A brief flash of pride breaks through my anger. "I don't know. Which story are you reading?"
"Jaisalmer Dawn," he replies, his eyes glued to the page.
That's a story I wrote about a camel herder meeting the Maharaja of Jaisalmer in north west India. One lives in a palace and the other lives in a tent in the Thar Desert, and in the story they both learn an important lesson about humility and pride from the other. Honest to God, I got the idea after watching The Darjeeling Limited.
"OK, seriously, Rafe, can you please give me back my book? I don't like people reading my stuff. Please."
Rafe looks up from the page, and I think he can see that I'm really uncomfortable. He sets the book down on the table where I can easily reach it. "OK, it's your call. If you don't want me to read it I won't, but from what I've seen so far it's a great story, and I'd like to finish it if you'd let me. It's even better than The Very Hungry Caterpillar, and that was a God damned page turner."
I sit in silence for a moment and watch his face, expecting the usual stupid smirk to appear, but he looks sincere. The idea of anyone reading my stuff terrifies me, but there's a little part of me that wants to... not show off, exactly, but just prove to Rafe that I'm more than a little girl with prissy sweaters and stupid cartoon panties. I want him to see that there's something more to me than that. That I've got actual thoughts in my head, and that I'm... I don't know, valuable, I guess. Worthwhile.
"OK," I say, wondering if I shouldn't just snatch the notebook away and hide it back in my purse. "You can read it, but you have to give me something in return."
Rafe narrows his eyes. "You don't need a kidney, right? I think I need both of mine."
I laugh. "No, I don't want one of your organs." Ouch, bad choice of words. Now I'm picturing his cock. "Here's the deal. You get to read my story, and you have to answer any question I ask. Honestly, too. No bullshit. No jokes. Deal?"
Rafe thinks for a moment before nodding, and picks up the book. "Deal. Now shut up for a minute. If I'm going to have to answer some embarrassing question I'm gonna damn well enjoy this story first. Look, here comes your burger. Plug your mouth with it."
The waitress sets down our plates, and I dig into my curly fries and watch Rafe like a hawk as he reads. At first he picks at his fries and chews on a pickle, but after a minute he ignores his meal and just stares at the pages. For several long minutes he's silent.
"Ha!" I almost jump in my seat at the sudden laugh.
"What? Something funny?"
Rafe doesn't look up from the page, but keeps chucking. "Yeah, the bit at the train station with the tuk tuk and the cow in the road. That's so true."
By the time he finally puts down the book his burger is cold, mine is almost gone and my mouth is burning from the spicy sauce. I watch as he stares into space for a moment, deep in thought. Finally he speaks.
"The tuk tuk driver. He's supposed to be a kinda God figure, right? I mean, not God God, but some kinda deity?"
I nod. "Yeah, I guess so."
He stares at the notebook for another spell.
"And the... what's he called, the Mahara-something, his palace was empty inside? That was supposed to, umm, represent his soul?"
I nod again.
Rafe sets down the book. "Wow," he mutters, and narrows his eyes. "You really wrote that?"
"Yeah, I wrote it. Why?"
"It's just... I don't know, I didn't expect that at all. I mean, it feels like something Paulo Coelho would have written. You know, like some wise old dude who spent his whole life just thinking about stuff."
I laugh uncomfortably. "You think I write like an old man?"
Rafe shakes his head and smiles. "No, not at all. That was just... fuck, that was really good. Have you ever tried to get it published?"
"Jesus, no! I'm not even close to good enough to get anything published."
Rafe looks me in the eye. "Who told you that?" he asks.
I look away. "Nobody, I just --"
He cuts me off. "Someone told you that, didn't they? Come on, I can tell by the way you said it. Some idiot said you weren't good enough, and you were crazy enough to believe them. Who was it?"
Damn, he's got my number. "Nobody, really. Just... I don't know, my English teacher in high school told me it was a little, umm, immature, I think he called it? I think he said a girl my age shouldn't try to over-stretch herself writing about stuff like this." Think isn't the right word. I know damn well that's how he described my writing. I cried about it for a whole week, and didn't pick up my pen for a month.
Rafe laughs and toys with his fries. "So this English teacher, what is he, some kind of world famous author who decided to slum it in a suburban high school for a while? I'm guessing he has a few bestsellers under his belt?"
"Well no, but –"
"So what the fuck does he know about good writing? He sounds like a bitter prick who was never good enough to get his own stuff published. This shit is good. Don't let anyone ever tell you different."
"Thank you," I mumble. I don't know whether to burn with embarrassment or break into a grin. Nobody's ever said anything that nice about, well, anything I've ever done.
"So this is what you wanna do?" he asks. "With your life, I mean. You wanna be a writer?"
I nod. "Yeah. Ever since I was old enough to pick up a pencil." I smile at the memory. "My dad was a travel writer, you know? My real dad, I mean. He used to take me down to Pier 39 and tell me crazy stories about all the boats coming into the harbor.” I smile at the memory. “He'd point to one and describe its journey down the Amazon, the sailors fighting off crocodiles and crashing over huge waterfalls and stuff. It was all bullshit, of course. They were just little yachts and car ferries that had never gone more than a few miles from shore, but I was just a kid, you know? I saw all these boats in the harbor and believed they'd really all sailed in from China, Europe, the Antarctic... Dad made the world seem like an exciting place."
Rafe smiles. "What was his name? Maybe I read some of his stuff?"
"Lawrence Pierce. You probably wouldn't have –"
"Dispatches From the High Pamirs, right? Damn, I loved that book!"
"Wow, you really read it?" I'm amazed someone Rafe's age would have even heard of that book.
Rafe nods enthusiastically. "Are you kidding me? I read that thing so many times it fell apart in my hands. That and The Great Railway Bazaar by Paul Theroux. Jesus, I remember reading that part about the journey from Baku to Turkmenbashi a dozen times over. Your dad waking up on a sinking boat in the middle of the Caspian Sea, and only realizing he'd survive when the blood red Karakum sunrise lit up the Turkmenistan coast. That gave me the chills."
I shake my head in wonder. "I can't believe you read that book. I'm just... sorry, I just didn't peg you as someone who reads that kind of thing."
"Don't judge a book by its cover, Princess," he laughs.
"Well, I guess you're right. Anyway, yeah, ever since I was a little kid I wanted to follow in my dad's footsteps, you know? I want to roam the world, get into crazy situations and write about it. Seems a lot more fun than sticking around here and working in an office."
"Then do it," Rafe says. "If that story is anything to go by your dad passed on his writing chops to you. It seems a shame to waste that talent."
I can feel myself blushing as Rafe sucks on his straw. I don't know if I'm more proud or embarrassed, but I feel like I need to change the subject away from me. "OK, it's my turn," I say.
"Your turn for what?"
"For the question, remember? No bullshit, no jokes. Just a straight answer."
Rafe cringes. "Shit. Well, a deal's a deal. Shoot."
I think for a second for a clever way to ask it, but nothing comes to mind. Fuck it. "Why did you beat up those guys last night? Seriously, the real reason. Don't just say you were drunk."
Rafe waits a long moment before speaking, as if he doesn't want to answer, or doesn't know how. Eventually he drops the shredded napkin. "I nee
d a smoke. Wanna go outside?"
Before waiting for an answer he slides out of the booth and makes for the door, slipping his Marlboros and a lighter from the pocket of his jeans. I wait a minute, but figure I'll never get an answer from him if I let him walk away from the question.
I catch up with him as he leans back against the hood of mom's Jeep and lights his cigarette, and I wait silently until he decides to speak.
"What do you know about me, Madison?" he says, blowing out a thin stream of smoke.
"Hey, there's no need to get defensive."
Rafe shakes his head. "No no, I'm really asking. How much do you guys know about... well, you know... what went on before I arrived?"
I have no idea what he's driving at. "You mean your whole life story? Not much. Dad only told us what your lawyer told him, and it wasn't much. She said your mom took her own life a few years ago, and your dad – your other dad, I mean – vanished a while before that. He said you've moved around a few foster homes, but he didn't really know anything else."
Rafe nods. "Yeah, that's pretty much all I told him." He takes a sharp drag on his cigarette, as if he's mad at it. "I am aware, you know, that I'm not easy to live with. I mean, I know you've had to put up with a lot of shit from me this past week."
I move in beside him on the hood, and put my hand on his shoulder. I don't dare touch him anywhere else, but even this tiny physical contact sends a tight little shiver of joy pulsing through my body. "Hey, you've not been that bad."
Rafe laughs. "You're a terrible liar, Madison." He flicks away the butt and turns to me, taking my hand from his shoulder and into his grasp. "I couldn't help myself last night. I'm sorry if I scared you. It's just... there are certain things that send me flying off the handle, and last night one of those things happened."
He pulls out his cigarettes again and stares at the pack for a moment before replacing them in his pocket, as if he didn't remember he'd just smoked.
"I don't remember exactly when my dad – the asshole I grew up with, I mean – started to hit my mom, but I think it was when I was around seven. He was a first responder. Y'know, on 9/11? He was a retired cop, and he picked up a little work running security at... I don't know, I think it was some office in downtown Manhattan. He was on his way to work when the towers fell, so he went along and pitched in with his old buddies. Spent two weeks in the wreckage, breathing all that shit in the air. It was crazy. I remember he used to come home caked in dust that covered every surface in the apartment for weeks afterwards. Our place stank like a construction site for months.
"Anyway, he got sick, and it wasn't just from all that shit he breathed. I mean, that was what made him cough up a lung after climbing a flight of stairs, but it wasn't the worst of it. It was what he saw that really fucked him up. He started drinking when he got too sick to work, and that's when it got bad. Man, he was a mean drunk."
I squeeze his hand. I have no idea if Rafe expects me to say anything, or what I possibly could say. Some wounds can't be healed with words.
"He started beating mom pretty badly after the drinking got bad. I remember she set up a little cot for me in the closet of my bedroom. Y'know, just a few blankets and pillows and stuff, like a little nest. On the nights dad went out she'd tell me I could camp out in there. I always thought it was like a special treat. I didn't figure out for a long time that she was trying to hide me from dad when he got home. It never really occurred to me why she put a lock on the inside of the door."
I see a tear appear at the corner of Rafe's eye, and he quickly wipes it away. I squeeze harder. "Hey, we don't have to talk about this if you don't want to."
He shakes his head. "No, it's good to get it out. I've never really talked about it before. Anyway. I guess a couple of years went by before I figured out what was really going on. Stupid, right? I mean, this guy was beating the crap out of my mom every other night, and spending the rest of the time apologizing to her, and it never dawned on me why she was always slapping on makeup to hide the bruises.
"I was around nine when I finally started to stand up and protect my mom. I can't fucking believe it took me that long. I just wish..."
Again he wipes his eyes, then pulls out his cigarettes and lights another. The glowing tip shakes as he takes a drag.
"I started sneaking out of my closet after mom went to bed, and I'd go sit on the stairs a couple of floors down from the apartment. Dad would always get home around two in the morning, and I always made sure I was waiting for him."
I feel the tears prick at my own eyes now. I want to hug him, but I don't want to break whatever spell is compelling him to spill out his secrets.
"He just wanted to hit someone, you know? He didn't care who, so I made sure it was always me. Just... you know, get that shit out of his system before he got back to the apartment. Fuck, he could hit hard. He was a big bastard. He used to box, and he'd lay into me like a fucking heavy bag on the really bad nights. Put me in the hospital a couple of times, but you know what it's like with cops. When it comes to their own they turn a blind eye, so dad never got charged with anything.
"It got really bad near the end, when I was big enough to kinda fight back. I guess I was around fourteen when I reached the same height as him. He was a heavy motherfucker but I was faster, I had the reach and I wasn't falling over drunk, so I beat him a couple of times. That's when he stopped beating me and went back to mom."
Through the window the waitress is waving to attract our attention. Rafe's burger is going cold on the table, but it doesn't look like he has much of an appetite.
"He broke her arm the last time we saw him. I was at school, and he was stone cold sober. I don't know what set him off, but when I got home mom was sitting on the floor in the corner of the kitchen, cradling her arm. I went fucking crazy. I found dad in the living room watching TV while his own wife was sitting there with a shattered arm, so I grabbed a baseball bat and tried to kill him. I would've killed him if he hadn't managed to grab it away from me. I was ready to cave that fucker's skull in, but he got hold of the bat and broke it in half swinging at a door frame."
Rafe winces at the memory. "That's how I got the scar. Y'know, the one on my ass? He went for mom again, and I managed to get in the way just as he was trying to stab her with the broken handle of it. Went right in my ass cheek. Jesus, that hurt."
He shakes his head and seems to snap out of the memory, then coughs and wipes the tears from his eyes once again. "I managed to get mom out of there and down to the street. Some guy gave us a ride to the free clinic, and that night we jumped on a bus and never looked back. We just kept going until we got somewhere he'd never find us. Last I heard he was in hospital with lung cancer. Fuck him."
Now Rafe looks a little embarrassed at his revelation. He speaks quickly, as if wanting to get it over with. "Anyway, last night when that guy hit you I guess it all came flooding back. I mean, I never got to really finish it with my dad. I guess that's what I was trying to do last night. You know, punch out all that anger on some idiot kid. I'm really sorry I scared you. I promise you I'm not crazy."
"Hey," I say, pulling Rafe around to face me, "don't ever say that. I'd never think you were crazy." My voice drops to a whisper as I lightly stroke his arm. "Don't ever say that, OK?"
I'm just inches from him now. I feel Rafe slide his arm to my side, and the warmth of his hand as he grasps me through the thin material of my dress. He pulls me in towards him, and I don't resist. Nothing could make me pull away from him. In his arms I feel safe.
Rafe's breath is hot against my cheek. As he draws me in I feel him pressing against me, growing harder by the second, hungry for me. There's no hiding it now. No going back.
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