Paper Hearts

by S R Savell

  We’re both super happy for him, and I bring him a liter of soda and a Subway sandwich for an apartment-warming present.

  We’re sitting on the couch, playing tic-tac-toe. The place is tiny, more like a motel room than an actual apartment, but Nathaniel talks about it full of pride and eagerness, a hope for the future. The walls are a baby-bile green, and the cabinets and carpets are a dark cheddar. The couch is a brown I assume was once tan, the cushions quicksand.

  I love it.

  “Can’t remember the last time I had a place of my own.”

  Curiosity, that great killer of cats, makes me ask the question I’ve wondered for so long. “Where did you, uh, stay at nights? I mean, did you actually stay at the Washateria?”

  “No, but the Washateria’s close to the hospital, so when you dropped me off, the walk wasn’t as long. Sometimes I would go to an all-night Internet café. Usually I stayed in the hospital.” He marks an X on the tic-tac-toe board, then hands over the pen.

  I study the pattern and make an O, trapping him and myself. I mark CAT again and make a new one. “I miss her . . . I loved her, you know.”

  “I know.” His focus lingers on mine before he marks down an O.

  We play another round, this one my win, before he asks, “Want more to drink?”

  I nod, and he picks up the bottle.

  “Grandma would have been happy. About us and all this, I mean.”

  “Yeah.” I swish the drink around, studying the board before marking X in the middle.

  “There’s a hole without her here. And I can’t ever fix it.”

  We play the next round without words.

  “She left me a letter,” he says, studying the board.

  “A letter?”

  “Yeah. Would you like to read it?”

  I hand him the pen. “No, but thanks anyways.”

  We hold hands, both watching the board. His voice is small, and I lean in to hear him.

  “She used to say, ‘If wishes were horses, I’d have a corral full of dead horses.’ It wasn’t until she got sick that she told me all those dead dreams. Like being a master chef or mountain climbing in the Andes.” He glances over. “‘Money may not make you happy, but it funds the things that can.’ She also said that. And sometimes I believe her.”

  I start to mark another X but don’t bother because, either way, I’ve lost.

  The library says the book transfer has been delayed. Some crap about low funding and misplaced paperwork. Whatever the issue, we’re bookless and impatient. “That sly old woman is laughing at us. I know it.”

  “She was smart that way.” He folds a napkin and sticks it in the lunch box, laying it on top of the chips and roast beef sandwiches.

  “We’re not camping, you know.” I stuff in two drinks.

  “I know. Doesn’t hurt to be careful.”

  “How did I not notice these things before?”

  “What things?”

  “This left-brained trend. It’s sickening, really.” I grin, poking him in the side.

  “Maybe you weren’t paying attention.”

  “Proved it again.”

  Winter has made its presence official. We throw down two blankets to picnic on, freezing faces turned from the north’s frigid touch.

  The sandwiches and hot chocolate heat us up. And before long we’re laughing so hard we’re gasping on the iced air, and right when we calm down, one of us makes another weird face that sends us into more fits. And after the food is cleared and we’re full and sleepy, we lie on the blanket and watch the sky where the stars should be.

  I feel him turning, and I think he’s going to sit up, but he pulls me on top of him.

  “Are you blushing or cold?” I ask.

  “Both. Is this okay?” He glances past my shoulder, worried and shy in the same instant.

  “It is.” I flop down, even more comfortable than before. “Hey?”

  “Yes?”

  “How come you never try anything?”

  “Like how?”

  “You know. Sex. All that good stuff.”

  The stammering makes me smile, and I rub my face in his jacket before sitting up to stare into his eyes.

  “Because that’s . . . special.”

  “Ah, a romantic. A dying breed.”

  He chuckles. “I guess.” After a second he asks, “Can I kiss you?”

  My lips on his answer the question.

  We kiss until our lips are raw, until we can’t handle the closeness of it anymore, and then we head out to the part of the date that he planned.

  They don’t have shoes in his size, so he bowls in his socks. He says it should improve his game. “Couldn’t get much worse,” he says, poking around for a ball with holes to fit his fingers.

  He hits four pins his first go.

  I hit a strike and then another.

  “Oh yeah, I friggin’ rock,” I yell, dancing.

  “Two strikes in a row!” He grabs me up in a spin.

  “You are my good luck charm.” I kiss his forehead.

  He squeezes my hand, then takes his turn.

  I pick up my ball, a silvery blue, and line myself up at the approach. “Nate? The odds, sir?”

  “I’m sure they’re low.”

  “Exactly.” I set my shoulders, rotate them back and then forward, then march. With a quick wrist flip, I send it chasing the pins. It crashes and hits all but three. “Damn it!” I turn, pouting.

  He looks apologetic.

  He takes the strike I couldn’t but gets a gutter on the next.

  I swivel in the plastic chair, grinning up at him. “Shall we get the bumpers?”

  “You’re not doing that bad.” He winks.

  I own the first game, and he wins the second. We celebrate with a soda and some purple Pop Rocks. Clattering pins and cigarette smoke intermingle with our talk, along with nacho stink and drunk old men’s chatter.

  “We should join a league or something. We’re badass.”

  “We should,” he says, chewing. “Bowling is my favorite sport.”

  “I thought you liked hockey.”

  “I like bowling better.”

  “Interesting.” I draw out the word, then drain my soda.

  He smiles, shaking his head. “I have to go somewhere real quick. Will you be okay?”

  “No, I’m going to get kidnapped. Yes, go pee.”

  A smile and a wave are the last of him I see for the next fifteen minutes. I’m beginning to wonder if he did get kidnapped.

  He returns, pale and sick looking. “Can we go?”

  “Sure. What’s wrong?” I’m on my feet, already walking.

  “Just come look.”

  We step outside, and it takes a minute for my eyes to realign.

  “Oh, God.”

  It’s a dead dog, a gorgeous black shepherd mix. Blood and guts layer the pavement, twisted head propped on the sidewalk. And by the body is her pup.

  We sneak closer, and it bolts away, tail between its legs. The puppy parks on the sidewalk and begins to cry. It looks to be about a couple months old. Just like its mother, it’s more a wolf cub than an actual dog, and the long howl makes me believe it is.

  “What are we going to do?” I squat, thinking Dog Whisperer thoughts. “Food, maybe?”

  “Maybe. But what do we do with her when we get her?” he asks.

  The puppy begins to crawl back to her mom.

  I mash my fist into my burning eyes. “Your place?”

  “I could sneak her in. Maybe keep her for a while.”

  “We could both keep her, maybe. Mom may not mind.” I know she will.

  Nate does too; that’s why he’s hesitating.

  By now the little one has slunk back over. Sadness has usurped fear in the priorities department. She’s lying alongside the body, nuzzling it, and I can’t stop my throat from shriveling up.

  We don’t want to leave her, but the city won’t be there until the next day. So we go inside and get some nachos and a big bo
x. While the puppy eats, Nathaniel and I place the mom’s body in the box, and he takes it inside.

  The manager doesn’t want a carcass stinking up his place, not even for a night.

  “Look,” I say. “Just leave her in the back until morning, and the city will get her.”

  “Hey, what do I look like, a shelter?” He sniffs, rubbing his beard.

  “She’s dead, you moron.”

  Nate touches my elbow.

  I shake my head, insides burning. “Screw you, asshole.”

  The puppy’s by the door but scrambles away when we open it.

  “We can bury her in my backyard.” I don’t know why I say this. Maybe I don’t really mean it or want to, but I say it, and so we head on home.

  The pup follows the whole way, finally going through my fence and into the yard, where she sits and yowls.

  We dig a grave by the fence and settle Mama Dog in it. Little One has taken refuge ten or so feet away and is whining, mist rising with each new cry.

  “I’ll be right back.” I dart inside, wondering what in the world I’m supposed to feed her. Deciding to play it safe, I mix up two eggs in some milk and warm it in the microwave before rushing back out.

  She’s at Nathaniel’s hip, facing the grave.

  I quietly set the food beside him. The pup doesn’t move, and he waves the food in front of her face. Finally, she chomps up some of the mix before lying back down.

  “How did you do that?”

  “He just came to me,” he says, stroking the baby’s back.

  “He?”

  Nate nods.

  I squat beside him, and the dog lifts his head. I scoot away, and he calms again, crying deep in his throat. “I’ll go get a blanket and a box. Maybe he’ll sleep in it tonight.”

  Nate’s in that place in his mind where there’s nothing but him and whatever else he has to keep him sane.

  I squeeze his shoulder and disappear, then reappear with some blankets I warmed in the dryer and an empty box.

  Little One is asleep. We fix the box and set the puppy inside, watching the twitching become too much.

  I put more food in the dish.

  Nate squeezes my hand.

  Mom waits until Nathaniel leaves. And when she’s certain he’s a few blocks away, she turns from the door, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I don’t understand this . . . this fixation you have.”

  I start cleaning my ears.

  “—need to drag every stray animal and person you can find in off the street—”

  “Not everything—”

  “—ruining my life and yours—”

  “Because he smells bad and I’m picky—”

  “—and I work so hard to get you raised—”

  “So I’m thinking the woman from Third and Main next—”

  She slaps the door. “Shut up! You hear me? I said shut up.”

  I smack the table and whoop back at her, “Yes, sir!”

  The candle she flings misses my ear and slams into the wall, leaving green wax in the hole it made. Glass is all over the couch, in my hair, and she goes pale.

  “Baby,” she whispers. “Baby, I’m sorry.” She steps over, arms out.

  I jerk away and stride upstairs.

  I’ve thought a lot tonight, smoking a pack of Camels I found in an old jacket pocket. They taste terrible after almost a month of not having one, but I finish them off anyway, tempted to get the bourbon out of the cabinet to wash the stink down my throat.

  No. Don’t give them any reason to stop you. Mom can’t, not in this state.

  I’m seventeen, soon to be a full-grown woman. And here, seventeen is just about as good as legal.

  Nathaniel told me I could move in. I turned him down for reasons too stupid to mention. But now I want to, if the offer’s still there.

  I smash the last cigarette out to the sound of the pup crying in his sleep.

  I’m standing with two duffel bags at my feet and a dog in my arms.

  Nate’s on the other side of the door yelling, “Sorry,” the door is jamming, and Wolf barks back at him.

  “What he said,” I say.

  It opens. Nate’s there, shirtless, wearing his favorite sweatpants.

  I raise my eyebrows.

  He’s still feeling triumphant from getting the door open, so he’s riding that high before he notices The Look.

  “Oh, sorry.” He turns, then turns back, unsure if he should get dressed or let me in, so he decides on getting the bags and hiding himself behind them.

  I let Wolfie down, grinning hard. “You worry too much.”

  I see a flash of black go through the bedroom door.

  I sit, stroking the pup, who’s sniffing my bags.

  He sneezes, then scopes out the place. When he’s done, he trots over to the couch and climbs onto it.

  “How rude, Wolfie. You didn’t even ask.”

  He cocks his head and settles in for his evening nap.

  Nathaniel’s reappeared, shirt on, and is rubbing his neck. “Sorry about that. Was working out.”

  “You sure you want me here?”

  “You know I do.”

  My turn for embarrassment, so I point at Wolf. “He’s made himself comfortable.”

  “I noticed.” His smile turns serious. “I would’ve come to get you.”

  “I had things to sort out. It was easier this way.”

  He nods and sits beside me.

  My heart rate accelerates; I pick at a fingernail. “So, um, what’d the landlord say?”

  “She said it was fine. She just asked that we don’t blare music or let Wolf bark too much.”

  “She sounds nice.”

  “She is.” He’s watching the couch, me and the lazy bum on top of it. “Um, how’s your mom?”

  “Angry. Sad. All that.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “She’s a bitch.” I chew on my nail.

  He tugs my hand away. “She loves you.”

  “Didn’t say bitches couldn’t love.”

  And for that he has no response.

  I make meat loaf for dinner, another one of Nathaniel’s favorites.

  He wants to help, but I shoo him away. “Go walk Wolf,” I tell him, trying for playfulness.

  And so he actually does.

  “You’re not leaving, Michelle.”

  I’m standing by the door, dog in one arm and bags in the other. “Pretty sure I am.”

  She pulls out her phone. “I’ll call the police. They’ll drag you back.”

  I put my bags down. Wolfie trots off and sniffs at things, then promptly pees on the carpet.

  “What’s this?” She flips through the papers I’ve just handed her.

  “Documents that say I can leave at seventeen with your permission.”

  “Well, I’m not giving you permission.” She shoves them back.

  I don’t take them. She drops them to the floor.

  “You left home at seventeen.”

  “I was emancipated at seventeen. You’re not.”

  “Because you won’t let me.”

  She rubs the spot between her eyes. “I have the legal right to keep you here.”

  “You also have the right to let me go.” I pick the papers up. “I want to go, Mom.”

  “Why? Why can’t you wait a few more months?”

  “Because we’re going to kill each other if I stay here.”

  She flops into the recliner, pinches and pulls at her bottom lip.

  “If you let me go without emancipation, it won’t be in writing. Meaning you can make me come home whenever. You’d still be the one in charge.” I play to her warped sense of motherliness. “I’ll stay out of trouble. I’ll keep working at the store. I’ll get better grades.”

  “You’re promising a lot.”

  “I’m asking a lot.”

  She rubs her cheeks, folds her hands. “You’re not giving me any time to think about this, are you?” She sinks deeper into the chair.

  “Let me tr
y. If it doesn’t work, I’ll come home. I’ll have to come home.”

  Wolfie sits on my foot. I rub his ears, never taking my eyes off Mom’s closed ones.

  “Fine.”

  “Fine?”

  “Go. But if I hear you are getting into any trouble—”

  “I won’t, I won’t.” I’m standing, Wolfie in my arms. I should thank her, but I don’t. I should hug her, but I don’t. I shouldn’t be excited, but I am. I’m all wrong today.

  “Sorry about the pee. It’ll come up with vinegar.”

  She says nothing.

  “The vinegar’s in the top left cabinet, by the way.”

  Still nothing.

  I clear my throat. “So, um, I’m gone, then. I’ll call you later.”

  She doesn’t look up at me. She doesn’t speak when I walk away or when I open the door, and she doesn’t come to the window as I leave.

  Sayonara, biotch.

  I should feel worse about it, really, but I can’t make myself. And I was always taught never to lie.

  So I don’t care. It doesn’t bother me, not yet anyways, and she deserves to be alone.

  Nate comes in, Wolfie at his side. He wraps me up in a hug from behind. “He’s really good with the leash.” He kisses my cheek.

  My stomach gets all fluttery. “I bet.” I pull out a chair and motion to the table. “Hungry?”

  “Uh-huh. And it looks great.” He smiles and pulls out my chair, as always.

  Everything’s fine until I’m scrubbing down in the shower. And then I remember the sleeping arrangements, ones I agreed to.

  I start shaving, scrubbing, and brushing every body part. When there’s no way I can hole up in here anymore, I crack the door open and listen. The television’s on.

  I slip into the hall, thinking if I fall asleep before he does, the first night won’t be as awkward. But, of course, as soon as my hand is on the knob, the TV cuts off.

  I vault into the bed, but it’s made up and I’m fighting with the covers, trying to stuff myself under them while wrenching them out from under my ass.

  “Uh. You okay?”

  I still, one leg under the blankets, the other on the pillow. “Um, yeah. I’m good.” I roll out of bed and pull the covers back. “You have a, um, particular side?”