Dear Hearts (5 page)

SEVEN

Elena

I have sex with a man who doesn't
love me, not like he did when we were kids.  When we were kids love was an
easy drug to take when you couldn't find it anywhere else.  Mitch's mother
would beat him with a spoon and the first time he told me he loved me, he
showed me the welts on his ribs.  I jumped my finger against them like
they were skipping across rocks in a river.  And then I showed him what I
liked to do against the back of my thighs with my mother's razor.

"Does
it hurt?"

"Yes. 
Thankfully," I had said when we were thirteen and naked and his lips
kissed where the blood had braided into thin red lines.

That's
sick, right?  And what's even sicker is knowing that my husband just
doesn't love me that way anymore, but that I keep wishing that I can change his
heart by just opening my legs.  At the very least, I know I can change his
mind about AA.

I
smell like my body splash, sickly sweet vanilla and I've soaked my raw hands in
lotion, glossed my lips.  Wren is asleep so my clothes are in a pile on
the floor, and I wait on the bed until he stumbles in because I need to seal
this deal.  I need to get clean.

After
he falls asleep, after he's come, and I've muffled my noise with a slippery
hand, I'm jailed in his arms.  I think about the woman he's fucking on
Saturdays and want to stab him in the eye with the nail file I keep in my night
stand.  But I don't.  I stay there.  I stay jailed.  I
think about my TV and how the colors will feel flashing on my face as Mitch
snores and breath invades my brain.

I
pretend all the pieces fit.

I
break free from the breath and the snores and walk naked to the bathroom. I lay
down on it, press my nose against the grout and smell the tile.

The
cutting came before the bleach, and sometimes I still think about it, the thin
strips of pain on the back of my thighs.  I'd lay on my belly on my bed
while my brothers blasted Remote Control in the living room of our doublewide
and stroke my legs with a blade I'd remove from my mother's razor with her
sewing scissors.  Or sometimes I'd use the blade from a pencil sharpener
I'd pick up at the Five and Dime when my mother was having one of her "spells"
and wouldn't leave her bedroom which was unfortunately situated across from our
only bathroom.

But
I stopped when I knew Mitch loved me because he made it feel like
forever.  But forever can easily be a nanosecond when the person who loves
you forgets to do exactly that.

I
think about the woman he loves now.  Her full mouth, breasts, her legs
open, taking his love while I soak my worries with lungs full of bleach.

~

Church
is suffocating.  I always plan two bathroom breaks with Wren so she
doesn't have an accident, and so I can stand up on the heater and put my mouth
at the cracked open window near the ceiling in the women’s restroom
..

She
used to ask what I was doing but she doesn't anymore.  "Bird
watching," is what I said the first time she asked.

Our
church is ornate and Mary watches you from a number of different niches. 
She's beautiful, Mary, or at least the artist's rendering of her is
beautiful.  I wonder what she looked like in real life, I wonder if her
face was as perfectly sculpted or if she had to tug on stray hairs sprouting
out near her eyebrows like I do.

My
arm is jolted and it's Mitch stabbing me with the offering basket.  Wren
drops a dollar in it, the bill folded so no one can tell it's just a buck. 
The homily was about loving thy neighbor and I think of loving my husband last
night, and how I tried to hold on to that moment and shape it into to something
that felt like real love.  But this morning, when I woke up, he chose the
Christmas tree polo, and I chose another pair of wedges, black this time but
just as scuffed up, and I remembered all the moves to our usual dance.

After
Mass I
  hold
my breath.  We stand, tight
circled with the Gibsons and talk BMWs.  Mitch tries to make a crack, but
I think it's fortunately lost on Luke who can't seem to find it in himself to
be offended by people who drive a hand-me-down Dodge Dakota.  But I'm sure
Ronnie caught it.

I
choke on Donna Karen because Ronnie and the gang have to head out to Little
Rock to visit with Luke's parents, and when she hugs me, I pretend we're
changing bodies so I don't have to stay here.  And that's when I say the
stupid thing when Ronnie asks what we have planned.

"Oh,
probably just grab brunch at New Hampton.  I love the omelets." 
Everyone pretends this is the truth, and it goes quiet until Ronnie saves the
day and then the Gibsons are in their BMW because they can afford a BMW and
enough omelets to kill a small elephant.

I
look at them. 
My little family.
  My
cheating husband, my daughter who really is beautiful despite looking a little
like
Mitch’s sister.  She’s digging her thumb into the
penny in the post, and I suffer a little knowing the only plans we have today
involve leftover pot roast.

EIGHT

Elena

I got us the baby appointment
because that's women do, they have babies.  But I also know I'm not like
the other women, that somewhere on Pyle Drive a dyke is keeping an eye on a
storage unit that houses my brand new TV and that's not something other women do,
buy secret TVs.  I keep thinking, we'll see the doctor, we'll get
pregnant, and then all the shit that builds up higher and higher until we start
scaling shit mountain will suddenly disintegrate, and then we'll be back on
solid ground.  Maybe then I can be happy.  Maybe then I can stop
living lies.

Maybe
then he'll stop cheating on me.

"Do
you have this in a size two?" says a woman who would be a size two if size
two decided to eat nothing but donuts for the rest of its life.  I smile
until my cheeks hurt, tell her I'll go check the back and then I stay there for
ten straight minutes and light up one of the cigarettes Tanisha thinks she
artfully hides behind a box of deformed sports bras.

Everything
in here was either manufactured with defects or is used
goods,
hence the name Hattie's Half-Priced Fashions.  The place stinks on both
the literal and figurative levels, so I keep gulping on the smoke to rid myself
of the soiled armpit stench in the backroom.   I only smoke at work
or sometimes late at night, I'll bum a draw off Mitch's cigarette.  But I
generally don't like the idea of sucking on something that kind of reminds me
of a tiny dick.

"That
my cigs?" Tanisha says, and she says it all badass like because
everybody's supposed to know you don't mess with Tanisha.  But she likes
me because I let her use our address to get her daughter into White Smoke
elementary, which is pretty much Harvard compared to Oak Forest.  And I
like Tanisha because her life makes mine look like I'm freaking Jennifer
Aniston.

"That
my coffee mug?"

"Touché,"
she says but pronounces it like 'touch.'  I don't correct her because
Tanisha might like me, but I saw her beat on her boyfriend in the back of
Half-Priced once, and by the way she left him staggering near the side of that
Town Car of his, I'm sure the man still has a hard time sitting.  And I
happen to like the way I sit just fine.

"When
does Bitch Tits get back?" she asks and gently shakes my "World's
Best Mom" mug so that I can hear the ice click.  She drinks Mountain
Dew every morning, and I told her once she'll turn radioactive from that crap
but then she asked what radioactive meant so I dropped it.

"Soon, probably.
  Bank
stuff," I say, referring to Hattie herself, the Jesus-loving
sixty-year-old owner of Hattie's Half-Priced Fashions who has a mouth like a
sailor and is willing to dock your pay if you’re five seconds late for
work.  But I deal with her because she pays me in cash and knows how to
keep a secret.

It
was, what's that word, kismet? 
Finding this place
because I had to pee like a racehorse on my way back from dropping Wren off at
school.
  I went in, thought I'd see if I could find some sort of
cheap alternative to Ronnie's Gucci bag, and after I choked down the sweaty
scent of pre-worn clothes, I saw the sign on one of the registers, "Help
Wanted," and it might as well have said "Elena's New Job." 
It was the day I found the text on Mitch's phone that said "meet
me."  The number had been saved as "Accountant."  Jesus
Loving Pam did (still does) our taxes, so this was someone else. 
Someone new.
   

"What
would you bring to the table at Hattie's Half-Priced Fashions?" Hattie had
asked in the back room of the shop.  We sat at the round table pushed so
close to the counter that Tanisha had to sidle her way between my chair and the
sink to grab a mug, her backside squeaking my chair forward.

"Excuse
me, Tanisha.  Do you mind?  We're having a little meeting?"
Hattie said and I knew she was saying it in the way a black widow must sweetly
murmur to its victim before killing and eating it.  But I didn't care
because Hattie offered the cash deal and besides, you have to respect a bitch
who knows what she wants.

Tanisha
grabs the pack from me and takes out the lighter jammed down between the
cigarettes.  She lights one up and takes a long slow draw, with her eyes
closed.

"You're
lucky you're married."  I snort and she gives me a set of bug
eyes.  "I'm serious.  Jonesy don't have no job, don't think he
needs one because he 'ain't no chained down man.' 
Whatever
the fuck that means.
  Men screw with your head, screw in your bed,
and then give you the plain 'ol screw you."  She sucks on her
cigarette and I try to not picture it as a miniature prick. 
Too late.
 
"But the worst part?
 
Tasia never gonna know a real daddy.  That man
be
full of shit from day one, and it's all his fault."  She reaches down
for my World's Best Mom cups, shakes the ice.  "Mine, too," she
says.

"You
ever think of having an affair?" I ask because I think of Ronnie and her
yard boy.  I think of my husband who's hurting my heart, and I think of my
heart that's too scabbed over to hurt anymore.

This
time, Tanisha is the one who snorts. 
"Yeah, sure,
all the time.
  Just drop off Tasia at the Nanny and have my driver
drop me off at Mr. Money Bucks' mansion.  We have a grand 'ol
time."  When she laughs I see the gold caps in the back of her mouth.

"Hello
ladies!" Hattie says from out in the showroom.  She does that, chats
up the customers like they’re old friends from Bingo when really, I know she
just sees them as walking dollar signs. 
Hats off to
Hattie.

"Aw,
shit," Tanisha says and crushes the cigarette under her patent leather
boot.  She scoots the remains across the concrete into the vent near the
floor.

"You're
horrible," I laugh.

"Somebody's
got to be."  She shrugs and puts my mug on the counter near the
kitchen sink and heads back out to deal with women who believe the mirrors are
lying to them.  Everyone's a size two at Hattie's.

I
grab the mug, slowly rinse it out.  It's the one Wren bought for my
birthday two months ago when Mitch took her on a shopping trip.  She
picked it out at the store all by herself and that's what she told me when I
opened it.  And I remember hearing her words and not being able to concentrate
because her skin smelled like ammonia.  Like piss. 

I
look at the lettering, how the "M" has chipped off a little bit, and
I help it out with the sponge and soap and hot water until it says World’s Best
Om.  I dry the mug with the damp kitchen towel somebody, probably Tanisha,
left wadded up near the fridge and then I place it back with the other mugs.

I
close the door before I can process what I've done.

~

When my shift is over and I smell
exactly like the backroom, I wash up in the bathroom until my hands hurt.
  I take
out the bottle of vanilla body splash from my faux leather
bag,
the one with the pebbled skin that Mitch said reminded him of me. 
Leathery, wrinkly, crinkles when opened.  Thanks, Mitch.

I
stole this latest bottle of body splash at the White Smoke Mall when the lady
said they weren't having their two for one sale unless you were a member of
Bath and Body Works which I know is a bold faced lie because she winked at the
lady before me and threw in the two for one like it was their little
secret.  But apparently it wasn't our little secret because her nose kept
snarling slightly, and I think it may have been because I was wearing my faded
Helena High School sweatshirt that still fits, thank you very much.  Not
like Ms. Snarly Nose gave two shits because she called out "Next"
before I could even get a word in edgewise.  So I put the bottle in my bag
without anyone seeing me except for Wren who said, "Don't you have to buy
that first?"  I smacked her on the back of the head, but smack is an
over exaggeration.  Light tap, maybe.

I
only work from 9 to 2, so Mitch is long gone by the time I head to work and
Wren is already at school and doesn't have to be picked up until after
3:15.  That means I have an hour and fifteen minutes after work for
myself, and I use this time to get shit faced at the mall.  I stop first
at Floyd's Gas Stop and get one of those giant plastic cups filled to the brim
with Dr. Pepper and then I head over to Bubba's Beer and Booze and get me two
tiny bottles of whiskey and dump them into my drink.  I swish, swish,
swish the concoction around with my red straw and take a deep drink and don't
stop until I get that warm feeling, that feeling where my limbs melt and I'm
more a part of the car than I am myself.  Sometimes I make the mistake of
looking in the rearview mirror and watch my eyes
blink, an
intense blue that Mitch used to say were
"clear as the
ocean."  And I look deep into them, but I don't really see
anything.  I glance at Wren's empty booster seat, and then I try not to
feel anything.

I
coast down and park at the mall that is stupidly busy for a weekday. 
Welfare checks being burned, teenagers skipping school, harried mothers with
screaming balls of snot in strollers.  It's a mess inside, but it's a fun
mess when you're buzzed.

I'm
already halfway through my drink when I think about getting something to eat,
but then I see Bath and Body Works and Ms. Snarly Nose, so I decide to park
myself on the bench just outside of the store.  There's an older woman in
a track suit tending to her knitting and a guy standing near her peripheral in
white sneakers and white high socks barking into his cell phone.  I can't
tell if he's angry or laughing.

I
watch Ms. Snarly Nose for a second and try to picture her life: Single, lives
in a one bedroom, possibly a two-bedroom with a roommate.  Goes into
Little Rock on the weekends and wears cute little outfits, dances with cute
men.  She thinks she's better than me.

The
clouds open and a miracle practically
strikes
me
down.  It's quitting time for Ms. Snarly Nose, and instead of navigating
the web of back hallways connecting all the stores in the mall, she exits out
the front of Bath and Body Works, and I decide to follow her trail.  She
has a red lunchbox strapped onto her shoulder, and a bag from Dillard's in her
hand.  She's wearing cute leather sandals, a sundress that shows off her
bare arms.  Her hair is blonde, an obnoxious shade.  I have dark
hair. 
Can't lighten it.

I
take another crucial swallow of
  whiskey
/Dr.Pepper
and the burn propels my feet.  I bump into a pig -faced teenager who's
moping behind her prettier friends, and she apologizes like it's her fault.

"Watch
it, Fatty," I say and her friends start to giggle.  I feel horrible,
the hole in my heart widening, but I'm not really talking to the girl. 
I'm talking to Ms. Snarly Nose who's click-clacking in her beautifully heeled
sandals.

She
goes to the Clinique counter to make a return.  She has a bottle of
perfume, "Happy," that she upgrades for the larger size.  And
that really grinds my gears, like she's waving it in my face: "I don't
even have to wear the stupid body splash that you wear, Elena.  I wear
real perfume like a fucking adult."

"Can
I help you?"  I turn and a woman with slick red lips and bottled
brown hair squirts at my eyes.

"Passionate,"
she says and takes an exaggerated whiff.

"I'm
sure," I say and turn on my heels because Ms. Snarly Nose has already
taken her newer, bigger bottle of perfume and is skirting around the purses to
the exit.  I follow behind, not too close, and when she stops to tug at
the heel of her shoe, I start to finger a turquoise smock with flowers chasing
each other around the neckline.  It looks like something Jimmy's colorblind
wife would wear.

Out
in the parking lot the sun is unforgiving.
and
I go
rooting around my bag for the pair of sunglasses I picked up from Wal-Mart but
told Ronnie I got from Target.  There's a long scratch in the middle of
the right lens so it looks like Ms. Snarly nose is cut in half, a magician's
trick.  She's standing at the curb outside of the Dillard's, and I pretend
to be waiting for my ride, too, letting the last droplets of Dr. Pepper and
whiskey cool my tongue.

"Why
are you following me?"  I glance over, praying that I heard her
wrong, but she's facing me now, beautifully slim in her red dress with white
flower heads the size of my fist.  And my left hand is in a fist, so I
take a few breaths until my fingers relax.

"I
wasn't following you."

"Yes
you were. 
From when I got off work.
  And I
know
you,
you're that lady that stole the body
splash."

"What? 
I never-I don't do that.  Don't steal."  There's no trashcan so
I place the drink down at my feet and try to play sober.  It's not working
because my hands are
moving,
I have no place to put
them.  And I can tell Ms. Snarly Nose has caught on because she gives me
the same face I saw the last time something like this happened.  I had
gone to the library instead of the mall and picked out some books for Wren
because kids need books, they need to read to grow their brains and the
librarian had that sadness in her eyes like her heart was ripping for me tissue
by tissue by tissue because I couldn't quite stack the books right and walk out
the library without bruising my hip against the double doors.