Threads: The Reincarnation of Anne Boleyn

by Nell Gavin

The doorbell buzzes. Valerie hops to her feet and ushers in an acquaintance of her roommate, who has left for the evening. We know him by name and by sight from parties. His girlfriend smiles–we know her slightly too. It’s unusual that they should have come here, but not altogether surprising. Weekends in our town are always spent dropping in on anyone we know with his or her own apartment, ringing doorbells, looking for parties. Our entire crowd mills around in this manner.

  “Just looking around for something to do,” he says. “Is anything going on tonight that you know about? Any parties?”

  Valerie shakes her head and waves them through the door, grateful. They have just spared us the hassle of going out and actively searching for something to do. That would have required putting on shoes.

  “Come in for some wine,” she says.

  Following behind them is the young man I saw at that party. His name, we learn, is Michael. There’s nothing unusual in his expression when his eyes fall on me, except that he looks away as if I’m of no concern to him.

  They all settle in on the few pieces of cast-off furniture Valerie can offer them, or sit cross-legged on the floor. One of them lights a joint.

  I go to the stereo to select some music while they smoke without me. Michael offers me a hit, and I shake my head and turn back to flipping through the record albums looking for something to play. Michael doesn’t ask why I don’t smoke pot, but he kind of likes it for some reason. He kind of thinks he would probably scold me if I said ‘yes’.

  “Stones!” Michael calls out. I’m about to place a record on the turntable, but hesitate and put it back in its jacket. I find an album by the Rolling Stones and play it one time, for him.

  Even though Valerie has a boyfriend and isn’t interested in Michael (at least as far as I can tell), she appears to be flirting, and looks flattered when he flirts back. I’m not interested in him either, really, but the flirting bothers me. I say to myself that I’m angry with Valerie on behalf of her boyfriend who is working tonight. Beneath that, though, it’s more personal. It’s as though Michael is supposed to notice me, and the fact that he doesn’t is vaguely insulting. Wasn’t it me he stared at all night, that time?

  Where’s mine? I think to myself. Nowhere, evidently. He ignores me.

  I aim toward Michael a number of off-handed remarks that I consider witty. There is no change in his expression. When I speak to him directly, his responses are polite and reserved.

  With Valerie he’s completely goofy. The two of them are now talking to each other with sock puppets in Warner Brothers cartoon voices. Earlier, they had been singing “I Am The Walrus” with chop sticks up their noses.

  I don’t know what to make of this. Men never ignore me.

  I decide I want Michael to ask me for a date so I can turn him down. I’d enjoy that because he needs to be taken down a notch, I think. I have nothing in particular I can point to to support this except, perhaps, that he’s paying me no attention, but there it is. I’d like to punish him for that. At least I think that’s what it is. There is no other explanation for this compulsion I have to make him want me desperately so I can reject him.

  “You’re such a bitch with men,” Valerie remarks when I confide in her in the kitchen. The marijuana is gone, and everyone is hungry. We scrounge for something edible to serve, finding only peanut butter and stale potato chips.

  She doesn’t care, really, if I’m a bitch or if I’m not. If that’s the way I came, it’s fine with her. But I do have my moments, usually around men, and Valerie feels it’s worthy of note at times. I don’t take offense when she periodically reminds me.

  “And a vain one. He likes me. In fact, I might just pounce him. I think he’s cute.”

  “I am not a bitch.”

  “Honey, I love you, but you are a bitch.”

  “I am not. I’m just misunderstood, that’s all.” My “that’s all” trails off into a pouting lower lip.

  “Aren’t we all.”

  She dumps the potato chips into a cracked bowl while I repeatedly slam an ice tray on the counter. She then commences a fruitless search through the cabinets for glasses that are clean. She can’t find any primarily because she hasn’t washed a dish in days, perhaps weeks, and her roommate hasn’t washed them either. Valerie keeps reaching into higher cabinets, patting the shelves and feeling around for something she might have missed. She hoists herself up onto the counter, nudges the mess aside with her bare foot, stands there with her head brushing the ceiling and conducts a final, futile inspection of the dusty, uppermost shelves.

  “Be brave, men,” she says as she jumps down. “We’ll just have to wash them.”

  I look with revulsion at the pile of dirty dishes in the sink.

  “Ew. Not me. Too gross.” I put the ice tray back in the freezer, grab the bowl of potato chips and carry it into the living room. “Nice try though,” I call over my shoulder.

  “Another fine vintage from the makers of Ipecac. Bottoms up. No pun intended.” Valerie, underage, passes out bottles of 89 cent apple wine from her illegally-procured soda-pop wine stash as if they were party favors. “No glasses,” she adds.

  “No problem,” says Michael, accepting his wine with very charming mock hauteur. “I prefer to suck this particular brand from the bottle.” He uncaps his, and takes a long swig.

  Valerie settles in on the rug beside him and gives him her biggest dimpled smile.

  I don’t know why that irritates me.

  Michael asks how old I am, phrasing his question so we’ll think he’s more interested in obtaining facts about Valerie, and is merely asking me as a polite afterthought. I truthfully tell him my age.

  I’m six years younger than he is. His eyes flicker just a little, and he scratches his chin. Jail bait. Shit. He’s thinking that I’m the very same age as the little uniformed girls at the Catholic High School, and that I could be one of them. He imagines me in a plaid uniform and saddle shoes, and comes up with a few ribald comments he plans to make later, when he is among his male friends.

  Then he shudders at the thought of giggling girl conversations. There are midnight curfews. He can’t bring me into a bar. There is always the threat of being charged with statutory rape. Of course, he is so looking forward to meeting the parents, God help him. (“Yes sir. Your fresh-faced teenaged daughter will be perfectly safe with me—I only intend to ravage and seduce her at the very first opportunity. School sir? Finished, sir. Yes, sir. I am too old for your daughter, sir. Job sir? Sort of. I’m a musician, sir. I’m in a band. No, sir. We haven’t actually been paid yet. Real job? I won’t cut my hair as a matter of principle so, of course, no one will hire me for a real job and there’s no point in looking. But if one were to reach out and grab me, I’d probably show up for work, unless I had a hangover. Army sir? Why no, sir. I happened to duck the draft a few years ago by showing up for my physical totally wasted on LSD. It’s a hallucenogenic, sir. So I was exhibiting signs of schizoid behavior at the time of my interview—which was pretty darn lucky for me, don’t you agree, sir? They threw me out and referred me to a shrink. Hell no I won’t go! There’s a war on, you know, and someone has to stay home to take care of the women. Old joke, sir. Ha ha. Yes sir. Yes sir. I see the door, sir. Goodbye, sir.”) And he couldn’t even take me to Summerfest in Milwaukee for fear of getting stopped for a traffic violation, then being jailed for crossing state lines with a minor. This all runs through his mind in a continuous loop fought down by two words: “I want.”

  He nervously taps his fingers on the table in time with his thoughts: She’s the one. I know it. God help me. I’m sunk. Oh shit.

  I only want to sleep with her, he reminds himself. I probably wouldn’t even call her again. It’s just sexual attraction gone a little haywire. That’s all. It’ll pass.

  But he sees my profile and notices a tendril of hair curling over my cheek, and he feels a tug in his chest. He wants to brush the curl over my ear. He has never been this stirred before.

  She’s
incredibly beautiful, he thinks. That’s all it is. I turn in his direction and catch him looking at me. He looks away with an expression of boredom and disdain. God, I hate that! I run my hand over my hair, fretting suddenly, because he doesn’t like me or think I’m pretty. I’m even thinking that I wouldn’t turn him down, if he were to ask me out. He wouldn’t do that, though, I remind myself. He likes Valerie.

  Those two are having a little too much fun together, I think. Two couples, and me. I’m always the odd one. I bristle suddenly, because I’m being left out, and because Valerie is being just a little too charming for someone who has a boyfriend.

  I’m angry with Michael, suddenly, because he seems to be taken in by it all.

  I don’t understand why he doesn’t notice me.

  I can’t tell that he has spent the entire evening watching me from the corner of his eye, and that he’s being charming for my benefit, not Valerie’s. I don’t suspect that he’s spent weeks trying to find me, and that the visit this evening was solely to see if I might be here. I have no suspicion that he doesn’t have the courage to ask me for a date, and doesn’t mind that my hair is a mess.

  I run to the bathroom to tuck in some tendrils and to quickly apply some mascara and blusher I find in the medicine cabinet.

  He notices that I’ve done this. He notices everything. It strikes him as a positive sign, but he can’t make himself speak to me directly, or even look at me. He finishes off his bottle of wine, then uncaps another. (“Look everyone!” Valerie observes. “He can even walk without falling. He exhibits virtually no evidence of intoxication at all. Very manly of you, Michael, my friend. You’re a very manly man. More than a man, in fact.” She waves her bottle and solemnly taps her chest and gives him a mischievous flash of her eyes. “A prince! A princely man!” That said, and with a coquettish smile, Valerie coaxes Michael into supplying her with next week’s wine stash. Michael, helpless in the face of flattery, however coersive or contrived, darts out to the corner liquor store and comes back with several bottles of the more “upscale” $1.19 wine to impress me.)

  He waits for nerve to hit him, postponing his move just a little longer, and then a little more.

  The evening passes. It’s now late, and he still has barely acknowledged me.

  Valerie can have him, I decide. I have to go home.

  He sees me walk into the kitchen to get a drink of water. It’s now. It has to be now. It’s getting close to midnight, and I’ve said I have to leave. He’s gripped by a growing sense of helpless urgency. He can’t screw this up.

  He follows me and stops in the doorway.

  He doesn’t seem at all terrified of me as he stands there filling the doorway, blocking my exit. There isn’t the smallest of hints that his stomach has sunk to his knees and then rebounded into his throat. He has a remarkable ability to hide his feelings when he chooses to.

  I smile at him politely, and he approaches a step, but he doesn’t say anything. His eyes catch mine and hold them.

  I can’t look away.

  All of my defenses are now on alert. I don’t like this. I don’t like his eyes and the way they grab my eyes. It’s worse than feeling undressed. I feel violated and threatened. He’s gotten into my “space”, so to speak, and I feel panicky, as if I’m suffocating. I pull my eyes away, and yawn to cover up my nervousness.

  The spell is broken.

  “So, Kiddo, how’ve you been?” Michael asks pleasantly. He tilts his head and raises an eyebrow.

  “Since the living room, a minute ago?” This is marginally better than silence, but I’d still rather be somewhere else.

  He shrugs. “Since that party. Since whenever. Just making polite conversation is all. Just being conversational . . . ” He hears himself and winces.

  He’s between the door and me. I don’t know how to get past him and out of here, and I’m sorry I wished he would like me. I didn’t mean it. He’s large. He’s old. He does that thing with his eyes. I’ve changed my mind. I need to go away now because my throat is closing. I’m afraid.

  I’m so much braver in theory.

  “In that case, I’ve been wonderfully well, thank you.” I dip my head politely. “And you?” I keep looking at the doorway, then at him.

  “Good,” he says, nodding. “I’ve been good.”

  “Good. That’s good. That you’ve been . . . you know . . . good, and everything . . .”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah . . . ” We’re both nodding helplessly and looking around the kitchen for a topic of conversation. None seems to present itself.

  I look at my watch. “Scintillating though this conversation is, I really have to go—”

  “Where does a bubble-headed teenager learn a two dollar word like ‘scintillating’?”

  He moves a step closer to me.

  “I’m literate. I read.”

  I move a step backward, away from him. I’ve just backed into the sink and knocked into a pan. The sound startles me so I jump, but I quickly recover.

  “Besides, that word’s only worth a dollar. I’ve got much better words than that.” Whenever I’m frightened I get defensive and antagonistic, and I can feel “attitude” creeping into my voice, now: “I also take exception to being referred to as bubble-headed.”

  I point my finger threateningly, as if a finger could save me from this large man.

  He grabs my finger as if to intercept it, but he doesn’t let go. He runs his thumb lightly along the side of it, up and down.

  What was that game in there with Valerie? When did he decide it was me that he liked?

  What do I do now?

  I feel a little nauseated. My heart is pounding; I can hear it in my ears. My eyelid begins to twitch.

  “Why aren’t you snapping gum like every other bubble-headed teenager, instead of reading books and playing chess?” His voice is low, a purr, a caress. He’s aiming those eyes again. I look down, then up and over his shoulder to avoid his eyes and to shake the panic.

  My defenses have me prepared to insult him, or to argue with anything he says until he clears away from that door so I can leave.

  “I can snap when I want to. I can even snap and read at the same time.” I can hear the hard edge in my voice. “I happen to be a multi-talented individual. With a little extra effort, I expect to be able to read, snap gum and tap dance.” I turn my eyes back to him, narrow them, and yank my finger away.

  Why do I do this? Why do I freeze up and antagonize people? The smallest threat of potential (not even probable) intimacy sends me screaming. Even when I like a guy, I can’t stop my mouth. It’s as if there’s something in me that’s determined to drive men away.

  Any other girl would have been able to stay calm, bat her eyelashes (or do whatever it is that normal girls do at a time like this) and let him hold her hand. Not me. My heart sinks. There’s something wrong with me. I look up at Michael, and I know it’s true. I can’t do this right. I can flirt, and I can summon men with just a look and juggle a dozen of them all at once, but I can’t handle one, alone. I never can. I always have excuses like, “it’s just this guy who’s wrong for me”, or ”it’s just this situation that’s scary”, but really, I’ve never been able to do it, not even once.

  He hates me. I know he really must. Even if he doesn’t now, he would hate me eventually. Sooner or later, he would figure out that I’m not as good as other girls and leave me for somebody else. It’s safest to never get involved in the first place.

  “Not very impressive, really, unless you can twirl plates at the same time. Can you twirl plates?”

  “Nope. But I can hurl them. Do you want to see?” I reach for a plate in the sink, and pretend to aim it at him. Involuntarily, I smile at him and relax just a little. All of a sudden, this isn’t a serious pursuit, and he isn’t as scary. It’s play.

  Michael ducks his head, pretending to dodge the plate. “I have a feeling that you have the potential to be an exceptionally talented plate hurler,” he says brightly, �
�but it’s not good enough. You really ought to consider giving the whole thing up.”

  “I won’t,” I retort with narrowed eyes. “It’s my dream.” I stick my chin in the air defiantly.

  Then I break into a giggle.

  Grinning, Michael is thoroughly charmed. Some guys like women with blond hair or pouting lips. He, however, is fatally attracted to women who sass him back. He has no idea why that is.

  Silently, without resistance, soul-searching or question, and without making me aware that he is doing so, he simply relinquishes himself to me. He is in my hands now, but I don’t suspect this, even a little.

  He wonders if he should cut his hair and look for a job. He’ll need to, if he expects to buy me dinner and birthday presents, and take me to concerts. Please don’t let her turn me down, he thinks. Please.

  I don’t know how to interpret that funny smile, or the look on his face. I decide he must be really drunk.

  He thinks: Her eyes. He’s never seen eyes that could do that to him. He wants to sink into them. He wants me to look into his eyes again, but I won’t.

  He likes a challenge.

  “You’ll never find a person who can crack gum and also appear to be intelligent,” he warns me. “In fact, gum cracking is an automatic 20 point deduction from your IQ. Don’t ever do it around me. I hate it.”

  “So if I snap my gum three times, I’ll be as smart as you?” Stop it! Why do I do this? I bite my lower lip.

  He throws back his head, and he laughs.

  “You really are a bitch,” he says approvingly, admiringly. “But I was warned in advance.”

  “Who called me a bitch?”

  “Everyone calls you a bitch. They say your name, and then they say ‘the bitch’. Everyone.” His eyes are twinkling.

  “You lie,” I say, but I know he’s telling the truth. My shoulders slump a little, and I pull myself into a pose I believe is cool, cocky and defiant. It only succeeds in making me look younger and more vulnerable.

  Damn, she’s cute, he thinks. Damn.

  I’m feeling very nervous and edgy again. I stiffen and narrow my eyes at him. He obviously doesn’t like me, seeing as he thinks I’m a bitch, but he won’t move away from that door so I can remove my bitchy self from this room. It would be impolite to scream and run past him, but I give it a moment’s consideration.