The Jeweler

by Anderson, Beck

  “Shitty day, huh?”

  She nodded vehemently. He knelt over the puke. It was acid-yellow and steamed a little. Oh baby, now this is a turn-on. The dishrag was not going to cut it. He stood again, trying not to gag, to look for a more suitable tool. “You just sit there and hold that dog. Don’t worry about anything.”

  In the kitchen, Fender looked around and decided on a soup ladle and the trash can. He hurried back into the living room. It was a nasty business. He found if he held his breath while over the toxic mess, he could get the puke into the trash with minimal gagging on his part. Soon, he’d ladled all the vomit into the trash can. Then he used the dishrag to mop the spot left on the carpet.

  Ginger seemed to sink a little more comfortably into the couch. “I think she knew I was going out. I don’t know what the hell she ate to make that, though.”

  “Perhaps we need a priest. I saw very similar puke in The Exorcist. Has her head spun around yet?” He saw Ginger smile a little. He felt brave. “You know what? Why don’t we bag the movie idea?”

  She wiped her nose on the sleeve of her black fleece. “That sounds really good.”

  “I’ll just run down to the store and get us something to eat. Do you want me to rent a movie?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know if I can last for the two hours. Dinner here would be good, though.” She hunkered down on the couch. As she talked to him, she pulled the rubber band out of her hair. A thick tangle of strawberry blond fell down around her shoulders. Then she swept it all back up again and refastened the band. She’s beautiful, honest-to-God beautiful.

  She went to the bathroom to blow her nose, and he hopped in his car and drove to the store. He got to the closest market and went inside. It was the natural foods grocery store. He felt lost. His idea of dinner at home was a can of SpaghettiOs mixed with chili. He ate a lot down at the Rendezvous or at Pop’s house.

  Now Fender scanned the aisles. There were organic veggie snacks and cookies called “frookies” because of some scary ingredient they had. He walked to the meat case and things weren’t much better: free-range chicken, hormone-free beef, fish caught in the nets of disenfranchised Native American lesbians, that kind of stuff. Fender didn’t really get into the whole environmental thing, and he had enough self-awareness to know he lived so far away from political correctness he’d need a map to get there.

  Finally, he got what looked like a relatively safe choice: a frozen pizza. He knew how to cook those. Sure, it was an organic, wheat-crusted pizza with pine nuts and sun-dried tomatoes, but it was pizza. He picked up a couple sparkling juices to go with it and headed back to her house.

  He was helping her, even taking care of her a little. It felt good.

  She’d left the door open for him, and he went inside. She had the TV on and had curled up into a little ball in one corner of the couch. A purple and blue afghan was tucked around her, and the dog was piled on top of the corner of that.

  “Hi. What’d you find?” Just her head and the fingers on one hand showed above the afghan.

  “Pizza. I’ll go take care of it.”

  “Fender?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “Thanks. This is really good of you. I feel a lot better.”

  “I’m glad I could help.”

  “I didn’t even want to see you tonight; I was in such a bad mood. But I’m glad you came over.”

  Fender felt a weird tingle in his ribcage. “I just want to repay you for all the stuff you taught me in lessons.” He stood there, not quite sure what to do next.

  There was a knock at the door. Ginger sat up, popping out of the cocoon of her afghan. “That’s really weird.” She got up and went to the door.

  The door was barely open a crack when a petite, dark-haired woman squeezed herself through. She wore a plaid shirt, black horn-rimmed glasses, and a little pleated skirt. Fender inwardly groaned. This girl was so hipster it hurt.

  “Molly! What’s going on?” Ginger gave the girl a hug.

  “I was over at Dragonfly.” Molly eyed Fender suspiciously. “I saw this fern incense, and it reminded me of you. So, here I am, bearing gifts.” She handed Ginger a bundle of what looked like twigs.

  Ginger turned to Fender. “Fender, this is my friend Molly. She works in the ticket office.”

  Fender took a step forward and shook Molly’s extended hand. As she clasped his fingers, she closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, like she was smelling him. Fender decided then and there that he didn’t like her. What the hell was that? Was she trained as a bomb-sniffing dog alternate? He smiled weakly. She was going to ruin everything.

  When Ginger thought about it a little while later, the date had kind of been the date that wasn’t. As soon as Fender got back from the store, Molly had knocked on the door. She was a good friend. Sure, she was flaky as all get out, but that was kind of fun. Molly always had a new cause. Lately, she was petitioning Jell-O to stop making, well, Jell-O, because it was made from animal parts. Anyone who could get behind such a futile cause had to be a good person. Not altogether with it, but a good person.

  Molly’d been there for Ginger when she needed her, too. After the funeral, when Ginger came home from her self-imposed exile at her mom’s, it’d seemed there was a dark space waiting to consume her. It waited on the other side of the doors in her life; she dreaded it when she entered the house or walked through the doorway to the kitchen. The dark space was there, just on the other side of that door, in the next room. It was the void that had consumed Brad and left her alone.

  But Molly’d been the first person to show up at the house when she returned. Ginger was still grateful for that. Molly had dragged her out to dinner, to the movies, to the grocery store. She’d helped go through the house and “de-Brad” it: his lawn mowing shoes, the razor in the shower, gloves and hats and scarves in the front hall closet. Even now, despite the months that had passed, just thinking about these things gave Ginger a queasy knot in her stomach.

  But Molly had gathered up all of these little pieces of Brad that had paralyzed Ginger with grief. She’d tidied up Ginger’s life, made it bearable without him.

  “Just take up space for now, you know? If you can just live in the house and occupy the space and breathe the air, you’re doing great,” Molly had said.

  At that point, Molly’s view of the world had given Ginger a lot of comfort. Ginger didn’t have her own sense of anything after this world. It seemed like the back of a picture. The living saw the side with the image, and the reverse was empty. The border between life and the empty space behind it had seemed very slim.

  Molly, on the other hand, thought the reverse side of life was a huge expanse of wonder and beauty. She would talk of the worlds she would one day get to explore, and she always sounded sure of their existence. It wasn’t a leap of faith for her; it was a given. Something about that confidence rubbed off on Ginger. She’d started to buoy herself with Molly’s steadfast beliefs. Brad was okay, she’d told herself. He was somewhere else, and it was a really interesting place to be.

  Molly had painted a picture of heaven for Ginger so lush and intriguing that it had felt better to let Brad slip into the corners of her mind. Now he only surfaced on occasion, when she called forth his memory on purpose or when something surprised her with a memory, like the smell of rosemary and chicken baking.

  Molly had helped her begin to let go, and she appreciated that. So, whenever Molly dropped by, she was welcome. Although tonight, she’d knocked on the door just as Fender seemed like he’d begun to relax.

  The dog puking hadn’t seemed to faze him very much, and she’d been looking forward to having him here with her. She’d hoped he would sit on the couch next to her. But when Molly showed up, something in Fender’s posture had changed. Stiffened. Kind of like a cat arching its back at a dog.

  “I just realized I left a door to my shop unlocked,” he’d said. Then he’d scooted out the door Molly left open.

  Molly seemed odd, too. “What a
weird guy,” she said, peering after him.

  Too much weirdness. So, Ginger had begged out of hanging with Molly and sent her on her way just a few minutes after Fender. She’d had a day.

  She shook her head and settled in on the couch, alone once again, and thinking sleep sounded good to her right now. Another strange and brief encounter with Fender Barnes.

  He drove home to his apartment—and not by way of the shop; he didn’t have to. There wasn’t an unlocked door. He’d lied. Not that it was a new thing for him to lie. No, it seemed to be par for the course in this relationship.

  He coughed involuntarily. Did I just say relationship? Oh, good God.

  He did feel really bad, though. But when Ginger’s friend had shown up, the house felt tiny, and he needed to get out of there. It was a deep urge for escape. Primal. It was the sign that I’m not meant for human interaction. So he’d made up an excuse, and fled.

  He parked in front of his building and went up the stairs to the door. The stone façade looked shoddy and crumbly. He hadn’t remembered it looking like that.

  Inside his condo, all was quiet. Fender had no pets. It was probably more humane that way. He might forget to feed them. Also, they shed everywhere, and he hated the smell of cat piss. He didn’t even have a plant.

  It was quiet.

  This wasn’t a big deal. Cleaning up dog puke tonight reminded him why he was better off alone.

  He went to the fridge and dug out the spaghetti Pop had sent home with him the last time he was over for dinner. Pop had always cooked, even when Mom was alive, and Fender thought he was good at it. He made mostly the basics, but he knew them well. When Fender had lived at home, one of the things he’d liked most was the schedule. He could always count on tacos on Monday, spaghetti on Tuesdays, and “breakfast anytime” on Sundays, when they ate waffles and eggs and bacon for dinner.

  After eating at the kitchen table, Fender turned on the TV, as he usually did when he was home. It masked any noise the neighbors might make, and it filled up the space of the condo.

  There was nothing on, and it was too early to go to bed. He didn’t feel like getting on the computer. He called Sam, but his friend wasn’t home. What the hell is my problem? He felt aimless. It was too quiet. The carpet sucked up all the sound, like a sponge.

  He decided to take a shower. He turned the water on hot, really hot. As he stood there, suddenly he felt very irritated. There were hairs all over the floor of the tub. The shower curtain had rust-colored mold on it. And it was lopsided, because half of the holes for the rings had been torn out.

  “Jesus, what a slob.” He said it out loud. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed this before.

  He got out of the shower and toweled off. In the bedroom, he put on sweats and flopped down on the bed. He stared at his phone for a long time.

  Suddenly—well, it felt that way, at least—he found himself in the car, driving. He pulled up in front of her house. His hands shook a little as he rang her doorbell. His hair was still wet, and he could feel it freezing into crunchy tendrils at the back of his neck.

  She opened the door. Her eyes were still puffy from crying. The TV was on in the background, loud. She smiled when she saw who it was.

  “Hi.” He wasn’t sure what to say.

  “Hi.” She waited for him. She wasn’t going to make it easy, he could tell.

  “I just came by to see if you wanted to go out again some time.”

  “We didn’t go out this time.” She was still smiling.

  “Okay, well, to see if you wanted to go out.”

  “Your hair’s wet. Come in. You’ll freeze to death.”

  He stepped into the warmth of her house. It was so clean and bright and filled up.

  “Sit down; I’ll go get a towel.”

  Fender headed for the couch. The aimless feeling was gone.

  Ginger came back with a towel and sat next to him on the couch. “I never made the pizza, if you’re still hungry.” She pulled the afghan back over her, tucked it around her legs.

  “I ate when I got home.” Ginger’s dog came over and looked at him. Fender shifted. “Your dog’s giving me the stink eye.”

  Ginger smiled. “That’s Zoë. She’s probably mad you turned down the pizza.”

  “It’s a real similar look to the one your friend gave me.” After she tried to inhale me, or whatever the hell that was.

  She shrugged. He liked to watch her mannerisms. Every little gesture came with a light in her green eyes, or a lift of an eyebrow, or a shy smile. She was fascinating.

  “I don’t know what Molly’s deal was. Protective or something. She left again right after you did.”

  The dog was still sitting in front of Fender. “Come here, pup. You want up on the couch?” Fender patted the cushion next to him. Don’t scare the dog. Women love their dogs like children. “You can come up.”

  The Husky looked at him, looked at Ginger, and then jumped up, squishing herself between Fender and her owner.

  Ginger laughed. “She’s not just protective; she’s the chaperone, apparently.”

  “She seems quite comfortable in her role.” Fender scratched the dog behind an ear, and the dog made what sounded like a contented sigh.

  Ginger looked him in the eye. “You’re good. The ear scratch is always well-received.”

  They looked at each other for a moment. He’d kiss her, but the moment felt so peaceful, he didn’t want to botch it. He was really good at that. Plus, there was a large dog in the way.

  He decided to try to talk to her, despite his usual rule about not screwing things up by talking too much. “You’re not from here, so where are you from?”

  She frowned. “How do you know I’m not from here?”

  He laughed. “I’d guess we’re about the same age, and I’ve lived here forever. I would’ve run into you.”

  “Maybe you did, and you just don’t remember.”

  Not a chance. “I’m positive I’d remember running into you.”

  Her skin went pink under her freckles. The reaction sent a rush of heat through his chest. Did I just do that to her? I like that. I want to do that to her again. Maybe other stuff, too.

  “I’m from back East. I went to UConn and moved out here after I graduated.”

  “By yourself? For a job?” He watched her face. The dog snored between them.

  “By myself. No job. I just didn’t want to live there anymore. I wanted something new. I’d been out West skiing with my family when I was ten. I decided to pick a place out here with a good ski hill where I could actually afford to rent a place.”

  Fender tried to figure out how he could touch her hand. He kept talking while he tried to find a way. “I guess that eliminated Aspen.”

  “Not a lot of choices fit my bill. Except Boise. So, here I am.” She smiled at him again, twisted a piece of her hair between two fingers.

  Fender felt a wide, unstoppable grin on his face. “Here you are.” He stopped before he said the rest of what he was thinking: Here you are, in my life, and I like it. For the first time, in a very long time, he just wanted to sit, be who he was, and drink this person in. He felt—did he dare to say it? He felt happy. Content. Even with a big dog drooling on his pant leg in her sleep.

  A couple hours later, Fender drove home through empty streets, still feeling happy. At a red light, he put down the window. No cars clogged the intersection. He sat alone, waiting for the light to turn. He could hear the “Don’t Walk” sign click on and off, warning away nonexistent pedestrians.

  He wasn’t just happy, he was euphoric. And all they’d done was talk. About nothing, really.

  The cold air stung his cheeks through the open window, so he put it up and turned on the stereo. Fender recognized the song; the lyrics told of misdeeds and lies in a relationship.

  God, he felt like the song was about him. He was the liar, the criminal. He turned the stereo off.

  The secret was bound to come out. He should be the one to tell her. />
  The red light turned green. At the silent intersection, Fender sat for a moment. There weren’t any other cars. He let his car idle, kept his unmoving hands on the wheel.

  “Not yet. Not yet.”

  He said it out loud, to the cold empty street.

  Fender had left very late, and Ginger had tried at first to go to sleep, but she gave up as the sky outside of her window began to brighten with pinks and oranges. She got up and went into the kitchen. The Husky followed her, excited about the prospect of food coming so early in the morning. Ginger put Zoë’s bowl down and sat at the kitchen table.

  She kept smiling. They’d talked about nothing. She’d spent a long time explaining the lesson programs up at Blackwolf. It was boring stuff, to be sure, but Fender had never stopped looking at her for a second, seeming riveted. She’d felt unsettled, with his eyes on her like that. When he’d nod or ask a question, the blood would rise in her cheeks. She hated that she was a blusher. It made her so transparent. It’d been that way all of her life. As a little girl, she could never successfully lie to her mother. As soon as the lie had sprung from her lips, she’d turn a deep beet color, and that was it. The truth was out.

  The flush in her cheeks last night had been about something more, too. She wanted Fender.

  Admitting it sent a delicious shiver through her.

  Sex had been okay with Brad. At first, she’d been driven wild with what she thought was desire. Looking back, she thought maybe it was desperation that drove her wild. After a while, she’d been less than thrilled. Brad was fairly utilitarian about sex. It was something you needed physically; you did it, then moved on. And she didn’t believe he meant to ignore her, but their lovemaking was done when he was spent. If she wasn’t ready for it to be over, well, Brad never seemed to notice that.

  She sipped her tea. She’d done that to herself. She went to great lengths to please him, and not just in bed. Somewhere along the way, she’d taught him that pleasing her wasn’t a priority.