by June Hydra
But then.
But then, within me, grows a reluctance. Am I reverting to old ways? Relying on sex to validate my existence as a person? As a spiting tactic against my parents?
I look at Bishop again. This is our third date. Most people would have sex on the first or second. Third is the equivalent to ages in today's era.
We slow down on a dead-end. Before, when I came here, it was night. But in the daylight his house shines. Oak trees flank the sides. Empty garbage cans rattle. Squirrels dart across the back asphalt, orange bolts of fur chattering amongst themselves.
Bishop pulls into a red brick driveway. The eaves of his house are crusty and dry, and the gutters collect mold. But in spite of the mold and crust is a two story garden home with a projecting sunroom. Sprouting in his lawn, an oak tree, tall and like a paint brush entrenched in the soil.
We get out of the car and I trail behind him, connected by his strong hand. At the door, he reverses our positions, letting me in first, making sure my steps are planted firm and guided.
"You're a gentleman," I say.
The rooms are all the same. There's the couch, the kitchen. The fireplace and mantle with their pictures surrounding them all. There's the enviable rug and carpet that stretches between rooms, and the marble floor in the bathroom. I freshen up, taking care to rinse my cheeks in cold, running water. Being asleep or having Dead Fish Syndrome in the bedroom is does not exactly make for exhilarating sex.
I come out of the bathroom, face supple and drying, ready to face Bishop.
CHAPTER 7
We finish in a cacophony of gasps and pants. We grab at each other’s extremities, anywhere and everywhere—it doesn’t matter where. And when we’re done grabbing each other, fulfilling each other in the most primal of sense, we cuddle. We cuddle and we talk about petty things, like how our day was, or how someone held open a door for him. How the receptionist had cabbage stuck in her teeth or how a rude driver cut him off on his way to work.
So long. So long since I’ve cuddled another man after sex. It would always be a wham-bam affair. Hurricanes of great speeds. The names were inconsequential to the acts. The bodies were means to an end—I didn’t care for the men and they never cared for me. They were business and the product was myself.
Now, in the arms of Bishop, an incredible satisfaction has taken residency. It’s bought out a plot of land in my heart. Then there’s the satisfaction in my head, plowing away the old habits, the anger from my childhood and the faceless interactions with college guys. I let the satisfactions grow and grow, nurturing them with Bishop’s good vibes.
“I trust you,” I say. “You were so gentle with me.”
“I couldn’t tell if you were going to be a rough girl or a gentle one.”
“Trust me. I’ve had too many rough experiences already.”
Bishop props himself on one arm to face me. “Want to play another game?”
“Name it. Let’s do it.”
“How about we play Truth or Dare. Except in this version, if the other person thinks you’re lying, then you have to kiss them.”
“We’ll just end up lying though,” I say, smirking.
“Exactly. And if the other person doesn’t do the dare, then you have to kiss them too.”
So we start, ready to jump from the tips of our tongues. “Truth or dare,” I say.
“Truth. I like honesty.”
I flinch. But it’s not like I’ve told any lies. He just doesn’t know what I do, which is only tangentially related to lying. “Okay, truth: Name your biggest deal breaker.”
“Smoking. I hate smoke. The scent is gross and when you kiss it’s terrible. You can taste the ash.”
“I agree. My turn. I pick dare.”
“I dare you to…” Bishop’s hazel eyes drift around. He looks to the ceiling fan slowing rotating above us. Then he scans the coverlets, tossed to the ground in the flurry of passion we created. “I dare you to jump out the window.”
“That’s a silly dare.”
“Guess you’ll have to kiss me.”
I roll unto my side and slip my lips between his. His lips have the texture of petals, dewy and pliable.
“Truth or dare,” I say, finally.
“Truth.”
I fall back unto the bed with a single question. “What exactly do you want out of life?”
“To be happy. Maybe start a family. Have a decent job. Live well and without many regrets. That sounds really, really generic. But I’m a generic kind of guy.”
“You’re always playing yourself down like that. You’re way more impressive than the majority of people our age.”
“No. Not at all.” Bishop rolls the blankets over our waists. His bare naked leg touches mine and I snuggle closer, clinging to his torso.
“You’re definitely not a bad guy. You’re a fantastic guy.”
Bishop scoffs. “Not according to the church at least.”
“You’re religious?” I try to sound somewhat surprised. Had Caddy not told me, I probably would have been.
“Not super religious. I guess ‘spiritual’ is the new term our generation likes to use. I’m spiritual.” Bishop thrusts his arm downwards to the small of my back. He runs a finger around the knob of my spine, thinking. “I don’t know. Everybody has their sob story. My parents did okay with their farmland. They did okay with their house. Except the recession hit and things changed a lot. They lost a lot. Not land necessarily, but spirit.”
“You’re being too cryptic. Spirit?”
“They were such good people before. Then they turned all uber-religious and started hating anything and everything to the extreme. I still love them though. Sort of. You know when you have an attachment to someone or something. It’s hard to let that attachment not chain you.”
“The emotions. The feelings,” I say. “Love is a drug and whatnot.”
“Yeah. It’s crazy right? The chemicals. You know the situation’s bad but you can’t leave because your stupid heart won’t let you. You can’t go forward because of those interactions between your cells. You can’t make any headway because you’re so caught up in feelings.”
“I know,” I say, “I know, totally, completely. Not trying to one-up you or anything, but my mom and dad were abusive. I know what you mean by being unable to let go and leave. It’s hard. When you’ve bonded so closely. Or at least it seems like you’ve bonded.”
Bishop props his chin on my head. He traces the outline of my earlobe, listening to my words spill forth, listening to me.
“How long did the abuse go on?”
“Too long. Years. It wasn’t until I was around seventeen or eighteen that I got my independence. The most evil thing, I think, is when parents use their financial advantage to chain you. They’ll dangle incentives over your head, threatening to cut you off, until you just decide to cut the cord yourself. It’s easier like that, running free without their interference now. But God, was leaving just—”
“Painful.”
“Painful, painful, painful. Utterly spirit destroying. I had none after I’d left. I had to work for everything myself. Ground up. Multiple jobs, lots of noodles, sometimes no noodles at all and exams in the mornings.”
“We have a lot in common,” Bishop whispers. He bites on my ear, and I squirm from the shock of his teeth. “We have a ton in common,” he says, his voice echoing throughout my head.
“I agree. Everybody has something in common. But you and me…we probably share more than we know or let on.”
“That’s where the fun lies. Discovering what’s new about a person.”
“Surprises,” I say. “They’re the best.”
He slips down the bedside, resting his head on my shoulder now. I stroke his fine beard stubble and run my hand across his lips, touching the supple skin there and the indentation under his nostrils.
As we mumble and drift off to sleep, I wonder about tomorrow and the next day. An infinite array of days to pass with one another. New discoverie
s. Daylight and moonbeams.
Bishop and I.
CHAPTER 8
“Now remember, in China, they have a different culture. You knew that though? You have had to. The Chinese are everywhere and very distinct people. Hey, Violet? Wake up. You’re speaking with cli-ents, you have to be awake, girl.”
Caddy snaps his fingers. I swat them away and keep my dull head firmly pinned to the headrest.
“What time did you sleep at?”
“Two,” I say. “Or one. Somewhere around the morning.”
“Oo-oh. He must’ve been good in bed then.”
“Shut up.”
Caddy’s briefcase sits on his lap, and he peruses for today’s dossier. Chinese kids, three of them, from the mainland, not Hong Kong. Those are the details swimming in my head right now.
“Here we are,” Caddy says. Papers fill drift onto my lap and I straighten them out, filing them between my legs. Caddy snaps his fingers again. “Hello. Business girl, we have people waiting outside with their money.”
I didn’t even notice the passenger door opening. Caddy’s standing outside on the asphalt, wringing his hands, whining like a mosquito.
“They don’t take many breaks in China you know.”
“Whatever,” I say. “It’s not like we’ve ever botched a job with internationals.”
International jobs are practically botch-proof on account of the murkiness arising in deals. Transparency isn’t valued when you could be decapitated for academic dishonesty. You can butter up the students but never cross the boundary into the Land of Friendship.
“You see where they are,” Caddy says as I stand. “Now these are special Chinese kids. Afro-Chinese.”
“You find the most exotic people, I swear.”
“China’s huge. They have black people there now too and everything.”
We walk over, all the while my legs drag, bending farther away from Bishop. Caddy glances at me, throwing disapproving looks at my sluggish behavior.
“You’re in love and it’s not even month three.”
“I’m not in love.”
“You couldn’t be a worse liar. You’re in love, girl.”
“I just like him very strongly.”
“Meaning you love him.”
I open my mouth to respond but the Chinese kids stand before us. Two boys, one girl. The girl speaks.
“Hello,” she says. “My name is Wanda.” Her voice sounds as if it’s being processed through a strainer.
Caddy shakes her hand, and then I fall in line, shaking her hand too, though limply.
“Treat them well,” Caddy says, leaving us. I turn to the students and usher them to a safe sitting place, on a couple of benches eastward of the parking lot.
Same routine. Lie the papers out. Riffle through sheets. Check who they are. Chat.
“Why leave China?” I say.
“Better opportunity.” I notice that Wanda does all the talking. Her two compatriots sit and keep their heads straight, occasionally turning their attention to the table.
“You like it here?”
Wanda reels backwards for a moment, then relaxes her hands against the table’s edge. She grips furiously and speaks fast. “Of course!” she says. “Much cleaner here. People are interesting to study. Air quality here is much better. Honest government. Or, I should correct myself, more honest than back home. Americans value the honesty more, it seems.”
She glances at her compatriots. She nods; they nod.
“They don’t speak English well, do they?”
“No,” Wanda says. “They’re not very well spoken in English. They’re still learning mechanics and issues of grammar.” She blushes. “So am I. Honest, in China, in my circle of friends, most of us don’t even bother that much with the studying. If you’re international, you have money, you know people high up, then things are good for you, no lie.” She relaxes her grip on the table and tilts her head. “That’s why we come to you. You guys have good reviews online too.”
I have to laugh. Caddy used to make decoy accounts when he still worked a “regular” job. He would make decoys during lunch hours and in the morning while eating breakfast, boosting our ratings on various sites.
It did work. It got us clients like Wanda.
She fishes her purse with her slender hand, then hands over fifty bucks. “You’re pretty cheap compared to other sites, I have to say. Why’re you so low?”
“It’s to gain a bigger market share. Undercut the rest. We don’t play big boy games though. We’re a small operation only, though that’s relative.”
Wanda nods, though I’m not sure how much she truly comprehends. I plow on.
“One week tops,” I say, “and you’ll have your papers ready.”
“Good. You’re quick then, as it is online. One thing though. I must say this because you’re more in tune with this country than me.” And Wanda nods, almost bows her head. “Where are all the good men at?”
We burst into laughter. It’s a magical, simultaneously shared moment between us. Wanda jabs at her compatriots’ shoulders, as if they could understand. She jabbers to them in Chinese. Neither of them share our humor. They frown instead.
“Thank you,” Wanda says. “You make me laugh good.”
And so concludes our business. I sealed another deal. I enabled another cheater to get away with their bad habits.
I go to wait outside Caddy’s class. When he comes out, I say to him, “I’m getting a part-time job.”
“What? You’re going to actually start working now?”
I slap his shoulder. “No. I mean I want to get a real job again.”
To avoid my parents, I used to work at a grocery store. I’d work all sorts of crazy hours to get away from them—I’d request night shifts even if my employers couldn’t or didn’t want to.
Thirteen was when I’d started my first business. I would help pluck weeds or mow lawns. “Guy” stuff.
“Where would you even work?” Caddy’s asking. “I don’t get it. Where would you work with your Bachelor’s in Business? You need to specialize if you want to get a decently paying job.”
“I just want some normality in our life. I mean, don’t you feel weird hanging around college campuses when, well, I’m out, and you’re almost out. It’s like we should be moving on. Doing other stuff. Bigger more important stuff with our lives. Travelling or something. Helping people.”
“So idealistic.”
“Don’t you feel that way at all?”
“I do. But at the this moment in time, with the money we’re pulling in…”
“It’s good but—”
“Patience,” Caddy says at the car. “It’s not realistic. Yet. You just need a bit of patience.”
So we hop into the car, blasting the stupid dad rock tunes again. I put my hand against the passenger door glass.
Making life choices is kind of like touching the glass. You can see the outside. You can even roll down the windows. But when the car’s got momentum, there isn’t really anything you can do besides ride along, and wait for a stopping point.
Patience, I guess, is Caddy’s virtue, his blessing to me.
CHAPTER 9
Besides cooking, there is one grand skill Piranha possesses.
She is absolutely neurotic about the English language—what’s more American than English?
Caddy and I watch her bang out the first paper in two hours flat. It’s a rough copy, but good enough to sail to the kingdom of B’s. We proofread her work, and where needed, add in our own flairs. Swap word choices out, delete adverbs, add adverbs, change adjectives, gussy up the styling, strip the styling down. She couldn’t give a speech to save her life, no sir, but on paper she’s gold.
Her favorite topics are the ones related to Civil Right’s in the United States. If she can even tangentially relate the given topics back to the Civil Right’s, she will, she will. Lo and behold, Video Games and Today’s Current Youth becomes Video Games and Today’s Current Youth with
a Tie-in to Rosa Parks.
Caddy brews coffee in the kitchen. I sit myself atop the countertops, browsing my text messages. Bishop hasn’t sent any today, and I don’t want to be the first to contact.
“It’s the cheating,” I say. “It’s eating at me.”
“Then tell him if you want. You’re at date three and beyond now. Go tell him, girl.”
“Like that’s so easy.”
“It is. You take your mouth, open it. Then use these magical things call vocal chords.”
“You’re not in my position. He’s a good guy. Good boy from the country. Then you’re telling me to just blurt out that, wow, I’m a bad girl. Look at me, I help people cheat in school.”
“You’re being so melodramatic,” Caddy says, pouring coffee into three separate mugs. He drops several sugar cubes in the one for Piranha. She’ll need it with the backlog of work we have. “What kind of relationships do you want in your life? One’s built on honesty or lies?”
“I don’t exactly have the best track record for honesty.”
Even working those part-time jobs meant I had to lie. I was at friends’ houses or at an after-school club, cheerleading, debate, but not at Mom and Dad’s.
“I’m a liar.”
“No, you’re a good girl who’s just trapped in bad circumstances. Anybody would do what you do. But we can change. Patience, remember?”
With the coffees done, we return back to Piranha’s room. Her fingers rap the keyboard in loud strokes.
“I’m almost done with the Russian boy,” she says. “Coffee? Why thank you.”
“I made it extra strong.”
“Even better.”
As I watch Piranha type, I wonder if Caddy’s right. Melodramatics aside, would other people really do what I do or have done?
The worst thing for me is to be considered a bad person. I’ve always thought my parents to be wretched human beings. Striving to be better than them away from them, figuratively, literally, was always the goal. To be better than them. Have a moral compass they could never posses or comprehend.
I will be better than them.
