Nothing Is Terrible
Page 23
“Go!”
I shot out low along the sidewalk, my best start in years. On about the fifth step I felt something go pop! in my right calf, followed by a searing pain and a shower of raindrops from the sky. I fell on the ground and clutched my calf. Skip ran to me and carried me in out of the rain.
Half an hour later, during the dramatic summer rainstorm, we were sitting on the dark-blue linen-upholstered couch in the living room, formerly Hoving’s bedroom. My right leg was draped across her lap, along with an ice pack, which she held to my calf, and an old hardcover copy of Gray’s Anatomy, which she scrutinized. Incidentally, this is a position we have duplicated many times since that morning. We often read books like this: I hold my book cradled in my arms and she rests her book on my ankles, which are in turn resting upon her thighs. We are efficient readers in this position. I read the most number of words with the greatest comprehension while my legs are casually, absently, touching her legs. This alignment of our bodies makes reading easy, convenient, and fun.
“You seem to have pulled your tibialis posterior,” she said on that morning.
“I think you should get a job,” I said.
“And what makes you think I do not have a job?”
“I don’t see you going off to work every day.”
“And what if I were to say that you are my job?”
“I’d say that’s not enough. You yourself said a few hours ago that you don’t know what to do with yourself.”
“Oh, don’t quote me. I hate when you quote me.”
“You could teach.”
“Teach.”
“Teach.”
“Absolutely out of the question.”
“Why, because seven years ago you seduced an eleven-year-old on the job?”
“Yes.”
“Bullshit.”
“Don’t say ‘bullshit’ in an argument with me. The naughty word has no special argument-winning powers with me.”
“Both of us need jobs,” I said.
“Your job should be to get a high school diploma.”
“And yours?”
“I think I would like to be the mother of your child.”
“Holy shit.”
“There she goes again, bringing the naughty word into the conversation.”
“No, do you really want to?”
“Yes.”
“How would we do it?”
“Don’t tell me I forgot to teach you about the birds and bees.”
“Wow. I’m, like, blown away here.”
“Think about it.”
“I am. I’m thinking about it like crazy.”
“But I will not raise a child in an unstable family environment. Therefore, if you decide that child-rearing is something you would like to do, you must tell me a few things for certain,” Skip Hartman said to me.
“Such as?”
“Will you ever go back to Mittler?”
“No.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Will you stay with me until I die?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“And will you love me?”
“Yes.”
Reader, that’s it, basically. I mean, basically, that’s it. That’s all she wrote, so to speak. Thank you very much for your interest and indulgence. Okay, wait, there’s one more thing. That conversation I just reported to you? For once in my life I am certain beyond an unreasonable doubt that what I have transcribed is exactly what was spoken on that occasion. I will give it again to make it stick:
“Will you love me?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“And will you stay with me until I die?”
FOR AMY
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to Currer Bell, Gabriel Brownstein, E. Shaskan Bumas, Alexis Hurley, Roland Kelts, Becky Kramer, Nora Krug, Neil Levi, Franco Moretti, Bruce Morrow, Beth Pearson, Daniel Rembert, Sergio Santos, Oona Schmid, Carole Sharpe, Myron Sharpe, Susanna Sharpe, Jacqueline Steiner, Robert “Bob” Sullivan, and Amy Zalman.
Special thanks to editor Bruce Tracy, agent Jennifer Hengen, and publicist Brian McLendon, who have made so much out of Nothing.
ALSO BY MATTHEW SHARPE
Stories from the Tube
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Matthew Sharpe is the author of Stories from the Tube. He has published stories in Zoetrope, Harper’s, American Letters and Commentary, Witness, The Quarterly, and Fiction. He lives in New York.