by June Hydra
“It’s your choice. I can respect that.”
Bishop steps over the trash bags and bins and comes to my side. He plants a kiss n my nape, and it’s as if a timed bomb goes off, an explosion of heat and vapor erupting across my skin and thrusting towards my soul. Whenever he kisses now, an intensity never before experienced thrives. Casual sex could never compare to opening up emotionally. Casual sex could never compare to having an actual partner, day by day, someone to grow with and love.
Possibly love.
“I’m happy though that you’re letting me do this with you.”
Bishop shakes open another billowing trash bag. He bends down to grab more boxes. With every box that enters these bags, he becomes less and less reluctant.
“I’m glad too,” he says finally. “New beginnings for both of us. It’ll be fun.”
“Just remember we’re not giving it all up immediately. We’re just taking good, big steps. Little leaps.”
“You’re sounding positive these days.”
“My friend. I tell you, you’d call her a blessing. I count her one.”
After we wrap up about half of the room’s boxed gambling paraphernalia, we rest. We rest on the pool table, again with our legs swinging like pendulums, just sitting and snuggling close.
“Sometimes, I blame them for being so religious,” Bishop says. “They used it as their royal flush. Whenever I did something bad, bam, that’s when they’d pull out their power plays. What?” he says, noticing me smiling.
“It’s funny. My parents were atheists. I used to say they were devout atheists, and then…my Dad pinched me for saying that.” Bishop glances at my scar. An unspoken current flows between us—he knows, not just a pinch occurred, but far more in that house. “They were controlling, like yours. They wanted me to follow their strict rules. I guess it doesn’t matter, religion or not, bad parents are bad parents.”
“Bad people are bad people.”
“Overprotective,” I say. “That’s a vicious way to live. No risk. No fun.”
“So you don’t regret starting up?”
The table creaks and I listen to each creak, as if they were the cogs in my head turning, spinning cogent thought. “No,” I say, “no, not at all. If I did things differently, I wouldn’t even be who I am today, and then I might’ve never met you.”
“That’s sweet,” Bishop says, dropping bombs all over my neck again—every kiss is a dewy point of light that blinds me. To be caressed in a loving way, it’s just…so relaxing and surreal. “Really sweet,” he says. “You smell good. I love your natural scent.”
“Yours too. You’ve done a lot for me. I can’t really express how much I appreciate you spending time and everything. Doling out on dates. Taking me to places I’ve never been to. You’re—” and I hesitate to say the word “—fantastic.”
“You’re better. I’m like stale bread.”
“No, never. You’re more like a grand pizza. I still have to taste all the ingredients. There’s still so much to know.”
Bishop keeps up the kissing, and he touches my hip tenderly, cinching his fingers at the smallest areas of my waist—he jolts me upright with his touch.
“To be honest,” he says, “I don’t even know why you like me. You approached me first so confidently. You didn’t even hesitate, just walked up right to my face.”
“You’re handsome. You’re sweet. I really, really like you.”
Another unspoken current passes through the air. You can just tell when another human holds back what they want to say.
Love.
“I’m falling for you,” he says. “Is that too soon? Is that crazy?”
“I feel the same. Never different, the same, Bishop.”
“Good. Because I think about you all the time.”
I push Bishop back so that I can see his face. “My turn. Is it crazy to say I’ve dreamt of you?”
“Not at all. You can’t control those.”
Bishop presses me into his chest, where the shelf of muscle lies, thick and bulging. I bite through his shirt, landing a blow on his nipple, and he squirms. I shock him. I awe him. I bite harder and Bishop blows air through clenched teeth, trying to stabilize ourselves on the table.
“After all the work we did today,” he says, “we should probably go relax somewhere. Like the bedroom relax.”
I clasp a hand around his chest. “We’re on exactly the same page.”
CHAPTER 23
Caddy. The more I think about him, the more I realize how he was the first man I ever felt safe around. He didn’t want my body, he only wanted friendship. It didn’t matter that he was gay or had a disfigurement, he was always there, crooning at night when I cried over another hookup, and ready to please when crying about my past. He was the eternal shoulder I rested on. Even though he might harbor bad vibes towards me now, we did start our business together.
“I’m sorry you feel bad, but can we please come to a truce?”
Caddy’s in the kitchen, brewing coffee, though unlike all the other times he’s brewed coffee, he doesn’t brew for two but one. “Maybe,” he says.
“Maybe?” I catch myself before exploding into a nagging tirade. How to approach this matter without him shutting down? I sense him doing so soon. “A truce meaning compromise. At the very least, understanding. I don’t like these cold wars in the house anyway.”
Caddy grips his mug loosely while presiding over the coffee maker. “Been studying up on international politics?” I leave my face blank. “Cold wars,” he says, “International Relations, my major.”
"I see you're lightening up a bit."
Caddy yanks the pot from the maker and pours a mean mug of coffee. "Hardly," he says.
"We don't have to be like this." I motion to the empty tiles separating us. "Can we please go back to the way things were?"
"We can try."
"Try?" I restrain the bitch in me from lashing out.
Try? He can't be civil and simply go along with change. He has to mention "try" which gives him an out if he doesn't like how things are going.
"Then I'll just try too," I say. "We can both try."
"I'm not even angry."
"I've gotten no answer from you explaining your logic."
"Logic? Girl." Caddy takes a furious gulp from his mug and wipes clean his slippery lips. He puts down the mug, then saunters back out of the kitchen, arms akimbo.
"I don't even know what we're arguing about."
"Listen. You should know why by now." Caddy’s arms fall to his sides, and he opens his mouth limply. “I just don’t want to lose my friend.”
The apartment rocks with the bombastic vibrations of an enormous marching band. Trumpets blare, trombones burp low notes. Drums pound and cymbals clang.
Then the cacophony silences and from the hall calls Piranha. "Sorry! [Something something] wrong volume setting!"
Caddy and I grope out surroundings and rise. We exchange vicious glares, but the corners of our mouths can't help but point upwards. Our cheeks simultaneously lift, and then smiles abound. I laugh, my belly undulating alongside my writhing legs.
“She’s so weird,” Caddy says. “But I love her.”
I walk to the couch slouch on the armrest. “Where were we?” I say, patting the seat next to me.
Caddy smirks. “I hate you.”
“I know you’re angry. But nothing will change. I promise. You won’t lose your friend. She’s still here. She just wants everybody to have better lives. And not have to live in tiny apartments with roommates in order to save money.”
Caddy grabs his coffee and sips, tilts his head. He flushes his cheeks out with caffeine and swallows, gulp after gulp. “I was being rude. I’m sorry.”
“Caddy.”
He stumbles over and swings the coffee mug around my back. With one great squeeze, he presses us together. It’s not the warmth from the mug heating us up. It’s understanding, comprehension lighting our spirits.
“I’m sorry,”
he says. “If I get bitchy like that again you have get at me. I’ve just been stressed.”
“We’re all stressed. This place, the times. Bad job market, no money. It’s tough. I feel what you’re feeling. It’s the crunch of life.”
“Yeah. It’s tough, girl. I’m tired is all.” Caddy throws back his head and drinks the last of his coffee, gurgling the last bits. “I have more work to do.”
I watch him set the mug in the sink and turn for the hallway, but then he twists around.
“One day I want to be in the real world. Working a real job. With real stuff going on.”
“You’re going to apply?”
“I might. I was just jealous of you, girl. You’re so great that you don’t even realize it. Beautiful, smart, hard-working.” Caddy twists back around, then says, “Just don’t get bitchy like me!”
CHAPTER 24
Piranha cooks American prawns. She’s stewing another American chicken soup, and in the oven bakes an American turkey. Freshman year, and Piranha was the most awful cook ever. As an adult, she might as well go be a sous-chef or apply to a culinary program.
“Ah, you’re trying to persuade me too?”
“Maybe. You work at the grocery store, but are you going to work there forever? Full-time? Manager?”
“I like working on the website with Caddy. I’m happy. Though.”
“Though.”
“Though cooking fulltime would be awesome. It’d be swell. Learning all the television stuff. Making food for celebrities. I’m not good enough for that but eventually it could be.”
“The President?”
Piranha raps the edge of a pot with her ladle. “Oh! Yes. I’d be dead if that was the case. The President? Any President. Who cares about the politics.”
“Sorry if we disturbed you.”
Piranha cups her hand over her mouth and whispers. “Tell him not to be in politics. He doesn’t argue very well.”
I laugh. “He admitted fault. That’s more than most.”
“True, true.” Piranha adds salt to the soup. She puckers her lips after tasting it. “I’m glad you’re both not sour at each other anymore.”
“It took effort. He wouldn’t yield. Until you blared you music.”
Piranha winks at me. “You’re welcome.”
“You did that on purpose.”
She winks with the other eye, except honestly, it looks more like half her face is sloughing off. She involves her cheeks too much.
“I did.”
“You don't only make things from scratch. You know how to fix relationships."
“Any. Just come to mama Piranha and I’ll help you.” She turns off the stove and wraps her hands around the oven handle. I find her the oven mitts and glove them on her. A squiggle of steam thrashes out from inside as she retrieves our main dish. “You are great,” she says. “The entrée of our lives.”
“You guys are better than me.”
“Wrong. You’re revolutionary. We’re stagnant.” She lies the steel pan holding our turkey onto the counter, where steam wisps carry away to the living room like thin war banners. “You’re straightening everyone’s lives out for the better. It’s admirable.”
“Thanks,” is all I can say.
“Never thank me for something so obvious,” she says. “You should recognize how great you really are. All the time.”
CHAPTER 25
“Thank you so much,” Carmella says. Her sister, Maria, does a sort of Virgin Mary pose, calm and religiously esoteric. She even has her hands on her heart and looks at Piranha’s essay work as if they were Christ.
“If you need more help next semester,” I say, “then you can reach us again for sure.”
“Oh, wonderful,” Carmella says, “yes, yes.”
And the Chinese are no different. They lap up the work like fresh water and serve up gratitude with a thousand repeated smiles.
“You’ve help us out so much,” Wanda says. “Really appreciate the matter.”
“It’s my job to.” Though on the inside, I cringe at saying so.
Soon it won’t be true. I can say I have a respectable job not devaluing college degrees.
But for now?
“If you need any more help, just contact us at this number…”
Ad infinitum. That’s the language you use when dealing with customers. Assure them; make them feel special, unique. Cater to them but be firm when they raise hell for no reason. Put them in a good place.
If anything though, manning our business gives me a talent with Jim’s customers. Any angry caller gets a needed verbal massage. Assuage their fears, calm them down, move into shark mode, score a client for Mr. Preston. And the customers that are nice always become repeats. Some of them compliment me endlessly about my silver tongue, how suave I am.
“I’m impressed,” Mr. Preston says. “And I’m looking forward to seeing your portfolio.”
It takes me approximately a month or so to piece together the necessary material for Preston. Caddy even helps. He’s got the original designs on his laptop. I’ve saved all the files from when we first started and when I’d first learned basic code and WYSIWYG programs.
“When will you find out if he’ll promote you?” Bishop asks.
And I tell him I have no idea. It’s up to Preston.
“What about you?” I say, one night in November, while kicking my legs up against the headrest. Sometimes I like to sleep in reverse, with my feet where your head is supposed to be. Bishop doesn’t mind. He massages my toes.
“What about me what?”
“How’s your bartending going?”
“Great. The people tip amazing. Though it’s not all money. I like feeling the crowd’s energy.”
“And the church stuff?”
“The kids are great. The moms, not so much.” He rolls one of my toes backwards and cracks a knuckle there. I gasp in relief. “Yeah, the moms can be leery, but they’re for the most part manageable.”
“Protective.”
“Protective they are. Like panthers. There’s a two-way window actually. It feels creepy sometimes. One of them is always watching me. Always.”
“Protective, creepy, sounds like stories we know.”
“Page one: How not to parent or how to drive your kids away completely.”
“Page two,” I say, “how to raise the kids you never wanted—too ironic for life. I mean really, these are the types who parent so hard to prevent all sorts of crap, but then end up nowhere close to what they wanted.”
“What do you think of kids?”
“Not much. I’ve never thought of them.”
“You’ve never wanted any?”
“Not really. After seeing what kind of trauma I apparently put my parents through, I don’t know if I want any.” I wriggle my toes. “What about you?”
Bishop’s head hits the headrest, making the wood clack against the wall. He massages methodically, plucking each toe as if they were delicate grapes.
“I’ve wanted them for some time. But then I don’t know if I want them because of the way I was raised or because I really want them. Nature’s call.”
“If you do, you better pick a good mother.”
Bishop opens an eye. “You would be great with kids. The ones at Methodist would love you.”
“They’d hate me. The moms would, at least. I’d be poisoning their young kids’ minds with all sorts of things. Especially the girls. The girls would be tainted by my mannish presence.”
Bishop stops massaging. He pulls the blanket from underneath us, and then scoots close to me, cocooning our bodies in soft cotton.
Bishop’s warmth radiates outward. Under the sheets, our body heat seems to boil the blanket. Sweat condenses on my skin, and if you were to touch my hair, you would come away wet and soggy.
“You’re a bold girl.”
I trace the outline of Bishop’s eyes. Despite the semidarkness of the room, you can still see the hazel. They’re like lighthouses desperately scanni
ng a wide ocean, roving over the details of my face. I mimic him, studying what can’t be appreciated in the day. Shadows flitting around the delicates bows of his upper and lower lips. The part in his hairline, right where he decides to wedge gel in. Smooth skin out of a catalogue and a delicate, loving expression, one perpetual and reminiscent of the moon. Tidal forces, that’s it. There are tidal forces drawing me close to Bishop, drawing me nearer and nearer to his mouth, to him.
“I had to be to get you,” I say.
CHAPTER 26
The graduates toss their caps into the air. Caddy catches his with a flourish of a hand. He’s an ecstatic ball of energy, never frowning once.
“I saw you clapping like an idiot,” he says. Piranha and I exchange our own code when Caddy’s idiosyncrasies crop up: a casual flap of the wrist. We love him the same, big ego or not.
“We couldn’t stop watching you trip over your gown,” I say. “You don’t wear red too well.”
“Girl, whatever, you’re just jealous.”
I hug Caddy. The man who I’ve known with for years now has graduated and completed his dream degree. I grip his shoulder blades tight and squeeze him.
“We’re proud of you,” Piranha says.
“So proud,” I add.
“You guys want to go out for some pizza? There’s this place that just opened up on Broadway.”
We pile into his ancient station wagon and play kitschy dad rock tunes and bob our heads wildly. The passengers in other cars gawk at our antics, but we don’t care, we’re celebrating this great guy. International Relations. Many hours pored over textbooks and countries and politics and factions.
“You’ll have to remember me when I’m in jail,” I say, “I’m a bad girl. You’re better than hanging around me.”
Caddy cranks his head around from the driver’s seat. We’re at a red light, which highlights the back of his head eerily as he stares at me.
“If you’re ever arrested, I’ll pardon you.”
“What about me?”
“Is it an American thing to get arrested?” Caddy asks.
Piranha nods. “Nothing more American than the justice system working then not working at all.”
