Circling the Drain

by Amanda Davis

  By then I’d had enough.

  That’s it, I told her. I’m leaving. I’m moving out.

  You should get a cooler and some jugs, she said. You can take sponge baths and pretend your room is a bomb shelter.

  We faced each other in the hallway. Her tiny feet were planted fiercely against the terrible encroaching world. Above her head, hundreds of plum-colored genitals gnashed their little teeth at me.

  I’m out of here, I said. You’re a horrible roommate. You should be living alone.

  You need to wipe your feet in the hallway, she whispered. It’s your turn to dust.

  FAIRY TALE

  It’s when Aida forgets what she came for, leans against the worn bar and twirls her hair, that the cowboy notices her. He says: Let’s you and me do some wiggling in that mob over there; and before she can say maybe, he has her by the hand, spinning her towards the dance floor, a whirling mess of drunken pickup lines and wandering fingers, skin and sweat. It feels good to be held by firm, cow-herding hands, to be flung out into the chaos only to get snapped back like she matters more than just a dance, like she was chosen. Aida feels smooth and natural, ripe and alive.

  And then the song ends.

  The movement dwindles, but by now Aida’s swaying a little—her blood jumps, her body murmurs yes, move like that some more, let’s have another song that rides through us so we can’t stand still. There’s a moment of indecision while the crowd shuffles, mumbles, before the next song starts and suddenly she worries that she didn’t dance well enough for the cowboy, that she didn’t wiggle the way he wanted her to and that he’ll wander off in search of someone else to lasso.

  But he doesn’t.

  The music starts slow and gentle, winding its way, taking its sweet time, and they wait for it. Aida lets it slither inside her, maneuvering her from the inside out, all writhing skin and sweat again. Only this time it’s a slow song and the cowboy puts his arms around her and pulls her to him. His body is solid and ropy, his arms stronger than her fear the night will end. More than anything now she wants him to lean in just a little more, to breathe close to her ear, rest his scratchy cheek against the side of her head and whisper something searing and true.

  She wants him to blow his warm cowboy breath in the hollow of her throat, in the crook of her neck. Then she knows she will entirely forget who she is, entirely forget that on Monday she has to lead a staff meeting, that numbers have to be crunched. She’ll forget the taupe suit at the cleaners, the underlings to be fired, the ache of her empty office when there’s nothing but night sky and families outside, the humm of fluorescent light exposing a hallway, the shadow of another executive ghost.

  She’ll forget all that if he just breathes hot sleeping-under-the-stars and talking-to-his-horse breath, ten-gallon-hat breath, plaid-shirted, old Levi-ed, love-’em-and-leave-’em breath. And if he just holds her in the circle of his arms like everything she’s hoped for, then, for just a second, before the next song comes on and they’re swept off into the rest of the night, he’ll be the Prince and she’ll be the Princess—or one of the other thimble-waisted women who deserted her long ago. Women whose stories whispered their way into her dreams when she was small. Women dormant until rescued by powerful strangers like the cowboy, who appeared to them with magic kisses (on not much more of a premise than a good dance song) to wake them from their sleepy lives. Aida can’t help it—she hears hope throb louder than the music, louder than the dream itself—and just for a moment before the song disappears into the beery air and he turns away, she imagines a kiss could do it: awaken her as more, even, than just the cowboy’s girl.

  STICKS AND STONES

  1. Introduction

  Dingo was a tall slick daddy, a hunk of boyish charm who could call a shoe size from across the room. Six and a Half, he said to me the first time I followed my cousin Karla into the bowling alley, Hey there, Six and a Half, what’s a spitfire like you gonna bowl around a place like this for?

  Even at that first moment I loved him. I loved the way his teeth shined, the swoop in his gelled brown curls. I loved how his goatee was just a little crooked and that his eyes crinkled up when he saw me. I loved the very timber of his voice.

  But I was a shy little thing.

  I watched him for weeks, trailing Karla to the Bowl-Much, watching Dingo line up shoes on shelves or just lean back behind his counter flipping through catalogs or doodling. His concentration was irresistible to me, one lock of his shiny dark hair tumbling forward on his forehead. I just watched and watched.

  One evening I took Karla’s score sheets out on the back deck and sat under the moonlight thinking really hard. With the night sky so heavy it was easy to believe that the world might turn out to be something other than what I’d thought up to then. That maybe if I just made enough of an effort I might find whatever it was I’d been searching for.

  I pictured Dingo taking me in his arms. I imagined him sweeping me off my feet. Then I made a wish and burned the score sheets in the hopes that Dingo would notice me.

  He did.

  Six and a Half, he said to me one fine Friday with doo-wop strumming on the loud speakers, why don’t you step over here and let me shine those two-tones for you?

  I smiled and my mouth went dry. I blushed. I twisted my hands and my body filled with butterflies, fluttering, swooping.

  He waved me over and I followed him around the wide orange counter to a raised shoeshine chair, where he first began to polish the shoes and then to rub the life right into me. It was, admittedly, a lovely evening.

  Not too long after, we found a little place together.

  That lasted. Karla got me a job at the Pik and Flick showing movies in the air-conditioned booth. Sometimes Dingo crept up there to rub my feet while the people below us parked. I felt a huge swell of love whenever his curly top poked through the trapdoor. Six and a Half, he sang out, Where’s my Six and a Half? And even while I shushed him I thought I was the luckiest girl alive.

  We curled up in our little house. I made cranberry pies and bread crumb casseroles and Dingo fixed the leaky sink and hung shelves to hold the origami sculptures I made for him, folding my affection into hearts and doves and anything but airplanes. I loved our little home and I loved staying put, not having to smile on demand, not wearing navy suits or any item of clothing with wings on it. I was giving it—us—the old gung ho. But sometimes in the whisper of the night I heard my old life. Fly away, it said, fly the empty skies.

  2. Exposition

  Though I was very happy, I knew there was something in all that. Before I met Dingo, I’d been an airline stewardess, jetting from one city to another with my life packed neatly into a rolling black suitcase. There was something in the fabric of my life with Dingo that I felt wrapping around and around me. The smell of our home, the creak of the steps, the sag of a chair, the way there was always garbage to throw out, plants to water. Something in the familiarity of it began a rumble in the back of my head.

  I remembered my arrival in Fleepton, landing in the airport with Karla waiting at the gate. She’d looked older than when I’d last seen her, shinier—her hair spun into a curly tower on top of her head, her lips painted a tropical pink. She had a little black purse tucked under her arm and a luminous look on her face.

  Charity! she yelled as soon as she saw me, and gave me a big warm hug. We gathered my bags and she beamed at me, squeezing me to make sure I was real.

  I just can’t wait for you to meet my boyfriend, Bobby Nuckle, she’d gushed as soon as we got in the car. Oh sweetheart, you’ll love him.

  We drove along and I tried not to roll my eyes when she said things like: I just love the way he treats me and Bobby Nuckle always knows the right thing to say. She was all the time fumbling with a gold charm necklace hung heavy with a miniature bowling pin that collected at the base of her throat.

  Even when we were kids Karla had been an obsessive bowler. When she held that heavy ball to her face and squinted her eyes and twisted her
self up, ready to walk down the lane, there was a music to her stance—the air around her hummed with energy. Now she had a shiny pink ball with a bag to match. She had a pink-and-cream shirt with a scrolled Karla sailing above her chest. She even owned her very own shoes.

  When I was younger, I envied her. Karla had filled her room with big shiny trophies, their strange gold faces peering out from all corners, and she practiced religiously. I’d seen her win match after match.

  Nothing had ever swept me away like that. I tried—I collected stamps, rode horses, took up golf, scuba diving, tennis, spelunking, archery—but I didn’t stick with much. I’m not a quitter, I liked to say, I’m just an expert at running out of steam. But in truth I was what you might call “undirected,” though I’d always yearned to have something inspire such devotion in me. Flying hadn’t. Like most things, I could take it or leave it.

  So far, my world had been even and empty. Even the reason I was fired—pouring a red wine soufflé down the crisp white shirt of a fellow in first class who raised my dander—seemed shallow and stupid with hindsight. I felt like I was waiting for some sign, some divine inspiration to lead me to a place full of meaning. I was after something larger, and I figured it was about time to sit still.

  Bobby Nuckle didn’t turn out to be quite what I expected. He was a huge monotone giant, enormous and unsmiling. He hulked around the kitchen with his hands in his pockets. Welcome, he said, shifting from one foot to the other by the stove. We are pleased to have you here.

  They let me stay in a tiny room above the front porch of their little pink bungalow, on a hill above the Pik and Flick. When it got dark you could see the Pik and Flick movies off in the distance.

  Where did you meet him? I’d asked Karla as she helped me unpack.

  Oh, around, she said vaguely, her cheeks flushed. Isn’t he wonderful?

  Then she sighed. Charity, she said. I would do just about anything for him.

  The way she said it, I felt like scratching at my face.

  He’s great, I assured her. Just super. I told myself there was something I was missing, some elemental thing, but try as I might I couldn’t figure out what that might be.

  Dinner with them was an exercise in repressed anxiety. I learned how to chew quietly and did my best to disappear. Karla giggled nervously and cooed a lot while Bobby sat expressionless, an apron tied in a bow around his waist.

  Bobby was a sensitive man, given to sulking, so though his cooking expertise didn’t match Karla’s bowling skills, we were nothing but enthusiastic about his culinary ventures—no matter how bland his salsa, tough his chicken or gritty his chocolate pudding tasted.

  Mmmm, we exclaimed, smacking our lips and nodding to each other for emphasis, Mmmm, Bobby Nuckle, this is good.

  3. Exit

  But Dingo and I lived a smooth little life.

  Until.

  Until I found out about Dingo’s trips to Buckeye’s Shoe Emporium. Until I found the mail-order catalogs and noticed the phone bill. Until I figured out where our missing socks had gone. Until I heard about Five and a Half who worked in produce at the SaveLots and Six Narrow over at the Goochee Cinema, and Eight Triple E who sold makeup door to door.

  We unraveled like acrylic yarn: all static and flammability, everything soft undermined by the cheap scratchiness of what we were made of. There were long stretchy silences punctuated by spitty bursts of anger. There were tears and hollow, empty spaces. Then one day Six Narrow phoned our apartment and I answered. That blew the roof right off it all. I said things to Dingo that I’d promised myself never to say and everything tumbled to pieces.

  Then Dingo walked out. My heart swallowed itself and I hurled words at him that fell to the earth with flat, final sounds. He didn’t look back but I felt the red of his ears run all through me like a shiver. He slammed the door of his battered green truck and I finished my shouts with a leave, why don’t you, so red hot and mean I couldn’t believe it hadn’t burned my mouth.

  Words lost meaning the second day he was gone. I woke wondering at language. What could alone mean? I said it out loud: Alone, alone, alone, alone. I tried other words—abstract, testify, exacerbate, tuna fish—but it might as well have been peas I was spitting, or beans. They were just little round things flying out of my mouth and not landing anywhere useful. Even my own name, Charity, meant nothing at all.

  I sat in our sunny kitchen, propped my feet up on one of the chairs, and took a deep whiff. The world smelled like honeysuckle, like spring. Outside, birds flitted this way and that. Rabbits hopped across the lawn, their furry little bottoms disappearing under bushes and felled trees. I saw bees seducing tulips and in the distance the swoop and dip of a shiny green kite in the cloudless sky.

  But all of it made me carsick.

  Much as I wanted to pretend otherwise, Dingo’s absence was a hole in me, a place I came back to like a troubled tooth. By the fourth day the mirror revealed dark bags under my eyes and a grayish quality of the skin. My red hair hung limp. My cheeks itched. I splashed cold water on my face and sat down on the floor with my knees to my chest, feet braced against the yellow linoleum, head pressed against the crumbling wall.

  Everything was in need of repair. Clearly, there were debts to pay, apologies to draft, but the very idea made me incredibly tired. I stretched out and admired the crumbs by the base of the sink, the dust that blew gently along the linoleum. I hadn’t been to work in five days, hadn’t seen Dingo in four.

  All alone on the bathroom floor, I thought about how often I tied a simple situation into elaborate knots. I wanted things different—to be a different person in love with a different man—but really I just wanted Dingo back.

  Enough, I figured. It was enough.

  I had arrived at a place where Dingo mattered most in my life. Despite his podiatric indiscretions, I wanted to count most in his. So finally I scrambled up, dressed, grabbed my keys and shut the door behind me.

  4. Search

  We had a saying in the air: Fly and forget it. If a customer was rude we’d whisper Fly and forget it. If we got called in to cover shifts we hadn’t planned on, if we were sad, angry, glum: fly and forget it. There was something about being high above the earth arcing towards a horizon that made the world and all its messy problems seem small and manageable. We felt, literally, above it all.

  And every flight was exactly the same: we wore the same clothes, we said the same things, we offered peanuts and sodas and sold tiny bottles of liquor. We rolled our carts down narrow aisles and smiled brightly. And the passengers blended together, their faces became indistinguishable over time. Even the real characters: the phobics, the sailors, the oil barons, the cowboys, the movie stars—came to seem like copies of each other. Every cute baby looked like every other cute baby no matter the gender, color or size.

  And I came to feel that way too. Like I was on one long flight whose details shifted slightly this way or that, but essentially the same flight. I knew passengers saw me that way. I wore a uniform. I was Everystewardess. Unidentifiable. Charity, disguised.

  After a few years it came to feel so hollow that I worried my whole life was passing me by, or rather, that I was flying over it.

  But the thing about all that motion was that nothing felt bad for long. It might feel empty. It might blur together, but the loneliness was familiar. If something went wrong, you packed everything back into that rolling suitcase and landed somewhere else.

  I’d been practicing this for years.

  Now I stood outside listening for Dingo. The world was naked and wide, but I felt him out there somewhere. I sniffed the cold night air. Fly and forget it. No, I wanted to go after him.

  The stray dog I sometimes fed prowled around the yard looking hungry and sad. I patted him on his grubby black back, shoved my hands deep in my pockets and started to walk up the road. The night had a little chill but the stars were out and the whole world seemed to glow a little. I changed my mind and sat on the rump of a tree slapped over by last win
ter’s storm. The dog shuffled up and looked at me. His fur was matted but he had a sweet face.

  Dog, I said to him, Dog, come here and sit. He tilted his head and sniffed at the air. Come here, I called in my best persuasive voice and patted the place beside me. He wandered closer and then sniffed again but absolutely didn’t budge. Dog, I said more harshly, but suddenly I understood. I rose and headed back to the house. Dog was right: there was no use going after Dingo without a shower.

  Soon, though, I was ready to go. Shiny and clean, I’d pulled on my favorite jeans, my favorite cowboy boots and a shimmery blue blouse that made me feel sexy. Possibility tingled all around me. Possibility at finding Dingo, at dragging him home and having him here to fill the house with me again. There were so many ways things could turn out.

  I called Karla.

  Hey, I said when she answered, my voice all rusted up and desperate. You know where Dingo is?

  Hold up, Charity, she said. You haven’t been at work, you haven’t been around. What’s going on?

  I gave her the abbreviated version.

  Charity, she exhaled. Doll, you sound all cooped up and crazy. Can’t you hang on half an hour and I’ll come pick you up? Then at least we can look together.

  In the background I heard the TV and a muffled groan. Will Bobby Nuckle mind if you come?

  Oh, he won’t even notice, long as I leave him beer. He’s so groggy by now he thinks I’m sitting next to him when I’ve been half a house away giving myself a pedicure all this time.

  I walked to the window. Outside the night looked dark and full of secrets. I twirled the cord around and around my wrist.

  Karla, I said, I don’t know what I’m doing.

  Shit, Charity. She paused. The dull sound of roaring sports fans erupted behind her; I imagined her untwisting the cotton between her probably pink toes. Her voice was timid. I’m not the one to give advice, she said, but I suppose you should do what feels right.