Inside Voices

(Though this story can be read on its own, you will enjoy it more if you first read my short story "The Mushroom Life", here: http://piecesofel.blogspot.com/2011/10/mushroom-life-revised.html )

~*~

Colin’s head snapped up as the bushes by the sidewalk shook. The sudden movement augmented his headache and he winced as two young squirrels darted out, chattering angrily at one another. Stupid dog. Why isn’t it ever him? He thought, and immediately regretted the adjective he’d used. Margaret loved that dog, and he did too, if only because of her. He wouldn’t be so eager to jump at every sound if not for the fading hope of finding his best friend’s dog, who ran away over a month ago. Margie hasn’t been the same since. Colin thought, as he often did, about what might bring Margaret out of her depression. He’d tried bringing puppies and kittens from the local animal shelter in attempt to begin filling the void left by Casper, but Margaret would only begin to cry and close the door. She was listless always when he came over now. He knew she was fragile. It’s not even really because of the damn dog. He gritted his teeth in frustration. Agoraphobia. She already had this glitch in her brain, this defective sparking of neurons that caused her to be terrified of places she could not easily escape. Terrified to be away from her safe, snug apartment; to be in the company of any person she felt she could not control. No wonder I’m the only person she ever sees. They fought sometimes, and Colin could be stubborn, but not nearly as stubborn as Margaret. They both knew, in unspoken consent, that no matter what words were said, in the end it would always end up to be Margaret’s way. Whatever makes her feel safe. Colin thought. If letting her win battles against him would make her feel strong and safe for just a moment, the submission was worth it to him. She didn’t used to be this way.

He remembered their years in college together. They met on the campus mall. A big black Labrador Retriever trotted to him expectantly, eyes full of that elated confusion that can only be seen in the eyes of kind dogs.

“Casper!” She had called as she ran to him. She hooked his leash to his leather collar. “I’m sorry, normally he’s really good but I guess he just liked you a lot.” She smiled and offered her hand. “I’m Margaret.”

“Colin”

“Ah, like the Secret Garden!”

Colin had resisted rolling his eyes. “Yeah, the Secret Garden.”

“That was my favorite book when I was a kid.” She said, ruffling Casper’s ears. For some reason that pleased Colin.

“They don’t allow pets on campus, you know.” Colin warned her.

“Oh I know, my mom just brings him to visit me sometimes, when she goes out of town for work.” She lowered her voice. “Don’t tell anyone. Casper usually spends the night in my dorm when he comes, and my mom takes him home the next morning.” Colin had to smile.

“Your secret’s safe.”

“Thanks!” She said and bounded off toward the parking lot, Casper in tow. Colin watched her leave, smiling.

They passed each other in the cafeteria at lunch, they went with mutual friends to the college’s sporting events. Margaret only went once in a while, but Colin came every time, hoping she would be there. He didn’t know what it was about her. Of course he considered her beautiful. But there was something else, too. Maybe the way her eyes alternated between bright with excitement for what might come next, and dark with righteous anger when faced with the concept of some injustice.

She looks so different now, Colin thought. She was of average size for a girl of twenty-two, but these days the way she carried herself made her look depleted and small. Vulnerable. He still thought she was beautiful, but he couldn’t deny that her beauty had changed from the color of boisterous life to the melancholy, awkward elegance of a Gothic-era stained glass. Her tragedy and his salvation, that’s what he saw in her now.

Colin looked at his watch. He had been out for two hours, looking. Sometimes he stayed out longer, but the notion that Margaret might be up for company tonight drew him away from the sidewalks of downtown. He hadn’t seen her in almost a week. He missed her so much, he barely even felt like he needed a drink before going to see her. Just real quick. And it was; he was proud of himself. He was just a little bit tipsy—easy to conceal—when he knocked on her door.

“Hey, Colin.” She was listless, he could see already. Her eyes flitted about the hallway, around him but never alighting on him. One finger twisted her hair, the other twisted the knob of the open door.

“Hey, Margie. Can I come in?”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” She stepped aside, then closed the door behind him.

“What’s up? Missing Casper? I looked for him for two hours today but—“

“My mom’s dead.”

Colin stared at her, stunned. “What? What happened? Margie I’m so sorry! How are you? Talk to me!” He took her gently by the shoulders.

“They found her in her car in the garage.” She said, unresponsive to his touch.

“Oh, Margie.” Colin murmured with a sympathetic sob in his voice, and wrapped his arms around her. She hugged him back, limply though she was leaning into him. They stood for a moment before she stepped back.

“It’s ok. Thanks.”

“Are you sure? No, no of course it’s not ok. Here, sit down.” He pulled a chair out from her small kitchen table. She sat absently, hardly seeming to notice the chair.

“Really, it’s ok. The funeral’s tomorrow. You’ll come with me, right?”

“Of course! Of course; anything you need.” He knelt by her chair. “Will you be able to…you know…leave?” He asked.

“I think so. I don’t know. I’ll wait and see. I think so.” She seemed so stale he almost believed her. “I’m giving the eulogy, so I have to be there.” This baffled Colin, but he tried not to show it.

“Where is the funeral?” He asked, deciding to leave the agoraphobia concerns alone for now. “How much gas will we need? Plane tickets? If you tell me now I can—“

“Oh, no, she just lived three blocks away.” Margaret waved away his questions. He stared at her in disbelief.

“What? When?”

“A couple years ago.”

“Your mother has been living three blocks away for the last two years and you didn’t tell me?

“It didn’t come up.”

“Margie…is that…is that why you got so much worse that spring?”

“I don’t know; maybe.”

“Margie why didn’t you tell me? I could have at least helped you feel, you know, safe.”

“I do feel safe.”

“Emotionally, I mean.”

“Oh. Well that’s not really your thing anyway.”

Colin sat the rest of the way down on the floor and sighed. “No, it’s not, is it.” Margaret climbed out of the chair to sit next to him, her chin resting on her knees. Silence settled for a while.

“You don’t have to go to the funeral, you know.” Colin said.

“Of course I do.”

“Margie, you have no obligation.” Colin began. “After everything she did to you—“

“I still have to go to her funeral, Colin.”

“But do you have to give the eulogy?” Colin was growing agitated. “How can you stand up and say a bunch of shit about what a great person she was?”

“She tried.” Margaret’s voice was small.

“Pelting you with frying pans is not trying.” Said Colin, growing angrier as he spoke. “Pushing you down the stairs is not trying. Yanking out patches of your hair is not—“

“Colin stop! She had problems after my father died and she was bipolar, she’s crazy like me—“

“Whoa, Margie, you don’t really think you’re anything like your mother, do you?”

“We’re both crazy. She hurts people. She wrecks people’s lives then retreats back into her own inner chaos…I have the same inner chaos…I just try not to hurt other people the way she did.”

Colin let silence linger for a while before he said, “Your mother was bad at her core. You are good. That’s why she hurt people and you don’t. You are nothing like your mother. You may feel some of the same things, but that doesn’t mean you are the same things.”

Margaret gave Colin a sad smile. “Thanks. I hope you’re right. But either way,” She sighed. “I have to do the eulogy.”

“But why?”

“No one else really knew her that well, and I’m her only child. Everyone’s expecting it.”

“Fuck their expectations. You need to do what—“

“Colin shut up!” Margaret rose to her feet, exasperated, brushing floor-dust from the back of her jeans. “Letting them all down will stress me out more than just doing the damn eulogy. Besides, I can’t dump it on anyone else on this late notice.”

Colin rose as well. “Sorry. I’ll support whatever you want to do. That’s what people say, right? I’ll support you.”

Margaret sighed, closing her eyes for a few seconds. “Yes, that’s what people say. Thank you.”

Colin sighed. “You’re welcome.”

~*~

No one felt comfortable at funerals, and Margaret least of all. The flat, numb bravery that had allowed her to leave her apartment earlier in the day was wearing off, and Colin could see the pinched look growing on her face, the one that often precluded a dash back to the safety of her apartment.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” They all said that, great aunt, a cousin, her mother’s accountant, many others she did not recognize, a few whose faces seemed vaguely familiar but not enough to speak any further to them. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” She said in automated response.

“I’m not sad.” She said to Colin flatly in a quiet corner of the sanctuary. “I’m not glad, but I’m not sad either.” When she had moved to the dorms her freshman year of college and began to observe other people and their functional family relationships—and realized how abnormal her own relationship with her mother was—she’d had a meltdown and met often with a counselor from the school’s psychology program. They talked about her mother, the Instances, how they were before her father’s death, how they were after, what it meant to have a healthy relationship. How her mother had hurt her in so many ways, ways she hadn’t realized and ways that would be hurting her for the rest of her life. The dysfunction—the unfairness—of it all, after the despair and anger had passed, ultimately left her with nothing more than a vague disgust for her mother. And that was all she felt today, walking to the podium to give the eulogy.

“My mother was five foot four and weighed a hundred and forty pounds. She had brown hair, and freckles; she liked Friends and ate too many trans fats.” Margaret felt stiff and rehearsed, because she was. “My mother was an average woman in most ways, but exceptional in a few as well. She was afraid of many things, more than most people. But that means that every day when she got out of bed, she braved many more things than most people, too. She cried more than most, but that just means that she dried and moved on from that many more tears. Mom may have seemed weaker than all of you, but that also means that each night when she went to bed, she had worked twice as hard. Mom tried hard, and failed hard. Better both of those things than just the last one.”
Margaret stood there for a moment. She looked down at the podium, tapping her finger on it slowly as she processed the end of her own speech.

“Bye, Mom.” She said in a tone that was perhaps inappropriately unceremonious, and sat down. Those gathered in the pews sat awkwardly, waiting for the somewhat baffled priest to resume the proceedings. Margaret was unaware of the general reaction.

“That was good.” Colin said softly, staring at his hands clasped in his lap. “You didn’t lie. You respected her but you didn’t lie.”

“Of course I didn’t lie.” Margaret replied. “I loved her, once,” she said, even more softly, “but I would never lie for her.”

“Good.” Colin whispered, more to himself than to Margaret. “Good.”

~*~

Margaret and Colin lounged next to each other on her bed in relative silence. Margaret spoke when she heard the slosh of Colin’s bottle of Goldschlager as he raised it to his lips. “You know I don’t like it when you do that.” She said in a tired voice.

“I know. Sorry.” But he didn’t put the schnapps away. “I think you should join me.” He said as he waved the bottle under her nose, already slurring his words. “I can’t imagine how hard today must’ve been for you.”

“I’m fine.” She sighed. “I’m just really tired.” She sat up and looked absently out the window at the strange shadows cast by the outdoor lights. Colin lay beside her, swirling around what liquid was left in the bottom of his bottle.

“You’re pretty, you know.” He said suddenly, after a long silence.

“What?” Margaret looked surprised, as if the notion were preposterous. Colin’s unsteady hand reached up to brush her collarbone with his fingertips. His arm shook. To steady it he wound his fingers into the shoulder of her blouse.

“You heard me. You’re pretty. I like you. You’re a pretty girl. Like…a picture.” He giggled. “Pretty as a picture. You know what?”

“What?”

“I want to kiss you, Picture Girl.”

Margaret blushed visibly, bringing her hand to her face to brush away nonexistent strands of hair. “Colin, you’re drunk.” She said.

“Ugh.” Colin dropped his arm. “Stop saying that! I’m trying to tell you something here and you won’t shut up about—“

“No, no.” Margaret stopped him. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just…you don’t know what you’re saying and if you even remember later you’ll wish you hadn’t said it. I’ll pretend you didn’t, but it’ll still be weird cause we’ll both know that you did…you should just go back to sleep.” She began to untwist Colin’s fingers from her blouse, but he snatched his hand away and grabbed her wrist.

“No. No, Margie. You blew me off like that last year, so I waited to see if time would make you come to your senses, but I’m done waiting for you to take me seriously.”

“Colin, stop—“

“No, listen. Just cause I’m drunk when I say it doesn’t mean it isn’t true, and you know it. You’re always hiding from things. You’re hiding from the entire world outside and you’re hiding from me—“

“Colin, you’re hurting me.”

“No I’m not. You won’t let me close enough to hurt—“

Margaret tried to pry his hand from her wrist. “Ow! Colin, you’re hurting me! Colin, let go!”

Colin let go and yanked his hand back as if he’d been burned. In the same motion he sat up. “Margie! Margie I’m so sorry!” He reached for the offended wrist. “I didn’t mean to—“

Margaret pulled her arm away instinctively. “It’s ok. It’s fine.” Colin paused, then dropped his hand. He sat up in shameful silence, cracking the knuckles of his fingers. Margaret looked at his pure, unadulterated guilt and softened slightly.
“Colin, it’s fine, really. See?” She held out her wrist to him like an olive branch. Colin took it gently, staring wide-eyed at the reddening finger marks growing from underneath her skin.

“Shit. Oh, shit…” His voice was choked with tears.

“Colin, it’s ok.”

“I can’t believe I did that—“

Margaret took her arm away from him. “Shut up already.” She said, exasperated. “I said it’s fine. Stop being so dramatic. God, Colin, you’re a little bitch when you’re drunk, you know that?”

“Yeah I know.” The tension seemed to soften as silence ruminated. “I think,” Colin began after a while.

“What?” Margaret asked, deciphering the look in his eyes.

“I think…” Slowly he reached toward her again, and this time she didn’t pull away. He cupped her chin in his hand and leaned in to kiss her right cheek, then her left. Vaguely he hoped she wouldn’t notice the roughness of his lips on her breeze-soft skin. When he drew back she looked at him like a fawn at a butterfly, so innocent and quizzical. He loved that look, though it made him feel all the dirtier himself. Then she blinked slowly and when her eyes opened again, they appeared shy but knowing, as if the brief blindness had reordered the world inside her head.

“I think so, too.” She murmured.

She fell asleep in Colin’s lap, and Colin lost himself in stroking her hair until the morning came. He had already realized that he did not know what to say; what would come next. He didn’t care, though. He rose slowly from the bed, placing Margie’s head gently on a pillow and kissing her cheek once more as she slept on.

She thinks so too. He tried and failed to suppress the smile pulling at his lips. She thinks so too. He didn’t know what she thought, or what exactly he thought, but whatever it was she thought it too and had let him kiss her cheek. When he got back they would talk, and they would finally be together. No commitments right away, Margie would insist. She would also insist that Colin attend Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. He would do that, for her. If it meant being with her. Over time she would grow to love and trust him and maybe even have a picnic outside with him. Nowhere far—he wouldn’t be so cruel as to force her far away from her sanctuary—but maybe just on the lawn in front of her apartment complex.
I’ll start today. He thought ambitiously. When I come back I’ll be one day sober. He declared to himself, and left the building to walk in the downtown streets once again.

~*~

He’d had such high hopes for sobriety when he’d left Margaret’s apartment. He was almost skipping with resolve, thinking of how he’d change her mind, starting right now.

But then something amazing happened. He heard a snuffling around the corner of the convenience store and followed it, as a force of habit. He saw a big black smudge against the echo of neon lights, and ventured closer with disbelief.

“Casper?” The smudge stopped moving. “Casper? Casper, come!” The smudge trotted unsteadily toward him. “Oh my god, Casper!” Colin reached down enthusiastically toward the dog, who shrunk from his hands. “Aw boy it’s ok.” Colin knelt and softened his voice. “It’s alright. I won’t hurt you. It’s Colin; remember me? Come on, boy, you know me.” He put his hand out, palm up. The smudge that was Casper crept toward him. “It’s ok, boy, it’s ok.” Colin crooned. “Margaret will be so happy to see you.” Casper sniffed his hands, the tentatively licked at them. “Good boy!” Casper wagged his tail and allowed Colin to scratch him behind the ears, growing visibly more comfortable as he seemed to realize that Colin meant him no harm. Whether he remembered him or not, Colin couldn’t say. “Good boy, good boy!” Slowly Colin unbuckled his belt, slid it off, and buckled it around the dog’s neck for a makeshift collar and leash. “God I’m so glad you turned up!” He patted the dog’s head as he rose to his feet.

Colin was an instinctive person, and his first instinct was to celebrate. And to celebrate, his first instinct was to get a drink. Not anymore, was his first thought. But as he walked, he thought about a bit of a burn in his throat, a warmth in his stomach. The back of his throat began to tingle, to tighten. One more night wouldn’t hurt. He knew it was a stupid, stupid justification, but that didn’t keep his mind from using it. The pathways in his brain had been entrenched so deeply by dopamine, they were flooded with just the thought of alcohol. And the convenience store was right there, his fix so close. The temptation alone made him euphoric. Unable to resist, he shuffled hesitantly into the parking lot. The glow of the florescent lights through the big glass windows made him less hesitant with every step. Casper. There was a bike rack right there.

“I’ll be right back, boy. Be good.” The big dog sat obediently, the opposite end of the belt twisted around the metal bars. Colin went in, not knowing exactly what he would find, but knowing that, whatever it was, it would be just fine.

~*~

He loved this feeling, as if he were the water sloshing back and forth in the hull of a sinking boat, this lightness of brain and numbness over the surface of his skin. No, I don’t love it. He corrected his thoughts. I “lust” it. He loved Margaret; he lusted for this. The first, he would die for. The second, he lived for. Fuck. He knew it was true. But he also knew that denial would come with sobriety, and that this was not the time to start caring. He’d start caring tomorrow, or next week. Margie would be proud of him, once he went a couple weeks dry. He waved the bag under Casper’s nose. “Thirsty? I won’t tell.” Casper whined and licked the rim of the enclosed bottle. “Shit, I wasn’t serious. That’s disgusting.” Colin wiped the rim with the bottom of his shirt. “Stupid dog.” And he felt incredibly guilty. He knelt on the sidewalk and took Casper’s face in his hands. “I’m so sorry.” His eyes filled with tears. “You’re not stupid. Margaret loves you. I love you. I love you.” He sniffed loudly. Casper’s eyes rolled around nervously. He tried to pull his head from Colin’s grasp, but Colin kept his hold and pulled Casper towards him, planting a sloppy kiss on his forehead. Casper sneezed when Colin let go. “I’m sorry.” Colin said again before wobbling back to his feet. “We can’t go back yet, Casper.” Colin informed the dog. “I have to sober up first. We can crash at my friend Red’s place. How does that sound?” Casper gave no indication one way or the other, so Colin began walking in the direction of Red’s apartment. Momentarily he regretted keeping Margaret’s precious pet away from her for even a moment more than necessary. She’ll never know. He thought, his heart twisting a bit with guilt and shame. It’s been over a month; it can wait a few more hours. Besides, after the stress of the funeral, Margaret should get some rest. Colin knocked on a green door, in hideous need of a paint job. “Red! Red, it’s me, Colin!” His words slurred, but Red seemed to understand him.

“Hey man, what’s up? Come on in” A tall figure dressed in black answered the door, bright shocks of unnaturally red hair on his head and face. “Dude, what’s up with the dog?”

“He’s my friend Margaret’s dog, I’m watching him for a few days.”

“That’s one skinny dog, man.”

“Yeah he was lost for like almost two months before I found him.”

“Your friend must be so happy.”

“She doesn’t know yet.” Colin said, ashamed.

“Man why haven’t you told her yet? Especially if you’re trying to hit that. Then you really don’t want to piss her off.”

“I just need a few hours man, to sober up. I don’t want her to see me like this when I give her dog back. Come on man.”

“Alright alright, come on let’s get you a drink.”

“I’m here to sober up, not drink.”

“What’s a few more? You’re already hammered, what difference does it make? Come on man, we haven’t partied together in forever. For me, bro!”

“Alright, alright!” Colin chuckled, his head so light it seemed to float on each syllable of his own laugh, which made him laugh more. Red, eyes already rimmed in his namesake color from a few joints, seemed to think that Colin’s laugh was the funniest thing he’d ever heard, and they collapsed chortling in the entry hall.

“Shut the fuck up!” A muffled voice shouted from the room next door, accompanied with a succession of sharp raps on the wall. They young men tried to suppress their laughter, sniggering and snorting.

“Sorry dude!” Red called to the angry tenant.

“Whatever, asshole!” The muffled shout replied.

“Come on man,” Red wiped tears of laughter from his eyes and motioned for Colin and Casper to come deeper into the apartment. “Let’s catch up; I got party favors.”

“Hell yeah.” Colin agreed enthusiastically and followed behind Red.

~*~

Sunlight stabbed through Colin’s closed eyelids and into his tender brain. He groaned and rolled over, spilling from the stained couch onto the even further-stained carpet. “Red?” He grunted, feeling around for something to pull himself up with. “Red, man, you awake?” He found the edge of the coffee table and hoisted himself into a sitting position on the edge of the sofa. No answer from Red. Colin forced his eyes open, offensive light glaring at him from every surface in the apartment. He groaned again and rubbed his temples. His arms felt like they were filled with lead. Finally he made out the figure of his friend amidst a pile of blankets on the floor nearby, dead to the world.

“Never could sleep as long as you.” Colin muttered, then rose stiffly. “Casper?” He called quietly. “Casper, here boy.” He heard the clicking sound of the dog’s nails on cheap linoleum and found Casper in the kitchen, surrounded by a pile of excrement and two puddles of urine. “Damn, dog, now I have to clean this up.” Then he sighed. “Sorry. I should’ve let you out. You must be hungry too, huh? We’ll get you something at Margie’s. What time is it anyway?” He looked at the clock over the stove. “Oh, shit.” It was three in the afternoon. “I gotta get you back to Margie.” Colin stumbled around the kitchen until he found Casper’s belt-leash. “Let’s go boy.” He said, forgetting the mess on the floor.

It wasn’t a very long walk to Margaret’s building, but Colin took it slow, doing his best to compose himself. He thought this may have been the worst hangover he’d ever had, but then he thought that after every big night. He took slow, deep breaths as he rode the elevator up to Margaret’s floor, as he walked down the hallway, as he raised his fist to knock. “Margie?” He called, flinching with every bang his fist made on the door. “Margie, I have a surprise for you. Seriously, you’re going to love this. Margie? Margie?” She wasn’t answering. Maybe she was asleep; she tended to sleep a lot. In spite of his headache he banged louder. “Margie! Margie wake up! Margie!”

“Keep it down, mister.” The superintendant poked his head around the corner at the end of the hall. “I’m gonna get complaints.” Colin approached him.

“Where’s Margaret? The girl who lives there? Margaret O’Leary?"

“I haven’t seen her since the other day.” The super said, relatively indifferent. “I thought it was odd; she left the place. Looked awfully nervous. I know how that girl can be; yeah, it was real odd.”

“Are you sure?” Colin asked anxiously. There was no way Margaret left her apartment alone. “You sure we’re talking about the same person?”

“That her dog? The one that ran off a while back?” The super nodded at Casper. “And she’s the one you’re always comin’ around to see?”

“Yeah, this is him and that’s her, but…are you sure?”

“Yeah I’m sure. What do ya want me to say, kid? She left. Figured she went to see you.”

“She never comes to see me.”

“Well I wouldn’t know about that. All I know is she hardly ever leaves and it’s real odd, but I figured she had her reasons. Figured one was you. Maybe not. Rent’s not due for a few days; didn’t think I’d say anything ‘nless she missed it.”

“Why wouldn’t you report her missing?” Colin was growing extremely agitated. “Which way did she go? Was there a car? What—“

“Hey kid, I wasn’t paying attention; it wasn’t none of my business. You know ‘er bettern’ I do.”

“Well yeah, but…but I don’t know where she went!”

“Well where do you live?”

Colin closed his eyes and pressed the heel of his hand to his aching forehead. “I..I don’t have a place; I crash with different people. Usually her. I…I don’t know where she would be.”

“Well, sorry, kid; neither do I.” The super shrugged, looking honestly sorry he couldn’t tell Colin where to look. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help to ya, but I just don’t know either.”

“It’s…it’s alright, I’ll look. I’ll…do something.” Colin muttered and wandered off, blinking tiredly. “I’ll do something.”
His head ached, and the sun was so, so bright, it’s reflection screaming up at him from the concrete. Damn hang over…I have to think…I have to think…He couldn’t think with this pounding in his head. Maybe a Bloody Mary, just to clear my head. Tomato juice was healthy right? You asshole. He thought to himself, his feet carrying him in the direction of the bar and grill not too far away from Margaret’s apartment complex. Just one. Casper followed him all the way there, trusting and unquestioning. Colin walked Casper through the parking lot, up to a spot with a “takeout-only” sign. Around the pole the belt went, and Colin twisted it into a flimsy knot like he had at the convenience store. He gave it an extra pull, just in case he ended up staying longer than he planned. I won’t, though. But he checked the knot again anyway. Casper’s claws scraped on the concrete as he tried to follow Colin in, but the belt-collar halted him sharply. “Stay, boy; be good. I’ll be back soon.” Colin said, disappearing through the big wooden doors. Casper sat, staring after him.

Hymnal Scraps

It’s the time of year again to take the screen off the window upstairs—to my father’s annoyance—and climb out onto the roof—to my mother’s dread. Apparently climbing on the roof is dangerous, and I know I might die, but I probably won’t.

I’ll fly away.

Anyway, today is not a day to care that much. If I do die I hope someone spreads my ashes on the ground somewhere, so someone else can come along and doodle with their fingers in my dust. Little hearts and stars, a crush’s name, whatever, some eloquent graffiti.

Glory, hallelujah.

Maybe kids will be doodling different things by then, if I die when I’m old. Older, anyway. When I was sixteen I became an old soul. And an old body, on the inside. I often wonder how I’ll feel when I am old in number of years. Damn kids, get off my lawn. Or come in for some cookies. Or just lying in bed, having grown a bit more tired with each year past thirty. I could see it going any of the three ways, and I could see a crucifix on my bedroom wall. And when the shadows of this life have gone, all the old will seep from my bones.

I will fly away, oh glory.

But I hope it doesn’t seep from my soul.

I doze on the roof and the scorching sun bakes fever-dreams into my frontal lobe.

I looked over Jordan, and what did I see? You running, legs flickering. You running, arms pumping. You running, running, running.

Coming forth to carry me home.

I looked over Jordan, and what did I see? A band of angels on the Cimarron, the grasslands rippling like an ocean with waves dry, dry, dry.

Coming forth to carry me home.

I looked over Jordan, and what did I see? Myself, spread with neglected crops of devotion and selflessness, so raw and vulnerable to the frequent plagues of arrogance.

Sinner, please don’t let this harvest pass.

Roused, I look out from my place on the roof, and what do I see? Rednecks on four-wheelers, crunching sharp gravel as the dogs herald their coming. I crouch on my gable among the muggy air and mayflies, smoke of a brush fire, salty asphalt in the sun, spiders in the shingles. I burn and I climb down, face stinging, muscles weak and sore from the strain of precarious balance.

Come ye sinners, weak and wounded, sick and sore.

I climb back in through the window, grimy, hot and thirsty.

Come ye sinners.

Come ye sinners for the refuge of watermelon mint iced tea and the sweat of a horse on the insides of your thighs, for my holy hippie Savior at Golgotha. Glory, hallelujah; the forgiven whores in the street invited to His party in the RV park where welcomed are all the well-intentioned and the strivers-to-be-kind, the humble and flawed. Come ye sinners for cold potato salad and the best whisky-cider for miles. He’s a citronella candle, shedding light and the bugs won’t bite you here. Come ye sinners in your sweat pants and flip-flops and barbecue stains, come ye sinners with your partners and your cigarettes. Come ye sinners dripping with diamonds, as long as you let the little girls borrow them to play princesses with their Prince in sandals and robe. Come ye sinners with your books, if you’ve brought them to share your wisdom instead of display it. Come ye sinners, it doesn’t matter. Bring your guitars and your voices, lovely and awful; either He is tone-deaf or He just enjoys your company too much to care. Come ye sinners with your wax wings and He’ll sew you up some real ones.

I will fly away, oh glory.

Come ye sinners, young and old. Lucky for me, I’m both.

Windows

Remember when we walked downtown, and I was so tired? We walked a ways, looking for a good place to sit. I made you walk faster with me through the dark spaces between the puddles of light from the street lamps, as if the light would keep us any safer from the muggers and rapists I imagined to be around every corner. I wished I could be more nonchalant, but I’d forgotten my pepper spray in the car and it made me nervous. The ledge we finally found was deliciously vandalized, wasn’t it? Some of the graffiti was tacky, sure, but most of it was mesmerizing. An incredible urban collage, vibrating with bright angst and talent. We liked the street musicians across the street too, didn’t we? I don’t remember what they sounded like, but I know we chatted a moment about how good they were as we sat there on the ledge over the sidewalk. I was feeling sentimental, I guess, when I mentioned that I wondered what must be going on behind the windows of those hotel rooms across the street. You must have been feeling sentimental too, because you started making up stories with me; a story for each lit window on the top floor. They were all so cliché, I think one of them had to be true.

~*~

We speculated about the impending divorce of the couple in the room on the far left. They’re entering the room, I imagined, after a fight at a forced dinner date. Maybe she saw him eyeing the waitress—again—or maybe his credit card bounced—again. Maybe she had too much wine—again—or maybe she was critical and cruel about a genuine effort he made—again.

“Nothing is different.” Her back makes a whispering sound against the wall as she sinks to the floor. “Not after counseling, not after this stupid second honeymoon. It’s sick, sticking us in the same room for a night after so long; after we’ve barely even spoken in months.” She’s quiet for a minute, cradling her head in her hands, her fingers locked in her hair. Her husband stands awkwardly by the door, looking down at her. He shifts his weight, licks his lips, waiting for her to speak again. “It’s like I never left.” She whispers finally, more a musing of her own rather than a statement to him. “It’s like I never left.”

“That’s cause you didn’t,” He says slowly, confused.

“It felt like I did, for a little while.”

“And now it doesn’t?”

“Not anymore.”

He sighs and pinches his forehead between his thumb and first two fingers, eyes shut tight as the feeling behind her words reaches him. “It still feels like it to me.” It’s quiet for a while before he speaks softly again. “Do you love me?” He asks.

“Not today.”

“You say that every day.”

“I know.”

~*~

The next story is sweeter, if even more cliché. I envision a young couple cuddling under the cool, detergent-smelling covers of the hotel bed, giggling. Her hair is long, spread like a million threads of umber silk over the overstuffed pillow. A mound of white silk and tulle is bundled on the floor.

“You tore my dress.” She teases him, tossing her hair from her forehead before resting her chin on his chest.

“Just a couple of stitches!” He feigns a look of hurt. “Besides, you’re never going to wear it again.”

“Oh? What if I want our daughter to have it for her wedding?

“What if we have a son?”

“His future wife, then!”

“What if she doesn’t like your style?”

“I’m her future mother-in-law; if she doesn’t, she at least has to pretend she does.”

“Eh, she wouldn’t have to pretend; it’s lovely. Sexy as hell on you. In fact, why don’t you put it back on so I can take it off again?”

“No!” She giggled and pushed away his wandering hands. “You have to tell me something about your songs!”

“My songs? Why?”

“You’ve written so many, and some of them sound…well, I thought maybe…I was wondering…” She ducks her head against his shoulder then looks up into his eyes with a shy smile. “Have you written any of them for me?”

“Baby, They’re all for you!”

“Even the ones from three years ago?”

“Yeah, those too. Silly girl; who else would they be for?”

She smiles. “I love you.” She kisses him with all the wedding-night happiness bubbling up inside her, threatening to burst.

He laughs. “I love you too, so much. Now go take a shower before we sleep; I know how you like the way the sheets feel against your skin after you’ve showered when you go to bed.”

“I like the feeling of you against my skin.” She says softly, curling up against his side in the crook of his arm. “And I don’t want to leave.”

“I like that feeling too.” He whispers, “And I pray you never leave.” He bends his head to kiss her hair.

“I won’t.” She mutters sleepily. He strokes her hair as she slumbers, and soon he yawns, curling his body around hers.
They fall asleep breathing peacefully, safe and happy, naked and entwined.

~*~

Something less peaceful, perhaps; someone alone. Not everything is so definite; a divorce, a marriage. Most of life is more ambiguous; utterly confusing.

She wakes in a cold sweat. Another nightmare about nothing. It isn’t that she can’t remember; she can. It’s that the dreams are truly about nothing. Just images of familiar things, still-lives of her dresser or the birdbath outside her window, her office building, her car. Yet she always wakes terrified, and for hours after her stomach will plunge at the memory. Her hands are shaking; she knocks over the little orange bottle of Xanax as she reaches for it. The bottle rattles, three fall out. Water sloshes, making the pills slimy in her hand. She stuffs them past her lips and gulps down the water, then licks the bit of dissolved residue from her skin. Ok. Ok ok ok. She stops halfway through the short walk to the bathroom, steadying herself with one hand on the wall. The bright floral wallpaper and dark linoleum make her dizzy. She looks up, eyes clawing for some neutral space, but they are met with a popcorn ceiling sprayed with silver sparkles instead of the smooth white sheetrock she had been hoping for. Damn ‘60s. Suddenly, violently, she begins to dry-heave, knocking her head against the wall as she doubles over, clutching her stomach. When it’s over she spits right there on the floor the bile retched up by her empty stomach. Shit. Shakily she completes her journey to the bathroom and thrust her entire head into a rush of cold water from the rusty showerhead. Hard water in her eyes, up her nose, the cold raising goose bumps over the entire surface of her skin. After a towel is wrapped around her wet hair she is still shaking; she still wants to cry. She swallows the lump in her throat again and again and again, in such quick succession it is difficult to breathe. The negative image of that terrifyingly ordinary birdbath is stamped on the backs of her eyelids every time she blinks, and her stomach throws fits. As usual at this point during an attack, it is the panic itself she fears the most. She orders room service, just to hear a human voice. She tips the waiter too much and makes a weak attempt to engage him in conversation before he escapes back to the kitchen. People. There are people in the lobby. Leaving her dinner uneaten on the desk, she goes to the door. They were all strangers in the hotel lobby, and she would call someone instead, if she still had anyone to call.

~*~

A thing about hotels that is both wonderful and tragic is that they shelter all different kinds of people. Not necessarily together or at the same time, but at some point in that hotel there have been women, and a rapist. Children, and pedophiles. Lovers and their lovers’ lovers, criminals and law officials. Wealthy people making a cheap stop between destinations, significantly less wealthy people on their grand vacation. People coming, people going, people wanting, people satisfied, people staying for a while, people passing through, people living, people dying. The following is a classic tale, is it not?

He sits on the edge of the crisp hotel bed, the interior-decorator professional in him cringing at the tacky green-and-orange bedspread. Should’ve picked a better place than this. But no, he doesn’t want to spend a penny more than necessary. His wife will need every solace after she reads the note, as will his lover, and his lover’s spouse. But there’s nothing I can do about that. He liked everything in order, and it was. He had met multiple times with his attorney, settling his last will and testament. He had taken care of life insurance, he had enclosed in an envelope a carefully-worded note, along with pictures meant to illustrate the equal and boundless love he felt for the people in each of his double-lives. I love so much, he had written in the note, but I knew none of you would love what I loved, or that I loved it. He was trying to explain. He’d heard that sometimes the people left behind were more apt to reach some sort of peace if they had a good explanation. Really, there were five notes in the envelope: one to his wife, one to each of his two children, one to his lover, and one to them all as a general audience.

He had spoken to God, asked forgiveness for everything past, and in advance for the last sin he was to commit. Everything is indeed in order. He doesn’t know for sure where his soul will end up, considering the manner of his impending death, and that bothers him, but everything that can be neatly squared away has been, and this comforts him. He only hopes that, as his soul is flung into eternity, God’s grace will overcome His judgment and He will reach down to grasp the mortal hand that is sure to be outstretched. From what he knew and loved of Jesus, he had some faith that the grasping would occur. This is certainly not the worst of my sins, he muses absently, referencing to himself his adultery with Robert. Surely, if He will forgive the others so willfully committed, He might forgive this one as well. Slowly he counts out the number of pills sure to contain the necessary dosage.

~*~

A child of eight bounces on the springy bed. She is never allowed to jump on the bed at home, but on vacation her parents said she could, a little. And pizza! They had pizza for lunch yesterday, and they are going to have pizza again tonight. Pizza by the pool, the exhilarating scent combination of salty grease and chlorine. Every year this is what she looks forward to the most, besides the zoo. Tomorrow they would see the fruit bats as big as foxes, flying free in the walk-through rainforest. She prays that one will come and land on her. Her mother says they have diseases, but surely the zookeepers wouldn’t let them near people if that was true. Usually she trusts her mother, but in this instance she prefers her own logic. She loves the art museum too, but mostly the parts with the mummy coffins or the ancient Chinese tea sets. The paintings were interesting for a little while, but she doesn’t understand them in the way her older brother seems to. Maybe he is just more patient, She consoles herself. Secretly she suspects that her brother is just as naughty a child as she is; he is just better at hiding it.

“Honey, time to stop jumping now.” He mother unzips a suitcase entirely filled with stuffed animals. “Here, show Peppy and Kovu the view.” She suggests, pulling out the two most time- and love-worn creatures.

“Can I bring them to the pool?”

“No, honey.”

“Why not?”

“They can’t swim.”

“I’ll help them.”

“The water might go in their noses, sweetie. They’re too young.”

“When will they be old enough?”

“When they’re eight years old, like you.”

Five, six, seven, eight. She counted silently. Four more years. She thought. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. I’ll be twelve years old. She is sad to leave them behind, but only for a moment. Her stomach jumps with excitement when her mother finally emerges from the bathroom in her bathing suit.

“Okay guys, let’s go! Dad will bring the pizza.”

“Come on, come on, let’s go!” She rushes to the door before her mother can think of something else that must be done before they head down to the pool.

~*~

We weren’t terribly creative with our stories, were we? But I suppose we are all ultimately clichés in some way. We certainly were that evening, two college sophomores enamored with the blooming nightlife of the Crossroads district, sipping free wine and trading opinions on contemporary art. I knew it at the time, and you probably did too, but I didn’t care. I still don’t. In fact, let’s go back sometime and do it all over again.

A Brief and Wandering Prologue to Summer

Though it’s early in the season, I am already beginning to feel the summer time. It has a sort of salt-smell, I think, but maybe it’s my imagination. I love it in a vague way, and the long days blurred together with heat and the smell of air conditioning and warm skin and apples in the morning, the barely-aware consciousness I adapt when Monday Tuesday Wednesday have no meaning. In the back of my mind I love these ambiguous months, all smeared with shades of long walks and itchy grass and hot gravel; of fireflies and sunburn and swimming. Of trail rides on my painted horse. He shies at the oil pumps sometimes, but after a moment of hesitation marches quickly towards them with an almost hostile determination, like Don Quixote toward his windmill-giants. He’ll put out his long square nose to touch one, and flare his nostrils as he makes contact with the corroded metal. He’ll swing his head down and trumpet an offended snort, then coldly ignore the steely creature and all the rest of its kind as we pass through them in the field. I let him walk where he likes; the summer mellows him and I can ride with a looser rein.

The summer mellows me too, a little, calms with steady heat the sparks and twitching in my panicky brain.

I was going to build a tree house. Every summer I said I would; every summer I thought I would. And every summer was one more tree still empty of a house, save the nests of birds and squirrels. One more season closer to now, when I am far too old for building tree houses.
Sometimes I think I’m going to build one—sometimes I think I’m going to do a lot of things—but the tiredness breaks on me like a wave, tumbling, swallowing me up and I sink into it, smothered by it. I sit beneath its weight and wish and wonder about things missed and things undone. Watch too much tv and just waiting for my body to loosen the bonds it’s placed on itself, to let me get on with my life.

I don’t feel very lovely when I’m tired. Hair unbrushed and limp, yesterday’s sweat pants, dark circles under my eyes, soft body curled up underneath an oversized t-shirt. It takes so much effort, the pursuit of “beauty”. It exhausts me. And for what? We try so hard to make it so that all can see our bones; pierce new holes in our flesh to hang sparkly things from. We smear colored dust on our faces, paint blood red lips, black rings around our eyes; the war paint of modern society. It seems even the most culturally accepted fashions are rather macabre. But then, so are we, so I suppose it makes sense. Either way we’re expected to join in the scramble, to pretend to care. Just pretend, though, because God help you if you care too much.

I’d like to think that we’re better than this, but sometimes I look around and think maybe we’re exactly where we belong. Though it hasn’t felt like home to me in quite some time, so maybe not. I don’t know about you, but I belong other places, at least sometimes. Though I never seem to be in those places at the times I feel like I belong in them.

I realize now that in my mind I’ve reduced us down to an idea, some memories and some songs, like dimly flickering scenes from a movie I saw once but I can’t remember how it ended. Maybe it didn’t end at all. Or maybe it was a dream.