“You slapped me.”
“Whatever. I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying that. You were the only one there, so you had to do it. Someone had to. I told you that before.”
“So maybe it was some stupid self-fulfilling prophecy. That doesn’t excuse my behavior.”
“Self-fulfilling? I didn’t slap myself.”
“But you planted the idea in my head. Honestly, all I could think about before I fell asleep was slapping you. I kept thinking how crazy it would be to slap my best friend.”
I didn’t know I was his best friend.
“Then it happened,” he says. “And like I said, it’s not your fault. I’m responsible for my actions. I’m really sorry.”
For a second, I close my eyes and feel safe, like a child believing in a fairy tale. Then the growing pains hit me, rob me, and finish me off. I’m an adult again.
“Are you gonna accept my apology or what?” he says.
I look at the shriveled up hippo in the corner, with the wings that don’t matter.
“Yeah,” I say. “We’re good.”
#15
At first, i’m shocked to hear Cicely’s voice in my home, and wonder how she found my number.
Then I remember that I’m listed several times in the phone book. I remember that I run two businesses. I remember that she once hired me, on the phone, to paint the outside of her house, and that’s how we met in the first place.
“Nicholas?” she says, for maybe the 3rd time. “Cannibals get you?”
“Sorry,” I say. “There was static.”
I don’t say, “In my head.”
“Am I interrupting anything?” she says. “Ritual sacrifice? I could call back.”
“No,” I say. “I was working on a dental drill, but I need a break.”
“I never would’ve pegged you as a dentist. Then again, I’m no good at guessing these things. As a child, I thought I’d grow up to be a penguin. Didn’t pan out.”
“I’m not a dentist.” I can’t help grinning. “I’m making a stuffed drill for some guy’s retirement party. I make stuffed animals. Stuffed anything.”
And I’ve crossed the line.
Cicely and me, we don’t talk about work. Or anything, really.
We talk about man-eating vegetables and dancing linguini.
“That’s perfect,” she says, giggles.
I giggle back, on accident. I don’t feel as stupid as I should.
“Look, hon,” she says, and when Cicely says, “Look, hon,” what she means is, “Look, hon.”
“I’m calling because I have a problem,” she says. “The earth-shattering, epic variety. Complete with state-of-the-art CGI battle sequences and a soundtrack by John Williams.”
“That is a big problem.”
“Part of me’s saying, ‘You can handle this, Cicely. You’re a big girl now.’ The other part of me’s hiding under the bed, stuffing herself with comfort Twinkies.”
“I can’t help you,” I say, too fast. “I mean, I want to help you, but I don’t think I can. I’m not good at…helping.” I want to stuff my mouth with polyfil, and sew up my lips once and for all.
“I don’t expect you to solve my problem, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“I don’t think anyone can solve my problem. Maybe if Jesus and Batman teamed up, but even then, they’d probably fail miserably.”
I chortle with relief. I don’t want to be Batman.
“What I want, is someone to talk to,” she says. “I’d go to a therapist, but a therapist wouldn’t believe me.”
And she thinks I would.
And she’s probably right.
“I wouldn’t mind that,” I say. “Listening to you.”
“I’d like to talk about it in person, if that’s OK. Over a couple steaming hot bowls of Thai curry?”
It must have slipped out once that this is my favorite food.
“We should eat something we’d both enjoy,” I say.
I don’t want her to sacrifice her Lists for mine.
More than Batman or Jesus, I don’t want to be John.
“I like curry too,” she says, soft. “Tonight at 6. Do you remember where my house is?”
“Yeah.”
“See you then, hon.”
“Bye.”
I don’t remember where her house is.
Lucky for me, I don’t throw away any documents, and I find the address 20 minutes later in my closet. 2nd paper tower on the left.
The remaining 3 hours, I spend:
1. Biting my fingernails.
2. Contemplating whether or not I’m beyond biting my toenails.
3. Slapping myself in the face.
4. Knowing that no matter how hard or how many times I slap myself, it won’t count as #15, the way playing solitaire doesn’t count as a social life, and masturbating doesn’t count as a sex life.
5. Hoping Cicely won’t be #15.
6. Playing solitaire.
7. Masturbating.
8. Biting my toenails.
Then it’s 6, and I’m inside Cicely’s house, and my face burns more than a little.
I notice the tennis ball in her hand.
“Can I take your coat?” she says.
“Thanks,” I say, and notice I’m not wearing one.
“Sorry. Stupid joke.”
“It’s not stupid.”
She grins. “Well, make yourself comfortable, and I’ll finish up the curry. Oh, and I wasn’t sure what sort of meat you like. I ended up using Smurf. Hope that’s OK.”
“That’s great.”
She heads into the kitchen.
And I think she wants me to stay behind so that I can take a few moments to admire her work. And I do.
On one side of the room:
1. White walls.
2. A beige couch.
3. A cabinet filled with good china.
4. A grandfather clock.
And on the other side of the room:
1. An unfinished mural on the wall. I see Bigfoot riding a two-headed giraffe, jousting with an enormous baby on a motorcycle. And I see a weeping cloud and a vampire on stilts trying to cheer him up with a finger-on-the-nose pig face.
2. A shelf topped with Godzilla figurines.
3. A lamp shaped like a monkey butler.
4. An army of garden gnomes lined up on the floor.
In other words, Cicely’s personality is spreading throughout the room like a colorful virus.
No, like a smile spreading across my face.
“Food’s ready!” Cicely says.
I find the kitchen/dining room area more like the boring half of the living room, except for the refrigerator door. There, I spot werewolves and other classic monsters, all flat and frozen in time.
On closer inspection, I notice a lone kitten in the middle of the magnetic mayhem. I point. “She’s gotta be scared,” I say.
“She’s their leader,” Cicely says. “They respect her because she’s ruthless.”
“Oh.”
“Shall we eat?” she says.
We eat.
“This isn’t Smurf,” I say. “This is tofu with blue food coloring.”
“I lied,” she says. “I thought you might have a problem eating little people, being vegan and all.”
“I appreciate the thought, but Smurfs aren’t people. They’re basically walking, talking plants. They use photosynthesis and everything.”
“You learn something new everyday.”
I laugh for maybe the 10th time since I walked in the front door.
Then I notice that Cicely’s having trouble handling her fork. I notice that she’s using her left hand, and that her right hand’s under the table.
“This is good,” I say. I don’t just mean the food.
A door opens in the other room.
“Oh god,” Cicely says, whispers.
I flinch when the tofu falls off my fork.
1. Taller.
2. More muscular.
3. Better looking.
He’s the man I wanted to grow up to be.
“What are you doing here, John?” Cicely says.
“Who’s this?” John says, pointing at my face.
“A friend.”
For some reason, I stand and say, “We’re eating curry.”
John now aims his finger at Cicely. “Do you still have it?”
“Of course,” she says.
“This is nuts, Cissy.”
“That’s your opinion.”
He shakes his head, then sighs. “I know I said I wouldn’t give you another chance. But…I love you. Let me have it, and we’ll forget the whole thing.”
“I can’t do that, John.”
“You can.”
“I won’t.”
He glares at her, biting his lip.
Obviously, this is all my fault. I brought John here with my presence, and I deserve the guilt ravaging my innards.
John approaches Cicely.
She stands. She says, “Stay away from me.”
But he doesn’t. He grabs at the tennis ball, and she turns around to hold the ball away from him.
“Stop!” she says.
Instead of stopping, he pins her arms to her sides in a twisted embrace.
Cicely screams. There’s panic in her voice that I’m sure has nothing to do with a tennis ball.
This is when I let go of my fork and charge. I punch John as hard as I can on the side of his chest.
He doesn’t fall over crying like I hope, but he does let go of Cicely.
I’ve never experienced a fight in real life. So I expect a fair amount of talking. Some quips and comebacks, maybe. I don’t expect to be punched in the face so soon. I don’t expect the silence as John knocks me onto the floor, and slaps me 5 times.
He’d keep slapping me, I’m sure, but Cicely kicks his spine.
“I’m sorry,” she says. She’s crying.
John gets off me, rubbing his face with both hands. “This is stupid,” he says. And he walks away.
Cicely kneels beside me, ball in hand. “Are you OK?” she says.
“Yeah,” I say, crackle. “I’m fine.”
“Thank you.”
“It was nothing.”
“No,” she says, and a smile spreads across her face. “You just saved the world.”
Cicely:
1. Deadbolts the front door.
2. Applies olive oil to my face. She says, “This’ll help.”
3. Tells me her earth-shattering, epic problem.
And I:
1. Laugh.
2. Apologize for laughing.
3. Almost believe her.
“I woke up and I felt the ball in my hand and I knew,” Cicely says. “I don’t know how else to explain it. I also don’t know how to say it without sounding like a crazy person.”
“You don’t sound crazy,” I say.
“You’re sweet.” She squeezes my arm.
“I’m not sweet,” I almost say. Instead, I touch my throbbing face with my throbbing fingers.
“For over a week, I couldn’t get myself to leave the house,” she says. “The responsibility paralyzed me.”
“That makes sense.”
“I’m still terrified something’s going to happen, but I’m not going to stop living my life.”
“I’m glad.”
She smiles. “You don’t believe any of this, do you?”
“I believe you.” I hope I don’t sound sarcastic.
“It’s OK to tell me the truth, hon,” she says. “I’m still doubting myself 100 times a day. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve almost let go of the ball. But any time I get close, the truth hits me again, and I’ve never been so certain about anything in my life.”
“I get slapped every day.”
She laughs. Then apologizes for laughing.
“I can’t stop it from happening,” I say.
“When did this start?” she says.
“About 2 weeks ago.”
“God,” she says, whispers. “Mine too.”
#16
In my dream, Cicely’s my sister. I’m trying to tell her how sorry I am that I lost her ball, and killed everyone, but she can’t hear me. Or maybe she’s ignoring me.
I notice a man outside the window. He’s watching us. He’s ugly, with hair crawling out his ears, but he’s still John.
Then my sister’s body contorts. Her elbows bend the wrong way and her torso caves in and she blinks so fast.
I can’t scream.
Outside of this nightmare, awake, I escape to Sol’s house. In this house, there’s:
1. No alcohol.
2. No swearing.
3. No surprises.
“You don’t have to keep buying these,” I say, and hand him his winged hippo.
“You think I buy them out of charity?” he says.
“Sol, you hate animals.”
“I don’t hate animals. I don’t like pets in the house is all.”
“You’re honestly trying to tell me that if I wasn’t your son, you’d still have a zoo of flying creatures on that shelf?”
“OK, OK. Maybe it did start out as charity. But they grew on me.” He pets the hippo. “Before now, I’ve never been one for collections.”
“Because they cost money.”
“No, I could collect shells. That doesn’t cost anything.”
“You’d have to pay for gas to go to the beach.”
“OK.” He grins. “The point is, I’m glad I finally have something to collect. Anytime someone comes over, they ask me about the animals. I get to tell them my son made them. They’re always very impressed.”
I know that’s not true.
And this is a conversation we’ve had maybe 10 times before.
It doesn’t matter.
Sol places the winged hippo next to the winged anteater, which he always calls a bear. I don’t correct him.
“There,” Sol says, and claps his hands.
The sound makes me jump.
I notice that my hand’s touching my face, so I pretend to scratch an itch.
“I’d better head back,” I say.
I don’t want to, really. I want to move back into my old room, where all the exercise equipment is now, and I want to sleep there every night, forever.
But I can’t.
The longer I stay here, the more likely Sol will be #16.
“I have a girlfriend,” Sol says. He’s hugging himself tight, a shield over his heart.
“Oh,” I say.
I didn’t think there’d be another surprise in this house after my mother disappeared. I didn’t think Sol would ever stop waiting. He told me he’d never stop waiting.
“Congratulations,” I say. And part of me means it, maybe.
He smiles.
I try.
“Her name’s Brienda,” he says. “She likes your animals too.”
I can’t scream. Instead, I say, I manage, “I’m glad.”
Cicely believes someone did this to us.
She thinks that this someone snuck into our rooms in the dead of night, and put the tennis ball in her hand, and, I don’t know, kissed my cheek wearing unholy ChapStick.
But I know the truth.
I know that I brought this on myself.
And as for Cicely’s earth-shattering, epic problem, the Universe or God decided it’s sick and tired of making the big decisions. Now it’s time for a human being to choose the fate of the world. And not just any human being. The best humanity has to offer.
But I don’t tell Cicely any of this.
I’m too embarrassed.
Cicely reaches over and taps my cheek with her left palm. “Do you think that counts?” she says.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“If it does, I’ll give you a baby slap every morning.”
&nbs
p; “Thank you.” And my face may be on fire.
“By the way, I called Nancy Drew earlier, but she won’t take our case,” Cicely says. “And the Hardy Boys quit sleuthing two years ago to start a cake decorating business in San Luis Obispo. It looks like we’re on our own.”
I chuckle.
Cicely studies the tennis ball, close, as if searching for clues. And maybe she’ll find one. “We need to figure out who and what we have in common,” she says. “Maybe we were targeted for a reason.”
So Cicely and me, instead of just talking about man-eating vegetables and dancing linguini, we cross more lines. And I write it all down in a little purple notebook.
We compare:
1. Enemies. My List here, of course, is very long. And to my surprise, so is Cicely’s. “Oh, and I almost forgot,” Cicely says. “There’s also Gargamel. I know what you’re thinking. I eat Smurfs for breakfast, so he and I should be the best of friends. But there was this whole re-gifting incident that got blown way out of proportion. It’s a long story.”
2. Friends. And my List here, of course, isn’t very long. Then Cicely says, “Hey, don’t forget about me.” And I smile and I say, “And Cicely.”
3. Family. “They’re all on my Enemies List,” Cicely says. She doesn’t tell me any more about that, and I don’t pry.
4. Places we’ve lived. “I don’t care how cheap the waterfront property is,” Cicely says. “Take my advice: stay out of the Bizarro World. Their healthcare system’s even shoddier than it is here, if you can believe it. Worst 3 years of my life.”
5. Places we’ve worked. And I’m sure Cicely’s joking about the DMV, but it turns out she isn’t.
6. Schools. “I knew I should have gone to Hogwarts,” Cicely says.
And we end up comparing:
7. Favorite books.
8. Favorite movies.
9. Favorite songs.
10. Favorite foods.
11. Favorite colors.
On and on, until it’s dark outside.
“OK,” Cicely says, and examines the commonalities I circled in my little purple notebook. “All we have to do now is find someone who hates organic foods, the color green, and the films of Terry Gilliam. Then whammo, mystery solved.”
On the way home, I get into a fender-bender with a Cadillac. It’s my fault, like usual, and the driver of the other car doesn’t cope with the situation very well.
In other words, Cicely’s baby slap didn’t count.
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