Broken in Soft Places

by Fiona Zedde

  Missing Pieces

  Stephen/Atlanta

  The headstones stood in formation like soldiers. From afar they seemed alike, but up close were disconcertingly different. Some sat above grandmothers who’d seen full and long lives. Others guarded babies who’d barely taken a day’s breath. There were names that Stephen knew, and those, thankfully, he did not.

  The grass shrank under his feet, releasing pungent green into the dew spattered morning air, as his steps brought him closer to the reason he was here. And not at work. Not at home. Doing something he was helpless to stop himself from doing year after year.

  Clayton Osbourne. Aisha Barrett-Osbourne. Beloved parents and friends.

  “Mom.”

  He greeted his mother first because she was his favorite. Beautiful and patient even when she teased him and despaired about his decision to “throw his degree away” at the bike shop instead of becoming an engineer like so many of his classmates. He in turn would tease about her chemically straightened hair and the other signifiers of her oppression by white society, because other than that, she’d made all the right decisions in life. My son, the bike seat radical, she always said.

  “Dad.”

  Crouched low in the grass before the headstones, he could, like on so many other occasions, imagine himself lying next to them. His body grown delicate in a satin lined coffin. Over time, grass growing up and through him, wriggling and alive through his sockets that once held the warm jelly of his eyes. Enfolding his arms, pressing around his heart that had long since turned stiff and dry. That was how he imagined it.

  The sun, though newly risen, pressed down on the back of his neck and through his thin T-shirt. If Stephen closed his eyes, he could pretend it was his mother’s hand, warm and constant. He sat in the grass. By the time he stood and brushed off the damp seat of his shorts, the sun had moved across the sky to sit in its middle, hotter than before, telling him it was time to leave.

  Stephen’s sadness about his parents’ death had never left him. Like mist, it clung, slipping into his nose at unexpected moments, choking him and blinding his eyes. His last words to his father, “Hurry up, I have reservations for eight,” had been so mundane. Forgettable. He wished he could forget them. And had been the cause of his accident. The car, slamming through a red light. Twisted metal. The wailing chorus of his parents’ screams. In his mind’s eye, he could see his father reaching out to grab his mother tight, pressing her face against his chest so she wouldn’t see the worst of it. Their love had always amazed him.

  Later, at home, he moved in that same mist, prodded by the reminder on the fridge to call the doctor and make appointments for him and Sara to get their bi-annual HIV tests. He’d forgotten to do it the week before. Then he made lunch—reheated butternut squash ravioli in cream sauce—and took it out to the front porch along with a glass of iced tea. He ate mechanically, feeding his body to get through this day and make it to the next. Halfway through his last bite of ravioli, a silver Volvo pulled into the drive, past him and down the slope toward the garage. He heard the electronic whine of the doors rising. The slam of a car door.

  “What are you doing home?” Sara asked, coming up the walk. The pale blue suit stretched taut over her thighs as she strode, briefcase in hand, up the steps leading from the driveway.

  “I didn’t know you were leaving work early to spy on me.”

  She shrugged, not responding to his sarcasm. “I just thought I’d come by for lunch and work from here for the rest of the day. A change.” But the already slim line of her neck was taut with stress.

  Stephen briefly wondered why she didn’t come into the house from the garage as she usually did instead of walking all the way back up front and through the low garden gate.

  “Make yourself something to eat and come on out here,” he said instead of commenting on her out of character behavior. “The view is nice. You can let this breeze blow your troubles away.”

  “You mean this same view we’ve had for the past two years?” Her mouth twisted with scorn, but her heart didn’t seem quite in it.

  He noticed the fine lines radiating from the corners of her eyes and a certain tightness around her mouth. Her gaze narrowed as if aware of his close scrutiny. Stephen picked up his iced tea.

  The slap of feet against pavement, a rush of sound, pulled Stephen’s attention away from Sara. Over a dozen pairs of sneakers attached to long legs chuffed against the pavement lining their street. The women’s track team from the university. Sara too watched them jog past, keys hanging from her hand. She pursed her lips. Then disappeared into the house.

  Nearly a half an hour later, Stephen looked up in surprise as Sara returned to the front porch, dressed now in black yoga pants and a white tank top. Balanced on a small tray, she held her lunch of a grilled cheese sandwich, carrot sticks, a glass of water and a pack of cigarettes enclosed in a secretive little black box.

  “Move over.”

  Stephen stood and took the chair farther to the left, bringing his iced tea with him.

  Sara sat, stared at the empty street with its myrtle trees whispering to each other like children in the wind. “Did they come back yet?”

  “No.” Stephen laughed softly. “Probably in another few minutes.”

  They sat together in silence, Sara eating her small lunch until it was all gone while Stephen sipped his drink and watched the street for a sign of the jogging women.

  Too long ago to remember, Sara had taken up smoking to annoy Rille. At least that’s what Stephen thought. She took a luxurious drag of the black clove cigarette, lashes falling nearly closed in pleasure, and blew the smoke away from him. Her eyes barely flickered when they caught him looking.

  “It’s a boring habit,” she said. “Don’t pick it up.”

  “I’ll try to hold back.”

  Then they fell silent again as a different set of women, this time basketball players from the looks of their tattooed arms and leanly muscled thighs, ran past. Sara leaned back in her chair, her tongue peeking past her lips, the cigarette forgotten in the Waterford crystal ashtray Rille had bought her as a joke.

  “Nice,” Sara breathed after the last shifting rear end, solid with muscle, had disappeared. She reached for the smoking clove. “Must be the reason we bought the house.”

  “Why else?”

  Other than the fact that Rille liked it. The two-story Tudor house was just down the street from the university where she taught, barely a fifteen minute walk. And because she wanted it, all three had chipped in to make the purchase despite the fact that it only had a two-car garage and was miles away from Stephen’s bike shop in Little Five Points. The first time he had to drive to work, Stephen nearly passed the store, unfamiliar with the route. After that, he left his tiny yellow Smart car in the driveway and rode his bike. It was much easier to park anyway.

  Sara lightly tapped his arm and brought Stephen out of himself. “Showtime.”

  The passing girls were gorgeous. Incredibly fit. More fit than he had ever been, even in college when he played baseball and ran every day to keep his mind off sex. Blond, Indian, and everything in between. They ran past, brown-skinned girls with big breasts held captive in less than effective sports bras, tiny girls with tails of hair waving at him as they cut through the mild afternoon. Beautiful and energizing young bodies. He was sure Rille loved being among them on the campus.

  “I wasn’t too much older than them when my parents died,” Stephen said. “Then, I was living so much in my body. All I thought about was how the world felt through my skin and how the next pleasure would come.” Stephen put the glass of iced tea to his mouth.

  He felt more than saw Sara turn to him, scented smoke still streaming between her lips. “And you’re not that way now?”

  But her attention had drifted from their conversation. Instead, she watched his face for something she just now thought to look for. Before he could answer, she opened her mouth again.

  “You normally disappear to that
conference of yours for a week at this time of year. Why aren’t you gone now?”

  There was no conference. But he always told Rille and Sara that was his destination because he couldn’t stand to be with anyone during the anniversary of his parents’ death. In the room he usually booked for five days after visiting the cemetery, he spent the week in a stupor looking down at the busy streets of Savannah and wishing there was some other way to get through the pain.

  He took another sip of his drink. “It was too much trouble to go this year. Staying here seemed easier.”

  She nodded, looked out at the street as if seeing something else besides the murmuring myrtles and the two-story, stone façade house across the street that was nearly a mirror to theirs.

  “Maybe you don’t need the conference as much as you think you do,” she finally said.

  “Nice thought,” he murmured.

  She crushed out the cigarette and brought the glass of water to her lips. “I’m just full of those today.”

  The Second Time

  Sara/1994

  The rainbow flag unfurled from the pole, like a stripper taking her brief turn in the spotlight. It waved and curled in the late afternoon sun.

  “You know this is my first gay pride?” Raven said.

  “No, really? I can’t tell.” Sara rolled her eyes at her. “I don’t even know any particular reason you’d be at pride. You’re the straightest person I know, apart from my mom.” Her face froze at the mention of her mother, but Raven grabbed her arm, gave it a little shake, and pulled her toward the student center.

  “Come. Let’s get your T-shirt before they sell out.”

  Sara allowed herself to be pulled along until they were in the cool air-conditioned student center, a late Thursday afternoon that was like a weekend with rainbow posters and flyers splashed all over the walls. Laughter broke in waves around them, high-pitched shrieks of the gayest of gay boys strolling together in groups past tables selling beads, books, rainbow thongs, all things gay and fabulous for the weekend festivities.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Raven muttered under her breath.

  “What?” Sara looked at her then glanced around the student center.

  “Nothing. Let’s go get dinner first then come back and get your shirt.”

  But Sara had already seen. Rille, of course. Sitting in a group of about half a dozen fourth-years who had taken over two of the large sofas at the back of the room. Portishead murmured mournfully from the boom box at their feet. Rille sat on the sofa’s arm, one foot curled under her. The other, bare and tapping silently against the red tile floor to the music, was perched near her abandoned sandal.

  “Come on, Raven. You’re going to have to get over hating her sometime.”

  “Sometime, but not today.”

  “Come.” Sara found herself bouncing over to the girl who’d snatched her heart out of her chest. That empty space hurt every time she looked at Rille. She barely noticed that Raven drifted away from her.

  “Hey, babe.”

  A smile flowered on Rille’s mouth just for her. “Hey, beautiful.” She leaned her head back and drew Sara down for a leisurely kiss. One of her friends whistled. Someone else clapped.

  Sara pulled away. “Oh, hey, Devi.” She smiled tightly at Devi who was sitting in the sofa across from Rille. “How are you?”

  “Same as ever.” Devi winked and continued to watch them.

  An image flashed in Sara’s head and she felt her face grow hot. She turned away from Devi’s gaze.

  “Anyway, I just came by to say hi. Raven and I are just going to buy a pride shirt.”

  “You should come to my room later on so I can take it off you.” Rille squeezed her hip through the jeans.

  The few who weren’t immersed in their own conversations giggled.

  “Can I come too?” Devi pursed her lips at Sara.

  Rille answered for her. “Maybe, if you’re good.”

  “Come on, Sara. Let’s grab some food before the good stuff disappears.” Raven called from all the way across the room.

  “What’s wrong with that bitch anyway? It’s not like—”

  “Shut up.” The words shot out of Sara’s mouth at Devi. She smiled to cover their fierceness but didn’t stop the ones that followed. “She’s my friend and the best person I know here. You don’t deserve to have her name in your mouth.”

  Devi and Rille exchanged looks, but Sara ignored them. “Anyway, I gotta go. See you later.” She kissed Rille again, quickly this time and walked away to join Raven.

  “I’m starving,” she said. “Ready to buy a shirt then dinner?”

  But Raven was looking past her shoulder. “I know that guy from somewhere.”

  Sara turned to look. “No shit. He goes to school here.”

  Vreeland was home to only four hundred or so students. Chances were if you didn’t know someone personally, you were sure to know their face. There were no strangers on the campus.

  “No. From somewhere else. What is he to Rille, anyway?”

  “Her friend, I guess.”

  The boy in question sat two bodies away from Rille. With milk-white skin, a hair full of thick black curls, and a slim but muscular body that curled comfortably around the giggling girl in his lap, he was nearly the exact opposite of Rille in coloring. As Sara watched, he laughed at something one of his friends said, then nudged a girl sitting on the floor with his foot. The girl grabbed it and pretended to bite his ankle. Smiling, he gently shook her off.

  “Hm. Okay.” Raven shrugged.

  Sara bought the T-shirt, and with it tucked safely in her backpack, she and Raven went to the cafeteria for dinner.

  “Isn’t it cool how the English language is made up of all kinds of non-English words like cafeteria and booze?”

  Raven paused. “Booze?”

  “Yes, from Dutch busen that means to drink in excess.”

  “Uh huh.” Raven seemed to doubt her sanity, then decided to play along. “What about fellatio?”

  “God! You are so disgusting.” The pale woman in a hairnet across the food counter gave her an impatient look from washed out blue eyes. Sara laughed. “Sorry. Tater tots, please.”

  Raven smiled, but her expression was strained.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” Raven looked at the hamburger and salad on her tray before turning to Sara. “Maybe.”

  They found a table in the crowded cafeteria and sat down.

  “What’s up, roomie?” She ripped open six packets of ketchup in quick succession and squeezed the red mess over her mound of tater tots. Sara bit into one and nearly groaned as the crisp potato pieces sank between her teeth and floated across her tongue. “You want some? This is really good.”

  Again, that strained smile. “No, thanks. I’m not a starch-aholic like you.”

  “Now you’re really starting to freak me out.” Sara pushed away her tray. “Tell me what’s going on. Please.”

  Raven’s eyes fluttered away again, this time to look around them.

  “Let’s go sit outside. If I’m going to be an asshole, I don’t want there to be witnesses.”

  Sara frowned, trying to ignore the sudden heavy feeling in her belly. She and Raven picked up their trays and headed outside to sit at one of the stone picnic benches under the blossoming kumquat tree. The smell of the white blossoms, sweet like those of oranges, lightly perfumed the air over their heads. Instead of calming Sara, like aromatherapy, she thought dimly, it only made her more nervous.

  Raven took a breath. “You know I work in the clinic, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Sara could feel her brow wrinkling again in a frown at this piece of seeming randomness. Of course she knew that Raven worked Tuesday and Wednesday afternoons in the campus health clinic. It was the newest reason they didn’t get to spend nearly enough time together this semester.

  “Because of clinic confidentiality I know I shouldn’t tell you this.” Raven searched Sara’s face as if something in it would
stop her from saying whatever this was. “That guy has HIV.”

  Sara felt her jaw drop open. Of all the things she could have imagined Raven telling her, that was definitely not one of them. A breath of relief blew past her lips.

  She reached for a soggy bite of potato. “I feel bad for him and all. But what does that have to do with me?”

  It was Raven’s turn to nearly unhinge her jaw. “Are you joking?

  “No. What?”

  “Rille is fucking him.”

  Sara recoiled as if Raven had slapped her. “Why are you saying that?”

  “It was obvious. Did you see her playing in his hair?”

  Honestly, Sara hadn’t seen anything. Just Rille and her friends being loud as usual. The guy was handsome, true. But…

  “That wouldn’t happen. She promised me.” Sara opened her hand to the half-eaten tater tot smashed in her palm. “No guys. That was our agreement.”

  “I’m sure it was your agreement, but are you sure it was hers too?”

  Sara shook her head. She shoved the tray away. It scraped loudly over the harsh cement surface of the table. Sickness bubbled in the hollow of her stomach. Up and around the tater tot she had eaten until the small bit of potato roiled in her throat thickly flavored with bile. She swallowed it.

  “I’m going back to the room.”

  Sara picked up her tray and emptied it in the nearby trash can then left it on top with a few others. She didn’t look at Raven. She couldn’t.

  Alexander Student Center was a large, single-story building that housed the student government offices, cafeteria, several meeting rooms, student mailboxes, campus convenience store, game room, and an old-fashioned jukebox. The building was surrounded entirely by glass. There were many nights when Sara had wandered through its endless corridors, lulled by its silence and its smells, or when she ran into someone she knew, played a leisurely game of late night foosball until she was tired enough to attempt sleep again.