by K B Jensen
I asked Monte to plug up the holes. He tried. He just didn’t know what the hell he was doing. Just like Chuck and Irene.
I wander into the storage room and stare at the boxes piled to the ceiling. There’s a lot of history in there, a lot of secrets buried under the cardboard mountain, things we’ve forgotten. What we were like when we were young. What we wanted. What we wore. What we played. The music we listened to. Now we get to open those boxes again, weed through, or throw them away and start all over.
I can hear the children screaming “Daddy, Daddy” at the top of the steps. Monte is home from work. I left the door open. I look up the stairs and see two sets of little arms dangling around his neck as he stoops down. He’s standing in the doorway framed by the glow of the fluorescent kitchen light.
Now, Monte may not be the handsomest man. When did he get to be so fat? When did I? But I walk out of that basement and into his arms.
We both start crying. I don’t even need to tell him what happened. He can tell just from the expression on my face. You may ask me, how we didn’t notice the foundation was made of wood when we bought the place. We were young and stupid, just like Chuck and Irene.
“It’s over,” he says. “Isn’t it? We have to move on.”
Just then there is a rumbling, one of the walls caves in down below and the house starts to sink beneath our feet. The wooden floor starts to crack and drop below us. We just stare at each other, sinking. It feels like an earthquake, the collapse of rotten wood. The children scream and run out the kitchen screen door. It makes a loud slapping sound behind them as it closes. Monte and I stare at each other unmoving, in dumb silence, except for that sound, a strange hissing sound emanating from the basement steps. We are paralyzed by indecision. Should we stay or should we go? Should we run screaming or try to fix it? Can it be fixed? The inspector says it’s a lost cause.
“The gas line,” I shout over the hissing. “Must have disconnected from the furnace.”
Monte stares down the stairs into the darkness.
“Don’t go down there Monte. And don’t you dare flip that switch.”
“I wasn’t going to,” he said.
My Monte never plays hero, thank God.
We run out of that house as fast as we can. We run into the woods, as far away as we can. I carry one of our children in my arms. He carries the other. And we stand there, our bare feet against the blades of wild grass. We watch from a distance as she ignites, our home. There is a flash and then a slow lingering licking of flames. It is all gone.
But me and Monte, and the children, we’re all still here, and as I look over at him, I realize that’s the only thing that really matters. The rest can be replaced. Chuck and Irene had their fifty years of bliss, and goddammit, me and Monte, we’re gonna have ours.
* * *
Peter was quiet. Had he fallen asleep? She could feel the rising of his chest next to her. She reached up and touched his face, moved closer to him.
“I’m awake,” he said. “I just closed my eyes to see the house, to wander through those rooms. Doesn’t feel finished. What happens to them?”
“They live happily ever after,” Julie said, with an exasperated sigh. She wanted to throw up her hands but it was too cramped in the car. She was tired. She was hungry. These stories were starting to get on her nerves.
“I doubt that,” he said. “Sounds like a metaphor for a shaky marriage, reminds me of Elizabeth. She was never there when it mattered. I wanted to marry her, anyway, you know. I even picked out a ring.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fuzzy, little, black box. He opened it and snapped it shut.
“It’s funny the little things we carry with us, isn’t it?” What other puzzle pieces were there to this guy? Julie wondered. He still wouldn’t give her a straight answer as to why he was out in the storm in the first place.
“You have diamonds in your pockets… You don’t happen to have anything to eat in there?” she asked, while opening the glove compartment and rummaging through the cables and bits of paper.
“Nope,” he said. “Sorry. All I got is food for thought.”
He smiled, and she shot him a look. Her stomach growled.
“Can I see the ring?” she asked. “Don’t worry, I won’t steal it.”
It was an oval, maybe half a carat set on a gold band. He wasn’t poor then. In the dark, it was hard to see how clear it was or whether it shimmered. She ran her fingers around the sides, felt the hard diamond in the blackness.
“Try it on,” he said.
She laughed. “No, that’s okay,” she said.
“Please,” he said. “I want to know if it fits. I’m curious.”
“This might be the closest thing to a proposal I get in my lifetime, at the rate I’m going,” Julie said, sighing.
“Maybe if we ever get out of here,” he said. “Out of this damn car, out of the damn cold, who knows?”
Something about the sentiment reminded her of a Disney movie. What if the two of them were meant to be together? She tried the ring on and it slid right over her knuckle.
“What a strange coincidence,” she said. “It fits.”
“Must be destiny,” he mumbled. “Why don’t you just keep it? I don’t need it.”
“You could return it,” she said. She tried to take it off, but the cold metal was stuck around her finger. “Maybe it doesn’t fit that well after all.”
“I tried to return it,” Peter said. “They wouldn’t take it back.”
“You could sell it,” Julie said, still struggling with the ring. She pulled and pulled. She couldn’t even twirl it around her finger.
“I don’t need money where I’m going,” he said.
“What the hell am I going to do with an engagement ring when I’m not engaged?” Julie said.
“Use it to get rid of unwanted men,” he said. “Men like me.”
“You aren’t unwanted,” she said, giving him a kind look.
“Just keep it,” he said. “Consider it a gift.”
“I can’t accept this, no way in hell.” She looked down at the diamond in the dark and shook her head.
“Yes, you can,” he said. “I’m going to die anyway.” He gripped his head, where she had bandaged the wound. “I can’t take it with me.”
“You took a blow to the head,” she said. “You aren’t thinking clearly.”
“So humor me,” he said. “Wear my ring. She didn’t want to. Would be nice if you were willing for a few hours, before we die.”
Julie swallowed. “You know how to guilt a girl, don’t you,” she murmured. It was getting kind of creepy. She struggled with the ring again. Her head was still resting against his chest. They were uncomfortably close. It was cold and dark inside the car and she couldn’t help but shudder against him.
“What if we freeze to death, and they find me in this damn car wearing this engagement ring?” Julie said. “My parents would be so confused.”
“So would your boyfriend,” Peter said, sarcastically.
“Okay, fine, I don’t actually have a boyfriend at the moment,” she admitted.
“Aha, so I am unwanted, then,” he said. “You thought you could ward off any possible advances from me by lying.”
“It just, it just was none of your business,” she said.
Things were getting weird again, she thought, putting her glove back on, covering the ring. Her hand was getting cold. The ring would have to stay for now. Ironically, they were bickering like an old married couple in the dark with the lights off.
“From what I hear, marriage is overrated,” she said.
“No, it’s not,” he said. “As long as you love them. Don’t you remember what it’s like to love?”
“I do remember,” she said softly. “It’s not something you forget.”
“It’s impossible to forget,” he said. “That’s the thing about it that’s so maddening. They’re all you can think of. I remember when I first met Elizabeth. I’d
wake up thinking about her. And the funny thing is you think you have a choice but you really don’t. Love is completely outside of your control.”
Julie got quiet. He was right, she thought. That is what it’s like.
“Do you believe in soul mates?” he asked.
“Not really,” she said. “It just seems unlikely that you would have one person out there, just one that was a perfect fit for you and even if there were, what are the chances you would find them? How would you possibly recognize them?”
“I think you’d recognize them. You would know. You would recognize each other somehow.”
“Was Elizabeth your soul mate?” Julie asked.
Peter winced in the dark. “If she was my soul mate, she didn’t recognize me. No, I don’t think so. Hindsight’s always 20/20. But she was my first love and there’s something special about that.
“Why don’t you tell me a story about first love?” he asked. “Innocent love.”
“Is love ever truly innocent?” she asked with a smile. “I can tell you a story or two, though. But you might want to hold me closer,” she said, pulling the sleeping bag up higher over them. “My teeth are starting to chatter.”
He put his arms around her and started to rock slightly back and forth. She could feel the sleeping bag zipper against her cheek and her warm breath mechanically pushing back against the fabric, in and out, out and in.
“It’s in first person again,” Julie said. “You’re gonna take it the wrong way, aren’t you?”
“Maybe,” Peter said softly. “I’ll try not to.”
Love in Heels
I used to beat my friend Billy. Well, I didn’t actually beat him up. I just pretended. Every day after school, I would jump him on his way to the school bus, climb on his back like I was climbing a mountain. I’d kick him in the butt with my tennis shoe. It was juvenile. It was ridiculous. But it was fun. I’d let out a holler and shriek. Usually, he’d dump me onto the ground. I’d laugh and roll, then wipe off the dirt and blades of grass.
Billy was a varsity football player, so he wasn’t easily fazed by violence. He was 6’4 with short black hair and a big stomach. Why I would choose such a large target still astounds me. Maybe because we were old friends since third grade. I could get away with it. I had a fighting nature, a violent side. I was told this was unusual for a girl, but it felt natural to me. When we were younger, I accidentally gave Billy a bloody nose when we were wrestling. I still remember the wounded look in his brown eyes and the way it hurt me down deep in my stomach, almost like I had taken the blow. He had this uncanny ability to forgive me for all my sins.
“It’s all good,” he’d say and smile.
I missed being the same size. Billy had turned into a boat of a guy, soft and squishy and a mile high. Why wasn’t I scared? What was the truth behind all the fake combat? The unprovoked attacks?
Well, obviously I liked Billy. I just didn’t know even while he was tossing me to the ground.
I had this realization one night when I was watching Billy on the football field under the sheen of yellow lights. His helmet was in one hand as he walked down the sideline. I was sitting, shivering on the cold, metal bleachers with my friend, Christina, and she turned to me and said in a rather illuminating fashion, “Man, Billy’s getting kind of fat.”
I hit her against the arm.
“Ouch!” she said, just like a typical girl.
“Don’t call Billy fat,” I said. “He’s just a little squishy.”
“You like him, don’t you?” she said.
I hit her arm again.
“Ouch!” she yelled louder.
I looked down at Billy standing by the bleachers. He had sweat dripping down the rolls on the back of his neck. I can’t remember the score or who they played, but I can tell you the Panthers won because Billy had a big grin spread across his face at the end of the game. He was wearing his letter jacket and sipping water out of a bottle. A black-haired cheerleader gave him a hug. I wish I had dark hair like that instead of red. The hug made me jealous, and I knew he wasn’t going to ask me out based on my behavior. I knew I needed to find another outlet, some other way to take out my aggression without physically battering a defenseless football player.
My plan didn’t go over well with my mother at the dining table the next day. We were eating bloody hamburgers and glue-like mashed potatoes. “Ma,” I said between delectable bites. “I’m gonna take up boxing.”
“Like hell, sweetheart,” she said. Yes, my mom likes to swear. Where do you think I get the mouth from?
I compromised and decided to take up karate. Once a week I went to a class. I can still feel the wooden floors underneath my feet and the arms of the white robe floating across my forearms as my limbs wound, uncoiled and struck. My leg would travel through the air, slicing and whooshing through it. I didn’t mind the bruises blossoming purple and blue across my freckled skin. I’d show them to my friends, wear them proudly like badges. I got a black belt wrapped around my waist. But still, it didn’t feel like enough. The violence was too sanitized. I realized I needed more.
I watched the movie Fight Club a million times. There were two problems with creating my own club. A: Men were generally too big for me to fight and B: Girls were pussies. Not to mention the fact that my basement was always flooding and completely and utterly gross.
“Wait,” Peter said in the dark. “Her basement floods? Sounds like the last story.”
“Be quiet,” Julie said. “You’re interrupting my train of thought. Just let me tell it.”
I flipped through the stacks of college applications and wondered about my future. The way I saw it, if I wanted a real fight, I had two paths I could possibly follow. I could become a criminal or I could become a cop. As much as I liked blood and fighting, I wasn’t a bad person underneath it all. Jail wasn’t my thing, either. Although I was sure I could find my share of fights there. I’d probably never get out due to bad behavior.
I wished I had a reason to fight. Sometimes, I’d fantasize about a man attacking me in an alley. Maybe he’d make the mistake of tearing my shirt. I’d roundhouse kick him in the face, shoving his nose into his brains. It’d be glorious. He’d drop to the ground and then stagger off, if he was lucky. Like in the old movies, I’d call the cops from a payphone and leave an anonymous tip so he didn’t bleed to death in the alley. If I could find a pay phone, that is. The damn things are antiques.
One day at lunch, I found out about a police explorers program in the school newspaper.
“Look, there’s a chance to learn more about Tasers and self-defense techniques,” I told Christina. “Even ride along in cop cars.”
“Awesome,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Really, when are you going to give it a rest?”
“Never,” I said. I signed up that night and within a week I was in the police station basement, standing in line as a volunteer waiting to be tased with a group of boys. Of course, no other girl in her right mind would show up for such a thing.
I could feel my muscles tightening up, almost spasming while I waited in line with each pop and whirl, as each of the boys in the group was hit. The dart would shoot out from the yellow gun and hit each one square in the back, while two people held him under the arm, as he thrashed, groaned and screamed.
“How do you feel?” the cop leading the program said. His name was Sergeant Steve. “Submissive?”
“Arrrrrggghhhh!” Daniel shouted, a thin layer of drool shooting out of his mouth. The rest of the group laughed nervously.
“It’s like riding a roller coaster,” Sergeant Steve said. “You think it’s going to be worse than it is, but really it’s not that bad.”
“Not when it’s over,” Daniel said, plucking the little dart out from his back. “Not bad…”
When my turn came, the boys tried to talk me out of it.
“You don’t have to do this,” they said. “You’re too small, too little. You’re just a girl.”
“Screw you
,” I said. “I can handle it.”
The shot rang out and I lost control of my arms and legs, sagged to the ground, felt the burning buzz shoot through me, but I refused to make any noise.
“Girls have a higher pain tolerance than boys,” I said, shaking my head when it was over. Maybe I lied. It hurt like hell, but I wasn’t about to tell them that. I’m sure they could tell from my face anyway. We all wore the same pinched, pained expression on our faces, like our features were squishing together.
“Now, it’s time for some self-defense techniques,” Sergeant Steve said. Any volunteers?”
I waved my hand in the front of the line.
“Let me show you how to make a fist,” he said.
“No, let me show you how to make a fist,” I said.
“Let me show you how to take someone out behind the knees.”
“No, let me show you how to take someone out behind the knees.”
He laughed. “I like your attitude, kid.”
I, of course, ended up flat on the mat. But I didn’t mind.
“Use what’s around you,” Sergeant Steve said. “If there’s something on the street, a stick, a rock, you grab it.”
One day after the class, I got to use some of my moves on a boy named Owen.
“Girls don’t belong in the program,” he said.
“Fuck you,” I said, puffing up my chest.
“You’re too little to be a cop, midget.”
I was all of 5’2. I threw a punch and busted his lip. The blood blossomed on his face, pouring down his chin. My heart was thumping inside my chest and the adrenaline roared through my arms and legs. He threw me onto the ground. Then he just stood there, touching his lip. “Sadistic bitch,” he said.
“Fucking pussy,” I called after him, scrambling to my feet.
I cut my red hair into a short bob and got a tattoo across my shoulder blades the minute I turned eighteen. You don’t want long hair getting in your eyes during a fight. I’m not telling what the tattoo was, but it sure as hell wasn’t a dolphin or a butterfly. Not that I gave a shit, but I’m sure half the school thought I was a dike. But not Billy. Billy knew me well enough to know I liked boys. He had watched my eyes trail after Morgan Taylor’s ass on more than one occasion in sixth grade. He used to tease me about it.