The Smart One (21 page)

“They should lock up drug addicts like
you
,” his father said.

Kenny turned his face toward me. “See where I get the comedy from? It’s in my
genes
, baby.”

“Keep your eye on the road, dear,” Renee said, and then addressed her husband again. “He doesn’t do drugs anymore. That was a long time ago.”

“Once an addict, always an addict,” Sam said.

“I was never an
addict
,” Kenny said. “I just got high a lot so I wouldn’t have to deal with you. Once I was out of the house I donated all my drugs to needy children.”

“Children?” his mother said, alarmed.

I patted her hand. “He’s kidding, Renee.” I wanted to change the subject and seized the opportunity to take another shot at finding out where the key to that storage facility was. So I asked Renee, knowing full well she was mistaken about where Sam had left it. I was playing to his obnoxious ego. I figured if she gave me the wrong answer he might want to step in and correct her.

“I thought it was in the top desk drawer, dear,” Renee said, “but Kenny told me he looked there.”

I waited a beat for Sam to pipe in but he didn’t. “Do you
have any idea where it is, Mr. Waxman?” I said, leaning forward. I was hoping he’d forgotten about our hostile exchange in the hospital.

“What?”

“Mrs. Waxman thought the key to your storage unit was in the desk, but it’s not there. Do you know where it is?”

“The key with the orange ring around the top,” Renee interjected. “Do you remember where you put it, Sam?”

“I didn’t touch any key,” he said.

Renee looked at me and shrugged. I sat back, deflated. We all fell into a prickly silence again, which was preferable to the excruciating conversation between father and son.

“Hey, remember Stella?” Kenny suddenly said, and I wanted to smack him on the back of the head. Why was he looking for a fight?

“Stella?” his mother said. “Who’s Stella?”

“That dog you promised me.”

Renee wrinkled her brow like she was trying to remember. “Was that the dog from the shelter?”

“Filthy mutt tried to bite me,” Sam said.

Kenny exploded with laughter. He laughed so hard he practically choked and had to smack the steering wheel to try to calm down.

“It’s not funny,” Sam said.

This made Kenny laugh harder.

“Stop it!”

“Really, Kenny,” his mother said. “I don’t see what’s so funny about this.”

Kenny caught his breath. “The lady at the shelter said
one
thing to me about that dog. When Stella came running to me, her tail wagging like mad, the lady said, ‘This dog is a great judge of character!’” Kenny lost it again.

“Let me out of this car!” Sam said.

Kenny ignored him.

“Pull over! I’m getting out!”

“You don’t think that’s funny?” Kenny said.

“I said pull over!”

“We’re in the middle of a highway,” Kenny said. “Keep your pants on…if you can.”

Sam grabbed the steering wheel with both hands.

“Hey, let go! Are you crazy?”

“Sam!” Renee shouted, as we both braced ourselves against the front seat for impact.

The car veered toward the shoulder and I felt the tires bump along the ridges.

“Motherfucker!” Kenny yelled.

Sam was pulling so hard on the steering wheel the blood rose to his angry face.

“Goddamn it, Sam,” Kenny said. “You want to commit suicide, do it on your own time. Don’t take us all with you.”

The road curved to the left and Sam relaxed his grip to let Kenny get control of the car before we careened off the edge. But right in the middle of the bend, Sam grabbed tight again and yanked the wheel to the right.

The last thing I remember hearing as we flew off the road toward the embankment was the sound of Renee screaming.

When I awoke I was in another moving vehicle, but this time I was lying on my back and a dark-skinned man in a white jacket was crouched over me, doing something painful to my legs. I moaned.

“Beverly?” the man said. “Can you hear me? You were in a car accident, but you’re okay.” He wrapped something around my arm. The environment confused me. I blinked a few times, trying to get my thoughts to gel, but nothing happened. I could see and feel and smell, but couldn’t attach a thought to anything.

A familiar-looking man spoke. “You hit your head so hard. We were worried you wouldn’t wake up.”

I reached up and felt my head. There was something on it I tried to pull off.

“That’s just a bandage,” the first man said, gently pushing my hand away. “You’ll need to leave that alone for now.”

Something loud and shrill in the background made it hard to concentrate.

“What’s that noise?” I asked.

“It’s a siren,” the man said. “You’re in an ambulance.”

“My cows hurt.”

“Cows?”

“You know, my legs. The bottom of my legs.”

“I think she means calves,” the blond man said.

“You have some first- and second-degree burns,” said the other man. “Not too bad. You got lucky—the whole car burned up and could have taken you with it. I just applied some local anesthetic so they’ll feel better soon. Do you know what day it is, Beverly?”

“Tuesday? Saturday?”

The men looked at each other.

“Do you know who I am?” the familiar-looking man said.

It occurred to me that I did, but I couldn’t find his name. “You were driving.”

“That’s right.”

“You were my next-door neighbor.”

“Yes.”

“Have we fucked?” I asked. “I remember fucking you.”

The men looked at each other. “It must be a concussion,” the other man said to him. “Sometimes a little temporary swelling leads to loss of inhibitions.” He squeezed a bulb-shaped thing and the cuff around my arm got very, very tight.

“Are you a doctor?” I asked.

“Paramedic,” he said, releasing the pressure.

I tried to sit up. “I remember something!”

“Easy,” he said, pressing me down.

I lay there and tried to piece together what happened. There was a car accident. It was like flying, but when we hit ground the car rolled over and then I must have blacked out. I heard someone calling my name over and over but I couldn’t respond. There was a fire. I heard people screaming to stay away from the car, but I couldn’t move. Then someone pulled me out. He must have risked his own life to save me. I tried to picture him and all I could discern was that he was a stranger in a blue uniform.

“How’s the cop?” I asked.

“What cop?” asked the paramedic.

“The one who pulled me out.”

The ambulance made a sharp turn and both men held onto me. We slowed down a bit and the blond man turned my face to him. “Do you remember my name?” he said.

“Jonathan?” I guessed, knowing it probably wasn’t right, but it was the only name that came up.

“No, not Jonathan. Ken. I’m Kenny.”

“Right, Jonathan was my husband. He was such an asshole.”

“Yeah, well…he’s not the only one. I’m thinking of starting a club.”

“I’m going to take a nap now.” I closed my eyes.

“Stay with us, Beverly,” the other man said. “Stay with us.”

In the hospital, someone wearing a paper mask worked on my forehead. He wore green scrubs and it seemed to take forever.

“You’ll be as pretty as ever,” he said. “I’m not even giving you sutures—just butterflies. You won’t even have a noticeable scar.”

Butterflies? I pictured pretty monarchs alighting on my head. But he was pressing so hard it didn’t make sense. Then I figured it out—he must have been giving me a tattoo of butterflies.

“I think I’d rather have a scar,” I said.

“Why?” He glanced at me through his magnifying glasses and his eyes looked huge.

“It would be less noticeable.”

“Less noticeable than what?”

“A butterfly on my forehead. I’ll look like an idiot.”

“They’re just little bandages that hold the skin together so
it can heal. We call them butterflies because of the shape. You understand?” He finished what he was doing and pulled off the paper mask to reveal large, hairy nostrils.

“You should do something about that jungle,” I said.

After that, they ran a bunch of tests, including something called a CT scan. I was getting more and more annoyed at all the poking and prodding and getting wheeled from one place to another. Finally, they brought me to a room and told me to get some rest.

Later, when my father came in, I pushed the bed’s remote control button until I was upright.

“Am I okay?” I asked, thinking he looked very serious. “What did they tell you?”

“Do you remember anything about the accident?”

“Dad, am I
okay
?”

“You have contusions on both medial temporal lobes.”

“What does that mean, exactly?” I fluffed the pillow behind my head.

“A little swelling that’s causing a loss of inhibitions and dysphasia. As soon as it subsides, you’ll be fine. They’re keeping you here overnight as a precaution. Do you want some water?” He picked up the pitcher by my bed.

“I have a loss of inhibitions and dysphasia?”

“You’re not filtering your thoughts like you normally do, and you’re having some trouble with word retrieval.”

“I know what you mean, I just didn’t realize I was having a blemish.”

He put down the pitcher. “You mean a problem?”

“What?”

“I think you mean
problem
, not blemish.”

Problem, of course. Why on earth did I think the word was
blemish
? My father sat in the chair next to my bed. He was right. I was having word-retrieval problems.

“Am I going to get better?”

“In all likelihood.”

“You mean there’s a chance I won’t?” I felt a panic forming like a solid thing deep in my center. “Dad,” I said, “I can’t…what if…” I was getting so agitated I couldn’t get the words out. The thought that I might have to go through life stupid and inarticulate terrified me. I wasn’t especially pretty. I wasn’t especially talented. I wasn’t even especially charming. All I had was smart.

I remembered going to an aquarium show when I was a kid. We were on a family vacation, and the kids were allowed to sit on the bleachers right up front, where we were almost certain to get splashed.

Before the show began, a man in a wet suit addressed the crowd, teaching us about marine life. At one point, he asked the kids if anyone knew what the largest species of dolphin was called. My hand shot straight up, as I had read the brochure and knew the answer. But the man looked right at Clare, with her silky blond hair and beautiful face. He didn’t even seem to notice that my hand was up and hers wasn’t.

Clare shrugged. “Porpoise?”

She was wrong. My hand shot up higher. The man pointed to a tiny boy in an Elmo shirt who had his hand up.

“Giant!” the boy said.

The man laughed. “Not giant. Anyone else?”

I practically pulled my arm out of its socket to get him to notice me. I knew I could make an impression if he just gave me the chance. But he went from kid to kid, exhausting all the cutest ones before he finally called on me.

“Orca, the killer whale,” I said.

A few people tittered, assuming I was wrong. But the man said, “Yes!” and called me down by his side for a funny award ceremony where he gave me an Orca T-shirt while pretending
not to see the whale rising out of the water behind us. I felt vindicated. I wasn’t blond and I didn’t have cute freckles or a winning smile. But I was the only one who knew the answer.

I looked at my father, tears spilling. “Smart is all I’ve got, Dad.”

He patted my hand, and I waited for him to tell me I’d be fine, that everything would come back.

“Your mother is doing quite well,” he said.

Later, when both my parents came to visit me, I was floating in a placid sea, as a nurse had given me a blue pill for anxiety. My mother wore a hospital nightgown and slippers, and held tight to my father’s hand.

“The neurologist was here,” I told them. “He said I was improving. Said I’ll be fine in a few weeks, but might notice it’s worse when I’m tense. I’m not tense now, though. How are you, Mom? You look good. You need some lipstick, though.”

“I’m fine, dear. I think we’ll both be discharged tomorrow. Do you feel okay? How are your legs? They told me you got burned.”

“Hurt a lot at first, but it’s better now.”

“Do you remember the accident?” She shuffled to the chair by my bed and sat down.

I closed my eyes to think. “I know I wasn’t driving. I know there were others.”

“Four of you,” my father said.

“Is everyone okay?” I asked.

“Everyone is fine,” he said. “Sam and Renee got a little scraped and bruised. Kenny somehow managed to dislocate his shoulder.”

“Right, Kenny.” I pictured his sublime naked body from behind. “What an ass!”

My father nodded. “I heard you had some sort of falling out, but he’s really a very decent guy.”

“What?”

“He’d like to visit you. Is that okay?”

By the time a dinner tray was delivered I was hungry enough to eat hospital food. Or so I thought. When I pulled the plastic hood off my plate, even my lowest expectations weren’t met, as I was greeted with a cold, gray sliver of chicken breast, a few waxy green bean sections, and two small round potatoes with shriveled skin.

“This isn’t even
food
,” I said out loud.

The other bed in my room was empty, so there was no one there to hear my complaint. I tore open the package of melba toast and munched on it unhappily. A few minutes later Kenny walked into my room trailing the most delightful smell. One arm was in a sling and the other carried a white paper bag, which he put onto the tray in front of me.

“What is this?” I said as I opened the bag.

“Corned-beef sandwich.” He took the seat next to my bed.

I gasped. “I
love
corned beef!”

“I know.”

I took the oversized sandwich out of the bag and unwrapped it. I handed him half.

“You have it,” he said.

“If
I’m
going to have corned-beef breath,
you’re
going to have corned-beef breath. How else are we going to kiss?”

He grabbed the half I was offering and took a huge bite, never breaking eye contact. I pushed the tray away from my bed and sat with my legs folded in front of me, the wax paper on my lap.

“Sit with me,” I said.

Kenny sat opposite me on the bed and we devoured our sandwiches in silence. I ate mine in about three bites, then washed down the lump of corned beef and fresh rye bread that clogged my gullet with the ice-cold Diet Coke he’d brought. I watched him eat, my nerve endings tingling. I wanted so badly to kiss him, to be naked with him, to feel his divine hands—or hand, as one of them was incapacitated—exploring my flesh like it was the softest velvet.

“Are you done yet?” I asked.

He laughed. “What’s your hurry?”

“I want to kiss you.”

“Now?”

I nodded. He wrapped the remains of his sandwich in the wax paper and put it on my nightstand. Then he leaned in and gently kissed me on the lips.

“More,” I said.

He smiled. “I like you when you’re uninhibited.”

“Good.” I untied the string at the back of my neck that held my hospital gown in place.

“Bev, don’t.”

“Why not?” I said, and yanked the thing off. I lunged, and kissed him deeply on the lips. A second later we were horizontal with me on top.

“We can’t do this,” he said. “Anyone could walk in.”

“You’re already hard,” I said, putting my hand on his crotch. “We can do it fast.” I pulled open his zipper.

“Bev, no,” he said, grabbing my hand. “We’ll do this after you get out of the hospital. I promise.”

I pushed my crotch into him. “Please!” I said. “I want you inside me. I want your cunt!”

He smirked, trying not to laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“Never mind,” he said, carefully pushing me back onto my
pillow. He got off the bed and pulled my nightgown over me, his eyes so tender I felt like a well-loved child.

“You’re such a sweet, gentle guy.”

“Yeah, that’s me. Sweet and gentle.”

“No wonder I love you.”

He leaned in and kissed me on the lips. It was heavenly. I reached for his good hand and pushed it up under my gown until it was on my breast. He left it there and kept kissing me. His breath started to quicken and the sound of it excited me. I was flooded with sexual memories…on the couch in my house, when he made me beg…upstairs in my bedroom, where we did it a second time, and a third…in his hotel room, where he…

“Stop!” I said.

“What’s the matter?”

“I remember.” One memory came back followed by another and another. Kenny assaulting me in junior high. Kenny sleeping with Joey after leading me on. Kenny taking his anger out on me in his hotel room. They were different scenes but the same emotional refrain again and again. He hurt me. He was supposed to love me and he hurt me. I put my hands on his shoulders and pushed him away. He grabbed the injured side and yelped in pain.

“Rapist!” I said, trying to hurt him back by resurrecting the name I’d called him in junior high.

“No, Bev. It wasn’t like that.”

“Get out of here!”

“Bev, please. Listen to me.”

But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I balled my hands into fists, closed my eyes tight and howled like a wounded dog.

Two nurses came running to the room and asked what was wrong.

“Make him go,” I said. “Please, make him go.”