Althea and Oliver (31 page)

“I didn't mean it, that bullshit about not liking you. You know I didn't mean that.”

“You love that I'm like this because it keeps you looking normal in comparison. You acted like you were upset because I took all the attention away from you, but that's exactly what you wanted. You wanted to be the normal one, and thanks to me you still are. On a scale of one to Althea, you get to be Oliver.”

“That is so stupid.”

“Come on, Oliver, be honest. Which would you rather? Would you rather be the crazy person, or would you rather be the crazy person's best friend? Would you rather be driving the fucked-up bus, or would you rather be the fucked-up passenger? Come on, Ol, don't think about it for too long.”

“The driver, okay? I'd rather be the driver.”

“Right.”

“And you'd rather be the passenger?”

“Oliver, this is what I'm trying to tell you. I don't want to play anymore. I don't want to pick one. I'm opting out. Game over.”

“You can't just run away.”

“I'm not running away,” she says. “I'm walking away.”

“You always thought that I could get by without you easier, that you needed me more. You're wrong. I can't make a move without you. You're the instigator, you always have been, and I'm just along for the ride. And after ten years, it turns out that I can be replaced by a bunch of filthy college dropouts and a few cans of Natty Ice.”

“Of course they can't replace you—”

“But they get to have you and I get to—what, talk to you on the phone once in a while?” he snaps. “I don't understand. Make me understand. Make me understand how you can do this so easily.”

Althea rakes her hands through her hair. “It is not easy. None of this has been easy. I miss you so much, I miss you all the time. There are days that I remember, totally ordinary days when I was so happy just to be driving around in the car with you, just to have you there, and everything you said was funny and everything I said was clever and every song that came on the radio was exactly the song I wanted to hear. And on days like that I felt so fucking lucky just to have someone to feel that way about, just to feel that way at all, it didn't even matter if you felt the same way. This isn't easy for me. You have no idea how hard it is. That's how I know I'm doing the right thing.”

“What if we were together? Would you come back then?”

“
Together
together?”

“Yeah.”

“Don't try to play that card with me. I finally stopped fooling myself. Don't start fooling yourself now.”

He knows she's right. It's not fair to bribe her with that kind of promise, but God, does he wish he could do it in earnest. Lying down, he pats his chest in invitation. She takes her place, and he wraps his arms around her and strokes what's left of her hair. “It's like we're two sides of the same coin, and I don't know which side I'm on.” Althea doesn't say anything. “I remember those days, too,” he whispers.

She places her finger gently in the nook at the base of his throat, playing with the few hairs that live there, her palm pressed against his chest. He traces his finger along her spine, first over her shirt, and then under it, and then he kisses her. This time, he thinks, it'll be different. It won't be like she said. When it's over, she won't have any bruises, and he'll remember everything.

There's no jolt of recognition when they undress, even as he waits for some muscle memory to guide him. Whatever it was he did to her before, whatever it was she liked, he doesn't know how to recreate it. He lays his hand over her concave belly, strokes her hipbones. They'd shared a bed so many times, swum the Atlantic together in their bathing suits, the Cape Fear in their underwear; he had seen so much of her, he never realized what a difference that last centimeter of fabric would make. And as she had known two different Olivers, the genuine and the impostor, he understands that what he's seeing now is authentic. Here she is, the real Althea, no cargo pants or combat boots or cigarettes or messenger bag, no scalding cup of coffee, no jumble of black hair, no trace of that oft-practiced scowl, worn to perfection. Naked except for his hands and a shy smile. So what if he's not seeing it for the first time, so long as it feels like he is.

“Althea—”

“Shush.”

“Don't shush me,” he says.

Even in the darkness, her smile is brilliant. “You love it when I shush you.”

He hovers over her, kneeling between her legs, pressing his lips to her neck. “I love it when you shush me.” She glows pale blue-white in the headlights of a passing car.

“You don't have to worry,” she says. “It's supposed to be fun.”

And she's right. She always is.

ALTHEA WAKES UP
next to Oliver, but he's still asleep.

The room is cold, but he's warm, as always, like a puppy, his face smushed against the pillow and a fist tucked under his chin. She presses her nose into his neck and closes her eyes, but she can't fall back to sleep. Her cheeks are raw from Oliver's stubble; her lips positively exfoliated. The house is alive beneath them, something sizzling in a pan in the kitchen, Matilda collecting money for a liquor run, someone strumming a guitar and making up a song about Mr. Business. Rolling over, Althea reads the walls. The phone numbers and grocery lists and song lyrics, the chaotic index to Matilda's small and precious life.

Management is downstairs in the hallway counting out a pile of cash, mostly singles, on a waist-high pile of newspapers. Her blonde hair is loose around her small face, thumbs sticking out of two holes in the sleeves of her sweatshirt. There's a patch sewn onto the front pocket that reads
PRAY FOR FOOD
. Ethan is stumbling around blindly in his boxers.

“I'm sorry I disappeared last night,” Althea says.

“We forgive you,” Ethan says.

“This halfwit can't find his glasses again.” Matilda gestures to Ethan with friendly disdain.

“They're on top of the fridge,” Althea reminds him.

Grunting, Ethan blunders toward the kitchen.

Althea follows him. In the living room, their many house-guests are beginning to wake up; she can hear them coughing and lighting cigarettes and muttering to one another about their hangovers. The elastic of Ethan's boxer shorts has carved a thin red line into the small of his back. His face brightens as he slips on his glasses and surveys the kitchen; she looks away as he wraps his brown blanket around himself like a cape.

“And how was
your
night?” Ethan says.

“None of your goddamn business.”

“Did you have a nice time?” He leans against the sink, a smarmy expression on his face. “Was it a happy reunion?”

“Stop.”

“Does this mean you guys are going to prom together?”

Matilda enters the kitchen with her pile of cash. “Ethan, quit taunting her. Althea, can we take your car to the liquor store so I don't have to carry all this shit home?”

Althea looks instinctively toward the stairs, thinking of Oliver.

“He'll be fine,” says Matilda.

“Hang on.” Althea runs back up to Matilda's bedroom and finds a piece of chalk on the dresser. Finding a blank spot on the wall, she scrawls a hasty note to Oliver—
Went to buy booze, back soon
—and surrounds it with a heavy border so he can't miss it. She pulls the blanket up over his bare shoulder. For a second she's tempted to wake him, just to make sure she can, but she thinks better of it and slips silently away.

• • •

Oliver wakes up a little while later and waits, naked and cold, for Althea's return. He doesn't know how long she's been gone, but he's afraid to leave the room without her. The edges of the bed are frigid, so he stays huddled in the center, in the space they warmed with their bodies. The minutes tick by and he doesn't hear her voice amid the house's chorus; she doesn't open the door carrying two steaming mugs, wearing a sheepish grin, ready to dive back into bed with him. His head aches and he needs to take a piss, but beyond the relative safety of this room the house is throbbing with strangers slamming doors and shouting at one another in the hallways; already the air is weed-sweet and tobacco-musty, and he can't remember any of their names.

Finally his bladder gets the better of him. His clothes are strewn scattershot across the floor; he gathers them and dresses.

The bathroom door is locked. Pressed into the wall, he waits, still listening for her voice.

The red-haired boy steps out amid a hot cloud of steam, wiping the fog from his glasses with a corner of the faded purple towel around his waist. Water drips from his hair onto his bare shoulders, pooling a little in his collarbone. As he puts on his spectacles, he finally notices Oliver.

“So you're the guy from North Carolina,” he says.

“Oliver.” He stands up straighter.

“Ethan. I think we met last night. Briefly.”

A girl moans in a bedroom down the hall. Distracted, Oliver clears his throat. “I think we did. Do you . . . Is this your house?”

“It's Matilda's house. I just live here. If you're looking for Althea, she went to the liquor store.” Ethan glances back toward Matilda's room. “You staying long?”

The girl moans again, louder. Bedsprings rasp beneath her. Oliver's bladder strains against its contents. “I don't think so.”

“Is she leaving with you?”

Though Ethan is the one wearing only a towel, Oliver feels bizarrely exposed. Despite his conviction that these people know nothing of Althea, suddenly it seems they may know plenty about him. What would their story sound like from her point of view? Maybe the Warriors all hate him. Although they seemed to be okay with him last night. The fornication down the hall is reaching its crescendo, a guy grunting in time with the shrieks of both girl and bedsprings, the tempo of all three increasing. Oliver wonders with horror if that's what he and Althea sounded like. Was someone waiting for the bathroom then, listening the entire time? And even if no one heard, everyone knew what they were doing in there; if nothing else, this is a house devoid of secrets. Everyone knew. Matilda knew. The couple in the bedroom knew. This Ethan person interrogating Oliver knew. Was he picturing it right now? Was he imagining what Althea looked like naked, or doubting Oliver's abilities? Was Ethan sneering at Oliver because he was certain he could do better? The bedsprings and cries cease abruptly; after a brief moment of quiet, there are soft giggles and whispers. Oliver doesn't understand why they bother keeping their voices down now. “You never know what she might do,” he says.

“Yeah, no kidding.” Ethan returns to his bedroom, the soles of his feet already filthy again.

The other bedroom door springs open and the couple dashes out, the curly-haired girl wrapped in a white sheet, the boy in his boxers, a soiled tissue tucked in his fist. Still giggling, they chase each other into the bathroom before Oliver can protest, locking the door behind them and starting up the shower. He tries to ignore the sound of running water. He thinks dry thoughts.

• • •

Matilda pushes a shopping cart down the aisle of the liquor store. “I was thinking about letting Dennis tattoo me tonight,” she says. “He's been wanting to for a while. I don't know. What do you think?”

Althea picks up a dark green bottle of champagne with a fancy-scripted orange label. “I think that boy wants to do a lot more than tattoo you.”

“No, no, no, put that back. Are you crazy? That shit costs forty-five bones. The magic number is eight.” She keeps going, stopping right before they reach the Boone's Farm. “Here we go. One of everything that's cheap and sparkling.” She pauses. “Really? You think so?”

Checking the price stickers now, Althea loads up the cart. “That so hard to believe?”

“Leala's the one they usually go for. She's like a mobile burlesque act. Everything she does. When she plays a video game, it's like she might as well just take off all her clothes. But if there's one thing that isn't sexy, it's being Wendy to the Lost Boys of Brooklyn. No one wants to fuck the girl who cleans the toilet.” Matilda holds a milky bottle by the neck, squinting at the label. “What is this?” The liquid inside is the color of a runny egg yolk.

“I think it's a premixed mimosa,” Althea says, reading over her shoulder.

“I feel sick just holding this in my hand. Can you imagine what would happen if we actually drank it?”

“It's only four dollars.”

Placing it in the cart, Matilda shakes her head. “Breakfast, I guess.”

“Do you think you'd like to be, you know, tattooed by Dennis?” Althea idly looks over a bottle of blackberry merlot.

“I haven't been tattooed by anyone in a long time. It might be nice. Course, you'll have to change my sheets first.”

Althea looks at her shoes.

“Don't be embarrassed. Everyone should get tattooed at New Year's. How was it, anyway?”

At first, she had been waiting for Oliver to turn on her, to turn her over and push her head into the mattress or throw her to the floor. She kept watching his eyes, wondering if they would suddenly go blank and he would be gone. What if it was her touch that did it, brought the fat mouse back? What if she broke him? But Oliver had been there behind his eyes the whole time. “I think it was like it's supposed to be.”

Matilda lowers her voice. “Was it, you know, better? Worse?”

“It was better, I guess. I mean, if I had to pick between being with Oliver or not-Oliver, I'll take Oliver. But it doesn't change anything. All it means is that I'm forgiven.”

“It doesn't change anything?” Matilda asks, casting a coy, sidelong glance Althea's way. “Nothing at all?”

“Do you know how closely I've watched him over the last couple of years for any sign that he suddenly saw me differently? I would know if something had changed. You know how? He would be relieved. He would be so relieved that he could finally make me happy, that he could stop worrying about disappointing me every goddamn day, and it would be written all over his face. The tattooing was inevitable, but it doesn't change anything.”

“So does that mean you're still disappointed?”

Althea runs her fingers over the script on the wine bottle's label. “Of course I'm disappointed. But I used to feel like I would never be satisfied until he came around, like everything depended on me getting the answer that I wanted.”

“That sounds miserable.”

“Yeah, no kidding. And it's still miserable. But now it seems, you know, conceivable that it won't always be that way.”

“It won't.” Seeing the bottle in Althea's hand, Matilda sighs. “God, I used to love that stuff. Drank it all the time in college. Come on, let's go.”

Matilda leads them to the register, pulling out the stack of bills held together with a thick purple band, the kind normally used to bunch asparagus and broccoli. “All these dollars, and we're just going to puke them up in the morning.”

“It's your favorite holiday. Show a little enthusiasm.”

“I guess. It's so pathetic; I'm already dreading tomorrow, when everybody leaves.”

Althea waits until they're back at her car to respond to this. “Not everybody's leaving tomorrow.”

Matilda raises an eyebrow. “Oh no?”

Althea shrugs, trying to be casual. “I mean, I just got the hang of alternate side of the street parking. Seems like it would be a shame to leave now.”

Matilda considers this. “Are you sure that's what you want? To keep on sleeping in the kitchen?”

“What I want is for Oliver to wake up today and realize he's in love with me. But that's not going to happen, so yes, I want to keep sleeping in the kitchen. I like sleeping in the kitchen. I like it much better than sleeping in the basement.”

“Well, you do make good muffins. And you don't take any of Ethan's shit. I'll have to clear it with everybody else. And you'll have to start coughing up for rent. Have you thought at all about what you're going to do for money?”

“I thought money was for people with money?”

“We can probably figure something out.” Matilda looks up at Althea, squinting her green eyes thoughtfully. She laughs.

“What?” Althea asks.

“It's funny. A month ago you were afraid to ask for a place to crash for the night.”

“Look at me. I'm growing.”

They nestle the bags in the trunk with Althea's ancient beach blankets, crusty with salt and sand.

“Your car smells like summer,” says Matilda.

Althea pats the dent in her bumper affectionately. “‘North Carolina. First in Flight.' You're lucky I have a car. I don't know how you would have gotten all this home otherwise.”

“I told you. I've had good luck ever since that quarter turned up.”

• • •

By the time Oliver enters the shower, there's no more hot water. It starts out lukewarm and tapers off to cold until he can't stand it anymore, and he gets out before he's even rinsed the shampoo completely from his hair. When he leaves the bathroom, the gray cat is scratching at the door, eager to get in and use the litter box. Is there ever a time in this house when someone isn't waiting for the bathroom?

Downstairs, he works out a cup of coffee. Most of the Warriors and their guests have bundled up and moved to the backyard to further craft the Natural Iceberg. The curly-haired girl wanders in from the living room, wearing a Sex Pistols shirt and socks that come up to her thighs. She refreshes her coffee, watching Oliver watch the others.

“She drove Matilda to the liquor store,” she says, joining him by the window. “If you're wondering where she is.”

“Thanks. I know where she is.”

“It looks like they're going to be out there for a while,” she says. “Wanna play Tomb Raider?”

They sit on the living room floor, their backs against the couch, the cords in a tangle at their feet. She hands him a controller, and he's soothed by the atmospheric sound track and the mechanical hand motions that come back to him as he plays. It's been a while. She trounces him repeatedly, with ease, but Althea has trained him to be a good sport about losing by refusing to ever do it herself.

“How long have you lived here?” he asks.

“About six months. I was living with some guy— Well, you don't need to hear the details. Matilda said I could stay here until I sorted out my shit.”

“I guess it's taking longer than you thought.”

“I got together with Kaleb, so I stayed. But who knows, maybe I would have stayed anyway.” She gestures around the room with her controller. “I know it doesn't look like much. It's dirty and crowded. One time the toilet overflowed and there was water pouring from the ceiling, and I swear to God, Matilda just put her head down and cried. Said we were all living in a Superfund site. But there's always someone around to talk to, and if you want to be alone you can go take a walk on the beach. And it's cheap. Beats working for a living.”