A Wicked Choice

by Calinda B

  “Cheerio…” she says. She peers over the top of her glasses at me with a look that is both vile and contemptuous.

  I am taken aback by her venomous look. What did I ever do to her?

  “…I need to let you know that there’s been a change in the schedule and you are on for the week of August 3rd. You know we have the yearly Northwest Auction Gala fundraising event, and even though I know how much you hate big events, Kate and Sue can’t make it.”

  “August 3rd!?” I say with a groan, and then quickly shut my mouth. Yikes! What am I thinking? I am not in the habit of talking back to a superior, or to anyone actually. Besides, Kate March and Sue Klink are Jill’s favorite employees. They are some kind of inseparable administrative assistants, under Jill’s beck and call. Who knows what they do? I never actually see them working. Darkly, I wonder what excuse they gave to get out of the fundraiser as my protest drifts, unnoticed, to the floor. August 3rd is when I’m supposed to go away with Cam, my boyfriend of two years, on a rock climbing adventure. With my day schedule as an aerobics instructor and his studies, combined with his evening schedule as counselor for abusive men in recovery, we seldom get any Cheerio and Cam adventure time.

  She abruptly interrupts me. “Wait, let me finish. There’s no other way. Done deal... I’ll give you the 12th through the 15th and that’s the best I can do.” She again looks up over her reading glasses and gives me a chilling glare. Her face appears evil and frightening as she glares at me. A strange halo of darkness surrounds her head for one brief second causing my eyes to widen in alarm. Then, she nods. I am dismissed. I slink down the hall to teach my class, head hanging, hoping that the floor tiles rebel and swallow Mrs. Primcott on her next stomp down the hall.

  After class, I head for home in my beat up, barely breathing Red VW, to give Cam the bad news. We’ve been living together for about a year now and are still getting the kinks worked out of our relationship. Cam is a nice guy, comfortable in his own skin, with blond hair the color of wheat. He’s what most women would call a manly man – drinks his beer out of the bottle, thank you very much, confident with his physical abilities, doesn’t like to process feelings, but he does try to be kind and thoughtful. His hair is often unkempt with a fringe of bangs that hangs in his warm honey-hued brown eyes. Around 6’ 1”, Cam has a well-proportioned muscular build defined by years of rock climbing. His hands, in particular, are wiry and strong, as evidenced by his mastery of climbing holds, all requiring a viselike grip. His pleasantly handsome face, infused with boyish charm, looks up distractedly as I arrive home to our aging farm house dwelling.

  Our two-story house, bequeathed me by a favorite uncle, is a treasure. With a faded, wooden exterior, peeling beige paint and huge, arched windows, it sits atop a hill, just north of Seattle. It overlooks a dense stand full of evergreen trees and rhododendrons out the kitchen window, a grassy front yard, a tree-lined pasture along the driveway, and a distant vista of pure, white peaks. On clear, rain-washed days we can see the Olympics out the living room window and the Cascades out the bedroom window. They are utterly breathtaking. A small flower garden popping with color grows just next to the front and side of the house. Inside, the walls are painted with vibrant oranges and reds in some rooms, and sea greens and blues in others. We have Art Nouveau vintage posters and batik wall hangings peppering the wall. I pick flowers from the garden as often as I can and put them in colorful glass vases in the kitchen and dining area. I love this old house. It’s lively and festive throughout. As I enter the front door, I glance around and smile.

  “Hello, Cheerio,” Cam answers absentmindedly, pushing back his hair. He’s sitting in the small dining area surrounded by books about the cycles of violence in men and charts depicting something called the ‘Hearts and Flowers’ phase. Huge picture windows flank both corners of the paper strewn room. His laptop glows, awaiting its next task.

  “Hello, Cam.” I plant a friendly kiss on top of his head.

  My two cats, Mac and Jack (named after one of the best beers in the Pacific Northwest), stroll into the room. Now, you might think this is odd, but Mac and Jack speak to me using thought bubble-like communication. I can understand them just fine. Mac and Jack are twin ruddy Abyssinians. Mac, a sturdy football player of a cat with short reddish hair ticked with black, rubs against my legs suggestively with all the ardor of a lover.

  He’s been like that all day, he thinks.

  Head in the books, Jack, his spry, sleek brother adds.

  No time for rubs or treats, Mac offers.

  Can’t be bothered, Jack continues.

  When are you going to feed us? Mac finishes. These boys get to the point of things as quick as a flicked whisker. Just give me the news and move on: that’s their motto. Mac flips his tail for emphasis and rubs his small cheek on the corner of the cupboard, watching as I retrieve the bag of cat food.

  After sprinkling the dry food in their porcelain bowls decorated with cat stick figures, the boys protest, like they always do.

  Pure crap… Mac sniffs. Do we look like we were born to eat wooden crunchies?

  We like raw, Jack continues, licking his paws dismissively. Think of cats in the wild.

  “Cats in the wild do not get three square meals a day,” I retort. Out of the corner of my eye I see Cam look up with a bemused smile on his face. I continue speaking to the cats. “And besides, you get your bit of raw for breakfast.” I have been making cat food, a mixture of ground turkey, sprouts, yams, and omega fish oil, for them since they were tiny kittens. It keeps their coats glossy and their bodies healthy. The mixture is packed in ice cube trays in the freezer. One cube each per day is all they are allowed. I shake my head at their protests as they settle down to their meal of the dry, supplemental food.

  Moseying back to the table where Cam is sitting, I sit down next to him, pressing muffin crumbs from his white paper napkin onto my index finger tip and popping them in my mouth. “Hey, do you have a minute?”

  “Not really. What’s up?”

  I scoff inwardly at his mixed message. “It’s about our getaway.”

  “Fuck! Now what?” he says, perturbed. “What do you have to do this goddamned time?”

  Now I have his full attention.

  Cam and I are in a tense place lately. When we first moved in with each other, we got along well, like great friends, but lately we’re having major discord. Cam says it’s because I can’t or won’t stand up for myself. He sits in rooms night after night with men who assault their wives with varying intensity, with little or no protest from the women. He wants me to tell him what I want, not just agree with him. I want him to love me as I am. I mean, this is who he moved in with, right? As a result, we’ve been arguing more, communicating less. What started as a congenial, friendly connection with fairly decent sex, has slowly disintegrated into an on-edge, ready-to-shatter soap opera of a relationship. Some days I think we should just break up and get it over with. Clearly, I don’t deserve him.

  Neither of us was raised to talk about our feelings. Mine stay stuck like a lump of clay in my throat. His feelings, if you could call them that, burst forth like eruptive volcanoes, full of expletives and a force that singes like hot lava, clearing everything in its path. It’s perfect, really, that he works with abusive men, court ordered to get their shit together to avoid jail time. When he’s facilitating groups, he commands attention using calm, modulated words at times, thoughtful listening at others, barking like demon dogs unleashed at a dog fight at others. When he’s in “dog bark mode,” he’s menacing enough to get the attention of even the most corrupt of men. At home, however, the language and intensity which occasionally gust out of him make me a little nervous.

  I begin to blurt things out like a bleating lamb. “It…its Jill’s fault. Really! She pulled me aside right before class and told me that I need to be there for the yearly auction. She knows how much I hate these things, but Kate and Sue are busy.”

  “Right,” Cam responds with a sneer. “Fucking
busy… like hell. Those two probably have a spa day planned.” Cam could not stand Kate and Sue, calling them the Jackal Twins of NW Community Center. “And, you, the Queen of Concession, you could not have just said NO to Sergeant Jill? I am so tired of this!”

  “Well, she is giving me off the 12th through the 15th. Your schedule is somewhat flexible. Can’t you rearrange a bit?” I look over at him and smile encouragingly. I reach a hand out to push his bangs out of his eyes, but he bats it away.

  Cam’s not a mean man, but lately he’s been prone to this kind of behavior. In my insecure moments, of which there are many, I think I bring out the worst behavior in guys. I quickly turn my head as tears sting my eyes.

  “It’s not my fault this time. You can’t blame me. I was looking forward to going away with you.”

  “Yeah, this time... maybe,” he says. Suddenly he softens and reaches towards me. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice subdued. “It’s just that I’ve been looking forward to this trip for weeks. I shouldn’t take it out on you. I know what a bitch Jill can be. And Kate and Sue – those two are manipulative to the bone.”

  Mac and Jack are in the corner now, having picked with derision at their organic, all-meat and veggies, grain-free nibbles. They lick their pint-sized paws and drag them across their faces, sneaking glances at one another. I know exactly what they are thinking.

  …Shouldn’t treat her that way, hisses Mac.

  …Shouldn’t let him treat her that way, adds Jack with a purr.

  I glare at them.

  Mac preens his lustrous coat. She wouldn’t if she knew the stuff she is made of.

  Jack mimicked his brother’s grooming. She’ll figure it out some day.

  Baffled, wondering what the heck they are talking about, my attention returns to Cam as he pulls me onto his lap. We hug and he moves his face towards me, his lips poised for a kiss. I pull away. Moving possessively, he presses his lips harder against mine until I start to surrender.

  Sex and intimacy has always been a challenge for me. I remember being 15, a self-conscious, virginal wisp of a girl. My two best friends, Lacey and Mariah, were sitting with me on the Walla Walla High School lawn, at lunch. We were all gangly and awkward, just coming into our bodies’ lushness.

  “My birthday is next week,” Lacey says, adding a moan for dramatic emphasis.

  “Mine is next month,” says Mariah. “We’re all 15, and we’re going to be 16, and we’ve never even been kissed by a boy!”

  We looked around at the popular girls flirting with the football team. Each one of us felt ashamed that we had never even been asked out by a boy. We saw ourselves as somehow less than everyone for the mere fact that we had not opened up our thighs for a boy. We each felt invisible. I just got my braces off, and my eyes were peering through the tiny optical plastic of contact lenses now. Still, I felt like the four-eyed, metal mouth that the last two years had burdened me with. Wherever I went, boys would taunt me and call me names. “Four eyes..!” “Soup strainer..!” “Stupid girl...!” I’d hunch my shoulders and wish to God I could be invisible. Even though Cam tells me that I’m pretty, I guess I carry that self-image around with me today, as evidenced by my reluctance to get close to him.

  Cam and I, we have our sexy moments, for sure. I remember the first time we ever made love. Cam lived in a tiny studio in Green Lake, one of the older and prettier parts of Seattle. The Green Lake area features a natural lake and an expanse of green space within its dense urban setting. It has a walking/running/biking/pushing-your-baby-stroller path around its perimeter which gets used on a daily basis. I’d even run there on occasion. Cam’s studio was on the corner of Greenlake Way and Wallingford Avenue. It overlooked the lake, which was refreshing if you had to live in the city. The small apartment consisted of a sink, refrigerator, and stovetop for a kitchen, a closet-sized bathroom, and a futon bed. There were tiny windows through which the sun streamed like a golden fountain on the crisp, white walls.

  We had been dating for a couple weeks, having met at U-Dub, slang for the University of Washington. Cam, an older 30 to my 27, had been there to see a seminar called “Stopping the War in the Home.” I had taken a shortcut through the campus to get to my aerobics class. He came to a halt when he saw me weaving through the students.

  “Hey!” he called, surprising even himself by his boldness.

  “Hey,” I replied, eyes squinting against the intrusion. He ran up to me and asked me my name.

  I hesitated before replying. “It’s Cheerio. Cheerio Manhattan.”

  “No, really. What’s your name?”

  “That’s it. Cheerio, short for Chérie.”

  “It’s not really short…it even has more syllables,” he replied. With a quick burst of laughter, he invited me out for tea. And so our relationship began.

  In his studio, a few tea dates, a dinner, and a movie or two later, he had pushed open the door and swept a hand around the room. “M’ lady…my humble digs.”

  I cautiously made my way in, scrunching my nose and biting my lip. The kitchenette was clean. The living area was strewn with books, papers, magazines, and newspapers as well as ropes, carabiners, and other rock climbing paraphernalia. He quickly pushed them aside with his foot and indicated that I should sit down on the futon, covered with a faded purple batik print. Shyly, I sat. He tossed a magazine across the room then came and sat down next to me. Then he held my face in his hands and kissed me.

  We’d kissed a few times already after our dates were coming to an end….only they were more like kissing marathons. Cam was a great kisser. A completely sensual man, he liked to kiss long, slow, and deep, or impart brief little butterfly kisses over my neck and face. I loved having him suck my lower lip and then lazily investigate the inside of my mouth with his delectable tongue. After being delighted with Cam’s kissing, we’d sit back, panting. However, I always had an excuse ready when it looked like things were veering “south of the equator,” my term for my…ahem…you know…private areas.

  When he began to kiss me in his studio, however, I stiffened. I knew where things were headed. He got up and crossed the room with a few brisk steps to open a cupboard. His hand reached inside and emerged with two glasses and a bottle of red wine.

  “Drink,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument, proffering the glass. I drank.

  The wine eased my anxiety enough to accept his next kiss. His hands started delving further, pushing up under my sea green sweatshirt. Next, he was reaching up under my camisole. Feeling both excited and terrified, my heart was fluttering like a bird, beating a quick staccato. While his sumptuous mouth explored my lips, face, and neck, he eased down my jeans, and then loosened his own zipper. My awareness began to move in and out like someone trying to focus a telescope. One minute I’d be excited. And then I’d feel myself start to drift away. Like a ghost, I would hover outside of myself, watching everything happening.

  Cam whispered to my disembodied form, “Just say no if you don’t want to.”

  I just lay there, my attention coming and going, tempted and horrified. Only when he pushed himself between my legs and started to move inside me did I snap back in surprise. It actually felt good. Really, it felt quite good. It was like I could feel his heart entering me, not just a body appendix. He wasn’t just using me. This guy seemed to care about me. Almost as soon as he entered, I felt the energetic bliss of orgasm.

  This was amazing. I did not orgasm easily. In fact, I rarely experienced orgasm. I was the girl who, at age 16, went from having never been kissed, to letting Wesley, a friend of a friend’s husband, drive me into the hills to have his way with me. After he was finished, he proudly held up the condom, clucking, “My, my, Wesley do fill da’ bag.” Clearly, I was not essential to his moment of triumph. After that, I was the girl who led a double life. By day, I was a bright, intelligent, quiet, and shy student. At night, though, I’d sneak out with Lacey and Mariah. We’d go to parties, and I’d let the cute boy of the moment get me drunk, pull me
into the bedroom, and pump my body full of him, while I lay there like a wooden doll, the room spinning. But in that small studio, there with Cam, I actually felt some satisfaction, some care. It was in that moment that I realized that he and I would stick it out for at least a while. We’d be more than a one night stand.

  Now, Cam was drawing me into the bedroom, my initial reluctance subsiding. We lay down, and he whispered, “Don’t worry, babe, we’ll make our getaway happen. I can move things around in my schedule.” He removed his clothing, and then tackled mine with ardent devotion. His hands caressed me with gentle tenderness and care. Our tongues tangled as he swept his fingers down my shoulders. We slithered, rocked, and rolled about our queen-sized bed. His lips pressed into mine, soothing my anxiety, his fingers stroking and lulling me into a bit of satisfying pleasure. It was genuinely gratifying to just let go into the arms of the man I cared about – an act I seldom achieved. Afterwards, we drifted to sleep, my back pressed into his warm spoon-like embrace.

  I awoke in the middle of the night when it was completely dark, not the lingering twilight our Northwest summers were known for. Cam lay next to me, breathing in a slow rhythmic cadence. I listened, caught in the sliver between dreams and wakefulness. As I eased back into consciousness, I became aware of gruesome fingers of dirty darkness lurking inside of me like my childhood secret. Still in a deep drowse, I sensed them brushing my left shoulder.