by Diane Munier
Why? Why does he seek me out? He said he wanted to be with me all the time. He said he was joking.
He is beautiful, too thin, the bones in his face so visible, his cheeks go in, his jaw is prominent his brows and lashes are so heavy, and I know when he’s awake his eyes, so framed are even more expressive.
Then those same eyes open, and there I am looking, and as soon as he sees me I’m just stuck, and what’s funny is I don’t look into eyes without concentration, determination. It just feels so personal. But with him, I can’t not look.
“Spencer…are we friends?” I want to groan, but I control it. Is this the dumbest question?
He smiles, rolls his face into the arm that cushions his head, then quickly rolls back and smiles at me. “Sarah, could I sleep this close to you without a weapon if we weren’t friends?”
Me and Mom Fall for Spencer
Chapter Twelve
“I’ve seen Spencer enough today,” I say, already in my beater and knit shorts cause I’m working my ass off on the computer then going to bed.
Mom is holding a pan of my vegetable soup she’s taking to Spencer. “I need you to run my ideas past.”
Like I’m going to hang out at Frieda’s and discuss paint chips? Um, no. I’m not going to force myself on Spencer yet again. And I have Spencer saturation. That means I have to let this go through the strainer. I’m on overflow. Add the inside of Frieda’s house to that and I’m psychotic.
We’ve been together constantly, and if I show up over there it’s embarrassing. And I can’t take anymore. I can’t even look at him right now. I’m ready to pop.
His words, his skin, his jaw, his lips, his earlobes, his sideburns, his stubble, his teeth, his eye lashes, his nostrils, his smell and the skin scrunched on his cheek, and the way his tongue helps him form words…my name…that look in his eyes, unspoken something…and back to those words. It’s coming at me like rapid fire clips in a Technicolor movie, sound bites too. Crap!
I have to work. And there’s still patrol! And church in the morning.
“No, Mom. It’s n…o.” I take my bowl of soup, my third and two bottles of water and my dishtowel in case I spill and laptop under my arm I go out of the kitchen. My hair is all over the place, wet from my shower even though I prefer baths, and I’m tired and sun-burnt, and cranky and hungry and overwhelmed and…not myself.
All I can think about is Spencer Gundry. He is holding my brain hostage. How am I going to live with those words in my head, those feelings lying beside him got going in me. I am preoccupied. So much so I trip on the stairs and my soup slops onto my shirt. “Frickin’ hell,” I say, and Mom hears it and yells, “Sarah.”
Oh, pot meet kettle, but she still has to do it, be my own personal Pharisee.
“Mother-eff I mean,” I yell.
“Sarah Marie,” she yells back, as she goes out the door cause I hear it slap behind her.
I am so glad for her right now, standing in the path between me and Spencer Gundry. Spencer Gundry. I say it three more times.
Spencer.
Spencer Gundry.
Gundry.
I shake my head and enter my room and put all my stuff down, glad I didn’t get soup on my laptop. “Thank you God,” I say aloud. And I go to my dresser and root for another beater and more bottoms, long ones this time so I can walk outside in them without looking like a ho on the prowl.
I get busy but it’s nearly impossible, so I keep checking the gossip sites, telling myself I’ll ease into it, my work, I will, just a little diversion to get my mind settled…but all I see are couples, breaking up, getting together, dating openly, dating secretly, couples…and I think of how he stroked that kitten, fingers long and lean, on the guitar, touching my hair, and the way he threw that towel away, that look, the park, what he wanted, the blanket under his arm, the words he said, and even I know there were words he didn’t say, cause I have those, books and books of those, and he laid back, and I laid back, I followed easy…so easy.
And the pale underside of his arm as he stacked his hands under his head, beckoning me to lay my head just there, and what would it feel like, the relief, soft skin, muscle beneath…strength…and words when he lifted his head, my name…and what he said as he leaned toward me…he is a man.
He isn’t Jason or Mike, so obvious and hard to respect, he is nothing like them, he is a man, deep as the lake, and it means something when Spencer Gundry puts his face by mine, his body by mine, it does more, much more than make me furious.
It makes me see I’m a woman. Just like anybody, wanting the same things, pulled by the same want. I could be his.
Seeing as I am not going to get much done I finish my soup and shove my feet in my shoes, and my hair into this big bulging knot on my head and put on my cap and go downstairs and take my flashlight off the charger, and check that I have my phone, find my hoodie, even though it’s warm, and I stick my phone in the pocket.
I go out the front door and right away I hear Spencer playing the guitar. And Mom is laughing. It makes me smile, but not really, cause I don’t trust Mom to behave, to keep her mouth shut about me, but at least I know Spencer can handle himself, I know that now.
The lights are on at Frieda’s, every light, and I haven’t seen it that lit up, cause Frieda was frugal, but on Halloween, she’d light it up like it was now, upstairs and down. Back in the day Frieda made every kid do a trick to get their candy. None of that, “I don’t have a trick,” crap. God I practically lived there, slept there more than my own home. What would I have done without her?
I don’t want to think about it. I am not running, but I don’t want to dwell on it either. I thought I’d turned a page. But then Spencer came, and now we are going to what, pick out wallpaper? I’m not exactly ready for that.
Jason is home. Car in the driveway, him coming out of the house carrying a bottle, crossing over to me. I hit him with the beam, but it doesn’t stop him, and he knows, for years, you don’t challenge the death ray.
He’s taught me the meaning of jealousy, me and Cyro walking the street, he not allowed. That’s how I recognize it in myself, the jealousy, even now, jealous when Christine takes Mom away, jealous now knowing Mom is with Spencer and I’m not. Jealousy is the hardest thing to admit, the worst, cause once you get there you can kill.
So here Jason is, and he’s taught me the meaning, and he stalks through the death ray like it is light from a flashlight.
I keep walking. Just because someone breaks the rules doesn’t mean I have to acknowledge him. But of course, he will be acknowledged.
He’s walking with me.
“Try to ignore me, Sarah. Just try.”
I’m not trying—I’m doing.
I am checking out the rental. No more bottles on the porch. I walk around back and he is close behind me, and I realize that bottle I’d found last night is probably from him.
“You let him walk with you?” he says.
I smell alcohol from three feet away.
Oh, I let Spencer break the rules so now there are no rules. I go about my check until he grabs me. I pull away then. “Get away from me.”
“Don’t give me that,” he steps closer, grabs me again. I hit him with my flashlight.
He grabs his arm. I’ve hit him hard.
“You tell him what a freak you are? You better tell him Sarah. He might not be as patient…as stupid as I’ve been.”
I’m holding the flashlight. Next time he’s getting it under the chin.
“You want to give it away, Sarah, finally, you only have to look as far as me. I haven’t been shy about it. You think I’m gonna stand by and let him move in,” he gestures below my waist, “all the way in.”
I plow into him, flashlight in the chest, he staggers back laughing mean and he catches himself.
“Are you out of your mind?” I yell.
“God,” he falls butt first against the house, closes his eyes and lets his body sag. “This is such bullshit. This whole thing. We sh
ould have gotten the hell out of here years ago.”
I don’t want to hear this.
“We were never going anywhere. But if you need to be my guest,” I say.
“I signed up for the army.”
I stare. “You did not.”
“I’m leaving. November first. You can come over in the morning and make sure he’s still breathing, you can give him lectures about taking a shower now and then. You can empty his pee jars and haul his ass to the doctor’s and make sure he’s got his pills. You can get in his groceries and make him pay his bills and do his laundry. Know anything about wound care? Yeah, I’m passing the baton.”
“You said you wouldn’t.” I asked him not to sign up. I begged him.
“Yeah, well…you don’t have any right to ask me for anything. Else.”
“Jason!” Standing there, leaning heavily on his cane in the dark beside the empty house. Cyro.
It throws Jason but he hardens his face again. This is a big effort. “Go home Pop,” he says, his eyes straight ahead as he takes another drink from the flat bottle.
“I called Colin.” Colin is our sheriff. “You need to get home before I have you arrested.”
“For what?”
“Leave Sarah alone. Go home.”
“Oh…your girl. Let’s not take chances with the princess.” Jason moves sullenly off the wall. “I’m just your son. Throw his ass in jail…right Pop?” He’s even with his father, staring him down as he moves around Cyro. Then he goes across the street but not to the house. He throws the bottle against the street, lets it shatter.
Then he gets in his car and backs out. Cyro makes it to the front yard and calls to him, but Jason isn’t listening. He roars off.
Cyro stands there a minute looking after Jason’s departure. I don’t know what he must have done to get here so quickly. I wonder if his leg is strapped on properly. So I go to him, don’t touch him, he wouldn’t want me to take his arm, but I’m waiting for him to move so I can see him across the street.
We do that, go slow across the street, careful to stay clear of the glass. Colin comes and Cyro says it was a false alarm. Colin drives slowly down the street, shining his light where mine will be shortly.
“Sarah…I’ll talk to him.”
“Did he tell you? November first?”
Cyro nods. “It’s time.”
We both know that doesn’t excuse it. He’s driving drunk. “We should have told Colin to pull him over.”
“He needs to go. It’s time for a change. For you, too. You’ve got no business out here in the dark.”
I look at him. He can’t say this to me. Not him.
“You see how defenseless you are if someone…?”
“You know I have to,” I whisper.
“You’re going to be hurt.” He turns away. He’s angry. I watch him work his aging body up the stairs. I watch him open the door, and before he goes in he turns to say, “Go home.”
When we patrolled together, back in the day, we walked opposite sides of the street, talking with our lights, if at all. Now he’s made a speech.
How can he say this to me? He’s the one that invented patrol. He’s the one that taught me. First from his chair, wheeled down the street. He held the light and I held a light and he’d wait while I took my light and checked everything. “All clear,” I used to say, my voice low-pitched even then. Then we made up signs. I’d arc my light. That meant all clear.
Then his leg began to heal, and he used crutches and he went through the surgeries, then therapies.
This lasted for years. But Diabetes got him and the leg had to come off.
He said it wouldn’t stop him. For a while he was in the chair, in the street again, but it was a different street and no one cared about a crazy guy, an old man.
He tried to tell me it was over. We didn’t need to walk it anymore. So I told him it was okay. I would do it alone. By then, I had to do it. It was my life.
But now…he tells me to go home. He says I could be hurt. He used to tell me I wouldn’t be hurt. He said I could use my faculties, just like I had that night. I could think. I could use my light. I could use my mace. I could scream and yell. I could kick in the place, do the things he taught me. He used to say I was strong. I had to be strong. Nobody’s victim. No one could stop me.
And I got better, stronger. I got well.
But now it’s his son, his own son who breaks the rules. And he straps on his leg and makes his shaky way over to save me.
It’s like he took his blessing away and prophesized I’d be hurt. A car goes past too fast and someone yells, “Hey Baby.” And they laugh and speed down the street. And I’m standing there with my heart hammering. What am I doing?
What am I doing?
I’m back at my house. I am looking over at Frieda’s, at Mom on the porch talking to Spencer. He sees me and waves. Mom turns and sees me standing on the sidewalk but she’s mid-sentence and she keeps talking to Spencer.
What am I doing with my life? How have I stood here in the stream for so long, the current cold and strong against my legs? How did I take my stand here, dig my feet into the rocks and stand here while everyone else floats past…except the ones like me…who are stuck?
Who am I protecting, them…or myself?
I run up the sidewalk, into the house. I don’t put my flashlight on the charger. I hurry in to my room. I can’t breathe. I go to the window, fumble to unlock it, to raise it. I drop to my knees, chin on the sill, and I pull off my cap, rip the band out of my hair, my eyes are closed and I’m trying to breathe and I think of the kitten who died. It couldn’t breathe. Not even Spencer could save it.
I hold onto the sill, dig my nails into the layers of paint on the wood. Breathe slow, breathe slow, let your belly fill, I am thinking. I am breathing.
I hear Mom come home, hear the door shut against the night. Morning will come, it’s just a matter of time, morning will come and the lines and shapes will draw themselves sharply again and everything imagined in the dark will go away, just go away…that night when he had me by the shoulder, fingers digging so hard, me walking fast to keep up, so he could take me back to my mother. And Cyro came then, across the street, his gun and his cries to his partner Fred…Fred…who yelled back, the sound of those words, even now, the highs and lows and strain, their wild, wild words.
I sleep on the floor in front of my window. Mom calls up the stairs and it is morning. I ask myself what morning and I answer, Sunday morning genius.
I roll onto my back and I hurt and I stretch. It feels so good, but I feel heavy as lead when it’s over.
She’ll want me to go to church. She goes. Frieda started it, Mom continues, Pastor Stanley helping her along, through her recovery, through the tragedy, and now from habit, she goes.
I can’t imagine why, but she says church is for everybody and it’s not her fault if folks don’t know it.
So we do this. And she’s invited Spencer. I remember that and I groan.
I trip around my room to get ready. I pull a dress out of my closet, like the cutest dress in the world. I’d forgotten about it. I haven’t worn it in a while cause it’s a little embarrassing how much I like it. I check my legs, run my hands up the stubble. This is what I hate about hair removal…the commitment.
So I stumble into the bathroom and add shaving to my limited routine.
By the time I’m downstairs she’s there. She’s ready, on top of it, she’s humming. She’s wiping down the counter. “You ready?” she says.
I am ready. I don’t ask if or when we are meeting Spencer cause he’s standing outside by Mom’s car, waiting, dark pants and a white, white shirt. They had some kind of a bet, him and her, and she owes him dinner now because he’s there on time and he’s laughing too.
“Morning sunshine,” he says to me, and before I’m in the front passenger’s side he pulls on my pony tail, and his knuckles graze the bare skin on my back cause there’s a small cut out on the back of my dress.
> We get in the car and Mom is telling me Spencer’s going to paint his kitchen yellow, and Spencer pretends to cough and says, “Not a chance.”
And Mom screams, my ears ring, and they laugh. And I spy Jason’s car still gone, but he doesn’t always come home.
So I’m quiet on the way to church. I’m tired. I need some sleep, and maybe I’ll get a nap today when pigs fly and the stars fall from the sky.
At church Spencer is trying to go for my door, and I pretend not to see, and I walk first, then Mom, then he’s behind, but he gets ahead as we near the doors and he opens one and smiles at me, and I go in, and the three of us are looking in the doors that open onto the middle aisle and Mom knows the rules, my rules, as close to the back as we can get, never higher than three rows from the back or we go into the side wing to sit in obscurity. Period.
The usher comes and Mom goes first and I feel Spencer’s light touch on the small of my back and lo and behold we are taken clear to the middle and Mom goes boldly into the pew as people scoot to make room and I hold back, and Spencer goes around me and says, “Come on, Sarah,” and he takes my hand even and in we go, but now he’s in-between me and Mom and that puts me on the aisle at least so I can get out quick if I need to.
Lordie it’s a tight fit and I fold my arms, but he’s right up against me and there’s nowhere to go. He nudges me, makes me look at him, and I do, briefly but I don’t smile.
The guy asks us to stand, and I want to say, just leave us alone, but here we go, and Spencer offers me his elbow and I go ahead and take it and we stand and he grasps my hand beneath his arm, and wiggles my hand some, and the guy says to greet one another, and the whole time he’s saying to me, “Are you sad today Sarah?”
“No.”
“You’re very serious.”
“I’m in church. We’re about to be yelled at for something. How happy should I be, Spencer?”
But the guy starts talking and tells us to sit again, and Spencer and I have a hip crash. And once smooshed in I lean forward and look around Spencer and hiss at Mom, “Can’t you move?”