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Beating Heart

Page 5

by A. M. Jenkins


  his voice brushed over me,

  soft and teasing

  filling the stifled, leaden room

  with a lightness that couldn’t be touched.

  When he listened, intent,

  leaning forward,

  his eyes charmed and coaxed

  my words out of their constraints.

  When he smiled,

  it was a flash that spun

  and drove its way

  into my chest,

  caught my breath,

  whirled it up

  then let it go.

  There were quiet moments

  when he forgot to smile

  his eyes were the surface

  of a dark sorrow

  in which he flailed alone,

  thinking no one saw.

  But I did.

  If I forgot and my words

  tumbled out,

  neither veiled nor polished,

  bearing their meanings

  like homespun cloth upon their backs,

  he laughed, unshocked.

  Before he came I

  was small and stifled,

  tightly hobbled,

  but something in the way he laughed

  made cords loosen

  and fall away.

  he didn’t steal a kiss

  but gave one

  just

  a touch

  a soft lingering

  a mere turn of a key

  in the lock

  and I, who had been

  cramped

  as if in a cage

  a sedate, careful, measured

  cage

  began to burst out in

  secret, joyful ways

  doesn’t

  love

  mean

  trust

  faith

  giving of yourself?

  doesn’t love mean

  filling a gap

  meeting a need

  completing the whole?

  Evan gets busy with other things, and doesn’t come back upstairs till almost bedtime.

  When he enters his room, he finds the contents of the metal box neatly inside, the lid shut. He thought he’d left them out on his desk, but doesn’t really remember. He thinks about looking at the portrait of the girl again, but doesn’t. It’s a little creepy, the way he feels drawn to it—that old picture of someone long dead.

  Late in the night he falls into a restless doze. He dreams of the girl again, but the flashes are more vivid: the feel of thin, delicate white cloth crumpling in his hands as he shoves her nightgown above her waist; the hot smell of lavender rising up from the sheets; her muffled, rhythmic gasps next to his ear.

  They’re so intense that he rouses almost to wakefulness, but not quite. Enough to know it’s not real, and to be frustrated. Not enough to touch himself, to finish the job.

  When a deeper sleep finally overtakes him, he dreams he’s lying there and she’s nestled next to him, tucked into the curve of his arm, one finger tracing designs on his bare chest. It’s quiet, familiar, even though the hair spilling over his arm isn’t brown like Carrie’s, it’s pale and fine and long, still partly in a braid, a mussed-up braid that’s come almost undone.

  moonlight washes him in silver

  arm flung wide in sleep

  careless

  his breath draws soft and deep

  slow, untroubled sighs

  And then, in the dream, in the quiet, he hears something; he’s alert with fear, listening: someone is coming and he’s about to be caught, caught with this girl and he’s perfectly, utterly still, straining to listen into the silence.

  I like it when

  his breath

  becomes

  uneven

  like a sob

  when he grows cold

  pulls the covers

  up to his neck

  In the morning, Evan wakes to a slight uneasiness, a sense of dread that doesn’t fade when he opens his eyes. He can’t remember why he feels this way. All he remembers is the sex.

  He rolls over to sit up on the edge of the bed. The box is exactly where he left it last night. The lid is still shut. He doesn’t know why he can’t shake the feeling that the girl in the box—the girl he’s never seen before—is the one in his dreams.

  What a creepy idea, considering she probably got old and wrinkled and spotty and became somebody’s grandma. And there’s no reason to think that the girl in the letter is the one in the picture. And why does he think she’s hot anyway, in that dress with the collar up to her chin?

  It’s sick, that’s what it is.

  It’s a few days later when Carrie comes to see the house for the first time. Evan has not invited her before because, quite simply, it did not occur to him. He would not have thought to do it now, a month after moving in, if she had not asked.

  When the doorbell rings after dinner, Libby, excited to have company, appears at Evan’s side.

  He ignores her—Libby is one reason it never occurs to him to have Carrie over; Mom is another—and opens the door.

  Sometimes, like today, it hits Evan all at once how lucky he is to have Carrie. She’s totally hot, with a great body; Evan is the only one who knows exactly how great it is. Her makeup is subtle and perfect. Her brown hair is freshly brushed and shining. Any guy would be lucky to have her.

  But not just any guy does. He does.

  “Hi,” he says to her. “Come on in.”

  Carrie comes in and cranes her neck, looking all around at the airy hall, the ornate stairs leading to the landing. The stained glass makes it look like an altar.

  “Wow,” she says, impressed.

  “Your hair looks like Winnebago’s,” Libby tells her solemnly.

  “Winnebagos,” Carrie repeats. Evan can’t tell what she’s thinking. Sometimes Carrie is easily hurt; sometimes she takes things in stride.

  “It’s supposed to be a compliment,” he informs her. “Just take my word for it.”

  “Okay.” Today must be a taking-in-stride day, because Carrie turns to Libby and gives her a smile. “Thanks, I guess.”

  Evan is relieved. “Are you ready for the tour?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  Libby bounces along behind as Evan leads Carrie through the downstairs. “This used to be a parlor,” he says, showing her an empty room off the hall. “Mom says someday she’s going to get a piano and put it in there.”

  They move from room to room: the TV room, the dining room, the kitchen. Outside his mother’s office, he whispers to Carrie, “Don’t ask her when she’s going to finish unpacking, because she already has.” Then he steps into the open doorway. “Hi, Mom,” he says. “Carrie’s here.”

  Mom actually turns away from her computer. “Hi, Carrie. How have you been?”

  “Fine, Ms. Calhoun.”

  “Come on,” Evan tells Carrie, “I’ll show you the upstairs.” He’s already moving away.

  “Remember the rule,” Mom warns him.

  “I know.”

  As they head for the stairs, Carrie asks, “Which rule is that?”

  “The ‘doors are to remain open at all times’ one. Mom thinks that will keep us from”—he glances at Libby, who is running to catch up—“doing certain things.”

  “Well, it’ll keep me from doing certain things, that’s for sure. I could just see your mom or sister walking in on us.”

  “It could depend how fast we were, though, couldn’t it?”

  “No, I’m serious. Don’t even think about it. I really do want to see the house, anyway.”

  “Don’t even think about what?” Libby asks, tailing them up the stairs.

  Evan sighs. He can’t ask Libby to leave them alone, because Mom relies on Libby, as well as the open-door rule, to be a deterrent to premarital sex.

  She’s a good one, too. “Carrie! Carrie! See my room?” Libby darts ahead, leading the way. “Want to see my pictures? Look, I drew this one of a butterfly. He’s eating the flowers, see?”<
br />
  “Oh, yes. It’s very colorful,” Carrie assures her.

  “And here he’s pooping them out. That’s colorful too, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” says Carrie weakly. “Colorful.”

  Evan groans. “God, Libby!”

  “Oh.” It dawns on Libby. “I’m sorry. I’m not supposed to talk about poop to company,” she explains to Carrie.

  “Hey, Lib,” Evan says quickly. “Why don’t you dress Lucinda up in that bride dress so you can show Carrie?”

  “Oh! Okay!”

  Mercifully, she starts digging in her doll bin. Evan knows it will take her a few minutes at least to get that dress on. He pulls Carrie across the landing. “This is my room,” he says, walking in. He’s actually made the bed for once, in honor of company. The bedspread is folded back over white sheets; the pillow is white, lying neatly on top. For a second he flashes on his dreams, the closest thing to sex he’s ever had in this room, and for one knee-trembling second he allows himself to think of ripping the covers back and flinging Carrie onto the bed, onto those white sheets.

  Of course he can’t. Still, he keeps Carrie’s hand in his.

  She turns her head, looking around the room. “Um. It’s very—what’s the word?”

  “Homey?”

  “Spartan.”

  “Is that bad?”

  Her gaze falls on the Budweiser Girl. “I really don’t care for your choice of artwork.”

  Evan doesn’t want to get into a “discussion.” He gives her hand a little squeeze. “It’s okay. It reminds me of you.”

  “Me with about twenty pounds of silicone, you mean.”

  Evan glances over to the door. They’re alone. He steps closer to Carrie, close enough to feel her hair against his nose and lips. It’s dark and it’s not fine, it’s wavy and thick, but he says, very low, “No, just you.” If nothing else, he’s going to get at least a kiss before Libby comes back.

  his whisper touches her

  ear

  his breath warm

  his lips

  all tender curves

  his fingers are

  entwined with hers

  skin against skin

  I remember

  among the trees

  along the bluffs

  under the trees,

  giggling

  turned to

  kisses

  turned to

  touching

  turned to

  caught breath

  over

  his shoulder

  I watched

  the leaves above us

  grasping

  pieces

  of sun,

  tossing them,

  letting them go

  on

  his shoulder

  my fingers

  clutched

  white cloth

  straining, then

  letting

  it

  go

  after that,

  whenever I looked

  his eyes were on me

  full of purpose

  and a question

  to which I was

  the only answer

  I remember

  easing silent into his room

  as if slipping a leash

  muted straining passion and then

  slick and salty

  sweat cooling on his chest

  along his neck

  while we whispered

  always careful

  always quiet

  tenderness unlocked

  and shared.

  In the dark he spilled

  raw, half-formed thoughts

  and words which, always

  being held back,

  had rusted for lack of use.

  I remember

  tiptoeing, soundless

  before dawn,

  past my parents’ closed door

  my father’s even snores

  my mother’s undisturbed silence.

  Back in my own room

  I was

  still wrapped in closeness

  and in kisses.

  his lips

  on

  her lips

  just a touch

  a soft

  lingering

  the air

  feels wild and thick

  I am being slowly squeezed

  I remember…

  what?

  a voice knotted in panic

  a hand,

  hard and harsh

  unyielding

  weight

  Carrie pulls back suddenly, looking at the open door.

  “What’s wrong?” Evan asks.

  “Libby,” she whispers.

  Evan walks quickly to the doorway. He steps outside.

  No one is there.

  He looks across the landing to see Libby in her room, still struggling with Lucinda’s dress. “I don’t think it was Libby,” he tells Carrie, coming back in.

  “I thought—I thought I saw somebody. I saw—I don’t know.”

  “Was it purple?”

  “I don’t know. It was too quick. I just saw it out of the corner of my eye.”

  “Libby’s wearing that crappy old purple T-shirt that was mine about a billion years ago. God, I hate that thing.”

  “Maybe it was—maybe I imagined it.”

  “Sometimes, when a car drives by, light gets reflected in weird ways through that stained glass.”

  “Okay. Well. Do I get to see the rest of the house?”

  “Sure.”

  Evan takes her hand again. As they walk across the room, Carrie says, “Hey, what’s that?”

  “Old letters and stuff. It was in the attic,” Evan tells her without looking around. Only then does he glance over his shoulder at the slightly rusted metal box on his desk. “You mean that box, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I think it belonged to the lady that used to live here,” he adds, as they walk out the door.

  Carries follows him onto the landing. “The one that went into a nursing home?”

  “No, the one before that.”

  “Lots of old ladies.”

  “No, there’s only been two owners. And then nobody lived here for a long time.”

  Evan shows her the other bedrooms, and the unfinished third floor. Libby joins them, eliciting satisfying oohs and aahs from Carrie over Lucinda’s gown. They all end up downstairs, watching a movie, with Libby popping in and out just often enough to keep Evan from trying anything. Finally, when it’s almost Carrie’s curfew, Evan walks her to her car. He kisses her good-bye.

  When he stops, she keeps her arms fastened around his neck. “I love you,” she says into his ear.

  “Me too.” His hands are on her waist.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she says, still clinging.

  “Me neither,” he agrees, looking into her eyes—but what he’s thinking is that he never finished going through that box with the pictures. Finally she lets go and gets into her car. He waves as she backs out; then he walks into the house.

  Now that Carrie’s safely off, Evan goes up to his room. The metal box is still there, the lid still shut. He hasn’t looked at her in several days, and now the thought of her draws him.

  He puts on a CD, and then sits at the desk and opens the box. A newspaper clipping now lies on top:

  * * *

  MISS CORA ROYCE DEAD

  MISS CORA ROYCE, aged 16, died in her sleep on Friday past. The remains were embalmed by Embalmer Krentz of this city and will be interred at Roseland Cemetery.

  Miss Cora was the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. G. J. Royce and was endowed with all the graceful and amiable traits of young womanhood; she was sweet and gentle in her demeanor and was universally admired and loved by her acquaintances.

  * * *

  * * *

  he fumbled his hand

  over my mouth

  his body heavy

  like stone

  ha
nd crushing

  frantic

  harder

  * * *

  his face above me

  broke into tiny

  pieces of light

  The obituary gives Evan a cold chill. He thinks, If that’s her, she died not long after that picture was taken.

  Evan remembers the name Royce from some of the other papers; now he shuffles through the pages, picking up letters and skimming through them, skipping parts that look uninteresting, looking for anything about this girl who died so young.

  He rereads the bits about the visitor from Pennsylvania. Then, under the blare of the music, he scans more letters, looking for pieces that will pull the story together. He finds two passages that seem to mention a sudden death:

  …Words cannot express how sorry we are for your loss. We fear that Robert may be a burden to you at this time, and so ask that he return to us. We have been so grateful for your hospitality…

  …Robert has matured since the events of the summer. He does not say much, but I know he grieves the loss of his new friend. I wish your darling could know how wondrous, how beneficial were the effects of her short life on others, and I hope that your knowing of it will be a comfort to you in these times…

 

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