by Mary Carter
I’m so sorry, voice. I’m very, very sorry. If I could replay the evening, I would scream. I would start screaming in the hall before we reached his apartment, and if he still managed to get me to his door, I would fight like a wildcat. But even drunk, the one thing I always learned from my mother—one thing I could not fight against back then—the mantra of little girls everywhere—“be polite.” Don’t make a fuss. Don’t make a scene. The phone is right here. It’s white. It sits on a desk. He’s just being nice. He’s going to let me use his phone. I pick it up. His hand closes over mine and he puts it down.
The film jumps here, and suddenly I find myself upstairs, lying in his bed. I’m not sure how I got up here. The ceiling is spinning and somewhere a fan is blowing. My shirt and bra are already on the floor, and now he’s taking off my jeans and then my panties. I can smell a trace of my own urine. I am ashamed. Wear clean underwear in case you’re in an accident. Then I realize that maybe he thinks I want this. I tell him no. He doesn’t stop. Now I do scream. He clamps his hand over my mouth and then pulls it away. “Go ahead,” he says. “I like it when you scream.” I try to fight him, but he’s way too strong. It’s happening, and after a while I stop fighting it. I don’t even pray to the Saints. I just pray for it to be over. And then it is.
My shame doubles now. In another replay I would run out of his apartment as fast as I could. I would wait for him to fall asleep and then pull on my clothes and get the hell out of there. Instead, I pass out. I sleep next to him all night long. When I wake it’s light outside. He’s still sleeping. I quietly fetch my clothing off the floor piece by piece, roll my underwear up in a ball, and stick them in my jeans. I’ll end up burning them in the dorm. I don’t call the cops. I don’t tell anyone. As far as I’m concerned, it’s my fault for getting so drunk. But I don’t forget it. I dream about silent white phones and missing cabs. I see him on top of me, in me, above me. And then I start to look for him. Is that him behind me in line at the deli? Is he lurking in the alley? Who is that sitting in the third row of my Algebra class? I spend more time in bed. I stop going to parties and bars altogether. I miss a few classes. And then I miss my period. And it’s nothing in the scheme of things. There are billions of stories like mine in this concrete jungle. At least I’m alive. I get an early term abortion and wait for the results of my AIDS test. It’s negative, but there’s no relief. My nightmares continue, and I unofficially drop out of school. I sleep with the light on; I steal the topaz ring. It doesn’t cure me, but it makes everything burn just a little bit brighter. People want to know why I steal; I want to know why they don’t.
Only the salve doesn’t last long. And one night when I can’t take looking over my shoulder anymore, I pick up a dull Bic razor and start slicing. I call Zach, and he drives me to the hospital. And this is my chance—with Dr. Phillips to really heal. To get real with myself. And there’s no doubt that my stint in the psyche ward helps me—it does—but I never tell anyone about the man in the pink shirt or my kleptomania. I think I was waiting for someone to catch me. I assumed a trained psychiatrist would be able to see right through me. I especially thought they were going to figure it out when all the Band-Aids and sutures and potato chip packets started disappearing from the floor, but they never did.
And even though I confessed most of my childhood traumas to Dr. Phillip (I talked nonstop about Zach and Mom and Richard and the boys and my father—after all I had to blame my problems on someone didn’t I?), I don’t say anything about my kleptomania. I like the feeling of having a secret. It makes me feel strong; it makes me feel safe. But now I seem to be losing my grip. Now the highs aren’t lasting very long, and the lows are reminiscent of that dark time years ago. I’m slipping up. Of course the salt and pepper shakers weren’t worth losing Greg. But I don’t know what to do.
Do I turn myself in? Do I go to therapy again? I can’t even face Kim. She’ll never forgive me for lying to her, and if I live with her again where will I hide my things? I could stop stealing of course, and I will—I will someday. But today, I still want to steal.
A part of me fears it’s the only way I’ll ever know power. It’s the only thing I have to place between me and obscurity. I started stealing because I thought I had been granted a superpower, and I’ve continued because I’ve never found anything to replace it that gives me the same sense of mastery and belonging. I know it’s sick—I belong with the outlaws, but at least I belong. I’ve failed at absolutely everything I’ve ever tried to do in my life. Relationships, school, temping, acting, and now I’ve failed my best friend and my new, wonderful, amazing boyfriend. I’m a failure at everything except stealing, and I know no one would ever understand me if I told them that for me, stealing like feels like an old friend. A sick, perverted friend who comes and goes like a boyfriend you just can’t kick out of bed, but a friend nevertheless.
And even though it’s eating me inside out, I don’t want to give up the one thing in the world that I happen to have a knack for. The truth—which I’ve been fighting all morning in this musty, dark storage tank—is this: I’ve been taking things all my life because I’m trying to fill myself up, trying to take back everything I feel the world is taking from me. But I’m a bottomless pit and I take and I take and I take and I’m never full. I’m always wanting, always reaching, always waiting my turn. But I stopped waiting to take my turn the day I stole the doorknob in the hardware store, and I’ve been “stealing” my turn ever since. I’m the invisible girl, the law-breaking girl, the obscure girl, the girl on the moon.
I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole and broken every fingernail trying to claw my way back up. But like many others before me who’ve taken the wrong turn, I just keep going in circles and I don’t know how to go straight. I’ve been doing this so long—I’ve gone so far off the path—I don’t think I can ever get back.
In fact, I’ve been fighting the urge to steal all morning and I’m losing the battle.
I don’t want to face anyone ever again, and it’s making me want to take a huge canvas bag into the nearest store and stuff it with items. Luckily, I can’t do that because it’s the middle of the night. But this storage unit smells bad, and now that I’ve gone through the box I can’t stand being next to my objects anymore. I have to get out of here or I’m going to die.
Chapter 32
I find an all-night diner, order a Western omelet, a side of fries, a Coke, two chocolate cream donuts, and a bottomless cup of coffee. Fuck everything, I’m going to eat. I hide in a back booth and stuff myself silly. I growl at the waitress when she tries to remove my plate. (There were still several bites left!) Once I’m sufficiently stuffed, I go back to the storage unit, wrap up in a blanket, curl up next to my boxes, and finally fall asleep.
I wake up with a start. It’s raining. My ass is ringing. It’s my cell phone; I’m sitting on it.
“Where are you?” Tommy cries when I pick up.
“New Jersey,” I wail.
“It’s worse than we thought”
I hear him yell to someone. “Do you have money for a cab?” he demands.
“No,” I sob.
“Call one anyway. Come over to my place, sweetie. I’ll pay him when you get here. Okay?”
I nod, my eyes overflowing with tears.
“Okay, sweetie?”
“Okay,” I croak.
I’m sleeping on Tommy’s red leather couch. His three horrendously fat cats are kneading my chest like they’ve just graduated from some bizarre massage school where the technique is to step lightly, lightly, lightly, then dig their claws into the victim’s flesh while wiggling their furry asses in your face. Tommy stands in the doorway, a shoe box under his arm.
“She’s awake,” he says. Kim peers out from behind him. She comes over to me and kneels down by the couch.
“We were worried sick about you,” she says. “Are you okay?”
I nod. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Four hours,” she says. “Why were you
in New Jersey?”
I open my mouth to lie and then shut it. “Can we talk about that later?” I say.
“Of course.”
“Can I bring out my surprise now?” Tommy yells.
Kim laughs. “She might not want to do it.”
“Do what?” I say, raising myself to a sitting position and scattering cats across the room.
“Marijuana,” Tommy says, shaking the box. “Lots of marijuana.”
“And cookie dough ice cream,” Kim says, poking me. They’re the best friends I’ve ever had.
My eyes are glazed, cookie dough ice cream drools down my chin, and cat hair is sticking to my face as if I too had sprouted whiskers. Judge Jeannie is over, and Tommy leans over to turn off the television when I stop him.
“Greg’s coming on next,” Kim admonishes him.
“Yummy,” Tommy says, and we all giggle. We make fun of Deborah Green and her light blue blazer.
“He’s off his game,” Kim says, cocking her head and looking at Greg. It was true, he wasn’t wearing his signature smile.
“It’s all my fault,” I say. “We had a fight.”
Tommy mutes the television. “Hey!” I say. “They’re bringing on the panelists now.” Once a week they invite the local business community to the show to discuss legal issues. I loved to listen to Greg espouse legalese. It was a surprising turn-on. Even if he did hate my guts now.
“Spill!” Tommy says, staring at me. I look around the floor. Kim busts out laughing.
“You’re pretty,” she says.
“I’m talking to you, Zeitgar,” Tommy says, pointing at me. “Spill the beans. What did you fight about?”
“Salt and pepper shakers,” I cry. God this cookie dough ice cream is good.
“Salt and pepper shakers?” Kim says. “I could go for something salty.”
“Me too,” I yell, standing up. “Do you have anything salty, Tommy?”
He grabs my pant legs and pulls me down to the floor. “Not so fast, Missy. You and sexy legal man fought over salt and pepper shakers?”
“He is sexy, isn’t he?” I say, looking at the television. There are three panelists on, two men and a woman. There’s something familiar about the woman. I point her out to Tommy and Kim. “Is she someone?” I ask. Kim and Tommy giggle. I do too, although it’s not really funny. “I mean it,” I say laughing. “I know that woman.”
“She has a big nose,” Tommy says, looking at the television.
Follow the nose—Come on! Where do I know her from?
“What does Greg have against salt?” Kim shouts. “Is he a vegan?”
“Vegans don’t eat salt either?” Tommy asks.
I turn up the television. The familiar looking woman with the big nose is talking now to Deborah Green. “Well, why don’t we play the video and we’ll talk on the other side,” Deborah says to Greg and the panelist. Greg flashes his signature smile. I smile back and blow a kiss to the television.
“Salt is good!” Tommy yells at him. Do I know her from a temp assignment? And then they show the video.
“Oh. My. God,” Tommy says. “Who is that chick?” Kim asks.
“Whoever she is, she looks horrible in that wig,” Tommy admonishes wagging his finger at the TV. I don’t even try to speak. My insides have turned to cement.
“That’s a wig?” Kim says, moving closer to the TV.
“Get back,” Tommy yells. “You’ll go blind.”
“Look, Look. Is she stealing?” Kim squeals. “She is. Oh my God. She’s switching the watches. She is so busted.”
“You can’t really see her face,” Tommy says.
“There she goes.”
“Melanie. Earth to Melanie. Don’t you think you’ve had enough of that?”
I look down. I’ve sucked the joint down to the nub, and now it’s burning my fingers.
“She’s outta there!” Kim repeats, pointing at me running out the door of the jewelry store.
“Cool, she’s going to chase her!” Tommy yells. “Get her. Get her.”
The video stops.
“Damn,” Tommy says. “I wanted to see them cuff her.”
I hold up my wrists and stare at them.
“Well,” Deborah says. “That was exciting.”
“But she got away with it,” the bird woman is saying.
“What kind of thief did we just witness?” Deborah asks Greg.
“She knows what she’s doing,” Greg says. “She’s prepared.”
“Why do you say that?” Deborah asks, blinking her eyes at him.
“Is she flirting?” I yell. Tommy moves the shoe box full of pot away from me.
“Well, let’s watch it again,” Greg says. “First of all,” he narrates over the video, “she walks in and goes directly to the item she wants to steal. She uses the distraction of your phone call to her advantage and watch this—she’s removing the second box out of her bag. Now this is in black and white, but my guess is she’s even matched the colors of the boxes perfectly.” He looks to bird woman for confirmation, and she nods her head. “Furthermore she’s wearing a disguise. This is a premeditated lift no doubt.”
“I managed to grab her wig,” the woman says, holding up my black wig. “She had blond hair.”
“Oh, that should do it!” Tommy shrieks. “Just round up every blonde in Manhattan!” He tugs on my hair. “One of you did it,” he shouts, pointing at us. Kim howls with laughter. It’s infectious, so I join in.
“I admit it,” I scream. “I did it. I took Trina’s soap dish and then before I knew it I was a jewel thief too!” I have them literally rolling on the floor holding onto their sides.
“So that’s it?” bird woman complains. “She steals an eighteen hundred dollar Omega Seamaster watch and gets away with it?”
Kim and Tommy continue howling, but I stop dead in my tracks. It’s slight, but the smile on Greg’s face shifts. And then, ever so slowly, I see him lay his right hand casually over his left. He’s trying to hide his watch. He looks up into the camera and stares directly at me.
This is how I die. Trina Wilcox challenges me to appear on the Judge Jeannie Show. I can’t wait for my good name to be exonerated and my face to be professionally made up. “What about makeup?” I say to Audrey, the petite redhead who lets me into the building and ushers me into a small blue room called the Green Room. I was dying to get some color on my face. “What about it?” she answers impatiently. “When do I get it done?” I ask politely. She snorts. “We’re a small claims court that happens to be televised,” she announces, “not Extreme Makeover.” A bowling ball flips in my gut. “But—but I didn’t wear makeup,” I stammer. But before I can yell “Loreal!” she disappears into the hall. Why didn’t you tell me to bring makeup just in case? I scream at the Saint of Cosmetics. Just in case, just in case, just in case? Haven’t you ever heard of just in case???? Okay Mel, breathe. Breathe. Visualize your mother ship. There she is on the horizon, just beyond the fog. Go to her! Go to your mother ship! Suddenly a torpedo whizzes by—heading straight for—no, God no! My mother ship has been blown to smithereens. I start to pace. My father is a pacer. I wonder if he still paces. I wonder if the Florida sun has eased his tension to the point where he no longer needs to pace. Does he pace on the sand? It would be very difficult to pace on sand—shut up! Shut the fuck up! This is not the time for thinking you need to act. Do something. Do something.
Okay. It’s okay. This is New York. Even the men wear makeup. There has to be makeup somewhere in the building. By God I will sniff it out. I look at my watch. Ten minutes! I have ten minutes. Okay, okay, okay. I step out into the hall. I can see a few skinny men running around in black. Behind one of those doors has to be makeup! I ease down the dark hall, feeling along the wall until I reach the next door. As I’m reaching out to turn the knob, a girl with a headphone breezes right by me, opens the door, and walks in. I follow.
This room is actually a pleasant color of green. And lively. There are new suede couches, colo
rful paintings, fresh flowers, piping hot coffee, and glazed donuts. Trina Wilcox is sitting in a chair having her makeup done. I open my mouth to scream but nothing comes out. Trina smiles at me with her perfectly lined, soft pink lips. I can feel tears building up behind my eyes, and my mouth tastes salty. I pray to the Saint of Water Works, “Turn them off, turn them off! We’ve got a leak—we’ve got a leak!” but to no avail. I’m sobbing now. The next thing I know, Audrey zips up behind me, grabs my arm, and before I can scream “Mascara!” she hustles my sobbing, makeup-less face into the hallway, through a door, and into the courtroom.
The audience is absolutely still as Judge Jeannie swoops into position. Cameras are everywhere, and I can’t stop crying. I think of every horrible thing I can to make myself stop. War. Colds. The stench in the subway. Men. Skinny women who can eat whatever they want without gaining weight. My mother. My brother. My sister-in-law. My stepfather. Someone is screaming. Startled I look up. It’s Judge Jeannie. She’s pounding her gavel. “Bring in the victims,” she says. The doors open, and everything I’ve ever stolen is carried in by scantily clad Victoria’s Secret models. There are close to a thousand of them and they’re all sporting the stomachs and thighs of my dreams. Gravy boats, candles, sweaters, and assorted cutlery float by me displayed on lacy, colorful, push-up bras. Out of the corner of my eye I spot a male model among them. It’s Greg Parks. The Omega Seamaster is wrapped around his neck like a dog collar.
