Push (17 page)

“Screw you, Carl,” I tease, not believing this is the same man I was flirting and laughing with a few minutes before.

David looks up at me, and even with my glazed eyes, I can see that he is pleased.

For the next hour, they play. And I drink. The rest of the room slowly clears out, and before I know it, our table is the only one left. Even Matt and his friends have disappeared. Despite the fact that I don’t know a thing about poker, I know that David is winning and Carl is frustrated as hell. He is no longer laughing and teasing and telling stories. Instead he is swearing and scowling and making cracks about what a shitty maintenance man David is. David is just soaking it all in. It must be par for the course on Tuesday nights. But it is all getting too serious for me. I want to push Carl’s face into the table, to smack him upside the head. To tell him to go fuck himself. I am sinking in anger. Anger fueled by alcohol. And by lust. I want David to put down his cards, punch Carl in the face, then scoop me up and take me home.

But what I get instead is a rush of vertigo. And a second later my hands slide down David’s bird-covered arms, and I am on the floor.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Jenny

I am sitting on this bridge contemplating everything that is right in the world. There is so much that is right. So much that is good. I love this world, I love this man, and I love this city. In the wake of hurricane Katrina so many of my friends left, but I stayed. I’m thankful that I did, because if I had gone, I would never have met David. And I would never have had the opportunity to fall in love with such a strange and exceptional man. David is thoughtful and comforting, and the energy he gives my life is precisely why I can say that I love him more than I have loved anybody. Ever. I need to be with somebody whose control keeps my chaos in check.

David moved to New Orleans a little over a year ago from some small town in Illinois. He grew up there, and when the opportunities ran out, so did he. He had worked for his father’s construction company, and when it went under, David saw it as a sign that it was time to leave. His dad was a drinker, and he got mixed up with their secretary. David said this woman had his dad “by the balls,” and one day she cleared out the company’s bank account and left town. They never found her, or the money, and David’s dad drank himself into a constant stupor. Apparently, his father tried to convince the cops that David was somehow involved, saying that David was sleeping with the secretary, too. But nobody believed him. The secretary was twice David’s age, and when they questioned David about the whole thing, he said he and the deputy nearly laughed their asses off. He didn’t even know the secretary’s last name, he told them. He sure as hell hadn’t slept with her. He told the police that blaming him was his father’s way of trying not to look so goddamned stupid. The whole town knew that David’s dad was a drunk, and his dad had had numerous run-ins with the police over the years. They knew David had nothing to do with stealing that money. Questioning him was nothing more than a formality.

David left Illinois six weeks later because his dad grew more and more belligerent, and then completely lost it when he had to declare bankruptcy. David said he would have offered to help his dad out had he not tried to blame the whole damn fiasco on him. But, as it stood, he saw no reason to bail out his alcoholic father. So instead, he left.

I met David a few weeks after he moved here. He came into the shop looking for someone to do some work on his arms. I was inking Frank Lagasse when he walked in. David told me later that the moment he saw the full-rigged, three-masted ship I was putting on Lagasse’s side, he knew I was the right artist for him. That ship was beautiful. It took me four full sessions to finish it, but Lagasse loved it when it was all said and done. So did I. David’s birds took even longer. The colors were custom blends, and I worked my butt off to come up with his drawings. I ended up designing the birds one by one, layering each new body against the one I had made the session before. He came in every two or three days for weeks until they were finished. We started with just the wretched little falcon he had gotten from some lousy artist when he was still in high school. I built the rest of the birds around that falcon, taking great pride in making each feather a work of art. David’s arms are some of the best work I have ever done.

Those birds clearly signify something to him, but what that is, I don’t know. I suspect I never will. When he first came into the shop and told me what he wanted, I actually tried to talk him out of it. I tried to convince him to do just a few large birds rather than hordes of smaller ones. But he said no. He wanted a hundred different birds in a thousand different colors. They are beautiful, I’ll give him that, and they cost him a whole lot of money. But that’s no matter now, because I have David. And that is worth more than a million birds.

Because David spent so much time in the chair, we did a lot of talking. I got to know him without ever really looking at his face. I can say, though, that by the time I was finished with the birds, I knew each and every wrinkle on the skin of his arm. And I knew a lot about his past and even some of his hopes for the future. David is so bright and warm and calm, and when he is around me, everything feels good. Everything is love. His mental sway is hard to believe.

We have been together for about seven months now. The day I finished the last bird—the gouldian finch on his inner left wrist—was the day we had our first date. After I wrapped the tattoo, he asked me if he could take me to dinner to celebrate. We went to Cooter Brown’s, and by the time dinner was over, I remember feeling like David had wound me up like a spring-loaded toy. The energy he had built up in me was unbelievable. I was ready to hit the ceiling. To this day, whenever I am with him, it feels as if I am going to pop. As if he makes my whole body into a tight coil. And when the spring lets loose, the happiness I feel is almost absurd.

David and I have sat on these bridge trusses together many times. Our legs hanging off the beams. Our feet twined together, dangling, while the cars rush across the bridge above. And we are here again, hip to hip, doing the same. We have talked about everything here. About the whole world. About all the problems and all the solutions. David is scarred, deep and hard. And despite the positive energy he carries around like a crown of gold, I can see that he also carries hurt. He doesn’t let it bury him, but it does, in large part, define him. To hear him tell it, David’s childhood was an insane mess. Because of his father’s alcoholism, as a boy, he had no choices, no power; and now that he’s an adult, David always keeps his shit in check. I think it must be a lot of pressure to expect that kind of perfection from yourself. Maybe that’s why he can’t seem to bring himself to smile. Not a true smile, at any rate. Yes, he grins, he laughs, he smirks, but he doesn’t ever seem happy. You know, the kind of happy that cracks apart your face. The kind of happy that makes everyone around you want to be happy, too. The kind of happy that makes your heart sing. There is so much control in David that it keeps that kind of happy away. But that’s okay with me, because that is who he is. He is ripe with discipline, and I love him for it.

Today we are here to talk about us. At least that’s what I think. I have been telling David for a few weeks now that I love him, and every time I do, he says the same thing.

“I love you,” I say.

“You shouldn’t,” he says.

It is that way every time. Except for last night. Last night when I said I love you, he said “I know. And we need to talk about that.” So, here we sit, on the bridge, presumably to “talk about that.”

We pass a joint between us. With each inhale, more and more mellow light shines on the pair of us, and I see more good in this world. I see David growing bigger and brighter and happier. I want to scream out that I love him, but I don’t. Instead I ask him why he always says that I shouldn’t love him.

“Because I am incapable of loving you back,” he says, “and you deserve more than that. You deserve better than me. You deserve to be happy.”

“But, David, I
am
happy. I’m happy whether or not you love me back. I mean, yes, it would be amazing if you loved me, but just because you don’t doesn’t mean I shouldn’t love you. And it doesn’t mean you are
incapable
of loving me. You
are
capable of love. Everyone is. Everyone deserves to love. Maybe you just need more time. Hell, maybe I’m not the one you are meant to love. Maybe there is someone else out there you are meant to love.”

He is staring at me now, holding the joint between his thumb and forefinger. He moves it up to his lips and sucks, scrunching his eyes up as if he’s thinking hard about what I just said. He holds his breath for a long time before exhaling.

“My mother always said that loving someone means that you would die for them,” he says quietly and thoughtfully. His eyes move away from mine and look out over the water. “I am too selfish for that. I don’t ever see myself feeling so much for someone that I would give my life up for them. Love is selfless, Jenny. And that is not me.” David is quiet for a long time. He passes the joint to me and puts his hands down in his lap. I inhale and then place my hand on his.

“Would you die for me, Jenny?” he asks. “Is that the kind of love you feel?”

“Yes, but that’s metaphorical. People say they would die for someone, David, but they don’t really ever expect it to happen. Just because you wouldn’t jump in front of a bus to save me doesn’t mean you don’t love me.”

David takes the joint from my hand. He inhales again, and I am pretty sure I see tears in his eyes. What is this? Is he crying? Why? Maybe he isn’t crying. Maybe it’s the wind. Or the smoke.

“But what if it weren’t? What if it weren’t hypothetical?” he says. “What if, right now, I jumped off this bridge and you could reach out and pull me back up, but it meant that you would fall instead. It meant that you would drown, and I would live. Would you do it?” I don’t know how to answer. I think about it for a long time, motioning for him to pass me the joint again. My inhale is deep and wide. It feels bottomless.

“It is metaphorical, David. People don’t do that kind of stuff. People don’t throw themselves off a bridge to test someone’s love for them. They don’t
ask
for the sacrifice. It is made for them voluntarily, Out of love. Not to prove something.”

David stands up, holding on to the bridge truss. He leans forward and looks over the edge.

“What are you doing?” I ask him. “David, cut it out. Sit down. Let’s talk about something else. It doesn’t matter anyway.”

“But it does,” he says. “It does matter.” Now he is climbing to the truss above us. I stand up, too, trying to figure out what he is doing. Once he is balanced on the upper truss, he bends down and grabs my hand, pulling me up next to him. We are standing here together, and he is holding my hand.

“Don’t you see, Jenny? It does matter. It matters because I don’t believe you. I don’t believe that you would sacrifice yourself so that I would live. I don’t believe that you love me that much. But I want to find out. I want to know if it is real. I want to know if you really do love me like you say you do.” We are both looking out over the water, and I’m starting to get a little paranoid that David might try to jump or something. That he might actually want me to prove that I will die so that he can live. For a second, I wonder if the weed we’ve been smoking is bad. If it is, three dozen of my buyers are probably out there perched on some other bridge, having the exact same fucked-up conversation. But before I can think too much about it, David extends his leg out in front of him. He balances on his other leg, still holding my hand. His body wavers back and forth, trying to remain steady. It isn’t like him to take that kind of a chance.

“David. Stop it!” I say. “Stop it right now. This is stupid.” And it is. I don’t know what else to say to make him stop.

He puts his leg back down and looks at me. His face suddenly seems electrified, power-soaked. He says softly, “I will believe that you love me if you let me do this.”

“Let you do what?” My head is spinning. I am so confused.

“If you let me watch you fall. Because if you don’t jump, then I will.”

What? What the hell does that mean? And then it strikes me. He wants me to choose his life over mine. In his mind, that is how I am going to show him that I love him. That is how I am going to prove that I feel
that
kind of love. The kind his mother told him about. The kind that you would die for.

“I don’t know how to say this any more clearly. When someone says they would die for you, it is metaphorical, David. It isn’t real,” I say again. I am beginning to wish there was a shrink up here with us.

“Jump,” he says, “or I will.” A long moment of silence passes between us, and he flicks the stub of the joint off the bridge.

“I am not going to jump,” I say quietly. When we are off this bridge, I am going to sucker punch him. “Let’s just go home, okay? Let’s go make love and forget this whole conversation even happened.” I am starting to feel nauseated. I turn away from him and start to climb back up to the bridge deck, but I feel his hand on my arm, pulling me back down. And then he has a hold of both my arms.

“Jump,” he says, with his hands firmly gripping each of my upper arms. His eyes are loaded, charged with energy. They are telling me he’s enjoying the absolute control he has over this moment. Over whether I live or die. But they are also making me afraid, and I think he likes it.

“I am not going to jump,” I say again, this time with blatant, yet unwelcome, fear in my voice. I am shaking and staring right at him, hoping he will come to his senses when he sees that he has taken this whole thing too far. I try to pull myself out of his grip, but I am balanced on this metal beam and I don’t want my own struggling to cause me to fall. I tell him to let me go.

But instead he tips my body to the side. He is going to push me. He is going to send me off this bridge and into the water. But why? Why would he do that? I don’t understand. Then he smiles. A face-cracking smile. A “happy-as-shit” smile. The kind I have never seen before. He pushes hard against my side, and my feet slip off the truss.

I am flipping off this bridge in a cartwheel. But the trusses are in the way. I feel my hand crack into one, and then my hip. The smack of my head against the steel sounds bright and crisp inside my brain. Then everything is quiet.