Push

by Claire Wallis

  What r u doing today?

  Prepping for tonight.

  Poker, u mean?

  Yes.

  Jesus, u need to prep for that? Really?

  Yes really.

  Hummm. How do I get invited?

  U don’t want to be.

  Is there fancy food involved or something? Caviar? Shrimp cocktail?

  There is no cock, or tail, involved. I promise.

  I feel eyes on me as I laugh out loud in line at the salad station.

  Well then, I guess I don’t want to be invited after all....

  Not unless u want to lose all the money u r earning at that new job.

  I wouldn’t lose a dime.

  Is that so?

  Yes. If I take my shirt off, no one will even notice their cards.

  Now THAT would be a sight to see.

  Tell me where u r going to be and u can...

  Tempting...but I can’t.

  Suit yourself. See u Wednesday?

  Wednesday it is. I have something I want to show u after work. Can I pick u up downtown?

  Yes. In front of the Union Building. 6:00. I’ll b the one in heels.

  Ass up?

  I’ll consider it.

  When two minutes pass and I don’t get a reply, I put my phone back into my purse. I pick out my lunch and head back upstairs to eat it at my desk.

  The afternoon passes uneventfully. I work with Matt for another hour or so, then I spend the rest of the day in my cubicle working out how to split a video conferencing line to forty-seven different offices. I’ve got a good grip on this project, and I feel satisfied that the whole thing is moving along perfectly. At five-thirty, I gather my things and head home. I am looking forward to an evening by myself.

  When I get back to my apartment, there is a man mowing the lawn in front of the building. He looks vaguely familiar. As I am walking up to the building, digging around in my purse for my keys, he cuts the mower engine. When the silence strikes, I look over at him to see what happened, and he’s just standing there looking at me. I recognize him now. He was the one sitting on David’s bed on Saturday night. I smile a half-smile at him, and continue to search for my keys.

  When I find them, I go to open the door and see that the man is standing to my left, only a few paces away.

  “Hey,” he says as he continues to walk toward me, “you’re Emma, right? David’s...um, friend?” Oh, this is going to be awkward. Very, very awkward.

  “Yes, that’s me,” I say tartly. He offers his right hand for me to shake, but my own hand is already occupied with the keys. He stands with his hand out for a few seconds while I open the door and prop it open with my knee. Only then do I reach across myself to offer him my hand in return.

  “My name is Brad,” he says. “It’s nice to meet you. David is a friend of mine. I helped him finish your kitchen yesterday. How do you like it?”

  “It’s very nice. Thank you,” I say, wanting to go inside and be by myself.

  “Yeah, it turned out pretty nice,” he says lightly. “David was a fucking slave driver, though. I think he wanted us the hell out of your apartment.” He is smiling at me, and I wonder if he knows precisely how true his statement really is. A few seconds pass, and I can tell he is waiting for my reply.

  “Yeah, well...” I say quietly as I shrug.

  “At any rate, I’m glad you like it,” he says kindly. “I guess I’ll be seeing you around, then.” I can’t tell if it is meant as a question or a statement. “I’ll tell David that I met you when I see him later tonight.”

  “Oh, you’re playing poker tonight, too?” My skin prickles. He is going to see David tonight and I am not. It isn’t envy I’m feeling—I don’t know what it is. “Where do you guys play?” I ask. Hell, if David won’t tell me, maybe Brad will.

  “We play in the basement of some building. The guy who owns this building, Carl, he has a couple of other places, and so we play at one of them. It’s a shithole, but it’s private,” he says.

  “Would you mind giving David a message for me when you see him tonight?” I ask. This is going to be fun.

  “Sure. What is it?”

  I pull off my shoe. It’s one of my favorite navy blue high heels. I hand it to Brad with a smile.

  “Just give him this, and tell him I’ll need it back in time for work tomorrow.”

  At first he looks at me as if I am from Mars. But then something sinks in, and a smile grows on his face. I smile back at him knowing that, yes, he probably would like a crack at me. He would have to take down David first, though, and I don’t see that happening. He shakes his head slowly and lets out a near-silent laugh.

  “It’ll be my pleasure,” he says as he takes my shoe by the heel. He’s a handsome guy, this Brad, and at least as far as looks go, I can see why David didn’t want to introduce me. I hope I am not inciting a riot with my little game, but we did agree to nix the jealousy bullshit. Brad looks a little too excited with this opportunity, though, so I decide I’d better set a ground rule.

  “But, you have to promise me that you won’t lead him to believe that you were the one that took it off me,” I say. “Because if he thinks for even one second that you and I did anything more than say ‘Hi’...” I raise my eyebrows and trail off, figuring that Brad knows David way better than I do. I’m sure he knows precisely what David will do to him if he thinks something happened between us.

  “You don’t have to worry about that,” he says. “I’ll make it perfectly clear that I am nothing more than the delivery boy. He already beats my ass at poker. I don’t need him beating my ass for this, too.”

  “Thanks, Brad,” I say. “It was nice to meet you.”

  “You, too,” he says as he tucks the heel of my shoe into the back pocket of his jeans. After I go inside, I turn to close the door behind me and see him restarting the lawn mower, the front of my shoe dangling out of his back pocket.

  * * *

  The next morning, I somehow manage to wake a few minutes before my alarm. I love it when that happens, and take it as a sign that I am well rested and settling nicely into my work routine. When I turn the alarm off, I smell something. I’m not exactly sure what it is, but I know it isn’t a smell that belongs here. It’s an earthy mix of turpentine and tobacco. I prop myself up on my elbows and inhale again. It’s not a bad smell, just a curious one. It’s raw and masculine.

  I click on my bedside lamp. I don’t see anything unusual about my room, and I begin to think that perhaps the smell is coming in through the closed windows. I swing my feet off the side of the bed and stand up. Sitting on top of the dresser, at the foot of my bed, is the navy blue shoe I had given to Brad. Shit. It means that David was here last night. Once again, I must have slept like a rock.

  I pick up the shoe and smile, thinking about what David’s reaction must have been when Brad presented it to him. I’d bet my first paycheck he was pissed off, at least initially. Obviously Brad gave David my message; otherwise my shoe wouldn’t be here right now, so at least I know that Brad had the opportunity to explain how he got it before David went crazy on him. I begin to think my little stunt went off without a hitch.

  I open my dresser drawer and pull out a clean pair of panties and a bra. I already have the rest of my clothes picked out for the day, and I walk over to my closet to get them out. Suddenly I understand where the smell is coming from. There on the floor next to my bed is David. He is naked from the waist up, his T-shirt bunched up underneath his head like a makeshift pillow. He is lying on his left side, his knees curled up toward his chest and his arms splayed out in front of him. I have been to enough high school and college parties to know that he is passed out drunk. As soon as I see him there, my mind deciphers the smell. It’s the whisky coming out of his pores, mingled with sexy-man-sweat and sweet cigar smoke. I suppose I should feel lucky that he didn’t puke. At least not in here, anyway.

  I bend down closer. He is in a dead sleep, and I watch his chest rise and fall a few times before
I sit down on the floor next to him. The birds are there, of course, twisted around his arms. I want to touch them, to lie down next to him, but I don’t. Instead, I just watch him. This is what he looks like when he sleeps. I like his stillness, his exposure. He is strangely perfect like this, asleep on my floor curled into himself.

  I don’t wake him. Instead, I get my clothes out of the closet, grab both of my navy blue heels, and head to the bathroom, closing my bedroom door quietly behind me. Once I am showered and dressed, I eat a quick breakfast. Before I rush out the door, I pull a piece of paper out of my bag, write him a note, and put it on my little table.

  See you at 6:00.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Kelsey

  I am standing on Clawsen’s Bridge dressed for work in my khakis and blue polo shirt. David is late, which isn’t like him at all. Despite his rough edges, he’s always both punctual and orderly. Which is perfect, because I’m the exact same way. I suspect he’s late because he got stuck in the line of traffic going to Beth Lanko’s funeral. I think the whole town is there. Well, everyone except for us, that is. I knew Beth, but not well, so we aren’t going to her funeral. Instead, I am on this bridge waiting for David.

  David and I met when my family hired him and his dad to rebuild the kitchen in our restaurant. I waitress there and hope that, when he’s ready to retire, my dad will let me take over the business. It’s just a little bistro, but I grew up with it and can’t see myself doing anything else. Plus, when David and I get married and have kids, it means we’ll be able to stay close to my parents.

  Thankfully, my mom and dad both think David is a decent guy. They recognize how disciplined he is. They appreciate that he always picks me up on time and brings me back home well before my curfew. He is always courteous and polite, and despite his father’s alcoholism, David seems to have a good grip on where he wants his life to go. David is a methodical, planned thinker, and even though he doesn’t go to church or college, my folks consider him to be a part of our family. But most of all, my mom and dad recognize how important I am to David’s future. They know I am saving him. They know that our family is saving him. They see their acceptance of him as part of the Lord’s work.

  What they don’t know, though, are all the details of David’s messed-up past. It explains a lot about him. About his need for discipline. About his need to be in command of his life now that he is an adult. His childhood was completely contradictory to mine. But I can’t tell my mom and dad about it because David made me promise not to.

  The important thing is that I know he wants to be with me, and I love him. I’ve told him so many times, but for some reason, I don’t think he believes me. And he never says it back, which my sister says is just a guy thing. But I actually don’t think he’s going to say it at all until I agree to have sex with him.

  When he found out that I am saving myself for my wedding night, he told me that he didn’t understand why. That was eight months ago, and we haven’t talked about it since. He never pushes me about it, but sometimes I think that our lack of sex is stopping him from expressing his love for me. And yet here we are, still together—not having sex.

  A part of me can’t help but think that we would be closer if we were. The same part of me thinks that maybe we should just do it and get it over with. What if I end up never having it? Never knowing what it’s like. What if something happens to me before I get married? I mean, look at Beth Lanko. There she was, a twenty-five-year-old woman, healthy as can be, and whammo, she dies of a brain aneurysm just like that. You never know when your time is up, and by not having sex, I can’t help but feel that maybe I am missing out on something. But I have so much time. We have so much time. We’re only nineteen years old, for Pete’s sake.

  I have even talked to my youth minister about all this, and he says that God’s will is for young people to wait for marriage. He says that premarital sex is a sin, and though I can ask for forgiveness, doing “it” takes the sanctity out of marriage. You can’t get your virginity back, he said. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. So I am pretty sure that I am keeping mine, until I give it to David on our wedding night.

  My mind is reeling about why he asked me to come here. He brought me here once before, a few weeks after we met, to show me where some girl from his from high school committed suicide. I went to the Christian Academy, but I remember hearing about her jumping off this bridge the winter of my senior year. The whole town was shattered about it, even though it seemed that no one really even knew her. I guess she didn’t live here that long and had a hard time fitting in. David said he had a biology class with her or something, but that he didn’t know her very well.

  My guess is that Beth’s death has triggered something for David, and he wants me to help him reconcile with his past. With his mother’s illness. With his dad’s alcoholism. With all the parts of his life that have gone wrong. David can be very deep sometimes, and when he called to ask me to meet him here, I could hear the edge in his voice.

  He is here now, at last, parking his truck against the guard rail at the entrance to the bridge. I can see the seriousness on his face as he walks toward me. He’s got his backpack on, and he’s busy apologizing about the funeral traffic holding him up. We kiss and hold hands and walk together to the middle of the bridge. I can see that he has something on his mind that is distracting him, making him look past me.

  He tells me that he sees Beth’s death as a sign—I was right! A sign that life is too short to be anything less than happy. I tell him that I couldn’t agree more. I tell him, again, how much I love him, and for a second, I think that maybe he’s going to say it back. But he doesn’t. Instead, he says that he’s getting tired of hearing me say those words. He says that instead of telling him how much I love him, I need to show him. I don’t understand why he can’t see how much I love him already. Does he think that we need to have sex in order for me to prove my love? Can I not prove it some other way? I ask David what I can do to show him how much I care for him. I’m expecting him to threaten to leave me unless I agree to make love to him right now. I don’t want to lose him over this. There has to be some other way to show him how much I care.

  But he doesn’t say sex. In fact, he doesn’t say anything at all. Not out loud, anyway. But I can see it in his face. I can see that he is going to leave me if I don’t fix this.

  I tell him I am desperate to show him how much I love him, but I don’t know how. What will make you happy? I ask. How can I show you we belong to each other, without having sex?

  He scoffs quietly at me, narrows his eyes, and shakes his head in disbelief. Then he tells me that this isn’t about sex. It’s never been about sex, he says calmly. He turns away from me and starts to walk away. My desperation is growing. My heart is screaming at my body to make him stop. To keep him from leaving. He can’t leave me. He can’t. I won’t let him leave me because if he does, it means I failed at saving him. Without me, David will never have the opportunity to become the man I know he can be. He needs me, and I must make him see that. I step forward and catch his arm before he’s out of my reach. What is it, David? I say. What can I do? There has to be something. Anything. I’ll do it. I don’t want you to leave me, David. I want to make you happy. I love you. Let me show you how much.

  He takes his backpack off and puts it on the ground. I can see that it’s heavy because of the way he moves. I want you to jump for me, he says. Jump off this bridge and let me save you. Then I will believe that you love me, and I will love you back. If you let me save you, it will save me, he says. And it will make me happier than I’ve ever been. Everything will be all right.

  What??? Jump off a bridge? Let you save me? That will make you love me back? But then I see it. I see it very clearly. I see why he is asking me for this. For all the parts of his life that have gone wrong, this can go right. This he can reconcile. This he can control.

  I understand now. I’ll do this, and he can “save” me, and we can move on. I will let David resolve
all the bad in his life through my decision to do this. I love him, and I want to make everything better. Fine, I say quietly. I’ll do it.

  David opens his backpack and removes a length of cord. He ties my hands together behind my back. Then he takes a pair of sandbags out of the backpack and ties them to my feet. I am confused until I realize that he wants to save me completely. He wants to do it without me having any ability to save myself.

  I am suddenly struck with the bitter realization that that is the surrender he has asked for. He has asked me to surrender complete control of my life to him. He has asked me to surrender the choice of my own life or death to him. And I have agreed to it. Whether or not he chooses to save me doesn’t matter to him. It is only my surrender that matters. That is what will make him happy. That is how I will show him how much I love him.

  This is not right. His want of complete control of whether I live or die is not right. I am afraid now. Afraid that he will make the wrong choice. That he will let me die. I tell him that I changed my mind. That I want him to untie me. I try to step away, but the bags are so heavy. I am yelling at him, telling him let me out of this stupid rope. David, I shout, please, please, untie me. This is so messed up. I don’t want this. I don’t want to do this. Please, untie me. Please. We can find another way.

  Because I don’t know what else to do, I drop to my knees and tell him again to let me go. As I kneel at the edge of the bridge, I look up and see that he is smiling. It is the first time I have ever seen him smile. And it is a genuine, face-splitting smile. He is beautiful, and I am sure now that he is not going to save me because he is already happy. He is happy knowing that this moment—this choice—is his.