by Laura Wiess
“Meredith,” I say finally.
He leans a hip against the side of the car. “You live around here?”
I nod cautiously.
“You always so suspicious?”
I nod again.
“Okay.” His eyes dance with amusement. “So Meredith, you got a boyfriend?”
The only word I can manage is, “Why?”
He laughs. “Why? Because maybe I want to ask you out sometime.”
“Meredith?”
I whirl, spell broken, and see Andy’s head poke out the back door.
“Are you coming in or what?” he asks.
“Yeah.” My voice is scratchy. I clear my throat. “Yeah.” Look back at the Mobile Mechanic who watches me, eyebrow quirked. “I…see you.” I head for the steps, heart pounding.
“Give me a call sometime,” the mechanic says. “You know where to find me.”
I wave without turning and slip past Andy’s wheelchair into the cool kitchen.
“What was that all about?” he says, closing the door.
“That? Nothing. Oh, he says your car will probably make it to Iowa.” I grab a glass and fill it with water. Why do I feel guilty? I didn’t do anything. He’s the one keeping secrets.
“Oh yeah? What else did he say?”
I hear something new in Andy’s voice.
“He hit on you, didn’t he?” he continues, rolling up alongside of me.
“I guess,” I say as if it isn’t a miracle.
He hoists his bottle, hesitates, and wedges it back between his thighs. “Did you tell him you already had a boyfriend?”
No. Almost. I was going to, but it happened so fast…. I glance at his legs, still as stones and thinner than when he’d first moved in. “What if the victim soul cures you?” I say instead. “What’s gonna happen when you can walk again?”
“What do you mean?” He hooks a finger into my side pocket and tugs me closer. Slides an arm up around my waist and tries to pull me down onto his lap.
I ease free and wander over to the table. Run my finger along a spent incense stick and tap the long ash into the tray. “You know what I mean. You’ll get a job and a car and a real life and then what?”
“Then I have a job and a car and we can go places and do things like normal people.” He uncaps the bottle and drinks. Coughs and rubs his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, Mer. Don’t you want me to walk again?”
In a perfect world, yes, and I’d be there to stand with him, dance with him, lay down with him. In this world, no, because if he can walk then he’ll walk away. “It’s not that, it’s just that you’re putting all your faith into this victim soul person instead of…I don’t know, other things…and I’m just afraid you’re going to be disappointed.”
“Are you?” he says. “Because it doesn’t sound that way at all.”
I stare at the table.
“Well,” he says finally, flicking back a strand of hair. “I’d better get packing. We’re leaving early tomorrow.” He rolls his chair forward and back a few times, the equivalent of tapping his foot with impatience.
“I won’t keep you then.” I put my glass in the sink. “’Bye.”
He touches my arm. “Come on, Meredith. I have to do this.”
“I know.” My voice is distant. “I’m not stopping you.”
“Yeah, you are.” He rolls in front of me, forcing me to look at him. “Now I have to leave knowing you’re pissed at me and Mr. Mechanic’s right out there waiting for you.”
“What does this have to do with him?”
“He can walk, Mer. How am I supposed to compete with that?”
Oh God, he has this all wrong. “I’m not asking you to compete. I don’t want you to. I just want everything to stay the way it is.”
“Yeah, well, it can’t.” He backs up and wheels around me.
“Andy.”
“Look, when I get back I’ll walk over and knock on your door,” he says with a crooked smile. “Then we can start all over again. How does that sound?”
I push the fluttery panic away. Lean down and rest my forehead against his. “It sounds good.” I kiss him and run out before he can see the lie in my eyes.
Down to the sidewalk. Past the Mobile Mechanic, who’s on a cellphone, and keep right on going. Step off the curb into the court—
My back door opens and my father struggles out, carrying bags of garbage.
There’s no way to duck out of sight.
He looks over at the Dumpster and right at me. “Meredith.”
“What?” Amazingly, my voice comes out sullen with no ripples of fear.
He opens his mouth. Looks at the mechanic and at me. “Meredith, come here, please.” His tone is deceptively pleasant. “I’d like to talk to you.”
Yeah, I bet he would, seeing as how our last conversation sent me diving out the window to escape. “So talk. I can hear you fine from here.”
He holds my gaze, but I don’t move, and he finally breaks the stand-off. “Have it your way, then, but I could use a little help,” he says, limping down the steps and lugging the garbage toward the Dumpster. The bags are unwieldy, banging against his legs, with the white gauze covering one knee….
I scurry around scooping up Barbie stuff, cramming both hands full, using every single finger because he’s promised that if I clean up my mess before the second hand sweeps the twelve, we’ll go for ice cream. Breathless, I race to the carrying case, but the lid is shut. I try to flip it open with my bare foot but the catch is locked. “Daddy!” I cry, as the second hand ticks closer to the twelve. I’ve cleaned up my mess but I’m still going to lose. “Help me! I can’t do it by myself!”
Laughing gently, he bends and flips open the case. “Easy, it’s not the end of the world. Next time make sure everything’s ready to go before you start, okay?”
“Okay.” I quickly cram Barbie and her belongings away. Peer at the clock and wilt. The second hand is past the twelve. I didn’t make it. I lose.
“C’mon, silly girl,” he says, tugging me to my feet. “This was a learning lesson. I figure that’s still good for one scoop, right?”
“Right!” My eyes magically dry and my heart swells with love. I hug him because he helped me and one scoop is still better than nothing….
The ache starts in my chest and spreads through my veins. The abuse I can handle; it’s the happiness that cripples me.
I go over and pluck a bag from his grasp. “There. Open it.”
“Thanks,” my father says as if determined to be pleasant. “Looks like they spiffed this thing up recently. Nice paint job.” He lifts the lid and heaves his bag up over the side. “Whew, it still stinks, though.” Tosses my bag in, too, and lowers the lid. “I looked for you, you know. Ran around like an idiot until I got your mother’s message. Are you going to put me through that again or are we gonna go in and talk like normal human beings?”
“Why do I have to go in? It’s summer and it’s Saturday.”
He turns his back on the mechanic and says quietly, “Well, did you ever think that it’s been years and I might want to spend some time with you?” His golden baseball catches the sun and flashes like a lighthouse warning of treacherous reefs below.
I wonder if Andy’s watching us. I wonder if the mechanic can hear this.
“I’ve missed you,” my father continues. “I’d lay there at night remembering how great we were together, wondering what it would be like if it was just the two of us, if it was you I was coming home to. Did you ever think about that, Chirp?”
No, I have never thought about that. Never, on purpose.
“You know what I wish?” he says, stroking the bangs from my forehead.
I lie dead beneath his hands. I am shrunken and shriveled inside, a rotten chestnut hidden beneath a deceptively smooth shell.
“I wish we could make it just you and me,” he says. “No one but us. I don’t love anybody in the whole world as much as I love you. Maybe someday….”
>
A door slams behind me and the sound of the Calvinetti twins’ squabbling echoes across the court. They’re fighting over a soccer ball and don’t see us. I watch, stomach sinking, as my father discovers them. Close my eyes and want to scream at the boys for being stupid enough to be seen. They know what he is and what he’ll do. Why didn’t they just go out their patio door and play in the backyard, safely out of sight? Why are they out here sweating and galloping around right in front of us? Can’t they smell his desire? Can’t they feel—
“No,” I blurt to squash my rising panic.
My father looks back at me, startled. “What?”
I shake my head, too miserable to speak. I know now that I’m the only one who really understands the threat and if I’m ever going to be free of him, really free, once and for all, then I will have to bite the bullet and spend time in his company. Stake out the sacrificial lamb. Uncoil the rope so he can hang himself.
“Anyway.” He touches my hand. “There’s so much I have to tell you. I was going to keep a journal, but you know how lousy my chicken scratch is. Well, that and I couldn’t risk anybody else seeing it. That’s why all my letters were so lame. Can’t be too careful, right?” His laugh is bitter. “Besides, I’d much rather talk in person. What do you say?”
He’s manipulating me and I have to let him. What comes next will be ugly.
In his mind, I am the pure, sweet milk and honey of the Promised Land.
In mine, he’s the pointy-toothed cannibal turning the spit at hell’s barbecue.
But I have what he wants, and when he reaches for it…
I step around him. “Coming?” I toss over my shoulder, heading for home.
Chapter Sixteen
I go in ahead of my father, who pauses to fuss with the garbage can and am immediately enveloped in chilled air and murky shadows.
“Come here,” my mother calls. “I have a surprise for you.”
I open my mouth, close it again, and go dutifully into the living room doorway. The sliding glass curtain is closed and Barry White is on the CD player.
“Here’s a hint,” she purrs and I track her disembodied voice to the swivel rocker facing away from me. “Think back twenty-seven years, to the presents you gave me the night you asked me to be your girlfriend. I was so excited that I wore them almost every day for six months straight, remember? Well, guess what?” She spins the chair around to show off an ancient green-and-white softball cap and team jersey. “Recognize these?”
No I don’t, but the colors are familiar, seeing as how the entire Estertown school system, from kindergarten through high school, still uses them.
Her flirtatious gaze meets my anguished one and in the split second before she snaps upright a medley of shock, guilt, and anger contort her features. “Meredith! What are you doing here? I told you supper wasn’t until six!”
“I found her outside,” my father says, coming up and settling his hands on my shoulders. “I thought it would be nice if we finally got a chance to talk.”
“Talk?” my mother says. “Now? But I thought we were going to—”
“Plans have changed.” My father’s fingers dig into my skin, preventing me from bolting. “We’ll discuss this later, Sharon.”
“Later? Later when? We’re supposed to be together now. You know I’m ovulating—”
“Sharon!”
“Oh, she already knows we’re trying to get pregnant,” my mother snaps, glaring at me like I interrupted them on purpose. “Or at least we’re supposed to be trying.”
I’ve heard enough, but my father’s hands pin me and the moaning in my head still isn’t loud enough to drown out what comes next.
“What about yesterday?” he says.
“Once! One time. Big deal,” my mother says sulkily.
“Once is all it takes,” my father says.
“So that’s it? That’s my reward for waiting three years?” The chair creaks. “That’s not fair, Charles. I’m doing everything I can for you. You know I am.”
“Keep it down, will you?” my father says. “The neighbors.”
“Oh, screw the neighbors,” she cries. “I don’t care about them, I care about us!”
“Well, if you care about me, you’ll shut up before somebody calls the cops,” he says, releasing me and striding over to her.
“Oh,” she says, sounding stricken. “I’m sorry. I forgot.”
Somehow my brain’s frantic signals reach my legs. I turn and with robotic stiffness, walk straight to my bedroom. Enter. Close the door. Lock it.
Seconds later my father tries the knob. “Meredith? Open the door.”
“No,” I say.
“Open the door. I want to talk to you.”
I shake my head. I don’t care if he can’t hear me. I walk around the bed and perch on the edge of the mattress, watching the doorknob jiggle.
Click.
The door opens.
My father comes into my room and stops in front of me. Holds up a thin, metal rod, the all-purpose key to open any all-purpose door. “I’m not going through a repeat of this morning’s little adventure. From now on, no more locked doors around here, okay?”
I round my shoulders and consider my feet. Reach over to the nightstand and pluck the bottle of black nail polish from the rainbow assortment. Tuck my knee beneath my chin, unscrew the cap, and begin painting. Dab, dab. Short strokes. My hair interferes with my concentration so I tuck it behind my ears. Hiding behind the curtain doesn’t matter now because my face muscles are paralyzed and my eyes have seen their fill.
“Meredith,” my father says softly. “Chirp.”
Dab, dab.
He sits down next to me. His body radiates heat and the faint scent of my mother’s CK Obsession cologne. He waits. Sighs.
Short strokes. I exceed the nail’s limit and paint a glossy, black streak across the top of my toe. I leave it there. Do it again and again.
“Look, I know you’re upset,” he murmurs, touching my arm. “I don’t blame you. Your mother wasn’t supposed to tell you about this new baby. I wanted to tell you myself and I would have if you hadn’t skipped out on me this morning.”
I move on to the next toe and don’t even try to stay within the lines.
“You know nobody could ever take your place,” he says, toying with the skeleton key. “Believe me, this new baby won’t come between us. We’ll take care of it together, I have it all figured out. We’ll teach it shapes and colors and ABCs….”
I remember his ABC game. I had to sit on his lap and whisper in his ear, repeating one foul word after another in alphabetical order.
Shaking, I stick the nail wand back into the bottle. Slip my hand into my right pocket and press the teddy cam remote. Scratch my thigh and, without looking at him, continue painting my toes. My duplicity feels huge and obvious. My face burns.
“Chirp? What’re you doing? You’re making a mess.”
I blink and find three perfectly round blobs of black polish spotting the pink floral comforter. I move my heel and smear it into the dainty weave.
“Don’t do that. Your mother’ll have a fit. Do you have any nail polish remover?” His hand lights on my back. “No? We’ll keep it our secret, then.” He caresses the curve of my spine. “When did you start wearing a bra, baby?”
My head droops. I become a marble statue as his trembling fingers twitch to my side, dip under my armpit, and pause, spasming, at the curve of my breast.
His breath hitches. “Oh God,” he whispers, then exhales in a stale rush and closes his fingers around me and—
“Charles?”
He snatches his hand away.
“Charles?” my mother calls again. “I thought you were going to be right back.”
He clears his throat. Quietly. “I’m coming, Sharon.”
The mattress springs up as he rises. The gauze knee patch flexes and fresh scrapes tic-tac-toe his shins. Desire rolls off him in waves, a deadly, invisible gas that will strike me down unles
s I take the necessary precautions.
I should have taken my vitamins today.
“I wish I didn’t have to go.” He lingers, stroking my hair. “Promise you’ll be here when I get back?”
I nod once, slowly, but don’t look up.
“Okay, then, let me go do this,” he says and adds apologetically, “I have to shut your door. Your mother wants this private.” He pauses in front of me, too close. “Hey, what if after dinner you and I go down to the Dairy Queen for some ice cream—”
“No,” I say loudly.
“Charles?” my mother calls.
“Coming,” he says hurriedly.
I listen to the swish and snick as the door closes. Wait, motionless, until their muffled voices rise and fall beneath the throbbing bass.
Then I shut off the camera and climb out the window.
Chapter Seventeen
I drop to the ground and stumble but don’t fall.
Mrs. Calvinetti watches from her porch. She hisses and makes arthritic hand signs to ward off my evil. The twins have abandoned their soccer melee and now roll around the front lawn, locked in mortal combat. They grunt and curse and practice wrestling moves on each other. When they see me they stop fighting, hitch up their baggy shorts, and call, “Hey, how’s your faggot father? Did he blow any kids today?”
Mrs. Calvinetti scolds them shrilly in Italian.
The Mobile Mechanic’s gone and Nigel’s Buick is parked near Andy’s steps.
I head for the court out of habit. I can see and hear but I don’t feel anything and I wonder vaguely if my mind has closed down to keep me from opening my pocketknife and ending this whole stupid mess with one swipe.
I stop walking and look at my wrists. They need washing.
I sink onto the curb, sick with the realization that I have nowhere left to run to, that I can’t get away, and with the exception of my grandmother across town, my entire life spans a distance no greater than that of the condo complex and, more specifically, the Dumpster court.
I’m like a pinball bouncing off the same people over and over again, flinging myself around in a desperate attempt to avoid disappearing into the black hole of my father’s embrace…
