Everything I Left Unsaid

by M. O'Keefe

  “You shouldn’t go over there,” I said.

  “I shouldn’t?”

  “No. It’s…they’re fighting.”

  “And you think we should all just stand around with our thumbs in our asses while he beats her up?”

  That was what was going to happen. That was exactly what was going to happen and I was walking away. Head down. Eyes averted. Thumb in ass. “No…but—”

  “Get out of my way, kid,” she said, clearly through with me. Joan brushed past me, stomping past the rhododendron, making the leaves quake as she went by.

  “Hey, a birthday!” Joan cried, out of sight. “Sorry I’m late, Tiffany. Hey, Phil—”

  “Get the hell out of here!” Phil yelled. “You fucking bitch.”

  “Honestly, Phil, you should dress up like a clown for birthday parties. You’d be great,” Joan said. “Is there assigned seating or can I sit anywhere?”

  “You’re not wanted here!” Phil said, low and mean, and I could just imagine him saying that through his teeth, right in her face.

  “Joan,” Tiffany said. “I’m fine. It’s fine.”

  “Bullshit it’s fine,” Joan said.

  “You know something?” Phil yelled. “Fuck this shit. I don’t need this. Later, cunts.”

  A car door slammed and the Dodge revved back up and drove away.

  “Now look what you’ve done!” Tiffany snapped in the silence after the car’s deafening departure. I could see, through the leaves, Tiffany yelling at Joan, who stood up slowly from her seat, looking older. Looking pained.

  “Saved you from another black eye, so…you’re welcome!”

  “We have no money! Oh my God! What am I going to do?” Tiffany cried as she collapsed onto one of the seats at the picnic table.

  “I can float you—”

  “I don’t want your fucking money!” Tiffany yelled and I knew what she was doing, how Tiffany had all this anger and rage toward herself and her husband and her life and it was only because Joan was standing there that she got it smeared all over her.

  “Fine,” Joan said without any heat. “If you need help—”

  “You’ve done enough,” Tiffany said, low and defeated.

  Joan came back around the bush before I could get my legs to move. I stood behind that bush like a gaping coward, and when Joan saw me she didn’t even spare me a sneer, she just walked on by, head up, shoulders back, armored in her righteous bravery.

  “Come on, kids!” Tiffany yelled, her voice just a little broken. A little worn. The fake amount of cheer she had to put into it nearly hiding the trauma. Nearly. She’d clearly had lots of practice. “Let’s open presents!”

  The kids came back from the playground, more subdued. Their eyes wary. Their smiles gone.

  “Did he leave?” Danny asked.

  Tiffany nodded.

  “Good,” Danny said, his chin up, and Tiffany sagged against the picnic table.

  Enough, I thought, feeling sick and wrung out and worse, so desperately glad I’d never had kids with Hoyt that the guilty relief made me nauseous.

  I went back to my trailer and hours later, when it was dark and silent, I went back to get my dry clothes.

  And there on the counter, the sprinkles glittering silver and blue in the moonlight, was the piece of birthday cake the little girl had brought me. I picked it up to take it back to Tiffany—I didn’t want it, and there were three kids in that trailer who’d probably love another piece of cake.

  Outside the door, Tiffany’s trailer was quiet. The balloons drifted slightly on the breeze, dark bruises against the lighter sky.

  “Take it.” Tiffany’s voice made me jump. I saw one of the shadows by the rhododendron shift and detach and Tiffany walk over toward the door of the laundry room. She had a garbage bag and was dumping a handful of paper plates into it.

  “Is everything…okay?” I asked, lamely.

  “Define okay.”

  I didn’t know how. What did okay look like to her? To any of us?

  “He’ll come back,” Tiffany said. “He always does.”

  “Would it be better if he didn’t?”

  Once Smith had taken me out to check a trap he’d set for a coyote that had been harassing the animals, eating chickens and killing the barn cats. And we’d found the coyote, caught in it, crying, its strength nearly gone. Tiffany’s laughter sounded like that coyote crying.

  “I have three kids under the age of six,” Tiffany said. “I can’t do it without his money.”

  I thought of the three thousand dollars I’d taken from Hoyt’s safe and knew that was the truth sometimes. Sometimes, a woman’s freedom all came down to money.

  “Take the cake,” Tiffany said. “We’ve got lots. My kids will be eating it for breakfast.”

  Dessert for breakfast.

  “Thank you.”

  Tiffany nodded and went back to cleaning up what was left of the party in the dark.

  I took the cake and my dry clothes and headed back to my trailer.

  Birthday cake for breakfast.

  It felt all wrong, and not in a good way.

  The next morning dawned hazy and close. And the heat made my head ache right above my eyes.

  Sweltering, I pulled open my little fridge, steam rolling out of its depths as the cool air hit the hot. On the top shelf, next to my milk and butter and what was left of the pasta sauce, was the yellow cake with chocolate frosting and sprinkles.

  For a long moment, the cold air brushing across the exposed skin of my thighs and arms and neck, I stared at the cake.

  She said you could have it.

  But the cake felt like a means to an end for me, like I was building a palace on top of bones.

  “Stop it,” I muttered and grabbed the cake, shutting the fridge door.

  I took the first bite and it was a bit stale, the cake nearly hard, the frosting thick to swallow.

  That’s right. I should not enjoy this.

  I took a sip of coffee and then another bite and my mouth must have been warm enough, because the thick frosting melted slightly against my tongue.

  Oh. That wasn’t bad.

  But the thought made me feel guilty and awful.

  Just eat it.

  The second bite was at the center of the cake, where it was moist and untouched by the cold air of the fridge.

  The next bite was practically a mouthful of sprinkles.

  When the cake was demolished, only crumbs and thick waves of chocolate frosting against the paper plate, I stared down at a blue sprinkle and green colored sugar and felt like vomiting.

  And I didn’t know if it was from the sugar or from last night.

  Buzzing and jittery, I dropped a few ice cubes in my coffee and headed out to the field.

  I thought about Phil, and I thought about Hoyt.

  And then I thought about Dylan.

  I’d never felt so safe with a man. And I didn’t know if that was because we were on the phone and not in person, or if it was just because of who Dylan was.

  Or maybe it was because of who I was becoming—I didn’t know. And it didn’t really matter.

  I was safe with Dylan and I would do all the things he asked because of it. The realization warmed me from the inside.

  For the first two hours I mowed the northernmost part of the field, which was largely in the shade, giving the big rocks I’d marked a wide berth. But by eleven a.m. I was soaked with sweat, and on the far side of the field, that oak tree with its rope swing and the swimming hole were too powerful to resist.

  I rode the mower to the side of the watering hole farthest away from the little bridge and the rest of the trailer park.

  The weeds and cattails were dense, their tips waving far above my head, and I had to push them aside in order to get to the edge of the pool. Which was surprisingly wide and big. The water was clear, with no scum or algae. It drained off in a stream to my left.

  Must be spring-fed, I thought.

  The oak tree was on the other
side, and on this side, the swimming hole had a muddy little beach and a few big rocks close to the shore.

  For a skinny-dipping location, I supposed it didn’t get better than this.

  “I’m going to do this,” I muttered, bouncing on my toes. And then, before I could stop myself, I peeled off my sweaty, awful clothes. Leaving on my underwear, because I was still Annie McKay after all.

  And then with a squeal and a smothered yell, I ran into the pond until it got to my thighs and then I dove underwater, touching the grainy bottom with my chest and my hands before rising above the surface again.

  “Oh my God!” I cried, panting because the cold water took my breath away. But oh, how good it felt! If dessert for breakfast had mixed results, skinny-dipping was utterly amazing. All checks marked yes.

  I kicked up off the sandy rocky bottom and floated on the surface of the water, my breasts bobbing just slightly out of the water, where the sun felt hot on the white skin that had never, ever seen the light of day before.

  The water felt lush, like not just a liquid, like something magical, even. It lifted me and wrapped around me like ribbons. Between my legs, across my chest, over my waist. Under my neck. I scissor-kicked in the water and laughed out loud as water slid up and into my body, slipping through my pubic hair.

  My short hair was plastered onto my forehead and I pushed it off into the water, still lying on my back. For the first time since I’d cut it off, I wished for my hair back. Because how awesome would that feel to have my waist-length hair floating in the water around my naked shoulders, over my breasts?

  I closed my eyes, imagining the feeling.

  My face grew hot in the bright sunlight, so I flipped over on my belly and dove down to the bottom of the pond, well aware that my butt and my see-through underwear had just breached the water for anyone to see.

  But no one was there to see it.

  So I did it again. And again.

  When I’d had enough I did long, slow breaststrokes back to the shore where my clothes lay in a heap.

  But damn it. No towel.

  Rookie, skinny-dipping mistake.

  I stood on shore and gave myself a big, long shake, trying to get all the water off that I could before putting on my gross clothes.

  “Well, well, look who’s naked,” a sly voice said, and I jumped sideways, surprised to see Joan sitting up kitty-corner from me in a little cleared area in the weeds I hadn’t noticed earlier.

  “Oh my God, what…what are you doing?” I cried, throwing my arms into my shirt and slipping it over my head. I jerked my shorts up my legs and fumbled at the button.

  “Calm down, honey, they’re just boobs—I’ll hardly faint.” Joan pulled an earbud from her ear and stood up. She wore that pink string bikini like it had been painted on. Honestly, Joan’s body had to be one of the most perfect things I had ever seen.

  “What are you doing?” I asked again, trying not to stare at the sleek, round muscles in Joan’s legs or the indentations around her belly button. She looked strong and totally womanly.

  What is wrong with me? Why am I staring?

  “Working on my tan lines,” she answered, and while I watched, Joan pulled one of the strings holding her top on and the piece collapsed off her body. “I work down at The Velvet Touch and the better my tan lines, the better my tips. Guys like it when they think they’re seeing something forbidden. Even when they’re paying to see all of it. Go figure.”

  The little lines bisecting her back and the small triangles around her breasts were white, like milk white, made all the whiter by the dark skin surrounding them.

  Joan stepped into the water and when it was deep enough, dove under.

  I shoved my feet into my socks and tried to put on my boots before Joan got back to the surface. I could guess what The Velvet Touch was; I could guess Joan was a stripper.

  “Running away again?” Joan asked, and I whirled to face her.

  “No.”

  She smirked. “You sure? Because I think that’s what you do.”

  Oh, fuck you, Joan, like you know a thing about me.

  Just to prove the woman wrong, I sat down on one of the big boulders on the beach and crossed my legs.

  Two could play this rude game.

  “Why’d you get in between Phil and Tiffany?” I asked.

  Joan leaned back, her white breasts bobbing up, and I watched them for a moment. And then I looked away, cheeks on fire.

  Heatstroke. I have heatstroke. Only reason I’m here. Staring at her like a sixteen-year-old boy.

  It was the truck-stop parking lot all over again and everything about Joan was carnal and I couldn’t look away.

  “Someone should, don’t you think?” Joan asked. “He’s a son of a bitch and she thinks she needs him.”

  “She does.”

  “No one needs an asshole like that.”

  “The kids—”

  Joan stood up, her dirty-blond hair a slick down her back.

  “Would be a whole lot better off if they didn’t watch their mom get beat up.”

  “That’s true, but without money, what’s Tiffany supposed to do?”

  “Stop looking for excuses to stay, I guess,” Joan said. “You forgot your scarf.”

  I clapped a hand to my throat. The bruises were fading. Mostly blue and green smudges now, but someone who looked hard could tell they were fingerprints.

  “Look, kid,” Joan said, walking out of the water like Venus on the waves. “Forget the damn scarf—it’s like a fat kid wearing a tee shirt to the swimming pool. All it does is make the kid look fatter.”

  I dug into the heart of the bruise just under my chin until it throbbed.

  “All it does is make you look more beat up.”

  I swallowed hard.

  “That’s what you are, right? Beat up?”

  No. That’s not what I am. That’s not all I am. I have a hundred more things about myself that I’m figuring out. I like skinny-dipping. I don’t like cake for breakfast. I like grinding my pussy against my hand until I come.

  But what I said was, “I guess so.”

  “And you ran?”

  “I’m running.”

  “Good for you.”

  Joan walked back over to the weeds she’d stomped down to make herself a little cove along the shore.

  “But I had money. Not a lot, but some. Tiffany has none.”

  “I’ve offered Tiffany plenty. No strings. She knows that. She wanted to go she could go.”

  “You make it seem like it should be easy for her. Like it’s really black and white.” I was getting angry on Tiffany’s behalf. On my own behalf, too, maybe. Because I’d stayed for years with no reason other than fear. Fear and habit.

  With no hope that things would get better. No love I could cling to and pretend about.

  Nothing but fear that life without Hoyt would be worse than life with him.

  “It’s pretty black and white. Guy hits you, you leave.” She took a drag from a cigarette. “Better yet, avoid them altogether. You want a joint?” Joan asked, holding it up toward me.

  I shook my head and she shrugged, sitting down on the thick blanket she had spread out. She had an iPod and a few magazines and…a gun beside her.

  “Don’t worry,” Joan said, taking a drag of the weed. She slipped the gun under one of the magazines. “I just keep an eye out for Phil and some of the other shitheads who live here.”

  “Are there a lot of shitheads?”

  Joan laughed, a plume of smoke sliding out of her mouth. “Enough.”

  “You don’t seem so bad,” I said, sort of joking, and Joan laughed again.

  “That’s because you don’t know me. And there are plenty more around here worse than me.”

  I had no intention of finding out. I was minding my own business. Well, I guess my business and Ben’s business.

  “What’s the story with Ben?” I asked, and Joan jerked back.

  “Why?”

  “He seems nice.�
�

  Joan laughed. “The really crazy ones always do. The guy’s like Phil—they’re thugs. Just thugs. One-dimensional—what you see is what you get.”

  “You’re saying behind Ben’s garden he’s a sociopath?”

  “Where are you from, kid, that you don’t understand that guy’s tattoos?”

  “A farm in Oklahoma.”

  Again with the truth. A few more weeks of blabbing like this and I wouldn’t be hiding at all.

  Joan smiled. “That explains it. Trust me. Just give him a wide berth.”

  “What about his tattoos?”

  “That big black square on his back, that’s a biker gang tattoo that’s been blacked over. He got booted. And you gotta do some bad shit to get booted.”

  “What did he do?”

  “I don’t know, and I’m not eager to sit down and have a chat with the guy. You shouldn’t be either.”

  I looked away from Joan, out at the water sparkling in the sunlight, as if diamonds had been scattered over its surface.

  “Why are you being nice to me?” I asked.

  “This is nice?”

  “Nicer.”

  “Because I’m high. Because I just saw your tits. Because…those goddamn bruises around your neck.”

  Again I reached up and felt them like they were still pounding against my skin.

  “You’re a stripper?” I asked and she stared at me blankly, and I wondered if I’d offended her. Or if she didn’t want people to know. “You mentioned The Velvet Touch. I don’t want to make assumptions…”

  “Yes, Sherlock Holmes, I’m a stripper.”

  I ran out of courage for what I had intended to ask.

  “You got something else you want to ask, you should ask,” Joan said.

  “That guy…in your trailer the first time I met you.” What the hell was I doing? My mom would kill me for asking these questions. For prying. She used to yank on the end of my ponytail when I started asking too many questions. “Never mind, this isn’t my business.”

  “Spit it out.”

  “Are…I mean…do you?”

  “Fuck men for money?”

  I blushed so hard my eyes hurt.

  “No. I fuck them for pleasure. But some of the girls do at the club. There’s one of those old-school comfort rooms in the back.”