by Alex Behr
That’s because it’s happened to me. Crystal. She burns me. Makes me lean and giddy. And what’s she doing now? Who’s she fucking these days?
I hadn’t emailed Crystal or called or anything since Eddie was born almost a year ago. She needed to deal with her grief. That’s what the social worker said. We couldn’t help her beyond sending a few photos. Jen stayed in touch. She invited Crystal to the picnic, even though Ann-Marie was dubious. Crystal still lived with her mother, who encouraged her to see us. Strengthen the bond. Holy shit. Too many times recently, when Jenny was at work, I held Eddie up by the phone machine and played Crystal’s tentative phone message with the flight info. Eddie must remember the voice, during those long, wet months inside her. It comforted him.
And now, Crystal in the flesh, on the park trail headed toward us. I stand too quickly and bang my knees on the edge of the picnic table. Eddie’s snug in a striped onesie, stuck in a front-facing baby carrier, and all I can focus on are Crystal’s cutoff jeans and black hair. “Hi, Mommy! Hi, Daddy!” she calls, as if speaking for Eddie—her son/our son. She’s been trained well by the social workers. She puts the baby carrier on me, adjusting the straps. She’s close. And I stiffen, awkward, almost rude. I do a hug that pushes her away. Eddie’s between us. He mews—squished—and I picture kissing her and putting my hands down Crystal’s pants, lying beside her on the grass and tracing my tongue on her C-section scar.
I take Eddie out of the baby carrier, and I lie with him on a plaid blanket. He crawls away—our old game—and I pull on his legs. We’re a little rough. It’s OK. Crystal sits by me, her plate smeared with macaroni and cheese. She lies down, oblivious (I hope) to anyone except Eddie and me. She’s got purple nails, bitten to the quick.
I sit up, embarrassed, and tickle Eddie, who fusses at me, as if he can tell he’s a pawn. I almost say to Crystal, “We want another Eddie. Will you donate eggs for us—and they can go inside Jenny? And it’ll be my sperm. And I’ll think of you when I jack off.” No, I won’t say “jack off.” It’ll make me seem like an ass. But I don’t say anything special to Crystal. I think of walking with her, with Eddie, and showing her the dinosaur plants in the park and the tunnel where the bad saxophonist plays. I think of walking with her somewhere, so we can fuck.
I look up at Ann-Marie, videotaping the bowls of Jell-O and whipped cream, and I want to scream, “So what if I want to fuck Crystal. Your daughter rejects me!”
If I could only inject Ann-Marie’s libertine charm into Jenny, I’d be OK. I know it.
We say, “Happy Mother’s Day,” and Ann-Marie gets choked up.
Jenny takes Eddie from me, and Crystal and I go for a walk, ostensibly to get Popsicles for the kids. We are not in step. Not like I am with Jenny. I try to look into Crystal’s eyes to see what I see when I look into Eddie’s. But she keeps her head down, averted. Disco roller-bladers, spandexed bikers, and families cheering their kids on trikes fill the section of road closed to cars. They pour out across the pavement as if from a faucet of good health. I feel optimistic. I lead her up the path to Stowe Lake, and we walk to the pier. I can’t think of what to say. A turtle slips off a log into the green water. I wish I could submerge myself in it with Crystal—or without her—I’m losing my chance. I buy her popcorn.
“You know what my mom said when I told her I was pregnant?” Crystal asks, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “She was like, ‘Every victim has a key to her own prison.’”
“Do you believe that?”
“I don’t want to think about it. Can I tell you something?”
“Sure,” I say. “You can tell me anything.” I calculate the age difference—sixteen years. That won’t make me look like too much of a shit, would it?
“I don’t think Jenny likes me. She thinks I’m a slut or something.” She takes a handful of popcorn and drops the kernels into the water. Ducks approach, bobbing their heads. I don’t tell her the popcorn is bad for them.
“I don’t think so. She’s shy. She’s grateful for what you’ve done.”
“But that doesn’t mean she likes me. I even brought a picture of me as a kid, you know, for Eddie later. She barely looked at it.”
“Give it time,” I say. I count to five and kiss her. My tongue tastes buttery. I rub her back and draw her to me, hard, but she looks away. She steps back and wipes her hand over her mouth, smearing her lipstick.
I apologize, but she says, “I don’t feel well. You’re nice. Your family’s great. Please let it alone.”
She doesn’t seem to notice anything I’ve said. She never did.
At the picnic area, I get another hot dog, cursing myself, erasing Crystal’s taste with grilled onions. My wife and Crystal walk off to look at the rhododendrons. I try not to think about what they might say.
I change Eddie’s diaper, wondering if he gave me extra shit on purpose. He gives me a kiss, too. Open-mouthed, and I die a little inside from lovesickness.
I wipe off the onions and feed a piece of hot dog to Eddie. “Here’s a bit of chemical meat for you, buddy. We need to make you strong.” He hands it back to me, half-chewed. I pop it in my mouth. I’m his example, after all, and I need to show him I’m game for anything.
TEENAGE RIOT
Anyone who reads this without my consent will have a very sad week. Anyone can read this when I’m dead. But while alive—BEWARE! I know that won’t stop you!
At youth group, Mom made tacos, and the other lady made hot fudge sundaes. I heard a talk on homosexuality and my question was answered.
In health class we watched slides on drugs (which practically said drugs were good!) and prejudice.
Mary and I went through the graveyard and wrote down neat names. Two people in a car stopped and said, “Fuck you.”
I don’t understand why people would want to kill, torture, or kidnap people or why accidents happen. I don’t know which I fear most. I’ve been thinking all day just why I was born and why I’m going to school only to die in the end and forget everything.
All of the girls except me ran around the room with their tops off. I didn’t because I thought it was gross!
At home I listened to my stereo with headphones. So neat! I could even hear the singers spitting!
My deodorant doesn’t hold so that wasn’t good, but I joined Forensics. In Latin, Ms. T told us about her wedding. Her husband is Jewish so her family kicked her out. The only person at her wedding was her Mafia uncle.
I could’ve killed myself today except I’d be forgotten too soon and that’s the reason it’s not worth it. P.S. Art is hard. New teacher had us draw his dead pet stuffed owl.
Looked in mirror. Saw that I’m ugly. God just as easily could’ve made me comely.
Last night my boil burst. Blood and pus came out a little.
Met Yin and Angi at the community center. A guy by the pool tables said he was in college. He was a real jerk. He wanted to change the disco station Angi was listening to, which was fine with me, but he kept saying to me, “Stop swinging your butt,” and he hit me with his pool cue.
Can you imagine President Carter nude? All flabby. Bet he can’t last more than ten minutes. If I married someone who got fat, there goes our sex life. Shit. I’d be smothered.
When I saw Rick I was as nervous as a “cat on a hot tin roof.” It was as hard as before talking to him, and he was a bit bored. He said he had sex with other girls because, he said, “I know what I’m missing.”
Spent the night at Denise’s. We stayed up till 1:30 and crimped each other’s hair. We talked about her boyfriends and her first experience “Frenching.” She thinks it’s gross. So did I at first. Depends who with, I guess.
Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick in the Wall” is so sad. Like the song “Dust in the Wind.” That’s all we are. Maybe we need to land somewhere, or will we just blow forever, occasionally brushing into reality? I love life. Why, I don’t know. My sister’s bothering the shit out of me.
I’m getting involved in mucho things. All
I need is people to party with, a boyfriend, a new body, and a better personality.
I accepted, reformed, converted to the idea that I’m the one who has to change and so with that in mind I braved the cold winds and harsh breezes with the thought that the sun will shine again. High school’s better because I’m not expecting anything from anybody and the people there are not important. People who don’t like me can go fuck themselves.
Lisa and I talked in the dorm room about boyfriends. I felt sorry for Lisa because her boyfriend’s like a lot of guys I know back home. He has his friends—sells his drugs—but doesn’t want to leave. He loves sex. He’s totally unreliable—says he’ll pick her up at eleven for brunch. She’ll go by his house: it’ll be locked, and the phone’ll be off the hook. He won’t wake up till four in the afternoon because he went to bed at eight that morning. She had a miscarriage and he wouldn’t talk to her for three days.
Marcus went to a bar and stabbed the bouncer. A guy recognized him from the high school football team and went to Stuart and Vera’s house to ask Marcus why he tried to murder a guy. Marcus barely let him out of the back room alive. The police arrived with a warrant, but they knew about the dogs and wouldn’t go inside. Marcus escaped out a window and met up with Arthur to take him to Dulles Airport. That night, Stuart and Vera packed a suitcase for him, making sure his name wasn’t on it. Police cars watched the house, so Jimmy left for Willis’s. The cops were surprised at all the registered guns in the house. It’s funny that Stuart and Vera have so much money in guns yet hardly ever use them.
My parents were very impressed by Willis when he looked at my Dodge Dart. He told me a psychiatrist came on to him at the hotel he works at. The guy wanted Willis to piss in his mouth (that was too weird—even for Willis).
I want a dog. I’d name him Fish. I want something to love.
FAIRYLAND
Cookie’s mom had a boarder named Theresa. She was skinny, and her long black hair was combed straight and shellacked with hairspray. She liked to think of herself as tough; after work, she wore a black leather vest with jeans worn thin at the ass and knees. She cracked her jaw when she was tired or irritable. These were Cookie’s observations, since Theresa was her main habit—her roommate, her de facto older sister, or as much of a sister as she would ever have. Cookie was fourteen and Theresa was twenty, but seemed worlds older.
The front door slammed. Cookie took off her headphones in the bedroom and went to the kitchen. She shut the window and got out her algebra book. She wanted Theresa to herself, without the neighbors hearing her sing, yell or break shit.
Theresa opened the trashcan and picked out a paper towel wadded with blackened crumbs. “You burned the toast again,” she said. “I have an excellent sense of smell.” She had come home from her old-school hair salon.
“All that cut hair I breathe in will give me cancer. When I get it, remember why.” Theresa made fun of her lady clients. “They wrap toilet paper around their hair and sleep on satin pillows to keep their sets. They look good all week, yet look terrible at night.” She looked at Cookie to make sure she was listening. Cookie shut her algebra book.
Theresa said, “I’d rather look terrible in the day and look good at night, wouldn’t you?” She turned the radio dial from the public radio station where Cookie’s mom worked to one that played Top 40.
Cookie felt embarrassed when Theresa talked about sex, even obliquely. Cookie watered the spider plants and picked off the dead leaves. She had to get through her algebra homework and didn’t want Theresa to pick a fight. She sat by the window, which overlooked the side yard. They had tried to grow tomatoes last summer. What the slugs didn’t get the dogs did, searching for garbage knocked out of the cans. Anne, Cookie’s mom, was perpetually hopeful, and had tomato plants growing in coffee cans on the windowsill.
Theresa pulled bags of vegetables out of the crisper. “Come help me chop,” she said. She tossed a knife. It bounced and landed on the stained linoleum, its blade pointed toward Cookie. They looked at the knife on the floor and then at each other. Neither moved. Finally, Theresa picked it up, complaining and slamming the cutting board down on the counter. “Never mind. I’ll do the chopping. It’s not like my hands don’t ache from holding scissors all day, not to mention my back. It’s not like I’m not fucking tired.”
Cookie counted to herself and prayed the mood would improve. Theresa had to make dinner as part of her rental deal. Theresa defrosted burgers for herself and Cookie in the microwave and made vegetarian soup for Cookie’s mom, hacking off the soft spots on the zucchinis and tossing in limp carrots. “Onions and dried ginger,” Theresa said. “That’s the trick.” Cookie grimaced. It sounded revolting.
The phone rang, and Theresa pulled the cord into the other room for privacy. Cookie poured a glass of ice water and crunched the ice between her molars.
After the phone call, Theresa brushed Cookie’s hair, perhaps to make up for her foul mood. Her hands smelled of bleach, shampoo, and meat. She plugged in a crimping iron and forced Cookie’s hair into accordion waves. Cookie leaned against her chest, happy for the warmth.
Theresa held the crimping iron in one hand and a cigarette in the other. A song came on and she sang with the lyrics, mocking them. “I got it on with one of them,” Theresa said, meaning the band. “But I’m not saying which one.”
“Did it hurt?” Cookie asked. Theresa might as well be called Tiny, because her legs were so skinny, loose in blue jeans. The rest of her body looked lost, too, hidden under a Rolling Stones t-shirt.
She laughed. “A little,” she said. “I didn’t feel hurt till later. He hurt my feelings, the bastard.”
“Did it bend?”
Theresa laughed. “What?”
Cookie didn’t repeat herself. It was called a boner, but she didn’t know where the bone went after the guy came. She often felt confused, but she refused to admit it. Cookie guessed Theresa would be happy to provide answers to sex topics from A to Z, but Cookie didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to picture it, especially with Theresa’s hands in her hair.
Several years ago, Cookie’s mom, Anne, had picked up Theresa, who was hitchhiking in Berkeley by the I-80 on-ramp. Theresa threw her pack in the back of the station wagon and sat next to Cookie. She smelled like lavender and cigarettes and some sort of wildness, like moss and ferns. Anne believed in the goodness of people, barring Republicans, and said Theresa’s aura was golden, a positive sign. Anne’s entire family, the Staffords, picked up hitchhikers, gave money to bums, or brought in strays, their version of American pride.
Anne had gone too far, in Cookie’s current view, letting Theresa move into Cookie’s room. They shared a futon on the floor. The stuffed animals were stored in the closet because they gave Theresa the creeps. When she babysat Cookie, she told her about her drug trips, sitting in her bed—their bed—with her legs tight against her chest. She liked to keep the light dim, with a scarf over the lampshade. Cookie tried to imagine Theresa’s LSD trips by shutting her eyes so hard she saw white flashes, but nothing made her feel as Theresa described it, translucent caterpillars coming up on the bed and wanting to infest her.
In the beginning, Theresa had asked Cookie questions as if she cared about the answers: Where is Atlantis? “In the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. It’s a circle, a giant city with a dome over it. Every single magical creature lives there.” Even vampires? “No. Oh, yes. They live in the jail.” Are you going to look for it? “Definitely. No way anyone can stop me.” But lately, Theresa could be so unpleasant that Cookie slept on the couch most nights, or in her mom’s room, when her mom was at the radio station.
Cookie ate her burger slowly, waiting for Theresa to come back from the garage. She didn’t let Cookie or Anne in there without her permission. She got her way through sweet-talking or through long periods of silence. She brought in an armful of clothes and dumped them on the kitchen table. The wrinkled tops and shorts smelled like stale air and plastic bags. Cookie held up a shirt with
ruffles down the center.
“Who would wear this crap?” Cookie asked.
“This shit will sell,” Theresa said. “Help flatten it out and I’ll give you a cut.”
After dinner, they put the clothes on the back seat of Theresa’s car, borrowed from someone—Cookie wasn’t sure. Theresa wanted to sell the clothes at used places on Telegraph Avenue, but she took a turn and headed the opposite direction. She didn’t give a reason. They drove to an apartment in North Oakland. Cookie rolled down the window to look at her crimped hair blowing in the side view mirror, pretending she could read Theresa’s mind, that there was logic in these days.
Theresa’s friend lived in an apartment with a laminated Santa on the door. No one had changed it—not in January. Not even now, in May.
In the living room, Cookie ran a finger along a Venetian blind, daring to see if it would cut her. “Leave it down,” a guy said.
“Don’t be mean, Marcus,” Theresa said.
Marcus had long sideburns and a skinny face crossed with acne scars. He sat on a plaid couch folded out to a bed, the cushions placed vertically against the back of it. On the mattress in front of him were piles of latex balloons, filled with brown liquid, like chocolate treats.
A game show played on TV, the sound on low. Cookie wandered around the apartment, avoiding the man on the couch. Theresa disappeared into the bedroom. Cookie could hear voices from the room—and laughter—not the good kind. She found things in strange places: a child’s ABC block on top of the fridge, a plastic troll in the sink drain. She wondered if a kid lived here and was leaving her clues.
