A Handful of Fire

by Alexis Alvarez

  “Oh, I can bring it.” She’s full of confidence. “You want to see me bring it?” She makes a show of fake-cracking her knuckles, then puts her fingers to her temples. “Okay. Here’s one. You ready?”

  “Oh, I’m ready.” I raise my chin. “Let’s see what you’ve got.” My eyes burn into hers.

  “So apples contain boron, which is important for mental acuity.”

  I shake my head. “Going the wrong way. That’s a one.” I get up and go to the fridge, and remove a shiny Red Delicious. “Come here, Shai. Here’s your inspiration. Try again. Looks like you could use that boron.”

  My voice is provocative, and she gets up. “You think that can inspire me, Gabriel?” She’s close to me now, we standing just inches apart, the apple in my hands between our chests. I see hers rise and fall with her breath. I think I can feel the warmth of her body. I can smell her perfume—floral, delicate, elusive.

  “It’s worth a shot.” I breathe the words.

  She puts her hands on the apple on top of mine and steps in just an inch. Our fingers touch on the fruit. Her skin is soft and warm, her touch gentle and firm. She looks up at me. “Did you know that it was an apple that started the Trojan War?”

  I smirk. “You know that the only thing anyone thinks about first when they hear the word Trojan? It’s condoms. Not apples. Not wars.”

  She giggles. “Gabriel.”

  “Was this apple ribbed for her pleasure?” I can’t resist.

  She screeches and punches me on the arm. “Yes. Lubed up, too. You have no idea.” She rolls her eyes. “Seriously, though, you’ve heard of it, right?”

  “I thought that war was about a horse full of soldiers. The Trojan Horse.” I can barely pull my thoughts together. I can see her pulse. Her lips look so soft, sexy. I can’t get images of how she’d look naked out of my mind.

  “Guess again. The horse is not why the war started.”

  “Okay, give me the brief history.” I can’t look away from her face, and I want her to just keep talking and talking, so I can stand here, being near, letting our bodies breathe together, allowing our passion to unfold and grow into something powerful.

  She nods. “Eris, the goddess of discord, was angry at Zeus because he didn’t invite her to a wedding banquet. So she started trouble by sneaking in and tossing a golden apple into the crowd. It was inscribed with the words, ‘To the Most Beautiful.’”

  “That sounds like trouble,” I tell her, stepping in just an inch. I can smell her perfume. “I bet that started a riot.”

  “She started a scene, all right. Three of the goddesses there fought bitterly over it, and Zeus told Paris to solve the matter and figure out who was the prettiest.” She gasps just a bit when I lean in another inch.

  “Who was Paris?” I’m mesmerized by her voice. We’re still standing together, linked.

  “He was a man Zeus trusted. He’d shown exemplary honesty in the past.”

  “Honesty. Something valued by the gods. Of course.” I touch a strand of hair. So soft.

  A shadow passes over her face, like this worries her. Then she smiles. “Each goddess tried to bribe Paris, and Aphrodite won—she promised him the most beautiful woman in the world, who was Helen of Sparta. Helen was supposed to get married to a Spartan man, Menelaus. Paris went to the wedding, won over Helen’s heart, and took her back to Troy with him, angering Menelaus and sparking the huge war. So there you have it. An apple and a war.”

  I make a “tsk, tsk” sound. “Once again, apple shaming at its worst. Blaming that poor apple when it was really the goddess of discord who caused the problem.”

  I take one of her wrists in my hand. It’s slender and delicate. I put my finger on her soft skin and feel her pulse, the surge of her heart. It’s intimate, and she doesn’t pull away.

  “You’re right,” she says. “Maybe it’s not the apple. But is it Eris’ fault? Maybe it’s Paris, for being bribe-able. Maybe it’s Helen, for leaving her betrothed. Maybe it’s Aphrodite, who knew her bribe was irresistible, and that once she touched Helen, the magic would be too much for Paris to overcome. Yet Aphrodite did it anyway, not caring how many thousands of men would die in battle. She wanted her title.”

  “A woman who cares more about her image than anything else,” I muse. “A problem as far back as the Greeks.”

  “The men were just as bad,” Shai points out. “Trading women around like playing cards, chattel. Letting pride take precedence over men’s lives. They were just as vain.” She moves her wrist out of my loose grip but doesn’t step away from me.

  “Were all their hearts really as empty as that horse?” I brush her thumb with mine. Her other hand is still on the apple, her fingers wound into mine.

  She makes a tiny gasp. “Their hearts were full,” she whispers. “Full of anguish and pride and shame and fear. Love, too, but maybe not enough.”

  “I’ve always wondered,” I muse, “how the Trojans could have been fooled by that great wooden horse. How could they possibly believe it wasn’t a trick? And how heavy it must have been. Did they have such a poor grasp of basic physics?”

  Shai smiles. “When you want to believe something, your mind can overcome any logical obstacle. Desperate hope is a nimble, agile thing.”

  “Maybe the Trojans needed more apples,” I say. “Maybe if Eris had tossed a few into their city, they’d have eaten them, gotten their full supply of boron, and been too clever to be outwitted by a fake horse.”

  “Ha!” she pounced. “Yes. So you see, my boron comment is critical information.” She waves her free hand.

  “Oh, sure. A thousand years ago in a made-up story.” I give a fake scoff and take her hand out of the air, hold it in mine. She lets me.

  “Important things don’t lose value over time,” she points out. “If it was important then, I still claim it today. I think I’m ahead of you, not that we’re counting.”

  “You,” I tell her, “are quite knowledgeable when it comes to fruit. I’m going to give you a ten.”

  “A full ten, is that right?” It comes out kind of sultry and it’s obvious right away that she didn’t mean for it to sound so provocative, and that we both know exactly how it sounds. She grabs her face. “Oh, my God. I didn’t just say that.”

  I give her a teasing grin. “A full ten is just the start.” It’s totally inappropriate but I don’t care. This is fun, exhilarating. Flirting with her engages my entire being—my body and my mind. It’s like sex chess. I can’t get enough. And suddenly what was just teasing turns to something more, something that’s not funny at all. She breathes in, and I’m caught up in her eyes. I squeeze her hands.

  “Gabriel?” Her lips part, just a little.

  “There are too many atoms between us,” I say, my fingers firm on hers. “Too much space.”

  She licks her lip—a small flick of her tongue, pink, wet—and my desire surges up, a dragon, a kite taken by a sharp sudden gust, high to the peaks of need. “Shai.” I lean in. Our lips are close. I can almost taste her. Her eyes flutter, and then—

  “Dad?” Michael’s beside us.

  Shai squeaks and steps back, the apple in her hand. She holds it in front of her stomach, as if she’s just caught it in a dodgeball game.

  “Michael.” I clear my throat.

  “Your dad was just giving me an apple. Do you want some? I can cut it up and you can eat it with peanut butter.” Shai’s face is pink and she bustles to the cabinet. “I’ll be going soon, so if you—”

  “No, I’m not hungry.” Michael looks from me to Shai, back again. Then he smiles, a tiny satisfied smile. “Um, I wanted to know if you guys wanted to play Scrabble or something? I’m kind of stressed out right now and I think I’d feel less anxious if you both played it. Okay? Please don’t go yet, Shai.”

  Shai’s back is to me. “Sure, Son,” I say. “Shai. Do you want to stay a little longer?”

  “Okay.” Her voice is muffled by the cabinet. When she turns around, she doesn’t meet my eyes.
There’s an awkward silence as Michael goes to fetch the game box.

  When we get started though, it’s easy again. Michael is crazy good at this game. I can’t believe him, even though I’ve seen his I.Q. in paper and in action. His words are better than mine: GHERKIN. JUMBLE. Toward the end of the game, we’re all struggling to place our last ragtag letters. Nobody is keeping score.

  Shai furrows her brow in concentration and bends over her tiles, protecting them like they’re solid gold. “No peeking!” she warns us.

  Michael rolls his eyes. “Okay, but then stop asking for help every other turn.”

  Shai pretends to be exasperated. “But how else was I going to use up my Q without any U’s?” She puts down some tiles. “Look at that and weep. Right?” Her word is KEX.

  I snort. “That is not a word. You made it up.”

  “It is totally a word. You want to bet on it?”

  “I sure do.” There’s a tone to my voice.

  She picks up on it immediately, head up, eyes meeting mine. “Oh, you do?”

  Michael is suddenly way too interested in our faces, his eyes darting from mine to Shai’s, so I tone it down. “What’s your wager?”

  “One apple.” Shai winks at me.

  “Done.”

  “Google it.” She tosses me her phone, and I check.

  “Kex. Noun. A dry, hollow stalk.” I toss the phone back. “I’ll be damned. Point to you, Shai.”

  “Ha! You see? I knew it was a word. I wasn’t, like, totally making it up and crossing my fingers.” She giggles.

  She laughs a lot, lately, around me. When she first started working here with Michael, she was reserved, cautious. But now, her laugh bubbles up easily and often, and her smile shines out all the time. I like it. I hope that it has something to do with us. With me. I don’t know if that’s egotistical or presumptuous, but I like thinking that in some way I might be helping her as much as she’s helping us.

  Michael grabs the phone. “Let me see. Kex. Any of several large umbelliferous plants, such as cow parsnip and chervil. Yum. How about let’s not put that in a salad anytime soon. Also, it’s not fair if he gets to swear and I don’t.” But he’s smiling.

  My words come easily, fluidly. My humor comes back more all the time, now, too. It’s like a positive cycle: Her laughter makes it more easy for me to laugh, too, and as a result, Michael’s eyes have that spark in them that I remember.

  “Grownups get swear tickets,” I tell him. “The older we get, the more tickets we earn per day. I’m up to ten now. So I get to say ten curse words every day.”

  Michael scoffs. “Do they roll over if you don’t use them all?”

  “Oh, I use them all.” I lean in and grab him in for a rough hug. “When I’m on the phone with my most difficult business clients. I just say them silently in my head.”

  “I can say damn, too,” Michael points out. “Because I’m just saying, dam! Like a beaver dam, you know? It’s not the same damn you use. It’s a homonym.”

  “Nice try.” I hug him again. “No beaver references allowed in this house unless the actual animal is in the backyard, trying to get in.”

  He wiggles out. “Stop it! Too tight.” But he’s happy. He looks from me to Shai, back again. “I’m going to hang out in my room now, okay? I have some stuff to do.” He trots off and disappears.

  I shake my head. “He’s a little tornado.” I hear the affection in my voice.

  Shai smiles and begins to scoop up tiles and put them into the bag. “A minimally destructive one with a hell of a big brain.”

  I pour glasses of white wine and hand her one. She hesitates, then accepts it. Nothing is resolved between us at all, and each time I look at her I get more twisted up in her allure. She’s Aphrodite, but she’s promising me herself. She’s the golden apple, but she’s full of beauty, not discord. She’s also off limits. She’s my son’s therapist and I have a sort-of girlfriend. And she knows it, and I know she knows it, and I already made the uber-asshole move of kissing her without even pretending that I was ending things with Arielle. This is fucked up, and yet I can’t stop.

  We sit back down at the kitchen table with the wine, and she says, “I don’t even know what you do, for work. Financial stuff, right? But what specifically?”

  I take a sip of the wine. “I trade stocks and options. I’m an investment broker.”

  “Okay.” She smiles. “Got it. Thanks.” She pauses. “Do you like it?”

  “Yeah, I do.” I think it over. “It’s a challenge for me. It’s the perfect combination of logic, knowledge, learning, and also clever guesswork. It’s always new and exciting. It’s never the same, day to day. It keeps me sucked in.”

  “My kids are like that,” Shai muses. Then her eyes widen and she looks horrified. “I mean, not my kids! I—you know, I meant the kids I work with. My clients.”

  “Of course.” I smile, then I get confused. Why wouldn’t I understand that? “Shai?” I lean forward.

  She touches her locket, that one she’s always wearing, and swallows. “Oh, it’s just that every day is different. The knowledge I learned in grad school and in my rotations stays the same, and I suppose the basics of human nature stay the same. But each person is so different from each other, that my job is always fresh. Even the same person isn’t the same, day to day. I have to stay on my game and use my best combo of knowledge, insight and best guesswork. Just like you.”

  “So if I can do it with my work, why can’t I do it with Michael?” I wanted to make a joke, but it’s not a joke. It’s the question that haunts me and the words come out harsh.

  Shai’s smile fades. “Because kids are a hell of a lot more work than numbers. And you are doing it, Gabriel. You’re getting along with him so much better. He calls you Dad now, most of the time. He has fewer outbursts. You told me yourself that he’s more respectful to you and seeks you out to do things.”

  I nod. “Yes. I just want it to come faster.”

  Shai reaches across the table to take my hand. “These things move at their own pace, Gabriel. Keep doing what you’re doing.”

  I think about it. “You’re right. When he asked me to take him to the electronics store the other day, I almost wanted to shout, I was so happy. He even said he’d go to the beach with me sometime. It’s like he’s getting past that block about leaving the house with me.”

  Shai pats my hand. “For sure. I can see the difference from when I first met you both. It’s huge.”

  She takes her hand back and I miss the touch. Her expression is melancholy and I want to make her laugh again. “Good thing those Greeks didn’t come up with a gigantic wooden kex filled with soldiers. That gift might have backfired.”

  She does laugh. “I can imagine the textbooks. Learn about the Trojan Kex and how it led to the downfall of the city and the end of the war. Actually I see a huge empty tree trunk in my mind being walked forward by a hundred cartoon feet of the guys inside it. Because, you know, a Kex can’t have wheels.”

  “Okay, on a scale of one to ten. How important was the invention of the wheel?”

  “Obviously a ten. But not all wheels are created equal. Wheel of Fortune, because it kills brain cells? That’s, like, a 1.5 at best. And those disgusting wheels of bleu cheese at Whole Foods? Negative numbers for their disgusting factor.”

  “You don’t like bleu cheese?” I’m shocked. “Shai, that’s one of the main food groups. Along with craft beer, fine wine, and garlic shrimp.”

  “Oh, is that right? I assume you’re the reason my stock in the Listerine company is doing so well.” She makes a snort.

  “My dentist recommends mouthwash without alcohol,” I rebut. “Better for the gums. And don’t get one with whitening agents. That’s better done with lasers.”

  “But did you know that apples contain malic acid, which is actually a whitening agent? And they contain natural antibacterial agents that combat halitosis?” She claps her hands together once. “So, once again, the humble apple wins th
e day.”

  I put up my hands in mock defeat. “You are the undisputed victor.”

  “That’s right.” She acts arrogant. “Don’t forget it.”

  “Well, I assume that apples also help with memory, so I’ll eat one a day.”

  “Keep the doctor away,” she responds. “Just remember to save one for me. You owe me one.”

  “You can take my apples any time.” It sounds stupid and like a come-on at once, and I don’t care. But even though I want to, I don’t try to kiss her again. I need to hear her words right now.

  She smiles. “Please tell me that you have some orchard somewhere with trees that produce apples of solid emerald and topaz.”

  “Oh, everyone has those. They’re overdone. I was thinking of getting an orchard with apples made of silicon chips and cell phone batteries. The currency of the future.”

  “Fair enough. But do they have 4G?” She wrinkles her nose. “What does that even stand for? Do you know?”

  “I actually don’t know.” I think about it. “Want to take our best guesses and see who’s right?”

  “Yeah!” She sounds excited. “Okay. 4G. Four Geese. It’s like horsepower in old engines. It’s the equivalent of four geese running on a treadmill. That’s how fast the messages get sent.”

  I try a different tactic. “G for group? Growth? Graduated… something. Oh. Generation!” My competitive spirit is fully engaged. “Ten bucks says it’s generation.”

  She types on her phone. “You’re right. But you’re a technical guy. So you cheated.”

  “In no way did I cheat!” I roll my eyes.

  “You’re used to words like generation and generate.”

  “And you’re used to words like geese?”

  “Sure.” She smiles at me. “Speaking of geese, do you want to hear about my grandma’s farm when I was a kid?”

  And so our conversation goes, flowing from topic to topic, a stream undeterred by the rocks below, forming and reforming. It’s midnight before she leaves. When I walk her to the door, her hair blows in the wind, and the driveway lanterns light it up like a halo as she gets into her old car.