Wife Number Seven

by Melissa Brown

“Stalkerish?” I asked, having no idea what she meant.

  Tiffany shook her head and laughed. “Don’t worry about it. I was just kidding. Go see him.”

  I nodded, knowing there was no way I could go back home after this conversation.

  I had to see Porter.

  • • •

  The short walk to Porter’s building seemed to take hours instead of minutes. The sun was setting behind the buildings, and I knew I should be on my way home, but I didn’t have a choice. I had to see him again.

  A man wearing a baseball cap was entering the building and, without even thinking, I grabbed the door handle before it shut behind him and locked, and followed him up the staircase. The anticipation built with each step I made toward Porter’s apartment.

  When I reached the door, I heard the thumping of loud music. I sighed with relief, knowing he was home.

  I knocked.

  No answer.

  I knocked again.

  This time, a slightly familiar face answered the door. It must have been his cousin, Charlie. He took in the sight of me—my pastel blue dress, my 1980s bangs and long braid, my unpainted face. He knew exactly where I was from.

  He groaned and rolled his eyes. “Porter!” he shouted over his shoulder.

  “What?” Porter yelled back from deep within the apartment. “I’m busy!”

  “Whatever,” Charlie grumbled, gesturing for me to enter. “He’s in his room.”

  I walked into the apartment and stopped in the living area where several men in their twenties were playing some sort of game on the television. Each of them was holding a small rectangular gadget in their hands with a cord that dangled toward a machine on the coffee table. None of them glanced up at me, their eyes fixed on the bright screen where soldiers were running, shooting, and jumping.

  Odd.

  I turned to Charlie, not knowing which bedroom belonged to Porter. He rolled his eyes again.

  “Second one on the right.”

  “Thank you,” I muttered, but he had already focused his attention on the television with the rest of the men in the living room.

  The music coming from Porter’s room scared me. It was angry, as if someone was screaming at the top of his lungs. Was this music? It certainly didn’t sound at all like the church hymns we’d sung while growing up. I’d heard music in shops and in Tiffany’s clinic, but nothing like this. It was nauseating.

  Despite my extreme distaste for his music, I knocked on the door, knowing I had to see him. I heard him curse, and something heavy seemed to hit the door on the other side of the room. I jumped.

  “Charlie, leave me the fuck alone!” Porter yelled from inside.

  “It’s not me, asshole!” Charlie shouted back from the living room. “Open the door!”

  A second later, the door swung open and Porter’s gaze landed on me.

  “Holy shit.” Porter ran his hands through his mussed-up hair, his eyes alight with surprise, and the muscles of his chest flexed in response—his shirt nowhere to be seen. “It’s you.”

  Aside from his chest, which was quite attractive, he looked awful. His eyes were red, swollen, and looked as painful as the wound on my wrist. Was he having trouble sleeping? He was so pale, his skin as ashen as the day he stole my bag on the street. His eyes were open wide, revealing the whites of his eyes both above and below the irises, and his pupils were dilated, so much so that there wasn’t much left of his normal beautiful blue color. When he crossed his hands over his chest, they shook, and he scratched at them absently.

  What was the matter with him?

  “I can’t believe you’re here.” He crossed the room and turned off the music, then pulled me into the room and closed the door behind me with a thud.

  “I’m sorry it took so long. I couldn’t get away,” I lied.

  “I see,” he muttered, narrowing his eyes and scratching his cheeks, which were covered with acne.

  “Are y-you all right?” I asked, reaching to touch his elbow. His muscles tensed slightly at my touch.

  “Why?” he bellowed. “Why wouldn’t I be?” He began to pace the small room. “I mean, you show up after, like, two fucking weeks. I thought you were gonna try!”

  His eyes were wild and he pulled at the roots of his hair. And then I remembered Tiffany’s words. Be careful. He’s a junkie.

  Porter had drugs in his system.

  “I was scared.” I closed my eyes, unable to lie to him again. I could lie to Leandra, to Lehi, to Aspen. But for some reason I didn’t understand, lying to him was painful.

  “Of what? Of me?” He glowered at me, his hands still shaking as he moved them to his hips. “What the fuck?”

  “Not you, but you and me. Us.”

  He was silent, taking in my words, then he nodded. “Look, I get it. Leaving that place isn’t something I wanted. Hell, I would’ve fought it tooth and nail if I could have.”

  “You didn’t want to leave?”

  “No. But I don’t want to talk about it, all right? I don’t want to tell you my fucking sob stories. I don’t want you feeling sorry for me.”

  “I don’t. I promise.” Again, I reached out to touch his elbow. This time he placed his hand on top of mine, releasing a deep sigh from his chest. “What’s the matter with you, Porter? You don’t look well.”

  “It’s nothing.” He shook his head. “I’ve been pissed off, and I needed to let off some steam. I needed to forget about things.”

  “Oh. I understand.” I dropped my hand back to my side. When he looked down at his elbow, his lips pursing into an angry scowl, I asked, “Should I leave?”

  “Do you think I want you to go?” he snapped, raising his voice to a yell. The deep pitch of his anger reverberated through the tiny room.

  “I don’t know.” I shook my head, fighting tears. This wasn’t the reunion I’d hoped for. I turned to grab the doorknob. “But maybe I should—”

  “What is that?” Porter demanded, storming toward me.

  “I don’t know—”

  “On your wrist. Did he do that to you?” He ripped my hand from the doorknob and inspected my arm, his eyes growing even wider when he saw the damage I’d done to myself.

  “No, of course not.”

  “Tell me the truth, Brin. Did that sick fuck do this to you?” His eyes were wild, flaring with anger.

  “No! I told you no!” I yelled.

  I never yelled. Not since I was a child playing games with my siblings, had I shouted at another human being.

  What is this man doing to me?

  “Fine,” he conceded. “Then what the hell is this?”

  He obviously wouldn’t stop until he got an answer, so I whispered, “I did it.” I stared into his eyes, feeling disgusted at myself and my reasons for doing what I did.

  “Why?”

  I couldn’t answer. I turned my gaze to focus on the window, wishing I were a bird, wishing I could fly away from the truth. Every last bit of it.

  “Why, Brin? Why did you hurt yourself like this?”

  I closed my eyes as tears streamed down my hot cheeks. “You,” I whispered. “When I think of you, I pinch myself. So I’ll stop.”

  He dropped my hand, his mouth agape. He took my cheeks in his hands as tears formed in his eyes. Then Porter lunged at me, claiming my mouth with his own, his body a live wire wanting to feed upon me. He pressed his body against me, pushing me against the door, and the sharp edges of the lock dug into the small of my back.

  I yelped in pain. My cry didn’t faze Porter, still aggressively pressing his lips against mine. Fear built within me and I shoved at his chest, pushing him away from me.

  “Stop!” I yelled when he wouldn’t pull away. When I turned my face, denying him access to my mouth, he pressed forward anyway, inadvertently ramming his forehead into the door. I gasped in surprise and Porter pulled away, his eyes crazed from the drugs in his system.

  When he took in the fear evident in my face, in my body language, he trembled and turned aw
ay, then paced to the other side of the room. Suddenly he pulled back his fist and punched the gray wall, leaving a dent in the smooth surface. He grunted in pain and clasped his knuckles close to his chest.

  I wanted to run to him, to comfort him and kiss his hand. But I was too afraid.

  Porter slumped onto the edge of his bed and dropped his head into his hands. His breathing was ragged, his chest and back heaving. I reached back to the doorknob, not sure of what I should do. I wanted to run, to go back home where I knew I was safe.

  But I couldn’t leave him. Not like this.

  And so I stood there mutely, watching him breathe deeply and calm himself. I was too afraid to go to him, but leaving the apartment wasn’t an option I could accept. I had to know he’d be all right.

  “Brin, I—” He lifted his head and searched my eyes with his. “I’m so, so sorry. I know I’m fucked up right now. I know that. When I’m like this, I just . . . I can’t kiss you. Because I want more. Too much more.”

  “You scared me.”

  “I know, and I’m so sorry. Please don’t go. I won’t kiss you, I promise. Just—please, stay.”

  He patted the bed next to him and I hesitated, not knowing if I could trust him while he was clearly on some sort of drug. I swallowed hard, not breaking eye contact.

  “Hold on a second. I’ll be right back.” Porter leaped from the bed and walked past me, opening the door and closing it behind him.

  Willing my body to calm, I distracted myself by inspecting his room. I wanted to understand Porter, to feel connected to him again.

  His bedroom looked nothing like the rooms I was used to. Ours were clean at all times, yet his was a disaster. Clothes were flung across the floor. The walls of my bedroom were covered in photos of the Cluff family, as well as pictures of my parents, sisters, and brothers. Porter’s walls held no pictures. None. Porter had no memories to cling to, nothing to keep him going. He only had the present, and the possibility of a future.

  The door opened, jolting me back to our reality. A wicked smile lifted the corners of Porter’s mouth as he revealed his hands to me, both covered in dark blue oven mitts. There he stood, wearing nothing but a pair of faded jeans and two ridiculous oven mitts.

  I burst out laughing. “What on earth?”

  “I told you, I won’t touch you. I promise. Here, I brought tape,” he said, awkwardly lifting one of the mitts to reveal a large roll of packing tape. “You know, in case you wanted to tape them to my arms.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You won’t.”

  “Don’t be silly.” I took the tape from his mitt-covered hand. “That tape will rip your skin off.”

  “I don’t care.” He shrugged, placing his hands on his hips. He was obviously being sincere, but I couldn’t help but laugh again.

  “I can’t take you seriously when you’re wearing those things.”

  “Okay, fine.” He chuckled. “Will you stay? We can just talk.”

  “I’d like that.”

  He walked to the bed and I followed. We crawled over the rumpled blanket and sat next to each other, leaning our backs against the painted wall. Porter rested his mitt-covered hands on his thighs. True to his word, he didn’t try to touch me. Not once.

  I slid him a sideways glance. “Why do you do this to yourself? The drugs, I mean.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean, the first time was just sheer curiosity. I wanted to know how it felt. Charlie and I had a shit day at work, and one of our buddies offered to share.”

  “What is it, exactly?”

  “Meth.”

  “That’s a weird name.” The only drug I’d ever heard of was marijuana or “pot.” A few of the boys had been caught smoking pot in the woods, and were removed from our community that very night. “What do you do with it?”

  “Smoke it, usually.”

  “And what does it do?”

  The concept of anyone using drugs was so foreign to me; I couldn’t help but be curious. I wanted to understand Porter, to know why he felt the need to alter himself to such a degree. Didn’t he see how appealing he was all on his own?

  “It takes the pain away,” he said simply. “Until it doesn’t.”

  “Oh.” I wasn’t sure what to say. I didn’t want him in pain.

  “I feel strong,” he said. “I feel all this energy swoop into my body. I don’t think about my family or where I came from. I feel powerful and important. Like the best version of myself.”

  “Until . . .”

  “Until the comedown. Then it’s like all that power, all that energy and life, is being drained from every cell of my body.”

  “Is that what’s happening right now?”

  He nodded. “Bad timing, I guess. I’m sorry.”

  “Have I seen you . . . you know, while you were on a high?” I hoped the answer would be no. I didn’t want to question the sincerity of our interactions in the past.

  “No,” he said. “Honestly, I’ve been trying to get clean. Today I’m coming down, and I was coming down that day in the street. I was out of money and really wanted another hit. That’s why I was desperate enough to take your purse. I hit bottom that day.”

  “Why?”

  “I’d never stolen before. The people of our community don’t steal. You know that.”

  I nodded.

  “But this shit’s strong. When you come down, you don’t just want more, you need more, you crave more. You have to have more. It’s fucked up.”

  “Can you stop?” I felt nervous for him, and selfishly for myself. I didn’t know what the next comedown would bring.

  “I’ve tried . . . a couple times. But being here, living with these guys, it’s never lasted long. Someone’s always got some, and I get wrapped up in it again and again.” He paused, turning so he could look into my eyes. “Can we talk about something else?”

  “Sure.”

  “What do you want to talk about?” Porter asked, his eyebrows raised.

  Lehi had never asked me what topics I’d want to discuss. In fact, I was pretty certain that no one in the Cluff household had asked me that question. And for that reason, I was stumped. I opened my mouth to answer, but then had no words. I could only shrug and give him a sheepish grin.

  “Do you like music?” Porter asked. He jumped up from the bed and crossed the room to a large black box sitting on his desk.

  “I don’t know. I only know the songs the prophet plays in the mornings.”

  “I want to play something for you. It’s a bunch of songs that make me think of you. I burned it on my computer.”

  How he could “burn” something into the shape of a flat metal doughnut, I had no idea, but his eyes were calm, his voice serene and genuine. And my curiosity was piqued.

  “I’d love to hear it.”

  “This is called a CD.” He placed the disk into the machine and within moments, the soft sound of a guitar filled the small room. Then a gentle voice began to sing.

  Porter crossed the room and sat next to me. “I know I said I wouldn’t touch you, but would you like to lie down with me, just lie down and listen?”

  I smiled and scooted my bottom down so that I was lying flat on Porter’s bed, my head resting on his fluffy pillow. Porter hopped into bed next to me. We stared up at the ceiling as I listened to the man sing. The song soothed my nerves and spoke to my heart. When the last notes played, I turned my head to Porter as a new song began.

  “That was beautiful. What was it?”

  “It’s called ‘Such Great Heights’ by Iron and Wine. I listen to it . . . a lot.”

  “And this?” I heard the melodic sound of a piano and another man’s voice. This song was less muted, more intense. I was drawn to it, to the words, and to the tone of the singer’s voice. He sounded desperate, needy, and so very much in love.

  “It’s called ‘Without You.’ It’s a really old song by Harry Nilsson. But it speaks to me. Ever since you came back here that day and demanded
your bag, I can’t get you out of my head. And I’m sorry if that scares you.” He paused. “Does it . . . scare you?”

  It probably should have. The intensity of the song made my heart thump within my chest, at the idea of Porter feeling this way about me. It should have made me run, to claim sanctuary in the house of Lehi Cluff. But it didn’t. It only made me want to kiss Porter gently on his lips.

  And so I did. I leaned forward slowly and caressed his lips with a feathery kiss, then smiled as I inched away from him.

  “I guess that’s a no.” Porter chuckled.

  “You can take the oven mitts off,” I whispered.

  His eyebrows drew together in a cautious scowl. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I trust you.”

  Slowly, he slid the bulky mitts from his hands, then interlocked his fingers and placed them on his chest. Despite my little kiss, Porter didn’t break his promise. We stared at the ceiling, listening to every song on that CD. When each song ended, I asked him to tell me about it—why he loved it, why he chose it. Porter didn’t hesitate, telling me all about the lyrics and what they meant to him, to us.

  And as I lay there with him, staring at the stark white ceiling above us, I knew there was so much more to my feelings for this man than the electricity of his kiss, his touch, his passion. I was drawn to the softness of his voice when he was confessing his deepest feelings, the complexity in his expression when he was trying to explain a concept that he knew would be foreign to me, and to his vulnerability . . . the way he was able to admit his struggles, his failures, the most shameful parts of himself. Men in our community didn’t do that. Porter was showing me every part of himself; I just had to pay attention. I had to accept the good with the bad.

  And before that CD came to an end, I knew that I could.

  I was tired of fighting this.

  I didn’t just want to kiss Porter Hammond.

  I wanted to be with Porter Hammond.

  Chapter 13

  Resistance was getting easier.

  “C’mon, I’ll walk you home,” Porter said. He reached out to smooth down the wrinkled sleeve of my dress, attempting to make my appearance less rumpled after several hours of lying in his bed.

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Someone could see you.”