By the time she turned back around and began sliding down on him, he had stopped thinking about his penis’s functioning at all. He’d let it do its natural best. This time when he entered her, he felt every distinct and remarkable layer. He pushed through the rasp of her pubic hair, spread her lips, and sank into her hot inside. He moaned with liberating agony. It deepened until their pelvises blocked them from getting any closer, from becoming the other. She ground down on him and waved her hips side to side, back and forth. She looked at the ceiling with her hands on his chest. The perfumes of their sex, the pace that picked up speed, the panting, the thrusts, the clapping of their middles, their suctioning mouths, her gripping and pulling his torso red, was all part of the revolution that made his life mean something new.
The success lifted him so high he had the capacity and will to love all things more fully than ever before. Having been with Nadine even gave him the impetus to reach out to his father. Tell him that it was important they improve their relationship, and that there was no good reason things had soured like they had. He saw him the next morning, but Rasheed was on his way out the door, not leaving enough time to get down to it. Max smiled at him in a way that meant, My arms are open to you now, Dad. We’ll figure this thing out. We will. I love you.
But his mood crashed as soon as he went over to Nadine’s later that day. Things felt different, and not in the way he’d hoped: She didn’t suddenly treat him like her boyfriend. In fact, nothing at all seemed to have changed. There was no kiss at the door; she simply let him in and walked back into the kitchen to tend to her stir-fry, singing harmonies to a Daft Punk album she had playing in the background, acting normally. And after the night before, normalcy felt like total rejection. He became fixated on the idea of being physical again, just a long embrace for starters, more for reassurance than anything. He didn’t know what he’d expected exactly, but every second here was saturated with the possibility of It—the touching—happening again, without It happening again, and this made him feel tense and unwanted. She asked if he’d like to stay for dinner, and he accepted with a stilted “Yeah, gre— Awesome, I’d love that a lot, terrifically … um …” She gave him a funny look. Sitting at the table, he tried to think of something to say, but his throat filled with dry ice. This wasn’t the charmed and butterflied awkwardness of shy love. What was wrong with him? He could tell by her body language that she felt it now too. Or was that in his head? He couldn’t decide. Maybe she wasn’t thinking about him at all right now, wasn’t affected by what they’d done. Was there anything special for her about yesterday?
“So,” she said, “I should probably warn you, I have to get out of here around nine.”
“You covering somebody’s nightshift?”
“Nope. Just going out for a bit.”
“Oh.” He swallowed. “Meeting up with a friend?”
“Yep.”
After a minute, he asked, “Lucille?”
“No. Not Lucille.”
A date. His body turned achingly fragile. Before, when Nadine had dates, he didn’t have the illusion that she belonged to him. He was used to her being out of reach in that way, happy to spend any time with her at all. But tonight the vision of her getting intimate with someone else revolted him. And in no time at all, he was bursting with the brand of jealousy he’d read about in novels. The maddening kind that makes you behave ridiculously. The kind that makes you unwilling to accept anything less than an exclusive, possessive relationship as sworn eternal lovers. He knew he was thinking like an insane person, but he couldn’t stop.
She sucked in her lips and gave him what looked like the face of apology. He felt pitied, and that hurt. “Max, we shouldn’t let what happened change everything. We have a great thing here, you know?”
“No, yeah, I totally agree.”
“You do?” She sighed in relief. “I’m really glad to hear you say that.”
Then touch me, goddammit! he wanted to cry out.
She continued tending to her stir-fry. “So, what did you think of that Russell Banks book? Have you finished it?” She looked back at him. “Max?”
“Yeah. The book.”
“Well, what did you think? Seemed right up your alley.”
“Actually, Nadine––”
When he said nothing more, she turned. “Yeah?”
Her face was so perfect. “I can’t stand it.”
“What?”
“The book. I could hardly get through the first page.” What was he talking about? “Totally insipid. Dead.”
“Oh. That sucks, sorry.” She shrugged and returned to her food.
“Yeah, no, the book kind of sucks.”
She laughed a little and said, “You liked his other one,” then went back to singing along with the music. He didn’t respond, and she gave no sign of noticing. Her indifference was drowning him. Having never felt this crazy before, he worried he’d act like even more of an idiot if he didn’t get out of there. “Yeah, anyway, I’ve got to get going. I’ll see you around.” He stood.
“Wait, you do? I thought we were eating together. I’m cooking for two now.”
“I actually got to go. I got to go, actually.”
“Got to go actually, do you?”
He didn’t laugh. “I’m sorry.” He started walking out.
“Max, where?”
“Hmm?”
“Where do you have to go?”
He stared back blankly. Of course there was nowhere else for him to be, nothing else to do. She knew by now he had no other friends, that his relationship with his father was shit, and that she was the only person he felt close to. He’d told her as much. Her asking where he was going felt a lot like cruelty.
“I’m going to help my dad with some house stuff.”
“Okay. You suddenly remembered?”
“Yeah.”
As he opened the front door to leave, she said, “Hey. If things got weird, we need to talk about it.”
“Weird? Why? Are things weird for you? They’re not weird for me at all. I just forgot I told my dad I’d help him move stuff around.” He didn’t stay long enough to get a sense of whether she believed him or not.
He went to bed. She felt so far off. It was as if achieving his dream of having Nadine simultaneously took her away from him. Why couldn’t he stop thinking so melodramatically? He obviously wasn’t seeing the situation clearly. And what situation, anyway? Was there a situation, or was he just being a spastic? The best thing for him to do would be to take a little space from her to process it all, cool off, and then he might be able to go back to acting naturally. He gave himself three days.
At the end of the first day, he was morbidly offended that she didn’t make any effort to see him. It shouldn’t have surprised him, really. In all the years they’d been friends, she hadn’t come over since his father kicked her out, and had never called. He’d always understood it to be out of avoidance of Rasheed, but now it felt like a larger sign. She couldn’t have called one single time? He wasn’t even sure she had his phone number. Who had he been kidding? They’d never been real friends. He was just the kid next door who had a flattering crush on her.
He determined a new approach. He would become a callous sex machine. That’s what men were supposed to be anyway. He’d go over there and they’d have emotionless sex and he’d thank her and leave, saying he’d be back for more when his body thirsted for it. There. That’s right. But on account of this plan being stupid, he made himself hold off on seeing her for a second, even more painful day.
And on that day, as if his nerves couldn’t have been bundled any tighter, he received a letter from Kelly. He’d never gotten personal mail before. There was no return address. He ripped it open and unfolded the letter, and a check made out to him for five thousand dollars fluttered to the kitchen floor.
Dear Max,
I think about writing you this all the time. So why now, right? My newborn daughter, Angie, is sitting on my lap, and when I look into h
er eyes I see the answer. It’s so clear to me just how overdue this explanation is. I’ll spare you my details, but basically, when I barged into your life, I had nothing. I was such a wreck. Your dad said I could stay at his house for as long as it took me to get back on my feet. I couldn’t believe it. We hardly knew each other. So what was the catch, right? Well, the deal was that you needed a mother. He gave me an allowance, and the more attention I gave you, the more money I got. Seemed simple enough at the time. I was young and dumb and was able to convince myself that I was doing good by you. He and I got really close really fast. I guess you end up trusting people you share lies with. The idea of having a friend he told everything to was a total novelty to him, and he ended up sharing the story about your mother getting killed. I got kind of obsessed with it, and when I asked about more details another time, certain things didn’t match up to the first version. I kept pressing him and the story kept changing and eventually your mom was the bad guy and it was her fault that his family was slaughtered.
The final story, and the reason I’m writing you, is that your mom was not killed at all. She got away. Her name is Samira Jabbir, and she was eventually caught for her involvement in the Palestinian resistance, and put in prison for a number of years. She lives somewhere in Lebanon now. The truth really freaked me out, and I let it show. He realized he shouldn’t have told me so much. He understood this weird illusion we were creating for you couldn’t work anymore because he and I had different lying thresholds. He thought I would accept your mom’s job even after learning she was still alive! He’s so angry with her for what happened to his own family, he’s killed her off in his mind, and I guess in yours too. I couldn’t stomach this lie, and so he wanted me gone. He thought if there was no more money I would leave on my own. That supposed eviction notice was part of his strategy. When I demanded to see it, I found out there was nothing to see. You’re still in the same house, aren’t you? He ended up paying me off to leave. He has this trust fund in your name that your mother’s parents put money into every month. There’s some good news—turns out you’ve got loaded grandparents. To find out whether this is all bullshit or not, show him this letter. He’ll definitely lie, claim I’m a lunatic or something, but you’ll know the truth the second you see his face while reading. Your dad confirmed he knew your mother was still living in Beirut four years ago. Who knows why or what lie someone’s been feeding her all these years. But speaking as a mother myself, I can guarantee you she’s been dreaming of her baby for the past seventeen years. I can’t imagine the pain she has endured. Enclosed is a fourth of the money I owe you. I intend on paying it all back just as soon as I can afford it.
Good luck,
Kelly
P.S. Your real name is Hakeem. It means “wise” or “intelligent.” And I think you live up to it completely. It was when “Reed” brought you over to the U.S. that he gave you the name Max, probably to make it all the more difficult for her to find you.
His mom had never been a real person to him. He’d never even asked for her name. She had only been “your mother” or “my mom,” a character in one of Rasheed’s stories, the story that was supposed to explain Rasheed’s sadness.
His mind split into at least two. One read the letter again and became frantic. The other mind observed the first mind’s shock, stunned but without thought or opinion or feeling. The stunned mind observed the frantic one in the same way it watched a movie or read an article about something outrageous happening far away.
The stunned mind slowly sympathized with the frantic one, but was still not upset exactly. This more detached mind knew that the word mother stood for an idea of great importance, but couldn’t feel that importance right away, wasn’t touched by it. It began to worry that this word, this Idea of Mother, wasn’t rattling its world or creating any real urgency as it should. The word didn’t cause Max to drop the letter and run to Lebanon.
Why should it?
Because you’ve been cheated. You deserve to know your own goddamn mother. That fucker lied to you about your own mother!
It’s that word again, mother. Mother. Such a strong and sacred word, I know. Why should that word hold so much power?
Because it’s not just a word anymore. It’s her body that fed you. She is in your veins. She is in your face, she is the beginning of you, the roots you’ve been severed from. Your instincts are mashed together with hers. And she must love you. To her, son is the word that holds the most importance. You are the most important word that’s ever been in her mouth.
Of course I deserve to know her. How could he have done this? Why? Why would anyone raise their child this way? Wait. This is coming from Kelly. We don’t trust her.
Kelly was right about everything else. He is racist. We were not evicted. She’s not lying. If you don’t have the guts to go find your mother now, then at least confront him with this letter, see what he says. You have to. No matter how he handles it, she’s right, you’ll know by his reaction.
When Rasheed came home, he gave Max a flat smile. His back curved with fatigue, he trudged into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and took out the orange juice. His mustache was no longer the neat triangle it once had been but a bristly old broom, and his eyes drooped like a hound dog’s. He gazed at the cabinets next to the fridge for a while, dreaming, longing for something—maybe rest.
“This isn’t the life I wanted to give you, Max,” he said, as though he knew what Max had in his hand. “I wanted more.”
“Hakeem?” Max said, standing.
His father looked up. Max held the letter out, and Rasheed approached warily. He read through it standing, flipping it back to the front to stare at that again. He didn’t raise his eyes from those pages for what felt like an hour.
Max wanted both to run away and bash him to pieces, to reclaim a sense of control or at least understanding by breaking it out of him. Anger glided up his throat, and it required all his strength not to scream and swing.
“Hakeem?” Max repeated.
“Trust me, it was right. It was the best I could do.”
Trust me? What could he even mean by that? Max saw his father as absolute enemy now, the man who would destroy him if Max didn’t destroy the man first. He uttered a single word that he would never have predicted saying to anyone, ever, let alone his father. A word that astounded Max the moment it existed outside him. A simple command: “Die.”
For a moment the muscles in Rasheed’s face failed, like when he came down with the flu. Then they reawakened, inflated. He lunged toward his son and, in one swift and precise motion, struck him for the first time in his life, backhanding him across the cheek. Max’s head torqued hard to the left, and his neck’s kickback realigned his face with his father’s. He felt he was no longer in real life but caged inside his imagination. His cheek hummed, and his right eye gauzed over. It was like looking through a fly’s wing. He turned and walked into the living room to lie on the couch. He squinted up at the white ceiling, too soft to stand up and go after Rasheed because it was all still unfathomable.
Later he got up and went to Nadine’s. As soon as she opened the door, he hugged her for too long. The heat of her body felt like the origin of life. She asked what was the matter. He didn’t want to talk. He stepped in, took her hand, and leaned down to kiss her.
She turned away. “Maybe we should just hold off on that. Let’s concentrate on getting things to feel normal again. Are you okay? You look like a ghost. Come into the kitchen with me.”
He walked right past her, through the living room, past the kitchen, into her bedroom, and stripped off his clothes. When she came in after him, she flicked on the light. “You’re naked.”
“I know. Tell me what to do.”
“Put your clothes back on.”
He shook his head no.
“Max. I just think it got complicated, you know?”
“It’s not complicated. Please tell me what to do like the other day.”
And he saw her, for the se
cond time, pity him. This time it was so much worse. She bent down to pick up his underwear and handed it to him.
He took the underwear and then kissed her neck. She just stood there. He said, “Please.” He yearned for her to draw him near so he could rest his head on her breasts a while. He hugged her again, but she didn’t hug back this time. She only said his name. He closed his eyes, and an unwanted scene played in his mind. It was a closeup of his father eating. Rasheed would take too many big bites in a row without swallowing, and when he wanted to speak, he pushed as much food as would fit into one cheek and the rest into the other. His face bulging like a chipmunk’s, he was fully capable of telling a long story, or speaking to someone on the phone. It made Max sick now. He opened his eyes, and Nadine asked him again to come into the kitchen to talk.
He said, “I’m fine. Just, maybe you could sit down here?”
She thought about it, and then sat on the bed. He dropped to his knees at her feet and told her to teach him how to use his tongue again. She tugged his hair playfully a little, generously trying to make light of the situation, saying “No way.” Before she could stand, he placed his hands on her thighs to keep her down. He closed his eyes again and repeated, “Please.”
Rasheed’s stuffed mouth shoved its way back into his head. The image consumed him with irritation. He replaced it with that of pushing his tongue deep inside Nadine, then his lips, and then pictured putting his nose inside her, then his face. But his father’s chewing intruded on his fantasy again, and an aggressive nervousness frenzied him, his eyes flared open, and he dove his mouth at her crotch, with the overwhelming urge to eat or be eaten, to break through her jeans and store himself inside her, to belong, to be kept. Owned.
“Stop!” she said. “Jesus, Max, what the fuck? Enough.” She stood up and looked down at him. Naked and on the floor, he could see in her eyes how disgraceful he’d become. She said, “Get dressed and come into the kitchen. We need to talk.” But he couldn’t, he’d already begun crying. He put on his pants, gathered the rest of his things, and went home.
Lifted by the Great Nothing: A Novel Page 15