Unconventional

by J J Hebert

Leigh and I sit down on the couch, her on my left. Dad’s gone. What’s new? I’m trembling slightly, worked up about the possibilities: What’s she going to say? What does she need to talk about? I could cut the tension in this living room with a knife, or I could cut myself with the knife—if she decides that breaking up with me is what she wants to do. I would slash and slice and dice and scream, after she leaves, that is, and Dad would eventually find me on the floor, lifeless and bloody. Brad would be straddling my carcass, invisible to my father, as always, and Brad would be leering at my remains.

  Then my Dad, standing over my body, would cry, but eventually, in a week or two, would get over it, keep womanizing, leading a selfish life. Then he would move away, some place far from here (San Diego?), somewhere that does not remind him of me.

  I look into Leigh’s face, the features I’ve fallen in love with. “Let’s just sit here in the silence. Let’s stay in this moment. Please.” I don’t want to be in agony. I don’t want to cut myself.

  “But we need to talk,” she says.

  “I don’t wanna talk,” I say, stubborn. “I know what you’re gonna say.”

  “You do?”

  “You don’t wanna be with me anymore. You wanna be with Tim.”

  “Tim doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

  Please. I don’t want to talk. Talking is evil right now. It means you’re one step closer to telling me something I don’t want to hear. “I know you like Tim, Leigh. Your hesitation when I asked you if you thought he was attractive told me.”

  She folds her hands over her lap. “I don’t think I can keep going on with this relationship.”

  I picture a knife, a long serrated blade driving into my heart, drawing blood. “Why not? Please, we can make it work.”

  “I don’t know. There are too many things going against us.”

  “Like what? Your parents? That I don’t read the Bible as much as you’d like me to?” I get progressively louder. “That I don’t have a nice car or a place of my own to live in or a fancy job and I’m not a pastor’s son? Give me a chance. I’ll try harder.”

  “But, James . . .”

  “No buts,” I say, voice raised. “I’ll do what it takes. I’ll fight for this relationship. I believe in this relationship. We’re supposed to be together. We met because of fate. Remember? Destiny!” I want to grab her by the shoulders and shake some sense into her. “Is or isn’t love supposed to withstand everything?”

  “It’s supposed to,” she says gently, “but—”

  “No! Please, no! No buts. You can’t break up with me. You can’t end it here. It can get better. We can be great together. We can have it all. I know your parents don’t like me, but that doesn’t have to end us. Don’t be with Tim because it’s the popular thing to do!”

  She stands, hands flailing. “Stop assuming things!”

  I stand, inches from her face, a coach arguing with an umpire. “I love you! Can’t you see that? Can’t you see that we’re meant to be?” I put my hand on her shoulder. “Please, let me keep it here. Please, for once, let me touch you.”

  She doesn’t pull away. “Why are we meant to be? Tell me!” She starts to shake. I wonder how long it will be until she throws me out of this game.

  “Look at the day we met. On the day I was rejected by the publisher. You were there for me. You helped me through. You supported me. You accepted me when I needed it. Leigh, you saved me! You’re the most amazing person I’ve ever known. Intelligent and beautiful. So unbelievably beautiful in every way.” I fog up.

  She does too. “I didn’t know. I. Meant. So. Much. To you.”

  I place the other hand on her other shoulder. “Is loving you such an evil thing? Does my love hurt you? Can you not sleep because of it? Can you not eat? That’s my life. I love you so much!” Tears are dripping.

  “James, I’m . . . I’m . . .” Her eyes burst with tears.

  “Tim doesn’t love you like I love you. He can’t. No one can. It’s . . . impossible.” Her tears are uncontainable; she puts her hands on my hips, bawling. “Give me a chance,” I plead. “Please, give me a chance.”

  She comes closer, wraps her arms around my waist, crying into my chest. Her voice is muffled, “I . . . I . . . don’t know . . . what I want . . . what I need.”

  “You’ve gotta want me.” I put my hand in her hair, brush it through. “We need each other. Love withstands everything,” I say with a strained voice. “Love withstands everything.”

  We hold each other close, the warm touch I’ve been longing for. Eyes glistening, she looks up at me and says, “I have so much to think about. I don’t know what to do.”

  I take a step back, my hands remaining around her. “Do the right thing. Make the right choice. I know you have it in you.” I smile at her, tears still flowing. “I love you, and I know you love me,” I say, heart squeezed, “and that should be all that matters.”

  * * *

  I call her the next day. She doesn’t answer. I call again. Again. Again. The calls go straight to her voicemail. I try to sleep, can’t sleep, stomach hollow, heart heavy, a shell of myself.

  Brad won’t shut up; he’s standing just beyond the edge of my bed, creeping me out, feeding me all sorts of doubt.

  I call her the following morning, afternoon, evening. I get her outgoing message every time. I start to think about when I told her, “Do the right thing. Make the right choice. I know you have it in you.” Maybe she decided that the “right choice” didn’t include me.

  I still can’t eat much—crackers, a snack here and there, no big meals. I’m looking more and more like Leigh’s mother, the Food Poker. I cry at bedtimes, in dreams, at work, every time I’m in a situation that provides me with an opportunity to think, to feel, to hurt. To hurt.

  I have enough of crying, enough of feeling myself wither away. I get angry at her like never before. I hate the power I’ve given her.

  I hate her.

  I love her.

  I start leaving messages on her cell. I tell her in one message that I deserve to be loved, that I can’t go on like this much longer; it’s too unhealthy. I’m wasting away. Inside, I don’t really believe that I deserve love, don’t believe that I deserve much of anything. I’m bluffing, which is scary because I’m no good at poker.

  In another message, I tell her she has to figure things out soon or I’m going to step out of this relationship, find someone who won’t hurt me so much, someone who loves me regardless of their parents’ stance. After I end the call, I feel empowered. So empowered. So scared. What have I done? Oh my goodness, what have I done? I go to the knife drawer, take out a knife, contemplate, contemplate, contemplate, the blade hovering over my wrist.

  I listen to Brad/Doctor Kevorkian. Just do it already, will you?

  Those words cause me to think of the time when I was in the ninth grade and Roberto Sanchez and I were talking in the locker room. Roberto was saying something about his life sucking and he said that maybe he should kill himself, then Brad came out of the shadows and said, “Just do it already, will you?”

  I break down into tears, thinking of Roberto, and of myself. Then I decide against the deed, and drop the knife to the floor. I’m worth more than this! Am I, though? Am I worth more than this? I’m not sure.

  I walk slack-jointed out of the kitchen, fall to my knees in the living room, alone. I know this for certain: I don’t want to die. I’m worth enough to not die.

  I want to live!

  Tears gushing.

  I want to live!

  * * *

  On yet another hopeless night, as I’m in bed listening to Brad berate me, I hear a knock at the door. Dad’s home, for once, so I rush to the door to quiet down whoever is out there; don’t want to wake Dad. I open the door, wary, squinting into the darkness. Leigh emerges, arms outstretched, teary.

  “What are you doing here?” I don’t ask this in a stern manner but in a tone of jubilation.

  She dives into my arms. “I’m s
o sorry. I’m so sorry! You were right. You’ve always been right. They’ve controlled me my whole life.”

  I walk her into my bedroom, an arm over her shoulder the entire way, and say, “I’m so glad you’re here. So glad you’re here.” I close the door behind us and we sit on my bed.

  She continues: “They want me to be with Tim so badly. They push me and push me and push me and push me. I can’t take it anymore. Every night, Mom calls me to make sure I haven’t seen you or spoken to you.”

  “She does what?” I take Leigh’s soft hand into mine.

  She sobs. “I’ve been so confused. Ever since I can remember, they get inside my head. I’m fed up with it! Every aspect of my life. I was only allowed to go to the high school they wanted me to go to. I was only allowed to go to the college they wanted me to go to. And friends—my parents dictated who I had as friends. Now they’re trying to tell me who I should and shouldn’t date. Who I should and shouldn’t love. I don’t want to be confused anymore. I don’t want to be controlled. I want to make my own choices and live with them!”

  She looks on me, wet-eyed. “I choose you, James! Tim is everything they want but not anything I want. I was never attracted to him for myself; only for them.”

  My eyes well up with tears. “Oh, thank you, Jesus.” I glance at the ceiling. “Oh, thank God Almighty.”

  “It took being away from you and spending time with Tim to see how special you are, James. He was superficial in every sense. When we talked, it was about his car and his job and all the things that don’t matter in life. He never complimented me. Never made me feel like you do: alive and free. I’m so sorry. James, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

  I take her into my arms and we roll over on the bed; I’m on top, she’s on bottom. “I love you,” I say. “I love you so much. So much.”

  She smiles and initiates a kiss, the warmest, most amazing kiss I’ve ever experienced, even beyond our earliest lip-lock. I feel love radiating through our lips, through our bodies as they connect, through our hands as they touch, and for the first time, as she pulls away from the kiss, I hear her say the three magical syllables: “I love you.”

  * * *

  I sit at the kitchen table, devouring my food. I take a bite of chicken and find the food flavorful, the taste buds having returned from vacation. It doesn’t take long to start gaining weight back. Thankfully, I won’t look like a skeleton with hair.

  * * *

  In bed, at night, I lie still. The sheets aren’t too tight. They aren’t too loose. The room isn’t too warm and it’s not too cold. There is comfort. I remember how to sleep.

  * * *

  I desire to write about magic. To write. Period. Thus I do, nightly, once again, slapping at those keys.

  * * *

  I pass by the Robert Frost letter, stop, and stare at the text. I’m making him proud, wherever he is. His eyebrows arch and he smiles. “I’m proud to have you carry the Frost surname,” he says.

  * * *

  At work, I function well. I do a respectable job cleaning, not forgetting to collect the garbage from any trash cans, not overlooking the vacuuming of classrooms. Dad has no reason to approach me.

  * * *

  Leigh and I are talking on the phone when she gets a beep. She pauses, then says, “Someone’s calling me.”

  “Do you need to take the call?” I ask.

  “No.” She sighs loudly. “It’s Tim. I told him not to call me anymore. I don’t know what he’s thinking.”

  “You don’t want to talk to him anymore?” Time for a party.

  “I’m talking with the person I want to be talking with.”

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I’m en route to join Mitch at DJ’s once again, strolling past stores of various types that line either side of the street, and as I pass one of the gift shops, a poster hanging on the inside window catches my attention. I stop, mouth gaping, transfixed in front of the window, experiencing a tingling sensation on my spine. I reread the poster:

  The 14th Annual Book and Author Luncheon

  To benefit the Moose Acres Public Library

  Where: Pine River Colony Club, Moose Acres, NH

  When: June 2nd at 1:00 pm

  Cost of admission: $20

  Featured guest: Pulitzer Prize-winning, New York Times bestselling author Meranda Erickson

  * * *

  Mitch and I are at DJ’s, eating and conversing in a booth.

  “Remember Meranda Erickson?” I ask.

  “Yeah, untraceable ole Meranda.” Mitch sips some milk.

  “I wouldn’t go as far as saying she’s untraceable,” I say, stabbing a fork into a piece of blueberry pie.

  “And why not?” Mitch bites into a piece of his own pie.

  I take a bite, smile while chewing. “Because I found her,” I mumble.

  He swallows. “Get out! How?”

  “FBI.”

  “No, seriously. How’d you find her?”

  “I know people in high places.”

  “Stop pulling my leg,” he says.

  “I’m not pulling your leg. I really found her.”

  Then I tell him about the poster at the gift shop. His eyes enlarge and he starts laughing. “You’re screwing with me. You’ve gotta be screwing with me.”

  “Nope. No screwing here.”

  “Then you know what this means? You need to go to that luncheon!”

  “Got that right.”

  “How far along are you in your rewrite of The Forsaken World?”

  “Three hundred eighty-four pages.”

  “Does that mean you’re almost done?”

  “If all goes well.”

  “You amaze me,” he says, then turns to a male voice—“Mitch!”—coming from a couple tables away.

  A man with an obvious comb-over wig and a lined face waves at us and saunters to our table, a woman in the same age range, wrinkles similar to her partner, trailing him.

  “Good to see you!” Mitch shakes the man’s hand. Then Mitch eyes me and says, “This is my accountant, Dan.”

  “Have you met my wife before?” Dan asks.

  Mitch shakes his head.

  Dan motions to his wife, who stands at his side. “Melinda,” he says, “meet Mitch Ermont.”

  Melinda gives a quick wave, and Mitch says, “I’d like you two to meet one of the best up-and-coming writers around, James Frost.”

  My face gets warm. I take a fleeting look at Dan’s hair and think: Why, hello, Trump. “Nice to meet you,” I say, hands perspiring.

  “What kind of writing do you do?” Dan asks.

  “James is a novelist.” Mitch smiles, proud.

  Dan looks astonished. “What books have you written?”

  “The Forsaken World,” I say.

  “What is it about?” Melinda asks.

  “You’ll have to buy it when it comes out,” Mitch says.

  Dan crosses his arms. “When will that be?”

  “That’s still being determined.” Mitch winks at me without them seeing.

  “Well, we’ll keep an eye out for it,” Dan says, and I swear I see his hair move, like it’s not a wig at all but a shaggy creature of sorts, and it’s going to attack. But then I realize, glancing upward, that someone in this joint turned on the ceiling fans and Dan’s hair is merely reacting to the wind current.

  “The Forsaken World by James Frost?” Melinda puts her arm around The Donald. “I’ll have to remember that,” she continues.

  Mitch grins. “You might want to get his autograph now, before he’s famous and untraceable.”

  * * *

  After lunch, I stand with Mitch at his car in a sun-drenched parking lot. I’m wearing sunglasses, and he’s wearing sunglass clips on his regular spectacles.

  “Have I ever told you about my child?” he asks.

  “You have a child? I thought you two weren’t able to have kids.”

  “When we were newly married, we were expecting.
. . . We went out and bought a larger house, set up a baby’s room. We went all out. Got the best crib available. Painted the walls with nursery rhyme characters. We were set to go.”

  “So what happened?”

  “One morning she was having horrible cramps. She went into the bathroom and noticed she was bleeding. She was on the toilet when she called out my name. I came rushing in there and she grabbed my hand, squeezed and screamed. I was a young man and didn’t know what was going on. I didn’t know if that was normal or if there was something wrong. I watched her face, my beautiful wife’s face, and it was contorting every which way. ‘Something’s wrong, something’s wrong, hon,’ she kept saying.”

  I don’t know why Mitch is telling me this.

  He slips a hand into a pocket. “My instincts told me to get her off that toilet. She shouldn’t be on that toilet. That’s not her place. I didn’t listen to that instinct. Next thing I heard was a splash.” His speech is slowing. “Please be poop. Please be poop, I remember thinking over and over again. Please make it be poop I heard splashing. She looked down in the bowl and I knew from her scream, from her tears, from her wailings . . . it was our child. Dead.” Mitch stops, face tight, controlling his emotions.

  “I had no idea,” I say. What do I say to that?

  Mitch doesn’t leave additional room for comment. “It took us four years after that,” he says, “four years to give having a child another try. Nothing worked. We went to the doctors. They told us to try this and try that—stand on your head, do it hanging from a tree, whatever. Once again, nothing worked. We tried for years after that, but no luck.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mitch.” Still don’t know why you’re telling me this.

  He looks up at the sun, smiling, then eyes me. “Sometimes it appears as though we’ve been denied an essential piece of life, like a child, for instance, but then God has a miraculous way of giving us what we need.” He halts, pats me on the back. “You probably didn’t know this, James, but you’re God’s gift to me.” His bottom lip quivers slightly as though he’s about to cry. “I’m proud of you . . . son.”