Breaker (9 page)

I spend the week shopping for Natalie, and it fills me with a strange glee. I'm fifteen again myself, even if the purchases are much more adult. Every day when I see Natalie come home from school, I walk downstairs and we cross paths in the lobby, our moment a secret for just the two of us, not in front of her parents, and not her disappearing into my apartment for any length of time. People around here look at me enough as it is, squinting, shaking their heads, pursing their lips. They fear I'm up to no good.

And about that they aren't totally wrong.

It's a blur of a week. My apartment is littered with empty McDonald's bags, eating on the run, Taco Bell, White Castle, plastic liter bottles of Dr. Pepper, my bus pass getting a lot of use, the el trains a familiar sight day in and day out, transferring from one line to the next, sitting down and hiding my size at every opportunity, hooded sweatshirts and sunglasses putting up a thin veil between myself and the world. My usual dark demeanor is much lighter; a few women even smile in my direction, standing or sitting next to me as we ride.

Will wonders never cease?

On Monday, it's a small container of industrial-strength pepper spray, from an Army Navy Surplus store—much stronger than the department store stuff she already has. I tell her to keep it in her front left pocket, and that there will be more items, so that I can sleep at night, relax a little, while we're training.

On Tuesday, it's a pair of brass knuckles, taking me most of the day to find the right size, women's actually, in a shade of fluorescent purple that I find distracting, but Natalie loves.

On Wednesday, it's a mixed bag of items that look innocent, and won't get her in trouble at school, but can be used as weapons in a pinch—a stainless-steel water bottle, a tactical flashlight, a shiny ornate hairbrush I found at an antique store, her backpack getting heavy, my advice to buck up, Bucky, this is part of the training. Better tired than dead.

On Thursday it's a rape whistle on a long silver chain, which I hand to her gently as she quickly looks away, slipping it over her neck and under her sweater. I know she's thinking of her friend. And so am I.

On Friday it's a switchblade that took me some time to track down. Her pocketknife is useless in a fight. Switchblades are not illegal in Illinois, but a lot of shop owners still don't like to sell them. She handles it gingerly, and I show her how to click it open, holding it away from herself. Just in case. She nods.

Saturday we talk about stun guns, Tasers, and pistols. This is while I run her through some drills in the backyard, practicing her punches and her kicks, some tae kwon do for conditioning, for balance, to understand her body, how her fists and feet are not the only weapons, her elbows for instance, and how to block and defend, how to kick at shins to break a leg, and when to just run. We talk about a lot of things.

When the boys ride by, Mikey and Gino, she is embarrassed, stopping her drills. They watch and laugh, and I offer them each twenty dollars to come back in a week to spar. They smile and say hell yes and then they watch a bit more, the grins slipping off of their faces. By the time we are done, her sweaty and limp, they won't take less than forty dollars each, but I set it up anyway.

She will win handily, against both boys, and they will never bother her again. Sometimes, in fact, they slow down and give her a head nod, some respect gained in the trenches, seeing how she's changing herself, not the innocent lamb she once was.

Her parents don't notice her absences, or her training, and I don't know if this is a good thing or a bad thing—if it's something that bothers me, or makes me feel better since we now have this space, this private arena, to prepare her for what might come.

What
will
come.

I have a fight looming myself, so I spend the day working out.

I change into shorts and a T-shirt, grab a large bottle of water, and move to the living room, where I have enough space to stretch out. I start with a variety of exercises to loosen up, to get myself limber, swinging my arms back and forth, twisting my upper body. I bend over to touch my toes, holding my palms flat on the ground for as long as I can. I reach up to touch the ceiling, once again holding my hands flat. Slowly a heat builds up, my core warming, my pale skin responding to the strain. I take several different holding positions, some Tai Chi I picked up over the years—my arms thrust forward, one leg bent as the other is extended behind me. I hold it for as long as I can—one, two, three minutes, until my arms start to shake. I stand up straight and take a deep breath, guzzle down some water, and then take another position. This time, my right leg is extended to the left, behind my body, my upper body straightening up as my arms push out to the side, locked into position and held. I see movement outside, cars and buses gliding by, the day another gray one, arms starting to tremble, one minute, two, maybe three, and then I let my arms fall to my sides and bring my leg back in, standing up.

When I work out, my mind tends to wander. It could be anything—memories from my childhood, fights I had at the warehouse, things people said, movies and television shows, dialogue chirping in my ear. I never know what will pop into my head.

Today I'm thinking about a girl that lived up the street: a redhead named, appropriately enough, Ginger. She was my first love, my first kiss.

But that's not entirely accurate.

A thin film of sweat breaks out over my skin as I lower myself to the ground to begin the push-ups. One hundred is the goal, one I make most every time.

I gather myself, breathing deep, arms bent, hands under my chest, and I begin.

One…two…three…

I'm not a virgin. Let me be clear. I've been with women, mostly when I was younger, before I became this behemoth, this pasty white fleshy damaged freak. Let's just say that it takes a special woman to handle all that I have to offer.

Ten…eleven…twelve…

Ginger, she was something special, just as pale as me, with shockingly orange-red hair and sparkling green eyes. We were about Natalie's age, fifteen or so, and we'd walk home together, talking, laughing. I knew nothing about girls then, even with my health classes, the films we saw, or the diagrams about erections, seminal fluid, and ovaries. It was anything but sexy. The girls watched a film about childbirth, all of this in separate rooms, boys in one room, girls in the other. When we met in the hallway afterward, still laughing about some of the questions the boys had asked—about hard-ons, and jacking off, and vaginas—these girls looked sick to their stomachs, not meeting our gazes. One girl, Jackie, even ran to a trash can, throwing up her lunch of pizza, green beans, and milk.

Twenty…twenty-one…twenty-two…

Stephanie was several years older, already flirting with boys, going on secret dates, telling me she'd kissed a few boys, and maybe more. Her body had already changed. I'd sit on the edge of her bed and listen to the stories, fascinated and repulsed at the same time. The idea of kissing, of a tongue in my mouth—it horrified and intrigued me. I'd held Ginger's hand before, walking home after school, and she smelled good, of vanilla and berries. I wanted to kiss her, to be that intimate.

Thirty…thirty-one…thirty-two…

One day as I stepped out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, I walked past my sister's room, and she beckoned me in. She wanted to show me something, a gleam in her eye. She asked me about Ginger, and I blushed. She walked over to her dresser, picking up some perfume, a light purple glass shaped like a diamond. It smelled familiar, for sure. She asked me if I'd kissed Ginger yet, did I know what to do. I shook my head no. She spritzed some perfume on her neck and lay back on the bed. She said she could help.

Forty…forty-one…forty-two…

I push up from the floor—sweat dripping to the ground, all of this swimming back to me after years of suppression, years of wanting to forget. She said it was okay, that I kissed my parents, my aunts and uncles—it was no big deal. To prove her point, she leaned in and gave me a dry kiss.

Fifty…fifty-one…fifty-two…

Stephanie smelled like bourbon, hidden under cherries, lip balm, and the perfume. I knew that she nipped at my father's liquor cabinet every now and then. I'd seen her out front with a boy from up the street, talking and leaning into him, laughing as her face went flush. She had a gleam in her eye that I didn't like. She was still bigger than me.

Sixty…sixty-one…sixty-two…

My arms are tightening up, getting weaker and weaker, the push-ups seeming far away, like pistons of a machine. And then my sister leaned over and kissed me again, this time sliding her tongue inside my mouth. I resisted, but she pushed harder, her mouth on mine. I told her to stop. She said it was okay, she'd learned a few things and wanted to teach me, and I remembered the boy outside, I remembered Uncle Tully taking her bowling, I remembered my father sitting at the end of my bed. And hers.

Seventy…seventy-one…seventy-two…

I tried to push her off; she was my sister after all. But she had three inches on me, and at least thirty pounds. She put her lips on me again, and this time she reached under my towel and touched my cock, which sprang to life against all reason. She smiled and pushed her forearm against my neck, holding me down, and started stroking me. It was a glorious hell and I begged her to stop. She pushed her body up against my leg, rubbing her crotch up and down my leg.

Eighty…eighty-one…eighty-two…

Her arm on my neck, I can't breathe, her body humping my leg, moaning, her hand under the towel, and I can't see, I'm crying, begging her to stop, and she tells me I like it, she sees that I like it, and I can't make my body stop, my head swimming.

Ninety…ninety-one…ninety-two…

Her upper lip is glistening and I try to push her off, but she's too strong, my lips closed tight now, her mouth open, and I don't need to finish this memory, I stop short, leaving the ending, the climax, blank, as tears fall to the wooden floor with the drops of sweat from my forehead.

Ninety-eight…ninety-nine…one hundred.

I collapse to the floor and sob quietly, this memory brought up out of the depths, no rhyme or reason for why it reared its ugly head now.

I wouldn't talk to Stephanie for weeks. I avoided her in the house, didn't look at her at the dinner table, but she went on like nothing had happened, happy as a clam, singing and strutting around the house like she was queen of the world.

I hated her.

The next week, I would take her lessons and apply them to Ginger in the back of an alleyway, pushing her up against a brick wall. And at first, she was fine with it, holding me, hugging me, kissing me sweetly and gently, smelling of vanilla and berries. And then I slid my tongue in her mouth and she tensed up, resisted. But soon, she pulled me in closer, our tongues intertwined. Now I understood the appeal; this was a girl that I cared about, it was different, as I pushed up against her. She unzipped her coat and I ran my hand up the front of her sweater, tiny buds of breasts just starting to appear, her body shaking and tingling under my touch, moaning in my ear. She pushed my hand between her legs, and moved it up and down, so I rubbed her on the outside of her jeans, up and down, a heat between her legs, her mouth on mine, her slick tongue probing my mouth. She ran her hand up and down the outside of my jeans, my dick as hard as a rock, straining against the denim. Both of our hands were moving in a furious blur, out of control, our mouths together, the smell of sweat rising up out of our clothes, until her body bucked and she moaned louder, both of us finishing, collapsing into each other. We held each other and didn't say a word.

She avoided me for a few days, and then we talked, started walking together, and I told her I was sorry, and she said the same thing and then we laughed, our dirty little secret. The difference was that we both wanted it to happen. The problem was that my sister would always be mixed into these moments, tainting them forever.

We would make out now and then, Ginger and me, and then we drifted apart. Maybe she was ashamed, both of us so young, and yet the moment so intense. Later we would date again, older now, almost out of high school, and would lose our virginity together. She didn't mind how tall I'd become, filling out, my skin turning pale—my hair almost white now. We ended up seeing each other for a few months, for most of the year, both of us seniors, and then we drifted apart again. Maybe she was always associated with my sister, her perfume—that first kiss, all of it. Maybe that's what destroyed it for me—then, and every time after, and always.

I lie on the floor out of breath, sweaty, my head spinning, remembering my sister and what she'd done, for the first time in fifteen years. It explained a lot, why she looked at me so strangely sometimes, avoiding my gaze, just waiting for me to say something, to confront her. This was not playing doctor—I show you mine and you show me yours. This was not curiosity, it was abuse—she'd raped me, and I never understood why. I thought of Uncle Tully and what he may have done to my sister. I remembered the many nights my father sat at the end of my bed, sometimes in his robe, once or twice crying quietly to himself. I thought it was about my mother, but maybe I was wrong.

Why did he leave us? Mother never said, never explained. Now and then a phone call, and words whispered into the darkness late at night, and I always wondered if it was my father on the other end of the line. She'd never talk about him after he was gone, never a why, or a where, just a cold stare off into the distance, and sometimes muttering under a sip of wine,
good riddance.

These words slipped over the darkness, into the phone, and far away from my prying ears:
oil rig,
and
far away,
and she'd mumble curses and threats,
if you ever,
and then the words
police
and then
lawyer,
and sometimes
temptation,
sometimes
what did you do,
and then crying, her sobbing into the phone,
never come back,
and
you'd better be telling the
truth.

Or so help me, God…or so help me, God…or so help me, God…

Stephanie in the morning brushing her hair crying, Stephanie behind a closed door running a razor blade gently over her wrists, Stephanie standing in front of the liquor cabinet tipping back a bottle of bourbon and drinking it down, filling it back up with water, eyes darting around.

Wanting to get away with it, or wanting to get caught?

I'm not sure.