kind of insight a freshman would come up with. A year earlier, I no doubt made similar observations.

  “Maybe,” I said.

  SHE SAT CLOSE to me in the backseat of the Charger and Kyle made sure we were thrown together every time he turned a corner. He must have thought he was doing me a favor.

  EXCEPT FOR AN electric fireplace that was so tacky it was cool, Bren-da’s apartment was fairly nondescript: white walls, brown carpet, very little furniture. (Vinyl chairs from the dinette were often pressed into service in the living room.) All four of us ate pizza and watched TV on the one comfortable accoutrement, a faded red sofa acquired at a garage sale. Kyle and Brenda curled together on one end, leaving enough room for me to keep six inches between Jody and myself.

  “I’d better get going,” Kyle said, when the movie ended. “I’ve got to get up at four if I’m going to make it to North Fork before dawn.”

  “You must be out of your mind,” I said. “Nothing short of a fire could get me out of bed at four.”

  “Why don’t you just stay here?” Brenda suggested. “My roommate’s gone. You and Bill could take her room.”

  “I don’t know …”

  “You’ll get more sleep. North Fork is a lot closer from here.”

  “What about your parents?” Jody asked.

  “Actually, they think I’m already up on the North Fork.”

  “Why would you tell them that?”

  “Well, that was the plan until I remembered our date.”

  “You really know how to make a girl feel special,” Brenda said. “Bill?”

  “What? I’m not going.”

  “Good. That way we can stay up a little longer,” Brenda said.

  I meant I wasn’t going fishing, but it didn’t matter. I’d already told my parents I’d be staying at Kyle’s, which, at the time, I actually thought would be the case.

  Jody suggested we read from the Bible before turning in. She chose a passage from The Gospel According to Luke, and I thought about making some comparisons to other gospel accounts, since I, too, had taken courses in theology and religion. I was far too tired, though—and what would be the point?

  Kyle immediately shuffled off toward the back bedroom, and Brenda followed to put clean sheets on the bed. I gave them time to fix the bed and a little extra to say good night, but it seemed to take forever. Closing my eyes, I sank back on the sofa.

  “Why don’t you talk to me?” Jody asked.

  “My tang’s all tonguled up,” I said thickly.

  “You know,” she said, “I consider myself kind of special. People usually like to talk to me. I’m a good listener.”

  “I am, too. You talk; I’ll listen.”

  “Usually when I talk to someone, they have their eyes open,” she said.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I hear with my ears, not my eyes.”

  “Why are you tired, Bill? I’m not.”

  “I guess you and me are different, huh?”

  I had turned away from her, my face half buried in the sofa cushions, and she was leaning over me now, tugging on my shoulder. Without looking at her, I reached up and switched off the lamp on the end table. (It was pretty clear Brenda wasn’t coming out, and I wasn’t going back there now.)

  “Can’t you stay up with me one hour?”

  “The flesh is willing,” I said, “but the spirit is weak.”

  “That’s ‘The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.’”

  “Whatever.”

  I slid to the floor, taking one of the cushions with me. Between the sofa and the coffee table there was no room for Jody. I kept my eyes closed, and tried to sleep.

  Reaching down from the sofa, Jody massaged my neck, trying to work out some of the stiffness she detected. I let her continue for a while, but then I rolled over on my back.

  She ran her fingers over my face and rubbed my chest. “I bet you’re just soaking it up,” she said.

  “Like a sponge.”

  I felt her index finger trace my lips.

  “Do you want me to stop?”

  “Not really, but maybe you’d better.”

  I didn’t mean it the way it came out—like I was afraid we might get carried away, unchaperoned as we were—but I was too tired to think of a way to say what I really meant without being cruel and sarcastic. Anyway, cruel and sarcastic didn’t seem to work with Jody.

  AT FOUR-THIRTY, SURE I had not slept at all, I looked at my watch.

  “Hey, Kyle, get up! You’re late!”

  Kyle yelled back, but I knew he wasn’t really awake.

  “You wouldn’t think he could be talking in his sleep like that, but he is,” I told Jody. “I’d better go drag him out of bed.”

  Fully dressed and lying atop the covers, Brenda was still asleep as well. Kyle acted surprised and embarrassed, but I was sure my friend was putting on a show for Jody’s sake, because he spoke loud enough so she could hear from the living room. It was plain, though, that Brenda and Kyle had simply fallen asleep waiting for me as I had waited for them.

  Kyle was out the door in five minutes.

  Still dressed, Brenda crawled under the covers. Then Jody padded in and got in with her.

  “We can get three in here,” Brenda called as I wandered away.

  It was a chilly, gray morning.

  “Brrr,” Brenda said, “you should be in the middle, Bill.”

  Jody didn’t move, though, so I lay next to her. I just wanted to sleep; Jody apparently did not. She ran her hand through my hair and gently tugged my neck. At first I wouldn’t budge, but she kept tugging. Finally, pretending to be half asleep, I moved close to her. A few minutes went by, and then I felt her finger outline my lips again. I opened my mouth and—God knows why—flicked my tongue against her finger. The next thing I knew I was kissing her shoulder. She moaned softly.

  “Oh, stop, Bill. Please stop.”

  I turned, sat up on the edge of the bed for a moment, and left the room. I wanted to leave the apartment but couldn’t find my shoes. Giving up, I went into the next bedroom (the one Brenda and Jody were supposed to be in to begin with) and ducked under the cove
rs.

  In a minute, Jody was sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “Leave me alone,” I said, turning to face the wall.

  I was as tired and cranky as a three-year-old who hasn’t had a nap. What did she want anyway? None of this was making sense. None of my recent experiences were. They all left me confused and conflicted.

  “Bill,” she said softly. “Do you want to talk about it.”

  “No, I don’t. Go away.”

  “I do. Bill, look at me, please.”

  Looking at the ceiling, I said, “I should have gone fishing with Kyle. I hate fishing. My line always gets so tangled I wish I’d never cast it. But, oh, it’d sure be great to be up there now.”

  “I want to talk about you and me, not fishing,” Jody said.

  I tried again. “You know, when lines get too tangled, it’s better to just break them.”

  I rolled back toward the wall, but once again her hand tugged my shoulder.

  “Turn around,” she said. “You have to talk to me.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Look at me,” she said. “We have to talk.”

  “Bull. Shit.”

  “Shhh … ”

  After a lengthy silence, she said, “Bill, if you don’t talk to me, I’ll leave this room and never be the same person.”

  I sat up, looked at her, and sighed. It occurred to me, briefly, that maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. But changing someone forever was more responsibility than I was prepared to take on just then. For one thing, I recalled the Bible’s admonition, Let not many of you become teachers, my brethren, knowing that as such we will incur a stricter judgment. Finally, I settled on something simple and true.

  “I don’t want to hurt your feelings.”

  “I can take it,” she said. “I’m a strong girl.”

  “The truth is …” I looked at my bare feet on the braided rug as I spoke. “I didn’t even want to take you out tonight—last night, I mean.”

  “I told you not to feel obligated.”

  “What was I supposed to say—’Fine, forget about it’? Anyway, I didn’t intend to kiss you back there or anything. But you were asking for it, you’ve got to admit.”

  That made her mad.

  “I don’t deserve this,” she said. “You can’t treat me like this. There are plenty of other guys, you know, who would enjoy my company.”

  She was verging on tears, her voice cracking before she was through.

  “I’m sure there are,” I said, though I was less than certain.

  Slowly, she regained her composure.

  “Look, I feel bad about this whole thing. I didn’t know I was asking for it, as you say. I didn’t think anything could happen with Brenda there.”

  What did she think? That in another minute I would have been undressing her? I looked her in the eye for the first time, but I didn’t say anything.

  “I’m as much to blame as you,” she concluded. “In fact, maybe I’m more guilty. I have a boyfriend in Oregon. He loves me very much, and we’re planning to be married. So I don’t know why I even went out with you, except it gets lonely being miles apart. And he and I agreed it was okay to date others as long as we had to be apart so long.”

  I still didn’t say anything. In fact, I didn’t even move. I was too stunned. Then I noticed she was kneeling on the floor by the bed, which seemed odd since I didn’t know how she got there.

  She said, “I knew the day I met you that you were like this, this kind of guy.”

  “What do you mean? What kind of guy?”

  “Well, you know … A girl chaser. Kind of carnal.”

  I had a friend at college—we were going to room together in the fall—who had convinced himself that I was some sort of Don Juan, always lucky with women. I certainly didn’t feel that way. I wondered what he would say if he could see me now.

  “And I know,” Jody said, “there’s something missing in your life, isn’t there?”

  I shrugged.

  She started telling me that, although I was self-centered and cruel, I had a lot of potential and the Lord could use me—if only I would let him.

  AT THE END of the worship service that morning, I responded to the altar call and told the pastor that I had come forward as proof that God can soften the hardest heart.

  This was not the first time I had come forward. In fact there was a period shortly after puberty when, guilt stricken about my constant yearnings and frequent masturbation, I felt compelled to rededicate my life to God about every other week, even though I knew how ridiculous it must have looked to everyone there. But that was years ago. This was different. I found myself constantly vacillating between tender romanticism, bent-nail frustration, and hard-bitten cynicism. It would be such a relief if I could just set things right.

  After another verse of “Just a Closer Walk with Thee” and no additional volunteers, I went into an adjacent room with one of the deacons, a good-natured guy named Ralph. I had known Ralph for years and liked him and his wife, Doris, immensely. As we prayed silently, the hymn that had been running through my mind was replaced by Bob Dylan’s raspy voice singing …

  When you’re lost in the rain in Juarez

  And it’s Eastertime too

  And your gravity fails

  And negativity don’t pull you through …

  I couldn’t remember what came next, which was odd because I was really into Dylan then. I liked him because he was honest and fearless. Nothing like me.

  When we came out, Jody was waiting. She asked me if she could be part of my afternoon, and I said, “Sure.”

  In the car, she said, “I just knew we didn’t meet to just say hello/good-bye.”

  My parents were already home. I introduced Jody, and an extra place was set at the table.

  “Supper will be ready soon,” my mother said.

  While we were waiting, I showed Jody my room.

  “Isn’t it amazing how tailor-made the sermon was?” she said. “Everything Pastor Turner said hit home, didn’t it?”

  I sat on the bed and tossed a tiny orange Nerf ball through a hoop attached to the door. I thought I detected a hint of I-was-right gloating in what Jody said but told myself I was wrong. She sat beside me, waiting, and this is where the story gets really strange, maybe even incomprehensible.

  “We just got Christian love mixed up with the other kind,” I said.

  I figured the only way I could ever love her was in the way we’re supposed to love everyone, the way God loves us. The Greeks called that agape, but we didn’t have a word for it other than love, which could mean a lot of things that I didn’t mean. There was a silence, and I put my arm around Jody’s shoulder to give her a gentle hug—a sort of peace offering. But she leaned backward and I went back with her until my arm was pinned under her back. Her eyes were half closed and I didn’t know what to do.

  I kissed her.

  What was wrong with me?

  Then I said, “I guess it took both kinds.”

  I was thinking that lust had played a leading role, but really, what was wrong with me?

  Everything had gone tapioca again and there didn’t seem to be anything I could do about it. My parents left shortly after dinner to visit friends, and as soon as they were gone I felt trapped. I put an album on the stereo—something from my Dylan collection, no doubt—just to break the silence. Then I stretched out on the sofa and closed my burning sleep-deprived eyes.

  “Bill, what’s the matter? Your mood has changed since your parents left,” Jody said.

  “Well … I get the feeling that you’re getting the wrong impression.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, it won’t work,” I said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “All I’m saying is: Don’t think there’s a chance for romance here.”

  It sank in slowly, her eyes clouded, and then she was screaming at me.

  “You know what you are, Bill? You’re a real creep. After yo
u kissed me in your room—guided me down and everything! Then you tell me… you tell me… What kind of creep are you? Who do you think you are? Why did you do that?”

  Guided her down?

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I really don’t know why.”

  “You know what? I don’t care. I don’t care anymore. Just take me home. I wish I’d never met you.”

  As she spoke, she moved out of the living room and toward the front door. Then she turned her back and stood looking out the window, her arms folded.

  I tried to think of some line of scripture that would fit the situation, but nothing came to mind. Finally I said, “I really can’t explain what I did.”

  She sat down at the dining room table; I sat on the other side.

  “Compare it to last night,” I said, “or this morning, I mean. You said you didn’t know why you did what you did then. It’s the same thing. Think about it. It’s the same exact thing. I don’t know why.”

  She said nothing, didn’t move.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  Then we were in the car and I was driving her back to the campus, back to Buckley Hall, and all the way I kept saying how I didn’t know what had possessed me. She believed me, finally, though she wasn’t sure we could be friends any longer.

  We stopped in front of her dorm and I started telling her about this guy I was going to be rooming with next year and how we got along so well but then we had this misunderstanding and now I felt like I was making this huge mistake but it was too late to change and—

  I suddenly stopped.

  “Anyway,” I said. “More than you care to know, I’m sure.”

  “You know, Bill, there may be hope for you,” she said. “You’re finally opening up.”

  As she got out of the car, I said, “I’m not really like you think. Actually, I’ve always been sort of shy and sensitive.”

  “Bill, how can you say that? You are one of the most insensitive people I’ve ever known.”

  I couldn’t prove to her that I was a sensitive guy, but I could prove it to myself by keeping my mouth shut and not telling her what I thought of her, that she was a horny little bitch and why didn’t she just admit it.

  She looked at me for what seemed a long time, and I was afraid she was going to get back in the car.