The Hollowed

by Jay Caselberg

  “And as for Alex, the guy’s a pig.”

  “Alex is just Alex. He’s okay.”

  “Oh come on, Stase. The guy’s an animal. Why do you want to be living with losers like him anyway? I didn’t think it was your sort of thing.”

  She shrugged.

  “I really wish you wouldn’t spend so much time there. What’s wrong with being with me? I have work I have to do. You can study when I’m working.”

  “All my books are there. Anyway, I like it there. I don’t know what your problem is, Chris. I’ve already said that if I’m with you I can’t work. I love that apartment. It’s a great place to live.”

  She wasn’t going to change her mind about it; that much was clear. He closed his jaw tightly and gripped the steering wheel, concentrating on the road ahead.

  The problem was he had given her something she could use without his realizing it and without realizing that she would in fact use it. She liked the fact that he was jealous. She liked the fact that Jim threatened him, and she played on it over the next few weeks. She dropped little mentions about how Jim had given her a massage, or Jim and she had spent an all-night session studying together. She rarely mentioned the other two residents from then on. Little by little, it started to work away inside him. He felt even more uncomfortable every time he visited, and he started avoiding it as much as he could. It meant that he and Stase were spending less time together and that started gnawing away at him as well. Gradually he started to feel almost like a small cat, taken in and then dumped by the wayside.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Another Place, Another Time

  At the end of that final year, Anastasia moved back in with her parents, back to the city. Chris was still based at the university, teaching part-time. Somehow, her parental home, was strictly out of bounds to him and always had been. She’d made that clear in no uncertain terms. He questioned her about it, but she wouldn’t be drawn. He knew that meeting the folks would be a big thing. There was significance in that simple act. It was incursion into ground that belonged exclusively to her, and Stase was very protective of that which was hers, and that extended to Chris. For that reason he was prepared to let it lie for a while. Not only was she protecting her space with them from him, but also guarding her time with him from them. The unfortunate side-effect was that their actual time together was limited, rationed. He wondered if perhaps that was the plan, the old principle of partial reinforcement being the strongest form of conditioning. Or maybe it really was just her way of maintaining her independence.

  But the problem was, when people become part of a relationship, they cease being true individuals; their characters, their beings merge into one another in such a way that they start being perceived as a joint entity rather than two individuals bound together by their choice to be with each other They had ceased being Chris and Anastasia. They were Chris-and-Anastasia or Anastasia-and-Chris depending on who knew them first. Chris was reasonably comfortable with that notion, but he failed to notice that the circle of friends that were his alone was dwindling. They started spending time with Stase’s friends and going out to things that Stase wanted them to attend. Andy and Bill had long disappeared from his life, except for passing chance meetings, and then they were brief. Moving away had done a lot to settle that.

  Partly in an effort to be closer to her, partly because a personality clash had developed with his current supervisor, he decided he’d transfer to another university, back to the city. It didn’t take long to find the opportunity. As a transitional step, he moved in with his mother—temporarily.

  Chris and his mother were close, but living together was difficult. He was grateful for the space and the opportunity, but there was attendant baggage. There was an underlying tension between them that always grew larger when they were living in close quarters. It didn’t mean that they were any less close; it was just that they were better off not living in the same place. Both of them recognized the tension, but the needs of circumstance allowed them to put it aside for the time being.

  Still Chris was not allowed to visit Stase’s place. She said it was the parents. He didn’t know whether somehow they would find him unacceptable, or whether it was still more protection of those things that were hers. There she was, and though he was closer, he felt more removed. As a result, Stase and he spent a good deal of time either in her car or in the front room of his mother’s house, the room that had become his in the interim. That did little to help the tension, as both his mother and Anastasia clearly saw each other as a threat. Words that passed between the pair were courteous but curt and no more than were absolutely necessary. Their territoriality wound the tension more tightly. Chris decided he’d sit back and let nature take its course, hoping that they’d grow to accept each other, but things got no better. He was working at the City University, studying part-time, and seeing Stase whenever he could. She too was working now, had a steady income stream, but still seemed to manage to maintain the parent-child relationship with her parents that meant they did everything they could to keep her happy. Chris, too, found himself desperate to keep her happy. More than once, he’d seen the look on her face when things weren’t going her way. Besides, he loved her, wanted to please her. She seemed to fill him with a power that he’d never known before her.

  As it became apparent that Anastasia was not going away, his mother became cooler in the already chill environment that drifted through the house whenever Stase was there. Finally, it became too much for Chris. Taking the gentle route and letting them work it out for themselves just wasn’t succeeding. Chris decided he had to do something.

  He found his mother in the kitchen.

  “Ma,” he said. “I want to talk to you about something.”

  She was washing up. “What is it?”

  “It’s about Anastasia.” He stood at the kitchen table with his hands on the back of a chair. His mother had chosen the rustic look. A long wooden table made from thick beams of aged pine, a pale wood Welsh dresser, wooden chairs and slate tiles. Her plates were hand-made, thick, chunky pottery thrown on a wheel. She stacked a plate in the rack above her head and reached for another without saying anything.

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Yes, I heard what you said,” she said.

  “Well?”

  “What is it?” she said with a sigh, turning around and wiping the backs of her hands on her hips and then the palms on the front of her thighs. She fussed with things on the table, not meeting his eyes.

  “I can see what’s happening and I need to tell you something. I want you to listen to me now. Anastasia is not going to go away.”

  Her hands stopped in mid action and she looked up. “What are you trying to say, Chris?”

  He pulled out a chair and sat. “Things aren’t great between you two and I feel like I’m stuck on the middle,” he said. “It simply can’t go on.”

  His mother shook her head and went back to adjusting things on the table.

  “I’m serious,” said Chris.

  There was a long silence. “You’re sounding as if it’s my fault,” she said, finally.

  “Well, I think it is, at least in part. I think you could make more of an effort.”

  Her mouth worked, and she turned back to the sink.

  “Well?” said Chris.

  “Who does she think she is?” she said without turning around. “She waltzes in here as if she owns the place, says barely a word to me. It’s as if I don’t even exist. How do you expect me to react? This is my home.”

  “Well, you’ve hardly made her welcome, have you?”

  She gripped the edge of the sink with both hands. “It’s not my fault. She was like that from the start. I welcomed her as soon as you brought her here and she treated me as if I was a servant in my own house.”

  Chris rubbed the flat of one hand over the table surface. “I know, she can be a little cool, but that’s no excuse. You can at least make an effort.”

  His
mother spun to face him. “I don’t like her. I don’t like the way she reacts, the way she treats people. What do you expect me to do?”

  Chris took a breath before continuing. “It’s simple,” he said, summoning the strength for the words he knew he had to say. “You make a choice, right here, right now. Stase is part of my life and she’s not going away. It’s time to understand and accept that. Either you change the way you react to her, or I walk away. It’s as simple as that. You can either have me as a part of your life…with Stase…or you don’t have me at all.”

  His mother narrowed her eyes slightly. That was the only change in her expression. She stared at him for a long time, looking as if she was about to say something, then turned away, back to the sink.

  Chris sighed. “Okay, I’ve said what I was going to say. I guess I’ll leave you to think about it.”

  He pushed back the chair and stood. Still she hadn’t moved. He left her standing there at the sink and headed back to his room.

  “Shit,” he thought he heard her say quietly just as he left the room, but he couldn’t be sure.

  Chris knew that wasn’t going to be the end of it, but at least he felt like he’d done something, and in so doing, he himself had made a choice.

  In the days that followed, he avoided being at home, encouraging Stase to go with him to other places. He wanted the matter to settle in his mother’s mind and he wanted to test it in small stages rather than all at once. He knew everything wasn’t going suddenly to change for the better in her mind, but at least he had to give her space to be able to work at it.

  Meanwhile, his life at the university continued, but he just didn’t feel he was getting anywhere. Stase was out, earning good money, but she’d always wanted to make good money, and somehow, with what the academic life had to offer, he felt like he was letting her down. There was no way he was going to build the sort of income stream that could match hers, not for years yet, if at all. Anastasia wanted things and Chris was in no position to help provide the things that she wanted. The whole living at a distance circumstance was becoming unbearable. She came back a few times to his place and the relationship between she and his mother was strained but cordial. Stase would bitch to him as they drove away, or just whenever the opportunity seemed to arise, but he refused to play that game with her. There had to be a better way. There just had to be.

  He’d been tossing the concept around in his head for about three weeks, not wanting to mention it and slightly afraid of even going where his thoughts were taking him. He didn’t know how she’d react. He knew that he wanted her there with him, all the time. Just to be with her, to feel her there when he woke in the morning, to slide in beside her and feel his stomach against the curve of her back. To cup her body, his arm encircling her breasts, their forms molded to each other, breathing in the scent of her hair. They’d been spending so much time together anyway, that it just seemed to make sense. He was comfortable when he was with her, and when he wasn’t, there was a hollow nestled deep inside him, knowing that something was missing. But still he didn’t know. She seemed perfectly content to keep their spaces separate, and maybe that was important to her, that particular, peculiar definition of boundaries and what did and did not belong to her.

  They spent a lot of time in Anastasia’s car those days. It had become a surrogate apartment in the absence of anything they could share. So they drove, or they sat and talked, or they were passionate, all in the tight confines of the car. The tensions between her and his mother didn’t help. Stase was reluctant to spend any real length of time at his place. Perhaps Chris simply constructed the belief in his own mind, but he became convinced that there was only one solution. They were parked in a side street, creamy orange light illuminating the darkened space within the car. Chris was behind the wheel, and he looked away, looking out at the naked street, at the police station opposite where they sat. It was vaguely surreal, painted in the artificial streetlight colors. The urge suddenly welled up inside him and he turned to look at her.

  “You know, I’m going to marry you,” he said. He felt a wash of trepidation as the final words left his lips. Had he really said that?

  “Oh, baby,” she said and reached across to take his hand.

  “No, I mean it,” he said. And he really did. That surprised him a little. He hadn’t quite expected to mean it, really.

  Later that night, he announced it to his mother.

  There was a mix of emotions on her face as she listened. “Are you sure this is what you want?” she finally asked.

  “I’m sure. Stase gives me the support I need. She’s always going to be there for me. I really believe that, Ma,” he said, completely convinced of what he was telling her. “She’s my world.”

  His mother became very quiet. She turned away and busied herself with tidying things up around the kitchen.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The Bridge

  The time came when Stase could avoid it no longer. Chris was finally going to meet her parents. They set out together in her car, Chris doing the driving as usual, Stase’s expression fixed and her hand creeping up to flutter nervously at her chest.

  “What is it?” Chris asked.

  She didn’t look at him. “You don’t know how nervous I am,” she said. “You don’t know my parents.”

  The statement hung heavily between them. No, he didn’t know them, he thought. And that was the whole point. He couldn’t see what she could possibly be afraid of. There was nothing in anything she’d ever said to make him believe they were ogres. Perhaps it was something else entirely. He had more reason to be nervous than she did.

  “More to the point,” she said. “You don’t know my father.”

  Stase gave directions in a quiet, hesitant voice as the pulled into suburban tree-lined streets. Chris had some idea of the locale, but it wasn’t quite what he expected. Somehow he’d presumed the area would be grander, more upmarket. They pulled in to her parents’ street and headed for an unassuming house, a garage by the side, all done in unflashy subdued brick. There was a veranda out the front and a large, old tree in the front yard.

  “Pull in here,” said Stase.

  “But shouldn’t we park in the driveway?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Here is fine.” It was as if she wanted to scope the place as they approached, checking for hidden traps. It was a quiet street, although Chris imagined it was noisier during the day. He’d noticed a large high school as they’d rounded the corner at the end of the street.

  Stase led the way, pushing open a metal gate and checking the mailbox on the way in. She took the two steps leading up to the porch, and stretched one hand out for the front doorbell. He wondered briefly why she didn’t use her own keys, but maybe this was some sort of protective ritual, the necessity to be invited into her own house now that Chris was with her. Her hand was held pressed against the base of her throat as they waited.

  The sound of footsteps came from inside and the door swung open.

  “Hi,” said Stase.

  Within the doorway stood a middle-aged woman. She was stocky, her hair black, dyed, Chris presumed. She had some of Stase’s looks about her. He could tell immediately where most of her looks came from. Her mother could have been a younger version of Anastasia herself, if perhaps a little stockier and round of face. She wore a simple floral-print dress and a single strand of pearls around her neck.

  “Hello, Anastasia,” she said. “And you must be Chris. Welcome. Please, come in.”

  Stase swallowed and stepped past her mother into the house. Chris gave a polite smile and followed.

  “We’re in the lounge,” said her mother as she closed the door.

  As Stase led him down the hallway, Chris, dealing with his own nervousness about the meeting, still managed to take in some of the details. There was nothing special or particular about the trappings. The house had everything he’d expect from middle-class suburbia: neat, plain decorations, a couple of tasteful paintings
and one or two family photographs affixed to the walls. He was led into the lounge. Her father sat in a large armchair, perched right on the edge expectantly.

  “Ah, so I presume you’re Chris,” he said and stood, extending a hand.

  Chris crossed and shook the proffered hand. “Pleased to meet you,” he replied, assessing the tall, thin, greying man before him. He could see nothing that warranted Stase’s previous comment. Her father was all smiles, if a little reserved.

  “Please, please, sit down,” he said.

  Chris took a place on the couch and waited, giving his own hesitant smile as the women appeared. They’d obviously been discussing something in the hallway.

  “Now, Chris, what can I get you?” asked her mother. “Tea, coffee? What’s your preference?”

  “Perhaps the boy would like something else,” said her father. “What about a beer, Chris?”

  Chris lifted a hand. “No, no, coffee will be fine,” he said.

  There were a few moments of uncomfortable silence as Stase’s mother disappeared to elsewhere in the house. Stase was hovering in the doorway, almost as if she was reluctant to cut off her escape route.

  “Come and sit down, Anastasia,” said her father.

  She nodded and crossed to a chair, and sat, clearly ill at ease. By now, her father had relaxed back into his own chair, watching Chris, still with a half smile upon his lips.

  Chris took the opportunity to take in the room’s furnishings. A couple of armchairs, two couches, a low table and a nice dark, patterned rug in the center. No television. A pastoral scene on one of the walls. A tall vase of flowers stood on a corner table. This was clearly a room for meeting and greeting. Moments later, Stase’s mother appeared carrying a tray, carefully set it down on the central table, and looked up at him while she was leaning over.

  “How do you have your coffee, Chris?”

  “Um, just white thanks. Milk, no sugar.”

  She poured some milk into a cup with the coffee already in it and handed it to him. She offered him a small plate with neat little pastries on it, but he held up a hand again. Stase, her mother, and her father, all had tea.