by A M Homes
Visit me. Let’s make a time and date, and in the same place where the tourists press their Nikons through the wrought-iron gates, you’ll put your face, pushing your nose, mouth, and tongue through the bars and into my fetid air. At the appointed hour I’ll look out my window and you’ll do it for me, make a mean little dance, working your hands against yourself. Do as I ask, do as you’re told. Come in time for my release. Come so that when I’m let out, you’ll be there, ready and waiting to catch me. We can take off in your parents’ car for that lake in New Hampshire where finally we’ll have our right reunion.
More still. Last week, I drove by myself to the motel in Chatham. I told my mother I was going to visit a friend from school. I slept in the very room you did it in. I asked the housekeeper which one it was and had the manager switch me. There was no hint, no sign that anything had ever happened. And yet, I could feel you, I could feel you everywhere. I live differently because of you, there is no such thing as safety.
Come. Come here. You are coming so close, come a little closer still.
I hope this doesn’t turn you off or wreck our relationship—is it fair to call it that? I really like talking to you. Does that make me weird? And what does it mean that I write to you, that I ask your advice? Frankly, I think you owe me something, you owe me a lot.
Silly bug, fly on the wall, our first fight and how quickly we are over it. Of course I don’t hate you, dearest, beloved, most cherished, I owe you everything.
“Sweetie,” I imagine her mother calling up the stairs. “What are you doing? It’s a beautiful day, why don’t you go outside? Want me to call Matt’s mother for you and arrange a tennis date? How would that be? It’s not good to just lie around. You get depressed. Lighten up.”
Matt. I don’t feel like dealing with Matt. I don’t know what I’ve been doing with Matt. It was an experiment, I needed him, needed someone who didn’t scare me. Is it such a terrible thing? Did I hurt him? Will he tell on me? Do I need a psychiatrist? Should I tell someone? Confess? Am I completely crazy? I’m trusting you to let me know. There really is no one else I can ask. Will I do it again? Am I the same as you?
How did you get to be the way you are ?
Practice.
When I was growing up, they used to say that we should report anything that made us uncomfortable, bnagine if I went downstairs right now and told my mother. Imagine if I walked into the kitchen and said, “Mom, I’m fucking Matt.”
What would she say? “That’s wonderful, dear, you’ve got a little crush. Older women, younger men, it’s all the rage. I’m so relieved, your father and I were starting to think you were a lesbian. ”
“He’s not a man, he’s twelve years old.”
“I’m just glad that you’ve found somebody, that’s the important thing. It really doesn’t matter who, as long as you’re happy. Even if you were a lesbian—which thank God you’re not, I really was worried—regardless, your father and I love you. We only want you to be happy—that’s what matters most. Are you happy?”
“No.”
“Do you know where my racket is?” the girl calls downstairs.
“You left it in the hall, so I put it away. You know me, always cleaning up after everybody. I can’t stand a mess. I’ll get it for you. And I bought you a fresh can of balls. Just come downstairs, it’s all waiting for you.”
Yesterday they were fucking. Naked in his parents’ garage, mixing with the damp, oily smell of cars, the twisted tinge of insecticide, lawn fertilizer, hidden secrets. They were in the backseat of his mother’s Volvo, doing it, and Matt’s mother came down to get something from the deep freeze. Matt’s mother came downstairs and looked right at her. They made eye contact, but the mother’s expression never changed. The girl wanted to know if she really didn’t notice or if she just didn’t care.
The girl wanted the mother to notice, wanted her to think something, to do something, to either fetch a bucket of cold water, douse them with it, and pry them apart like dogs in a yard, or invite them upstairs and offer them the use of her king-size bed. The girl wanted a reaction, but there was nothing, absolutely nothing. She didn’t mention it to Matt, who was on top of her, oblivious, hymnal Hendrix seeping out of his headphones.
Sweat collected, forming a pool, a greasy slick dripping off their linked loins. Their bodies were slippery, sloppy, not enough friction, he slid in and out of her too easily, everything had gone loose and lazy, they’d lost their grip.
They were fucking because they were compelled to fuck, because it was free, because it was something they could do themselves, because no one had to take them there, because there was nothing else to do, because it was easy.
She picks up the racket, the fresh balls, and breezes past the mother on her way outside.
“That’s the girl,” her mother says.
“Little do you know,” the daughter mumbles.
“Are you getting your period?” the mother asks. “You must have a little PMS, you’re so unpleasant.”
Stop.
She holds up a hand. “Stop.” She puts her hand on my shoulder and tries to push me away, but my fist is still inside her and I’m doing something wrong. It takes me a minute, more than a minute. I’ve gone deaf. I don’t hear her right away.
“Stop,” she says again loudly. The echo off the tile makes it sound like a shot. “Stop,” she whispers in my ear. “It’s enough.” She reaches between her legs, plucks my hand out, and lets it drop like some discarded thing.
She gives me a kiss on the cheek, one on the lips, climbs out of the tub, and lies back on the cot, hand over her eyes, breathing heavily, deeply. “Don’t ogle,” she says without even looking at me.
The sheets are peeled back and in the middle of the bed there is a bright blush of red, a thick streak of blood. My lipstick.
Hey, sorry about the outburst, the rant and rave, forget I ever mentioned it, okay? I don’t know what I was thinking.
You know exactly what you were thinking.
She continues. If I had the strength, I’d run away, pack a bag and be gone. I’d go somewhere where nothing is familiar, where everything is unrecognizable, somewhere where I don’t even understand the language, where I can’t overhear anything. All I want to do is sleep. Even before I’m really up, I’m ready to lie down again. Nap.
The streets are empty, a stage set deserted, a diorama. Nothing proves this is real. All of it could be a dream. Everything is so thoroughly familiar that were we—that is, all of us; me, you-reader, and the girl—were we to go blind, we would be able to continue anyway, we’d know how to get there and back, the route is etched in our memory. Maybe we are already blind, maybe this is only a figment of the imagination. A memory.
She passes houses, recalling who used to live where; the set of identical twins, the girl whose father was a spy. All long gone; years ago, they moved away.
Human cuckoo clocks. A front door opens, an elderly woman steps out, dumps the contents of a watering can onto a pot of geraniums, and goes back inside. Farther down the block, it happens again, a minute later, as though they are all set a certain way, the synchronicity is terrifying.
The elementary school, the playground. She slips through a hole in the fence, pops open her can of balls, and starts to play.
I play tennis trying not to think, to keep my mind free from thought. When I do think, it is too awful to even mention. I think the worst things. I think there is no way out. This is permanent. I am permanently like this—does that make sense f She slams the ball against a brick wall. She went to this school. This was her first school, her home away from home. She slams the ball against the wall.
Do you blame yourself for things that happen in the world, war, crime, starvation?
Yes.
When you were caught, was it a relief? It is his conscience that puts a man in position to be caught and found guilty.
She hits the ball against the wall and daydreams. She asks herself, What do you want? What do you want? over and o
ver again as though the question itself will bring an answer, revelation, deliverance. She dreams. Nothing. Nothing comes to her. She wants nothing.
The playground. She hits the ball hard, fast, right to the point. Every time the ball hits the wall, there’s a sharp echo, a sound that makes it seem as if she’s playing harder than she really is.
Aaron, the beaky one from before, the echo of Matt’s ego, appears. His hands are jammed deep into his pockets.
“Hi,” he says.
She continues to play.
“That was really fun on the Fourth of July. You, me, Matt, Charlie, on the golf course,” he reiterates the narrative, names anti dates, as though the evening’s events might have escaped her memory, as though it might not have meant anything to her—he’s right. “I finger-fucked you,” he says. “I’ve never done that before.”
She doesn’t say anything.
“So, what are you doing?” he asks.
“Practicing,” she says.
“I could use some practice.” He laughs and overtly adjusts himself.
“I’m trying to concentrate,” she says, slamming the ball.
He watches her for a moment, getting her timing down, and when she brings her racket back to swing, he catches her by the wrist. The racket falls to the ground.
He kisses her face, her neck, like a bird pecking. She twists away.
“I’ve never had it sucked,” he says, pulling at her. He’s stronger than you’d imagine. He hooks his leg behind her and knocks her to the ground. With his free hand, he struggles to undo his fly. She looks up at him. His face is covered with large red swellings, more like boils than pimples. His upper lip is coated with thick, dark hair. His legs are coated with the same late lanugo. She is on her knees, the pebbly blacktop has already scraped off a layer of skin.
“Suck it,” he says.
“No.”
“If you won’t suck it, then at least touch it.” He swipes the head of his dick against her cheek.
“I’ll bite it.”
“I’ll knock your teeth out.” He pauses. “I could have fucked you. Matt would have let me.”
“I doubt it.”
“Bitch,” he says, rubbing his dick back and forth over her face, beating her with it.
“Why don’t you call him and ask?”
“Cunt.”
“Fucking asshole,” she says, trying to get up.
He tightens his grip. “I’m bigger than you and I’m stronger than you.” He is holding both of her arms behind her back.
“I’ll get you arrested.”
“I’ll kill you,” he says, pulling her across the playground toward a patch of grass beneath a tree.
A station wagon comes around the corner, the window rolled down. “Aaron,” a woman’s voice calls. “Aaron, it’s not even funny. You’re in such trouble, you don’t even know.” He lets go of her arms. “Get over here right now,” his mother screams. “For thirty minutes I’ve been driving around looking for you. Did you forget you have an orthodontist appointment?”
He sneers at the girl, then walks across the parking lot, squeezes through a hole in the fence, and gets into his mother’s car.
The girl sits on the blacktop. She doesn’t want to go home. There’s no reason to go home. There’s nothing at home. She goes to Matt’s house. She sneaks in. It’s not difficult, the kitchen door is always unlocked. She opens the door, tiptoes down the hallway, goes stealthily up the steps and into his room. The shades are down. It is cool, dark. Having just come in from outside, she can’t really see. A figure is in the bed, under the sheets; she reaches for the sheet, pulls it back, and starts to crawl in. The figure turns toward her and speaks. “Help me.” It is Matt’s father. Matt’s father is in Matt’s bed, masturbating between Matt’s Batman sheets. Her eyes are adjusting. He is covered in sweat. He’s purple all over, his entire being is engorged, as if he’s been at it for hours. “Help me,” he says. Her jaw drops, her mouth hangs open in a slack O. He reaches for her, puts his hand on the back of her neck, and pulls her to him.
“They’ve gone to the pool to join the swim team,” the father says.
Her mouth still hangs open. He pulls her toward him, positions her over him, her head at his crotch.
Warm, sweaty, hard but without conviction, his penis is flavored with dirt from the palm of his hand. In her mouth it becomes firm, full of promise. Her nose is in his underbrush, he smells like an old sneaker. Her concentration isn’t what it should be, this isn’t what she was expecting. She’s been caught off guard. His fingers dig into her hair, scratching her scalp. He holds her head close to him and fucks her deeply. She gags. Her tonsils knock against the head of his cock. His thrusts are in counterpoint to her choking. She feels as if she can’t breathe, as if she’s suffocating, she tries to back up a bit, to get some distance. He holds on tight.
“Put your finger up my ass,” he says, tilting up so she can reach behind him. “Up my ass.”
She fingers his asshole and then pokes a digit in.
“More,” he says. “More fingers.”
She sticks two fingers up his ass and he starts to groan. Vaguely disgusted, she slides her fingers in and out, each time going deeper. He grips her head in both hands and slams into her throat. Her jaw aches, his pubic hair scratches her face. Thinking it will bring things to a quicker end, she shoves a third finger up his ass.
He bellows, “I knew it was more than tennis lessons,” then ejaculates, splashing her face, her hair, with cum.
This is what my life is really like . I think you tend to romanticize me, but this is reality. P.S.: Am I supposed to feel sorry for you or think you’re grotesque?
A bit of both would be about right.
Back at her house, the girl, the child, assumes the position, the only possible position, supine on the sofa.
“You were such a happy little girl,” the mother says.
“Things change.”
The black hole, the pit, the bridge over the river Adulescens.
“Nothing ever seems to be enough for you,” the mother says. “Whatever it is, it’s not enough. What do you want?”
“More. I want more. Didn’t you ever want more?”
“What more is there? I have a beautiful home, filled with beautiful things. A husband, a daughter who could be beautiful if she wanted to be. What else is there? What do you think about, dear? You can tell me. Tell me anything, I promise not to be shocked, no matter how awful it is.”
“I hate you.”
The mother begins to cry. The daughter, who in the past would have felt remorse, would have forgotten herself and comforted the mother, gets up and walks away. “Why?” the mother cries. “Why? What have I done to create such a monster, a girl who hates her own mother?”
The daughter cannot get far enough away. “If it makes you feel any better,” she screams, “I hate everybody. And I hate myself even more than I hate you.” She runs upstairs and slams her bedroom door.
The father comes home from work. He sits in the living room waiting for dinner.
“Your mother is very worried about you,” he says to the girl, who has resumed her position on the sofa.
“Do I even know you?”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s not like you have a habit of talking to me. I just wonder, why now?”
“I told you, your mother is worried.”
“Oh,” the girl says. “Just checking.”
“I’m your father. I pay the bills around here. I bought the clothes on your back. Your mother, my wife, is very upset. She asked me to speak to you. She said there’s no talking to you. And you know what?” He pauses. “She’s right.”
The mother comes into the room. “What do you want to do with your life?” the parents ask.
There is no answer.
“A lot of people your age go to Europe for the summer, don’t they?” the father asks. “It’s not too late for you to go away, I’ll buy the tickets.”
“Dinner is ready,” the mother says. “Lamb chops.”
Her throat is sore. The flavor of Matt’s father mingles with the blood of the lamb and drips down her throat. The string beans go down like razor blades.
As soon as dinner is done, without a beat, as though she doesn’t have to stop and think about it for even a minute, as though it were decided long ago, she goes straight upstairs into the bathroom and starts emptying the pill containers. The medicine chest is well stocked. Both parents dose themselves daily, depending on their mood, on the weather, on their pain. She swallows anything and everything, popping pills by the fistful. She swallows everything and washes it down with bottles of NyQuil, Hycodan, and Robitussin.
111. She feels ill. Maybe it’s the combination of the cough syrups, maybe it’s the lamb, maybe it’s Matt’s father. There’s a bad taste in her mouth. She rinses with Listerine and spits.
She’s over the bowl. Everything is coming up, violently rising.
The mother, as if psychically summoned, opens the bathroom door, goes to the girl, and holds her forehead. Fortunately, the mother doesn’t look in the bowl, doesn’t examine what’s coming up and out, the thick mix of red and green syrups, pills, capsules, caplets, tablets, all of it in various states of dissolve. This mix and match has made the girl not only nauseated but very tired.
When there’s a pause in the puking, the girl sticks her fingers down her throat and starts it again voluntarily. All of it has to come out.
The mother seems confused. “Hope it wasn’t something I cooked.”
The girl cannot bring herself to confess. It is too embarrassing, too humiliating, too telling. She is too old for this. This is how she should have felt at fourteen, at fifteen, but now, at her age, nineteen, nearly twenty, it’s ridiculous. It’s worse. Like certain childhood diseases that become more dangerous the later they are contracted, this one has the potential to be fatal.
Suddenly, she doesn’t want to die. She has no real reason not to, no sudden revelation, except that it’s equally pointless to die as not to die. Why doesn’t she die? She lives because she’s meant to live, because she’s already alive and it’s comparatively easy to stay that way. She lives because, even though she doesn’t know what it is, there must be a reason she’s here in the first place. She lives because either she’s not as brave as all the dead girls who’ve gone before her, or she’s actually braver—it’s hard to tell.
