Beating Heart
Page 2
Mom hasn’t been much better, in Evan’s opinion—ever since she quit her job and took Libby out of day care, it looks to Evan like Libby has mostly been left to entertain herself around the house.
Libby never talks about any of this, though, and Evan doesn’t know how to ask. That’s Mom’s department, talking to people about stuff like that.
“You can come look out my window sometimes,” he offers.
She turns to look at him, hands still on the windowsill. “Anytime I want?”
“No. You have to ask first.”
“I didn’t ask just now,” she points out, very serious.
Sometimes the way she say things, the way she blinks at him, reminds him of a wise little owl. “That’s right, you didn’t,” he agrees, just as seriously. “You owe me.”
“What do I owe you?”
Evan doesn’t really want anything. “Um…you have to bring me a Coke,” he finally says.
“Mom said no food or drinks upstairs,” Libby says, obviously quoting, “because we’ll spill on the floors, and they’re—”
“Don’t tell me,” Evan says, grimacing. “Original to the house.”
quiet
night nestles into corners
tall clock in the downstairs hall
ticks the seconds
I roam.
The floors are dark rivers.
silver and gray
currents
of
moonlight pour
through windows
spill
from one room to the next.
sofas,
chairs,
boxes,
scattered
like small, battered pieces of shipwreck
the stairs rise
in
rippling folds
windows on the landing
glow
The door to
his room
is open.
he is in his bed
not high and soft
but small,
close to the floor
hard,
simple as a sailor’s berth
bedclothes
draped and wound
around his limbs
his face smooth in sleep
lips relaxed
boys’ lips,
I remember
can be so rough, so tender
so sweet
so soft
so full of lies.
That night, Evan has strange, choppy dreams that come in flashes. He dreams of sex, which wouldn’t be unusual except that these dreams have a detailed, familiar feel to them, as if his mind is playing back a memory rather than making up something new.
He also realizes, when he wakes, that he never saw the girl’s face. What he mostly remembers is her fine, pale hair. In the beginning it fell in a long braid over her bare shoulder. Later he saw it loose when she was under him and her hands reached up to clutch his arms and shoulders. Unbound, he remembers, it was soft against his nose and lips.
He comes downstairs in the morning to find his mother at the table in the breakfast nook, which is off the kitchen. The dining room itself is large, empty of furniture, and rather dark. Mom has finished eating breakfast and is drinking coffee. She looks relaxed and pleased with life in general. She has the house of her dreams, the job of her dreams, and happily she is unaware that her son has been having dream-sex with a hot young blonde all night.
“Good morning,” she says.
“Morning,” says Evan.
“Doughnut?”
“No, thanks.” He gets some milk out of the refrigerator, and a glass. He pours the milk, then starts drinking it the way he always does, in one long series of gulps.
His mother takes a sip of coffee. “You look tired,” she tells him.
“I had a lot of dreams.”
“About what?”
“I don’t remember.” He does remember; he just has no intention of discussing this with her.
It’s summer, but Mom keeps both hands wrapped around the cup. She always does that, as if she enjoys the warmth. “You should keep a dream diary,” she advises.
“Yeah, I should,” Evan agrees, but he doesn’t mean it.
Mom sips her coffee again, then sets the cup down with a careful clunk. “I’ll pick you up a journal, if you want. I’m about to get out and go sign Libby up for swim lessons.”
“About time,” Evan says without thinking. Immediately he knows he shouldn’t have said it. It occurs to him now that Mom has been busy getting the house ready, picking out paint colors, meeting with workmen, signing papers. Now that they’re here, of course she’ll have more time to do things for Libby.
Mom’s hands are still on the cup, but she’s intent on him now. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” he tells her, but then figures since it’s halfway out, he might as well finish. “It’s just that you moved her away from all her friends, and there’s nobody for her to play with around here. And the Asshole never comes to see her.”
Mom grips her cup a little tighter, and the look she gives Evan could nail him to the wall. “Don’t call him that,” she says in her put-your-foot-down voice. “He’s your father.” She starts to take another sip of coffee, but stops with the cup halfway in the air. “And you know something? You are not the parent here, Evan.”
“Sorry,” says Evan. He’s not sorry, not really. And he adds to himself, as he walks off, but he really is an asshole.
This house
and I
we fret.
everything is odd and wrong
rooms
that have
breathed their own
rhythm
are now
stuffed
smothered
the back parlor is
a messy nest
of tables, desks, books
scribbled scraps
of paper
cling together in
piles
mirrors are
no longer snugly
blanketed with dust
but undraped
reflecting sharp, clear,
jagged movement
doors long closed
are now
open
air, long solid and settled,
is
tossed and whirled
by
unpredictable
breezes
windows, frail and thin,
are unboarded
afternoon light
pushes
through the panes
trickles down
the
stairs
uneven drips
of
voices
write that down
come here and let me
fix
cartoons
Mama
I got it
just another minute
yes, we do
two for five dollars
put
it back when
you’re done
is this blue or purple
Evan! Phone!
his
voice is
husky, rough
it ripples the air,
winds itself
around me
clings
tugs at me
Evan’s on the phone with his girlfriend. He’s been going out with Carrie for about a year, which is a long time compared to most people they know. She was the first girl he ever had the nerve to ask out, his first date, his first steady, his first sex. They’ve always been crazy about each other, and back when they first started going out, he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. Couldn’t keep his mind off her—even during finals, he’d be impatient to finish so he could get out into the hall and find her, just to be with her. He liked the intent way she listened, eyes fastened to him; the way she made him feel smart, funny, important, strong. With most girls he felt like he was onstage; all
he had to be with Carrie was himself.
Nowadays, Evan has noticed, he talks to Carrie more when they’re on the phone than when they’re together. Sometimes he says things he didn’t realize he was thinking until the very moment he says them aloud. It gives him a vague feeling that he doesn’t even know what he thinks until he puts it into words and says it to her.
“Yeah, we’re pretty much moved in,” he’s telling her. “No, it’s a lot better now. It’s not a total pit. Believe me, it was. Mom was all, ‘Look at the paneling, it’s original to the house.’ But it looks okay now. Like human beings live here instead of spiders and bats.”
While he’s talking, he decides to go downstairs and get something to drink. He’s on the cordless, so he won’t have to hang up.
As he walks across the room, he gets a chill; sometimes there’s a draft in here, but he hasn’t figured out yet where it’s coming from.
this room
the windows the walls
all wrong somehow
odd objects everywhere
and the bed
is in the wrong
place
oh! the mattress was so soft
the down-filled ticking rose
around us like billowy waves
No!
This bed will have its head
against the wall by the door
the way it always did.
In the kitchen, Evan leans against the counter, drinking a 7-Up, while Carrie tells him about a fight her parents had. When he’s done, he tosses the can and walks back toward the stairs. As he heads up, he sees that Mom’s working in her office—or rather, she’s staring thoughtfully at the computer screen. That’s what she calls working, these days.
When he gets back to his room, he finds that the bed has been moved.
“Hang on a sec.” He holds the phone away from his mouth and yells out into the hall: “Will you guys leave my stuff alone!”
With the phone in one hand, he moves the bed back. Sometimes it seems like the women in his life are always in his business. He can’t even put his own furniture where he wants.
“I think Mom’s gone flaky on us,” he tells Carrie when the bed is back where it belongs. “First she sold her book, then Dad took off, then she quit her job and bought this house. Now she’s even beyond all that counselor-sounding shit she used to say. Now she’s all about ‘Follow your bliss’ and ‘Jump and the net will appear.’”
As he talks to Carrie, he sees Libby hanging around by the doorway. Next thing he knows, she’s all the way in his room, poking around the stuff on his desk.
He covers the mouthpiece—“Hey! Get out of here!”—and then answers Carrie. “Well, the third floor’s not fixed yet; the walls are still peeling. Mom’s got guys up there working on—Libby, I said get out!”
But Libby’s seen a picture on his desk, the one of Evan and their dad at the amusement park. They are together in one bumper car, side by side, Dad’s arm slung around Evan’s shoulder. They’re both grinning happily into the camera. Evan’s features are a mirror of Dad’s: the same smile takes over his whole face, crinkling up his eyes in the exact same way. The resemblance ends there, though. Dad has the sun-bleached look of an aging surfer, while Evan has Mom’s coloring: dark hair, dark eyes.
Solemnly, Libby bends over to peer intently into her father’s face. Libby has Dad’s fair hair and blue eyes.
“What?” Evan asks Carrie, but he’s watching Libby, who slowly puts out one finger to touch the photo. “Right now? Um, I guess. Let me just shower off real quick, and then I’ll be over.”
Libby’s face is full of longing, and Evan is now feeling bad for snapping at her. “Listen, I’ve got to go,” he tells Carrie. “Yeah, me too. Yeah. Be there in a few.”
He shuts off the phone and stands for a moment watching Libby, who seems to have forgotten that he’s there. He feels he ought to say something, but doesn’t know what; he’s not so good with words. He just doesn’t like seeing Libby so sad, that’s all.
He moves over to his stereo and turns it on. “Hey, Lib,” he calls to her. “I got a song you’re gonna like. Come here.”
Libby looks at him over her shoulder. Evan has always made it very clear that his stereo is off-limits to her. “You’re going to let me listen to your CDs?” she asks him, doubtful.
In answer, Evan holds out the headphones. She comes over with tentative steps, unsure what she’s done to earn this honor. He gently puts the headphones on her ears. He can’t hear the frantic rush of snare and cymbals that signals the beginning of the song, or the thick, shuddering bass that joins in. But he watches as her face loses its sad lines and starts to show that she does indeed like the song. For the moment, he almost doesn’t mind that Mom deliberately bought him the edited version of the CD. At least Libby can listen to it.
After a few moments, he lifts one headphone off her ear. “I’m gonna go take a quick shower,” he tells her. “Don’t touch any buttons. I’ll be right back.” He places the headphone back, and she stands perfectly still, hands stiff at her sides so as not to touch anything. He moves to get a change of clothes out of his dresser, then goes through the door to the bathroom he and Libby share.
when he moves
the air behind him
holds his scent
I trail along
delicious
In the bathroom, Evan locks the door behind him and turns the water on. He strips his T-shirt over his head, wads it up, and tosses it into the hamper. He already knows that it takes a while for hot water to work its way up here from the basement, so he takes his time getting undressed. He’s thinking about Dad, about Libby.
his chest, revealed,
is so smooth
a work of art
unseen
by any other eyes
I remember
my fingertips touched
his shirtfront
the cloth cool, crisp white
undid one
button
my hand slipped in
skin on skin
I remember I
felt his heart
beating
as if it had run
a great distance
oh, I remember
button
after
button
By the time Evan’s got his clothes off, the water still isn’t hot. He stands naked, leaning back against the sink. He’s thinking about that little electric car Dad got Libby for her second birthday. Even at fourteen years old, Evan had almost been jealous about how utterly cool it was, a tiny little sports car with a real gas pedal and brake, a real steering wheel that worked. That was so like Dad, to forget things like not letting babies put things in their mouths and then go out and buy something expensive, something unforgettable.
The only problem was that Libby wasn’t old enough to drive it. She sat in it and opened and shut the doors and played with the steering wheel and the little horn, but she didn’t know to put her foot on the gas pedal. And when Dad reached in and placed her foot on the gas, the car took off suddenly, with Libby unable to steer it, and she’d crashed into the curb. She’d been knocked out of her seat onto the hood, and she’d started crying, scared but not hurt. Dad didn’t go to her, didn’t say much; he mostly seemed a little angry that his gift hadn’t been appreciated. Mom had been the one to pick Libby up and comfort her while Dad ignored Libby and got Evan to help him carry the car back into the house. Then they sat down to watch the game together, and that was it for Libby’s birthday.
Finally the water’s at least warm, and Evan steps into the shower. He pulls the curtain behind him.
I remember
the warmth of his
skin
when I looked up at him
afraid of my own daring
his eyes were so bare,
intent, needy, hopeful,
that even when
we heard footsteps
outside the door