Blue Plate Special

by Michelle D. Kwasney

  Tad takes my hand, steering us into an arcade. Games flash and buzz and bing. Shuffleboard. Pinball. Batter Up. He pulls me toward a photo booth in the corner, then inside it where he draws the curtain and drops two quarters in the slot. He sits on the bench and tugs my arm so I’m sitting beside him. A red light blinks several times and I stare at it. Then a second light—a bright white one—floods the booth and I jump.

  Tad laughs as I hop up and down on the seat, giggling.

  He puts his hand on my knee, steadying me. “Let’s look serious in this one.” Tad raises one eyebrow, staring straight ahead.

  “Serious,” I repeat, sucking my cheeks in to keep from laughing.

  The red light blinks. Then the white light floods the booth again.

  We both bust up—sidesplitting laughter that feels so good I never want it to stop. But the third flash pops and Tad tips my chin toward him, kissing me. My eyes drift closed as his tongue finds mine, and mine finds his and—

  Flash!

  Minutes or hours or days later—it’s hard to tell, I’m so lost in his kiss—Tad pulls away, whispering, “Pictures should be ready.”

  He reaches into a drop slot, holding up a strip of black-and-white photographs.

  Tad looks like he always looks. But the girl sitting next to him surprises me. She’s so pretty. And thin. And happy. Truly, completely, unquestionably happy.

  “Is that how I look?” I ask him.

  He turns to study me. “Of course. Why?”

  “No reason.” I smile. “I love the photos.”

  Tad hands them to me. “Keep ’em in a safe place. Someday when we’re old farts we’ll show ’em to our grandchildren.”

  Our grandchildren. Oh my God. Did he really say that?

  “Thanks,” I say, tucking them carefully in my macramé handbag.

  Tad holds the curtain open for me. He crosses the arcade and stops in front of a game called Skee Roll. He drops a coin in the slot and balls glide down a long ramp toward him. “You ever play?”

  I shake my head no.

  “It’s a lot like bowling. You wanna roll the ball into one of the rings. Fifty points a pop is the best you can do. You get nine turns. The higher your score at the end, the more tickets the machine cranks out. And the more tickets you get, the better your prize.”

  He lifts his chin toward the shelves that line one wall.

  I notice a shiny four-slice toaster. Maybe Tad and I will get an apartment together, and that toaster will sit on our kitchen counter. I’ll bet the woman at the picnic table has one just like it.

  Tad cups a ball in his hand. He releases it. It whips up the ramp, bounces against a net, lands in the ring marked fifty.

  He scores three hundred points in all. The machine spits out a long row of tickets.

  On the next game, I attempt a few shots, but I stink. Which means Tad doesn’t win as many tickets, so I tell him I’m happier watching.

  Ten minutes later, he’s out of change. “Let’s pick a prize,” he says.

  The lowest shelf is lined with chintzy toys—troll dolls and Frisbees and Silly Putty eggs. The prizes on the middle shelf, like board games and G.I. Joe dolls, are better. But the best are on the top shelf. That’s where my four-slice toaster sits, between a Sno-Kone maker and an Easy-Bake Oven.

  “How many tickets did you win?” I ask, excited.

  Tad counts them. “Sixty-two.”

  I notice the prizes have numbers beside them. They must tell you how many tickets you need to win them. I check the number next to the toaster. Twelve hundred. My heart sinks.

  “Fifty’ll buy us matching hula hoops,” Tad says, looping his arm around my waist. “Or his and her cap guns.”

  But I don’t want those prizes. I want the toaster. And the life that goes with it. “I think you should hang on to the tickets,” I tell him. “And get something nice when you’ve saved enough.”

  Tad shrugs. When we reach the parking lot, he says, “Wait here. I’ll be right back,” and he disappears from my sight.

  I lean against his truck, waiting for him. It’s dusky now. The sun sits on a distant hill. The midway lights twinkle and blink.

  When Tad returns he says, “Close your eyes and hold out your hand.”

  I do. Something clasps my index finger. I open my eyes, curious to see what it is—a long cigar-shaped tube made from pink and blue wicker strips woven together. My finger’s stuck inside a hole on one end, and Tad’s is in the opposite. He pulls back, tightening the grip. “Chinese handcuffs,” he says. “They’re for you.” When he leans in, the tube relaxes, releasing me. “Better get going,” he says, reaching to open the truck door. “It’s almost dark.”

  * * *

  I’ve driven by the Valley-View Drive-In lots of times, but I’ve never been beyond the front gate. Tad pays our admission and parks in a spot in the back, far from any other cars. He steps out, lifts a gray metal box off a stand, hooks it over my window, and then does the same thing on his side.

  The movie, Star Wars, begins, music bursts from the speakers, and Tad reaches for my hand.

  About an hour later, the air starts to grow chilly so Tad flips the heat on low and slides close, looping an arm around my shoulder. “Don’t want my girl getting cold,” he says, and soon his lips find mine. They travel down my neck, moving lower, lower, inside the V of my blouse. He glides his hands underneath the fabric, then beneath my bra, cupping a breast in each hand.

  I’m on fire. I need to touch Tad, to know how he feels too. I untuck his shirt. My hands move across his warm chest, drinking him in through my fingers, binding us. When Tad sighs—or maybe he moans—every inch of me tingles.

  Tad fumbles for the volume button, quieting the sounds on the screen. Then he reaches to unbutton my blouse. His breath is hot in my ear when he whispers, “You’re so beautiful, Madeline. I want you.”

  My shirt falls open and it’s like I’m seeing my body for the first time—my nearly flat stomach, my full breasts, cradled by the silky bra I bought for this very moment.

  But then I freeze—I can see myself too clearly.

  As Tad slips a sleeve off my shoulder, I push his hand away and draw the shirt around me again. “Stop! We need to move. To someplace darker. Over there.” I point toward a spot near the woods.

  “But it’s crowded over there, Madeline. We won’t have any privacy. Besides”—Tad strokes my cheek—“a little bit of light is good.”

  I try to find a way to argue his decision, but I come up empty. This is the end of the road for me.

  As Tad eases my shirt off, I draw my bottom lip in, biting it to keep from crying. Seconds later, there it is. In plain view. My mottled lizard arm, silvery blue in the moonlight. I can tell from the path of Tad’s eyes that he sees the scars. First, he can’t stop staring. Then he looks away. At the silent screen. He exhales. Completely. Till every bit of air is forced out of his lungs.

  And I inhale, just as deeply. Tad’s spent breath is all I have to hold on to. I wait.

  Finally, Tad asks, “What happened?”

  “Um, when I was ten”—I hesitate—“my mom fell asleep smoking and, uh, she set a blanket on fire. I tried to get it away from her, but the sleeve of my nightgown caught too.”

  For a long moment, he’s silent. When Tad faces me again, he looks more serious than I’ve ever seen him. He places his hand on the shoulder of my lizard arm. His fingers inch downward, a slow, careful journey. “Madeline,” he whispers, “I’m so sorry for what happened to you, but it doesn’t change the way I feel. I love everything about you. Everything.” When Tad’s fingers reach my wrist, where the scars give way to normal skin, he’s erased my fear with his touch. He lifts the hand that belongs to the lizard arm, tenderly kissing the palm. Then he closes my fingers around the kiss, like he’s telling me it’s mine to keep.

  I reach out, pulling him to me wildly, like I’m drowning, and only he can save me. We kiss as if our lives depend upon it. Like we’ll die if either of us stops.


  Tad’s hand edges up the thigh of my jeans, slipping between my legs. My head whirs. Air floods my lungs. My heart swims. Wanting. Wanting.

  I rest my hand between Tad’s legs too. He moans again and whispers, “I love you.”

  No one’s ever told me that before. Maybe my mother did once, when I was little, but I can’t remember. “I love you too,” I say back.

  When Tad undoes his belt, I remember Muralee stealing the pregnancy test. “Tad,” I ask, “do you, uh, have anything for us to use so that, you know…”

  He feels above his visor, removing a small square package. He tears the wrapper with his teeth and unrolls a brown rubbery thing. He unzips his pants, shaping it over his privates. Which I can’t believe I’m looking at. But I am. And it’s very clear Tad wants me. In the same way Glenn must have wanted Muralee.

  The word Intermission flashes across the drive-in screen. Cartoon hot dogs dance below the large red letters. Dome lights blink on. People flock toward the concessions.

  Tad clicks on the radio, drowning out the blurry buzz. He leans me backward, onto his truck seat. I kick my shoes to the floor, and Tad slides my jeans off. Then I feel him on top of me and, moments later, inside me, sweetly whispering my name.

  Desiree

  larry’s form fills the stairway.

  i can smell his breath: nuts and beer.

  he glances at my chest

  so i look down too.

  my nipples are standing

  at attention from the cold.

  i feel exposed,

  fold my arms,

  attempt to slip past.

  but larry leans in,

  smoothing my hair.

  you look pretty.

  how was the dance?

  i pull away. let me go!

  again, i try to step around him.

  again, larry blocks my path.

  i’m so scared

  i think i might throw up.

  let me go or i’ll scream!

  your ma won’t hear you.

  she had a headache.

  he taps his skull.

  you know percs knock her out.

  he presses his lips against mine.

  razor stubble scrapes my face.

  i jerk my head from side to side,

  trying to avoid his mouth, his breath.

  stop!

  louder.

  as larry grinds against

  my belly swell

  i feel fluttering—

  like a small bird moving

  in some secret language

  only i can understand.

  tears well up in my eyes,

  and for the first time,

  i really, truly

  get it:

  i

  am

  pregnant.

  it’s my word now.

  i’ve got a baby inside me,

  a baby that’s counting on me,

  and this asshole is mashing up

  against it like it’s not a living thing,

  like it doesn’t have any feelings.

  larry gathers my fingers in one hand,

  pinning them to the wall above my head.

  when he hikes my dress up,

  the crunch of the satin

  fabric is deafening—

  hard, sharp sounds, like boots

  cracking through frozen snow.

  i feel the fluttering again.

  tiny wings flap and flap

  below the swell of fat

  that’s not just fat anymore.

  no.

  fat = baby now.

  my baby. my daughter.

  i don’t know how i know

  she’s a girl, i just do,

  and i’m not going to let

  larry hurt her.

  i scream—

  loud enough to

  wake mam from a coma.

  larry covers my mouth,

  and i bite his finger hard.

  he jerks his hand away

  and i holler,

  no! no! no!

  still larry thrusts against me.

  the fluttering inside

  turns into spasms,

  and i know my baby is crying.

  i’m crying too.

  my tears are the lifeline

  i throw out to her.

  i’m trying to make him stop!

  you have to believe me, baby girl!

  her flutters are hurried now,

  a bird gone wild inside her cage,

  beating frightened wings against the bars

  as her fragile bird bones are crushed,

  as her small, small breath is hushed.

  is this her first impression of me—

  a mother who can’t protect her own daughter?

  it sounds so freaking familiar.

  * * *

  i shower so long my skin prunes up.

  i don’t implode with pain this time.

  no. i don’t feel a thing.

  but my baby does.

  and, someday,

  larry will

  pay for that.

  * * *

  when i wake around noon,

  i hear larry in the kitchen,

  using that fake, bullshit voice

  people use when they’re trying to sound

  all sincere and sensitive, but really

  they’re pulling something

  straight out of their ass.

  i press my ear against the wall,

  catching bits of what he says.

  …don’t be too hard on her…

  tough for a girl without a father…

  my sister…that way too…

  screwed anything with balls.

  a raging bull,

  i storm into the kitchen.

  what are you saying about me?

  he looks like mister fucking rogers

  the way he’s combed his hair and

  shaved and put on a brand-new shirt.

  he clasps mam’s hand, glancing

  my way with a hangdog expression.

  desiree, i told your ma what happened

  between you and me. i told her everything.

  dark prickles whirl before my eyes.

  i grip the counter,

  afraid i’ll pass out.

  you—you what?

  larry repeats: everything.

  but i told her not to be mad at you.

  i’ll take the bulk of the blame.

  after all, i’m a grown-up and you’re fifteen.

  of course, you’re fifteen going on twenty-one,

  if you catch my drift, but—

  what are you talking about? i yell.

  larry glances from mam to me

  then back to mam again.

  well, you’re what guys

  in my generation called a c.t.

  what the hell’s a c.t.? i snap.

  larry answers, a cock tease.

  i lunge at him, landing so hard

  i knock his chair over backward.

  mam’s stupid knickknacks

  clatter off a shelf as

  larry’s head slams the oven door.

  mam leaps up.

  my god, larry, you’re bleeding!

  i watch the rescue

  efforts in slow motion:

  mam helping larry stand,

  mam setting his chair upright,

  mam rolling ice inside a dishcloth,

  mam holding it against larry’s head.

  mam turning to me, spitting out,

  are you happy now, desiree?

  after all these years,

  i finally find

  someone who matters,

  and you’ve gotta strut your stuff

  right underneath his nose.

  my eyes fill.

  i try to blink back tears, but i can’t.

  your someone who matters raped me!

  four months ago by the train tracks,

  and then again last night—

  right here in this apar
tment.

  i was in the foyer, yelling.

  i was crying for you, mom!

  she reels, like i’ve slapped her.

  i haven’t called her mom in years,

  but i need her to be one for me now.

  a real mom. because,

  at this moment,

  she’s all i have.

  mom, i say again, please! larry’s

  trying to save his ass—and—and—

  i choke on snot i’m crying so hard

  —and he’s using me to do it.

  don’t you see that?

  i didn’t want this to happen!

  if you weren’t so stoned

  on your goddamn pills,

  you would’ve heard me screaming.

  mam drops the dishcloth.

  ice cubes glide across the floor.

  now she’s crying too.

  her eyes meet mine.

  maybe she’s heard what i’ve said,

  i think, maybe she’s going to take my side.

  i’m so filled with hope

  i take a sudden step toward her.

  but larry stands,

  stepping into my path.

  dez, let’s be honest.

  we both screwed up. period.

  i should’ve walked away from temptation,

  but you didn’t make it easy on me.

  you’re a liar! i shout. i was raped!

  and i’ve got a baby

  inside me to prove it!

  mam gasps,

  freezes in place.

  larry touches my arm

  like he’s consoling me,

  but i pull away.

  dez, i doubt i’m the one

  who got you pregnant.

  don’t you remember?

  we used a rubber both times.

  he reaches in his wallet

  and holds up a trojan.

  i always keep one right here,

  and i put one on both nights.

  you were kind of hot to trot,