Melt (8 page)

Six

Dorothy

      “Happy birthday, Joey,” I tell him. We're in Jason's garage once again. We get to use it about twice a week. The rest of the days we make out by the water, which is pretty great too. I've suggested hanging out at Joey's house, but he won't go for it, and he won't say why. He just changes the subject. It's been nearly four months and I've never even seen the inside of his house, or met his parents. Of course we could go to my house—it's not like my parents barred him, but they sure wouldn't make him feel at home, either. Things haven't improved in that area, but the good news is there hasn't been any noise pollution emitting from the Fields residence.

      So, it's the water for us when we can't borrow the garage. I don't know what'll happen in the winter, but we'll tackle that when it comes.

      I cuddle close against him, press my skin into his. His pulse is tranquil now, it's come down from its heightened state. “Want your presents?”

      “You mean there's more?”

      “This wasn't a gift, we do this all the time.”

      “This's everything I want,” he says, and I know he means it, but he's still getting his stuff.

      I hoist myself up, grab his crumpled Black Sabbath T-shirt, throw it on—I like to wear his shirts because they're long on me and they smell like him—and I head to the corner where I hid his presents under a bench press. “Jason let me drop these off yesterday,” I explain, carrying three gifts over to him, two small and one large. They're wrapped in firecracker red paper, which in fact does have lit, sizzling firecrackers depicted all over it, together with the words, “Hope your birthday's dynamite!” Corny, but colorful. I plop them in front of him on the mat. He sits up, pulls them in. He's still naked, and all those muscles in motion look so luscious, I have to do a mental slap so I don't jump his bones again. Not that he would mind, but I do want to see how he likes his gifts.

      He takes the card from the top, slips it from its envelope. It has a quote from Emerson: “What lies behind us and what lies before us are small matters compared to what lies within us.” He reads it, laughs. “You are so friggin' deep,” he says. “The guys, if they'd buy one at all, they'd pick out a card about farts or something.”

      “A fart card was my second choice,” I say.

      He opens the card, reads what I wrote. It says, “Joey, I hope this year brings you as much happiness as you give me. XOXO, Doll.”

      “Gee …,” he says. He pauses, swallows hard—so deep that his Adam's apple swerves, it oscillates in his throat. His mood veers also, I can feel it. It takes this dip, this plunge, like the mere mention of happiness sends him plummeting.

      Damn.

      But then he snaps back, he fights his way up again, and he smiles. “Thanks,” he says. I smile back, but it sucks, it really sucks, that everything has to be a fight for him. Every little thing, inside and out.

      I want to take him in my arms, hold him, but I don't.

      Not this time.

      I can't shelter him from himself.

      Paper crinkles, tears as he opens the first gift, one of the small ones. It's a book, my favorite book. He lets the wrap drop, holds the book gingerly, tentatively, like some foreign object—perhaps something that might ignite in his hands. “
The Catcher in The Rye
?”

      “You've never read it?” I ask.

      He shakes his head no, leafs through pages.

      “Holden Caulfield reminds me of you,” I tell him.

      “Yeah?” He scans the beginning, raises his eyebrows. He flips to the middle, reads a little more, and arches those brows even higher. He asks, “In what way does this dude remind you of me?”

      I don't want to tell him now, on his birthday.

      I don't want to say I think he and Holden are both running from something, searching for something, that they're both lost and lonely. Because as much as Joey's with me, here with me, he's also not.

      He's missing—a part of him is missing. It's severed from him, out there somewhere all alone.

      “In … in a metaphysical kind of way, I guess,” I say.

      “Oh.” He laughs. “That explains it.”

      He puts the book down and opens the next gift—the larger one.
Rippp! Rippp!

Out of the shreds he raises the lid of the box, takes out one of the blue boxing gloves I bought him. He holds it, regards it with a look I can't quite discern. I say, “Since you like to fight so much, I thought maybe you could, like, put your ability to some use.” He's wearing such a bizarro, incomprehensible expression, I wonder if I've treaded too close to his space somehow—if I've violated his perimeter. Who am I to tell him he should box?

      But then he nods, shakes his head. “Yeah,” he says. He smoothes his hand over the cool leather surface, smiles that little smile that melts me every time.

      He slides his hand inside, flexes. “Yeah,” he repeats softly, and the word sounds comfortable.

      It suits him; it's right.

      It fits him like the glove.

Joey

      I

squeeze

my fingers inside the glove.

      Feels snug it's

warm.

      It's like settling into cushions on a thick cozy couch it's a place to lay my hand and

rest. A

refuge a

padding

from all the knocks my hand gets self-inflicted though they may be.

      So I guess it's

protection

from

me.

      Now that's funny.

Dorothy

      He sits for a while resting his gloved hand on his lap, on his bare thigh. He's quiet. It's almost like he's meditating. I let him be.

      After a bit he smiles again, and he says, “Thanks, Doll.”

      “You're welcome,” I say. “But there's more.” I raise the third gift, the other small one. I dangle it in from of him, trying to entice.

      He tugs the glove off, puts it down next to him. He accepts the gift, unwraps. His finger slits into the tape this time. The paper makes a wrinkling sound as he unfolds it.

      What looks like two rolls of surgical bandage in black fall into his lap. “Wraps,” I say, in case he doesn't know. He gives me a brief ‘duh' look before turning to what he's holding, the other thing that was inside the paper—a gift certificate for ten boxing lessons at the local muscle gym, Iron Land. “Jesus,” he says, staring at the words. “This had to run you some real bucks.”

      I shrug. “You're worth it.”

      He says, “I could never ….”

      I touch his arm, sink my fingers against his skin. “Don't do this,” I say. “Don't turn this into something ugly. I don't care what you can afford to get me, just like you didn't need or expect any gifts. Just enjoy it, Joey, okay? That's your gift back to me, if you enjoy this.”

      Our familiar electricity tingles between us, and he relaxes. “Okay,” he says.

      “So, you want me to wrap you up?”

      “You know how?”

      “Sure. George—that's the boxing instructor—showed me when I took my lesson.”

      “
You
took a boxing lesson? Why?”

      “What's the matter, afraid I'll kick your ass?” We both laugh. Then I say, “I wanted … I wanted to know what it was like to punch things.”

      “You like it?”

      “Uh, no.”

      He chuckles. He knew darn well I wouldn't. “Why not?”

      “Well, for starters, it felt very confining in those gloves, and they never seemed like they were on right. It was just about impossible to get a grip in them. And it hurt to punch! George said I was hitting with the wrong part of my hand, but I just couldn't get it. Then there was that speed bag. Talk about humbling, I felt like a complete spazoid trying to hit it. George said I'd get better with practice, but there are some things you know you're just not cut out for. And anyway, it was just too much work, all those moves—too much to concentrate on. Yeesh.”

      “That's a relief,” he says. I unravel one of the wraps, and direct him to reach his arm out straight, spread his fingers wide. I smooth the wrap around, around, loop it around in tiers, coating his hand and wrist so it's taut but not tight. He says, ““For a minute I was afraid you were gonna leave me to headline in Vegas.”

      “I'll leave the championship fighting to you, Rocky.”

Joey

      She's like a nurse treating her patient she's

bandaging my

wounds. That's how it feels like she's

blanketing my hand—my

motley mutilated

poor

excuse

for a hand.

      She winds it she

winds

it she lays it

on me

over me she

covers me in

tender

layers.

      Safe

I feel safe. Comforted. It's like when I wore the cuffs

when I held my own hand.

It's like wearing the cuffs without the

cold

steel without the

shackling.

Who knew who

knew who

knew

I could feel good

without

feeling

bad.

All those nights

I spent in my bed hands huddled under my belly clutching at my fingers trying to find something

some

way

to feel better caught in that trap in that hell under siege overrun by all that screaming thrashing

bashing

going down

downstairs

all those nights these wraps they would've been perfect.

Powerful I feel

power like I'm jam-packed with power

energized

I feel

control

heated sweeping control Jesus Christ for the first time I feel control.

Fuckin' A.

I don't never wanna take these mothers off.

Dorothy

      He's so peaceful now, he's got this calm easy feeling to him. He's still got the wraps on, he's naked except for the wraps, he's holding me with the wraps on and I feel like I'm with a Cinderella man, like these wraps are the equivalent of a dress for the ball, trimmings for a new life.

      He leans his head on mine, his pulse beats into my crown.

      “What are you guys doing later?” I ask. He's hanging out with his friends tonight, and unfortunately that pretty much guarantees the consumption of alcohol. I worry about Joey—he hasn't gotten into any really bad incidents since the one at the bridge, but he's had some scuffles. I always feel like he's one drink away from disaster. Still, he's so tranquil now, so level. It's hard to imagine him hurting anyone, but it's like he said — for him, there is no sanity, no normal. He could snap at any moment. He also said when he's drunk, he starts to think that's the real him — that's who he truly is.

      And that is one frightening thought.

      “We're gonna play cards.”

      Super. “You mean you're going to play drinking card games,” I say. Those games have such enticing names, like Circle of Death and Brain Damage.

      “Yeah, I guess,” he says. “You can come, if you want.”

      He knows I won't. “Thanks, but I really don't feel like watching you destroy your liver in endless hands of Drink Bitch.”

      “Are you a teenager or, like, a parent?” he asks. His tone is kidding, but he's half-not.

      “I'm someone who's confident enough to know I don't have to drink to have fun.”

      “Well, excuse me …,” he says. He takes in a breath like he's about to say more, but he doesn't.

      I don't want to argue with him. It's the last thing I want, especially today. And I also know that for him, the drinking isn't just about partying, getting stupid.

      If only it were.

      His pulse is still thumping into my head. I close my eyes, try to get lost in the rhythm of it. But I have to ask…

      “Joey … you're only drinking beer, right?”

      He says nothing. There's only the
thump, thump, thump
. Faster now.

      I open my eyes, face the concrete wall ahead of us, face the black poster hanging. The Nike symbol's on it, in red. The words ‘Just Do It' are printed in stark white underneath. “Joey ….”

      “C'mon, Doll. The guys'll think I'm a wuss if I don't drink the rum.”

      “Oh sure, you can't have them thinking you're a big pussy,” I say sharply. I pull away now, turn and face him. “Afraid they'll think you're whipped?”

      He doesn't answer. He looks torn, like he doesn't want to fight either, but also like doesn't want to give in, change his intentions.

      That stops me.

      He doesn't want to change.

      If he doesn't want to change, what am I doing here?

      Deep down, I've had this plan. That I'd find out what was eating him, help him confront it, and poof he'd be okay. He'd stop drinking and smoking weed. He'd change.

      I assumed he'd change.

      But what if he doesn't? Even when I get through to his core, what if he doesn't want to change?

      What if the real Joey
is
the drunk Joey?