by Mina Bennett
My dad just shook his head, and went back to eating. By now we'd all learned to pick our battles, him most of all.
The next evening, my mom dropped me off for my dinner date at the appointed time. Mark had a house in town, a couple neighborhoods over from mine - a little bit bigger, and a little bit nicer, than anybody I'd grown up with. Walking up to the front door, I felt a little out of place. No, more than a little. The well-manicured landscaping and perfectly painted trim looked like something out of a commercial.
He opened the door before I had a chance to ring.
"Marissa," he said. I could my mom's engine still idling behind me.
"Hi," I said.
Mark was smiling, stepping back and pulling the door open farther. "Come in, please."
I did as he asked, my eyes darting all over the entryway. Everything was gorgeous and perfectly placed. It really was like walking into a magazine.
"Wow," I said. I couldn't help myself.
Mark grinned. "You like it? I have to admit, it's a pretty nice place. I can't take credit for most of it, though. I had a decorator come in."
A decorator?
I wanted to ask him how he could possibly afford all this, but even I knew that was rude. Still, though. I'd never encountered a seminary student who seemed to be this well-off.
"Come on, have a seat in the living room. I'll take you on a tour after dinner."
I followed him into the living room as I'd been told, sitting down on the plush sofa and keeping my back firm and straight. Almost immediately, he disappeared into the next room. I sat quietly for a moment, then tried to figure out what he was doing.
He was fiddling with something in the kitchen. I craned my neck to see what he was doing, and realized that he was popping the cork on a bottle of wine. There were two stem glasses sitting out on the counter. I felt a prickling sensation on the back of my neck.
When he came out to the living room, I carefully avoided looking at him, or at the glass that he set down on the coffee table, right in front of me.
"What's wrong?" I felt the cushion shift as he sat down next to me.
"I don't..." I cleared my throat. I felt like I should have said no thank you, but it seemed a little late for that. "I don't drink," I said, finally.
"Never?" He seemed surprised, taking a sip from his own glass.
I shook my head.
"Once I was a teenager, my parents always let me have a glass on special occasions," he said. "With dinner. I thought it was something everyone did."
"I guess not."
"You've taken communion, right?" He frowned at me. "It's the same thing. Well, except, this tastes better."
I looked down at the glass, then back up at him. He was smiling now. "Just grape juice," I said.
"Even on Easter and Christmas?"
He was right. For holiday communions, I had eaten bread dipped in real wine. I remembered it as being sour and unpleasant, and it wasn't really something I felt the need to experience again.
"Come on," he said, with a coaxing smile. "This is a special occasion, Marissa. Just have a little taste. If you don't like it, you don't have to finish it."
I already knew I wasn't going to like the taste, but I wasn't going to let on. He probably thought I was the kind of "bad girl" who went out boozing with my friends, like everyone else did. I didn't usually bother to correct them.
I took a sip. It wasn't as sour as I expected, but it was very rich, almost perfumey. My mouth felt dry after I swallowed.
He was twirling the stem of his glass, rotating it slowly on the coffee table. "Have you really never had a drink before?"
"No," I said.
"That's surprising. From what your mom said about you, I just thought..." He stopped, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought that up."
"It's okay. I know how she talks about me." I eyed the glass, and considered the possibility of taking another sip. "You can take everything she says with a grain of salt."
"Yes," said Mark, smiling. "I've noticed."
I let out a long breath. It was refreshing, for once, to hear someone acknowledge it. I tipped a little more wine into my mouth, letting it roll around on my tongue this time, trying to acclimate myself to the taste.
"Well, most people don't start with dry red wine, so you're doing remarkably well so far." Mark's smile broke into a grin. "It's kind of an acquired taste. Once you get used to that, you'll be able to enjoy almost anything."
I felt myself relax a little. Somehow, with Mark, I always felt like I needed to prove something. Like he'd made some kind of assumption about me that wasn't true, and I was going to suddenly remind him that I was just a stupid inexperienced kid and he'd be better off finding a wife who was more mature and worldly. But his smile and easy attitude about the wine was making me feel a little better.
"Now listen," he said. "You don't have to talk about this right now if you don't want to, but I'm curious. Why do you think people assume things about you that aren't true? I was told you were troubled, but as I got to know you, it doesn't really seem that way at all. You just seem like a girl who needs a little guidance. Not some rebellious basket case."
My wine glass was growing warm in my hand. I set it down, and swallowed hard. "Is that what people say about me?" I looked up at him. "A rebellious basket case?"
He made a dismissive gesture. "Whatever. You know what I mean."
I did, but having him confirm it still felt a little uncomfortable. I tried to come up with an answer but my mind was blank.
"Oh, Marissa." He sat up, looking concerned. "I'm sorry - I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I thought you knew...well obviously you do know, but I didn't need to rub your nose in it." He reached out and grabbed both my hands, holding them in his. They suddenly felt very small. "I'm sorry. Let's not talk about it right now."
"No, it's okay. It's...it's fine, really." I pulled one of my hands away and grabbed my wineglass, taking a longer swig than I'd dared to before. "I just try not to think about what people are saying. But I know. I can see it, you know, they whisper about me when they think I'm not paying attention."
Mark nodded, watching me carefully.
"I don't know why, exactly," I went on. "It's just always...I don't know. The earliest thing I can remember is my parents always pestering me to talk. Like they were always worried that there was something wrong with me. But I knew how to talk, I just didn't see the point of babbling constantly. I wanted to wait until I knew exactly what I was trying to say. My sisters would just start making noises, and my parents called it 'talking' but it really wasn't. I didn't want to be like that, you know? And I guess I was too little to know that I should have just acted like everybody else. But once I got into the habit, I guess I got stubborn."
Mark was still nodding. "You don't like being judged by other people's standards," he said.
"I guess." I'd never thought of it in those terms. I just didn't want to have to struggle to be something different than I was. But the world in general seemed to think it was necessary. My parents, my peers, everybody - everywhere I turned, I felt misunderstood. Complaining about it, though, had always seemed self-indulgent. As my mom always reminded me, there were people out there with real problems.
"Well," said Mark. "There's really nothing wrong with that. I know we clergy types always end up sounding like a broken record, but have you tried praying for guidance? You might be able to find a balance that makes you a little bit more comfortable, and helps people accept you for who you are. But never forget - God already does."
I nodded. I'd been told things like that before, but Mark sounded like he actually meant it, as corny as it sounded.
"And..." He squeezed my hand. "So do I."
***
Things were going pretty well between Mark and I. I'd sort of adjusted to the whole thing, although it still didn't quite feel like real life. My days were full; after the shiftless empty hours of my post-high school doldrums, it was strange. I was almost n
ever home. He took me to all kinds of places around town, which I'd only ever been to with my family. Sometimes, the employees recognized me and I could feel their eyes following me, wondering why I was suddenly with this man. It seemed like we were always having lunch, or ice cream, or coffee, and he never even gave me a chance to see the bill.
A few nights a week, I'd eat dinner at his house. He always made something fancy - herb crusted this, poached that, with a different wine that was supposed to complement the taste of the meal. I thought the food made the wine taste even more acidic and biting, so I mostly drank water while I ate. I didn't think he was particularly pleased about that, but he never said anything.
After dinner he'd often pour a very small, skinny glass full of a different syrupy-sweet wine from the freezer. It was so cloying it made my mouth water, but I would drink as much as I could, trying to stop before my head started swimming.
He talked almost constantly while we were together. It seemed like he never ran out of stories. After a while, some of them began to sound vaguely familiar, and I started to wonder if he was repeating himself. But I could never call up a specific memory of him saying the same thing twice. After a while I just shrugged it off, though it seemed that as time went on, the stories got more and more extraordinary.
Sometimes I tried to reconstruct a timeline of his early life based on what he'd told me, but it was difficult to make sense of things. He'd get slightly irritated if I asked too many questions, so eventually I gave up on it.
On this particular night, he was a little quieter than usual. He seemed frequently lost in thought, though I felt his eyes on me almost constantly, especially when I wasn't looking at him. Something was obviously troubling him, but I didn't want to be nosy.
Finally, when we were sitting on the sofa with our desert wine, I couldn't stand the silence anymore.
"Is something wrong?" I asked, softly. It seemed like forever before he answered.
"I wish you wouldn't dress like that, Mari."
I froze. My throat was tightening, and I tried to force myself to look up at him, but I couldn't quite manage it.
"I'm sorry," I managed to say.
"It's okay," he said, his tone soft and soothing. "Just try to be a little more thoughtful in the future, okay?"
I swallowed with difficulty. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"
When he didn't answer, I forced myself to look at him. He was giving me a look that suggested I was being a little slow.
"I'm sorry," I said, again. Ever since I'd hit puberty, my mom had been making me try on all my outfits in front of her. I wasn't allowed to buy anything she didn't approve first. I'd always thought she was pretty strict, so it never occurred to me that my clothes might be immodest.
"Please stop apologizing," he said. "I'm sorry. I really thought..." He sighed a little. "Some girls, you know, they do it on purpose. A little bit. For attention."
"I'm not doing it for attention," I insisted, folding my arms across my chest. I doubted that my neckline was the problem - my collarbones were barely showing - but he'd made me very self-conscious.
"You have to understand how men think," he said. "Stay away from anything that clings, or anything above knee-length. Sometimes it helps to buy things a couple sizes too big, I know there aren't always a lot of options out there if you don't want to sew your own clothes." He was smiling. I relaxed a little, but not much. I didn't think that my shirt was too tight, and my jeans certainly weren't above knee-length. But I didn't want to admit my ignorance any further.
"I was afraid you were going to tell me I needed to dress like Louisa May Alcott," I admitted. "Like some of those girls do."
"Well," said Mark with a chuckle, "there's nothing wrong with doing that if you want to. But no, I don't think it's necessary."
"I can go home and change," I said, my face turning beet red.
"Marissa, please," said Mark, reaching out and touching my arm. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. It's all right, I'm the one who's weak. I really appreciate you doing me a favor by accommodating me."
"Sure," I said. "I'll try to be more careful."
***
At church that week, Mark acted like everything was normal. I hadn't realized it at the time, but when we were alone, he was a completely different person. He led prayers before the sermon, and when I saw him standing up there behind the lectern, I couldn't picture that same guy offering me a glass of wine with a subtle, knowing smile. Let alone scolding me about my appearance.
Well, nobody behaved the same at church as they did in real life, did they? I shouldn't be so surprised.
But when I thought about that first night, I still felt an uncomfortable prickle on the back of my neck. I wanted to tell myself that it was just excitement, the thrill of getting to do something forbidden, but the truth was I didn't like the feeling. I didn't like it at all.
If he spoke to me a little less after the service, focusing most of his attention on some of the other attendees, I certainly didn't mind. I stood in my usual corner, waiting for my family to be done, when I felt someone's elbow jab me in the side.
"Ow," I said, turning around to see Martha standing there.
"Hey," she said. "I was thinking of asking Mom and Dad if they want to stop and get a fast food breakfast after church, like we did in the old days. My treat. You want?"
"Sure," I said. We were piling into the car shortly after that, driving down the road to the same drive-thru we'd gone to as kids. I had to admit it almost felt nostalgic.
"What do you want, honey?" My mom twisted around to ask me at a red light.
"Just an iced coffee," I said. "Cream only."
"Cream and sugar?"
"No. Just cream. No sugar."
Mom shook her head. "You won't like that. It's too bitter."
"Mom," I said, more loudly than I meant to. "No sugar. I know what coffee tastes like with no sugar. I like it that way."
"Since when?" She pulled into the drive-thru lane. "I don't remember you ever wanting your coffee without sugar."
"Just iced coffee," I said. "It's less bitter."
"No it's not." Mom squinted at the menu. "Martha, you wanted the biscuit with the cheese, or without the cheese?"
"It doesn't matter, they'll screw it up anyway," my dad muttered.
The speaker squawked, and my mom began to order. She went through everyone else's requests first, and then: "And a small iced coffee with cream and sugar."
I didn't say anything then, or when she handed it back to me. I took an experimental sip. It was sickly sweet. I tucked it between my knees and let out a little sigh that went unnoticed by the other occupants of the car.
About halfway home, the car jolted suddenly. I grabbed for my coffee but only managed to get the lid, and the contents of the cup went flying. Most of it soaked the front of my dress, but a great deal splattered all over the interior of the car.
"MARISSA!" my mom shrieked, twisting her head around. "What on earth was that?"
"Keep your eyes on the road," my dad said under his breath.
"My coffee," I said. "It spilled."
"It spilled? It spilled?" my mom repeated.
"I spilled it," I modified, biting the inside of my cheek.
"Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable. How many times have I told you to hold on to your drinks in the car? Now there's milk and sugar and coffee all over, soaking into the carpets. Do you have any idea how much that's going to stink? Can you afford to have this car detailed? I don't think so. Maybe you can ask your boyfriend to help you pay for it."
"Paula," my dad said, softly. "It was an accident."
"An accident!" my mom shouted, jerking the wheel. "How many accidents has this girl caused? I've told her again and again, a thousand and one times, to hold on to her drinks. She won't clean up after herself. She never does. It's going to stink like rotten milk in here forever."
Martha's eyes were big and frightened.
"I always clean up," I heard m
yself say. "You always say that, but I always clean up after myself."
"Yeah," Mom scoffed. "Your idea of cleaning up. So I have to go in after you and re-do the whole thing, because you do everything halfway because you just don't care. It's not your car, why should you? I can't wait until you're married and out of the house, then you'll actually own things and you'll understand why I get like this. You have to take care of your belongings. You have to know your own limitations, Mari. You're clumsy. You have to be careful."
"I am careful," I insisted. Angry tears were starting to form in my eyes, but I held them back.
"You think Mark's going to stay with you if you're always ruining everything? Making a mess all over the place?"
She waited, as if she actually expected an answer.
"Yes, Mom," I said, finally. "I think he's going to stay with me no matter what, because he loves me. Even though he doesn't have to."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Mom snapped. "You think I don't care about my children? I won't listen to your emotional blackmail. I just won't."
Martha finally spoke. "Mom, please," she said. Her voice was quivering. "Mari feels bad enough already. It was just an accident."
Mom pealed into the driveway and violently threw the car into park, so that the whole body jolted. "Stay out of this, Martha. You don't want to talk to me right now. Everybody get in the house."
We all obediently filed in, leaving her alone out in the driveway. I half expected to hear the engine roar as she squealed out into the street, but she just turned off the car and sat there as we all filed in, my dad clutching a fast food bag and Martha still holding her untouched breakfast sandwich.
I retreated to my room immediately, but it was only a matter of time before Martha came knocking at my door. I knew it was her, from the sound.
"Hey," she said, smiling hesitantly. She sat next to me on the bed. My yearbook was open on my lap, but I wasn't looking at it. I'd thrown my coffee-soaked dress in a pile in the corner, changing into sweats and an old tee-shirt, but I could still smell it, still feel a slight sticky residue on my skin. "You okay?"
