When My Heart Joins the Thousand

by A. J. Steiger

  “You said your lunch break is at one thirty?” he asks.

  “Yes. I just need to clock out, then we can meet somewhere and eat together.”

  “How about the dolphin exhibit? The map says there’s an underwater viewing area. It could be a nice place to sit.”

  I stop walking.

  I avoid the dolphin exhibit when I can. It’s a very large pool, almost fifteen feet deep, and being near any deep body of water tends to trigger feelings of unease and anxiety. If I suggest a different meeting place, however, I’ll have to explain why, and I really don’t want to explain this. I’m not even sure how I could.

  “Alvie?”

  I close my eyes briefly, collecting myself. My lunch break is only a half hour. I should be able to endure it for that long. “I’ll meet you there.”

  I clock out, grab my lunch from my car, and walk to the dolphin enclosure. A long, curving cement path leads into the underwater viewing area. It’s dark, with rough pebble-textured walls, like a cave. Stanley is already sitting on the low stone bench, bathed in blue luminescence. He looks up at the sound of my footsteps.

  I sit next to him, clutching my paper lunch sack.

  “What’ve you got?”

  “Bologna on white bread.” My usual. Affordable and filling enough, if not terribly nutritious.

  Beyond a sheet of clear Plexiglas lies the expanse of the dolphin pool. With its smooth, curved white walls, it looks like the inside of a giant egg. The two dolphins, Charlie and Silver, glide smoothly through the blue. They’re Ms. Nell’s favorite animals, probably because they bring in the most guests.

  He watches them. “Dolphins always look so happy, don’t they? Like there’s not a thing in the world that bothers them or makes them angry.”

  I swallow a mouthful of sandwich. “Bottlenose dolphins can be very aggressive, actually. Males will band together to attack and kill porpoises. No one knows why. Porpoises don’t share their diet, so they aren’t competitors for their food supply. Killing them doesn’t give the dolphins any obvious evolutionary advantage. Apparently they just don’t like them.”

  His brows knit together.

  Charlie glides close to the glass, one dark eye staring out. His smiling mouth opens, showing rows of tiny, sharp teeth. Faintly I can see my reflection sitting next to Stanley’s in the Plexiglas. Just an inch of solid material between us and all that . . . water.

  A lump of sandwich sits in my mouth, dry and tasteless as paper. I force it down my throat.

  Stanley rests his forearm across the top of his cane. “You don’t idealize them, do you? Animals, I mean.”

  I lick a drop of mustard from my finger. “They’re no more inherently good or evil than humans. They’re a lot like us, actually. We all eat, we all mate, we all struggle to survive. We all kill, though we humans try to hide that fact from ourselves. This bologna was a living creature, once. Well, probably several.”

  “I guess so. But killing for food is different.”

  The dolphins swim past again, followed by a flurry of bubbles. It’s my imagination, I know, but it seems that I can hear the water—a dull rumble in the center of my head, a vibration in my marrow.

  Silver lets out a high-pitched call—eh-eh-eh-eh-ee! Like mocking laughter. The water makes rippling patterns on the concrete floor. I move my foot away from the dancing spots of light.

  “Alvie?”

  The rumble in my head grows louder, drowning out my thoughts. The pressure builds and builds inside me, and suddenly it’s too much. When I close my eyes, a vision explodes in my head: I see the Plexiglas cracking, then shattering. Water pours out, flooding the viewing area. Water sweeps over my head. The world is blurry, and when I gasp, water rushes in. It presses in around me, cold and dark. My head breaks the surface, but a wave bears down on me, roaring, and drags me under again, into blackness—

  Stanley touches my arm, and I give a start. My eyes snap open. The Plexiglas is intact, the water blue and placid behind it.

  “Hey,” he says. “What’s wrong?”

  My own ragged breathing fills my ears. The half-eaten sandwich slips from my hands and lands in several pieces on the floor. “I have to go.” I stumble up the curving cement path, into the sunlight. I huddle in a ball on the ground and rock back and forth on my heels, cradling my head in both hands.

  When the brain haze clears, I hear Stanley calling my name over and over. I hear his slow, unsteady footsteps coming closer and closer. His shadow falls over me. I don’t want him to see me like this. Panting, trembling, I lurch to my feet and turn away.

  His hand comes down on my shoulder. I’m not expecting it, and a sickening jolt of pain goes through me, like an electric shock. My body reacts automatically: in an instant, I’m on my feet. In another instant, I spin toward Stanley, and my fist sails toward him, independent of my volition. Time slows, stretching. I see his eyes grow huge. I see him flinch back and duck his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

  I’m going to hit him. I’m going to hit him, and I can’t stop myself.

  No!

  The signals from my brain finally reach my arm. I freeze, my fist an inch from his face. He stands, hunched, breathing hard. Slowly his eyes open. There’s a flat, glassy sheen on them; the word dissociation floats through my mind. “Alvie?” he whispers.

  I back away and slump against the nearby wall of the reptile house. The world blurs and tilts. When it comes back into focus, Stanley’s expression is dazed, but that weird glassy look is gone. I swallow. “Stanley . . . are you . . .”

  “I’m fine.”

  I hug myself, fingers digging into my biceps, and bow my head. “I’m sorry.”

  He hesitates. I can feel his gaze on me. “What happened?”

  I take a deep breath. “Meltdown,” I mutter.

  As a child, whenever I lost control of myself at school—whenever I kicked over desks or hit bullies or hid in the janitor’s closet—that’s what teachers and doctors always called it. A meltdown. Like I wasn’t just an angry and frightened girl but a nuclear power plant spewing radioactive waste. Maybe it’s not an inaccurate metaphor.

  “But why?” Stanley’s voice is low and calming, but the question still makes me flinch.

  I hate telling people this. But I don’t see any alternative. “I don’t like water.” My face burns.

  “All water?”

  “Not all.” My gaze remains fixed on my shoes. “I’m not bothered by water from the sink, or in toilets, or anything like that. The duck pond in the park isn’t bad, because it’s shallow. But I don’t like being submerged in water, and I don’t like being near so much of it. It—it makes me feel like I’m drowning.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  My ears burn. “Because being afraid of water is stupid.”

  “It’s not. Not at all.”

  I give him a skeptical look.

  He shrugs. “I saw this talk show once about a guy who was scared of pickles, and a woman who was scared of buttons. You know, like buttons on people’s clothes. As a little kid, I was terrified of carousels.”

  “Carousels.”

  “I mean, I’m fine with them now. But when I was five years old, my dad took me to a carnival and tried to get me on the carousel. It was this huge thing, and it was spinning really fast—or at least, it seemed fast to me—and something about the combination of the movement and the weird calliope music and those horses going up and down just freaked me out. He had to buy me some cotton candy to calm me down. Compared to that, being afraid of water isn’t so weird.”

  There’s a knot in my throat. I swallow, but it won’t go down. “I almost hit you.”

  “But you didn’t. You stopped yourself.”

  “Barely.” And if I hadn’t . . .

  In my head, I see my fist crash into his jaw. Bones crack and crunch. He’s on the ground, contorted in pain. He’s back in the hospital, having surgical pins inserted into his jaw to hold the bone fragments in place. Months of agony, because I di
dn’t stop myself in time.

  I shudder. “I could have hurt you.”

  “In the future, I’ll be more careful. This won’t happen again. Okay?”

  I look into his blue-within-blue eyes. “I don’t understand why you’re not afraid of me,” I whisper.

  “I’ve spent most of my life being afraid, Alvie. I’m tired of it. I’m not going to avoid you because of one little mistake.” He smiles and rubs the back of his neck. “Though if you don’t like water, I guess my plans for tonight won’t work out.”

  “What plans.”

  “Oh. It’s nothing. It was going to be a surprise.”

  “But it involves water.”

  “Well, sort of. Frozen water.”

  I consider this for a moment, trying to remember if ice has ever negatively affected me. “Frozen is all right.”

  “Well, in that case . . . you want to meet in the park?”

  I’m tempted to ask him exactly what he’s planning—but then, he said he wanted it to be a surprise. I wonder if I’m being reckless. Lately I’ve been taking a lot more chances. But I know what Stanley means when he says he’s tired of being afraid. Maybe surprises aren’t always a bad thing.

  “Yes,” I say.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  At five o’clock, I pick Stanley up from the park. Since his arm is in a sling, I drive, and he gives me directions. I can’t begin to guess where he’s taking us. When we finally pull into the parking lot, my confusion only increases.

  Ahead is a large, open lawn surrounded by trees and illuminated by stadium lights. In the center, there’s a smooth, glassy surface encircled by a low fence. As we approach, I realize what I’m looking at, and I wonder if this is his peculiar idea of a joke. “This is an ice-skating rink.”

  “Yep.”

  “We don’t have skates.”

  He points to a little wooden building with a peaked roof. “We can rent some in there. They sell hot chocolate, too.”

  I stare at his cane, then at his broken arm. He just stands there, smiling. Apparently he’s not going to address the obvious—that for someone in his condition, ice-skating is about the most risky activity imaginable, outside of throwing himself repeatedly down the stairs.

  “I don’t know how,” I say.

  “That’s okay. I barely remember, either.”

  He told me he used to skate as a child, until he broke his scapula. Does this have something to do with that? Probably. Even so, this seems like a foolish way of confronting his demons. Like a burn victim deciding to overcome his fear by setting his house on fire.

  His smile fades. “I haven’t gone crazy, honest. I just want to go out and stand on the ice for a few minutes. I don’t really know how to explain this. It’s just something I need. And I thought . . .” A light flush rises into his cheeks. “I thought it would be easier, if you were with me.” He looks away. “I’m being kind of selfish, I guess. If you don’t want to do this, we don’t have to.”

  My gaze wanders back to the rink, which is currently deserted. The ice looks solid, though the weather doesn’t seem cold enough for that. It’s probably not even real ice, I tell myself. Lots of rinks use a chemical substitute like high-density polyethylene. That would explain why it’s so hard, even though the temperature is above freezing. And even if it is water, there’s absolutely no risk of drowning; I just have to keep reminding myself of that.

  “Let’s do it,” I say.

  We rent two pairs of skates and sit on a bench.

  The light of sunset has mostly faded, and colors are muted. The ring of stadium lights is on, but not at full power; they glow with a soft white radiance. All around us, snow falls in fat flakes, piling up on the bench and on our clothes and hair. I lace up my skates, then lean down to tie his, knotting them securely and looping the slack around his ankles for extra support. “Do they fit okay.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  For a few minutes, he just stares out at the ice, his expression distant and closed off. I notice the fingers of one hand digging into his thigh. “Stanley . . .”

  “Sorry.” He exhales a tense breath. “Having second thoughts.”

  Awkwardly I fold my arms around him. I’m still not good at hugging—my arms are stiff and wooden, like a store mannequin’s—but his trembling gradually subsides. It’s a new feeling, being able to ease someone else’s fear. A powerful feeling. “I won’t let you fall,” I say.

  He laughs weakly. “I should be the one saying that to you, shouldn’t I? I mean, it’s your first time.”

  I release him and cross my arms. “Well, don’t let me fall, either.”

  “I won’t.” He places a hand on my shoulder, pushing himself to his feet. Facing me, he extends a glove. “Ready?”

  I take his hand, and he leads me out onto the ice, leaving his cane where it is, propped against the bench. He moves in small, careful shuffles, leaning against my shoulder.

  My legs feel wobbly. I stay close to the edge, inching my way along the low wall surrounding the rink. Stanley grips my hand. “Let’s go out a little farther.”

  I grit my teeth, every limb rigid with tension, as we shuffle away from the wall. How did I let him talk me into this? “I think I’ve changed my mind.” I squeeze the words through my clenched jaws.

  “We won’t fall. I promise.”

  I move clumsily, sliding one skate forward, then the other. My body tilts back and forth; my arms are stiff at my sides. And still, he clings to my hand. “I mean it,” I growl. “I don’t think I can do this.”

  “Just hold on.”

  I glare at him, but he looks utterly sincere. Now that he’s actually on the ice, he seems to have gotten over his anxiety. I, on the other hand, was relatively calm until I actually felt how unstable these skates are. How does anyone stand up on these?

  But this is important to Stanley. I take a deep breath and nod.

  He starts to move, and I let him guide me. I begin to relax, almost against my will. His foot slips, and I catch him with an arm around his waist. He grips my coat. My heart beats rapidly against his.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  I nod but don’t move, afraid that if I do, we’ll both spill onto the ice. I feel clumsy and unsteady, like a foal taking its first steps.

  “See?” he whispers against my ear. “Nothing to it.”

  He rests his chin briefly atop my hair. For a minute or two, we just stand there. It’s strange, touching someone and not feeling the urge to pull away.

  He guides me back to the wall. A tiny smile grows from one corner of his mouth. “Hey, watch this.”

  I don’t like the sound of that. “Watch what.”

  He breaks away and moves in small, shuffling movements toward the center of the rink, leaving me leaning against the edge, helpless. “Just watch!” he calls.

  And all at once, he’s gliding across the ice, so suddenly and gracefully it’s surreal. He starts to loop around and manages to do one half of a figure eight before his legs wobble and give out. He doesn’t fall so much as crumple.

  I try to run to him. The ice flies out from under me, and I land on my knees with a painful jolt. Panting, I crawl toward him. He’s lying on his back, splayed on the ice. “Stanley!”

  To my astonishment, he’s laughing, though the sound is strained and breathless—more like gasping.

  “You’re a lunatic.” I help him to his feet, and he curls an arm around my waist. He’s limping a bit more than usual as we make our way toward the edge of the rink. We sit together on the bench, breathless and flushed. He smiles at me, eyes crinkling at the corners.

  I look down at his legs. “Are you sure nothing’s broken.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ve got metal rods in my femurs, remember?” He knocks a fist against one leg. “I’m the bionic man. Indestructible.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly got an indestructible head. It’s solid rock all the way through.”

  He blinks. For a moment, he looks baffled. “Wait—was
that a joke?” A broad smile breaks across his face. “I don’t believe it. You made a joke.”

  “I can do that, you know.”

  He takes his hat off and rubs his head, grinning. The flush in his cheeks is bright, his nose pink from the cold, and his hair is mussed up, flattened in places and sticking up in others. There’s a string of Christmas lights on the nearby tree—though it’s not even December yet—and I can see them reflected in his eyes. I wish I had a camera. Instead, I close one eye and think click, which is something I do when I don’t ever want to forget a particular image. I reach out and stroke his coat sleeve. It’s soft against my fingertips.

  Then I notice how labored his breathing has become. “How much pain,” I ask. “One to ten.”

  He hesitates, then mumbles, “Four.”

  I look at his pulse, hammering in his throat—135 beats per minute—and mentally adjust that to a six. He overexerted himself today, but I know better than to say anything about it. This was something he needed to do.

  Stanley fidgets, opens his mouth, and then closes it. Finally he takes a deep breath, reaches into his coat, and pulls something out. It’s a carnation. The bloom is bloodred, with lots of delicate crinkly petals, and half-flattened from being stuck inside his coat for so long.

  He holds it out to me. His Adam’s apple moves up and down. “Here.”

  I stare.

  “I said I wanted to court you. Remember?”

  Slowly I take it from him. I feel off-balance. Dizzy. A red carnation means something, in the language of flowers. But when I try to remember, something inside me flinches shut.

  Stanley sits, shoulders tense, hands tightly interlaced in his laps. The flush in his cheeks grows brighter, creeping into his ears.

  “Stanley . . . I . . .” My fingers tighten on the carnation’s stem. “I—”

  “I just wanted to give it to you. That’s all. You don’t have to say anything.”

  I clutch the carnation. I’m not sure what to do with it, so I stuff it into my coat pocket.