Heartbreaker (10 page)

Yes, it is. It's exactly what I want.

Her head doesn't stop shaking.

Bea, it's what I want, everything's great.

No, she says again. You're not satisfied. I can't do it like you need it.

What? Yes—

No, Jonathan, fuck. Listen to me. She turns to face me, her earrings swinging against her chin. You have to go back.

I look at her with my mouth open.

Bea, I can't. If I do something again, it will be real time, like—

But that's the
point
, she says, getting so excited her butt lifts off the porch step, her hands a shaking pair of claws gripping an invisible ball. You need to do it for
real
.
Fuck
probation,
fuck
community service, you know? I want us to have a relationship, Jonathan, a real fucking relationship, not just us fucking living here and drinking beer and living like every other fucking asshole in this fucking city!

Wait, slow down, Bea, what—

I try to catch one of her hands, but she only lets me touch her fingers for a moment before she's reaching for another cigarette.

Why don't you trust me? Why can't you admit what you really want?

I do, of course I do. I'm telling you what I really want and it's not those guys, for fuck's sake, that's not what it's about at all—

She laughs this mean little laugh as her thumb trips along her lighter.

Oh, it's not? Then what's it about, macho man?

I look at her and I don't know what she's thinking. I feel like I'm playing a game of Monopoly and she's got all the good property and no matter what I roll I'm going to owe her some big bucks.

It's just about—having fun, right? I say. Playing a game, right?

Fun? she spits, scrunching up her face.

Just for—like, because it's not real.

What?

It's not real? I say again, but as a question.

What's not real?

I pause, blinking.

It—the whole—the sex part? I stutter.

Jonathan, what the shit are you saying?

We made it up, right? Together, like … isn't that … what we did?

You made it up, she repeats, her voice flat, and I can see her nostrils quiver and the veins in her neck pulse hard and blue. She stares at me with eyes so wide I can see the whites all around the green part. For a long time we're just looking at each other.

You stupid fucking asshole, she says, her chin shaking, her lips pulled down. How dare you, she says, stubbing her cigarette out on the porch step. How fucking dare you.

And instead of yelling or screaming or hitting me, she cries. The tears just run down her face and she sniffs, standing up, and goes into the house and slams the door. I yell, I beg, but she doesn't let me in.

Finally I fall asleep on the porch. In the morning she drops a cardboard box of my clothes next to my head.

If you're here when I get back, she says, I'll kill you, and she stomps down the steps, sunglasses on and her hair uncombed, and she gets in our car and drives away.

*   *   *

She changes her phone number almost immediately. I think, Okay, give her a few days, let her calm down. When I get up the nerve to walk by the apartment someone else is there. I pound on the door, but the man who opens it says he's never heard of Bea, even though I can see all our furniture still inside. He says if I don't get the fuck off his porch he's going to call the cops.

I'm thinking of her face behind the glass in a real prison, her hand up to touch mine. I'm thinking of her smile, spread wide enough to show the molar with the dead nerve inside that turned the tooth gray.

Did you hear what I said, fuckface? the guy says, stepping into me.

I just stand there on the porch—my porch, me and Bea's porch—looking this guy in the face. I'll do whatever I have to do. And when the first man puts his hands on me, I'll be ready.

 

WHOLE LIFE AHEAD

I'm so cold, she says, the first thing, her voice small and faraway, and he doesn't know if she is saying it to him or if it is something she has been saying for a long time before he got here. He clears his throat, says her name; she turns her head sharply, like a deer, on the edge of fright.

Hello? she says.

It's me, he tells her, and puts his hands on her arms. When she moves dirt falls on her shoulders, skips down her dress. He's aware that her back is only bones beneath the dress, skin shrunk against them like leather, but he doesn't mind; he expected worse.

Do you know how long you were in the ground? he asks.

No.

Eight weeks, he says, and she looks surprised, her eyes climbing the hill as though looking for something.

Oh, she says.

*   *   *

He met her on TV. She was already dead by then: in all the photographs beautiful, smiling, nineteen. She was buried a mile from his apartment and he went to her every night, all night. The facts of her death did not deter him:
brutal, raped, slashed.
His love would fix all that. All she had to do was find her way back to the world, to him. If he wished hard enough, loved strong enough, she would. Did.

*   *   *

When he kisses her he can taste her teeth right behind her lips. There is no water in her; she can't cry, she can't spit. Everything on her cracks and splits. When he touches her he can feel her bones trying to remember how to move, clicking where the cartilage is almost gone.

Do you like it when I do this? he asks.

I will, she says, I just have to get used to it.

Am I your first?

She frowns. Why does that matter?

It doesn't, I just want to know.

Well, you know what he did, she tells him.

I mean besides what he did.

Then you're the first, she says, and he squeezes her hand, so happy. He says it: I'm happy.

She touches the hem of her dress, remembering something about it. Picking it out, putting it on. Being happy, too. She couldn't reach the zipper herself and someone had to zip it for her and that must be the sound she hears all the time, the teeth coming together, then being torn apart.

*   *   *

The cut is still there, a dark smile on her throat, but on the third night he can see something bright glitter beneath the skin: freshness, red.

There's blood, he says.

What?

Growing, inside. Can't you feel it?

She swallows. The spot shifts, looks wet.

No, she says. She touches the white line of skin on her ring finger.

Not there, he says. Here. On your neck.

I can't feel anything there.

Just try.

No, she says again, and pushes his hand away, the bone-light brush of her without power, without weight. He thinks of holding her wrist, squeezing it. It would snap. Even a man like him would be able to hurt her. The other man, the bad one, was so big he could do anything. Whatever he wanted.

*   *   *

She looks tired, or maybe it's just how deep her eyes have sunk in their sockets. It's hard for her to really look at him; she keeps seeing old things, things that aren't happening anymore, and the new things get lost beneath them. He tells her that her vision will get better; she knows it won't, because her eyes aren't really eyes anymore, but she keeps this to herself. They sit on the dark grass and he holds her hand, marvels at it, the split nails still flecked with polish, pink. There are lots of little things like this, things that delight him: the full white skirt of her dress, the ankle straps on her white shoes, the small gold hoops in her ears.

Did you know? That I was here? I came every night. I read you all the articles and the obituaries and stuff, remember?

She nods. She doesn't say what else she heard: the dropping of his semen in the dirt, its slow sinking, the thirsty earth bringing it closer. The box stopped it from touching her but she still knew it was there, more and more, his crying out a whisper bleeding down to the roots of the new grass.

She shivers and he puts his arm around her. She can't seem to be made warm but he tries; he holds her close, closer, and she makes a sound and it sounds to him like Yes.

*   *   *

He can't take her out during the day—when the sun appears she is simply not there, doesn't come back again until it is night—but in the dark she can pass as something still living. He is ecstatic when he sees her, less than a week later, changed; the bones don't press so painfully against the skin, her eyes have fattened in their sockets. He has brought a comb and he rakes the rest of the dirt from her hair until it gleams. The wind strokes the tall grass. When they take their first step beyond the cemetery he is delirious, full of plans.

We could go out, he says. Dancing, walking, wherever you wanted to go.

Oh no, she says, shaking her head. No, I don't think so.

Why not? It's almost closed up, he says, looking at her neck. And the dress fits now. You gained weight.

I don't weigh anything, she says matter-of-factly.

He smiles. If you say so.

She looks down the road outside the gate and stops, pulling on his hand.

What? he asks.

We shouldn't, she says.

Shouldn't what? You don't want to go out tonight?

I don't think I want to go out any night, she says.

Why not?

I should go back to where I came from.

But you came from the ground, he says, giving her a little smile as he gestures toward the cemetery.

Isn't that where I belong?

No, he says. Why would you even say that?

She looks over her shoulder, back to the hill, takes a few drifting steps to the gate; he takes her arm to stop her, his fingers meeting around the narrow bone.

You're not giving this a chance, he says.

A chance? she says, and there is that look again in her eyes, like she is seeing two things at once.

Look, he urges, I'll be with you the whole time. I won't let you out of my sight for one second.

She swallows and her throat makes a clicking sound. I don't want to get in a car, she says. It always happens in cars.

He doesn't ask, What happens? Fine, he says, shrugging. We can walk, it's just six blocks. A nice place. I promise, you'll like it. Okay?

She is quiet.

Okay? he says again.

*   *   *

He gets her a soda water with cranberry; he drinks bourbon straight. She looks at the glass.

I could have brought you a clean dress, he apologizes. I will next time.

She shakes her head. It's fine.

Take a sip, he suggests.

She puts the glass to her lips but the liquid somehow doesn't make it into her mouth. She can feel it dripping down the front of her. The cranberry juice leaves a long pink mark on her dress and she scratches at it with a napkin, over and over.

It's okay, he says, patting her knee. We'll try again some other time. Did you taste it at all? he asks.

I don't know, she says, and as she works at the stain her movements become angry, erratic. What is it supposed to taste like? she says.

What do you mean?

I can't drink it! she half-shouts, the scarf around her neck slipping; she pushes it back up.

Hey, he says, leaning close to calm her. Shh. There's nothing wrong.

Her fingers tremble. I still can't really see you, she says. I don't know what you look like.

Who cares, honey, you will, you'll see everything just perfect in a little while, he says, draining his glass. I'll put a song on for you.

I don't want music, she says.

He tucks his lips, turns the glass in his hands. I didn't bring you here so you could mope.

What did you bring me here for?

To just … have a nice time. He shrugs. He can't say what he wants, it is so deep, so difficult inside him. It will take time, he reminds himself; he can wait, he has already been so patient.

Remember this? he says, slipping the ring out of his pocket, putting it on the bar. She stares at it: something flickers in the amethyst heart, the scratched gold band.

Where did you get that?

I found it, he says, grinning. He offers it like a piece of candy, in the palm of his hand. It might be a little big now, he says. But you'll grow into it.

I don't want to, she says.

Why not?

She keeps her hands clasped beneath the bar. He elbows her gently. Just take it, he says.

She remembers the box it came in, white velvet, stamped with the name of the jeweler in silver letters.

But why? she asks. Why should I take it?

Because it's yours, because it's pretty. Why does it matter? Why do you make a big deal out of every little thing?

I don't.

You're always complaining.

She is silent.

Hey, come on. You look beautiful. No one can tell what happened to you. Don't worry about it.

She turns back to him, her eyes fresh with tears; his chest clenches to see them. Water. Life.

It's not
that
, she says through gritted teeth. Her cheeks are fuller, rounder. He still can't believe how young she looks. Is. Was.

Can we try to have a good time? Please?

Yes, she says. I'm trying.

You don't know what life was like for me before I met you. I know you had it bad, at the end, but you came from a good family at least. Not me.

I'm sorry about that.

You could at least thank me.

She covers her face with her hands. He wonders what she is doing behind them—crying, or getting ready to scream. He looks around the room but no one is watching. He wipes his napkin against the damp bar.

You can go to the ladies' room and clean your face, you know, he says. You can get that crud out from under your nails. You can make an effort.

She gets up from the stool and walks across the empty dance floor to the bathroom without moving her hands from her eyes.

*   *   *

When she doesn't come back after a quarter hour he goes to look for her, his knuckles sorry on the door. Hey, you okay? he calls. No answer. He knocks again. Please, I didn't mean it, just come out.