Douse (Book One: At the Edge of a Hurricane)

by June Hydra

  “That’s a beautiful language, I have to say.”

  “Thank you,” Carmella says. “Sorry for watching you.”

  “No, lots of people do. I’m okay with the questions.”

  “You’re beautiful even with scar,” she says, “I guess I stare more because I have friend like you in Angola. War girl from satellite town. Big deep one across her back and neck. But all the men love her.”

  I sort of resent that the beauty of a woman is still reliant on physicality. As if that’s what humans have to offer. But then I’m culpable too, being attracted to men like Bishop by virtue of his muscles first and not by the size of his brain. Would I still be interested in Bishop if he didn’t take care of himself? If he dressed in ripped, oily sweats and had greasy hair from not bathing?

  “Is she smart?” I ask.

  “So much more than us,” Carmella says. “So much more. She had hard life in Angola. She lives easy now easier now in the capital city, Luanda.”

  “How is life there?”

  “It’s gotten better. Much violence has ended. The government is very corrupt though. Civil war broke out before, our families had to leave. The government still takes so much from the average person—most are very poor.”

  “So much corruption,” Maria says, “it’s bad. Like you can feel the pressure from those above coming down. It’s like the rain. You see the clouds and know what’s next. Predictable.”

  “Are your parents okay?”

  Carmella stutters, then clears her throat. “They are dead,” she says. “Murder.”

  “So sorry! I’m so sorry.”

  “You didn’t know,” Carmella says. “It’s okay.”

  “Besides, they passed a long time ago,” Maria says.

  “Still, I should’ve known better than to say something bad like that. I really apologize.”

  “It’s okay, beautiful girl, think nothing,” Carmella says. She adjusts her chiffon shirt and cranes her neck towards me. “You didn’t know,” she says.

  Carmella and Maria exchange a quip in Portuguese. The sounds uttered from their mouths ionize the air with lustful allure. Too bad for Piranha, Americans don’t have sexy accents. We’re too ubiquitous for that.

  Carmella unzips her Chanel purse. After digging through for five minutes, she finally produces the one-hundred fifty bucks down payment we agreed on. “We take up your time though didn’t mean to. Here is the assignment we have to do.”

  Carmella passes a sheet off. Their report has strict guidelines, though nothing crazy for an intro English class, just a general paper where the students are to learn how to argue, logos and pathos, that kind of stuff. The page comes with a rubric, proper punctuation, grammar, spelling. Easy.

  “When will you be done?” Maria says.

  “Within the week. We’ll send it to you or we can meet up or whatever.”

  We all get up from the table. As we depart at the parking lot, Carmella says, “You’re beautiful, don’t look down so much.”

  CHAPTER 5

  “Why didn’t you tell me their parents died?”

  “I don’t know everything about people. I’m not Jesus here.”

  “You knew everything else.”

  “General, basic info. I don’t know what goes on in the deepest part of a person’s life.” Caddy stirs his coffee and pours sugar from the sides. “That would be snooping,” he says.

  “As if. You’re the king of that. I bet you even know what brand of tampons I and Piranha use.”

  “I wouldn’t need to snoop far for that info. The garbage can’s always leaking anyways.”

  I rise from the table and sigh. “How do you find all that stuff on people then? Like knowing that their family’s fled Angola?”

  Caddy taps his forehead. “International Studies. And you thought it was a joke major when we started. ‘Ew, what’re you gonna do with that, Caddy?’”

  “Okay, fine, color me wrong.” The coffee pot gurgles out a thick stream. I cup my hands around the steamy air it makes.

  “How’s your fling with Bishop going by the way?”

  “We haven’t scheduled date three yet.”

  “And why not?” I don’t answer immediately, so Caddy interjects with a, “Are you scaaareddd?”

  “I’m never scared of anything. No. I’m waiting on him.” I pour coffee into a mug stamped with an American flag. The edges of the flag have faded, so what does Piranha do? Color them in, making sure to use permanent American markers.

  “Why wait? You’re supposed to be the assertive one.”

  “If I seem needy, he’ll run. There’s nothing worse than a desperate or needy person.”

  “You’re not needy for expressing interest.”

  “I will be. I can feel the Spadeness coming on.”

  During my senior year, Spade had grown quite attached to me. He enjoyed many nights of fanciful fucking in exchange for several history and chemistry test banks that year.

  This was until he decided to stalk me. Really stalk me.

  Imagine sleeping in your dorm room, your five-hundred square-foot cubicle—if that—and resting on your back. You’re reading a magazine, thinking about life. What kinds of places you’ll see in the future. The post-college lifestyle where kids and marriage leave your mind’s periphery and enter your life as concrete possibilities.

  So I was resting and a knock rapped at the door. My roommate was too lazy to get up (she barely did anything ever) and I answered, plucking my ear buds out.

  Spade, on the other side, split apart his fingers, greeting me Star Trek style.

  “What’s up, Violet?”

  Cue endless interruptions from Sir Star Trek. Spade would show up at the most inappropriate times. After stressful exams, before stressful exams. In the parking lot, where I would struggle to find space for Caddy’s station wagon—he would stand in empty spaces and wave at me.

  After I’d just had a period and was still “leaking”. Dribbling blood seemed to attract him like flies to a pitcher plant.

  “Maybe I should contact him for some drugs,” I say. Spade would blitz himself out on ecstasy. If you don’t know, ecstasy makes boners last, like, forever. Seriously.

  “Zone out, that’s what you need to do,” Caddy says. “Either that or pick up that phone and give him a call. You both seem really into each other.”

  “How would you know?”

  “The first time you two spoke…” Caddy clicks his tongue. “You’re getting married. And having kids. And a dog.”

  “Him settling for me would the biggest travesty in history.” I plop myself down on the couch and curl my legs up, sipping from the mug. Coffee runs hot down my throat and I enjoy measurable heat flowing through my chest. “Or maybe I’m selling myself short. Maybe he’s wrong for me.”

  The doorbell trumpets. Yes, Piranha rigged our apartment to play trumpets instead of a normal ding-dong. And they’re trumpets they’d play at a Marine’s funeral, too. We’re supposed to remember the losses. “Guests are as sporadic as them dying,” her bizarre way of saying that guests are meaningful.

  Piranha marches into the living room carrying bags full of groceries. Tomato cans, corn, beats, rice.

  “We’re having American paella,” she says smugly. “I’m going to start this weekend, so everybody get ready. We’re going to have a grand American stew.”

  I sigh. Caddy sighs.

  “The boss was mean today,” she says, “almost didn’t give me all these discounts.” Caddy and I help Piranha put away all the groceries. “You’re crazy,” I say to her, “but super resourceful.”

  For dinner, Piranha fixes up chicken soup. I suggest to her a recipe from China, one that’s called congie, but she won’t have any foreign main dishes.

  “One day we should gun a man for Piranha here,” Caddy says. “A good American boy.”

  Piranha slurps loudly, digging her spoon beneath a floating patch of noodle. She digs into her ear with a pinky and shrugs. “I think Violet’s boyfriend s
ounds perfect.”

  “Violet’s got competition now. You better get on him for a ring!”

  I slush around the carrots and peas and look at my reflection in the fatty water.

  “I’ll call him tonight.”

  “That’s our girl.”

  Piranha ladles more soup into my bowl. “When you do marry him, can you hire me as a chef? Or caterer? I know all the singles you should play.”

  “I’ll…contemplate that offer,” I say, finishing off my soup.

  Caddy just closes his eyes. He imagines bells playing God Bless America. I know because I am too.

  The song plays even through my locked door. Whenever Piranha gets in the patriotic mood, she fires all sorts of songs up. You can hear them through the paper thin apartment walls. And despite persistent complaints from neighbors, she refuses to tone down the music. We’ve been fined five times already—the damned girl never quits.

  I dial his number with the music blaring in the background. He picks up, and speaks, barely audible against the patriotic roar.

  “What’s that?”

  “I think it’s time you save me from my roommates.”

  “I’d love to. Where do you want to go?”

  “You pick. I pick. Doesn’t matter.”

  “Tomorrow afternoon. Let’s go to the park. We can have a quiet day.”

  “Christ.” I turn around and glare at Piranha through the walls. If I had lasers for eyes, she would be done over, laser-made calamari, Japanese style. “I just want to be with you.”

  “I miss you too,” he says. “You’re a ton of fun.”

  The blaring amps up. Bishop’s voice distorts. I glare at Piranha again. I shouldn’t have to take calls in the parking lot because my roommate’s being an ass.

  “Can I pick you up this time?”

  “I wouldn’t mind. You have a car?”

  “Not as nice as yours.”

  “Doubtful. Hey, I’ve got guys coming over in a bit. Talk to you soon?”

  “Sure, sorry if I was interrupting,” I say.

  “You weren’t. And if you were, you’re the best interruption.”

  “Are you going to hang up first?”

  “Not unless you are.”

  We dawdle on the phone but can’t hear well that I eventually just pound my thumb against the END CALL button.

  Even after we hang up, I hold the phone close to my lips. I mouth the conversation over again. The entire conversation from beginning to end.

  As a child, I would rehearse what to say to Mom and Dad. If they threatened to beat me, I had all sorts of outs. The worst thing you could say though was “sorry”. Sorry was for wimps and those unable to utter real apologizes. Sorry was weak and unreal.

  But now I mouth the conversation with Bishop over as if producing gold from my saliva ducts. I cup my mouth and gasp, no longer annoyed by Piranha’s music or Caddy’s yelling outside my door. They all disappear. The sounds I hear are only Bishop’s tinny voice on the phone.

  I so rarely say sorry in normal contexts like that. But with Bishop, it’s so natural to.

  I’m natural around Bishop. Just a girl. He’s just a guy.

  And we’re going on our third date.

  And he doesn’t know about my job yet.

  I put the phone down, then grab a pillow from my bed. I swathe myself in blankets and try to sleep, wondering how long I can hide Educate from him.

  CHAPTER 6

  Trees sway and swish. Sunlight dapples through all the branches and leaves, casting wispy shadows on a concrete dais. All around chirp birds, crickets digging into the soil. An occasional cat pokes its head out from the brush.

  Bishop strokes the hair on my nape. Every stroke produces a gentle wave, the rising and falling of appeased follicles and uplifted goose bumps. I kiss his cheek, drawing warmth into my throat and stomach. He blushes.

  "What are you thinking about?" he asks.

  "You."

  "I'm glad you came.¨

  "Were you scared I wasn't?"

  Bishop inches a finger down my cheek, tapping my lips. "Never," he says.

  "You're really...special. I hope that's not weird to say so early."

  "Keep going," Bishop smirks. I grip his biceps, and my fingers can't even contain the mass. I pat his shoulder and smile.

  "You're probably the most normal person I know."

  Bishop glances at me. "I don't think you know how exciting I can really be."

  "Why don't you show me now?"

  With one push, Bishop tilts me, hooking his leg around mine. He dips me, and my cheeks flush with blood and blush. I gasp and grab his shirt collar, pulling him close, breathing in his warm breath. He lets go of my leg.

  I stand on my tiptoes and appraise him, eye to eye. The gentle slope of his nose touches my own.

  Our lips touch, face to face, sending a shudder throughout my body. My knees spasm.

  " I won't lie," I say. "You're so nice to me. You don't even seem to want....you know."

  "Sex?"

  "I didn't want to bring up anything like that. But you've probably had your...thoughts too."

  "I have. But I never wanted to make you uncomfortable. I wanted everything to be on your time when you were ready."

  I gasp and press my lips to his. My spine contorts in a vain attempt to stay upright, but the shock of his touch startles. I grab his neck and move my hands across to his shoulders. Each mound of muscle is like a bounty, a treasure to be enjoyed. Gold upon gold.

  "Are you ready?" I ask.

  "After our quiet walk," he says, touching my nose.

  "The calm before the raunchy storm?"

  Bishop tugs me along. I skip after him, kicking gravel aside and rubbing his shoulder.

  My father hated to be touched. He could touch me all he wanted but I could never show affection him. Whenever I did, he would shirk me off like old clothes and scowl as if I'd castrated him or something. My mother was no different. She offered love conditionally, with strings. Don't make your father angry. Don't make me angry. You're so ungrateful for what he does.

  But with Bishop, I can touch him. I can feel the roundness of his shoulders, the hard work he's put into working out. The hours upon hours of gym time, refining him into a beautiful physique. And he doesn't push for sex. He lets things fall naturally. He lets the progression of our relationship act as a tide, an expression of us, rippling at first, then slowly growing stronger, and stronger.

  It's completely crazy and zany, and this is probably why I don't fault Piranha for her weirdness or Caddy for his snark.

  We all have our quirks. To be loved, to have companionship, that is what I've longed for.

  "I'm glad I met you," I whisper. "You happy to have met me?"

  And he reveals the first red flag I've ever noticed. He jerks his head just slightly enough to evince hesitation.

  "I am," he says. "I just. You're beautiful and witty."

  "Thank you."

  He blinks and doesn't look at me.

  "What is it?" I say.

  "I'll tell you later."

  I tug on his shirt and smile. "I can be a patient girl. Just don't keep me waiting forever."

  We round the corner down a rose pathway, swinging our clasped hands back and forth. Even though I smile and hold on tight, I wonder about our relationship loosening. If I pry, I'd be nosy.

  It's likely we both have our struggles, our baggage, each weighing us down, anchoring our hearts in place.

  I'd tell him to open up completely. That we could mend our troubles. But this type of thinking is like dreaming of wedding bells. Too soon, too soon.

  "The best part about parks," Bishop says, flexing his hand, "is sharing the outdoors with someone."

  "I usually share it with dog walkers who don't pick after their dogs."

  "No one wants to pick up after their shit. Oh," he says, cupping his mouth. "Sorry about the language."

  "You're such a good boy," I say, pinching his cheek. "That's cute. I only know sailo
r mouths."

  "I used to have one. Until I met you."

  "So cheesy," I say, running my hands through his hair. "Cheesy, sweet, and cute. My type of guy."

  "At least your honest," he says, winking. "A lot of girls would never admit that."

  The rise path stops short of a gravel mound. Yellow bulldozers sit silently atop the mounds. The city's still building its parks, trying to create green spaces for the inner city choked by skyscrapers.

  We double back up the rose path. Forking left of the path is a cobblestone road which we follow to a purling fountain. Roses surround the fountain's base, and they sway with the breeze, wavering collectively as one swatch of red.

  Bishop and I walk to the fountain's edge, close enough that you can feel the spray of water against your cheek. I hold Bishops hands and study him closely. He has stubble growing in, prodding through his supple skin. His hair grows to the right, kept tightly coiled with pomade. Fresh, everything smells fresh and new.

  Bishop bends down, then plucks a rose from the fountain's gardens. He hands me the rose, looking at my eyes all the while. And as he slides the rose though my hair, a great excitement fries my brain. I step closer to him.

  "You look absolutely beautiful," he says. "Beautiful and witty. Nice."

  "You're too much," I whisper. "You're too kind to me."

  "And you as well," Bishop bushes aside my hair. The heat from his hands makes my skin burn.

  "I want you," I grab his shoulders. My lips to his ear and repeat my statement of lust, cuddled close to his ear. "I want you so badly."

  "You should."

  I put my hands underneath his chin, pulling at his skin. "So you've got a little bad boy in you?"

  Bishop adjusts the rose. I bite my lip harder and harder, unable to express my want in words.

  "We can go to my place," he says. "We can do anything together."

  The park is a short ride from Bishop's place. He keeps putting his hand on mine while he drives, and I reciprocate every stroke with a kiss on his cheek.

  Neighborhoods zip past in a flurry of boards and windows. Cars accelerate and decelerate, but I only wish for them to all part, letting us through. I look at Bishop and guess what he might be without all those clothes keeping us apart.