Chaos and Control

by Season Vining

  I call Bennie’s cell phone, but it goes straight to voicemail. Frustrated, I throw the rest of my food away and call her again with the same results. The rest of my time here kind of fades away. I move around the shopping center, in and out of stores, without actually seeing anything. Bennie and I have never had secrets before. We always represented a united front—us against the world.

  I walk to where I’m meeting Preston, and when I turn the corner, I find him already in the lot. He is parked away from other cars, ducked under the open hood of his truck. I watch from my place on the curb, enjoying the view. The sight of this man, bent over, tinkering with dirty things, does dirty things to my thoughts. Preston shakes his head, dusts his hands off, and slams the hood closed.

  He opens the truck, takes out a bottle of liquid soap, and squirts some into his hands. I watch as he lathers up and then rips open a package of wipes to finish cleaning his hands. I start across the lot as he yanks down the tailgate and has a seat on it, immediately pulling out his notebook and scribbling inside.

  “Hello,” I say softly. Preston gives a slight nod but keeps his eyes on the paper. “Find anything in the engine?”

  “No.”

  I hop up on the tailgate next to him. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

  “Give me a second,” he says, holding up a finger.

  I nod even though he doesn’t look up and swing my feet back and forth. It’s a beautiful day. A blue sky holds the occasional puffy white cloud, and the sun warms my head and shoulders. I try to give Preston some privacy, but my eyes can’t resist watching the muscles of his forearm as he jots in that notebook. His large hand wraps around the pencil, his grip so delicate.

  After a couple of minutes, he closes the notebook with the pencil tucked inside. Preston looks up, but sunglasses cover the eyes I want to see. All I see is my own distorted face in the reflective surface.

  “Something wrong?” he asks.

  I think of Bennie and her lies and my phone call this morning, but I decide not to divulge this information. Though I’m not sure of my poker face skills, I decide to keep it to myself.

  “Nope.”

  “You ready?” he asks, standing and putting his notebook in his back pocket.

  “Sure. Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Preston closes the tailgate and shoots past me to open my door. I laugh and climb into the truck. When the engine roars to life, we are off. I’m too lost in my own thoughts to make conversation, but Preston seems okay with this. I break out of my head long enough to recognize Franklin University when we pull onto Wildcat Drive.

  “You’re taking me to F U?”

  “Yep.”

  “Want to build a career? Eff you! Want to get a degree? Eff you!” I sing.

  Preston chuckles. “Yeah, that wasn’t exactly the best advertising campaign.”

  We drive past the historic main buildings and pull into an empty lot. Preston parks the truck and runs around to my side. I let him open my door because it seems really important for him to do so. He nods toward a modern-looking building. The sleek new structure stands out among the old architecture and red brick buildings. I follow Preston toward the open entrance hall.

  “So, how was Coffee Call last night?”

  Preston keeps his eyes on the ground. “It was good. There were only three people who shared their work. But it was good. I didn’t recognize them. I think they came in from Franklin.”

  “That’s probably true,” I say, kicking a pebble. “I can’t imagine Crowley locals are into that kind of thing. I take it you didn’t share your work?”

  He shakes his head. “No.”

  “Isn’t the building going to be locked? It’s summer.”

  “We’re not going inside.”

  In the center of the building is a courtyard. There are metal and stone sculptures throughout the space, along with a few plants and benches. A calming silence surrounds us as Preston leads me to a dark corner and takes a seat on a bench.

  “Is this where you take me down into the basement and kill me, Preston? Seems kind of formulaic, don’t you think?”

  He chuckles. “I’m not going to kill you, Wren. Too messy.” He holds up his hands and makes a disgusted face.

  “I’m just saying you, of all people, probably have gloves, cleaning products, and the kind of attention to detail that would stump a veteran CSI team.”

  “I’m not sure I like your implication. But this is what I wanted to show you.” He throws out his hand, gesturing to a sculpture of two trees.

  “Whoa.” I step closer and see that two human bodies form the realistic-looking plaster trees—one of them displays a nude male, the other, a female. They seem to be entwined with their legs turning into roots and their arms twisting up into limbs and branches. It is beautifully erotic and somehow reminds me of Adam and Eve, the original sinners. Etched into the base of the design, bold lettering composes several lines of handwritten text.

  Two lovers dropped, seedlings on a breeze

  Separated by soil

  Sprung up from Earth, they meet again

  Their limbs do uncoil

  Reach toward the sky, sun’s rays embrace

  Forever etched in bark

  Pulpy flesh beneath splintered fingers

  Each leave their mark

  Two lovers dropped, roots grown into one

  Share a common heart

  If one should fall, expose bloody rings

  The other will depart

  I turn toward Preston. His eyes aren’t on the words or the human forms carved into trees, they are on me. His shoulders are tense, the corded muscles of his neck strained. He waits for me to react, and when my mind catches up, I do.

  “Is that yours?” I ask. He nods and looks away.

  “It was part of a collaborative art project that the professor decided to make a permanent installment here in the sculpture garden.”

  I’m so honored that he shared this with me, that he’s letting me have a tiny peek inside his world. It only makes me want more. I step between his parted knees and rake my fingers through his hair. I place my other hand on his neck, trying to calm his furious pulse. I can see how vulnerable he feels in this moment. He’s put himself out there, laying his words and talent in my hands, and now waits.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  He grins up at me, his shoulders relaxing. That smile is my whole world. There is nothing else but the curve of his lips and the crinkles in the corners of his eyes. My thumb slides over the scruff on his jaw.

  “You didn’t shave.”

  “You asked me not to,” he says.

  “Do you always follow directions so well?”

  He nods his head yes, but says, “No.”

  “Kiss me.”

  Preston is the kind of man who doesn’t have to be told twice. His lips find mine, and it is a hungry kind of kiss. It is fueled by exhilaration and relief, and that always underlying claim over my body. Our tongues probe and taste each other while his hands slide down my back. Just as I take Preston’s bottom lip between my teeth, his hands slip below my ass and pull me onto his lap. Like we’ve done this a thousand times, my legs instinctually wrap around his waist. Here, in this place, we are our own art exhibit. We are passionate embraces and two bodies twined into one.

  His hard chest presses against my soft one with heavy breaths. Every muscle in his body is pulled tight—my very own stone statue of perfection. My hands find his shoulders, and I grip hard, trying to press my fingers into the muscle there. Preston moans into my mouth, his fingers dig into my waist.

  He slows the kiss down, ending it with tiny pecks again. I’m assuming an even number. My arms lay on his shoulders, my knees on the bench on each side of his hips. Preston rests his forehead on mine as we each catch our breath.

  I lean back so I can see him better. “Thank you for sharing that with me,” I say.

  “I want to share everything with you, but I’m not ready.”<
br />
  “I’ll take what I can get.”

  I scoot back and get to my feet, feeling the hardness beneath his zipper. Preston adjusts himself and gives me an embarrassed grimace. Feeling bold, I trap his hand beneath mine and slide it over his crotch. Preston’s eyes close, and he groans.

  “I can take care of that for you,” I whisper. Surrounded by nothing but the empty space, my words sound sinister.

  He opens his eyes and looks around. “Not here. I can’t.”

  “Okay,” I say, removing my hand. “Not here.”

  Preston looks thankful. He holds up his finger to let me know he needs a minute. I nod and turn to take a look at the other sculptures surrounding us. They are all beautiful and interesting in their own way, and I wonder how it feels to have something so tangible immortalizing you.

  When I reach the last piece, Preston approaches, gives me a shy smile, and leads me back toward the entrance.

  “Do you want to tell me what was bothering you earlier today?” he asks.

  “I said it was nothing.”

  “I know what you said.”

  I shake my head and walk faster toward his truck. “I’m not ready.”

  He recognizes the words he spoke to me just minutes ago and lets it drop. I can’t help but appreciate how attentive and observant Preston is. Every sense is tuned in to me. He sees me, he hears me, he knows every curve of my body. Does he see everyone this closely, or is it just me?

  Once we’re in the truck, Preston opens the glove compartment and pulls out a couple of wipes. He cleans his hands, and I follow his example, doing the same. On our way out of the parking lot, he pulls next to a garbage can and tosses the trash inside.

  This drive back to town is different. Instead of being pressed against the opposite door, I’m in the middle of the truck, pressed against Preston. One of his arms is stretched across the back of the seat, and I’m so content in this moment that I forget about the troubles awaiting me in Crowley.

  Falling

  Under her spell

  She asks without asking

  So I pull on my courage and

  Bring her to the place

  Where a part of me is immortal

  An adult show-and-tell

  Pounding pulse keeps

  Time with the way her lips

  Silently read words

  Etched into stone

  This is me, I want to shout

  Exposed like a volunteer

  Sawed in half for magic’s sake

  Look inside, count my rings

  Believe my illusion

  - Preston

  Chapter Thirteen

  Daydream Nation

  As I lower the arm down and the needle finds its groove, Sonic Youth fills the apartment. A few seconds later, the sound of the phone ringing jars me to the core. I am frozen, staring at the yellow phone from across the room. The shrill ring cuts through the air again, and I race across the room, pick up the receiver, and slam it back down. My hand rests on my chest, trying to calm the furious pace of my heart.

  I jump when it rings again. Without thinking, I rip the phone from the wall. The cord is unplugged, and the ringing stops. I set the phone down on the counter and wrap my arms around myself. I hate this feeling, this awful, weak feeling, this fear of a man I thought I’d escaped.

  Glancing to the windows, I see that it’s getting dark outside. I check the apartment door to make sure it’s locked and park myself on the sofa, waiting for Bennie. The windows glow when the streetlights kick on. I grab a magazine from the table and pretend to read through it.

  It’s odd how our roles have become reversed. Many nights, Bennie sat in this very spot, listening for the sound of me returning home after a night out. So much has changed since those years of drunken debauchery. Even then I knew I wanted out of this town, but I was never sure it would actually happen. Those years away changed me in a way that staying never would have. I like the girl I am now, but I wonder how long she’ll survive in the rural Midwest. How long until the crops just swallow her back up and she disappears into the soil?

  I hear the door open and close. Bennie drops her purse and keys on the table. She enters the room, kicks off her shoes, and drops onto the sofa.

  “Long day with Laney?” I ask.

  Her head lolls back, face toward the ceiling, eyes closed. “So tired,” she answers.

  Bennie’s lack of answer gives me hope that she’s going to come clean.

  “How’s she doing?”

  “Oh, you know. She’s okay. One day at a time and all that.”

  “Bennie,” I say.

  She rolls her head toward me and opens her eyes. They are red with dark circles beneath them. “Yeah?”

  I’m so ready to call her out on the lie, but the look on her face stops me. She is half asleep and giving me a lazy smile. Most of my anger has been replaced with relief that she’s home, anyway.

  “You look exhausted. You should take a bath and go to bed.”

  “That’s the plan, kid. That’s the plan.”

  I don’t know why I let her off the hook. I don’t know what I see in my sister that makes me put her lies on the back burner, but I do.

  “Good night, Ben.”

  “Night, Wren.”

  I leave the record on and busy myself with searching for something to eat. I find the freezer full of junk food, and there is one more oddity to add to the list. Bennie never eats processed food. She’s more of a turkey, hummus, and sprouts on gluten-free bread type of lady. I look from the freezer to her closed bedroom door and back to the boxes of food. I pull out a frozen pizza, preheat the oven, and throw it in. After setting the kitchen timer for seventeen minutes, I take a seat at the front window and look out at Crowley.

  There’s not much activity on the street below, not much activity anywhere. As much as I loathe this place, there’s still a quiet comfort that comes with being here. I don’t know how Bennie stayed all these years, living in the shadow of the great Reverend Hart. I don’t understand why she would do that to herself. The people of this town worship that man like he’s the one who turned water into wine. What he says is law. They admire my parents, because they don’t know any better. No one has ever taken the time to really look and see what kind of people they are. I suppose no one ever will.

  My whole life, people needed to find a way to explain my rebellious behavior. I don’t have a dark and tortured past. I simply had parents who thought I was sin personified. There was a detachment there. But I always had Bennie to keep me sane and provide an escape from those lunatics. I wasn’t abused. Though they seemed cold and loveless, the Reverend and his wife never laid a hand on me. Sometimes, there is no explanation for one’s behavior. Sometimes you just need to feel like you’re leading a life worthy of your biggest dreams. And sometimes that means breaking all the rules.

  …

  Preston helps an old lady find the record she’s looking for. It’s a relic from the 1950s. I sit with Bennie. He walks toward the front counter and she is so tiny, I can’t even see her waddling behind him. Preston drops off the record, and Bennie stands to ring her up. I grab the hand sanitizer below the counter and wave it at him. He gives me a sly smile and holds out his hands.

  Squeezing the bottle, I squirt some gel into his waiting palm and watch as he rubs his hands together. They smooth over every inch of skin up past his wrist and back down, and I’m completely entranced by it.

  “Wren,” Preston says.

  My eyes meet his, and he flicks his gaze to my mouth and back up. Preston reaches for me. Without thought, I lean toward him, wanting to connect that much sooner. His thumb presses to my bottom lip and pulls it free from my teeth.

  “Ahem,” Bennie says, clearly wanting to ruin my life.

  Preston drops his hand and heads toward the back of the store.

  “What’s that saying? I hate to see him leave, but I love to watch him go.”

  Bennie takes a seat and flips through a gossip magazine. “Y
ou two seem to be spending a lot of time together lately.”

  I turn to face her and lean against the counter. “Yep.”

  “If you leave again, he won’t go with you,” she says.

  “You don’t know that,” I defend. Bennie shoots me an incredulous look over her magazine, and I shrug. “I don’t want to fight about Preston,” I say.

  “What do you want to fight about?”

  Accusatory and hurtful words are on the tip of my tongue. Laney! Lies! I swallow them down and shake my head. “I don’t want to fight at all.”

  “Good.”

  Looking around at the quiet store, I wonder how much longer Bennie can keep this dream alive. She opened it when she was just twenty-four years old. Our grandmother had left the building to her when she died. Bennie worked tirelessly to earn money to get Vinyl off the ground. I remember my parents’ anger and disappointment when she told them she was turning Grandmother’s Christian bookstore into a record store.

  “How much longer do you think Vinyl can survive, Bennie?”

  She sighs and folds the magazine closed on her lap. “Apparently, I just have to stay afloat between generations of hipsters. The vintage furniture and other items help bring in customers. These days, I feel like no one loves vinyl like me.”

  “I do,” I say. “Because of you. And Preston does.”

  “Great. Two people. If you two didn’t get a discount, I might actually make some money.” She laughs, but it’s void of humor. “I don’t know how much longer I’ll survive, Wren.”

  There is a deep sadness in her voice, an inflection so solemn it guts me.

  “Well, we’ll change and adapt to keep the doors open as long as possible.”

  “Yeah,” she says, but there is no conviction behind it.

  The front door chimes, and we both turn to see Sawyer approaching, starched uniform and shiny badge. Immediately, my thoughts go to Preston. I search the store and find him standing on aisle two, flipping through the R&B section a little too forcefully.