Beating Heart (2 page)

E
van comes into the room, arms flexed, holding his
cardboard box. He bends to put it down, straightens, stops to catch his breath and look around. The room is large enough to seem bare even with his bed and desk in it, as well as the boxes that the movers have already brought up. The walls are plain white, as he requested. The windows are empty, without shutters or curtains; he has not decided what he wants to do with them yet.

He is pleased with the windows, though: two on each of two walls, because this is a corner room. They let in lots of sun. He goes to one of the windows, opens it, and looks out over the backyard, which is fairly small and drops down almost immediately to a steep wooded bank overlooking the river.

Evan leans out farther, letting the breeze cool his face.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

skin touched by sun

tiny golden hairs

a drop of sweat

brow, lashes

curve of jaw

so solid,

so intense
—

muscles and bones

like

roots

binding

him to earth.

 

 

 

 

 

the back of his neck

is warm

smells like wind and sun

 

 

 

he shivers,

standing

in his warm

square of sunlight

E
van turns to contemplate the sunny room. It feels
strange and foreign to him; not like home—not yet.

Well
, he thinks,
at least it's big. No, what am I saying, it's bigger than our whole apartment.

He moves to the boxes piled in the center of the room and begins to unpack. The first box is his “stuff” his posters, personal belongings. He only has a few posters to put up: a video-game advertisement, a scantily clad Budweiser Girl, a football schedule from his high school. He spreads them out, but the walls are still very bare. He takes out an old framed photo of himself and his father at an amusement park; it's always been a favorite of his, but now he's not sure what to do with it.

He and his father have had less and less contact since Dad left a year and a half ago. At first his father was SuperDad, coming every weekend and a couple
of times during the week, taking Evan to ball games and movies and dinner. It took Dad a little longer than it took Evan to figure out that they didn't really have a whole lot to talk about when the movies and ball games were over. And when the awkward pauses started outweighing the fun stuff, Dad just sort of ceased to come around.

It hurts in a way—but it also feels right. That's because of Libby. She was hardly ever included in the father-son outings. Evan knew she was too little, wouldn't have enjoyed it once she got there, would have whined and made everybody miserable—but still, he hated hearing her ask to come along and hearing Dad say no. It wasn't exactly Dad's fault; he had only so much free time, and Evan fit better into his activities. But now it feels more like Libby and Evan are equal, as far as Dad is concerned.

Evan puts the picture aside and pulls out the shoebox in which he keeps things of sentimental value; it contains ticket stubs; notes from girls; a poem he wrote for English that he worked hard on, for once—the teacher read it to the class; a picture of himself and
his girlfriend, Carrie, at junior prom; a picture of his grandparents; and a baby toy that he doesn't want anyone to know he kept.

As he's putting this shoebox in a drawer, Libby comes in without knocking. She does that a lot since Mom quit her job, but Evan says nothing; on another day he might be irritated, but today, for some reason, he almost likes the way she wants to be with him, the way she feels at home wherever he is.

Libby walks over to the back windows and leans out, just as Evan did a moment before. “Ooh, you can see all the way down to the river from here.”

Evan has decided that he likes this room, or rather, the size of it. He's enjoying filling out his own space however he wants, and he's in a better mood about the house. “Back in the old days, they didn't have air-conditioning,” he tells her. “Rich people built their houses up here because it was cooler—see, the breeze comes up from the river.”

“Are we rich?”

“I wish.” He thinks how much it must be costing to get this hulk fixed up, and figures it's a good thing
Libby likes peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches better than steak. “What can you see from your window?” he asks Libby, opening another box.

“The driveway.”

“Come on,” he says, “you can see more than that.”

She's still leaning out the window, taken by the view. “Umm, the house next door.”

“That's not a house,” Evan informs her. “It's a law office.” That's another one of the things Evan doesn't like about this place—it's not a regular neighborhood, but the remnants of one that has been taken over by businesses. “Anyway, you can't complain,” he tells Libby. “You had first choice of rooms.”

“I like my room,” Libby says. “I just wish I could see the river.”

Her voice is plaintive. Evan pauses to look at her; she's always been a bouncy, upbeat kid, but ever since Dad left she seems to get sad sometimes. It makes him mad at Dad, although the truth is, he could see why Dad might not be as eager to take Libby to the playground as he was to go with Evan to a hockey game. Evan knows now, from relentless boring experience,
that there's nothing fun about sitting around watching a five-year-old swing on a swing set.

Mom hasn't been much better, in Evan's opinion—ever since she quit her job and took Libby out of day care, it looks to Evan like Libby has mostly been left to entertain herself around the house.

Libby never talks about any of this, though, and Evan doesn't know how to ask. That's Mom's department, talking to people about stuff like that.

“You can come look out my window sometimes,” he offers.

She turns to look at him, hands still on the windowsill. “Anytime I want?”

“No. You have to ask first.”

“I didn't ask just now,” she points out, very serious.

Sometimes the way she say things, the way she blinks at him, reminds him of a wise little owl. “That's right, you didn't,” he agrees, just as seriously. “You owe me.”

“What do I owe you?”

Evan doesn't really want anything. “Um…you have to bring me a Coke,” he finally says.

“Mom said no food or drinks upstairs,” Libby says, obviously quoting, “because we'll spill on the floors, and they're—”

“Don't tell me,” Evan says, grimacing. “Original to the house.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

from one room      to the next.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

close to the floor

hard,

simple as a sailor's berth

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

so full of lies.

T
hat night, Evan has strange, choppy dreams that
come in flashes. He dreams of sex, which wouldn't be unusual except that these dreams have a detailed, familiar feel to them, as if his mind is playing back a memory rather than making up something new.

He also realizes, when he wakes, that he never saw the girl's face. What he mostly remembers is her fine, pale hair. In the beginning it fell in a long braid over her bare shoulder. Later he saw it loose when she was under him and her hands reached up to clutch his arms and shoulders. Unbound, he remembers, it was soft against his nose and lips.

He comes downstairs in the morning to find his mother at the table in the breakfast nook, which is off the kitchen. The dining room itself is large, empty of furniture, and rather dark. Mom has finished eating breakfast and is drinking coffee. She looks relaxed and
pleased with life in general. She has the house of her dreams, the job of her dreams, and happily she is unaware that her son has been having dream-sex with a hot young blonde all night.

“Good morning,” she says.

“Morning,” says Evan.

“Doughnut?”

“No, thanks.” He gets some milk out of the refrigerator, and a glass. He pours the milk, then starts drinking it the way he always does, in one long series of gulps.

His mother takes a sip of coffee. “You look tired,” she tells him.

“I had a lot of dreams.”

“About what?”

“I don't remember.” He does remember; he just has no intention of discussing this with her.

It's summer, but Mom keeps both hands wrapped around the cup. She always does that, as if she enjoys the warmth. “You should keep a dream diary,” she advises.

“Yeah, I should,” Evan agrees, but he doesn't mean it.

Mom sips her coffee again, then sets the cup down with a careful clunk. “I'll pick you up a journal, if you want. I'm about to get out and go sign Libby up for swim lessons.”

“About time,” Evan says without thinking. Immediately he knows he shouldn't have said it. It occurs to him now that Mom
has
been busy getting the house ready, picking out paint colors, meeting with workmen, signing papers. Now that they're here, of course she'll have more time to do things for Libby.

Mom's hands are still on the cup, but she's intent on him now. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” he tells her, but then figures since it's halfway out, he might as well finish. “It's just that you moved her away from all her friends, and there's nobody for her to play with around here. And the Asshole never comes to see her.”

Mom grips her cup a little tighter, and the look she gives Evan could nail him to the wall. “Don't call him that,” she says in her put-your-foot-down voice. “He's your father.” She starts to take another sip of coffee, but stops with the cup halfway in the air. “And
you know something? You are not the parent here, Evan.”

“Sorry,” says Evan. He's not sorry, not really. And he adds to himself, as he walks off,
but he really is an asshole.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

uneven drips

 

of

 

voices

 

 

 

 

his

voice is

husky, rough

 

it ripples the air,

winds itself

around me

clings

tugs at me