Head Case

by Sarah Aronson

  I would have laughed, except it was my life they were talking about. My life. I was the living reminder.

  * * *

  “You have to calm down,” Dad says. I wonder what time it is, if they will talk in the kitchen until the sun comes up. “Just relax,” he says. He doesn’t sound relaxed. Neither of them sounds happy to be up together in the middle of the night.

  I stare into the blackness. She is not going to relax.

  “You never help.” Her voice is too loud.

  “I do my part.” His voice is loud, too, but under control—insult induced sobriety.

  “Sure, you do, Hal. Sure you help.” Shrill. Each sentence a step higher. “You do the light stuff. The clean stuff. When was the last time you fed our son? When was the last time you cleaned out his ass?”

  “Rosemary, baby—” I know what’s coming next.

  “Don’t, Hal.”

  “Baby.” Silence. “Baby, baby, baby.”

  “Bastard.”

  And with that, tonight’s version of The Baby and Bastard Show officially begins. Usually, they fight about sex and love or what’s for dinner, but tonight it’s all about me.

  “I need some help. We need to hire that nurse.”

  And the money.

  “I can’t do it myself.”

  And how they’re never going to have enough.

  “You have to. We can’t afford—”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s been two weeks, Rosemary. It will get easier.”

  “We need to get that nurse. I can’t do it alone. We can take out another—”

  “No we can’t!” he shouts. “No more debt. We can’t handle it. We need to preserve the resources we have left.”

  I stare into the darkness. Kill me, I want to shout, if you don’t want to take care of me. Kill me. Stop fighting and put us all out of our misery.

  “You ignore him.”

  “I have to make a living.”

  “You have to make time for your girlfriend. Don’t think I don’t smell her every time you walk in the door.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “What’s not fair is that I am working my ass off, and your life hasn’t changed at all.”

  I wonder what the Steins fight about. Meredith thought they had a good marriage. She thought they were faithful.

  Something shatters. Their voices blend together.

  “You don’t love him.”

  “You don’t love me.”

  The blackness hugs my face. Except for my pillow, I don’t have a landmark. I really don’t know where I am.

  “You know, they’re doing research,” she says.

  My father laughs. “You mean that article about the computer chip that they want to plant in someone’s brain? Baby, that’s years away.”

  She sobs.

  “What do you want from me?” He runs up the steps to their bedroom overhead. “What do you want me to do?”

  The blackness is crushing me.

  “Baby, let’s face it.” But no, she can’t face it.

  She yells, “Bastard!” And he yells, “Shut up!” and he’s opening drawers, banging doors, stamping his feet. Back and forth. Across the room.

  “You can’t face anything.”

  “You don’t do anything.”

  Dead. I should be dead. I should be in the ground, and they should be going to work and eating dinners and not fighting about nurses and gossip and money.

  “Look at him, Rosemary, and tell me right now: if that’s what he’s going to be, what’s the fucking difference?”

  Another crash. Another cry. My father’s heavy steps out the door. What if he leaves for good? What will my mother do? She should be quiet, let him have his nights out. He’s not a perfect man, but we need him. Until I really am dead, we need him.

  “Are you awake?” my mother asks.

  “I hate when you fight.” No reason to pretend I haven’t heard every word. “Can you turn on the light? And roll me to the side? My water—”

  She holds the straw to my lips. Too guilty to ignore the command of the invalid.

  But not too guilty to ask questions. “What does it feel like?” she asks. “Not to feel your body?”

  What does it feel like? “It feels like nothing. It isn’t the same as floating. I know I’m not weightless, but I don’t feel anything either.” She sits on the bed and rubs my head hard and sings me a lullaby from my childhood. The tips of her fingers push on my temples.

  “I remember when you were a little boy, you used to love to have your head rubbed. You were like a puppy. Every night, you begged us to rub your head.” She rubs some more, now through tears. “How could you do it, Frank? How could you get in that car?”

  It doesn’t matter. I got in the car. I wanted the girl. I met her. I liked her. I wanted her day and night.

  I drove to Meredith’s house, a large white house with black shutters and a red door. The garden was overgrown; the welcome mat said, Paws. I rang the doorbell, eye to eye with a silver hand that said, Follow my commandments and be holy.

  I looked up at the star-filled sky. I prayed she was as wild as she claimed to be. I prayed her parents were out; I didn’t want to have to waste even five minutes being polite.

  Meredith opened the door and took one, two, three giant steps into me. “Perfect timing.” She kissed me with both hands on my shoulders; she didn’t flinch when mine slid to her ass. For that moment, I believed in God. She smiled this crooked, sexy smile.

  She gave directions. Left. Right. Straight through town. Through a neighborhood where the streets have names like Quail Ridge and Pheasant Avenue, and the houses are coordinated in shape and color.

  This one was one of the yellow ones.

  A large guy with jet black hair and a Marauders Varsity cap opened the door. He grabbed Meredith behind the neck, and she punched him in the gut. “This is Frank,” she said. “Frank, Paul.” You could tell he liked her. You could tell he wanted to be me.

  I stood up straighter. He extended his hand. “Paul Rogers.” We shook like boxers in the ring. “Hey, I know you.” He crossed his arms over his puffed-up chest. “We played on the same Little League team in third grade.”

  My last year of organized ball. A season I’d like to forget.

  Meredith didn’t wait for me to trip over my words. She squeezed my hand and pulled me past Paul, into the party. The refrigerator was stocked. I grabbed a beer and a corner spot on the already-crowded couch.

  The playoffs were in full swing. Pizzas covered the tables. A keg sat in the corner. Music blared; two couples were dancing in the corner, slow dancing to fast, loud music. It was a good night to be in a house with a girl and a beer and a bigscreen TV.

  The pitcher was on his game. It was a tight series. I reached behind Meredith and sank deep into the couch. We were watching and touching and people all around us were talking and laughing.

  After three innings, I realized I didn’t know the score. Her hand was on my thigh, getting closer to the crease near my crotch. I didn’t care who was batting what and who had dropped balls. She was touching me—in public—and I didn’t even have to say, “I love you.”

  But right then, I almost did; I almost said it, that is. She was going to be my first.

  I never told her I was a virgin.

  I never told her that I was planning to leave for college and never come back.

  I never told her that I was not interested in having a long-term relationship, and she never asked. We were together for the “now,” for having a great time before going off to live our real lives. Those were the rules. I wasn’t the only one who wanted to have sex and fun and wild times but nothing personal.

  She was ready to take some risks, too.

  We didn’t have sex the night of the party. Instead, we waited for the next night. My parents had plans. We were alone in the house.

  “So, what do you like best about sex?” she asked from the corner of my room. We were sipping gin-and-ton
ics and eating smoked cheddar cheese on little square crackers. I took another bite and another sip and hoped that Meredith would forget about talking and get into my bed. We had three hours, max. If we hurried up, we could do it twice.

  But Meredith wasn’t budging until she had my answer. I pretended to think. “Um … I don’t know. What do I like best about sex? What kind of question is that? Why don’t we just go to bed?”

  This was not acceptable. She grabbed my hands and looked me in the eye. Her eyes were almost black in the dim light. “No, really,” she said. “Tell me. What do you like best?”

  “Um … anything.” Lame answer, but true. Anything would be great. Anything before I explode.

  She bounced on the bed and pulled me down next to her. We wrestled a little, laughing, trying to figure out how we fit. “Anything, anything?” she asked. She had her hands on my neck, on my back, unzipping my fly, all at one time, I still don’t know how. “Come on, Frank Marder.” She grabbed my shirt and pulled me on top of her. “You can do better than that.”

  I laughed it off, groped for her sweater; she pushed my hands away, then got off the bed and took it off herself.

  The radio played old eighties music, bad-dancing music; my bed smelled like cherry and grape. We were halfway to naked. I pulled her toward me and kissed her again, touching by accident, fumbling to see if we were both ready.

  I was.

  She seemed to be.

  I put my hands on her hips and willed myself to reach in, to reach under, to explore.

  But she wouldn’t stop talking. “Frank,” she said, flipping me on my back, “do you understand what we are about to do?” She tickled my neck and nibbled my left ear.

  I hoped so. There was no way I misunderstood, was there?

  She stayed on top of me and we kissed. Her face felt hot and soft and almost wet. “You’ll never lie in this bed without thinking of me.”

  She threw my jeans on the floor and undressed in spurts, each piece of clothing to its own corner. Skirt to the left, T-shirt to the back. She stared right at me as she unsnapped her lacy black bra. I pinched her nipples, and she arched like a cat. Smiling. Playing with my hair. “You know, my friend, you will not be able to have sex with anyone in this bed without thinking about me.”

  So? I thought. So what. So I think of her. How bad can that be?

  I was living my fantasy, her breath on my neck, my hands on her body. Up and down. She took my hand and gave me a tour. “Touch here. Like this.” She was soft and her skin tasted like milk. She said I was salty. Like a pretzel on a hot day in the park. We fiddled and wrestled and finally, she said, “Okay.”

  She let me in and then it went fast. Fast, fast, fast, in-and-out fast, uncontrollable-fast—start to finish—no screams, no oh my gods, no promises of love. She kept looking at me. Eye to eye. She smiled when I whispered, “Oh,” and finished. If it wasn’t right, she didn’t tell me. She didn’t look upset when I woke her up and told her that we should get dressed.

  Before I dropped her off, we made plans for the week. The month. My mother had one meeting that week; the next week, two. We spoke quietly, one word at a time: yes, no, sure, okay, great.

  I couldn’t have known that she would be my first and my last, that in one month, someone would carry her body from the street to the ambulance to the morgue, that her lips and her hands would be the only ones I would ever feel. I was thinking about flesh and sex and my own naked body. I was thinking of all the women who would follow Meredith. I was thinking, Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.

  We slept together three times after that, four times altogether. Four.

  week three

  Sunset decides that it is time to take me into town to begin navigating what she calls the real world. “Your mom is going to spend the day with her friends. We are going to get on out of here, Frank, and begin to relearn your environment.”

  I knew the drill. Motor down the sidewalk at a constant speed. Slow down for the cutouts. Speed up for the bumps. Wait for my “body” to open doors. “I already know what to do.”

  Mom kisses my head on her way out the door. She wears jeans and a striped oxford shirt. Perfume. A headband. She tries to suppress a smile, but anyone can see she’s pumped. Her cheeks are flushed pink. “I’m going to have lunch with the girls.” First time since I’ve been home.

  “Have a great time,” Sunset says, shooing her out the door. She puts on her jacket. “Today we’ll meet Victoria and take a short stroll down Main Street. Maybe more. Let’s see how it goes.”

  “Could you lose the body talk?”

  She looks confused.

  “I don’t stroll, walk, or meander. I roll. Motor. Advance.”

  “So sensitive all of a sudden.” She smiles, but I can tell she feels self-conscious about her mistake. “You tell me if you want to stop anywhere.” She likes to act as if we are friends and she isn’t getting paid and this isn’t a therapeutic assignment and we are spending time together for fun.

  Fun. What is that?

  Sunset drives the new gimp-mobile to town, and I exit the oversized door without too much trouble.

  The air is cold on my face. I close my eyes against the wind. “The first time out can be very overwhelming.” Sunset must think I’m crying.

  Victoria is waiting on the corner. “Use your chin to get started down the sidewalk,” she says as if I have some other body part at my disposal.

  For a moment, it seems easy. I can do it. I travel two, maybe three squares, and then some guy in jeans and a puffy coat tells us to stop. “Shouldn’t you be controlling the chair?” he asks Victoria. Not me.

  He won’t even look at me.

  I have a list of things I’d like to say, but Sunset gives me the eye. He doesn’t get it.

  “No, I shouldn’t be. Frank can drive his chair independently.” Her glare is more condemning than anything I’d have the nerve to dole out.

  The guy shakes his head. He’s not up for a lesson. “Sorry for asking.” I put my chin in first gear and immediately roll over a bump.

  “What was that?” I’m sure I’ve just run over the jerk’s foot. A bump could be anything—a kid, a box of Milk Duds, a bottle—how would I know? I can’t see my wheels. Maybe the guy’s right.

  Victoria shakes her head, like she knows what I’m thinking. “No biggie. It was just a heave in the sidewalk.”

  She reminds me how to control the speed of my chair, probably for the benefit of our inquisitor, who is still lurking somewhere, I’m sure. “Your tires have traction, and you have a good motor. It’s other people’s responsibility to get out of the way.”

  Yeah. His responsibility. We continue, and I hit another bump. This one I’m ready for. I tripped on it six years ago and chipped a tooth, back when the storefront was called Tried and Trendy. Now it’s a Gap. Mom nearly had a fit when I got home. Her baby’s beautiful face! How could you be so careless?

  I hit another bump, a smaller one, then another. How come this town can’t fix the sidewalk? Don’t they realize how hard it is to deal with this shit?

  Victoria shows me how to maneuver over the curb. I concentrate on my chin and for a second, forget about the crowd. There are a lot of people in town, everywhere but near us. In front of us, people walk shoulder to shoulder. I bet a million dollars they do the same behind us. But around us, there is space. Air and room. People are moving out of our path, making sure to avoid us. I consider shouting, “I’m not contagious. Look at me.”

  Most people, as they pass us, look away. They don’t make eye contact with the crip. Too confrontational. A few sneak a peek, check me out. Some shake their heads in pity; some can’t help rubbing their necks. Two crotch checks—and counting. The smart few, the ones who read the paper and watch the news, look twice. Oh, yes. That must be Frank Marder. The boy who killed the girl, who killed the man, and broke his own neck. The moment of recognition is easy to spot.

  If Walking Frank had seen someone in a chair, he would have done ex
actly the same thing.

  On the next corner, one of my father’s old friends is walking toward us. He hasn’t been to the house since I got home. Dad used to play cards with him. Squash, too. I prepare myself for our greetings, his apologies, his guilty comments. Sunset and Victoria flank the chair; he can’t avoid me. The street is crowded. He is not getting by. He catches my eye—there is no escape.

  And then, he’s gone. He makes a left down the side street and disappears without saying hello, good-bye, or even How the hell are you, Frank. How’s the old man?

  We part the crowd. Two girls stare and shake their heads. One wipes away a tear, for Meredith, no doubt.

  I wonder what they think they see. Meredith-killer, head, loser, freak, wheelchair, murderer. Victim? Ha!

  My chair won’t move. “Curb,” Sunset says. She pushes me into the street. “They have to make better cutouts.”

  “Let’s go home.” The world doesn’t want to see me; they don’t want to be reminded on Main Street that Meredith is dead, buried, six feet under; that their own children are risk takers.

  I hit another bump and some guy jumps back out of the way. As we pass each other, he spits on the ground. Maybe it’s a coincidence, maybe not. I almost lose it. “I can’t do it.”