Pisgah Road

by Mahyar A Amouzegar

  “No!”

  “Just joking. Why don’t you try this?”

  She took out a bottle, opened it with a bottle opener that was mounted on the wall next to the refrigerator, and handed it to me. The bottle cap fell on the floor and rolled over to join several others. She ignored it. I took a tentative sip, and a surprisingly cold, crisp, semisweet liquid entertained my mouth. I took a larger sip and then to be sure took another one. “What is it?”

  “Cider,” she replied, her voice vibrating with the new added loud bass from behind the door.

  “Cider? What’s cider? Like apple cider?”

  “Sort of…” She didn’t finish but left the room for a moment. I heard the cry of protest as she lowered the volume.

  I took a real large sip and rolled it in my mouth. “It doesn’t taste like apple cider,” I told her when she returned.

  “It has a punch, Marty, so you should slow down.” She said Marty again and I really wanted to correct her, but I didn’t. She had paused perhaps expecting me to do so, but in response I took another sip. She warned again, “It’s rather alcoholic, so do slow down.”

  I looked at the bottle and it was almost empty. I wanted to comply but some other forces had taken over and I simply finished the bottle. She laughed slightly and gave me another one and took one for herself.

  “Don’t tell Daniel.”

  I wasn’t sure why or what I should not tell Daniel, so I nodded pretending I was in the know. She took a large sip and said, “Luv cider.” She laughed for the second time and this time our eyes met.

  She had amazing eyes. They were alive and dancing like I have never seen anyone’s eyes dance before. It was as if all of her emotions were concentrated into her eyes and at that moment they were waltzing. The deep melancholy that was visible before was gone, replaced with a soft cadence.

  I wanted to be brave and smart and funny and tell her great stories. I wanted to just stay in the kitchen all night long and talk to her and tell her about my life and ask about hers. I wanted all that but I had nothing to say. My brain had stopped producing new words and I had nothing in reserve. She took a sip and we stood there in silence. I was sure she was waiting for me to say something but my brain had stopped working, as if all the neurons had been disconnected. Why is the burden always on the boy? Why can’t she feel obliged to entertain me and keep me interested? I was thinking all these questions knowing full well that they were nonsensical. She took another sip and looked at me and her eyes were normal again. She looked bored and that made me more tongue-tied.

  “Where’re you from, Marty?”

  I had no idea.

  “Hello?”

  It still took me another moment to remember. “I’m sorry…We live in Bend, Oregon.” Naturally she had no idea. “It’s a little town of fifty thousand close to Portland.” Bend is hardly close to Portland but that’s the best-known city in Oregon.

  “Oh, I get it.” She said this with such definiteness that I knew she meant my hometown explains everything about me.

  I wanted to say something to defend Bend, and my parents and their curfew. I wanted to tell her that it wasn’t my fault that I wasn’t a regular drinker at the age of sixteen or didn’t know such things like an alcoholic cider existed. I wanted to tell her that I did lots of fun things and I was as cool as anybody else in that party. I wanted to tell her that I could drive a large tractor with a huge haul behind it. I wanted to tell her that I could survive in the woods without a single ration. But those thoughts were not even present at that moment. They came to me days later when they were useless. At the time, I just smiled like an idiot

  “Let’s go back up.”

  “Okay.”

  But I didn’t move. I had been leaning against the counter all that time and when it came time to move I couldn’t stand up. My head was buzzing and I felt sick. I had heard about people getting sick after too much drinking, but I didn’t think two bottles of cider was too much. I felt ashamed to be so weak when she appeared so together. She started to leave, oblivious of my state, and I willed myself to follow her. I could feel my head pulsating like those aliens in Star Trek. I’d take the throbbing if I had their power of projection. We stepped outside of the kitchen and she climbed the spiral metal stairs quickly, but I knew I couldn’t take another step.

  “Hey, Gabrielle,” I said in what I thought was a whisper but it came out like a cry.

  “Yes?” She paused, standing a few steps above me.

  I looked up and I could see up her short dress. Normally I would have turned red and averted my eyes, but I just stared at her. “Yes, Marty?”

  That name again. It crashed against my head like a giant bong. Why was I Marty to her? But I could only utter a single faint sound of pain.

  “You okay?” She climbed down. “Are you drunk already?” she gave an evil laugh. “You’ll need to develop some tolerance if you want to survive London.”

  I nodded and she went inside and brought a glass of water for me. “Why don’t you sit down?”

  We both sat on the metal chairs, our back to the kitchen and facing the small backyard. The sun was slowly receding behind the tall red brick buildings, casting a long shadow on the walls surrounding the yard. I gratefully drank the cold water, hoping my worries would dissipate by the time the sun is fully set.

  “Don’t tell Daniel,” I urged her.

  “Why would I? Don’t feel bad. We all go through this. We all act tough, but we’re all like you. You just have to learn to pace yourself.” She had taken on a motherly tone but I needed it then. “You can’t drink two bottles of cider in five minutes, at least not the first time around. You’ll be okay though,” she continued. “It’s my fault, Marty.”

  There it was again and once more I had a chance to correct her, but I didn’t want to start something now. I felt I might embarrass her and put her on the defensive. How would I explain it anyway? “I’m okay,” I lied. “It’s just that I hadn’t eaten,” I lied again.

  “Of course. Hunger does that to you.” She had such an empathetic tone that I believed she meant it. I felt fine either because I was sitting down, because of the glass of water or because of her calming tone. But whatever it was I felt fine. She didn’t want to dwell either. “Tell me about your family and Bend.”

  “Not much to say, there’s me and my parents and we live in a little town in Oregon. My father is an accountant and my mother writes poetry.”

  Her words had made me feel brave so I started talking in a singsong tone, trying to be lighthearted and cool. I told her about the farm and all of my adventures, real or imaginary. But then it turned weird because I said without thinking, “I saw my mother kiss another woman.” It came out deadpan as if I was trying to be funny, but I knew I said it because I had thought it would make me look good having a mother who is adventurous. But then I realized what I had just said, so I quickly added, “Nothing exciting, really! What about you?”

  She took it in stride. “Me too. There’s mum who is super busy and there is dad who is not so much.” I took a sigh of relief but then she added, “I haven’t caught my mum kissing another woman or a man for that matter.”

  I searched my mind for a rescue plan and despite the thick fog I remembered the pictures upstairs, “I saw your family picture. Is your brother in the Navy?”

  Dead silence.

  I looked over and there it was again, the deep melancholy eyes. She looked in pain and I had no idea what I had done.

  “Did I say something wrong?”

  “No, Marty. Don’t worry about it.”

  I normally would not pursue it. In fact, I normally would not have a conversation with a girl alone. But I had two ciders in my stomach and I was sitting on a metal chair with a girl alone. I wanted to be brave and continue the conversation but I hadn’t put all the clues together. “So why is your brother in the military?”

  “What?”

  Her voice was no longer soothing but I still didn’t get it. “I mean you guys w
ere just involved in an imperialistic expansion in the Malvinas, killing a lot of innocent people.”

  These were not my own thoughts or words, they were my father’s whose grandmother was from Argentina. I used the Spanish word for the islands to impress her even though the only thing I knew about the conflict between the UK and Argentina was what I had partially read in a single article in the News Week — and the only reason I opened the magazine was because the cover-title proclaimed: The Empire Strikes Back: The Falklands Crisis.

  The conversation in the UK was still revolving around the conflict that had ended before it really started. It was a source of pride for the British, more than a year after the end of the war, and the Tories were riding high. The Falklands war started in April 2, 1982 and ended unceremoniously 74 days later on June 14th. Gabrielle’s brother was killed in those seventy-four-days.

  I didn’t know any of this, as I sat with Gabrielle on the metal chairs, pretending to know so much. I felt proud of myself for being so worldly and knew that I’d finally regained control of the situation. I remember watching the sun disappearing behind the building and thought the night was going to be grand. So I was shocked when Gabrielle responded with an aching cry.

  “What the fuck, Marty?”

  She used that name again, but this time it was not sweet and delicious but sharp and painful, piercing my throbbing head and letting all my arrogance drain out. I looked over and she had covered her face and was openly sobbing. I still didn’t know what I had done. “I’m sorry, Gabrielle. I am so sorry. What did I say? I’m sorry…”

  That made her cry even more and all I wanted to do was run away from her and that house. I still hadn’t connected my words with her trauma and thought of her as being a silly girl. That’s what my dad used to call me when I cried as a child. He would tell me that only silly girls cried over paper cuts, or bloody knees or a broken arm. I curbed the urge to denounce her as such and sat back uselessly watching the sky change colors.

  After a few minutes, Gabrielle took a deep breath and wiped her eyes and looked at me. Her eyes told me that she wasn’t angry with me. She was just hurt and disappointed. But her disappointment could not match my own dawning sense of utter failure. I was beginning to connect the dots. She had saved me with her question about the TV show and then took the time to educate me, and her reward has been my callous remarks. I was wondering if I walk out now, would I be saved? I might have run away if not for my wobbly legs.

  “Ben was killed last year in the war.”

  “I swear I didn’t know.”

  “Why would you?” It was a cold voice of reason.

  “I’m so stupid.”

  She ignored me. “His name is Benedict Robert and he was a sub-lieutenant on HMS Coventry. He was killed May 25th, last year.” She recited the information in a wearisome tone as if reading from a long official memorial plaque.

  “I’m sorry.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say, not that I had the intelligence to say anything else.

  “We’re all sorry. He was such a great boy. He loved old movies. He hated the war too but he was already serving in the Royal Navy, so it was not a matter of choice, but duty. You understand.”

  Only a fool would not. “I didn’t mean anything by what I said earlier. I was just being stupid.”

  “Six hundred forty-nine Argentine military men, 255 British and three islanders died during the conflict,” Gabrielle continued with her recitation from the imaginary memorial plaque. Then she looked at me with a sense of urgency. “They were all innocent, no?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who is the evil then, Marty? Who is to be blamed, Marty?”

  Me, I thought. I was to be blamed for bringing this up. I was to be blamed for not correcting her once and for all. I was to be blamed for being so impotent.

  “It was Ben’s birthday yesterday. He would have been twenty-four.”

  I had nothing to say. I wished Daniel would come down and take me away.

  “He’s been dead for more than a year. Should we forget him so soon?”

  “Of course not,” I replied, but she didn’t seem to hear me anymore.

  “But it seems we have.”

  “No. We haven’t, Gabrielle.”

  I looked up and it was Daniel standing behind us, drenched in sweat and I thought, thank God.

  “You don’t talk about him anymore. He was like a brother to you, but you don’t even mention him.”

  Gabrielle started to sob again and Daniel moved closer and held her from behind, wrapping his arms around her chest. It occurred to me that I should have reached out and held her earlier — at least hold her hand or touch her shoulder or something.

  “Don’t you love him?”

  Daniel didn’t answer.

  “Tell me,” she insisted.

  He still didn’t respond, simply letting Gabrielle’s accusations flow.

  “Tell me you haven’t forgotten him already.”

  I didn’t know Gabrielle and I had never met her brother, but the depth of her pain made me want to cry out and lash out at Daniel with all my might. I wanted to shout at him and force him to say something, anything that would prove to Gabrielle that others have not forgotten her brother. But I stayed as silent as Daniel, condemned to witness her despair. And she did not relent.

  “He was your friend and you don’t even mention his name anymore. You didn’t even acknowledge his anniversary. Did you hate him that much?”

  He held her tighter as if protecting her from outside forces and Gabrielle, in response, and after what felt like an eternity, quieted down and simply and unashamedly wept in his arms. They did this for a while and I sat stone-faced, staring ahead. Her crying slowly subsided and I stood up to leave, but Gabrielle held me back. “I’m okay. You don’t have to leave.”

  I sat back and all three of us stared ahead in silence.

  “What the fuck?” Daniel cried out all of a sudden and I jumped. It was just too much. I just wanted to go home and eat some of my mother’s cake. But it was just Daniel being Daniel. “Cider? Bloody ‘ell, Gabrielle. You’re corrupting my boy with that shite already?”

  “He asked for it,” replied Gabrielle and the lilt was back in her voice and her eyes were shining again.

  “Y’asked for it? You? The boy from the nowhere town of Bend asked for it? Wha’ the fuck do y’know abou’ drinking?” Daniel asked in earnest and I thought there was going to be a fight, but Gabrielle was smiling.

  “I love cider. I always drink it at home.”

  “Yea’, right. What have you done, Gabrielle? You gave my little boy poison.” Daniel’s voice carried so much pain that I thought he was going to cry.

  “Not her fault. I asked for it.”

  Daniel just laughed at my chivalry. “Yea’, right. I wasn’t going to do this ‘cause I promised Gabrielle’s parents, but Y’fuckin’ forcin’ it. We’re going to play the game tonight.”

  “No, Daniel! I can’t. It’s too painful.”

  “And fun. Admit it.” He then grabbed Gabrielle’s head and said again, “Admit it.”

  “No.”

  “Admit it. It can be fun.”

  “Yes, but not tonight.”

  “Especially tonight. We’ve three newbies. We’ve our boy Marty ‘ere, plus that little know it fuck, John Ashford, and our prim little girl, Cybil. It’s perfect for the game.”

  “What game?” I asked.

  “What did you do with Cybil?”

  “Not a thing. She’s still dancing.”

  “What game?”

  Gabrielle smiled, and shook her head. “Don’t ask.”

  “Yeah, don’t ask. You’ll love it.”

  III

  Teenagers love anything that they think is different.

  Life is a game and each generation tries to put their unique mark on it. Drinking, dancing and smoking gets boring after a while and they seek other ways to explore, and thus new drinking games, dancing games and kissing games. Though Daniel’s ga
me was born not from boredom but from desperation. He had invented it a month or so after Ben was killed in action — when they all felt numb and they needed something to give them a jolt. They all loved drinking and they all loved soccer and they needed something with intense emotion, so he invented a new game that had all these elements. It wasn’t enough to sit and drink and cry. It wasn’t enough to watch their favorite team play while pretending they didn’t miss Ben’s presence. So Daniel came out with a game that gave them physical pain to alleviate the emotional one and physical pleasure to diminish the mental distress.

  “What’s this game?” I asked when we walked back upstairs.

  The room was empty — presumably everyone was dancing below. Daniel took a beer and tossed it at me without warning, so it simply passed my head and hit the back of the couch with a thud. He did it again and I had the same slow reaction. Both cans rolled off the couch and rolled on the hardwood floor.

  Fionna walked up, drenched in sweat. “Wow! Fuck, I’m thirsty.”

  Daniel tossed a can and she expertly grabbed it in midair. Daniel looked at me and shook his head. I took one of the cans that had rolled on the floor and opened it without thinking with the result of drenching the couch and my shirt. Daniel shook his head again and said, “Get this boy a towel.”

  Dan Carpenter, Mithra and Davies walked up and Daniel tossed each a can and they in turn grabbed it as it flew towards them.

  “The game is on,” Daniel said.

  “Alright.”

  “No.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What game?” This time the question came from Cybil Albright. Daniel didn’t toss her a beer nor did he do it for John when he came up a second later.

  “You’ve heard of spin the bottle?”

  “Yeah, but I’m not playing that stupid game.”

  “Good, because we don’t play little girls’ games. Our game is different. Tonight Arsenal is playing Luton Town at Highbury.”

  “I’m not much of a football fan, Daniel,” John said and I thought I saw rage pass through Daniel’s eyes but he didn’t say anything, perhaps because Gabrielle put her hand on his shoulder.