by Beth Nugent
—So, Ted, Donny says, —how’s the butcher business? Teddy turns. —Did you come to watch the game, he says, —or to talk?
—Hey, Donny says. —Hey. Just trying to make conversation. He smiles, and Teddy turns back to the game just as the batter pops out to end the inning.
—Hey, Ted, Donny says, —haven’t you heard about how you can get cancer if you sit too close to the TV? Some kind of X-ray poisoning or something.
Teddy gets up and takes a beer from the six-pack Donny has brought. —No, he says. —I hadn’t heard that.
—Like the gas from bananas, I say, and they both look at me as if I have said something in a foreign language.
—Oh, Donny finally says. —Yeah. He nods. —You know, Ted, he says seriously, —that can really be a problem.
Teddy stands in the middle of the floor running his finger around the top of his can of beer. He stares at a spot in the middle of the rug, and Donny and I wait for him to say something, but then the game comes on and he sits back down.
—So, Donny says, looking at the back of Teddy’s head, moving his arm along the couch toward me. —So, he says again, and rests his hand beside my head, then drops it down to my shoulder, where it rests a moment. I can smell the faint rotten smell of apples just turning. Donny smiles at Teddy’s back and moves his hand to my neck; each cold finger feels like a spider creeping across my skin. Teddy stares straight ahead as Mookie Wilson fades back into the outfield after a fly ball; he hits the fence hard, but comes up with the catch. Now that he is no longer a Met, he is one of Teddy’s favorite players, even though he’s not a Yankee. Donny laughs.
—Look at that dumb spade, he says. —Mookie. What the hell kind of a name is Mookie?
He flips my hair back, over the couch. —Baseball used to be a different kind of game, he says to me. —You know what I mean.
I pick up my magazine as the play is shown again, in slow motion. Teddy watches it closely, nodding, and I turn to an article about recapturing the magic in a lifeless relationship.
—Hey, Donny says, —whatcha reading?
—Nothing, I say, but I show him the magazine. He reads the title, then makes a little snorting sound through his nose.
—Magic, he says. —Shit.
I go back to the article and try to pick up the thread. But after a moment Donny reaches over and closes the magazine.
—So, he says. He leaves his hand in my lap, on top of the magazine, and I am surprised at the way it looks, long and thin, almost delicate.
I close my eyes and tell myself that he has the clean handsome features of one of the men in the pictures in my magazine, but when I look up at him, it is his same face, his same greasy smile.
—What? I say, but he says nothing, only nods toward the closed bedroom doors. I look at Teddy, stiffly alert in front of the ball game.
—Teddy won’t mind, Donny says. —Will you, Ted?
—Do you mind? Teddy says, not turning. —I’m trying to watch the game.
Donny looks around at the things in my room. He picks up a picture of Teddy and my mother and me. My mother is looking distantly out at whoever is taking the picture, and even then it is clear that her mind was on something else. —This your mom? Donny says. —She looks zonked.
He puts the picture down and smiles. —Well, kiddo, he says, and his eyes turn green with excitement. His hands on my shoulders aren’t rough, but they are firm, and I imagine these same hands moving over bananas, onions, yams. When he touches me, I can tell that he has done this a thousand times before, and that not one of these times has been different from any other. He closes his eyes to kiss me, but I know he is thinking of his mother, and as his hand crosses my skin, what it touches disappears: my mouth, my eyes, my bones, they all disappear, and what he says to me–honey, baby, sweetheart–these words are what I become. His skin grates against mine until I cannot differentiate between skin and the fragile flesh beneath. After what seems like only a moment, he pulls away, and when he stands, he looks down to see that the sheets are stained with little splashes of blood. His face changes, but just for a second; then he grins.
—Well, well is all he says, and he bends to put on his shoes. As he leaves the room, a thin trail of blood follows him, trickling across the floor behind Teddy, who is watching the slow-motion replay of a perfect bunt and so does not notice. Blood trails Donny out the door and falls through the thin cracks of the ceiling. A drop falls on the face of a man downstairs; he looks up and then at the woman in front of him, who smiles and wipes it away; he closes his eyes and feels nothing but the soft touch of her hand upon his skin.
Teddy tightens his tie in front of the mirror.
—You know, he says to me,—I might like a lover. His eyes meet mine in the mirror. —I might like a lover too. Did you ever think about that?
I say nothing and go back to watching the morning news.
—But, he says, —I have my responsibilities. He runs his fingers gently over his cheeks.
—You know, I say, —I could leave here. I could leave here anytime.
He puts his face close to the mirror and turns it from side to side. —You’re only seventeen, he says. —And you can’t do anything.
—I could learn, I say. —I could learn lots of things. You never know. I could do anything.
He laughs. —You could, he says. —But why would you?
He clenches and unclenches his jaw, holding his fingertips against his cheek to feel the muscles pop in and out. He nods at himself and turns. When he walks by the kitchen table, he stops and looks down at the flowers Donny brought.
—You know, he says, —these are just supermarket flowers. They’re not from a flower shop or anything. We sell them in the store. He bends and sniffs them, then straightens and laughs. —They don’t even smell, he says.
When he passes me, he smiles pleasantly, and closes the door gently behind him.
At this moment, Donny must be waking up, putting on his shirt, brushing his teeth. He may cut himself shaving, and as he blots away the blood, he may think for a moment of me, but my face is lost in a wash of women’s faces, and he smiles at himself in the mirror. It is already clear to me that he will not return. And so, I tell myself, I will find another lover. I will find another. As I scrape the bacon left from Teddy’s breakfast into the garbage, I can already feel the touch of my new lover, tracing the pattern left by Donny’s hand against my skin.
When I call my mother, Stan answers the phone.
—Well, he says. —Well, hello. How are you, honey? And Teddy? How’s Teddy?
—Fine, I say. —We’re both fine.
—Good, he says. —That’s really good. He pauses for a moment. —I guess you called to talk to your mother, he says.
—Yes, I say. —I guess so.
He is quiet for a moment. —She’s a little tired, he says. —She’s not really herself today, so maybe just a short talk. I can hear the soft brush of skin against the phone as Stan puts his hand over the receiver, then my mother’s voice.
—Hello? she says. —Hello?
—Mother, I say. —It’s me.
There is another sound, a squeak or a little murmur, a cat sound, and I know I have lost her for the moment. —Smokey? she says.
—It’s me, Mother, I say again, but she is looking down at Smokey, at the blue marks running up and down her arms. From the shadows of her room, the faces of her children smile dimly out at her, but she cannot feel her arms.
—Mother, I say again. I know there must be something else to say, but when I look around me at the walls, the tables, the television, I can’t imagine what it could be.
—Honey? my mother says. She strokes Smokey’s pale fur, and together they stare at the fish. Smokey stretches, and she smiles down at him. —Who’s my cat? she says. —Who’s my baby? And then there is silence again until Stan takes the phone from her hand.
Teddy comes home from work while I am watching a baseball game, the Mets and some team from California.
—Hey, he says, glancing briefly at the game. —Look. He pulls me to the window and points out at a shiny blue car parked by the curb. —Look, he says again. —I rented a car. We’re going on a vacation.
—A vacation? I look back at the game. Teddy smells of blood and there are red rings around his fingernails.
—Yeah, he says. —To the Poconos.
—The Poconos?
—Yeah, he says. —They’re mountains. Upstate. Everybody at work always goes there.
—We don’t have enough money for a vacation, I say.
—Vacations are expensive.
—Hey, he says, patting his pocket. —I got a bonus. A big one. He turns off the game and looks at me, his eyes glowing. —Let’s go, he says. —Let’s go right now.
—Isn’t it beautiful? Teddy says when we get to the car.
—This is just like the car I’m going to buy.
He opens the door eagerly; there is a grocery bag on the front seat, a long bottle of wine resting on top. He moves the bag to the back seat and I get in and roll down the window. From behind her door, Madame Renalda watches us in our new rented car. She could save us, but she watches us through a tiny hole in her door as we pull away from the curb into traffic; then she turns away to look into the eyes of another man. —Don’t travel, she says. —Not today.
Teddy switches the radio on and pushes buttons until he finds a ball game. We drive straight north up Broadway, and as we leave New York, children lean against fences and watch us, until their mothers call them in; they turn back to the high walls of the city, but we drive ahead into green mountains.
It’s just dusk, and the lights on the bridge glitter against the cold water of the river. Teddy whistles quietly as he listens to the game, and when it ends, he turns to another station, listening to that until static erupts and he finds another. As it grows dark, we move away from the city, and from time to time our lights sweep over animals who sit hunched by the side of the road, waiting to cross.
The highway is crowded with trucks, and Teddy passes them all. He rushes up behind an animal carrier, the back of it stuffed with pigs or cows; they are pressed so tight against the metal slats of the truck I can hardly tell what they are, but in the glare of our headlights I see white faces and tiny dark eyes.
—Look, Teddy says. —Steak. Burgers. He glances at me. —I could have been cutting up those very cows next week. Those very cows. He smiles. —Say goodbye to all that.
He turns the radio off, and hums to himself, while I watch his reflection in my window. Every now and then we pass over a bright burst of red on the road, gone so quickly it might be my imagination. I lean my head against the window and drift in and out of sleep; after a while, Teddy points ahead at a ragged array of lights.
—Look, he says. —That looks like a good place to stop.
He turns to me, his eyes bright red. —I could use some sleep, he says. —How about you?
The motel parking lot is crowded, but Teddy comes back smiling. —We’re in luck, he says. —We got the last room. But they only had a single.
Our room is right next to the motel lounge; the metal plate around the doorknob is dented, but inside the room is cool and there is a large television. Teddy carries in the grocery bag, and sets it on the bureau in front of the mirror. He lifts the bottle of wine out carefully, then begins to pull out food: a box of chocolates, a pineapple, two jars of macadamia nuts. He holds one jar of nuts out to me.
—They were on sale, he says. —All this stuff was on sale.
He stares down into the bag. —Everything was on sale.
—Teddy, look, I say, —cable.
He glances at the television. —Oh, he says. —Yeah.
He looks around the room, at the orange curtains, the orange-and-green bed, all the things he’s pulled from the grocery bag. Through the thin wall I can hear the thump of music and the sound of men and women laughing.
—Maybe we could go to that bar, I say.
He shakes his head. —You’re not old enough, he says.
—You have to be twenty-one.
He pulls the drapes open just as a woman is walking past; she glances in at us without interest; we probably look to her like any other young married couple. As she opens the door to the bar, a surge of noise is let out; it fades as the door closes behind her.
—I don’t know, Teddy says, pulling the drapes closed. —I don’t know. I’m kind of tired, and I think we have a long way to go.
He lies down on top of the bed, without even removing his shoes; I want to turn on the television and open the box of chocolates Teddy’s brought; I want to go into the lounge and order the kind of drink the women in my magazine would order–a daiquiri or a margarita–and sit at the bar until a handsome man sits beside me; I want to call my mother and Stan. I want to do all of these things, but finally I take off my shoes and lie down on the bed next to Teddy.
He reaches out to turn off the lamp. In the sudden darkness, I can just make out his face in what little light filters in through the drapes.
—Did I tell you about the one with the broken leg? he asks, and closes his eyes.
I can feel music beat against our wall; a few feet away from us, men and women are laughing and dancing and having fun, but while we lie here in the darkness, terrible things are happening everywhere, things we can do nothing about. At this very moment, men without eyes stare at women without faces, and at this very moment, a thousand cows are stumbling toward a thousand men, who lift a thousand hammers. We cannot stop any of it, not even for a moment, and as I listen to Teddy’s sad, shallow breath, I close my eyes and wait once again to be born.
EVENING SUN
Florence is dreaming she is in the mouth of a shark, caught at her waist; she cannot feel her feet or her legs, only the cold rush of the ocean as the shark pushes her through the glittering water. She can see herself reflected in its flat black eyes as her body comes gently apart.
—Jesus, Louis says, and Florence opens her eyes just as the air conditioner clatters to a stop. Louis is sitting on the end of the bed, in front of the air conditioner; the sheets are pulled down around Florence’s waist and she can feel the last drifts of cool air on her arms and shoulders.
Louis turns toward her and she closes her eyes, waits a moment, then opens them just slightly; through the blur of lashes she can see that he is still turned toward her, watching her closely, but she does not move, and he bends back toward the air conditioner, then rises and goes into the bathroom. She closes her eyes and tries to remember her dream, but she can only see Louis, his large head propped at the end of his long delicate neck, and the lumpy ridges of his spine. When she opens her eyes again, she is startled to see his face a few inches from her own; he smells of soap and toothpaste, and stares at her patiently, waiting for her to wake.
—Florence, he says. —The air conditioner is out. She pulls the sheets up to her neck and closes her eyes.
—Call the guy, okay? he says.
She nods, and he bends to kiss her on the forehead. His dry lips feel papery and hot. Already the heat is rising in him; already his face is covered with a slick skin of sweat.
As he walks through the house, she can hear sand grating under his feet. With the air conditioner off, he has opened the bedroom windows, and the room is beginning to fill with the smell of sulphur from the sprinklers that run all night. All the water here is full of sulphur: ground water, bath water, tap water. Even after it’s boiled, it has a burnt, eggy taste, and it seems impossible to Florence that anything at all could grow in water like that, but what grass there is here is bright green and the flowers are as sturdy as trees. She listens for the sound of Louis’s car over the gravel, and when he is gone, she gets up and closes the windows. She tries again to remember her dream, but all she can see is Louis, his heavy head and the long bumpy bend of his back.
He has left almost no sign of himself in the kitchen, only lukewarm coffee in the pot. Steam is rising from the coffee, but when she pour
s herself a cup, it is tepid. She tries to remember why this happens; it’s something Louis explained to her once, —“ambient pressure,” he told her, but even saying the words out loud doesn’t recall to her what they mean. All she can see is the earnest look on his face as he began to explain it. At that moment she had known, somehow, that she would marry him, and the sudden surprising certainty of this forced her to look away. She would be seeing enough of him from then on, she realized, and now, thinking of that moment, she can see perfectly the details of their surroundings–the stained lip of the cream pitcher on their table, the waitress leaning against the counter watching them talk, the crumpled wad of Louis’s napkin-but still she cannot remember why coffee looks hot when it is not.
She empties her cup back into the pot and slits open the blinds over the sink; outside it is another sunny day. She is close enough to Mrs. Walker’s house to see clearly into her kitchen-the bright plastic wrap of a loaf of bread on the counter, a cup and saucer drying in the dish drainer- and when Mrs. Walker comes outside, Florence quickly pulls the blind almost closed. Mrs. Walker turns her head at the motion and stares directly at Florence, but Florence stands still, so that she will seem nothing more than a shadow cast against the window. Mrs. Walker watches a moment, then raises and drops her hand.
She turns, takes the long rake that leans against the wall beside her door, and begins to drag it across the gravel that surrounds her house. Hers is the only house here without any grass at all, only a thin band of dirt that runs right into the gravel; the other houses have tiny green strips of yard, but all of them float in a sea of white rocks, part of a small group of houses set between a line of shops on one side and a row of hotels right on the ocean. The houses were built before Florida land became so valuable, and they are small and uniformly ugly, little pastel boxes.
Except for Florence and Louis, the people who live here are old, and though they have all been offered plenty of money for their houses, most of them have lived here too long to imagine life under any other circumstances; they will live here until they die, and then their children will sell the small plots of land to developers, who will periodically cruise by in their black cars, waiting impatiently for the rest of the land to become available. One by one the tiny pink-and-white houses will turn up empty, and those who still live there watch the other houses anxiously for signs of vacancy; the smallest of things–a shade not drawn at night, a morning paper not collected–drive them deeper into their walls, the borders of their world shrinking daily.