Sparta

by Roxana Robinson

  Buzz Cut shifted, setting his ankle on his knee. His leg jiggled.

  Across from Conrad, a man took out a pack of cigarettes, stood, and headed out to the hall. He was thin to the point of illness, his jeans and T-shirt hanging on him. His movements were slow and deferential: he nearly tiptoed in his work boots. But everyone there was quiet. No one was in command; they were all supplicants here. Conrad remembered the silent workers lined against the wall in the clearing room at Ramadi.

  Conrad lifted the clamp at the top of the clipboard and pulled out all the pages. He crumpled them into his fist with a crackling sound.

  Buzz Cut looked at him. “Change your mind?”

  Conrad nodded.

  “How long you been back?”

  “Four months. May.”

  “Even if you start today, it’ll take three months to get an appointment,” said Buzz Cut. “At Home Depot, you buy a hammer, and later, if you need it, they can find your receipt in ten minutes. I spent four years in the Army, and it takes them three months just to locate my records.”

  Conrad didn’t answer. He carried the empty clipboard to the counter, the crumpled pages in his hand.

  “Thank you,” said the black woman. She glanced at him over her glasses but didn’t reach for the clipboard. “Please take a seat. We’ll call you.” She looked down again, pursing her mouth.

  Conrad turned and left, holding the balled-up pages. His name and ID number were on the form. He didn’t want to throw it away here. He didn’t want any record of himself in the building.

  * * *

  The whole place was black, crushing in on him. He could feel the walls, or some kind of solidified space, crowding against him and he felt his throat go numb as the noise began. The noise was larger than he could survive, the noise filled his body and his mind, and he heard himself begin to scream, but his voice was soundless in that larger sound, and he could feel the explosion starting, the moment when his body lost control, was no longer in charge of itself, the sense of drift and terror. The shock wave of the explosion coursing through his system, roiling the blood in its vessels, all the liquid matter in his being, the sense of being weightless and blown away. He found himself in a different darkness, a kind of patterned light on a wall, an awful divide between shadow and shining, something soft twisted in his hands, and someone was screaming.

  “Conrad.” It was Claire. “Wake up.”

  He said nothing. Now there were two places, and he lay still, trying to distinguish this darkness from the other, the day of the IED and Olivera. Okay, he thought, okay. His heart was thundering. I’m here. I’m safe. I’m not there. He stayed silent, still angry. Fury raced up and down inside him. What the fuck? He was holding a pillow, twisting it in his hands. Claire was a little away from him, on her hands and knees, hair hanging in her face.

  “Stop it,” she said. “Wake up. You’re here. You’re okay. Wake up.”

  He was awake, he knew that, but he was still there in that other blackness, feeling the roaring wind come through his body, feeling the sound all around him, lifting him up into some lost place. He still felt rage that this was happening, an astonishment of grief that it could. He could hear himself breathing.

  “Conrad,” Claire said. She didn’t touch him. He rolled over, away from her. She settled back, now kneeling. She put her hands on her thighs.

  “I’m awake,” he said.

  She didn’t answer.

  * * *

  One good thing had happened: sex was back. After the VA he’d moved in with Claire. It was temporary; everything was temporary. Some of the nights were bad, but some were good. Things were getting better.

  Claire woke up before the alarm and reached out to turn it off. Her movement woke Conrad; he felt her slide away. He reached for her, eyes shut, pretending to be asleep, curving his arms around her. Claire paused, but when he slid himself closer, pressing against her back and sliding his hands around to her breasts, she began to move again, shifting out of reach.

  “Got to get up,” she said. “Sorry.”

  She stood, naked, and reached for the bathrobe on the back of the door. Raising her arm made her skin go taut along her side and back. Her ribs stood out like curved shadows beneath the silky skin. She wrapped the robe around herself, then turned.

  “Sorry,” she said again.

  He shook his head, as though it was nothing. But he thought, How long would it have taken?

  She left for the bathroom, closing the door behind her. The door was lightweight, hollow core, flimsy, like everything else in the apartment. Conrad could have put his fist through it. He sat up in bed, though he couldn’t get up until the others had finished in the bathroom and cleared out. He could hardly even stand up in here while he was waiting.

  The room was barely big enough for the double bed and bureau. Most of one wall was taken up by the bed and the door. On Claire’s side stood a bedside table and lamp, though there wasn’t room on Conrad’s side. There was barely room for his duffel, which he’d crammed next to the bed. On the facing wall was Claire’s bureau, the top littered with stuff: jewelry, little animals, cosmetics. Over this hung a mirror, cards and photographs stuck in the frame, beads and necklaces hung from the corners. Next to the bureau was a chair, clothes draped on it. Facing the bed was the closet, and beside it a framed Matisse poster from some exhibition Claire had been to. Conrad had been in Ramadi then, driving the brown streets, locked and loaded, while she’d been jogging up the steps of a museum, on her way to see art. She took forever going through an exhibition; she stared at each picture. Conrad had wondered if she’d gone to the exhibition alone, or with that guy. He hadn’t asked her; he didn’t want to know.

  Now he heard the thunder of rushing water as Claire turned on the shower. He lay back down, hands folded behind his head. Sometimes he felt good, it seemed that things with Claire were good, things were settling down, that he’d be able to move on. Then something would tip, and everything would be the opposite: the panic would start up again, and it was like the shamal, and he couldn’t see his hand before his face. Then he didn’t know what was going on with Claire, or himself; couldn’t bring himself to take a single step, that swirl of panic rising all around him.

  The drone of the shower ended abruptly, and after a moment he heard the waspish whine of the hair dryer. When Claire came back, wrapped again in the robe, she looked bright and polished, her hair shiny.

  “Hi again,” she said. “Sorry about before. If I don’t get into the shower first, I have to wait for everyone else, and then I’m late.”

  “No problem,” Conrad said.

  “So,” Claire said. There was something prim and careful about her voice. She began to dress, facing partly away from him. Her movements were quick. It seemed as though she were concealing herself as a kind of punishment, or statement. Though he couldn’t be sure of that. Hidden modestly by the robe, she pulled on her underpants. “What are your plans?”

  “Plans?” he repeated.

  She turned her back, took off the robe, and put on her bra. Her hands met deftly at her spine to hook it, shoulder bones flaring out suddenly like wings. “What are you going to do?”

  Conrad hadn’t told Claire about the trip to the VA, which had been a failure. He had nothing new to report. He didn’t like having to tell her that. “You know what my plans are. I’m going to start looking at graduate schools, see if I should take some courses before I apply to any.”

  Not looking at him, Claire pulled at the closet door. It slid unwillingly open and she took out a hanger. She unclipped a white pleated skirt, leaned over, and stepped into it.

  “Good,” she said carefully, “but I don’t mean like that. I mean living arrangements. A plan.” She pulled up the skirt zipper, sucking in her breath to narrow her waist. This made her chest rise, and her breasts swelled upward like ribboned gifts.

  “Living arrangements,” he said, irritated. She sounded as though he were an idiot. Did she think he was moving in? That he
wanted to stay in a room he couldn’t even stand up in?

  “Because I have to say,” Claire said. She opened a bureau drawer and took out a yellow sweater. She pulled it on over her head, covering her breasts, her silky skin. He was multitasking; he was pissed off and turned on at the same time.

  “You have to say?” Conrad prompted.

  Now Claire was entirely dressed, covered by the loose sweater, the prim skirt. She was no longer a lover; she’d become a citizen. She sat down on the bed and looked at him, armored, untouchable.

  “We have kind of a rule here,” she said.

  “Who complained?” he asked. What the fuck? He’d hardly even seen Gretchen, and he thought he and Sarah were buds.

  “No one complained,” Claire said. Obviously not true. “It’s just that you’ve been here so much. Like you’re living here.”

  “Five days,” Conrad said. “They weren’t even here over the weekend.”

  “Six,” Claire said. “I mean, it’s obviously okay with me.” She looked distressed. “But do you have a plan? I mean, you can’t stay here indefinitely.”

  “I haven’t moved in,” said Conrad. This was such bullshit.

  Claire looked at him helplessly. “You kind of have. Your stuff is here. You’re staying here. And you’re using their stuff.”

  “What stuff? Their yogurt? Their nail polish?”

  Claire shook her head. “Conrad, don’t get mad at me.”

  “Don’t tell me I’m using their stuff if you won’t tell me what stuff I’m using.” He threw the sheet back and got up, naked.

  Claire waved her hand. “Okay. Towels.”

  “I’m using their towels. You want me to do their laundry? Is that what you’re asking?”

  “No,” Claire said. “But they don’t want to do your laundry.”

  “Really? That’s the problem here? Laundry?”

  “Look, just use my towels. They’re the green ones. Just use them,” Claire said. “But it’s not just towels. If you spend the day here, you know—” She stopped. “This is their apartment. If they come home and find you stretched out on the sofa and your dishes in the sink, it feels like they’re in someone else’s place. Why should they do your dishes?”

  “Fine,” Conrad said. “I’m out of here.”

  “That’s not the point,” Claire said, shaking her head.

  “What is the point?” Conrad crossed his arms over his chest. “What is the point?”

  Claire stared at him. “Conrad, what do you want?” Desperation was coming into her voice. “I don’t know what you want. You get mad at me no matter what I say.”

  “I’m not mad,” Conrad lied. “Why do you think I’m mad?”

  “You don’t know how you sound.” Claire shook her head and stood up. “I don’t know what to do. You won’t talk about anything.” Her face was unhappy. “Okay, I have to go. I’ll see you later.” She opened the door.

  Conrad took her by the arm with one hand and pushed the door shut with the other.

  “Don’t walk out on me, Claire,” he said.

  Now he was focused: he was furious. The red rose up in his head and he held her arm tightly. It was so slight he could crush it.

  Claire turned and looked at him. “You’re hurting my arm.” Her eyes filled with tears.

  At once he was ashamed.

  “Sorry,” Conrad said. “I’m sorry.” Christ. He let her go and stepped back. He held his hands up. “I’m sorry, Clairey.”

  She shook her head, blinking.

  He’d scared her. Christ. He moved forward and put his arms around her, remorseful. “I’m sorry,” he said into her hair. “I’m really sorry. I would never hurt you.”

  “I know that,” Claire said.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’m a fucking idiot.” He rocked her, kissing her hair. “Claire.”

  “It’s okay,” she said.

  It was strange to hold her clothed body against his naked one. His bare skin was pressed against her pleated skirt, the sweater. It felt wrong, as though they weren’t speaking.

  After a moment she pulled away.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again.

  “I know,” she said, half whispering, “but you have to let me go. You can’t hold me when you’re naked. I mean when I’m dressed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m afraid you’ll get come on my skirt,” she said, smoothing the pleats, looking down at them. Then she looked up, eyes glinting, and started to laugh. She couldn’t help it, and then he started.

  “Yvette,” he said, and then both of them got it, both of them helpless with fits and waves of laughter, doubled over.

  “Okay,” Claire said when she recovered. “Now I really have to go. We’ll talk later.”

  She kissed him and left. He heard the front door open and close, and after a few moments the low thrumming of the elevator.

  He was a fucking idiot. Not only had he behaved like an idiot and frightened Claire, he’d also lost the moral high ground and his position on the Roommates and their fucking towels. He’d have had a perfectly legitimate argument if he hadn’t turned into fucking Rambo. Now he’d lost, he couldn’t even raise the subject.

  He had to wait for the Roommates to leave before he could come out. One of them was in the shower, he could hear the drumming. Conrad dropped to the narrow space between the bed and the wall and began to do push-ups. He did a hundred, then a hundred more. His heart began to pound in a good way. He began to sweat. He whispered the numbers out loud for moto.

  When everyone was gone, when he’d heard the front door click twice, heard the elevator rise and fall, Conrad came out of the bedroom. He was barefoot and naked. Now the apartment was his. He liked being at liberty here, walking around, nude and at ease, his morning woody bobbing ahead of him. The Roommates would hate it if they knew.

  It was funny getting a chub in such a girlie place. In-country, they got them during combat. During action, when the Cobras flew past overhead, their machine guns racketing down onto the bad guys, everyone got hard. The guys joked about it afterward, boasting. They’d come back once after a firefight in Ramadi, and when Carleton came back from the shitters, he said, “Ho, man! I smell like I just been fucking! Smell me,” he said generously to Molinos, who was walking past.

  Molinos looked disgusted. “If I wanted to smell hot cock, I wouldn’t smell yours,” he said. But Carleton was stoked and proud, and thought everyone would want to know.

  Conrad padded into the bathroom. The room was small, the air humid. The back of the door was humped and heavy with damp bathrobes, the wall racks crammed with limp towels, the walls and floor filmed with moisture. A bath mat lay rumpled in front of the shower. The mirror was silvered, opaque, the air steamy and scented.

  He took a long shower, steaming the room up more, filling it with thick, hot swirling mist until he could hardly breathe. It was still a luxury, the water drilling pleasantly against his skin, cascading onto his head, his face. The drumming, the steam, the embrace of the water itself.

  When he got out, he took a towel from the rack and dried himself off. Not all the way. It was still a luxury to feel wet, to feel the droplets making their way down his arms and legs. He stood naked in front of the sink and began to shave. In the mirror he looked at himself surrounded by girl stuff. The back of the sink was lined with tubes and jars; a hanging shelf was crammed with them, face creams, hand creams, cosmetics. A striped glass held pencils and tubes. The mysteries of the face. An open plastic bag of cotton puffs, a box of Q-tips, throwaway razors. It was unbelievable, the amount of stuff women used to anoint their bodies. Shampoo bottles stood along the back edge of the tub. Each time he washed his hair, he chose a different one, a different color and smell. Did they know this? Maybe that was what had pissed them off.

  In the mirror he watched his cheeks and throat slowly appear, swath by swath, from under the white landscape of the shaving foam. He kept his eyes carefully on his face, his hands, the raz
or. He pulled the razor smoothly through the white clouds, making exactly the tracks he wished.

  This, right now, was the best part of the day, shaving and getting dressed, full of purpose. Every morning he started new, and right now, sweeping weightless bits of white from his face, doing exactly what he intended, the rest of the day stretched ahead, ready to be mastered. Right now he was making bold, clean slices through the foam.

  He wore the towel (not green) back into Claire’s room, where he dropped it, wet and heavy, on the bed. Someone would be pissed. His duffel bag was on the floor by the wall, his clothes muddled inside it. He found a clean shirt and a pair of khakis. He dressed, still glowing from the shower and the mild abrasion of the shave. He would apologize again to Claire. The day lay ahead, unopened. He let himself out of the apartment, glancing automatically up and down the hall as he locked the door.

  Outside, the air was fresh. The sky was patterned with clouds, big, handsome thunderheads, glowing and shapely, rolling confidently across the blue. The avenue was lively, imbued with an early-morning briskness. It was the start of the new season, and everyone seemed purposeful and focused. Even the traffic, rattling northward, seemed to be governed by courtesy and intent, unlike later in the day, toward rush hour, when a casual hostility spread throughout the streets. But now drivers looked straight ahead, their faces calm, believing they’d arrive on time, that the day would go as they hoped it would. It was possible for all this to come true. On the sidewalks people walked quickly and confidently. Dogs trotted happily behind their owners, tails high, tongues out, on their way somewhere they wanted to go. Everyone’s clothes were crisp, their faces neat, their hair tidy. New York was putting its best foot forward.

  Conrad walked up First Avenue toward the coffee shop. He bought a copy of the Times from a metal stand. He liked having the actual paper. He didn’t like reading news on the computer, didn’t want to find himself skipping from link to link, site to site. Didn’t want to end up reading something he didn’t want to read. When he read the actual paper, he felt more in control. If he saw something he didn’t want to read, he just kept his eyes away.