and burst apart
we were still connected
by this bond
this secret
this beginning
When Evan gets out of the shower, the mirror is steamed up. As he stands in front of it, wrapped in a towel, he sees his own reflection as a vague shape under the gray-white mist on the glass. For a moment it looks like there’s something behind him, another vague shape—but when he turns to look, nothing is there. When he wipes the mirror with a hand towel, the only things reflected are himself, the door, and the walls.
After he’s dressed in clean clothes, he goes to tell Libby that maybe she can listen to the song again later. He gets his car keys from the dresser, flips the light switch, and heads downstairs.
“Mom,” he calls without stopping, “I’m going over to Carrie’s, be back by dinner, okay?”
He couldn’t get away with that on a school night—she’d be asking him about homework and time frames. But it’s summer, and all Mom says from her computer-staring trance is, “Fine, have a good time.”
And so, free, he steps out the front door, letting it bang shut behind him, and leaves the house.
he is
gone
gone
always I am
left behind
a stone
in currents that pass
and flow
onward
Carrie’s parents are out when Evan gets to her house. Her eyes light up when he comes in. One of the things Evan really likes about her is that she understands that sometimes a guy doesn’t have a lot of money to go on dates. She’s never minded the times they’ve had to go to matinees instead of evening movies—and she doesn’t even complain when they don’t go anywhere at all. Carrie knows that it’s all about being together; it’s not about flash. She’s happy just being in a relationship.
Okay, it’s true that once in a while Evan thinks she’s more interested in the relationship than she is in him, but then he always tells himself that’s just a girl thing, the way they like getting cards and flowers on holidays.
Carrie thinks that her parents will be back in an hour or so, but isn’t sure. To Evan, this means they need to have sex right away. As Evan sees it, sex is one of the perks that come with monogamy.
This time it’s in Carrie’s room, on her bed. Afterward, he rolls over onto his back while she tucks herself up against him, letting one finger play over his chest. These are the times he’s always liked best—apart from the sex itself, of course. He likes the quiet ease of it, like floating.
Times like this remind him of last summer, their first summer together. Carrie’s mom was out a lot, so he’d come to her house on his days off and they’d make love and then go out back to laze around Carrie’s pool all afternoon. Those were some of the best times of Evan’s life—exhausting himself trying out new things in his first sexual experiences and then, utterly content, dozing on a floating chaise, aimlessly bobbing, disconnected from everything except the heavy scent of chlorine and Carrie’s sunscreen—skin warm, water cool, eyes closed against the bright sun.
It’s been different lately, though. This time especially he notices it. Maybe because the sex itself seemed rather flat to Evan, because he can’t help but compare it to the dreams he’s been having—and he has been having them, ever since the move: the same girl, the same bed, the same intense familiarity. With Carrie it feels good, of course, more satisfying than scratching an itch; but when he’s done he feels a little uncomfortable, as if he’s just used his girlfriend with the same efficiency with which he’d have used his own hand.
He has wondered what it would be like to have sex with someone else. But that would mess things up; it would hurt Carrie and she’d get mad and make him feel bad. He doesn’t have anybody in mind anyway, just sort of idly wonders sometimes.
He doesn’t say any of this, of course. Carrie’s watching him. She’s been doing that sometimes lately. It’s almost as if she’s waiting for something. If she is, she never says anything. And Evan never asks.
He puts an arm around her. He doesn’t feel like talking to Carrie much in person. On the phone, she is quiet and listens; in person, she seems quiet and needy. He can’t put any of this into words, but he feels it, and it makes him inclined to clam up.
He doesn’t know how long they’ve been lying there before he asks the key question again: “How long did you say it’d be before your parents are supposed to be back?”
“I don’t know. Maybe half an hour now?” Carrie answers.
There’s a long silence. Carrie is running her finger along his chest. Then she starts circling his nipple with her fingertip.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks.
“I dunno.”
Carrie snuggles closer. He’s pretty sure his arm is going to sleep, but doesn’t want to let on.
“Of course you know what you’re thinking about,” she tells him. “Tell me.”
What is he thinking about? Really?
“My mom,” he answers. It’s only the truth.
Carrie’s finger stops moving. “Your mom? We’re lying here, and you’re thinking about your mother?”
“Not just Mom,” Evan explains. “It’s the whole thing. It’s the new house. It’s Libby.”
Carrie’s hand is flat on his chest now. She’s not looking at his face anymore, but staring at her unmoving hand with a slight frown. Evan takes this as a sign of interest.
“Now that we’ve moved,” he continues, “there’s nobody for Libby to play with. At the apartment she could just go next door, or over to the playground. Now there’s nobody. It’s not even a real neighborhood. There’s a law office on one side and an old house that’s just open for tours on the other.”
It’s almost like talking on the phone; he’s had all this in the back of his mind, but he didn’t know any of it, not really, not until he started saying it aloud to Carrie.
Carrie seems to be considering what he’s said. After a moment, she speaks.
“I can’t believe,” she says, “that you’re thinking about this right after we made love.”
Evan blinks.
“I mean, here we are sharing this tender moment, and you’re thinking about your mother and sister.”
“You asked,” Evan points out.
Carrie pulls back to look at him. “I know I did.” She’s got that all-or-nothing look in her eye. “And now I’m going to be honest, Evan: there’s a million kids out there who have to move and who don’t live near other kids. She’ll be fine.”
This is another way it’s been different lately. Evan doesn’t get to lie there, relaxing contentedly, anymore. Carrie’s got to dig up something that she can pick apart. It’s not arguing, though—at least that’s what Carrie says. It’s “discussing.”
Evan only wanted to answer her question. But his answer was wrong. He should have kept his mouth shut.
So now he doesn’t say anything.
Carrie watches him for a second, then nestles close again. “It’s nothing against Libby. I’m only saying it because I don’t want you to worry. I love you. You know that, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And…” She’s watching him again, running her palm slowly back and forth along his skin.
“And what?” He knows what she wants him to say. It feels like a requirement that she’s trying to drill into him, like saying please or thank you.
“And you love me, too?” she asks in a small voice.
“And I love you, too.” To Evan, his voice sounds as flat as he feels.
Carrie drops a kiss on his chest. It feels as if she’s rewarding him for saying the exact words that she needed him to say.
oh, I am hollow
the house restless
without him
there are others
who won’t fade now
they
appear
here
there
all
over the
house
that one
scuffs around humming
clang, clink
of silverware, porcelain
water
trickling
sun on the sills
on the white tiles
rich odors
settles into
a wide stuffed chair
steaming cup in her hands
stares at
notes pinned to the wall
puts
her feet up
releases a sigh
sips
eyes blank,
turned
inward
this one
runs everywhere
skitters chants sings
never still
slides
down
the
curve
of
banister
steps
the
up
skips
up tiptoe
down leap
every
over stair in
the
house
her hair flies up
like
cottonwood seeds in the wind
when I was little
I ran up and down the stairs
didn’t want to wear my hat
hopped outside
poked ants with sticks
chased grasshoppers
ran to hide
among the trees
sneaked away
down the bluff
threw rocks in the river
to see the splash
Mama said I
was running wild
asked Papa to rein me in
he always laughed,
drew me onto his lap
and I kept on
gobbling every moment
like candy
paid no attention
to my mother’s worried face
her stream of words
year after year after year:
sit still sit up straight your back should not touch the back of the chair don’t read so much you’ll get round shoulders why don’t you work on your embroidery don’t spend so much time outside the wind and sun will ruin your skin don’t run don’t bounce don’t screech her voice was ever soft, gentle and low, an excellent thing in woman
until the day
Mama had a switch cut
from the tree by the cistern
Hold out your hand, she said.
No one had ever struck me.
I ran to Papa but she followed
and said, quiet but firm:
She has no self-control.
And look at her.
She’s almost a woman.
My father looked.
He stopped there in the hall
and looked at me, surprised.
He started at the ground,
eyes moving up,
as if seeing me for
the first time:
my shoes, no longer flat, but a ladies’ heel
my hemline, hanging almost to the ground
my skirt, bare of pinafore or apron
my waist, nipped and pinched by stays
and there
his gaze faltered.
His face closed.
And he walked away.
her mouth was set, determined
the switch a thin cruel line
that cut the air
whipped my palm
I did not cry.
After that my father was
shy, removed
awkward, polite
a stranger.
on the stairs
mid-hop
she stops:
little cotton-haired girl
lonely
sad
left behind.
No,
I
don’t
like
these others,
these
portraits
in flesh
and bone
her eyes follow me
lips move
but the words
drift away,
small and fleeting
untethered
When Evan returns from Carrie’s, he enters the wide, quiet hall, which is empty except for a potted plant standing in an alcove. He thinks that the broad wooden floors would be a good place for broom hockey, but feels certain that his mother would have a fit if anyone tried it.
As he shuts the door behind him, Libby comes running down the stairs. “Where did she go?”
“Who?” Evan asks.
“The girl.”
“What girl?”
“Our company.”
Evan looks around. The house is silent, no sound of voices. Down here, he can’t even hear the workmen on the third floor. “I don’t know,” he tells Libby, but then, curious, he walks over to Mom’s office to see who is visiting.
Mom sits alone at her computer. For once she isn’t staring at the screen, but is typing. She doesn’t look up when they come in.
“Hey, Mom—is somebody here?”
Her fingers keep moving. “What do you mean?” she says vaguely.
“Is somebody visiting or something?”
Flustered now, she stops; her fingers hover over the keyboard. “Just the guys working upstairs,” she says sharply. “And I thought I saw one of them going out to the truck. He may be back by now, though, I don’t know. Why are you asking me this?”
“Because Libby said we have company.”
Mom turns to Libby. “We don’t have any company, Libby. No one is here.”
“But I saw her when I was playing on the stairs,” Libby says with certainty. “She was standing outside Evan’s room.”
Now Mom and Evan are both staring at her.
“You saw someone in the house,” Mom repeats, wanting to be sure.
“Uh-huh. It was a girl. She was wearing a white dress.”
Mom rolls her chair back and stands up. “One of the workmen must have brought in his daughter or something.” She walks through the doorway and out into the hall.
As she heads for the stairs, Libby catches up with her. And after a moment, Evan decides to follow along. He doesn’t want to miss a good scene.
“I don’t want to be unreasonable,” Mom announces to no one in particular as she heads up the stairs, “but we can’t have strange kids running around the house unsupervised.”
“That’s right,” Libby agrees. She’s stomping along eagerly next to Mom.
“Now, you just stay out of it and let me do the talking,” Mom warns her. “Understand?”
“Uh-huh.”
Evan now feels a little like he’s in a circus parade, so he hangs back a bit. By the time he gets to the third-floor rooms, Mom is standing with the only workman up here at the moment, and her hands are on her hips.
But it’s her daughter she’s looking at. “Libby,” she’s saying sternly, “I think maybe it was Mr. Estes you saw on the stairs.”
“It wasn’t a man, it was a girl.”
“Hey,” says Mr. Estes. “I used to have a pretend friend when I was her age. His name was Rufus,” he adds to Libby; apparently Mr. Estes is a genial kind of guy. “What’s your friend’s name, kid?”
“I don’t know. She wouldn’t answer me.”
“That’s okay. Quiet friends are the best kind.” He winks at Mom and Evan, and goes back to his work.
Mom turns on Evan. “Evan, did you lock the door behind you when you left?”
“No. What’s the point? The workmen are always going in and out.”
Mom looks even more displeased. She’s about to let loose on Evan, he can tell, when miraculously he is saved by Mr. Estes.
“Oh, by the way, Ms. Calhoun,” he says. “We found something behind one of the walls. We weren’t sure if you wanted it thrown out or not.”
He walks over to a pile of lumber odds and ends and picks up a steel box from the floor. He
hands the box to Mom. “We were pulling off plasterboard, and there it was. Looked like there used to be a cabinet, maybe a safe, got boarded up.”
“Ooh,” Libby says, wide-eyed. “Is it treasure?”
“Nope—sorry, kid,” Mr. Estes tells her. “Just a bunch of papers.”
“Can I see?” Libby leans over her mother’s arm. Mom opens the lid and shows her that it is, indeed, a pile of papers.
“Oh.” Libby is disappointed.
Mom’s been thinking. “Okay,” she says, shutting the lid. “Evan. Just to be safe, will you help me check the rooms? And Libby, I don’t even know what to do with you. Do you see how much trouble you’re causing?”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“I know, I know. Just—oh, never mind. Come on, Evan. Mr. Estes, if you hear screams or gunshots, just call the police, please.”
That’s Mom’s weird sense of humor. Sometimes it confuses people, but Mr. Estes just grins and says, “Sure thing.”
Beating Heart Page 3