Surviving Amelia

by Rand, Naomi;

  “My parents would disagree,” Michael said. “They’d note that if I lived in a safer neighborhood, things like this wouldn’t happen.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Sam said.

  “Maybe. But it’s also true. There’s a whole lot less crime on the Upper East Side.”

  “How was it your fault when you were thirteen?” Lucy asked.

  “Then I acted like I was an easy target. You know young, privileged, scrawny.”

  “There were three of us tonight. None of us are scrawny,” Lucy pointed out.

  “He had a gun. The great equalizer.”

  “When I was eleven, I was walking home from my friend’s house,” Sam said. “This creepy old guy came up to me. He grabbed me and said he wanted to buy me. I pulled away and ran, but he kept following me. I went into store after store to ask them to help. They told me to get lost. By the time I got home, I was completely hysterical. When I told my mother what happened, she said that was why she carried mace and gave me a can. She said, ‘Just point and spray.’ That was it. Problem solved. Unfortunately, when someone’s grabbing your ass on a packed subway car, you can’t go spraying mace around.”

  “Life in the big city,” Michael agreed.

  They whiled away the time playing poker, rummy, and spit. Then they got into his double bed. Conceptually, Sam knew this was every man’s wet dream. In reality, it was intensely awkward. Lucy lay near the window, Michael was sandwiched between them, and Sam perched on the sliver of bed closest to the door. Lucy seemed to have no trouble falling asleep. Michael faded away. Only Sam was unable to enter the land of nod.

  She returned to the scene of the almost crime. She saw them dropping one at a time, then the police arriving to sketch their chalk-marked outlines onto the slick pavement.

  Yet, they were alive. The proof was that she was lying here, in bed next to Michael. Her extremities tingled. Across the room, a photograph of brown-haired, blue-eyed Dani beamed at her from the makeshift desk. Sam shut her eyes, trying to force sleep to come. Soon it would be morning. Soon, very soon, they could go. Then all of this would fade away. Meeting him, being with him, and facing danger, then lying in bed together, would turn into a story. She and Lucy could share it with each other to further cement their bond.

  Still, it was impossible to fall asleep. Sam got up and went into the front of the apartment. The toilet was inside of a tiny closet. Sam closed the door quietly, then put the seat down and perched on it.

  “Hey, are you okay?” a voice inquired.

  “Sorry, did I wake you?” Sam said, emerging.

  “I wasn’t asleep, I was being polite,” Michael told her. “Want some tea?”

  “Sure.”

  He popped off the top of the kettle, filled it with water, and set it on the stove. When he opened the cupboard to retrieve two mugs, streams of cockroaches shot out.

  “Shit!” The roaches descended. Michael swatted at them ineffectually and they both cracked up.

  “In grade school our science teacher told us cockroaches would be the only survivors after the nuclear winter,” Sam told him.

  “I think your teacher might be wrong. You spray them with Raid and they shrivel up and die.”

  “I take it you’ve tried the Raid thing? How’s that working out for you?”

  “Actually, Dani won’t let me use pesticides. She says they’re carcinogenic. She made me put down some boric acid, but then told me she couldn’t walk barefoot. I think I’m going to have to buy a gecko. Apparently, they feast on cockroaches. Or else I could give up and accept that to the victor belongs the spoils.”

  “It’s kind of amazing how roaches act,” Sam said. “Have you ever taken a picture down off the wall and think, wow, a shadow? Then you realize it’s moving, that it’s not a shadow at all. It’s a roach army.”

  “And then you start screaming.”

  “You’re a guy, you’re not supposed to scream,” Sam said.

  “It’s instinctual.”

  Sam laughed. She imagined cockroach metropolises complete with groceries and nurseries. It was an oddly comforting thought, worlds within worlds within worlds. They sat there quietly, their bodies touching.

  “How come you came back here when your girlfriend lives in Boston? There are bookstores to work in there, right?”

  “Plenty.”

  “And it’s not because you wanted to live in this great apartment.”

  “This little slice of heaven, what do you mean?” Michael laughed. “I guess I ran away because I didn’t want to face Dani every morning. She’s so practical. She always has been. Dani thinks that dropping out is childish, that this ‘trying to find myself’ is ridiculous. When I’m with her, I see her point. Dani has this way of looking at you and not saying anything for a few seconds too long. It’s as if she sees into the pit of your soul and boy, is it disappointing in there. She’s always known what she wants to be and how to get there. She thought I was like her. Now it turns out that she might be wrong about that. One day she’ll decide it’s not worth waiting around for me to come to my senses.”

  “You love her,” Sam said.

  “I did. I guess I must still. But does she love me? Or does she love who she thought I was? I keep trying to break up with her and she keeps telling me I’m crazy and I don’t know what I want. I suppose we’ve been together for so long, we’re each other’s best friends. I moved so we could get some distance, but we see each other every third weekend and fight. I think that it’s over, but then one of us relents. Usually it’s me. Does that answer your question?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s enough about me. It’s your turn. Boyfriend?”

  “None.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because.” And then Sam kissed him, surprising them both. Michael tasted of hash, smoky and sweet.

  “Are you sure?” he asked, holding her a little away.

  “Positive.” Saying it made it so. Kissing him made her forget that she was the reliable one, the predictable one, the one who stayed put because someone had to stay put. He slid closer and put his arm around her shoulder. They descended together onto the couch. Michael’s hand roamed under her shirt. There was no bra to undo. Being a pert almost B cup came with certain fringe benefits. His hand moved back down, unzipping her jeans. Slim fingers explored the edges of her underwear, curling the elastic rim back to work their way inside. Sam moaned. Michael tugged off his own pants. He set his mouth over her right nipple and sucked. An electric charge shot through her body. It was too late to tell him that this was her first time.

  He pushed his penis inside of her.

  Shit! It hurt! It burned! All her desire was immediately squelched. Sam bit her lip to stop herself from crying out. Tears started in the corners of her eyes. Dani smirked at her from the side table as Michael moaned. The broken springs on the couch scraped the undersides of Sam’s legs. To think that she’d imagined this as magical, that she’d thought of herself as being transported. Sam lay there, frozen.

  “Are you okay?” Michael asked, hoisted up on his forearms. When she didn’t say anything, he added, “You weren’t ready, were you?”

  He pulled out of her gently. His head descended. Sam knew where he was going. Blushing, she said, “No, no please. You don’t have to.”

  It was too late. He’d bent to his work.

  “Stop,” she insisted, grabbing his hair and pulling him up. “Look, don’t. I don’t want that. I’m a virgin. What I mean is, I was a virgin.”

  “Oh shit!” Michael shook his head. He emitted a rueful laugh. “This was your first time? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. How could I be that dense?”

  “How could you have known?”

  “Of course I could have known. I was just being selfish.” He stared down at his hands as if they were the culprits. Sam picked up her underwear and jeans, then rushed into the bathroom thinking, Why did I tell him? Why did I have to be so fucking honest? What on earth is wrong with me? I could have pretended. Wh
at would have been wrong with that?

  Sam turned on the light and the armed forces of the roach kingdom scattered. Wiping herself she discovered there was only a little blood. She thought of all the descriptions she’d read in soft porn and of D.H. Lawrence with his fucking godhead. She’d been so silly, waiting for the special one. Obviously, the first time wasn’t great. She should have known from all she’d read, those clinical descriptions of tearing and piercing. How could that really feel good? But she’d been a romantic, imagining it would be different for her. If I’d just gone ahead and gotten this over with earlier, she thought, then he wouldn’t have been my first and maybe this could have been the beginning of something. Instead it was clearly an embarrassing ending.

  When she stepped out, Michael was still sitting on the couch. “I feel so bad.”

  “Don’t,” she said sternly. “I wanted to do it. I wanted to get it over with. Now I have.”

  “That’s not all this is.” He didn’t sound entirely certain, though.

  “You have Dani.” She waited for him to challenge her, to tell her she was wrong.

  Instead he said, “The thing with Dani is complicated.”

  Sam swallowed her disappointment. Why couldn’t he tell her that knowing her for this one short evening had changed his life? That she was the one for him? Because if he did, Sam thought, I wouldn’t believe him. He reached for her arm, but she slipped away.

  Lying in bed next to Lucy, Sam shut her eyes. She lied to herself, telling herself it was good that she’d done this.

  Jimi used to wail that question from Win’s stereo.

  Ohhh, but are you experienced?

  Have you ever been experienced?

  She had.

  She was.

  For all the good it did her.

  9

  Muriel

  November 1980

  LOUISE DE SCHWEINITZ Darrow was in town. Could Muriel drive into Boston to meet her? Louise knew it was two days before Thanksgiving, and likely an inconvenience. Still, she thought she would just give a call to see if Muriel might be free for lunch.

  “Were your ears burning?” Muriel said.

  “I was on your mind?”

  Not on it so much as in it. Imbedded right inside.

  There was fresh snow on the ground. All the tree limbs of the old oaks lining Newbury Street wore a silky white coating. The bell tinkled when Muriel pulled open the door of The English Tea Room. She saw Louise sitting in the far corner.

  “It’s so wonderful to see you,” Muriel said, folding her diminutive friend in her arms. Releasing her, she added, “Tell me about the conference.”

  “It’s nothing.” Louise waved a hand dismissively. “Harvard Medical School is hosting a seminar on the role of women in medicine. They wanted an elder stateswoman. My more prominent colleagues were indisposed.”

  “When are you scheduled to speak?”

  “I’ve already given the talk.”

  “But I wanted to come,” Muriel protested.

  “Trust me, you didn’t.”

  “What would you girls like?” the waitress asked.

  “Girls?” Louise mouthed slyly, her eyes twinkling.

  Louise ordered the onion soup, Muriel, a grilled ham and cheese. Water arrived, courtesy of the busboy. With it, side salads adorned with a sweet milky dressing. She speared a piece of iceberg lettuce and let it settle on her tongue. At home she’d tried to replicate the dressing, but found her attempt to be a dismal failure.

  “Were you just being polite when you said you were thinking of me?” Louise asked.

  “Absolutely not. I was writing about you.”

  “I hope you were gentle.”

  “How could I be anything but?” Muriel returned the mischievous smile. “I was asked to give a talk myself. Columbia invited me down. There’s a scholarship endowed in Amelia’s name.”

  “Columbia? Of all places.” Louise clucked her tongue. She would have said more, but the rolls arrived.

  Muriel split hers and tried to butter it. The tab was so frozen, the stubborn pat ended up as stray clumps of desperate yellow. She was going to take a bite, then thought better of it. Her sandwich was coming. No need to ruin one’s appetite.

  Muriel thought that Louise was really the one who deserved the honor of having a scholarship at Columbia named after her. Louise had attended the school and gone on to become a doctor, while Amelia had never even applied to medical school. Of course, that wasn’t Muriel’s real concern. The speech was the trouble. In one impulsive moment she’d said yes. Apparently she had nothing further to add. Every attempt to write a speech had ended up in the trash. This morning, Muriel was staring dully into space for more than an hour. She’d finally come up with the idea of that spring break trip. And just then, the phone rang. Louise. Was it fated?

  “You never answered my question,” Louise said. “Why was I on your mind?”

  “I was thinking of the time I came down and met you. When you and Meely were at Columbia.”

  “Ancient history,” Louise said, glibly.

  “True.”

  Louise studied her. “Plus, you’ve covered it before.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Oh.” Louise looked taken aback. Oh indeed. Muriel had never really told the truth about her visit.

  Mercifully, her sandwich had arrived.

  On that day so long ago, the sky had been a crystalline blue. Amelia met her at Grand Central station. They took the subway uptown and dropped her bag in the rooming house on Amsterdam Avenue. Then trotted off to meet Amelia’s new great friend, Louise de Schweinitz at the science lab. The three of them headed to Low Library. On the way, Amelia bragged about how she’d gotten the janitor to show her where the key to the stairway up to the roof was hidden. “The poor man asked me if I intended to kill myself. I told him if I decided to do it, he’d be the first to know. I gave him a kiss for his trouble.”

  On the door, a sign warned No Entry. They ignored it, climbing the twisting metal stairs and shoving the hatch aside. After emerging, Muriel gasped. What a view! North, the farmland was sprinkled with mansions; to the west, the white stone cliffs of the Palisades loomed fortress high; due east, the river sparkled in the sun; south of them, workers on scaffolding raised the stone face of a gothic cathedral.

  Muriel chewed on her sandwich. Going down, it stuck in her windpipe. She lifted her water glass and took a draught. The liquid sat atop of the obstruction. Muriel tried to cough it up. And failed. Louise was oblivious, spooning onion soup into her mouth.

  Muriel tried to ask for help and discovered she couldn’t talk. What to do? She reached round and hit herself on the back of the neck. Futile. She pushed back her chair, meaning to stand and gesture. Louise was a doctor. She’d be able to figure it out.

  She was half in, half out of her seat when it came to her.

  No house to return to. No clothing to pack up and give away. No ache to live with, day in and day out.

  The clock above her head ticked away. Yet time seemed to expand. She flew back, back to Worthington, back to Amelia nudging her awake before the sun rose, the two of them sneaking out to the barn. It was the last day of vacation and they were going for one more ride together. Amelia slid the bridle on and gave her a leg up. Then they were off, winding their way through the pasture, the cattails whispering.

  Don’t do this, Pidge. Good things can still happen.

  What good things? What was left to go right when all this had gone wrong? Yes, there were obligations, bills to be paid, gutters to be replaced, the car engine checked and retooled, but how could any of those things hold her? They were the dreary every day fabric of life, to be done and done and done again without reward. Things to take care of to make the hours pass. And then she saw the book, sitting by the side of the bed. She was supposed to return it, Virgil would want it back, but why worry about that, about him? Virgil would stop by the house to pay his respects, climb the stairs, and find it, and then he’d sit there, fing
ering it, understanding so much better than so many others would. He would know why she’d given in and let it all go. He would see why this was easier and better, yes, she was done with putting on a brave face.

  Easier? Think again. You’re not doing this, not on my watch.

  Who was saying that?

  It felt as though someone had taken hold of her shoulders. As if they were pulling her up, out of her seat. Louise looked at her, startled. And Muriel mimed choking. Louise was behind her in a flash, folding her arms round Muriel’s ribs. Masticated bread rocketed out of her mouth, making a forced landing atop her half-finished salad.

  Muriel stared down at it and then sank into her chair.

  “Amazing,” Louise said brightly. “It really does work.”

  The waitress ran over. “Is everything all right? Can I help?”

  “Some tea, please,” Muriel said. Her throat was burning. Tears had started in the corners of her eyes. She wiped them dry with the napkin. “What was that?”

  “I read about it in the Journal of Emergency Medicine. The author seemed like a bit of a crackpot, still I did have occasion to try it out a few years later. It worked like a charm. It’s called The Heimlich Maneuver, named after its inventor.”

  “What happened to clapping a person on the back?”

  “Oh, that wouldn’t have helped. You were blue. We all hate to listen, but our parents told us to masticate thoroughly for a reason. The food was obstructing your esophagus. Next, I would have had to perform a tracheotomy.”

  “How would you have managed that?”

  “With this.” Louise lifted the knife. “One makes do in a pinch.”

  The hot tea arrived. As Muriel sipped on it, the rawness in her throat eased. They should be carting me away, she thought. The whole thing seemed like a dream. The disembodied voice she’d imagined hearing and that odd sensation, as if someone was tugging her out of the chair. I know what it means to be of two minds. Literally. She shuddered, rubbing her neck. It was far too easy to picture Louise taking a butter knife to it, jamming it in, in order to save her life.

  “Amelia never forgave me,” Louise said, interrupting her reverie. “That fight we had up on the roof when I announced my engagement.”