Melt

by Selene Castrovilla

  no one.

  He looks at me dead-on his

  eyes they’re plowing straight into

  mine.

  He says,

  The puddle

  it’s in your

  mind.

  Dorothy

  I’m in my living room with Amy. We’re watching a show about the life cycle of butterflies on the Discovery Channel. This is my life, my summer—watching tv every night. What else can you do with an eight o’clock curfew?

  Not that there’s anything to do anyway.

  I spent the first half of the summer waiting for Joey. Looking for him to show up, magically appear on the beach, on the street, at my gate ….

  Somewhere. Anywhere.

  It’s August.

  I get it now.

  He’s not coming.

  All across the wide-screen there’s fluttering, colorful wings.

  I say, “All that talk about butterflies being free, but they only get to live three to four weeks. What kind of sick joke is that?”

  She says, “Maybe their deaths are merely transfigurations to another plane of existence, another metaphysical state of being.”

  I say, “I think they die. Period. ”

  Twelve

  Dorothy

  Here we are in Dunkin’ Donuts again. Around here in the summer life’s nothing but iced lattes and donuts after the beach. Thank god school starts tomorrow.

  All this noise, all this pink—I’m ready to scream. Why are we here?

  But I know why.

  Because Amy likes to come here, and she’s been a good friend since Joey left. She’s listened to me recite my tale of woe over and over without comment or complaint, without one “I told you so.”

  Because I’d rather be surrounded by this bantering and blaring color than left alone with nothing.

  Because maybe I’ll run into him here, it’s where we met. I’ve tried so hard to forget him, think about all the bad things, the way he treated me. Every day I stretch out on my towel, close my eyes. There’s sun pulsing warm into my skin. There’s music coming from Amy’s iPod, not loud enough to make out the songs, just a rhythmic jumble. There’s the waves sliding and tumbling into the sand and then retreating as more move in. There’s little kids giggling, squealing as they play, pure joy in their voices. There’s seagulls cawing; there’s the ice cream truck in the parking lot playing endless rounds of “Take Me Out To The Ballgame;” there’s the smell of burgers and hotdogs grilling—but when he comes into my mind there’s nothing else. I think of him drinking, throttling Brian, shoving me. I think of him bloody and angry, demanding that I not say I love him. But those pictures, they fad fast and I’m left with one of him holding me, just holding me. We’re lying together in Jason’s garage, and he’s wrapped around me tight so tight I can feel his body on me still …. Every day I have to roll onto my stomach, press my face into my towel, practically burrow into the sand to hide my tears. They embarrass me, and I wish they’d just leave once and for all, like him.

  I should be over him by now, but here I am on line at Dunkin’ Donuts, praying he’ll walk in.

  Jimmy and Jason are here, at their usual table in the front room. They saw us come in. Jimmy shot me a quick wave, Jason gave a nod. I’d go over, but what would I say?

  I’m staring into the grey tile waiting for the feet in front of me to move when someone grabs my arm.

  It’s Amy.

  She says, “C’mere, I’ve got to tell you something.” She pulls me off the line, pulls me outside. She says, “I was waiting for them to finish mopping the back room, leaning on the wall near the tables.”

  I shrug. “So?”

  “I heard Jason and Jimmy talking ….”

  “Oh god, is Joey okay? Did his—” I stop myself before I say Dad, I’m honoring his secret no matter what. “Did he get hurt in a fight?”

  “It’s nothing like that,” she says. She stares at me for a minute, then sighs. “Look, I’m no Joey Riley fan, and I think you’re better off without him. But you’re so sad all the time ….”

  “Would you just tell me?”

  “Okay, okay.” She leans against the glass Dunkin’ Donuts facade. “Jason asked Jimmy what’s up with Joey, why is he never around anymore.”

  “He doesn’t hang out at the bridge drinking?” I interrupt.

  “Guess not. So Jimmy says that Joey stays in his room, barely does anything except boxing and work—he got a job as a mechanic, apparently.”

  “He doesn’t party?”

  “No, and there’s more. Jimmy said he’s not supposed to tell, but Joey’s been going to AA.”

  “What?” AA? That makes no sense. The last time he saw me was back to the Bacardi. He broke up with me because I wanted him to stop drinking.

  Unless ….

  Oh my god. It does make sense.

  It all makes sense.

  “I’ve got to go,” I tell her. “I’ve got to talk to him.”

  I run all the way. Across the busy boulevard, over the rail road tracks, through the main part of town.

  By the time I get to Joey’s my chest is heaving, and I have to sit on his lawn for a sec or I won’t be able to speak.

  I knead into grass, catch my breath. My heartbeat slows to normal. I hoist myself up, head to his door, knock.

  The door creaks open. The woman answering has dirty blonde hair, a worn out expression and a black eye. “Mrs. Riley?” I guess.

  She opens the screen door, steps out. She’s slouched over, like there’s some invisible weight on her back. “Yes?”

  “Um … is Joey home?”

  She squints at me, kind of like the sun’s in her eyes, except it isn’t. Her right eye is encased in a swollen, purply mound. It reminds me of Joey’s face the last time I saw him. “Joey’s not home from his boxing lesson yet. You his girlfriend?”

  “Uh ….”

  Before I can answer, she decides I am. “I didn’t know he had one, but I’m glad.” She perks up a little now, her back straightens a tad. “That boy, he’s been moping around here like somebody died. Come inside and wait.” She holds the door wide for me. I’m suddenly hesitant. I don’t like this house, not at all. It makes me cower inside, like there’s a little kid in me all balled up in a corner, rocking.

  But the need to see him, it’s greater than my dread.

  I go in, guide the screen closed so it doesn’t bang.

  “Wipe your feet, dear,” she tells me as she heads to the kitchen.

  I slide my sneakers on the mat, then catch up to her side. “I’m Dorothy,” I tell her, thinking maybe she’s heard of me.

  There’s no sign of recognition at my name. He never told her about us, about how happy we were.

  He kept me to himself.

  “I’m cooking dinner,” she says. “Come in the kitchen. I gotta stir my potatoes.”

  We pass through the archway, pass from brown carpet to green linoleum. I think of all the things Joey’s told me went on in here, and it’s hard to force a smile. “Such a tidy home you have,” I tell her, because it’s the polite thing to do.

  “Thank you, Dorothy.” She’s stirring, stirring. “I try my best to keep it nice.”

  I’m standing next to her watching her stir, feeling my insides stirring too. I just want to talk to him already ….

  “My little one, Warren, he’s at a friend’s house,” she says. “And my James, he’s having dinner at his girlfriend’s. But my Joseph, he always comes home for supper.” She stops stirring for a second, thinks about what she said. “Of course, I won’t mind if he eats at your house sometimes. I’m not one of those mothers who can’t let go ….”

  “It’s okay,” I say. All this small talk is about to send me out of my skin.

  The screen door slams. Suddenly it occurs to me that it might be his dad.

  I turn; I look for a back door or some exit. There’s a window over the sink. Could I get up there and out before he got to me?

  But it’s him, it’
s Joey. His feet hit the linoleum twice, then stop when he sees me. He looks good.

  His face, it’s healed.

  “Doll ….”

  It’s there in his eyes—the light.

  He lights up for a second when he sees me, before he can cover up.

  He still cares.

  I want to hug him, it’s been so long, but he quickly masks his reaction. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Joseph!” His mom says. “Is that any way to speak to a young lady?”

  “Ma, I don’t know any way to say this other than butt out,” he tells her.

  She turns back to her potatoes.

  To me he says sharply, “You gotta get out of here.”

  “We need to talk,” I say.

  He’s wearing his wraps, his gym bag’s slung over his shoulder. He notices me looking and says soft, “I just got a job. I’ll pay you back for the lessons.”

  “I don’t want your money, Joey. That was a gift, no matter what ….”

  My words trail off as we lock eyes.

  He’s fighting himself, I can see it.

  Now, I see everything so clear.

  Joey

  Here they are

  again

  these voices at

  war

  in my

  head

  they won’t

  shut

  the hell

  up. One’s

  wailing

  for her to

  stay one’s

  screeching

  to make her

  go ….

  Dorothy

  He says, “You gotta leave.”

  “I’m not going until you listen,” I say.

  “I’ve got some laundry to fold,” his mom says. I sense that’s how it’s done around here, you walk away from other people’s messes. She hands me the spoon. It’s covered with a white potato-y film. “You’ll stir?”

  I nod.

  She goes.

  I head to the stove, dunk the wooden spoon in, whirl it through the thick goop.

  Joey grabs my arm, squeezes. The jolt when he connects, it’s so strong I let go of the spoon.

  I manage to catch hold again, hoist it out before it sinks.

  “What is wrong with you?” he demands. His eyes are wide now, in desperation, in fear. “Doll, please …. Go.”

  “No.”

  He looks like he’s going to burst, like he wants to drag me out of here, but he can’t bring himself to. “Don’t you get it? Pop’s coming home!”

  I should be afraid, but all I can register is how great it is to be touched by him again.

  How great it is to feel again, to feel anything again.

  I’ve been dead all summer.

  The spoon in my hand, it’s dripping potato mush all over the linoleum.

  His hand quivers against my skin, I feel it through the soft cloth on his palm, I feel it even stronger through his fingertips. That vibrant power between us, it’s undeniable.

  I say, “Joey, I know.”

  He lets go, his hand flops right off my arm. “What do you know?”

  “I know why you broke up with me … to protect me.” I turn to the pot, dip back in, stir some more.

  “Bullshit ….”

  I stir and stir, round and round. How much do you have to stir anyway? “Joey, I know you don’t hang out anymore at the bridge.”

  “Got bored with them, that’s all,” he says, but his voice, it’s shaking.

  I lift the spoon from the potatoes, tap twice on the pot’s rim to knock off the excess, stick it on the spoon rest between the burners.

  I switch off the flame.

  Fuck those potatoes if they’re lumpy.

  I take his hand, fold it in mine.

  I say, “I know you’re going to AA.”

  “Who told you that lie …?” He tries to cover still, but he can’t pull it off. The vibe flowing between us, through us—it’s been denied too long.

  It’s the truth.

  “Aw, Joey,” I say.

  It’s all I can say.

  Joey

  The truth it’s

  out.

  I

  stop then I

  stop fighting it

  ‘cause there is no fighting it

  how could I not know that?

  I stop

  fighting I stop

  listening to the

  arguing in my

  brain I just

  breathe

  it in I just

  breathe in

  the truth.

  There’s this

  pop

  in my head

  and then it’s quiet.

  They’re

  gone

  the voices

  they’re

  gone.

  Finally

  there’s silence

  finally there’s

  peace.

  Finally

  they’re gone.

  Dorothy

  He’s crying.

  He says, “You never seen what he does to her … I couldn’t take the chance, that he’d do that to you ….”

  I pull him against me, he doesn’t resist. He’s clammy, damp and sticky from the workout. He nuzzles against my neck, it’s like he was never gone. I gulp his scent, I hear him suck mine in. His tears, they feel so good. It’s like they’re cleansing away all the muck I’ve been buried in since I lost him.

  He kisses me.

  Oh god, he kisses me. It’s water in the desert, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever tasted, he kisses me he kisses me he kisses me and everything melts away ….

  Then a voice booms, “What’s this?”

  Joey

  He’s got this big

  smirk

  on his face

  goddamn

  sleaze.

  I push Doll behind me.

  She was

  just

  leaving,

  I say.

  Pop

  says,

  Don’t look that way to

  me.

  He steps

  closer

  closer

  closer. I’m shaking I can’t believe I’m

  trembling what a

  wuss

  I

  am. Her fingers they’re digging digging

  digging

  into my sides her pulse it’s

  racing her arms they’re

  tight around me she’s pressed on my

  back we’re basically

  molded into one.

  This

  scumbag

  he steps

  steps

  steps his black cop shoes

  squeak on the green.

  He steps steps

  steps he

  squeaks it’s

  piercing.

  He says,

  Would your girl care to

  stay for dinner?

  He

  laughs he

  reaches out

  right

  past

  my

  head this son of a bitch bastard he

  reaches right

  past me

  like he just

  knows he can he

  reaches

  for her he

  strokes her hair.

  Dorothy

  It happens so fast.

  His dad touches my hair, I want to puke. He’s got this look on his face like we’re at his mercy and I think, my god, we are.

  Joey lets out this scream like a wounded, cornered animal. He smashes his fist in his dad’s face, his whole body rocks from the force, and I get knocked right off of him.

  His dad goes down, blue and shining gold spread flat over green.

  Joey’s on him, he’s got him by the throat with one hand.

  With the other hand he un-holsters the gun.

  “What did I tell you?” Joey’s voice is high-pitched, wired, wild. “What did I say? I told you not to to
uch her again!”

  His arm’s clamped around his dad’s neck. His chin’s wedged over his dad’s head, pressing into slick silver hair. He’s got metal rammed against his dad’s temple.

  He’s going to kill him.

  “No, Joey,” I beg him. “Please don’t throw your life away ….”

  “Goddamn slime,” Joey spits. The flecks spray down on his dad, a few land in his eye. “Piece of crap ….”

  “Joey, Joey … calm down, okay?” But he won’t calm down. He won’t look at me. I don’t know if he hears me at all.

  His dad squirms. Joey tightens his grip. He pushes, pushes the gun into his dad’s forehead, straight into the wrinkle lines.

  “Fuck you, prick ….”

  His voice cracks.

  He sounds so pathetic. I want to grab him, hold him.

  Maybe he’ll drop the gun ….

  But what if he doesn’t?

  His dad gurgles, he’s turning red.

  “Joseph!” It’s his mom, back from her laundry. “Joseph, put the gun down!”

  “Why, Ma? So Pop can shove it down your throat? You miss your kiss hello tonight from your husband?”

  Joey’s red, too, with rage. The two of them, Joey and his dad, they’re pressed together. I’ll bet this is the closest they’ve ever been.

  “Joseph, listen to me. I’m calling 911.”

  “Great, all Pop’s friends can come over and mop up his splattered brain. Less work for you, for once.”

  His mom’s already gone, back in the living room. I can only hope she really calls.

  “Don’t, Joey …,” I say.

  “Enough,” Joey says, real quiet. “It’s enough now. It’s time for this all to be done.”

  “The police will arrest him, Joey. After all he did to your mom, to you, to me …. They’ll have to listen.”

  “Screw the cops,” he says. “He’s gonna listen to me. For once, Pop’s gonna listen to me.” His arm strains even more around his dad’s neck. “ Are you listening, Pop?”

  His dad doesn’t move.

  Joey clicks off the safety.

  His dad nods.

  I say, “Joey, sweetheart, look at me, please.”

  He hesitates, then he does it, he looks at me.

  I stare into him with all the caring I have, I give him every bit.

  He flinches, but he keeps looking.

  I say, “It doesn’t have to be this way.”

  He’s crying softly, tears course down his cheeks slow, slow.

  I say, “Joey, I love you.”

  Joey

  I see it then.

  I see the puddle

  out of nowhere

  it shows up right in my