by ed. Pela Via
‘In thirteen years you’ve never said they were pale.’
‘Mmm. Because men don’t state the obvious.’
I considered this. Goosebumps on my skin followed the trail of your finger. I whispered, ‘I thought that was all you stated.’
You didn’t laugh at my jokes then.
Instead you looked up at me, and when you said, ‘Only when you’re driving,’ I believed you wanted me to smile at you.
So I did.
I pulled your hand away and bit your forefinger.
‘Ouch. I liked that,’ you said.
I dropped your hand onto my stomach and laughed when it crawled like a tarantula back up my chest.
‘Men don’t critique breasts the way you’re thinking,’ you said. ‘It’s like reviewing a baby. You can’t criticize a very young child? Same with tits.’
‘Breasts.’
‘I thought I was allowed to say tits.’
‘When we’re making love.’
‘Right. The dirty talk clause. That’s useless to me now.’
You sighed and I waited.
You said, ‘No, breasts are nature’s most perfect creation.’
‘Nature’s? Not God’s?’
With or without humor—I’ve always wondered—you said, ‘If God existed, he would have commanded that breasts be sheared off.’
You had fallen asleep there, your cheek smashed against my skin. It was late in the night and I felt like talking. Your comments were often severe in those days. Pregnant and fatalistic. The words infuriated me when I replayed them in my mind. Your disease created a pressure in me that could go nowhere, do nothing. It was a thing I had no license to hate.
‘Your remark about God—wake up—only works if the god we know to be real had in fact existed. Wake up.’
‘What? Why— Fine. Leave me alone. I don’t care about God. Sleep.’ You wiped the shared sweat from your cheek then palmed my breast and pretended to sleep.
Your hand was warm and my body wanted more. I didn’t want you to know. I shuddered and tried to kill the thought.
‘You do though,’ I said. ‘You must. Are you bitter because he doesn’t exist, or because he does and he’s cruel?’
‘Liz.’
‘What.’
‘I love you.’
There was an urgency to your voice, a wakefulness that has always haunted me.
‘So much,’ you said. ‘I could be happy if you were the only person left on earth with me.’
‘No. Honey. You’re forgetting Wes.’
‘I’m not.’ You wiped your face again and contemplated your answer. ‘He’s different. He owns a part of me, of us, but it’s like my soul leaves my body to love him. Inside me, what I need to be whole and human . . .’ Your voice trailed off and I prayed you’d go back to sleep.
After long terrible moments you said, ‘When we were first married I worried I loved you too much. Even before that. The day I met you. All I wanted in the world was to touch your hair.’
‘Shh. You don’t love me that much. You probably have another family in Cabo. It’s all lies.’
It wasn’t, and you didn’t acknowledge me anyway. But I had nothing else to say.
I could barely form the thoughts, but the words were there. My devotion to you, all the tepid nights of touching when I wanted to be fucking, that wasn’t love. It was a heartbreaking obligation to some part of us I could no longer touch.
———
We never learned to lock our door. All the years we did secret things in quiet rooms, we never learned our lesson. I’ve always wondered what that said about us.
We were teenagers the first time it happened. In your bedroom while your family was at church, your body over me, your hand in my panties and your clothes on the floor. I heard him approaching. Ominous Sunday shoes hit the wood floor in a crescendo. But I couldn’t be bothered. I was close. The door flew open and I didn’t think to cover myself.
‘Jesus Christ, Israel.’
I had never heard him use strong language, so I stared, sideways from the bed as I waited for him to go on.
‘What’s wrong with you? You have no shame?’
I wanted to laugh. But I felt the static rage in your body. So I held you. Your eyes still closed, face calm. Your blood was lava.
I cleared my throat, without a thought to what I might say next. ‘Mr. Kaufman?’
His eyes popped forward from his face.
‘You don’t speak to me. And would you cover yourself? For Christ’s sake.’
I pulled the sheet over both our bodies.
‘I want you out of my home, Elizabeth. There was a time my son was stronger than this.’
Together we listened to the sound of his shoes falling on stair steps. The front door slammed shut and you asked me if I believed in God.
‘I don’t know.’
‘I used to believe in loving fathers, more than omnipotent gods.’
You rested your cheek on my shoulder. ‘I have neither,’ you said.
‘I know.’
———
It happened again, the morning after you fell asleep on my chest. I brought you your pills then opened your pants. ‘Before the meds take effect. Let’s just try.’
You frowned but I persisted. I had you in my mouth when I heard the clumsy kick at the door. I flipped over, wiped my face and covered you with a sheet, in one motion, as we were both assaulted by running legs and punchy fat arms. My body was a bridge as he climbed to his daddy.
‘Who is this brown bear stomping on me?’ I said.
‘It’s Wessey!’
I glanced up at you. Your eyes were new, like you had won a prize.
He threw himself onto you, bouncing and twisting. I watched and laughed. He giggled and made strange sounds for no reason. His hair was pure boiling chocolate, so shiny then, and eyes so deeply brown. You once compared them to discarded motor oil—these are the things I remember.
‘Dada!’
‘Yes?’
‘Mama say— Dada! Dada!’ You were staring right at him, inches from his face.
‘What?’
‘Momma say yester-night Dada say I have cookie? Okay, Dada? Okay?’
‘Mommy said Daddy would let you have a cookie?’
‘Huh.’ He nodded his head. So vigorous it wobbled.
‘Okay,’ you said. ‘I do whatever your mother wants.’
———
You never looked at me when I helped you. I took your arm and helped you balance, and we walked together in the long succession of baby steps that led from the bed to the bathroom.
I loved you in a strange way when I assisted you. My affection was endless and fierce, begging to be challenged; I could have slapped you. But you weren’t playful then. If I was ever irritated by helping you, it was because you refused to see the humor in Parkinson’s.
I hid this though. Your dignity was a bully.
You asked for different pills that morning.
‘But you don’t normally have these . . .’
‘Because they impair my speech. Hand them to me.’
‘But—’
‘They impair my speech but they improve mobility. I want them today because I’ll be alone with Wes. I’ll need to be able to move.’
‘Oh. I just didn’t think these were the ones that . . .’
I didn’t finish. Whatever I said then didn’t matter.
———
Alone at the beach, I didn’t think about you. I spent the afternoon sprawled on the sand, and I thought about what your disease threatened to steal from me. I thought about never making love again. It was too much. I cried into my towel and swore to myself I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t give up sex. The alternatives sickened me. The idea of reaching for you, for your flaccid body—
Driving away from the ocean, I turned onto our street as blue and red lights flashed onto our house. My hands twitched and my throat ached as I parked behind an ambulance. I have no memory of getting from my car
into the house, but I know there were words repeating in my head.
What had you done.
You killed me that day. Have you ever had to hold your mouth with both hands?
They wouldn’t let me see you then. They covered you with a sheet and all I wanted was to touch your body.
———
The house stayed dark after that, all browns and greys and whispered tones. Your dad had the pink eyes of a rabbit, though I never saw him cry. I watched him kneel on Wesley’s lion rug and lower his head to the floor. His grief settled in his bones like cement. He doesn’t go to church anymore.
Wesley only acknowledges you when he’s angry, as though his rage is his sole source of confidence.
When he was five I heard him tell his best friend to please not touch him. ‘It hurts my skin,’ he said. ‘Like you have claws.’ I asked him about it when I put him to bed that night. He said, ‘You too, Momma. I love you. But it’s you too.’ He doesn’t remember the way you rubbed his back before he went to sleep each night. I’ve asked him.
His eyes get still.
He’s discovered sex and I’m concerned. He loves sex and he bristles when I hug him.
I have to hate you some days.
Other days I wonder why God can’t make himself exist.
Alone in my bed, I have a recurring dream in which you kiss me on the forehead and laugh below my ear and we touch.
——————————
Love
by JR Harlan
“Cut me,” she says, offering me a knife and an arm. My knife, my carving knife. Her arm is pale, veins pronounced.
Blue, thin.
I look into her cold grey eyes. I seek something there. Something pronounced. But all I get is a
tired
bloodshot
stare.
“No,” I say, pulling on my beer. Our fridge is broken. The beer’s been on the table for a week. I drink it still, even though it’s
warm, flat.
I want to say something more. I want to see something there. Something profound. But all I can offer is a
tired
bloodshot
stare.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” She screams, slamming the knife down onto the table. The knife belonged to my grandfather, then my father, and now it’s
old, dull.
“Don’t you even care anymore?” She seeks something with that. “You used to love me, you used to care, but now you’re just a
tired
old
fool.”
“Yeah,” I say, noncommittal. Apathetic. Her makeup is smeared from sweat, from sex. She trembles with anger, with guilt. Her blouse is
wrinkled, torn.
I want to cut him. I want to do something bad to him. But he’s not here, he’s gone and ran away like a
scared
little
boy.
“Why won’t you do anything?” She screams, again. She’s in a rage, a fit. Her muscles tense, her jaw clenched. I almost want to laugh at her, but I stay
silent, still.
“You’re pathetic,” she says, quietly. “Call me names, call me a whore.” She wants to feel justified with that. “If you loved me you
would
cut
me.”
“No,” I say. I take another pull on my beer. I’m surprised at myself. I should be the one in a rage, a fit. But I only feel
old, wasted.
I look at her again. I want to see something there. I want to remember the woman I married. But I can’t. “No,” I say again. “If I loved you, I
would
kill
you.”
——————————
Practice
by Bob Pastorella
“Remember Shelly Baxter?”
I paused for a few seconds, feigning remembering. “Yeah, I think.”
Dave screamed into his radio, then came back to the phone. “You better remember her. You used to go out with her.”
“Yeah yeah yeah.” I closed my eyes against the smell of her hair, strawberries and cream, shook away the image of her crooked smile. “What about her?”
“Well, she did it. Hold on a sec . . .” Dave screamed into his radio again, came back. “Hey, call me later on tonight. Some lady just got hit crossing Highway 73. Dumb bitch thought she could just run across during the busiest part of the day.”
“Later.”
I closed my cell and stared at the computer screen in front of me. Filled with potential customers from the nationwide database, all the names and addresses blurred for a second. I blinked and everything looked normal again.
For a second, all of the names on the screen were Shelly’s.
———
Seven months ago, she knocked on my back door just as I was leaving to go out for the night.
“Hey,” she said. Her blond hair was the same old style yet different, longer maybe. The screen door made it difficult to see who was there, but her smile, reaching up higher on her right cheek, gave her away fast.
“Hey,” I said, opening the screen door, “what’s going on?”
“Just hanging out. Can I come in?”
I stepped aside. “How did you know I live here?”
She brushed past me, faint perfume hitting my nostrils. “I saw you coming home from work the other day. You still doing the insurance deal?”
“Yeah. You saw me. Where were you?”
“At the taco place. I can see your door from the drive-through.”
“And you knew it was me?”
“Yep. Hey, can I use your phone?”
“Well, I don’t have a landline.”
“You got your cell?”
I nodded, reluctant. “I was about to leave.”
“Don’t worry, baby . . . I’ll tell them not to call the number back.”
I handed her my cell and stepped into the living room. One year had passed since I last saw her, maybe longer, and she knocked on my door like no big deal, and then she was in my apartment wearing her tight jeans and halter top. Sandals on her feet and a silver toe ring. Very sexy.
And calm.
Sitting on the sofa I tried to listen, but all I could make out was come on man and damn it. She snapped my phone shut and pounded her fist on my counter. When I walked back into the kitchen, she was facing away from me, propped against my refrigerator. The muscles in her triceps clenched for a second, then released.
“Everything okay?”
She turned and, for the briefest second, let her mask slip.
She smiled. “Sure. Boyfriend’s a little pissed I ran out on him, but he’ll get over it.”
I forced my hands into my pockets to keep myself from touching her arms. “You need a ride somewhere?”
She shook her head. “Can I just crash here?”
“Well . . .”
“Just jacking with you, man. He’s going to meet me back at the bar.”
“The bar?”
“Yeah, Shorty’s. You know, that place you hate.”
“Oh yeah. Well, at least let me give you a ride.”
“No. It’s just right there. And besides, you look like you’re about to go out.”
“It’s no problem. I—”
She was out the door and halfway down the steps. “Thanks for letting me use your phone. See you around.”
I never saw her again.
———
My friend Waylon introduced me to Shelly. He had met her friend at the bowling alley the week before and set up a double date without asking me first. “Dude, I need a wingman,” he said.
“That’s really shitty of you, man.”
“I’d do it for you.”
Of course, he would have. When the night came around, he called me forty-five minutes before I was supposed to meet them. “They’re here.”
“At your house? Now?”
“Yes. I want your girl. She’s hotter than mine.”
<
br /> I drove twenty miles in twelve minutes. He was right—I wanted my girl, too.
Shelly’s hair was shorter then, with a slight curl. I’d seen her around, usually hanging out with people I didn’t know, being loud and cutting up. “I know you,” she said, holding out her hand. “Don’t know your name, but I’ve seen you around.”
I told her my name was Markus and she smiled. “You look like a Markus. Ready to party?”
Waylon drove his Tahoe, Shelly and I sat in the back. She leaned in close, whispered in my ear. “Why are you sitting so far away?”
“I don’t know.”
She wrapped her arm around my shoulder. “Loosen up a bit. You’re like way too tense.”
We played pool, ordering pitcher after pitcher of beer. She was a damn good player, better than I was, and drank like a fish.
“Don’t go for that shot,” she said, snaking her arm through mine, guiding the cue stick. “Tap the four ball slightly on the right and it’ll sink in that corner pocket.” She lined up the shot, stood behind me, and guided my arms into the cue ball. It tapped the four ball and rolled into the pocket, just like she said.
Shelly playfully punched my arm. “See?” I looked into her brown eyes, letting them get closer and closer until our lips touched, very gently. She pulled back, crooked smile beaming. “Now really kiss me.”
I went in gentle again, then felt her arms wrap around my back. I touched her face and slowly ground my lips into hers, letting her tongue slide against mine.
She tasted like bubblegum.
———
Her hair was damp against her brow and she smelled like smoke. “Thanks for coming to pick me up. I feel like I’m going crazy.” She was wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt and baggy shorts, her feet wrapped in a pair of dirty sneakers with no socks.
“What’s wrong?”
“Take me to my mom’s, okay? I’ll tell you everything, but I have to get out of here.”
I pulled out of the Walmart parking lot, watching her and driving at the same time. Shelly dug around in her purse, pulled out a prescription bottle and read the label. “Damn,” she said, throwing it back into her purse.