Push

by Claire Wallis

  A few minutes later, we are on the road, and before I know it, we pull into our building’s parking lot. Together we walk inside and up the stairs. I don’t want to invite him into my place to sleep because I would actually like to sleep, and so we stand outside my apartment door with a haze of expectation hanging between us.

  “Thanks, David. Really. I had so much fun last night. Everything about it was exceptional,” I tell him as I put my key into the lock.

  “Yeah, it was a pretty great night,” he says, his voice trailing off and his eyes dropping to his shoes. “Thanks for not taking those guys too seriously. They get a real rise out of the whole ‘shock and awe’ thing.”

  “I’m not usually shocked or awed by guys like that,” I say. “It takes a lot more than that to impress, or intimidate, me.” I try to laugh as I say it, but I’m just so damned tired that I can barely muster a smile.

  “I can see that you’re itching to get some sleep, so I’ll just call you later, okay? You wanna get some dinner Sunday night?”

  “Sure,” I say, twisting my doorknob. I hear someone coming down the stairs. Both David and I turn to look up at the landing, and there stands Brad. He has a black eye and a very swollen cheek, and he’s wearing a pair of jeans, a dark green T-shirt, and a ball cap with the Twin Cities emblem on it. He stops short when he sees us. Then he walks very deliberately down the rest of the stairs until he is standing directly in front of David.

  “Where the fuck have you been?” he says to David, raising his hands in emphasis. “What the hell. Did you forget? You can’t just forget. That’s not how it works. We’re already so fucking late. Let’s...let’s just go.” Brad turns to me, smiles a conceited-prick smile, and looks me up and down. “Thanks for the black eye. It was a hell of a lot of fun.” And just like that, my anger comes back, rushing into my veins and burning. Making me want to take a swipe at him. But I don’t because suddenly David has his arm around my shoulders, and he is pulling me snug against him. He knows I am angry, and I think this is his way of telling me to shut it down.

  “I didn’t forget, Brad,” David says with a small, wry smile. “We just got back. And now I’m going up to my apartment to make a cup of coffee. Then we can go. He can wait.”

  “You are un-fucking-believable,” Brad mutters as he turns to walk back up the stairs.

  And I know that is all they are going to say. I want to ask David what they’re talking about, but I decide it’s really none of my business. When Brad is out of sight and back up the stairs, David lets go of me.

  “See you Sunday night,” he says. Then he leans into me and quietly adds, “and I did forget. Completely.”

  From the top of the staircase we hear, “You fucker. I knew it.”

  David shrugs at me, walks a few steps backwards, turns and goes upstairs. I watch him go. And when I hear his apartment door close, I go inside and straight to bed.

  * * *

  I sleep for the entire day and spend the evening watching TV and surfing the web. When I Google Noel’s Sex Toys, I see that at one point the band had a record deal, but it fell through when the recording company asked them to change some of their lyrics and they refused. “Creative conflict” appeared several times in articles about them in the local music rags. It seems that those boys know how to stick to their guns. I also Google The Trash Bin to see if the club comes up, but there is nothing. Apparently underground is the right word. Then, on impulse, I Google David Calgaro. I don’t know what I expect to find, but I am curious to see if I get any hits. I come up with seventeen Facebook entries, information about a Swedish musician, several mug shots, two obituaries and a bunch of other random mentions, none of which are the right David Calgaro.

  The only item I find that might be referring to my David Calgaro is a link to a newspaper article in The Times-Picayune from almost three years ago. The article mentions a David Calgaro who was being questioned regarding the disappearance of a woman he was living with. I immediately do the math and realize that David was probably living in New Orleans at that time, and this very well could be about him. He did say he left New Orleans because of a fucked-up girlfriend. I search the paper’s website for other mentions of the incident and come up with four articles about it. According to the paper, a woman named Anna Spaight was reported missing by her live-in boyfriend, David Calgaro, six hours after she didn’t return from work. The woman had a history of mental illness. She had been treated for depression and paranoia and was even hospitalized for attempted suicide on several occasions. When the police couldn’t locate her, they questioned David who said that, yes, she was taking her meds but that she had been a bit paranoid the past few months after finding out a neighbor was videotaping her from his window. David is quoted as saying that the neighbor had been reported to the police and evicted a month ago. Anna, however, couldn’t get past it. She became obsessed with keeping the blinds down and even went so far as duct-taping cardboard over some of the windows. The police questioned the evicted neighbor, who now lived in a different city, thinking that perhaps he was involved in her disappearance, but they found no link. In another article, the paper stated that, according to the police, neither David nor the neighbor were suspects and that they would continue to search for the missing woman. Her employer and a handful of coworkers had been interviewed, and they all said Anna seemed distressed. She even told one of them that she was still being watched. She was haunted by it. She said she needed it to end. She threatened suicide if it didn’t stop. The third article, dated three weeks later and titled “Missing Woman’s Body Found,” describes how a boater found her body in a local waterway. Divers searched the river for further evidence but came up with nothing. And nothing on her body indicated any foul play. She had drowned. The coroner ruled it a suicide. The fourth article is Anna’s obituary. In it is a picture of her. David is standing behind her, his face next to hers and his bird-cloaked arms wrapped around her waist. He looks younger for sure but just as brilliant. And Anna, she is beautiful, and she is smiling a wide, toothy grin. I don’t know how to describe her face except to say that she looks medicated. In a haze—but happy.

  As I read the words, I’m overwhelmed with sadness for David. And for Anna. I cannot imagine the darkness that he must have felt to see the life of someone he cared about end like that. It is clear that she was a troubled person, a tortured soul, and I want to grieve for her even though we never met. David must have cared for her deeply. No wonder he wanted to leave New Orleans. “Too many drunks,” he said, “and a fucked-up girlfriend.”

  I wish I had never Googled him, never discovered this part of his life. Because now, when I look at him, I will be searching for signs of his sorrow. For signs of her. I am mad at myself for being so curious. I don’t know David that well, but I surmise that this is not something he wants to talk about. Three years is a long time, but suicide is surely something that mars you forever. I will keep my mouth closed about this, and if he brings it up, I will play dumb.

  I turn off the computer, having discovered quite enough new information for the time being. And I flip open my phone.

  Hi.

  Two minutes pass before I get a reply.

  Hi back.

  Did u get some sleep?

  Yes. U?

  All day.

  Glad to hear it.

  U home?

  No. Out with the assholes.

  Your thing with Brad go ok?

  No, but I didn’t expect it to.

  Oh. Nice shiner u gave him, BTW.

  Yes, quite proud.

  As u should be.

  What r u doing?

  My face flushes with guilt, and I am thankful that he can’t see me.

  Watching TV.

  Anything good?

  Just crap.

  Go up to my place and pick a DVD. Door’s open. They r in the box next to the TV.

  Item number 4: Shitty-ass boyfriends are always trying to get you to watch porn.

  Is that so?

  Y
es. Not interested in your porn either. Not without u anyway.

  I’ll be home in twenty.

  I don’t want him to come home.

  Don’t. I was kidding.

  No porn in the box anyway. Sorry to disappoint.

  Not disappointed. Enjoy your friends.

  Hardly.

  Then why r u there?

  U were sleeping.

  :) like a rock.

  Enjoy your movie. Seriously, go pick one.

  I’m going to try on all YOUR underwear while I’m up there.

  I knew there was a reason to always go commando.

  I can think of several...

  C u tomorrow Emma.

  Good night.

  Night.

  I flip my phone closed and smile, thankful that what I now know hasn’t changed the spark between us.

  I sort through David’s box of movies. He’s right; there’s no porn here. There is, however, a vast assortment of man movies. The Blues Brothers, Star Wars, Field of Dreams. I pull out The Big Lebowski because, even though I’ve seen it a half dozen times, I know it will make me laugh.

  * * *

  I wake up late on Sunday, eat a leisurely breakfast/lunch, shower, and make a quick trip to the grocery store. When I get back to the apartment building and haul the two bags of groceries off the bus, I see David standing in the parking lot next to his car, talking on his cell phone. When I walk up the steps to the building, I pause and try to make eye contact with him. I don’t want to interrupt his conversation, but I want him to notice me, and eventually he does. As I am pulling open the door, his head lifts and his eyes hit mine. I smile and tip my head in toward the hallway, motioning for him to come in and see me whenever he is ready. He gives me a halfhearted wave. Then he turns around, drops his head, and continues the conversation facing the car.

  Ten minutes after I finish unloading the groceries, there is a knock on my door. Even though I know it is David, I peer out the peephole before I open it.

  “Hey,” he says, with both hands in his pockets now.

  “Hey,” I say. “Everything okay?” He looks a little shaken. Or maybe I am just overly sensitive because of last night’s online revelation. I don’t know.

  “Yeah. Everything’s fine,” he says with resignation. “I was just talking to Carl. We’re thinking of moving our poker game to different digs, and he isn’t happy about it. That’s what Brad and I had to deal with yesterday. Carl can’t fucking stumble home drunk if we go to this new place. He’s such an ass.”

  “Yeah, I only met him twice, but he definitely set off my ass alarm. I can spot them a mile away.”

  David’s face lightens immediately. “Ass alarm, huh? Is that like Gay-dar?”

  “Yeah, kinda. Only an ass alarm is far more valuable. Keeps out the riffraff.” I am smiling now, and David’s head sinks to his chest and shakes back and forth. I think he is laughing at me, and frankly, I deserve it. Ass alarm. God, I am a fucking loser.

  “Good to know you’ve got one of those. I’ll have to watch myself,” he says, raising his head. “I guess all those shitty-ass boyfriends really light it up, don’t they?”

  “Like a goddamned Christmas tree.”

  He is grinning again and shaking his head. I turn around and walk back into my apartment. I hear him follow me and close the door behind him.

  “So, we still on for dinner tonight?” he asks. “You wanna just stay in and get some pizza or something?”

  “Sure,” I say, stopping short of the kitchen and turning to him, “and maybe we can watch one of the hundreds of man movies you’ve got up there. It was like a big box of testosterone. I grew hair on my chest just looking at them.” I am teasing him, and I’m not quite sure how he is going to take it.

  “Hair on your chest, huh? You should check out the other box of movies I’ve got up there. They’ll make your hairy chest blush.” Ahhh, so he does have a box of porn. I knew it.

  “I doubt it. My brothers got the best of me already on that front. I stopped blushing at porn when I was eleven.”

  I don’t think David knows what to say in response to my remark, so instead of talking, he comes over, wraps his arms around me, and kisses the top of my head. He holds me like this for a minute or two, then lets go and steps back.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. Then, after a brief pause he adds, “let’s order a pizza. But first, I want to take you to the firing range. I mean, if you still want to learn how to shoot that gun.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Let’s do it.”

  We spend the next two hours at the firing range. David is a very careful teacher, showing me how to load the gun and how to aim. I am completely surprised at the amount of energy contained in such a small piece of metal. Every time I pull the trigger, the gun kicks back at me, lifting my arms and shifting my body. I hit the paper target only three times while we are there. The rest of my shots completely miss. David tells me it takes time to learn how to shoot straight and that it isn’t nearly as easy as it looks in the movies. No kidding. It’s kinda fun, though, shooting the gun. It makes me feel powerful, autonomous even. I can see that David feels the same when he pulls the trigger. He’s dripping with dominance and totally loving it. I make him promise to bring me back here again next weekend, and I tell him that now he is really in trouble if he sets off my ass alarm.

  We spend the evening eating pizza and watching Dirty Harry—now, there is a man who knows how to shoot a gun. When the movie is over, we sit on my couch, talking. We talk about our favorite movies, our middle names and our mutual love of Cheetos. David makes me laugh. Makes me feel at home. Makes me feel comfortable in my own company. There is something about him that is so real, so solid. He is soothing, which sounds utterly ridiculous, but I don’t know how else to describe his temperament. I feel natural talking to him. It is genuine and sincere. And even though I am looking for sorrow, I don’t see a single hint of it. At least not when he is with me. He is right. We are pretty great together.

  I don’t know how long we sit there talking, but when my thirst takes over and I excuse myself to get a drink from the kitchen, the microwave says it’s nearly one o’clock in the morning. Shit. I have to leave for work in six hours.

  “Jesus, David. I have to go to bed. I need to be up by six.”

  “Oh,” he says. “Okay. Can I stay? I mean, someone should be here to make sure you hear your alarm, right?”

  “Very funny,” I say with sass. “Good thing I can hear my ass alarm loud and clear.”

  “I’m not trying to be an ass, I’m trying to be helpful. Seriously, I’ll stay and make sure you aren’t late for work. I’ll even drive you to town so you can get an extra half hour of sleep.”

  I pause for a moment, not sure how this is going to go. “Okay,” I say. “You can stay. And you can drive. And thanks. For tonight and for tomorrow morning.”

  “Anytime.”

  Ten minutes later we are asleep.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Monday at the office is more of the same. More design, more circuitry, more Matt. We are nearly halfway done with the project now, so at least I can see a light at the end of the tunnel. The second half of the project, though, is far more challenging than the first, and because of that, I’m guessing I’ll be working with Matt for at least a few more weeks. Admittedly, he seems calmer today than he did last week. Perhaps my comment at lunch on Friday about him not being able to handle whatever it is that I’m smoking embarrassed him enough to make him want to ease off of the drivel. He is chatting, yes, but it isn’t a steady stream. And it isn’t all about him. Instead he is talking about two of the other guys who work with us, telling me their backgrounds and how he thinks they are two of the smartest people he has ever met. I pretend to listen to him intently and tell him that perhaps someday, if I ever get to work with them, I’ll discover for myself how smart they really are. And then he asks about David.

  “So, what does your boyfriend do? I mean, the guy that picked you up on Wednesday. I�
�m assuming he’s your boyfriend, right?” Jesus. I do not want to do this. I do not want to talk about this.

  “Well,” I say without taking my eyes off the papers in front of me, “I wouldn’t really call him my boyfriend, per se, but I guess you could say that he is. Kind of, I mean. He’s a carpenter.”

  “Oh,” Matt says, with what I think is a mix of holier-than-thou-attitude and disdain. “A carpenter, huh? How long have you guys been together?”

  “Not long.” I am getting irritated already.

  “He, um, he seems like an interesting guy.” Matt is fishing for something, but I can’t tell what. “He seems pretty intense, yeah?”

  “Yeah,” I say, lifting my head and looking right at Matt. “Look, Matt, is there some point you’re trying to get to here? Because if there is, you can just say it. Or you can ask me about it. Or whatever.” He is staring at me with his eyes wide and his mouth slightly open. I immediately regret being so blunt. I don’t think Matt knows what to do with blunt.