by S R Savell
Some blood work and urine samples later, I slip through the door, sidestepping a pregnant woman two steps from dropping her kid.
“How was it?”
“Wonderful. We ate candy and sang ‘Kumbaya.’”
Nate glances away.
I look down. “I’m sorry.”
He holds his hand out, unsure.
And we go home.
We spend the rest of the day doing nothing in particular. He makes us dinner, runs me a bath.
When I get out, he’s sitting by the window, fiddling with something.
“Watcha doing?”
“You said you wanted to carve wood, so I got some stuff today.”
At his feet are a few small pieces of wood and a black toolbox full of scalpel-like instruments, along with a wood burner plugged into the wall outlet.
I sit in front of him, clank the blocks together. “This is how you do it, right?”
He smiles, hands me one of the smaller pieces, and points out the different tools. “These help you get the general shape of what you want. These are for detail work. And, well, the rest is you.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.” He hands over a large bladed tool, the one for hacking off the big bits.
I’m not an artist. For the six weeks we had to sculpt in art class, I slept or wadded the clay into an even bigger wad. But this is more gratifying somehow. The medium is make-or-break, not fixable like clay work.
“What are you making?”
“Dunno yet.” I shred off a small layer, blow away the dust. “Who taught you to do this anyways?”
“My grandpa.” He smiles. “Every Saturday morning we carved in the garage. It was something just between us.” He cuts a small groove in the block, then tilts the tool handle first in my direction. “See? His initials, FCS.”
The same letters are on the tool I’m using. I run a finger over the inscription. “I bet he was a great guy.”
“He was the best man I ever knew.” He carefully wipes the blade on his pants leg. “I miss him every day.” He looks at the hilt, puts the tool down, and picks up another. “You know, I don’t think he ever forgave me.”
“For what?”
He blows some sawdust away. “For what happened at school. Not telling him who was responsible.” He leans against the wall. “He thought it was his job to protect me. To protect everyone. Part of being a cop, I guess.”
I move to sit next to him.
He studies the sculpted block in his hand. “He was diagnosed with lung cancer when I was ten. The doctors said it was from the cigars he smoked for so long.”
I remember burning the cigarettes to the filters, how he kicked the remains away when we were done.
I remember the box under Mrs. Stotes’s bed.
“He refused treatment. Said if he was dying, he was doing it on his own terms.” He tosses a wood chip. “For two years he got worse and worse. Then he finally got so sick that grandma told him we were taking him for treatment, that she couldn’t watch him die anymore. He begged her to wait. He said he wanted one more weekend at home because he knew if he got to the hospital, he wouldn’t be coming back out.”
He runs a fingernail over a piece of sandpaper.
“I woke up Saturday morning and I went into the garage. I don’t know why. Probably out of habit.” His eyes close. His lips are trembling. “He was wearing his old police uniform. I thought he was sleeping.”
I can’t look at him anymore.
“He’d gotten the painkillers from a friend.”
He stops, not needing to say anything else.
I hug my knees to my chest, move my foot over a stain on the carpet.
A train whistle wails once, twice. There’s barking from the other room, but no one shushes Wolfie.
What do you say to someone who has endured so much? Sorry about your clusterfuck of a life; hope things get better for ya? I don’t know what he needs to hear, if anything. I only know I’m as useless to Nathaniel as I’ve always been.
“Do you want to go to bed?” is all I can say.
“Yeah.” He looks over. “Thank you . . . for listening. I know you probably didn’t want to hear it.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” I pick up tools and hand them to him.
“You have enough going on right now.”
It’s one of the few times we’ve openly admitted there is something wrong. Nathaniel isn’t a moron; he knows I won’t talk about that night or that day altogether. He’s tried and failed to convince me to go to the police, to talk to him about the attack. Instead of facing it head-on, I do what I’ve always done: ignore it, pretend it never happened. Avoid anything unpleasant and strive only for things that make you happy.
I’m weak that way.
“I have you. That’s all that matters.”
He holds his hand out to help me. I grab it on the way up.
When we’re in bed I find I can’t sleep. I slip out of bed to go check the windows and doors, then get back under the covers.
“Nathaniel.”
“Mm-hm?”
I kiss his forehead. He doesn’t move. My arms go around his neck, one slipping to his collar. One arm tightens around my back, the other slides to my cheek.
I would’ve done anything for him. And if I knew I was safe, if I knew he wanted me, I would’ve made love with him right then and there, with the half-baked moon falling through the curtains and the sheets locking us together, the howling wind resonating off the windowpane.
And so we sleep.
Two days later, while I’m scouring the bathtub, lost in music mode, the nurse calls with a clean bill of health. I’ll need to do a few follow-up tests later on just to be certain, but as of now, I’m okay.
I think she’s lying or torturing me somehow, like she thinks I wanted this.
As terrible as I’ve been feeling, surely there’s some physiological problem here? Not that I want some STD or a baby by any stretch of the imagination; it’s just too good to be true. Thousands of people so much better than me aren’t as lucky. They get pregnant or sick or stay fucked up for the rest of their lives.
Am I really so fortunate?
I think I am. It isn’t until Nathaniel and I are in bed that night, after he’s gone to sleep, that I walk to the wall, managing to somehow trip over his steel-toed shoes in bright light. My fingers snick the switch down, bringing in the dark that doesn’t feel so dark anymore.
I start to waitress at the Rusty Dime, a diner down the block. It pays pretty well or should if I had a personality for people. Nate tells me I should take time away from work, but I’ve been holed up too long. The first day’s the hardest. Just like most firsts, I guess. But I pull through, a stained shirt and tired feet my only casualties of war.
The school situation is the same. Only thing is I don’t care anymore. There’s nothing, physical or otherwise, that they can do to me now. So I avoid them when I can. I ignore them when I can’t.
After everything that’s happened, how could I let them get to me?
Our homemade tree stands at one foot two inches, all paper and cardboard, the ornaments too. They’re cutouts of recent photographs pasted onto cardstock, blue ribbon glued around to give them something to hang from. Wolfie, Nate, Mom, me, street lamps, trees, empty toilet paper rolls, sidewalk puddles, buttons, slippery oil rainbows, pigeons, skillets, street signs, candy bars, shopping carts: this is our collection of sentimental and not-so-sentimental times. And sitting at the very top, smiling from her star-shaped cutout is Mrs. Stotes, hazel eyes dancing. She’s standing in a kitchen with chocolate on her nose and a spoon in her hand, smile saying, Guilty as charged.
It was our gift to each other, a project we spent a lot of effort on.
“Do you think it needs lights?” I tap my cheek with the scissors.
“It’s perfect.” He grazes a hand across the star, and it pitches to the left. He yelps and grabs it midtopple.
“You’re quite the lumberjack.”
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After a relieved sigh, he answers, “I try.”
Dinner is roast beef, twice-baked potatoes, corn bread, green beans with bacon, rolls, and fruit salad. I busted my butt cooking the stuff, Nate hovering like a new mother the whole time. It went a little something like this.
“Go away.”
“I want to help.”
“You’ll burn it.”
Pause. “I can still help.”
After agreeing to do all the dishes, he left me in peace.
We’re plowing through the cheesecake, with Wolfie sitting on my foot, when I get a call.
Ignore.
Then a text.
Have a nice Christmas Eve
You too
“That was nice.”
“What?” I push back my plate, content.
“You texted her back.”
“Oh.” I put the plate down, and Wolf starts to slurp gravy. “That. Well, it is Christmas.” I check the time. “Or five hours and twenty-nine minutes until Christmas.”
He smiles. “My favorite holiday.”
“It used to be mine.”
“Used to?”
I pick up the plate and take it to the kitchen. “Before all the commercialism hit. You know, when kids played in boxes and ate dirt—that sort of thing.”
“You used to eat dirt?”
“Yep. And just think, you kiss this mouth.” I give him an air kiss.
He grins.
A few minutes later, we’re doing dishes, even though he asked me not to. Couldn’t help it because I’m busy remembering the last time we did dishes together.
We turn to say something at the same time.
“You first.”
“I was remembering”—he rakes out green bean juice—“the last time we did dishes together.”
I laugh.
“What?”
“I was too.”
Then we both laugh a little.
“Has it really been that long?” I pick at the tag on the washcloth. “Feels like ages ago.”
“It does.”
“What, tired of me already?”
“Why would I be tired of you?” He hands me a plate.
“I don’t know. Maybe I’m boring.”
“Not to me.”
I need an ego stroking right now. That I can admit to myself. Hearing Nate say this stuff, it’s something I need as much as I want.
“Give me one reason why you stick around.”
He stops washing, realizing now the difference in my words. “Because I love you.”
I feel a heartstring snap from the strumming.
“Why do you stick with me?” he asks softly.
“Because. Because I love you and all that.” I turn the water up, listen to the slam of liquid on iron.
There’s suddenly a puff of soap on my nose. I blink. The culprit has his soapy hands upraised, but he looks toward the basin.
I splash some water on him.
He flicks some my way.
I pick up the sprayer, and he holds up his hands in surrender before stealing it.
“No fair. You cheated!”
A burst of water hits the back of my neck. Squealing, I hit him with the drying rag and slosh him with the other hand.
Wolfie yaps and runs in circles, his ears dripping.
“Run, Wolfie, run,” I yell.
He skitters across the tile before bounding back, tackling my legs.
I drop to the floor and hug him. “You saved me, didn’t you, little man? Yes, you did.”
Nate sits next to us, soaked too, and gets attacked by Cerberus with his arsenal of puppy kisses and growls.
He wipes my cheek with his sleeve.
This boy—no, this man—is the only one. No matter what happens, there just won’t be anyone else. There can’t be anyone else.
They say you never forget your first. For me, it’s not only because of the first love thing. He’s someone you find once in a dozen lifetimes, a man who’s kind and patient and perfect. He’s the light in my darkness, my perfect other half.
“Nate?”
“Yeah?” He throws Wolfie’s duck, and it goes flying past the table.
A few seconds later, the squeak of victory is heard.
“I love you. More than anything. You know that, right?”
He touches my cheek. “I know. And I love you too.”
“Wake up. It’s Christmas morning!” I’m bouncing on the bed, Wolfie slobbering all over my calves.
Nate blinks.
“It’s Christmas. Come on. Upsy daisy!” I plop down.
Wolfie flips onto his back, demanding a belly rub. I can’t refuse.
“G’morning,” Nate murmurs, yawn wide. He scratches his bare chest and sniffs.
“Pancakes?”
“Enter phase one.” I hand him the platter with pancakes, milk, bacon, and a lumpy napkin.
“I was supposed to get up early and cook you breakfast,” he admits, holding it daintily like he’s proving he doesn’t want it.
“I know. I turned the alarm off.”
“Why?”
“’Cause you made me breakfast last time.”
“No, I didn’t.” He’s going into panic mode.
“Nate, calm. Breathe.” I fall beside him and rest against his arm. “I wanted to do this for you, okay?”
He brightens. “We can share.” Cutting off a piece, he hands me the first bite.
I take it, eying the napkin while I chew.
Five minutes into it, and he still hasn’t wiped his mouth.
I’m tempted to smear syrup on his face.
I do.
“Hey,” he laughs, licking most of it off.
Thwarted.
“Don’t you want to wipe your face?” I ask.
“Um, sure.”
His eyes grow big, then soften. Pushing the plate aside, he holds the little creature in his hand.
It’s a modular origami scorpion, folded by yours truly, put together with dozens of different little pieces. Stupid thing took two weeks of tinkering and Internet instructions, but I did it, damn it. Even I have to say, it came out exquisitely, the black claws sharp, the scimitar tail dangerous. Kudos to me for remembering his favorite animal without my notebook.
I bite my lip at the silence. “So. Merry Christmas, then.”
His lips on mine catch me off guard. I stutter but recover quickly enough. Something sweet shifts into so much more, and I can’t contain it. My hands slip from his neck to his chest. He groans and pushes me softly against the headboard. His fingers brush my bare spine and pull me against him.
Squeak, squeak, squeak!
I choke.
Nate, dazed, turns to see Wolfie pawing the side of the bed, duck in mouth. He laughs, cheeks pink, before throwing the toy.
It zooms out of the room, Wolfie close behind.
“Well. That happened.” I chew my thumbnail, body still suffering from afterburn.
“Yeah.” He clears his throat and admires the scorpion again.
After an endless silence, I take the tray and put it on the side table. “Nate?”
“Y-yeah?”
“You whore.” I grin.
I can almost feel the heat radiating from his cheeks.
I edge closer. “Don’t feel bad. I’m a whore too.”
He smiles, rubs his face. Looks to his hands.
“Tell me, if we’re both whores, do we have to pay each other?”
He ducks his head. “Michelle . . .”
I wrap him in a hug. “I was just teasing. I love you.” I kiss his lips, then his neck, my lips brushing his collarbone.
“I didn’t mean to . . . uh.” He scoots away and stands.
I get a strange feeling. A painful feeling.
“Do you not . . . want me?”
“Of course I do.”
“I can see that.”
He grabs the pillow to hide his shame.
I lean out, take his hand. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have said that.”
One arm wraps around my waist, and I hug him back.
“Shall we go finish Christmas?” I ask.
I’m being carried bridal style out the door before I can finish the thought.
We’re standing outside Mother Dear’s house, wearing smiles as sticky as the broccoli casserole in Nate’s hand.
“Do we have to?” The book we’ve been waiting for has finally come in, and it’s burning a hole in my bag.
“Yes, you have to. You owe her this much. One party isn’t too much to ask—” He stops midsentence, obviously trying to recall what I asked him to say if I tried to bail. “Is that right?”
“You did fine.” I kiss his hand. “Thanks.”
He kisses my cheek, and we step on up. I almost swing the door open without knocking.
She opens the door, dressed in a yellow long-sleeved dress with a few sequins around the neckline. “Come in. Come in.” She hustles us inside.
The table against the wall is covered with food and drinks. I recognize the tablecloth as one I got her a few years back. It’s unstained, but with a bunch of happy drunks in here, that won’t last long.
“How’ve you been?”
We’re in the kitchen now, seated like two businesspeople striking a deal, hands folded on the table.
“Fine. You?”
She removes a crumb from her dress. “Fine, fine.” She looks at Nathaniel, who’s standing behind me.
I feel him grow nervous, and I turn. “You can sit if you’d like.”
He nods and takes a seat beside me.
The staring resumes.
“When are you coming home?”
“I said—”
“Not to mention it, I know.” She starts to massage her hand, distracted. “Can I convince you?”
“I take it you’re missing your cleaning lady?”
“That’s not fair.”
“You’re not fair.”
There’s a knock.
No one responds.
“I’ll, uh”—Nate stands—“get it.” He leaves.
“Are you pregnant yet?” She turns a worried glare on me, her hands shaking.
If she only knew.
“No. Not planning on it.”
“Thank God,” she breathes, pulling her phone from her jacket pocket.