Douse (Book One: At the Edge of a Hurricane) (13 page)

CHAPTER 25

“Thank
you so much,” Carmella says. Her sister, Maria, does a sort of Virgin
Mary pose, calm and religiously esoteric. She even has her hands on her heart
and looks at Piranha’s essay work as if they were Christ.

“If
you need more help next semester,” I say, “then you can reach us
again for sure.”

“Oh,
wonderful,” Carmella says, “yes, yes.”

And
the Chinese are no different. They lap up the work like fresh water and serve
up gratitude with a thousand repeated smiles.

“You’ve
help us out so much,” Wanda says. “Really appreciate the
matter.”

“It’s
my job to.” Though on the inside, I cringe at saying so.

Soon
it won’t be true. I can say I have a respectable job not devaluing
college degrees.

But
for now?

“If
you need any more help, just contact us at this number…”

Ad
infinitum. That’s the language you use when dealing with customers.
Assure them; make them feel special, unique. Cater to them but be firm when
they raise hell for no reason. Put them in a good place.

If
anything though, manning our business gives me a talent with Jim’s
customers. Any angry caller gets a needed verbal massage. Assuage their fears,
calm them down, move into shark mode, score a client for Mr. Preston. And the
customers that are nice always become repeats. Some of them compliment me
endlessly about my silver tongue, how suave I am.

“I’m
impressed,” Mr. Preston says. “And I’m looking forward to
seeing your portfolio.”

It
takes me approximately a month or so to piece together the necessary material
for Preston.  Caddy even helps. He’s got the original designs on his
laptop. I’ve saved all the files from when we first started and when
I’d first learned basic code and WYSIWYG programs.

“When
will you find out if he’ll promote you?” Bishop asks.

And
I tell him I have no idea. It’s up to Preston.

“What
about you?” I say, one night in November, while kicking my legs up
against the headrest. Sometimes I like to sleep in reverse, with my feet where
your head is supposed to be. Bishop doesn’t mind. He massages my toes.

“What
about me what?”

“How’s
your bartending going?”

“Great.
The people tip amazing. Though it’s not all money. I like feeling the
crowd’s energy.”

“And
the church stuff?”

“The
kids are great. The moms, not so much.” He rolls one of my toes backwards
and cracks a knuckle there. I gasp in relief. “Yeah, the moms can be
leery, but they’re for the most part manageable.”

“Protective.”

“Protective
they are. Like panthers. There’s a two-way window actually. It feels
creepy sometimes. One of them is always watching me. Always.”

“Protective,
creepy, sounds like stories we know.”

“Page
one: How not to parent or how to drive your kids away completely.”

“Page
two,” I say, “how to raise the kids you never wanted—too
ironic for life. I mean really, these are the types who parent so hard to
prevent all sorts of crap, but then end up nowhere close to what they
wanted.”

“What
do you think of kids?”

 “Not
much. I’ve never thought of them.”

“You’ve
never wanted any?”

“Not
really. After seeing what kind of trauma I apparently put my parents through, I
don’t know if I want any.” I wriggle my toes. “What about
you?”

Bishop’s
head hits the headrest, making the wood clack against the wall. He massages
methodically, plucking each toe as if they were delicate grapes.

“I’ve
wanted them for some time. But then I don’t know if I want them because
of the way I was raised or because I really want them. Nature’s
call.”

“If
you do, you better pick a good mother.”

Bishop
opens an eye. “You would be great with kids. The ones at Methodist would
love you.”

“They’d
hate me. The moms would, at least. I’d be poisoning their young
kids’ minds with all sorts of things. Especially the girls. The girls
would be tainted by my mannish presence.”

Bishop
stops massaging. He pulls the blanket from underneath us, and then scoots close
to me, cocooning our bodies in soft cotton.

Bishop’s
warmth radiates outward. Under the sheets, our body heat seems to boil the
blanket. Sweat condenses on my skin, and if you were to touch my hair, you
would come away wet and soggy.

“You’re
a bold girl.”

I
trace the outline of Bishop’s eyes. Despite the semidarkness of the room,
you can still see the hazel. They’re like lighthouses desperately
scanning a wide ocean, roving over the details of my face. I mimic him,
studying what can’t be appreciated in the day. Shadows flitting around
the delicates bows of his upper and lower lips. The part in his hairline, right
where he decides to wedge gel in. Smooth skin out of a catalogue and a
delicate, loving expression, one perpetual and reminiscent of the moon. Tidal
forces, that’s it. There are tidal forces drawing me close to Bishop,
drawing me nearer and nearer to his mouth, to him.

“I
had to be to get you,” I say.

CHAPTER 26

The
graduates toss their caps into the air. Caddy catches his with a flourish of a
hand. He’s an ecstatic ball of energy, never frowning once.

“I
saw you clapping like an idiot,” he says. Piranha and I exchange our own
code when Caddy’s idiosyncrasies crop up: a casual flap of the wrist. We
love him the same, big ego or not.

“We
couldn’t stop watching you trip over your gown,” I say. “You
don’t wear red too well.”

“Girl,
whatever, you’re just jealous.”

I
hug Caddy. The man who I’ve known with for years now has graduated and
completed his dream degree. I grip his shoulder blades tight and squeeze him.

“We’re
proud of you,” Piranha says.

“So
proud,” I add.

“You
guys want to go out for some pizza? There’s this place that just opened
up on Broadway.”

We
pile into his ancient station wagon and play kitschy dad rock tunes and bob our
heads wildly. The passengers in other cars gawk at our antics, but we
don’t care, we’re celebrating this great guy. International
Relations. Many hours pored over textbooks and countries and politics and
factions.

“You’ll
have to remember me when I’m in jail,” I say, “I’m a
bad girl. You’re better than hanging around me.”

Caddy
cranks his head around from the driver’s seat. We’re at a red
light, which highlights the back of his head eerily as he stares at me.

“If
you’re ever arrested, I’ll pardon you.”

“What
about me?”

“Is
it an American thing to get arrested?” Caddy asks.

Piranha
nods. “Nothing more American than the justice system working then not
working at all.”

We
all laugh, even though it’s not particularly funny. It’s the high
from our burgeoning lives fueling this car.

Caddy’s
graduated, I’ve graduated. Piranha has a semester left to finish up, and
then we’re “adults”.

Despite
my pleas otherwise, Caddy continues the business on the side. You can’t
really blame him for raking in the cash when it pays for the electricity,
Internet, water, and various other luxuries like new kitchen equipment or a
better sofa. It’s easy to take advantage of an unfair advantage. Nobody
wants to loose their edge. Even I had qualms about walking away from the money.
It’s not a ton, but when you’re hurting, even five dollars looks
like gold.

“I’m
going to these places,” Caddy says, “to apply for jobs. I’m
really going. During my breaks and stuff.”

“Have
you found anything promising? I can help you.”

“No
help needed, I’ve got it.”

Caddy’s
complacency only grows with the coming months. Horse and water and whatnot. He
spends more and more time on the computer, more and more time soliciting
students online. I help him when possible, but eventually you realize the
limited twenty-four hours in a day doesn’t allow for loads of work. Days
become hours and minutes become seconds. Seconds don’t even exist. Everyone’s
felt the whiplash of time. Once in motion, nothing stops. Except when, finally,
the whiplash comes to a halting
crack
.

“I
have to comment about this,” Preston says, splaying his fingers across
the front desk one day. He points to the portfolio I’d sent him.
“You’ve obviously spent a lot of time on your craft. I’m
talking it over with the team. Janice might be leaving.”

Janice,
one of the other coworkers I barely see, is the web admin for Jim’s Tax
Services. Apparently, she’s moving on out and up to some other big fish
company. Preston rambles on about the projects, the kind of tasks I’ll
need to do. But I keep saying yes, yes, this is what I’d like to do, it
sounds exciting, it sounds “real”, it sounds like a job I can be
proud of.

“You’ve
got experience doing more than you let on,” he says. “Why
didn’t you put all this down on your resume in the first place?”

“I
thought the other experience wasn’t that relevant to the receptionist
job. Had I known, I would’ve totally told you.”

Except
I wouldn’t have, choosing instead to keep my “double life” a
secret.

And
the secrets continue to erode my spirit. I travel to Bishop’s house. He
asks me how work is. I tell him I’m still with my friends, living in the
cramped apartment, outgrowing the situation but held hostage by finances.

“Your
place is nice,” I say. “But it’s not like I’m
suggesting moving in with you or anything,” I say, even faster.

“I’ve
been thinking about getting a new place actually. Downsize.”

 “I’d
imagine. It’s huge for one person.”

Bishop
eyes me.

“I’m
really not!”

“If
you want to maybe one day we can think about living together. I’d like
to.”

One
afternoon, while sitting on the couch, chilling together, he nibbles on the
edge of my ear. I lean in closer, trying to angle myself for the best bite.
When he does so, a sting zaps the side of my head, and I jolt upright, laughing
at his playfulness.

“What
do you think of me?” Bishop says.

“What
do you mean?”

“As
in, well, what are we?”

“We’ve
never had this discussion before.”

“Nope.
Not one bit.”

Bishop
rolls onto his butt. He wears sweats that outline the curvature of his thigh
muscles. His lean calves bulge against his pants. The sweatshirt he has on
contains his chest’s real estate poorly—the shirt pops outwardly.

“Hello?”

I
wake up from ogling. “Right.”

“What
do you think about us, in seriousness, my lady?”

“Honestly?
I’ve thought about you really warmly for some time now. You’re not
a friend, but a close, close man I’ve grown really accustomed to.”

“So.”

“A
boyfriend?”

“That
sounds nice. What more?”

“I
like you a whole lot. You’re sweet and gentle. You’ve never judged
me. That’s the thing about you. You’ve never been condescending or
felt like you were better or superior. You let me be me and you be you and
everything stand as is.”

“I
love that about you too.”

“You
love that about me.”

“I
love a lot of things about you.”

The
question I want to ask is, do you love me? But I bite my lip in an effort to
constrain my more romantic thoughts. Slow, steady, not rushed. Relationships
are new territory—it’s like sailing across the Atlantic in a
rickety boat, except I know what’s on the other side.

In
the New World, there is love and hope. In the New World, there is hurt and
pain. In the New World, there is trust and compassion.

I
just don’t know if I’ll survive the journey. But I have to make an
effort. Leaving someone you’ve invested time and effort in is like
jumping off in the middle an ocean.

“I
love a lot of thing about you too.”

“You’re
seriously a great gal.”

“And
you’re a great guy.”

“You
want to be my girl?”

I
can’t stop the smile from forming. It bursts so freely, two directions,
two wings, happy and happier, left and right, that I think it becomes a
permanent feature on my face.

“I
would love to be your girlfriend.”

“Then
I’m your boyfriend.”

It’s
in the aftermath of spring that Piranha graduates. American History. Cap and
gown. She’s as ecstatic as Caddy was, but slightly more demure, as if
someone in her life died.

“I’ll
just miss the studying,” she says. “The books I have are insightful
to the nth degree. I need to know more.” 

"You'll
be fine," I say.

But
it's me who's not. With the advent of her degree, she buries herself even more
into Educate Inc. She spends nights slamming the keyboard, skin to plastic contact,
every night, all nights. This is in addition to the horrible renditions of the
Star Spangled Banner—the neighbors complain of noise. They break the
record number of complaints for one month: six.

"Have
you thought about working at a museum?"

"That's
never going to happen. Not now. Museum work is hard to come by. Finding stable
museum work? Not happening now."

I
keep encouraging her though. Keep at it, Piranha, you'll hit your stride. One
of those applications has to be a yes. You can be a historian or a caretaker at
a museum or anything related. Teacher? She would be better than most I've had.

Market
forces force us together. The economy is bad. Nobody is hiring like they used
to. Moreover, rent doesn't get cheaper. It jacks up until you're caught beneath
the dollars signs. Can't break the lease, can't leave your friends high and
dry, and if you could, it wouldn't be wise moving out on your own, spending
more money to be by yourself. 

Piranha
types furiously at night. In the end, her and Caddy are the sole arbiters of
their lives. To micromanage them, to change them—I'm either being nosy or
worried or something else. 

"I
actually got an interview," Piranha tells me one day. "Though it's
not the best."

"Better
than nothing. What for?"

"An
at-home editor. I'd telecommute. They'd send checks."

"Try
it."

"What
about you? Work? Are you a designer yet?"

"Almost,"
I say, confidently. "I'm just an admin for now."

Preston gave me the job after Janice's departure. She left a rift in Preston's work life.
He hovers near me now at every hour of the day, checking in to see how servers
are doing and what's up with his website. 

"You're
more big girl than me," Piranha says.

"Don't
think like that. I'm not better or worse than you. We're equals."

"No
way. A boyfriend, a post collegiate career in the works. You'll be moving out
soon."

The
way her tongue strums the word "soon" is like a guitarist snapping a
chord. Soon. I'll leave soon. 

"Are
you worried about that?"

"Caddy
is," she whispers. "He's always been. After you patched up, it'll
he's like that. And I'm your girlfriend, we can speak openly. I feel like that
too. You're getting ahead. We're staying put."

"You
can too. Culinary school. Teacher. Keep applying."

Piranha
grumbles. "What else is there to do?" she says.

Summer
brings humidity and eternal showers. Rain, rain, washing away the filthy
streets, cleaning the gutters, cars left outside. The rain imprisons me
indoors, though I'm not complaining. Bishop invites me over when it rains.

"I'm
definitely moving out. I have a place set up," he says.

"Where?
Is it a good side of town?"

"East."

"Not
bad."

"Especially
since I'll be closer."

“Will
you?”

“I
checked the map. A twenty minute drive to ten minutes.”

“That’s
definitely an upgrade. Possibly more time together?”

“Possibly
so.”

We
take things super slow, though our gestures make it clear we think higher and
higher of one another. Weeks pass, but I always remember the break in my rote
routines: Bishop. Seeing him smile, walk, talk. Watching him take off his
cardigans or those jeans of his, touching his muscles. Our discussions stay
light and nonchalant. Nothing progressive or mind numbing. You can only bitch
about your parents for so long before you have to take responsibility for yourself.
And after bitching the last thing you want to cover is more interpersonal
relationship stuff.

We
curl together on the couch one evening. Popcorn crackles on the
stove—we’re making it together. He guides my hand to the burning
kettle handle, making sure to keep a towel glued to our palms.

A
younger me wouldn’t have dared to get close to kitchenware. They were the
tools of abuse, pots, pans, ladles. That’s why I put up with
Piranha’s horrid cooking phase freshman year. Forks and spoons were a
trial and tribulation era during sophomore year. I could barely touch a box of
Ramen noodles without flinching once, thinking of the punishments incurred in
youth.

Touch
the stove, Violet.

And
I would touch.

And
I would burn. And they’d make me touch again, singing the skin.

But
now, in the safety of Bishop’s cradle, I can touch heat. I can touch
fire.

I
could do this myself. I won’t even need Bishop in the future. Nor
anybody. Strong alone, that is the endgame. Valorous, such that no man or woman
could lord anything over my head, especially silly fears like not touching
kitchenware.

“You’re
really kind,” I say. “You know how to treat me just right.”

“It’s
because you’re important.”

“Am
I?”

“You
say that like you’re undeserving.”

“I
feel like that sometimes. Like I shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Don’t
say those words again. If you do, I might just have to kiss you.”

My
innards jumble whenever he speaks sweetly. Intestines tie up. Stomach implodes.
Blood pumps. Bishop amplifies the existence I have. What I know of the world.

Bishop’s
birthday comes. He’s past the crazy parties you might have in your youth.
He calls me over, and we hang out over a small table holding up a lemon pie we
baked together.

Bishop
lost his support network since abandoning the gambling world. Fine and good in
my book. Those kinds of friends—

I
cut myself off. I hold back my judgments. Who knows what kind of people they
were?

“I
feel bad sometimes. Like we did do this thing together where we would leave
behind old, bad behaviors, right? But I still have my friends.” And you
don’t, I would say, but Bishop cuts the cake, avoiding my eyes, clearly
thinking about the loss in his life.

“They
weren’t what we would need,” he says.

“I
don’t want to end up the controlling bad guy who tries changing
everybody. I just want to be a positive force.”