She'll Take It

by Mary Carter

  “A rose for your lady?” he pipes in a thick Indian accent.

  “No thanks,” Ray quips, turning his back on him.

  “But it’s Valentine’s Day,” the rose peddler continues. “I’ll bet the pretty lady would like a rose. Would you like a rose, pretty lady?”

  Ray looks at me. No, I’d like the whole freaking cart you idiot, I think while smiling and rolling my eyes like it’s a ridiculous question.

  Ray steps forward to take charge of the situation. “We don’t let Hallmark dictate our relationship, buddy. She doesn’t need a rose just because it’s the fourteenth of February. I give her roses when I feel like it.”

  (Which, so far, would be never.)

  “Leave us alone and find some other sucker who worships the God of Advertising, Consumerism, and Love shoved down their throats at $3.50 a card!”

  And then he says five little words that instantly turns my blood to dry ice.

  “We are barely even dating,” he spits out, looking at me for confirmation.

  I know he’s expecting me to nod and look appropriately riled at the suggestion that we’re a couple, but, barring the last two weeks, I’m too busy running a slideshow through my head of all the sex we’ve had the past four months. Apparently it’s been “nondating” sex.

  “Looks like she thinks you are dating,” the peddler says in a singsong voice, pointing to the large card and shiny red package in Ray’s hand. I have to hand it to the rose peddler, he’s quick. Ray hadn’t even noticed what was in his hand.

  That’s when a Sesame Street book from my childhood, The Monster at the End of This Book, flashes through my mind. All through it, Grover pleads with you not to turn the page. “Please, please, please don’t turn the page, didn’t you hear me? There’s a Monster at the End of This Book.” I become Grover pleading with Ray and the Universe and the Saint of Humiliated Women not to open the card. God, please no! Don’t do it! He’s doing it. He’s opening the card while the rose peddler sneers at him. No, no, no. It’s too late. He’s seen “I Love You” not only sprawled in big red letters by evil, corporate Hallmark, but worse—written in indelible ink by none other than yours truly, Melanie Zeitgar, who has died a death of a million paper cuts to the heart before Ray has even opened the stolen eighteen-hundred-dollar Omega Seamaster watch.

  “Melanie,” he says quietly. “Wow.” We are sitting on the steps near the fountain, away from the rose peddler, away from the roses. Ray had to physically drag me over here because I had been too humiliated to move. “Wow,” is the first thing he’s said in five excruciating minutes. He hasn’t even taken the watch out of the box. I am quietly wracking my brain for a way to make this okay. How do I turn this into a casual thing? But it’s not casual. I love Ray, don’t I? I’ve spent many dazed and confused years on an assembly line of lukewarm dates—and I’ve finally found someone who really captures my attention.

  Okay, we aren’t perfect, but everyone knows relationships are like ill-fitting albeit beautiful shoes. You can still walk in them and love them even if they’re not a perfect fit. You run the risk that you’ll never grow into them, and there’s a chance they’ll cripple you for life. Or maybe they’re great to dance in, but long walks are out. Or long walks are in, but dancing is out. Or you can go ahead and do everything in them but you’ll have big, gaping, bleeding blisters the next day.

  Perhaps you’ll develop a bunion. And then the pretty shoes will fade and scuff as the years go by, and no matter how hard you polish them you can never restore them to their pristine just-out-of-the-box state. So now, not only do they hurt like hell, but they’re starting to fall apart. And that’s okay. With Ray I knew all of that and I still wanted to be with him. But now I’ve blown it. I showed Ray how much I love him and so far all he’s said is “Wow.” And let me tell you—it isn’t a good wow. It’s the kind of “wow” you would utter if you had just seen a tornado in Ohio suck an entire herd of cows into its vortex. “Melanie, I don’t know what to say to you right now.”

  “Ray,” I say. And then I do something really, really stupid. I know the Saint of Women Who Chase Men aren’t paying the slightest bit of attention to me when I say this, for if they are they would be striking me down with a bolt of lightning. “It’s okay if you don’t feel the same right now,” I hear myself say. “It’s no big deal.”

  He takes my face in his hands. “You’re a wonderful woman,” he says. Oh shit. “Any guy would be crazy to have you.” No. No, no, no, no, no. Not any guy. Please, not the “any guy” speech. “You see, I’m in a place in my life where—”

  Do you really need to hear the rest of this? Because I don’t. I stop listening and focus on a tiny ladybug crawling along the step near my shoe. At first I love her for her tiny red body and bearings of good luck, but then I start to wonder if she is here for Ray—like maybe she’s his good luck sign that he’s getting rid of me. And then I hate her, and I lift my shoe to squash her. But I can’t do it. My foot freezes a few inches above her. And it’s not just because ladybugs are cute—they shouldn’t even be called ladybugs, they should be called, “buttons” or something that equally discourages squashing. But that’s not why I spare her. She lives because of my ambivalence.

  While my foot is poised in midsquash position, I consider what the ramifications would be if the Saint of Ladybugs had sent her to me as a sign that Ray would change his mind. If that were the case and I killed her, that would be some bad mojo. And before I work my way back to her being an evil messenger of doom, she’s already gone. I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry. I bite my lip and nod like I understand every word Ray is saying. Suddenly he stops talking and plants a kiss on my cheek. “Look, I’m sorry but I have to go. I think we should just cool it for a while, you know?” I nod and am still nodding when he disappears up the steps and around the bend.

  I sit for another fifteen minutes and then I run up the stairs from the fountain and head toward the east side of the park, away from our phantom penthouse in the Dakota. Who wants to live in a place where John Lennon was shot anyway? I run and keep running until I end up at the carousel. To my surprise it is running, colorful bobbing horses whirling around to piped-in carnival music. I pay six bucks and pick a bright blue horse—forget the white ones with their lame-ass Prince Charmings galloping in to save the day. Why don’t they ever show you the part where the prince gets one whiff of commitment and shrivels into oblivion? Bloody hell. I’ll ride my own damn horse. I ride the carousel three times and wander around in case Ray changes his mind and comes looking for me, but he never does. I make my way back to the west side of the park in case he’s waiting for me. He’s not. On my way home I do what any humiliated woman would do on Valentine’s Day. I steal three boxes of chocolate hearts and a quart of vodka. I’m never going to speak to Saint Valentine again.

  Chapter 20

  I would have preferred a Jehovah’s Witness. Instead, I find Zach standing outside my door jostling a stack of college catalogues. “Only ten percent of noncollege graduates ever make over fifty thousand dollars a year,” he says when I peer into the hallway.

  “Hello, Zach,” I say. “What a nice surprise.” My head is pounding from the vodka and my mouth tastes like pennies.

  “Ten percent. And get this—of those that do make over fifty thousand a year, half of those at least have an associates degree.”

  “Would you like to come in?”

  Zach glances into my apartment like a soldier scanning for land mines. “Is she here?” Corinne doesn’t like my brother hanging around my model friends—especially Kim.

  “Not yet,” I say. “But she’ll probably stumble in any minute in last night’s little outfit,” I add just to see him sweat.

  “Let’s go somewhere, Mel,” he says. “We need to talk.”

  I take him to the India House on Second Avenue and get the tongue-lashing of my life over Naan bread and Tandoori chicken. We make it through the buffet line and he waits until I’ve taken a few bites before he r
ips into me.

  “We think you should be doing better by now, Mel,” he says.

  “Who is we?” I reply, soothing myself with a mouthful of curried potatoes.

  Zach hesitates and twists two colored straws into a modern art sculpture while I wait. “If you must know, all of us. Mom, Richard, Corinne—”

  “Corinne? What right does she have to weigh in on my life?”

  “She simply agreed you’re an intelligent woman who—who—”

  “Who what?”

  “Who should have, you know, a degree—or a job.”

  I grab the straw sculpture out of his pristine hands and throw it on the table. “She doesn’t know me! Who the hell does she think she is?” (I like Corinne too, except for the fact that she has bad taste in men.)

  “She’s my wife,” Zach retorts. “Who the hell do you think she is?” He slams his fist on the table, catapulting his straw sculpture onto the Christmas lights that hang in the India House year-round. I stare at the twisted mass of blinking red and green lights reflecting early Christmas cheer on my brother’s salt and pepper head and have visions of stabbing him to death with a fork.

  “You have no right to judge me,” I say. “Any of you. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with working in a law firm.”

  “As an assistant?”

  “Something wrong with that?”

  “Is that what you really want? Because don’t kid yourself with the title—you’re just a glorified secretary.”

  I start ripping my napkin into little pieces, which is what I always do when I’m stressed. Why can’t he just once visit me like I’m a normal human being instead of a beater car in need of a serious tune-up? Why do I have to put up with his constant lectures? My own father doesn’t even lecture me like this. Granted, he hardly ever talks to me at all anymore, but I know if he were here he would be a lot nicer than Zach.

  “Melanie. I just want you to have a good life. You know that right?”

  I soften slightly. Poor Zach, he feels so responsible for everyone. Maybe he is a lousy father replacement, but it’s kind of sweet that he tries.

  “I have a good life,” I say, forcing a smile. I start shredding the napkin faster and faster and eye the teapot in the center of the table. It’s gold with an exotic woman belly dancer etched into it. It’s also the perfect size to slip into a large jacket pocket or a purse. Just thinking about it calms me down a bit. I pour more hot water for myself and then for Zach. It will be much easier to steal if it’s empty.

  “When are you going back to college?” Zach says, sliding the comment into the conversation like a waiter clearing the salad plates.

  “Mind your own business,” I say with a sulk.

  “Look. I understand you went through a hard time,” Zach says puffing himself out—priming up for the kill.

  And this is where I completely lose it. Because he’s very close to a button that could cause a catastrophic reaction if pushed. And I don’t care who I have to take down with me—that’s not going to happen. Holier-than-thou Zach Zeitgar is walking over a land mine.

  “You understand what?” I dare him to say. My voice carries with it a clear warning, and Zach looks away without answering. “Let’s just change the subject, Zach. Okay?”

  And just when I think we’ve come to an understanding, Zach slips back into the conversation through the back door. “Does Ray know about your stint in the psyche ward?” he says.

  I have a new appreciation for deer in headlights. The paralyzing beams, the frozen limbs. He needs no fist slamming, since silence descends like a guilty verdict, casual dinner conversation screeches to a halt, and all eyes in the India House land on me like fleas on an old dog. My fork hovers halfway between my plate and my mouth, my eyes drift up and to the right, and déjà vu washes over me like oily gloves. He doesn’t know that Ray and I are no longer dating, but the comment slices me anyway.

  “That was a long time ago, Zach,” I say like a ball of yarn unraveling. I shut my eyes, trying to ignore the phantom ache across my left wrist. Elements of the evening tumble through my mind like an old movie.

  I’m running in the rain back to my dorm as fast as I can. I yank off my shirt and grab the razor. I don’t give myself time to think, I just slice. Blood is gushing out of my wrist so I instinctively grab a hand towel hanging near the sink—a festive bright red towel with a vibrant green Christmas tree—for it was that happy, happy time of year. I press it against my wound while pure terror races through my veins. What did I do, what did I do, what did I just do? I stumble into the hallway toward the pay phone, still clutching the razor, dripping a trail of blood. I’m going to call 911. I call Zach instead.

  “Don’t worry, Zach,” I say, snapping out of the memory, “I’m taking my Prozac.” Actually I had stopped taking it right after I met Ray, but Zach didn’t need to know that. Besides, I didn’t need it anymore. I was over all of that. Zach bit his bottom lip while I reached for another napkin.

  “Look,” Zach says like he’s gearing up for a closing argument. “I understand—”

  “You don’t understand a goddamn thing!” I shout, leaping to my feet. “Not one goddamn thing.”

  “You tried to kill yourself!”

  (It was a Bic. Double blade. As I said, I made the slice before I could think it through, deep and quick across my left wrist.)

  “I’m a different person now, Zach. Why can’t you just be happy for me?”

  “Because I’m the one you run to when everything falls to pieces.” I push away from the table. “Melanie,” Zach says, “I just want you to be okay.” And he means it, I know he does. But something in me snaps, and rage spews out of my mouth like a shaken soda can. I hate myself but I can’t stop. I’m Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I’m the Grinch. I’m Sybil. I’m Satan. I’m every Iraqi on the Most Wanted Deck of Cards. The shame from that evening is invading my body, and it’s all because of Zach. He just had to bring that up, didn’t he? He just had to wait for this Sunday, the day after I’ve been dumped by the man I love, and tear me to ribbons. Hot, raging tears fill my eyes and spill down my cheeks.

  “I hate you,” I sob.

  “Melanie,” Zach says, stung. He’s trying to reason with me—he’s probably willing to drop the whole subject by now and I should just stop—I know I should stop, but blind rage keeps me going.

  “I hate you and your perfect little wife and your perfect fucking kids.” (How, how, how can I say that about my niece and nephew? I love them. What’s wrong with me?) “I’m a failure okay? I’m a fucking failure—but at least I’m not you. Even Dad had the good sense to get the hell away from this family.”

  “Melanie—”

  “Look at you. You’re so steeped in your own miserable life that you come after me? I may not be making a hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year, but at least I’m alive. You’re a walking zombie. Your whole family is so stiff it’s like you’ve sealed them in Saran Wrap. Your son talks like he’s a forty-year-old professor, and little Corinne is so bogged down in ribbons it’s a wonder she can even hold her head up.”

  “That’s enough—”

  “And your wife—”

  “I said that’s enough—”

  “Corinne is like a Stepford wife without the nice body.”

  “How dare you—”

  “Her entire life is catering to you. So why don’t you try to change them and leave me the fuck alone.”

  The waiter sidles up to our table and presents us with the bill. He puts his finger to his mouth and shakes his head indicating I’m to shut up. I’m definitely taking the teapot. Zach pays the bill while I wrestle with my alligator of shame and try to think of a way to take it all back. We go outside and stand in the rain. I can’t stop crying.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  “Me too,” Zach says, and to my surprise he puts his arms around me and hugs me.

  “You have no reason to be sorry,” I say, breaking the hug.

  Zach looks at me for a long ti
me. “I’m sorry that—you know—well I don’t know. You won’t talk to me. But something happened to you. Right? I mean it couldn’t have just been the stress of school. You were a good student in high school—so what was it? Come on, Melanie—talk to me.”

  I want to stop crying. I want to throw my arms him again. I want to beg him for forgiveness.

  “Why?” Zach says again. “Why did you do it?”

  “Fuck off!” I say, shutting out the memory. “Just fuck off.” And then (it’s always good to know where the limit is) Zach shakes his head and walks out on me without as much as a backward glance.

  I rub the teapot underneath my coat as I watch him go—its lingering heat is comforting on my belly and a million wishes float through my mind until one lands softly on the tip of my nose like a butterfly—it’s the one I wish for more than anything else but never talk about—the one that lives in the back of my closet, the one partially responsible for driving my fingers to take, take, take—the one that wakes me up at night with an angry cry—it’s the one that gets away—the one I don’t speak of—the one I want to kill. I rub and rub but the genie never shows, and even the Saints are silent on my long walk home.

  Chapter 21

  This is how I die. Walking along a high bridge eating buttered toast. My purse is ringing. My hands slip violently through my belongings searching for my cell phone. When I finally retrieve it, I squeeze it so hard it slips right through my butterfingers and flies over the bridge. I don’t even hesitate. I jump off the bridge after the phone shouting, “Hello, hello, hello? Can you hear me now? Baby, can you hear me?” But instead of an earful of love, I get a mouthful of water as I plunge into the murky depths below. My last thought before my lungs fill with water is that I’ll need to change my calling plan to roaming.