“Adam.” Her voice is soft, submissive. “Come back to me?”
I stop, my heart thundering as if I have been running. I don’t go around playing savior to the world. On the contrary. I’m a vile pustule in society, taking advantage of people’s desperation. Sure, I can pat myself on the back, telling myself we’ve kept the water clean and the power plant running, but in reality we’re doing it for our own selfish reasons. I don’t save people. I use them.
Her silent presence behind me makes the little hairs on my nape stand in sudden knowledge. There’s not a fiber in me that can leave her here. I don’t care if it’s what she wants. Turning, I take her in. She’s standing next to the table, tall and proud, her light beige-and-white dress hanging to her feet. She’s fighting to keep her face neutral, but her nostrils flare, and there’s a slight frown between her eyebrows.
“I’m just gonna check the shed,” I mutter and turn again before I change my mind, run across the room and sweep her off her feet.
I don’t look over my shoulder again, but I have to force it.
You carry sorrow.
Well, fuck, don’t we all?
Sneaking through the foliage in the dusky garden, I make sure to stay hidden from the street. I take a moment to inhale the fresh early evening air. It’s cooling off rapidly as the sun sets. The sound of cicadas keeps increasing. I haven’t been outside the city in a very long time. I had forgotten how loud the bugs are.
The shed is unlocked. It’s a well-organized workspace for someone who clearly loved gardening. I never cared much about carrots and tomatoes and whatnot, but my dad was an avid hobby gardener, and I recognize the pruners and hatchets with an increasing ache in my heart. What the fuck’s up with me? I haven’t been this emotional in a long while. Not since everything went to hell. I shut off and did what I had to do to survive.
There’s a door that leads to the garage. My heart taps an extra beat in the hopes that I might find a car, but of course there’s no such thing. There is a workbench, though, and tools. Everything I need. I collect an assortment and make my way back to the house the same way I came.
Eve is nowhere to be seen, but I hear faint scraping noises from the basement. I go to work on my radio. Disassembling the parts, I find more water and rusty metal parts. I’m no wiz with these things, but I dry it out and stuff some toilet paper in between the components. I’ll leave it open overnight and see if it works tomorrow. As I clean the table, I realize she’s done the dishes despite my order for her to leave them. She’s so eager to please, to be of use. I wonder if that extends to all aspects of her as a woman.
Chapter Eight
Eve
I think he thinks he’s being quiet but I know the moment he stands at the top of the stairs. It’s a near-physical pull, as if strings are attached to my back, tugging me to his darkness. Brushing my palms against each other to get rid of the dust, I stand.
“Adam. Come on down.”
I smile to myself when he moves. Every step creaks a little. The third and the seventh steps make a louder squeak. I’ve been cleaning my workspace, too intent on Adam to be able to focus on anything else. I wanted to bury my hands in cool stiff clay and feel it soften between my hands, but it gave off the wrong energy. I want his burly, stubbly face beneath my fingertips again.
“How did you know I was there?”
He’s close now. A little more than an arm’s length away. His voice is a deep rumble, soothing, but also frightening. Like the purr of a big cat. The only man’s voice I ever knew was Father’s, and he was never tender. His voice incited fear and nothing else.
I smile and point a finger at my ear.
“You witch,” he says.
His tone is playful, but the words hit me like a punch to my chest. Suddenly his hands are on my shoulders, squeezing a little too hard.
“Hey, Eve. What’s up? I didn’t mean—”
I bow my head, my cheeks burning. “I know you didn’t mean. I’m sorry. I’ve been called worse. It’s nothing.” I blabber out the words, trying to comfort him, when in reality it’s my insides that shatter.
“Worse? I’m such a fuck-up. Man, I didn’t mean nothing bad. No one should get away with calling you shit, Eve. Tell me who hurt you, and I’ll murder them all.”
His hands lie heavy on my shoulders, his fingers gripping my flesh. He’s strong, and his skin is so hot. I believe he would act on his words. I believe he’s a man capable of great cruelty, but also great kindness. I want to know more.
“What is your last name, Adam? If you don’t mind?”
“Paradiso. My friends call me Pi. I’ll kick anyone’s teeth in who calls me Paradise.”
I’m stunned. My mind works the connection, trying to find the reason behind our meeting. It’s as if it’s predestined. “We almost share our last names, Adam. My name is Adise.”
“Eve Adise.” It sounds as if he tastes my name. It rolls on his tongue as if he’s enjoying a dessert. I never cared much for my name. Until this moment. On his lips it sounds like a caress, like balm on a wound.
“You are a special man, Adam Paradiso.”
“Adam Gabriel Arturo Paradiso at your service, miss.”
“An angel in paradise.”
“I warned you.”
I can’t tell for sure if he’s joking or if he’s serious. “You don’t like the Christian names?”
Adam strokes his hands along my naked arms then takes my hands. By the time he twines his fingers with mine, so many goosebumps have run along my skin that it feels two sizes too small. My heart hammers.
“Sit,” he says and pulls me with him, guiding me until I feel his knees against the back of my knees.
On his lap?
I swallow.
Swallow again.
My head spins.
“Eve Adise. Sit.”
My moves are jerky, and I fold like a rusty old cogwheel as I ungraciously fall onto his lap. His thighs are thick and strong, and I try to sit without touching him too much, because everywhere we come in contact flames erupt, and the feeling scares me to death. I’m not used to touching. I haven’t touched a single person since before my grandmother died. It’s been too long to consider.
“Did you find the tools you were looking for?”
“Who are you, Eve?”
His voice fondles my ear, and when he wraps long, wiry arms around my chest and pulls me to him, the fire returns.
“I just sculpt,” I whisper, acutely aware of every part of him that touches me.
“Screams?”
I swallow hard. My breath stutters on the intake. Adam chuckles softly.
“It’s just clay,” I say, my voice faint.
His hands find mine, turn them palms up. His thumb strokes back and forth along the ridged scars. The flames inside rush to where our skin meets, tickling, stinging, teasing and taunting.
“Not in these hands, it isn’t. You make magic happen, girl.”
His strokes become more demanding, rough, pulling at my skin and releasing it. With every scar he touches, memories flare up from when I got them. Every burn. Every cut. Every piece of art I’ve created has left traces on me, and he awakens them all. I’ve poured my life into clay: my fears, my few hopes, the agony this house has lived through, the punishments, laughter, tears, God and the Devil, Mother’s voice, Father’s belt. Everything.
“It’s just earth and water.”
“And you breathe life into it.”
I gasp with the sudden pain when Adam kneads the flesh at the base of my thumb. I have tight knots everywhere. I’m so tense. “Ow.”
He chuckles, then hugs me tighter to him, pushing my hair to one side and resting his cheek against my ear. “Take my scream, and make it yours, Eve. Do your thing,” he whispers.
I nod. My skin is too tight, and I have forgotten how to breathe. My legs feel as if the bones have liquefied. I manage to get up on my feet, then I turn and hold out my hand to him.
“Come.”
&nbs
p; With his hand in mine I have to take a moment to think. He didn’t move the chair. I would have heard it. It means my workbench is two paces to the right and my wheel is a little to the left. I pull him with me and have him sit in front of the wheel, then I pull out the safety hook and elevate it until I have it level with my waist.
“Stay there.”
I know where everything is, and from this moment on we’re in my world and get to play by my rules. No wandering hands or hot skin. No ragged breaths or irregular heartbeats. It’s us, the dark, the elements, and me pulling his rough edges to the surface. Picking up my last two blocks of clay from the fridge, I unwrap them and begin to knead.
“Do you believe in God,” he asks.
I stop. Continue.
“Of course.”
“Why?”
“What kind of a question is that?”
“It’s a simple question.”
I knead, lift, slam down. The block begins to soften, and with the softening, as it begins to warm, comes the slight scent of earth. It’s normal. Routine. But nothing is normal. There’s a man in my house. He shouldn’t be here. It’s wrong. But I don’t want him to leave. And that’s wrong too. I can’t keep him. There’s a child somewhere out there who needs him, and the plague. There are battles to be fought.
“The belief cannot be questioned,” I say.
A sharp smack of his lips meeting follows. “Well, I just did.”
“I don’t have to answer your questions.”
“Are you afraid?”
“No.”
That’s a lie. My whole existence is based on fear.
“Then answer my question. Why do you believe in God?”
I keep working the clay as memories fight to race to the surface. Morning prayer, meal prayer, good night prayer, sins I’ve committed, punishments I’ve received. God. God. God. Devil. Devil. Devil.
“Why was I a Devil’s spawn when Mother was such a God-fearing human?”
“Are you asking me?”
I twitch. I wasn’t aware I said that out loud. The muscles in my neck strain as I slam the clay down one final time. I rub my fingers together, touch the fine-grained substance between them.
“You’ll get dirty.”
“I already am.” His voice is deeper, huskier, and it sends shivers down my spine. I don’t think he means dust and grime. I think Adam Paradiso is a man who lives as much in the dark as I. I wonder if he sees the swirling patterns too. The life, death, heaven, hell, dark, light, the colors and the absence thereof. Or maybe that is just me? I want to ask. I want to know. With every passing minute my curiosity of the world out there, of his life, grows.
There is one way to get to know him.
My way.
Picking up the huge lump before me, I put it down on the wheel. I won’t be spinning it, but it will work fine as a work surface. I have never done this before – sculpted someone as they sit with me. My stomach is in knots, but my fingers itch to begin.
“You’re not gonna poke me with these, are you?” There’s a rattle of metal and wood and I know he’s fingering my tools.
I smile. “No, silly. They’re for the clay. You’re already perfect.”
He exhales in a light sigh that ends in a snort. “I’m far from perfect.”
Lifting my arms, I hold up my hands before him and tense my fingers, waiting for his final approval. “You’re a creature of God. Why would you not be perfect?” When he doesn't object, I let my hands descend and trace the shape of his head. My mind builds the size, the oval that is ridged over his forehead and a little flattened on the backside beneath a thick mane of hair that I need to think away. I won’t be recreating hair.
Adam is silent as I create. I’m wrapped in his scent of oil, anger, and child. A scent that mixes with the earthy clay as I work my way across his scalp.
He shifts, and I immediately lose focus. “Don’t move.”
Hands land on my knees, soft, hesitant and still demanding. His warmth transfers through the fabric of my dress.
“I want to touch you back,” he says.
His voice is different from before. Ragged. Little edges to the words. Shaky like the rickety wooden chair I put away after grandmother had sat in it for the last time.
It’s as if all my nerve endings rush to the spot where he touches me. I’m hyper aware of his every move. I move my feet, spread my thighs. For him. I’m not sure why. It’s as if a force I can’t control takes hold of my muscles. Adam lets out a soft moan that makes the hair stand on my arms. My hands tremble.
“Be still,” I say as I memorize his temples and move down along his cheeks. There are slight indentations in his skin, and some bumps. Scars. His stubble is longer than this morning.
My hands fly between the clay and his face. I use little spatulas to dig out the shapes of his eyes and lips, I mold his high cheekbones, his strong, slightly crooked nose. The corners of his mouth end in a slight upward angle that I find particularly appealing. A tremor runs through him when I caress along the sides of his face. It’s a barely there cry for tenderness, a need for a touch that doesn’t demand anything in return. He wants forgiveness.
“I can’t be still when you touch me like that,” he says softly. There’s hunger in his voice. His fingers grip my knees tighter.
I put a finger to his lips. “Shhh. Don’t talk. You distract me.”
“You distract yourself.”
I huff. I want to tell him that he’s wrong, but it’s true. I’m finding it increasingly hard to touch only to recreate the shapes.
“Who is it that you need forgiving from, Adam?”
He jerks, and his hands disappear off my thighs, leaving cold, empty spots. I hover between the clay and his head, wait breathlessly. Finally he puts his hands back, and I exhale.
“Too many to count.”
I trace his ear, along his jawline, then back to mold the clay which is definitely taking his shape. “But there is one in particular. Your child?”
“My child is a boy, Toad. He’s three years old, and I give him everything he needs. I don’t think I need to be forgiven by him.”
“Toad?”
“Thomas, but he’s my toad.”
“More Christian names.”
Adam scoffs. “I didn’t name him.”
“There’s a story there.”
“There’s a story here. Who are you, Eve? Why do you live alone in this freakish house? How do you manage? Who abandoned you?”
My insides shrink with the instant shock of the lifelong pain that’s too great to carry, and I do the only thing I can to deflect. “Who did you hurt, Adam? Who did you abandon?”
The metal legs of his chair scrapes against the concrete floor as he suddenly disappears out of my reach. “Fuck this!”
I stand, my stomach tightening in fear that I’ve gone too far, that I’ve let a stranger into my home, letting him touch me, coax secrets out of me, that I’m goading him.
“You asked me to shape your scream.”
He’s silent. His breaths are ragged and upset. He radiates anger and frustration.
“Sit?” I hold out my arm, feel the air between us, try to reach him.
I exhale when I feel his fingers slide in between mine, intertwining as if in mutual prayer. The chair scrapes again and he pulls me toward him, puts my palm to his cheek. He doesn’t speak, and neither do I as I continue. I have his shape down. The clay is drying up and I don’t have much left. I add stubble, work fast with the spatula.
“My father,” he says. “I abandoned my father.”
And there it is. The pain.
“Oh, Adam.”
My fingers fly over clay-Adam. Tiny touches. Little changes here and there.
“I was young and stupid and didn’t listen. I thought I knew what was best. That I could choose my life.”
He keeps talking. A small family business, about always working, always feeling like he had to live up to his parents’ expectations, about a twin brother he never kn
ew, an ever-present sense of loss, about running away, about deaths and funerals, anger and pain.
Always the pain. It runs like a thin thread throughout his life, always there, always on the verge of snapping him in two.
I lift my hands off the clay and turn, cupping Adam’s cheeks. My fingers are restless as they trace the crevices and bumps that together make up his features.
“You can let it go now.” I stroke the pads of my thumbs over his eyelids, closing his eyes. “It’s over. Forgive yourself.”
A tremor runs through him, and the sound that rises from his chest sounds like a wounded animal. “I can’t.” He falls forward and wraps his arms around my thighs, burying his face in my lap. “I can’t.”
He’s close. So, so close. My hand shakes as I lay it on his head and stroke his long, thick hair. “You can, and you will. So many people need you. There is no use living in the past. Forgive yourself and move on. Pull up your sorrow to the surface, allow everything, and then bid it farewell.”
“What about what I need?” he mumbles.
“There is no time for what you need. You will get your reward later. The strong must stay strong.”
His hands are as fidgety on my thighs as my fingers were on his face a moment ago. He goes still, gripping me tight. “Later? Still with the religious bullshit?”
“It’s not bulls—”
Adam shoots to his feet and pulls me with him, spinning me around so that my back rests against his heaving chest.
“Look around you, Eve. What do you see?”
I frown. “I…don’t see.”
“Exactly. You don’t see shit. You don’t know shit. You spend your days, your life, locked up inside this place, fully dependent on others. What the fuck do you know? Where is your God, huh?” He spins me around again and grabs my chin. “Where’s your God? Where’s your heaven?”
His touch is rough, and I whimper, part from fear and part from needing more. Live untouched for long enough and one forgets how much one needs it. I surely have. “Am I wrong? Tell me I’m wrong.”
I Am Eve Page 6
