Falling Under (5 page)
I hear a clinking sound and feel cold metal at my clavicle. The buckle. He pulls it down, circles my nipples, trails along the line of my waist. The metal gets warm and my breathing comes faster.
The second I forget to clench my thighs together he slides a knee between them.
I scrape my nails down his back and say, “Fuck you.” His fingers dig into my hip.
“What do you want?” he asks. “Nothing.”
I fake compliance then grab the buckle and roll out from under him. I scramble to my feet on the other side of the bed. Erik groans and pulls himself up from the floor. His eyes gleam when he sees me brandishing the belt.
“I dare you,” he says. “Likewise,” I say.
I snap the belt in his direction and then he’s on me. Arms and legs locked in battle, we fall onto the bed. When the cool linen of the sheets molds to my ass and I feel both Erik’s thighs planted between mine, I know I’ve lost. He is on me, over me, all around me. Hard mattress at my back and everything in me wants to beg.
“What do you want?” he asks. I bite my lip, shake my head.
“Say it.”
He wraps his arms under my knees and yanks me up onto his legs. I feel him hot and close... and say it.
I say it and he does it. Long, hard and fierce, until I can’t see, can’t think. There is no room in my head for voices, no room in my heart for pain. I am reduced to the elemental. I give everything up to Erik and, for a few minutes, he frees me. He takes from me past and future. His body pummels mine, punishes, drives out all fight, all sense of self. And fi- nally he gives me what I need: he gives me silence, he gives me nothingness. He obliterates me.
D
addy smells better, but he has a new friend who thinks you do stupid things like play with dolls and listen to Olivia Newton-John.
You don’t.
Mom has a new job and she tells you it’s important to get good grades so you can have gainful employment and inde- pendence when you grow up. You say your grades are fine.
They’re not.
Dad won’t come to parent-teacher interviews if Mom is going to be there, and Mom won’t come if Dad is going to be there. You hope Dad comes, but he doesn’t.
Mom finds out you are close to failing and might have to do fourth grade again. Her face turns red and in her scariest voice she says, “I hold up my end, Mara Lindsey.”
The whole way home she ignores you. She slams the door on the way into the house.
“Is your father enforcing homework hours?” “Mom, it’s not his fault.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
She picks up the phone and stabs at the numbers. You edge out of the kitchen and hover at the bottom of the stairs. “You’re missing some important facts about our daughter,”
you hear her say.
Pause.
“About her
education
. She’s about to flunk out of grade fucking four, asshole!”
One second... Two...
“I’m saying you’re a pathetic excuse for a father. You expect me to take care of everything? You donate your sperm and fig- ure you’ve made your contribution, well let me tell you—
“Don’t raise your voice to me, you son of a bitch, you expect me to raise our child by myself, well it’s not an easy burden!
“That’s right, she’s fucking up in school. She’s not fine, she’s a goddamn disaster and I hold you responsible, do you hear me? I hold you responsible!”
You should be used to it by now. You should not still shake and feel like throwing up. You want to run but there is nowhere to go that would be far enough. You tiptoe up the stairs and hide in your room with your eyes closed and your hands over your ears. But you can still hear them. You will always, always hear them because they are in your head, permanently screaming, stuck in your head, so loud, so loud and screaming inside your ears and mind, and you cannot escape.
Bitch and ball-breaker and liar, he calls her. Shut her up for good, wipe the smirk from her face, leave for good, disap- pear forever, and then she’ll see. Never understood a single fucking thing about me, he says. And she calls him lazy, good-for-nothing, dreamer. Loser and a drunk, always will
be. Piece of shit, go ahead and disappear, wish you would, wish you’d never been born, she says.
And you hug your knees and rock back and forth.
Out of control, they are always out of control. They are not themselves. They lose themselves and you lose them too. You lose them every time and you don’t know, you never, ever know . . . if they will come back to you.
You squeeze your eyes shut, and close your ears, and try to make your heart smaller. It is so loud, the way it pounds. You want to scream, but what would they do? What would they do if you started screaming? If you did you might never stop. You would scream and scream and then run forever, and how would they feel?
They would not care because you are a burden. You are a disaster. You heard the words and you know they’re true and you don’t have parents like other people anyway. Solid one day, they slip through you the next.
6
While I’m in his bed, Erik eclipses all, but when I leave, I banish every thought of him. Except the memory of the strange look in his eyes when he said I was “hard on his everything”—that one is tougher to push away.
By the time I get home, I’m thinking again of Hugo. Stupid. I’ve had exactly one conversation with the guy. I fall asleep with Erik in my skin and Hugo on my mind.
The next evening, I pace my kitchen. It is the third night since I met Hugo, and I wonder if he’s actually waiting there at the bar, thinking I might show up. But I acted like a freak, so he’s probably not there. Or maybe he hangs out in lesbian
bars because there’s something wrong with him, like he’s impotent, masochistic, afraid of commitment.
Who said anything about commitment?
Who said anything about anything? It’s not like I even want to leave the house. I need my sleep. I cannot go out.
Who said anything about going out?
Who said anything about putting on lipstick and chang- ing into a clean shirt and brushing my hair and grabbing the car keys and walking out into the dangerous world?
No one, that’s who.
But that’s what seems to be happening.
Because maybe I have a chance at something. Maybe it’s been long enough since Lucas. Maybe I don’t have to live like a hermit for the rest of my life.
So he might reject me. Will I break? Of course not.
Probably not. Hopefully not.
On the other hand...
On the other hand he might not reject me. He might like me and then like me more, and then maybe . . . then maybe he might love me, and this time... this time I might not screw it up.
And even if I do, will I break? Well, I might.
Oh God, I really might. But I might not.
And so I am driving. I’m in my car and I am driving. I want to turn around and go back home because I’m sure my
brakes are going to give out, or I will crash into a telephone pole and meet with a grisly end, my innards spilling all over the seats, my life wasted, the upholstery ruined, all because of a guy.
But the steering wheel has a mind of its own and I keep going.
I make it to the bar alive. I take a moment in the entryway to calm myself, but it doesn’t work.
He’s probably not here. I hope he isn’t.
I hope he is.
I’m nauseous and I might puke on him when I see him. I hope, I hope...
There he is, coming out of the bathroom. Oh my God, oh my God, he sees me.
He smiles. Oh, boy, it’s a deadly smile—worse, better, than I remembered.
“You came back!” “Yes.”
He takes me by the elbow and leads me inside. “Just so you know,” I say, “this isn’t a date.” “Really.”
“I just came to apologize, for, you know, acting like such a weirdo the other night.”
“I like weirdos,” he says. “Should we get a table?” “Aren’t you supposed to say, ‘No, you’re not a weirdo’?” “You are kind of strange and I’m not a liar, so I won’t con-
tradict you. What would you like to drink?” “Diet soda.”
He orders. We talk. He asks me questions and I answer them. I ask him questions and he answers them. Not so hard, actually.
“So why are you so determined this can’t be a date?” he asks.
“Because I don’t date.” “Ah. So, we’re just.. .”
“Hanging out,” I say. “Having a drink.” “All right.”
The minutes pass. Hugo makes me laugh, puts me at ease.
Mostly.
“Are you going to give me your number this time?” he says when we’ve finished our third round of drinks.
“No,” I say. “Are you going to take me back to your place and have sex with me this time?”
“Not this time,” he says.
“All right. I’m guessing you have to get back to your puppy.”
“Soon, yeah.”
“Okay. It’s been fun.”
I stand up and put some money on the table.
“No, let me,” Hugo says, standing. He places bills on the table and pushes my money back toward me.
I shake my head. “No chance.”
“Then the service should be great tomorrow night,” he grins. He touches my elbow and we exit the bar.
Hugo walks me to my car and waves as I drive away. I speed on the way home.
For five consecutive nights, I make myself get in the car and drive to Sappho. It’s not easy, but, perhaps,
easier
. When
the fear comes I picture myself driving through it, running it over. I see Hugo’s face, remember his laugh and somehow I get there. Each night, I find him in the same place, Hugo at the same table. We sit and we talk. Every night he asks for my number and I ask him to have sex with me. Every night we both say no.
I
t’s an easy solution: you get better grades, Mommy has less reason to fight with Daddy. You should have thought of it before. Also it really would be gross to repeat fourth grade and be in a class with a bunch of babies.
The librarian, Mrs. Stone, lets you have your own cubicle and you stay at school working until five every night. You pass after all, and Mommy smiles and smiles and takes you to the Golden Griddle for a special brunch to celebrate.
Grandma and Grandpa come to visit in June when school gets out. Grandma cooks real meals and you go for walks together and Grandpa talks to you about golfing and his handy cap.
When your weekend with Dad comes you don’t want to go, but nobody asks for your opinion. You are packed up, shuttled off. When Dad brings you back on Sunday night, Mom gives him one of her looks.
“What?” he says.
“Late again, Henry,” she says.
Oh, please, oh, please, not in front of Grandma and Grandpa!
“Excuse me if I’m not on your exact schedule,” Dad says.
Mom’s face starts turning red and you grip the straps of your knapsack.
“God forbid you hold yourself accountable,” she says. “God forbid you give me a fucking break once in a while.” No, no, no, no, no...
“Listen, you goddam cretin—” “You tight-ass bitch—”
“Don’t you swear at me, don’t you start with me!” “I’ll start with you, I’ll start with you anytime I want!” And they’re off.
Dad’s eyes get big and his lips practically disappear. Mom’s hands are in fists and she turns bright red all the way down her neck.
Grandma and Grandpa stare, their jaws hanging open.
You stand there wishing you had a ring like Bilbo Baggins to disappear with, or wings to fly away on, a hole to burrow into, a place to go where you never had to go through this again.
Because every time you feel like you’re dying.
You’re dying, or something else, something terrible, is going to happen. Mom and Dad’s heads are going to ex- plode, the house will be struck by lightning, the Russians will come in their fast planes and drop bombs, and none of you will make it to the basement because the yelling is so loud that you don’t hear the warning sirens. Or they will burst in the door and find you and send all of you together to Siberia where there are no toilets and long lineups for moldy
bread, and you will be stuck in a small room with Mom and Dad forever.
You would prefer Siberia alone. You might prefer Siberia period.
The shouting continues. It is about nothing.
You stare down at the floor, afraid to see Grandma and Grandpa’s faces. They never yell. After this they will proba- bly never come back. Maybe when they go, you could go with them. Ha. Fat chance.
“Stop this right now!”
Everything stops. Everyone stares at Grandpa. “That is enough,” he adds. “It’s a disgrace.”
“Mara, dear,” Grandma says, “why don’t you go up to your room?”
After that, Mom and Dad stop screaming. At least, they stop screaming out loud. Mom tries to smile when Dad comes to the house, only she looks like she wants to bite someone. Dad smiles back. On the weekends he says, “And how’s your mother?”
“Fine,” you say.
“Oh, well,” he says, “that’s good.”
It’s almost funny. And they must think you’re stupid, be- cause they think you can’t see them both, still screaming. They think you’re still five years old, waiting for Santa Claus, but you are not.You know all about life and the things people really think and do.
6
“You don’t drink,” Hugo says on this-is-not-a-date num- ber five.
“You’re observant,” I say. “And you’re sarcastic.” “Touché.”
“So? Answer the question.” “You didn’t ask one.”
“You’re funny.” He laughs. “Why don’t you drink?”
Here we go, getting personal. Ugh. But he’s looking at me with those smart, sweet eyes and I can’t dodge everything forever.
“You’re wondering if I’m, perhaps, an alcoholic?”
“Or religiously opposed, or allergic, just don’t like it? I’m wondering, that’s all.”
“All right,” I say. “I could, at any moment, descend into soul-crushing, mind-numbing, self-pitying depression.”
“Ah.”
“Plus, I made a deal.” “That you wouldn’t drink?” “Yep.”
“Who’d you ... ?” “My patron, Sal.”
Hugo’s eyes get wide and one side of his mouth twists up into a smile.
“You’re kidding,” he says. “You have a patron? Isn’t that sort of medieval?”
“More Renaissance, actually, but no, I’m not kidding. When we started working together, I was a bit of a wreck. Sal made sobriety part of our deal because he knows I can get.. .”