by Doyle, K. T.
“Over a six month period, at a rate of 3% interest, that 20 bucks has earned me an additional $10.80.”
“Christ, you are a Finance major,” I said. “I have no idea what the hell that even means.”
“It means free money.”
“Why don’t you just get a job?”
“No time. Giving guitar lessons is more fun and more profitable than a regular job anyway.”
“It’s a good thing you’re not charging me for the guitar lessons,” I said. “I’m broke.”
His voice dipped to a whisper. “I’d never charge you. I’ll give you whatever you want for free.”
This was the Matt I knew. Instead of being annoying, I found his double entendres to be refreshing, exciting, erotic. I missed it, even.
He raised his voice back up to a normal level. “See you tomorrow.”
No regrets. I was glad to have bought Matt an expensive watch for Christmas.
II.
The papers were spread out before me on the kitchen table. I scanned the college application and financial aid form and sighed at the laborious task ahead. My name, address, and social security number were the easiest pieces of information to fill in. The rest was a crapshoot.
My father was in the living room. His glasses sat low on his nose, his head was tucked deep to his chest, and his lips moved occasionally as he read the book in his lap.
Like my mother, he seemed to have aged ten years in such a short period of time. His hair was almost entirely gray and he had gained a few pounds around his middle.
I hadn’t spoken to him much in the three months since the night I heard my parent’s argument in the bathroom. I didn’t want to talk to him on this day, either. I didn’t want to have to depend on his help. I had recently convinced myself that I didn’t need the help of any man, ever again.
I scanned the paperwork again. The process of applying for college seemed so useless and unnecessarily complicated. Who cared what my SAT score was? How important, really, are the high school activities I participated in? None of it was a good indication that I had the staying power for a four-year college experience. For all I knew, some asshole undergrad might knock me up and I’d be forced to drop out of college to raise a bastard child. A lot of good that SAT score would do me then. Where was the fill-in-the-blank section on the application that asks under what circumstances I foresee not being able to graduate?
I was looking forward even less to filling out the financial aid form. Especially since my family was neither poor nor a minority. We weren’t eligible for free money or government assistance. My family was considered middle-class; all I was eligible for were high-interest loans in the tens of thousands of dollars payable upon graduation. And the degree I got didn’t even guarantee that I’d get a good job to help pay for them. Where was the essay section on the financial aid application that allowed me to express my opinion on that?
I took a fleeting glance at my father. He silently turned a page in his book and continued moving his lips as he read. His whispered breaths occasionally reached my ears. I yawned and stretched before settling in, and then grabbed the college application.
Full Name: Alexandra Kathryn Harrison.
Suddenly I heard a voice.
“The Lord will rescue me from every evil attack and will bring me safely to his heavenly kingdom.”
It was a male voice, hollow and distant and a little louder than a whisper. I craned my neck to see into the living room. All was quiet and still. The only noise was the gentle whir of a fan in the kitchen window.
I continued filling in the blanks.
Date of Birth: May 5, 1975.
I heard the voice again, this time more forceful than before.
“Flee the evil desires of youth, and pursue righteousness, faith, love and peace, along with those who call on the Lord out of a pure heart.”
I looked up from my paperwork. “Dad?”
He didn’t look at me. His eyes remained buried in his book. “Yes, honey?”
“Did you say something?”
“No.” His lips moved as he continued reading his book.
“Do you have the TV on?”
“No.”
I tried to focus. I continued filling out the college application.
Address: 27 Olive Court, Kenwood, Pennsylvania.
Again, the voice.
“Everyone who confesses the name of the Lord must turn away from wickedness.”
I slammed the pen down. “Dad!”
He turned his head to me. “What?” He had a look of confusion on his face as he peered over his glasses at me. “What is it?”
“Nothing.”
He closed his book and set it on the table next to him. “Are you sure? Do you need help with your paperwork?”
He got up from his chair and came into the kitchen. As he walked towards me my eyes focused on the book he had set down. Its cover was slightly curled but I could make out the title: HOLY BIBLE.
“What’s that all about?” I asked.
He turned back to see what I was pointing at. “A little light reading,” he said.
“Why? What for?”
He sat down at the kitchen table across from me. “It’s just something I do.”
“Where did it come from?”
“It’s mine. I’ve always had it.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “I’ve never seen it before.”
“I keep it upstairs in my bedroom.”
“Why are you hiding it?”
“I’m not hiding it. I keep it on the bookshelf with my carpentry books.”
“Don’t lie to me!”
My father sat back in the chair. “Alex, calm down. What is going on with you? I’m not lying. Why are you so surprised that I’m reading a Bible? Your mother and I are Catholic. I thought you knew that. You’re Catholic too.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You were baptized Catholic.”
“I can’t be Catholic,” I said. “I don’t believe in God.”
My father paused. He looked surprised by my sudden honesty. “Well, okay. You don’t have to. Having you baptized was just something your mother and I wanted to do. We thought it was important.”
“You and Mom don’t go to church.”
“Your mother and I feel that people don’t have to go to church to believe in God.”
I was overwhelmed and tired. I still had the paperwork to fill out. “I don’t want your help.”
“What?”
I held up the college application. “The paperwork. I don’t need your help.”
“What about the financial aid form?” He grinned. “I’m good with numbers.”
He was right about that. My father could manipulate numbers in his head without the use of a calculator or pencil. It must’ve been from all the fractions he had to add and subtract.
Until I was introduced to carpentry, I never knew measurements as small as an eighth of an inch existed. Most times, carpentry came down to the precision of such small numbers. You could be off by as little as a fraction of an inch and a whole project would fall to shit.
My father had warned me about the importance of precision. Measure twice, cut once, he told me. Carpenter’s rule.
I was too tired to argue with my father. I relented, nodded my head, and accepted his help. I leaned my elbow on the table and rested my chin in my hand.
He smiled. “So, what do you need to know?”
…
Half an hour later, we finished the financial aid form. My right hand was tight and my fingers sore from writing.
“Thank God that’s done,” I announced. “Only one form to go.”
My father looked at me and smiled. His eyes were distant. “Know what I thank God for? I thank Christ Jesus our Lord, who has given me strength, that he considered me faithful, appointing me to his service.”
“What?” I said.
“Even though I was once a blasphemer and a persecutor and a violent man,” he continued,
“I was shown mercy because I acted in ignorance and unbelief. The grace of our Lord was poured out on me abundantly, along with the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus.” He continued to smile as he stared at me from across the table.
I sat glued to the chair, unable to stand up. My flesh crawled. I blinked repeatedly, hoping to erase the image that appeared in front of me. But my father was still there, smiling. He opened his mouth again to speak. I covered my ears to block his words.
Suddenly, he lunged across the table and grabbed my wrists in his hands. He held them tight so that I would hear. Startled, I let out a yelp. Papers scattered all over the table, some falling to the floor. His gray hair was mussed and his face was red, veins bulging on the surface of his temples. His eyes were black and beady and his lips curled up into an all-knowing grin.
His voice was loud and forceful. He shook my arms as he spoke.
“Here is a trustworthy saying that deserves full acceptance. Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—of whom I am the worst. But for that very reason I was shown mercy so that in me, the worst of sinners, Christ Jesus might display his unlimited patience as an example for those who would believe in him and receive eternal life!” He released me and sat back in the chair.
My wrists burned from his grasp. I massaged each of them and stared at my father in fear. I didn’t recognize the man who sat across from me. I trembled at the sight of him.
Suddenly, words reached the tip of my tongue, but from where they came I do not know. It was as if someone had pulled a string on my back. I was a puppet repeating what I was programmed to say.
“Surely you mean to impart some prophecy to me?”
He nodded. “There will be terrible times in your coming years. People will be lovers of themselves, lovers of money, boastful, proud, abusive, disobedient to their parents, ungrateful, unholy, without love, unforgiving, slanderous, without self-control, brutal, not lovers of the good, treacherous, rash, conceited, lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God—having a form of godliness but denying its power.” He paused.
“What of them?” I asked.
He leaned forward. “Have nothing to do with them.”
“But they hide behind masks. How am I to avoid evil when it surrounds me always? When their hearts are impure and their lives are false, what am I to do when tempted by the forces of their empire and made to worship alongside them in idolatry?”
He folded his hands together on the table. “Pray,” he said resolutely. “Pray that they will come to their senses and escape from the trap of the devil who has taken them captive to do his will.”
I was awash with helplessness. In that moment, the world was a dry, hot, endless desert, and I was the only one in it. I wandered aimlessly, hopelessly, as the sun beat down on me. My skin burned with the knowledge that I was alone. I thirsted for comfort.
I lowered my head and squeezed my eyes shut. When I lifted my head, all was calm and still. My father no longer sat across from me with a look of evil in his eyes. He was sitting in his chair in the living room, reading the book he had put aside to help me fill out the paperwork.
He turned to look at me. “He must be working you too hard,” he said.
“What?”
He adjusted his glasses. “Your boss at Burger Palace. He must be working you like a slave.”
My memory was foggy. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you remember? You fell fast asleep at the kitchen table—right when we were in the middle of filling out the financial aid form.”
“I did?”
He looked at his watch. “You were out for an hour. You looked so peaceful I decided not to disturb you. I went back to reading my book.” He held up the Bible.
Confused, I sifted through the paperwork. The college application was set off to the side. The financial aid form sat right in front of me. The front page was smeared with ink where my cheek had rested while prophetic visions swirled in my brain as I slept.
This time, I was sure, I had dreamt the whole thing.
CHAPTER 11
I.
I held the small wrapped present out to him. “Merry Christmas.”
Matt and I stood outside Kentmore Hall. It was dark and a light snow was falling, soft and beautiful as it blanketed the sidewalk.
He stared at the present for a few seconds, and then looked up at me. “You didn’t have to,” he said. “I didn’t get you anything.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I wanted to.”
He unlocked the door and we went inside and I held the gift out to him again.
“Open it,” I said.
He took the present and peeled off the paper and threw it in a ball on the floor. His eyes grew large when he opened the hinged lid and saw the watch inside.
“This is, uh, really nice,” he said. “You spent too much.”
“Nah.” I waved off the notion. “Now you’ll always be on time for our lessons.”
Matt ran his fingers along the glass face of the watch. “Thanks. It’s great.”
“You’re welcome.”
He closed the lid and held the box in his hand. “All right. So, ready for another lesson?”
The kitchen didn’t taunt me as I walked by. The issues raised in there had died in there. There was closure; we had reached a resolution.
I threw my coat over a chair in the practice room and took a guitar from the closet like I had so many times before. It felt like I had just been there the day before. So many memories lingered—our first lesson together, our last lesson together before the end of the semester, all the silence and screaming and sex in between. What memories were waiting to be created on this night?
We sat face to face on the floor. Matt was just about ready to speak when the door flung open. I had been the last one in the room and forgot to lock it.
A young man rushed in. He appeared to be about 18. He was tall and thin, with long legs, and his hair was blonde and wavy. He was the person Matt had been arguing with in the lobby of Kentmore the semester before. I remembered the image vividly. Matt hadn’t mentioned anything about the argument, or who the young man was; he’d just ushered me upstairs to the practice room.
The young man stopped short when he saw us sitting on the floor. He gave Matt a head nod. “Hey, shithead. Sorry, forgot this was your night.”
His voice was familiar. I suddenly realized he was Matt’s roommate, Ted, the person who answered the phone the night before when I called their room.
Ted stole a glance at me then turned to leave. “Later.”
“Hey!” Matt shouted after him.
Ted peered through the door. “What?”
“Bob with you?”
“Yeah.”
“Do me a favor,” Matt said. “Remind him he owes me money.”
Ted opened the door wider. “Speaking of Bob, he wanted me to give you this.” Ted stretched his arm out as far as it would go and extended his middle finger.
“Good one, asshole,” Matt replied. “Real mature. Lock the door when you leave.”
Ted flipped the lock from the inside and closed the door behind him. We were alone once again.
Matt sighed. “All right. Where were we?”
“So that’s your roommate, Ted,” I said.
“The one and only. I sometimes call him Theodore. He hates when I do that.”
“Is he a musician, too?” I asked.
Matt strummed his guitar. “He plays bass in our band. We have two music classes together, too.”
“You guys must be real close.”
“Best friends.”
“Seriously? I was being sarcastic. It sounds like you hate each other.”
“We don’t. He’s changed. Ted’s not the same person I knew a year ago in high school when we first started our band and decided to be college roommates.”
“Maybe he’s pissed about the 3% interest you’re charging him,” I joked.
“That’s his fault. He wouldn’t have that
problem if he’d paid me by now.”
“Quit the band,” I said.
Matt stopped strumming and looked at me as if I had two heads. “No way. I’m way better than he is. If it comes down to that, he should quit.”
Then I understood. Years of close friendship, arguments over money, and testosterone-driven jealousy…it was enough to sever any male friendship.
“So who’s Bob?” I asked.
“Our drummer. He can be an asshole too.”
“Let me guess—he owes you money and won’t pay you back?”
“Yep.”
“And he’s pissed because you’re charging him 3% interest?”
“Hey, you’re good. You’re starting to figure shit out.”
“Is there anyone who doesn’t owe you money?”
He thought for a minute. “Besides you, no. Hell, even Christine—” He stopped mid sentence and looked down to avert my eyes.
There was a twitch in my stomach. “Christine, as in your ex-girlfriend?”
He nodded his head.
“What about her?”
He started strumming his guitar again. “She still owes me money from, like, a year ago.”
Something in the way he fidgeted with his hands, the way his usually steady fingers were trembling slightly, didn’t seem quite right. He sometimes avoided eye contact, he frequently used smirks to communicate, he was normally clumsy and vague with his words. But his hands…They were the most steady and predictable thing about him. Whether they were holding me or holding a guitar, his hands were always strong, powerful, rock solid.
Because of them, because of that slightest of trembles, I couldn’t believe a word he was saying.
“You’re lying,” I said.
He looked up at me. “No, I’m not.”
“You mean to tell me you haven’t forgiven a year-old debt from an ex-girlfriend who broke up with you months ago?”
“Something like that,” he mumbled. “I don’t know.”
I set my guitar aside. “You don’t know?”
He sat there staring at me, watching my eyes, as if waiting for me to challenge him further.
I had lived moments like this one before. The day we met, when he stared at me with curiosity in the lobby but didn’t ask me a single question. The night we had sex in the kitchen, when he pleaded wordlessly with his eyes for me to leave but wouldn’t tell me why. The night I confronted him in the practice room about the state of our relationship and all he could do was sit and stare at me with those goddamned beautiful eyes of his.
