Pull

by Claire Wallis

  Emma turns her body away from me and looks at the row of bottles again. She takes a deep breath and a long pause before she talks.

  “Of course I know you have a dealer. Had a dealer. It’s just that it’s a piece of your life I’d rather not be reminded of, especially not by someone with a plethora of venereal diseases under her belt.” She’s calmer, now, but her skin is still pink.

  Before I can come up with a response, she picks up one of the bottles and starts walking toward the liquor-store man. I pay for the wine and the fifth of Svedka Emma puts on the counter next to it. When we get out of the store, she takes the vodka and walks over to Nikki.

  “Hey, ginger,” Nikki says to her when they are face-to-face.

  “Hey yourself, sugar pie,” Emma says with a shitload of completely bogus sweetness. She hands the bottle of Svedka to Nikki and sharply adds, “Let’s call it even. Oh, and tell Ray-Ray we said hi.”

  And just like that, she turns her back to Nikki and walks over to me, grabbing my hand and tugging me down the street. I turn my head and look back at Nikki. She’s standing there holding the vodka with her mouth open and her brow raised, like she can’t believe what just happened.

  By the time we’re halfway home, it’s obvious that Emma’s still upset about something because she hasn’t said a single word.

  “I don’t understand why you’re still so worked up about me having had a dealer,” I say eventually.

  “That’s not why I’m upset.” She stops in her tracks and turns to me. She’s trying to snuff the anger out of her voice and replace it with forced niceness. Why?

  “When I questioned you about whether or not you’d fucked that skank and asked you if you had cootie-funk,” she continues, “you got excited. You got really fucking excited. Do you not realize that I can totally see how happy you get when I’m pissed off? I can feel it, for Christ’s sake. Hell, I’ve been able to feel it since the morning I found you putting the floor down in my new kitchen without my permission. And that’s what I’m upset about. Not your fucking dealer. Smoke crack till you’re blue in the face, David, but stop finding my temper so goddamn amusing.”

  Wow. She can feel it?

  “I can’t help it,” I say jokingly, trying to lighten the mood. “I just think it’s fucking hot. And, despite what you may think, it’s not like I’m riling you up on purpose. I’m just not putting out the fire as quickly as I could because, frankly, it turns me on.” I hitch my free hand onto her waist, pull her against me, and grind my hips.

  “See what I mean? You’re doing that on purpose, just to piss me off!” she says, but this time her voice is lighter. She’s joking now, too. “It’s like you’ve got some funky-ass form of sadism,” she adds with a forgiving little giggle.

  “I can think of a whole lot of other forms of funky-ass sadism that would be way worse than this one,” I say in jest, pumping my hips against her like a horny little dog, “and I’ve got some of those, too.”

  She freezes.

  Shit.

  I stop moving and let go of her body.

  She steps back from me, her face serious again. Fuck me. I know what she’s thinking, but what the old me did was far from some funky-ass form of sadism. I don’t know what it was, but it wasn’t sadism. It wasn’t cruel or sexual. It wasn’t some form of punishment. And it never turned me on. Not sexually, at any rate. It was not sadism in any way, shape, or form. It was control.

  I need to turn this around. I need her to know that just because I enjoy seeing her angry, doesn’t mean I’m some sadist. Funky-ass or otherwise.

  “I’m kidding. You know that, right?” I see the smallest bit of doubt soak into her eyes. Keep talking, David. Make this better.

  I take a deep breath, put my hands on her shoulders, and start talking.

  “Every nerve in my body leaps to attention when we’re together.” Her eyes are wide now, and I feel her shoulders start to relax. “Seriously. It’s been that way since the very beginning. And when you get angry, it just sends me right over the fucking edge of sanity. It turns me on. I can’t help it. But, it’s not sadism, Emma. It’s love. I love you. You and me. Together. Like I said, I can’t help it. But, if you think it makes me some kind of funky-ass sadist, then bring on the therapists, 'cause there’s no way I can stop liking the way it makes me feel. The way you make me feel.”

  “Oh, gag.” She rolls her eyes up into her head, making the Texas Longhorn sign with her right hand and holding it up to her ear. “Calling Dr. Phil, calling Dr. Phil, come in, Dr. Phil. You’re nuts, you know that?”

  “Yep.” I drop my hands off her shoulders and tuck them into my pockets. I raise my body up onto my toes and kiss the top of her head. “And I’m not sure Dr. Phil would have the faintest fucking idea what to do with the likes of me.”

  “Well, I sure as shit don’t,” she says with a small, light smile.

  We start walking down Harborough Street again, heading back toward the apartment building. A few minutes of silence pass before she speaks again.

  “Let’s make a deal.” She keeps her eyes straight ahead as she talks. “I promise to get fired up from time to time so you can have your fun, if you promise to never, ever touch another woman again.”

  “Well, that’s the easiest deal I’ll ever make,” I say, but I’m suspicious. “I’m curious, though. Why do we even need to make a deal about that?”

  “Because back there, when I thought that maybe you’d scrumped that ugly-ass whore, I got insanely jealous. I mean, jealous like I wanted to kick you both in the face. Hard. You for being so stupid. And her for even existing.”

  “Ahhh. I get it. The insatiable covetous strikes again.”

  She looks over at me as we walk and takes my hand into hers. “I guess we’re both well beyond Dr. Phil’s abilities,” she says with a shrug. “So is it a deal or what?”

  “Done.”

  Chapter 17

  David—Age 10

  I finished the fourth grade yesterday. It was an okay school year. Not a great one, and not a crappy one. Just an okay year. Mostly thanks to Alex Burson and his bullying ways. He’s such a jerk. I’m glad my best friend Jimmy Paxton wasn’t in my class this year because he never would have been able to handle being bullied. Most of the kids in my class couldn’t handle it. But I handled it. I “took it like a man,” just like my dad told me to.

  It all started the second week of school. On Monday, Alex Burson stole my lunch right off my tray and threw it on the floor. Then on Tuesday, he accidentally spilled paint all over my new shoes in art class. Wednesday brought a new low when he forced me to eat a worm on the playground. He threatened to pull my pants down in front of the girls if I didn’t eat it. I swallowed it whole. It really didn’t taste that bad, but the wiggling almost made me puke. Thursday involved stealing my homework and making me kiss Steve Brewster in the boys’ bathroom, right in front of a bunch of other boys. On Friday, when Alex called me a wanker and punched my privates in gym class, a teacher finally saw. I got sent to the school guidance counselor, and Alex got sent to the principal.

  That evening, the guidance counselor called my dad to tell him about what happened with Alex. About everything that had happened with Alex, not just the part about him calling me a wanker. Stupid me. I told the guidance counselor everything Alex had done all week long, thinking it would be private. Thinking she would only use it against Alex. But instead, she used it against me. She told my dad everything. All of it. Every single detail.

  That night, I got a wake-up call at two a.m. My dad’s hands shook my body awake while his whiskey-soaked breath seared my nostrils. He pulled me out of bed and pushed me against the wall, my head smacking the drywall with a thud, my feet hovering just above the ground. The first thing he did was ask me why I would let some asshole kid push me around. I told him that Alex was way bigger than me. He said it didn’t matter. He told me to “take it like a man” and fight back.

  “For Christ’s sake, please tell me you didn’t cry
like a goddamned little baby,” he said, his eyes full of anger and contempt.

  “I didn’t cry, Dad. I swear,” I said in a near whisper. “Not even one little bit.”

  “I don’t want to hear about this kind of shit happening ever again,” he yelled into my face. “Don’t be a pussy. Or next time, I’ll be the one punching you. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said quietly, my heart beating a million miles an hour, just about flipping out of my chest. I wanted to spit in his face. I wanted to claw out his ugly, stupid eyes. But I didn’t. I was too busy holding back my tears. Too busy trying to “take it like a man.”

  “You know what?” he said after a long pause, still holding me by the collar of my too-small pajamas. “Never mind. Don’t fight back. Be a pussy if you want. Maybe that’s what you are, anyway. A little pussy. Maybe you’re not man enough to take it like a man. What do you think? Huh? Think you’re man enough?”

  I didn’t know how to answer. The smell of him told me that he was drunk as he’d ever been, and the look on his face told me he wasn’t messing around. I knew that if I gave the wrong answer, he’d hit me hard enough to kill me. I knew it.

  “Yes, sir,” I said again, hoping it was enough.

  “We’ll see about that.” He let go of my pajama collar, and my feet dropped down to the floor. His hands turned me around to face away from him. Then he tugged down my pajama bottoms and briefs. One of his hands met my bare behind in three swift strikes. Three swift, hard strikes that echoed through my body with their sting and their consequence.

  “Take it like a man,” he had said. I swallowed back my voice and held my eyes shut tight, to keep my crybaby tears deep inside. But the anger and humiliation stung just as much as his hand. I wished he had hit me hard enough to kill me. Right then, I wished I were dead.

  I couldn’t fall asleep that night, even lying on my stomach. So instead of sleeping, I thought about how much I hated my dad. And about what I would do the next time Alex Burson tried to be my bully.

  Turned out my opportunity arrived first thing Monday morning. No sooner did I get off the bus, when Alex stole my backpack and sank it into a toilet in the second-floor boys’ bathroom. I did what I thought a man would do. I opened my zipper, took out my penis, and peed all over the front of Alex Burson’s pants. I got him real good. Then I ran back to the classroom as fast as I could. A few seconds later, he walked into the room with a wet crotch. Everyone laughed until the teacher hushed them back down. The weird thing is that he didn’t even tell the teacher about me peeing on him. When she asked him what happened, he told her that the toilet splashed up on him when he flushed. I took that as an opportunity to tell her the reason it splashed up on him was because he had my backpack shoved down into it. She called the janitor who, unsurprisingly, found my backpack in the toilet.

  Alex got two days detention. I got a new backpack.

  Obviously I didn’t tell the teacher or the guidance counselor about the peeing part either, or about the fact that my mother’s letter was in that backpack. But I did ask the counselor to please not call my dad, and as far as I know, she didn’t.

  For the rest of the school year, Alex Burson tried his best to make everyone miserable. He taunted the girls and lifted up their skirts behind the teacher’s back. He punched the boys on the bus until they gave him their lunch money. He spent more time in the principal’s office than he did in Mrs. Levi’s classroom. But he never bothered me again. I watched him push everyone else around, but he never so much as looked at me. I didn’t like all the things that he was doing, but I didn’t want to be a tattletale either. Because tattletales are right up there with crybabies.

  The really bad part is that, thanks to Alex Burson and a toilet in the second floor boys’ room, my mother’s letter is ruined. Almost completely unreadable. The only parts I can still make out are “my bright little bird,” “from your loving momma,” and a few other sentences. But I know what it said. As soon as I learned cursive, I figured it out. I will never be able to read her words again, though, and I hate him for it.

  But school is over now. So I don’t have to worry a lick about Alex Burson for three whole months. Now I only have to worry about my dad.

  Chapter 18

  David—Present Day

  On Monday, Carl’s to-do list keeps me busy all day. When I stop at Jackson’s for parts, Clive tells me to hang on to Emma. “She’s a pretty one,” he says. “Smart, too.” All I can do is promise him that I’ll try. He puts his hand on my shoulder when I leave and tells me that that’s all a man can do. His eyes shine as the words come out.

  I complete a bunch of smaller jobs first, but I save Mr. Wiggin’s place for last and spend the longest two hours of my life cleaning kitty litter out of his disposal and lecturing him on why he can’t put it down there anymore. He stares at me the whole time, holding one of his cats in his arms and pretending to listen. It’s six o’clock when I finally go home to shower and wait for Emma at the bus stop. The 61C stops at the bottom of our hill at 6:47.

  Emma tries to teach me how to make a steak in the broiler, but I can barely manage chopping the cucumbers for the salad. In spite of my ineptitude, the meal is delicious, and while we eat, I tell her stories about my trip to Clive’s and all the crazy shit I had to deal with today. She’s wearing a permanent smile as I talk, and she laughs her raspy little laugh at all the right times.

  When the dishes are done, we sit down on the couch to watch some TV. She’s flipping through the channels when someone knocks on her door.

  She looks at me with a shrug and yells, “Who is it?” in the general direction of the door.

  “Hey. It’s Brad. Is David in there?”

  What the hell is Brad doing here? Poker isn’t until tomorrow night.

  “Yeah, man, I’m here.” I stand up and walk over to the door. “What’s up?”

  I open the door, and Brad and Cameron are standing there. Both of them are covered in grass stains and wearing T-shirts and jeans. Aside from running the Tuesday night poker game with me, they mow grass for the company that manages all the landscaping for Carl’s buildings and a bunch of other places in the city. The smell of dirt and gasoline leaches off their bodies and into Emma’s apartment.

  “We’ve got a problem,” Brad says. “You have time to talk?”

  “Sure,” I say, standing in the doorway. I’m not inviting them in because I don’t want Emma’s place to smell like shit for the next three days. “What is it?”

  “It’s kind of complicated.” Brad’s eyes widen a little when he says it. It’s his way of telling me he doesn’t want to talk about whatever it is in front of Emma. I get it.

  “Okay. I’ll see you up at my place in a minute.” They nod and turn to walk up the stairs. I tell Emma I’ll be back in a few minutes and follow right behind them.

  The instant I close my apartment door behind me, Brad’s up in my face.

  “What the fuck did you do to Nikki yesterday?” he shouts. “Ray is pissed like I’ve never seen him. So help me…if you fucked this deal up for us, I will ring your goddamn neck!”

  “What?” I bark back at him. “I didn’t do shit to Nikki. I gave her a fucking fifth of vodka yesterday and that’s it.”

  “Well, Ray has a different story to tell. He said you threatened Nikki and told her you were gonna take her down or some bullshit like that.” Brad is fuming, and Cameron is standing behind him with his arms crossed over his chest. Ahh, I was wondering why he was here. Now I understand. Brad knows I can wipe the floor with him in a heartbeat. It’s happened before, over the poker bet he called with Emma’s shoe. So he brought Cameron here for back-up. But what Brad doesn’t know is that I could wipe the floor with the both of them. Piece of fucking cake.

  “That is a balls-out lie,” I say, pointing my finger into Brad’s face. “Nikki was high off her fucking ass. She’s making shit up.” Jesus. I know what this is about. It looks like we aren’t even, after all. Because, apparently, Nikki’s s
till mad about what happened with Ricky.

  “The only thing I did was tell her to lay off Emma,” I add. “She called her a homely little redhead right to her face. What the fuck was I supposed to do?”

  “I don’t know, but you sure as shit weren’t supposed to piss Ray off. God, David, you’d better make this right, because if we lose this deal over some conversation you had with a junked-up whore, it’ll all be blown to hell. The gravy train will crash, and it’ll all be on you, man. All of it.”

  “I get it, alright? I’ll talk to Ray. Nothing will be blown to hell. I know what this is about. The deal will go through, Brad, just calm the fuck down and trust me.”

  Brad’s face relaxes a little, and he runs his hands through his hair. Cameron steps forward and opens his mouth.

  “If you don’t fix this,” Cameron says, “you’re out.”

  Now that’s some funny shit, right there.

  I’m out? This guy’s got some balls. Stupid balls, but balls nevertheless. As if that decision is even remotely his to make.

  I slowly reach for Cameron’s face and put a hand on each of his cheeks. He flinches when I make contact. His skin is warm, and his upper lip is noticeably quivering. I’m not sure if it’s anger or fear I smell on him, but either way, he’s about to get stuffed.

  “I’m out, you say? Is that right?” I ask, with a heady pause between questions. My face is tight up against his, and my palms squeeze into his boyish face. This bratty little asswipe thinks he can threaten me. “Cameron, you keep saying stuff like that and you’ll find yourself on someone’s shit list,” I say in a voice straight out of The Godfather. “And that’s a place you don’t want to be. Nobody—not you or Brad or Ray or any of you motherfuckers—determines when I’m out. Nobody. This is my game, Cameron. Mine. And if any of you wet pieces of shit think I’m going to let Nikki—or Ray, for that matter—end it, you’re sorely mistaken.” I hold onto his face for a moment longer and tap my forehead against his.