Between Here and Gone

by Barbara Ferrer

  “Do you have a cigarette?”

  His head whipped around, eyes narrow. “You don’t smoke.”

  “Dammit, Remy, do you have a cigarette or not?”

  Sighing, he reached into his trousers pocket and pulled out a battered box of Lucky Strikes and a silver lighter. Snatching them from his hand, anxious to go, I nevertheless hesitated … unsure where—

  “Oh for God’s sake.”

  Fingers closed hard around my wrist as he tugged me into the break room. “Y’all get out. Now.” His voice held the familiar commanding edge that brooked no argument. “’Cause God knows, no one needs to see this,” he muttered beneath the annoyed scraping of chairs against tile. A pair of waitresses and a busboy, I registered in the one glance I risked taking, looking justifiably annoyed at being rousted early from their breaks but I couldn’t be bothered to care. Right now, all I cared about was the salvation this cigarette promised. Everyone was so happy when they were smoking—a soothing ritual and that’s all I wanted. Just a little bit of calm and happy and soothing. Drinking during working hours was out of the question, so the cigarette it would have to be if only I could … could only …

  “Jesus Christ.”

  Again, Remy’s hand grasped my wrist as with the other, he snatched the lighter from my shaking hand, a flame appearing at the tip of the cigarette. One deep, desperate inhale and I immediately doubled over, choking and gasping and fighting the urge to vomit.

  I remained that way, even after the coughing subsided and the nausea passed—bent over, blinking back the tears that I was going to swear had to do with the smoke stinging my eyes. Finally, I straightened and faced Remy as he leaned against the wall, narrow-eyed gaze focused on the glowing tip of my abandoned cigarette as he exhaled a narrow stream of smoke.

  “Wanna tell me what that was all about?”

  “No.” The only response, really, since there was no point in lying and saying it was nothing. And no point in trying to explain the entire, disastrous mess—there simply wasn’t enough time even if I wanted to. I smoothed my hands along the sides of my skirt, tensing to still the tremors that beat a subtle tattoo against my thighs.

  Calmly, he reached over to a nearby table and crushed the cigarette out in the small glass ashtray. “Lord, it’s hard, not knowin’ what it is you need.”

  “I know, Remy, but I can’t. Not yet.”

  “I don’t know what to do then.”

  “Why do you have to do anything? Can’t it just be …” I searched for the right words. Normal would be a laughable choice. “The way it’s been? The way it … is?”

  “Tell me, chère, how’s that workin’ out for you?” His drawl thickened, equal parts rebuke and caress. “Thing is, you want help—you’re just so out of practice askin’, you got no idea how. With me, though, you don’t have to ask—I’m here, ready to give you what I’ve got. But you got to at least give me somewhere to start.”

  “What happened to I didn’t owe anyone anything? Are you somehow exempt from that?”

  His mouth compressed—clearly not liking how I’d thrown his words back at him. Too bad.

  He prowled the room’s perimeter—each dark glare making me feel as if he had to keep moving, keep his hands jammed deep in his pockets, otherwise, he was likely to grab me by the shoulders and shake the truth out of me. A guess reinforced by the slam of his open palm against the door—the sharp ricochet making me flinch.

  “You know what’s like to drive me insane? How you got this idea in your head you’re the only person in the world with secrets. I told you—I know. I know how they bring the demons out to wreak havoc with your soul.”

  Dios mío—I was so unbelievably sick and tired of these recent assumptions by people that they knew me—they had some idea about me and what drove me or tormented me. Why couldn’t they just leave me alone? Leave this alone?

  “You have no idea what’s going on in my soul.”

  “I think a week listenin’ to you cry like a lost baby in your sleep suggests maybe I do.” Then he smiled. The loveliest, yet most enigmatic smile I’d ever seen from him. Bastard.

  Anything else he might have added, however, was eclipsed by a sudden, insistent pounding on the door, a disembodied voice calling Remy’s name and asking what the hell was he doing, orders were staring to back up, they needed him out there, now.

  With one swift motion, he leaned forward and grasped my elbows, pulling me close. “One of these days, girl, I swear I’m gonna take you home, set your pretty behind down on my couch, and take the time for us to reveal all our secrets.”

  I shivered as his lips brushed against my ear, the edges of his teeth grazing along the rim, the tip of his tongue soothing the faint sting. Contrasts—so many contrasts. The different faces we presented to our various worlds. To the different people in them. To ourselves.

  Random, absurd thoughts—tumbling through my head, inviting me to study them, one by one, because really, they were fascinating, before coming to a screeching halt as Remy’s hands dropped to my hips and drew me flush against him.

  He breathed in my slow sigh as his lips met mine, his mouth shaping a single word. A word felt rather than heard. That granted access to the dark, hidden parts of my soul I’d so tentatively begun to reveal to him. Sinking into a chair, I watched through the open door as he returned to the kitchen, immediately reverting to the Remy I knew so well. Who controlled the kitchen with smiles and patois and played the radio far too loud as he created magic, while I remained behind, the taste and feel of his final word lingering on my mouth.

  Natalia.

  He hadn’t said it since the night I revealed it to him. He hadn’t needed to. To the rest of the world I firmly remained Natalie, but Natalia was something quiet and secret, much in the way the Remy from that night—a Remy I instinctively understood very few people were privy to—remained between us. Those two private beings meeting within the prolonged glances and subtle touches. Yet he’d chosen to bring it into the open now. Here. And again, my past self and the self I’d created over the last several years inched closer together, leaving me with the inescapable sense that a full-scale collision loomed on the horizon. Was it avoidable? Of course. I could just start over.

  But was I willing to keep paying that price?

  Ten

  Hours later, I trudged up the brick walk toward Concord’s library. Of all the places I did not want to be right now, this easily topped the list. All afternoon—with Greg Barnes’ apologies echoing in my mind and Mrs. Mercier’s speculative gaze resting on me at odd moments. With every silent, accusatory glance from Remy—defenses already dangerously battered were further chipped away. More than once throughout the afternoon, I’d lifted the receiver, even once going so far as to dial the main office, to make my excuses, beg off. I even entertained the idea of simply not showing up for my appointed tutoring session—ever. But in the end, duty and responsibility won out and I’d very carefully replaced the receiver in its cradle, the tinny voice on the other end repeating, “Hello? Concord School, may I help you? Hello? Is anyone there?”

  At least today, there was no question of there being anything more than tutoring. My scheduled student was a freshman—those babies—still learning the ins and outs of this odd society. I liked freshmen—while they might have heard rumors, while they might stare as we thumbed through the pages of Melville or Hemingway, they were still entirely too terrified to try anything.

  Still—

  I stared up at the lights ringing the curved second floor of the library, caught sight of the occasional shadows passing by windows I knew from uncomfortable experience were wavy with age and the miniscule bubbles peppering the panes of leaded glass.

  Dios mío, but I didn’t want to be here.

  I had never wanted my past to catch up to me. I’d done so much to try to suppress it since there was no point in dwelling, certainly no going back and frankly, I had no desire to be that girl again. But yet this person, standing frozen on the walk, wasn�
�t someone I’d ever intended to be. And I didn’t want to be her anymore.

  After tonight, I’d find a different second job. I’d take this last paycheck, because I needed it. For a new apartment. And I was due to send money to Miami.

  Why?

  My fists clenched inside my coat pockets, the question echoing.

  Why?

  They had their own business.

  And I’d heard nothing. I always made sure to put my return address on the envelopes—they could have sent something, even if it was only an impersonal flyer advertising their business. But they hadn’t. I had no idea how long they’d had this business—had no idea how successful they were. They just continued to take the money I sent without ever once saying a single word—about anything. Nada.

  Did they even need me any longer?

  Staring down, I watched as my feet, almost of their own volition, turned, took careful steps on the cleared walkway, avoiding icy patches, counting bricks, because I knew, from previous nights, previous walks, that there were one hundred and thirty-seven rows of bricks between the library steps and the wrought iron gate bordering the campus.

  Forty-two … forty-three … forty-four …

  How long have they been doing this? How many times have I come here when it was no longer necessary?

  Fifty-six … fifty-seven …

  “Wrong direction.”

  Hands gripped my shoulders, forcing me to look up. Because this day couldn’t get any worse. Derek. My previous … student. A face I’d hoped not to see again for a long time. If ever.

  “Let go.”

  “I told you—you’re going the wrong way. And I thought you were supposed to be so smart.”

  I struggled to free myself, my gloves slipping on the leather sleeves of his varsity jacket, unable to find purchase. “I quit.”

  “There’s a laugh.” He turned me back toward the library, his hold painful even through the many layers I wore. “Girls like you don’t quit. We get tired of you.”

  “Let go of me—” I grunted, wincing at the icy air knifing through my lungs, bringing tears to my eyes and making it impossible to draw a full breath. “Damn you, let go or I swear, I’ll scream for the watchman.”

  “He won’t come.” His smile was thin-lipped and calculating. “Look, you want to quit after tonight, that’s fine. I could give less of a shit. There’ll be another one just like you inside a week. But I can’t disappoint my little brother—he’s been looking forward to this since I promised him at Christmas.”

  I stared blankly, certain that I wasn’t hearing right.

  “Freshman—” He shrugged and continued in a conversational tone, as if this was all perfectly normal. “Hasn’t had a woman yet. Can’t go into spring formal season without experience.” His grip tightened as he frog marched me up the steps to the doors. “Plus he really does have a test next week on Gatsby if you want to pretend you’re actually useful for anything else.” With his free hand, he swept one of the doors open in a courtly, gentlemanly gesture that the mocking smile made an absolute joke of. As we stood in a circle of lamplight, his eyes roved over me, no smile to be found there. Just—that hateful sense of entitlement and a, oh … oh God, no.

  “Besides, I’ve always wondered what it would be like to share. Can kill two birds with one stone—show my baby brother the ropes and try something new all at the same time.” His hand dropped down, caressing my buttocks in rough circles that brought our earlier encounter rushing back in a sickeningly vivid series of images. Bent over the rough wood table, his body probing and pushing and violating.

  No … No por Dios de mi alma… No.

  No more.

  Blindly, I kicked, feeling the pointed toe of my pump connect with something—just solidly enough or surprising enough to produce a muffled curse and a slight loosening of his grip. Enough … it was just enough… Pulling free, I stumbled down the steps, crying out as a blinding pain shot from my scalp and down my spine. The world blurring then jerking to a stop as another jarring pain shot along my jaw.

  “Bitch.” My head snapped to one side, then the other, the pain from the blows blending into one nauseating morass. “Fucking bitch.”

  Screaming, I swung wildly, aiming toward the snarl dominating a face I knew so many girls would be taken in by in the future, the looks and the false charm and the money, most of all the stupid money … never knowing, not realizing until it was too late what it could cost them—

  A blurred arc of lights gave way to black, moonless sky before my view was obliterated, wet cold soaking my back, icy shards scraping along my cheek as I choked on a mouthful of snow, felt it clump in my eyelashes as I turned my head at the last possible second.

  No. No. No. Hearing the panicked cries in my head before realizing that it wasn’t just in my head, that I was actually saying it aloud. No. They’d taken everything else—but he could not have this.

  And the more he struggled to turn my face back, for some reason determined to take this one last thing from me, the more I squirmed and fought, cold snaking between my thighs as my coat and skirt rode higher up my legs, freeing them until I was finally able to draw a knee up, hard and vicious—every ounce of frustration and rage and hate suppressed for too long behind the blow.

  His scream barely registered over the harsh gasps roaring through my ears, the pounding of my heart against my ribs.

  “Hijo de puta,” I spat, struggling to my feet as he wheezed and writhed in the snow, knees drawn nearly to his chest. “Come near me again and I swear, I will cut your balls off and feed them to the pigeons in Central Park.”

  I left him there, tears freezing on his cheeks as I stumbled down the walk toward the main entrance where the watchman waited, gate already open.

  “He paid you.”

  He nodded. “Told me under no circumstances was I to unlock the gate for you until he gave the okay. To stop you if you tried to leave. To forget anything I might see or hear,” he explained softly. “But if I’d known he was gonna hurt you—”

  “How much?”

  He hesitated. “Three hundred.” More words following in a rush— “I need the money so bad. I got kids at home—another on the way.”

  I held up a hand, stopping the flood of excuses. “What did you think he was going to do?”

  I was angry, but curiously not so much as I might have expected. After all, I knew better than anyone how acts that at one time might have been considered unthinkable became excusable out of a sense of desperation. Any anger I felt was more because the only person I’d ever consciously harmed was myself. Yet the rest of the world seemed to take that as license to do what they would with me.

  Why?

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s just … I’d hear the boys talk and I knew what they did. What … you … I thought—”

  “That it was nothing less than what I deserved because I was just a whore?”

  “I—” His voice was hoarse, struggling for the words to speak what was written all over his face, beneath the pity and genuine remorse.

  “It’s not as if you were completely wrong.” Swallowing hard because after all of this, I’d be damned if I would cry. Not now. “But it’s not anything I ever intended to … I never wanted—” I could hear the pitch of my voice changing as my sinuses filled, resolve failing.

  “You should go. If he comes back, it won’t be alone.”

  I glanced over my shoulder, heart sinking as I saw the indentations in the snowbank, the dark patches where the struggle had worn pristine drifts down to dead grass and dirt. But Derek nowhere in sight. For the moment.

  Lifting his fingers to his mouth, the gateman released a piercing whistle, a taxi appearing at the curb as if by magic.

  “I can’t afford this.” Although it was so very tempting to duck into the dim recesses that beckoned—sink into cracked vinyl and lay my throbbing cheek against the cold glass. To ride in anonymous darkness and not have lights illuminating me in all my battered, disheveled shame
at every stop.

  “Let me.” Putting several bills in my palm he folded my fingers over them. “As penance goes, it’s not that much.”

  It wasn’t until the taxi had come to a stop in front of my apartment building that I unclenched my fist—and discovered far more than cab fare. Several twenties, and I knew without counting that it would add up to three hundred dollars—or at least, close to it.

  Leaving the driver with a generous tip, I slowly climbed the three flights of stairs to my apartment, wincing only slightly at the muffled thumps and gasps and moans coming from Helen’s room. Only one more day. She was leaving tomorrow, happily married and looking westward to her future and I would no longer have to be faced with all of the hopeful, expectation that had replaced the air of quiet desperation that had been wearing away the edges of late, draping her in a dull veil. It said something horrible about me as a human that on some level, I’d been reassured by her weariness—felt less alone. Only difference between us is she’d actually come to New York with the highest of expectations.

  Quietly I closed the door to my room, unwilling to alert the lovers to my presence, I shrugged my coat off as I reached into my closet for a hanger, desperately clinging to routine, and trying to ignore the incessant throbbing of my face and the way my scalp ached—the faint coppery tang that remained in my mouth, no matter how many times I swallowed.

  Coat and hanger slipped from my fingers as I dropped to my knees. Bracing my hands on my thighs, I gasped for air, trying to suck in enough to steady my breathing … just like that long ago night, emerging exhausted from the water, trying to get my bearings. Fighting the lightheadedness, I pitched forward, blindly rooting around in the darkest corner, behind the shoe boxes and milk crates of books I couldn’t bear to part with, until finally, I unearthed the large wooden cigar box. I lifted it into my lap, smooth and satiny with age, the elaborate gilt lettering nearly worn away, my fingers tracing the remembered inscription, skimming along the edges and rubbing the corners. No matter how much time elapsed, it always came back with no effort. A remembered dance, a ritual once performed so often, it had become as automatic and integral as breathing.