It turned out that Joey had never been to a museum, except in the first grade, when he went on a class trip to the dinosaur rooms at the Museum of Natural History. That blew my mind. I’d lived most of my life just a few blocks from the Met, and had gone there almost weekly. So I took him around, showed him the Egyptian exhibit and tomb, and the medieval section with all the thick suits of armor. He was amazed; he hadn’t even known these things existed anywhere, least of all thirty miles from home.
Then I took him upstairs, to the paintings.
To my favorite place in the museum, and possibly in the world.
To the Monet room, a place where you could actually be among some of the finest works of Claude Monet, who was in my opinion the greatest of the Impressionist painters. Monet was infatuated with gardens and water and often depicted both. He created stunning pastel-colored, dream-like portraits of nature.
This room is my sanctuary.
We circled the room slowly, weaving through people, taking everything in.
The last painting was my favorite. Bursts of lavender water lilies floating on an ethereal pond. I turned to tell Joey how much I loved it, but stopped when I saw his face. I didn’t have to tell him—he felt the same way. He was mesmerized, steeped in thought. It was as though he was trying to figure out how to enter the painting. Or maybe, somehow, he had.
After a while he turned to me, smiled that little smile.
“Thanks,” he said.
I took his hand, led him to the bench in the center of the room. Surrounded by beauty, we sat.
We sat crooked, his denim-covered knees touching mine in grey tights. I felt this tingling through my legs and I inched closer into him, into his arms.
God, I felt so safe in those arms.
So, so safe.
Then he kissed me.
There were all these people milling around the exhibit and then just like that there weren’t. They evaporated, they melted into the air. It was just us, then. Just us left, and the water.
Us in the water, kissing softly.
He held me tight, like he was my vessel guiding me across.
I melted then, too, but not all of me. Just the hardness, the coating over my everyday life. I didn’t need its security, because I had Joey. It vaporized—poof!—and I was free to be me.
I realized then, as I reveled in my freedom, that the covering I’d been sheathed in hadn’t been shelter, not anymore. It had started that way, but it became a pall, obscuring me. A facade—a camouflage of who I was supposed to be, but wasn’t. It was the personification of everyone’s expectations.
Everyone except Joey. He’s the only one who didn’t expect, or assume. He gave me room to breathe.
My shell had gone from protection to prison, and I hadn’t even noticed. I’d been locked inside—safe, but alone. I’d spent so much time being who Mom and Dad wanted me to be that I’d never gotten to explore who I truly was. I just didn’t know it until now.
In my sanctuary, kissing Joey, I knew it was safe.
Finally, it was safe to be me.
Mom’s finished cooking and we’re all at the table. She and Dad both blink at me now, waiting patiently like good little therapists for my answer to the question she asked ages ago, and which she’s just repeated: How’s everything going with Joey?
Isn’t my session over yet?
This is what it’s like now, at my house. This is what it’s come to. Meet the shrinks. If they’d just be my parents again, I’d spill it all out.
I’d ask for help in reconciling the two Joeys. The one that’s headed for prison, or worse—and the other, who set me free.
“Fine,” I say. Our pancakes are in plates in front of us, losing steam. “Everything’s going great. Pass the syrup, please.”
Joey
Snap.
Crackle.
Pop.
Me, Jimmy and Warren
crunch
cereal. We’re playing
the
game
looking at the
sunny yellow wallpaper
looking at the white light on the
ceiling looking at the bananas and the
oranges and the red and green
apples in the bowl in the middle
of the table looking
everywhere
except
at them.
Pop’s jabbing his finger at Mom,
he pokes
into her arm,
he yells she’s a worthless
bitch.
My
head
feels like it’s gonna
pop
right off my neck, it’s gonna
burst
wide open
like a sledgehammered
watermelon—
shimmering crimson
gunk splattered
over green linoleum and
bright
sun.
Jimmy crunches away he chews on he doesn’t give a
shit let ‘em kill each other that’s what he thinks.
I think that’s a good excuse not to help her but
what’s
mine?
But it’s not my
job
to save my
mom
is it?
Aren’t I the
kid?
Is it my
fault
she chooses to stay with
this
prick
she married?
Once
I asked her if she
knew
before.
I asked her if she knew what he
was
when they were
dating.
She said she didn’t. She said he was just
old
school
Irish
Catholic.
She said he wanted a housewife to
cook and
clean
and she didn’t wanna work anyway she wanted someone
solid
to support
her.
Yeah, he was solid alright he packs a nice
solid
punch
don’t he?
I asked her why she
stays.
She said she stays for us for
me
and Jimmy and
Warren.
And for a while after that
conversation
she was my
hero
she was my
home
warrior
keeping the family
whole.
But then it came to me what a load of
shit
that was. She don’t stay for
me
and my
brothers she stays for
her.
She stays ‘cause it’s easier than
going
than taking care of
herself and not knowing what’s out there in the
cold
dark
world.
She’s got no one else to count on that’s for
sure.
Back when
Pop
started being
Pop
she went to her mother and tried
telling her it wasn’t
working
out.
My grandmother she’s not the
sympathetic
type.
She told my mom: You made your own bed,
enough
said.
Grandma stopped visiting when I was
little after
Pop
told her to eff off one time.
But I think she was glad to be done with
us
anyway to leave us with the
mess
Mom
chose.
Grandma wasn’t exactly overflowing with
warmth.
Touching her was like getting a
brain
freeze in your
body.
The really funny thing is that out of them three
Pop
is the
only
one who ever
brought
up
love.
He loves Mom he tells her
sometimes
when he’s not
hitting
her
and I think he means it too.
But Mom I don’t think she loves
Pop
not one bit.
She takes what he gives
the good the
bad
this is her
life so
be
it.
Now Doll
comes into my head.
Me and Doll with all them paintings water
water
everywhere.
Sweet sweet Doll oh god I can taste her lips they’re like oxygen
pure
oxygen a dose of fresh air
they’re hope
she tastes like hope.
For the first time
I’m not hopeless.
We’re kissing
I’m hoping
and the room turns slow
all them paintings swirl around us
they
take
us
in.
We’re gliding through them lily pads
swimming we swim we’re breathing
underwater
we blend we mix we melt right into them whirling bursts of colors where everything’s
connected where everything belongs where everything’s
right.
The world’s so right
finally
it all makes sense
but then
I
quit.
I quit I quit I
quit kissing her I
push
her
away I let her float back to the surface.
It ain’t right
swimming with her
using her to
breathe
like that.
I can’t I can’t I
can’t take the chance of dragging her down to the murk with me.
She don’t belong at the bottom
of the pond she don’t belong
here
in my kitchen.
I can’t let her be
here
even just in my mind she might get muddy.
Warren’s scared he blinks blinks
blinks his
big
brown
eyes
he forces slow spoonfuls he stares at
fruit.
Me
I’m waiting to wake up.
I been waiting to
wake
up
from this nightmare years too long now. It’s getting harder and
harder to fool myself it’s real tough playing
“pretend
you
don’t
see.”
His bacon’s
sizzling
on the stove his eggs are
whisked
in a bowl
waiting
to be poured on the
griddle his coffee is drip
drip
dripping
its last drops
into the pot his orange juice is
freshly
squeezed with
pulp
strained.
His face is beet-colored he’s all up in her face she’s backed against the counter
nowhere to go and it
won’t
be
long
now.
I wanna wake up
in a normal family where my
pop
kisses my mom good morning and reads Newsday at the table, where my
pop
never raises his voice let alone his hands, where my
pop
loves his family, where my
pop
loves me.
For seventeen goddamn years I been waiting for my pop to love me how stupid is
that?
In a desperate attempt to either
escape
or
give
up
my mind floats back years and years to
another
morning.
Me and Jimmy
playing on the living room floor with
Lincoln
Logs.
Mom’s eye is purply-
blue it’s half-closed. Her lip’s
scabbed
blood around the
crusty
edges and
puffy it’s all puffy from what
he did
last night.
Pop tells her to make him breakfast.
She says,
Make your own
breakfast.
Pop
says
nothing. He’s
red. His face is bright
red
like a Fireball candy. Hate’s
dripping
from his skin like
sweat I can smell it.
He lifts up the
love seat.
It’s brown like the coffee she
brews for him everyday
but not
today
it looks like the coffee when she stirs in cream
it’s creamy brown.
He holds the
love seat
high
he grips it tight so
tight
the veins in his hand bulge
thick
and
blue.
He slams it
bam
he
bashes the
creamy
brown
love seat
down
down
down
on Mom’s back. She screams she
howls
like a dog like
an
animal
that don’t know how to
mask its
pain.
She falls she
falls
she
falls
arms up like she’s
surrendering
hair slapping at her
face
white apron strings flap
flap
flapping. The floor rumbles it rocks it
shakes
when she hits
bottom
bent and
broken.
Her eyes are shut.
Round logs
topple they
spill they
roll
they
scatter.
Some hit the wall.
Mom quivers like she’s
cold like she’s freezing she
shakes. She looks whole but she’s
broken.
Her eyes are shut.
Me and Jimmy’s log house is broken like
Mom
but it’s in pieces you can see.
Her eyes are shut.
Back then,
she still cried.
Back then,
I still
believed
really I believed
that I would
wake
up.
I truly believed I would wake up and Pop would
love
us that he would
love
me.
Pop’s pounding Mom to a
pulp.
I stare at the
clear
glass
bowl on the counter at the
beaten
eggs i
nside.
Eggs just waiting to
run
free across the smooth
non-
stick
surface. But they can
only get so far
before they reach a raised edge.
Snap
goes Mom’s shoulder.
Crackle
goes Pop’s bacon frying in the pan. The greasy smell is everywhere.
Pop
goes
Pop. He pops Mom
again
again
again.
Pop.
Pop.
Pop.
Five
Dorothy
I ask him, “Was it awful, being in jail?”
Joey’s silent, he’s holding me against him, stroking my hair. A few seconds go by, then he says, “Well, I wouldn’t file it under ‘fun.’”
We’re in his friend Jason’s garage, converted into a workout room. Jason’s mom works a second job nights, and his dad left town long ago for parts unknown, so the guys come here to weight train and to hang out without being hassled. But on days when no one is working out, Jason lets us come here for some “alone” time. I told Joey we could go to my room after school since my parents are at work until at least 5:30, but he said no way. He said he has a strict moral code when it comes to parents and their homes. He even admitted that it doesn’t make sense, but he won’t touch me under my parents’ roof. I think it’s strange, that he draws a line there, but it’s kind of nice, too. And it’s just as well. I could never really relax in my room. There’s no lock on my door. Every little sound would freak me out.
Not that we’ve done anything, really. Just make out. We’ve been making out a lot. And holding each other. We’re doing that now, lying together on blue exercise mats piled on the concrete floor, with a thick black punching bag turned sideways behind us. You couldn’t really call it a cushion, because that implies soft, and this bag is hard. This bag is no pillow. This bag was made for endurance, not comfort. Still, you take what you can get, and you do the best with it you can. It bolsters us, supports us.
My head’s tucked in the crook of his shoulder. I nuzzle against his shirt, breathe the scent of him. Spicy sugar. He’s mulled cider by the fire on a snowy winter day.
His heart’s beating, tha-thump, tha-thump. I say, “I’m sorry you went through that.”
He says, “No reason for you to be sorry—you didn’t send me there.” Tha-thump. Tha-thump. “Besides, I deserved it.” He sounds so hollow again, he sounds haunted. I keep thinking, if I can only figure out what’s at the base of all his misery, then I can help him release it. That’s why I’m bringing up jail. Because maybe that’s what’s tearing away at his spirit—those lonely, scary hours he spent in jail. All I want is to exorcize those ghosts, fill in that gap inside.
“That was mean of your dad … to send you there.”
Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Then a sigh. “Pop’s not the nicest of guys.”
“I’d say not.”
“Listen, Doll. Could we drop this? I just … I just wanna be alone with you. I don’t wanna bring Pop in here, let him lie down with us, okay?”
Melt Page 6
