Beating Heart (3 page)

E
van's on the phone with his girlfriend. He's been
going out with Carrie for about a year, which is a long time compared to most people they know. She was the first girl he ever had the nerve to ask out, his first date, his first steady, his first sex. They've always been crazy about each other, and back when they first started going out, he couldn't keep his eyes off her. Couldn't keep his
mind
off her—even during finals, he'd be impatient to finish so he could get out into the hall and find her, just to be with her. He liked the intent way she listened, eyes fastened to him; the way she made him feel smart, funny, important, strong. With most girls he felt like he was onstage; all he had to be with Carrie was himself.

Nowadays, Evan has noticed, he talks to Carrie more when they're on the phone than when they're together. Sometimes he says things he didn't realize
he was thinking until the very moment he says them aloud. It gives him a vague feeling that he doesn't even
know
what he thinks until he puts it into words and says it to her.

“Yeah, we're pretty much moved in,” he's telling her. “No, it's a lot better now. It's not a total pit. Believe me, it was. Mom was all, ‘Look at the paneling, it's original to the house.' But it looks okay now. Like human beings live here instead of spiders and bats.”

While he's talking, he decides to go downstairs and get something to drink. He's on the cordless, so he won't have to hang up.

As he walks across the room, he gets a chill; sometimes there's a draft in here, but he hasn't figured out yet where it's coming from.

 

 

 

 

I
n the kitchen, Evan leans against the counter, drinking
a 7-Up, while Carrie tells him about a fight her parents had. When he's done, he tosses the can and walks back toward the stairs. As he heads up, he sees that Mom's working in her office—or rather, she's staring thoughtfully at the computer screen. That's what she calls working, these days.

When he gets back to his room, he finds that the bed has been moved.

“Hang on a sec.” He holds the phone away from his mouth and yells out into the hall: “Will you guys leave my stuff alone!”

With the phone in one hand, he moves the bed back. Sometimes it seems like the women in his life are always in his business. He can't even put his own furniture where he wants.

“I think Mom's gone flaky on us,” he tells Carrie
when the bed is back where it belongs. “First she sold her book, then Dad took off, then she quit her job and bought this house. Now she's even beyond all that counselor-sounding shit she used to say. Now she's all about ‘Follow your bliss' and ‘Jump and the net will appear.'”

As he talks to Carrie, he sees Libby hanging around by the doorway. Next thing he knows, she's all the way in his room, poking around the stuff on his desk.

He covers the mouthpiece—“Hey! Get out of here!”—and then answers Carrie. “Well, the third floor's not fixed yet; the walls are still peeling. Mom's got guys up there working on—Libby, I said get out!”

But Libby's seen a picture on his desk, the one of Evan and their dad at the amusement park. They are together in one bumper car, side by side, Dad's arm slung around Evan's shoulder. They're both grinning happily into the camera. Evan's features are a mirror of Dad's: the same smile takes over his whole face, crinkling up his eyes in the exact same way. The resemblance ends there, though. Dad has the sun-bleached look of an aging surfer, while Evan has Mom's coloring: dark hair, dark eyes.

Solemnly, Libby bends over to peer intently into her
father's face. Libby has Dad's fair hair and blue eyes.

“What?” Evan asks Carrie, but he's watching Libby, who slowly puts out one finger to touch the photo. “Right now? Um, I guess. Let me just shower off real quick, and then I'll be over.”

Libby's face is full of longing, and Evan is now feeling bad for snapping at her. “Listen, I've got to go,” he tells Carrie. “Yeah, me too. Yeah. Be there in a few.”

He shuts off the phone and stands for a moment watching Libby, who seems to have forgotten that he's there. He feels he ought to say something, but doesn't know what; he's not so good with words. He just doesn't like seeing Libby so sad, that's all.

He moves over to his stereo and turns it on. “Hey, Lib,” he calls to her. “I got a song you're gonna like. Come here.”

Libby looks at him over her shoulder. Evan has always made it very clear that his stereo is off-limits to her. “You're going to let me listen to your CDs?” she asks him, doubtful.

In answer, Evan holds out the headphones. She comes over with tentative steps, unsure what she's done
to earn this honor. He gently puts the headphones on her ears. He can't hear the frantic rush of snare and cymbals that signals the beginning of the song, or the thick, shuddering bass that joins in. But he watches as her face loses its sad lines and starts to show that she does indeed like the song. For the moment, he almost doesn't mind that Mom deliberately bought him the edited version of the CD. At least Libby can listen to it.

After a few moments, he lifts one headphone off her ear. “I'm gonna go take a quick shower,” he tells her. “Don't touch any buttons. I'll be right back.” He places the headphone back, and she stands perfectly still, hands stiff at her sides so as not to touch anything. He moves to get a change of clothes out of his dresser, then goes through the door to the bathroom he and Libby share.

 

 

 

I
n the bathroom, Evan locks the door behind him and
turns the water on. He strips his T-shirt over his head, wads it up, and tosses it into the hamper. He already knows that it takes a while for hot water to work its way up here from the basement, so he takes his time getting undressed. He's thinking about Dad, about Libby.

 

 

his chest, revealed,

is so smooth

a work of art

unseen

by any other eyes

 

 

 

 

B
y the time Evan's got his clothes off, the water still
isn't hot. He stands naked, leaning back against the sink. He's thinking about that little electric car Dad got Libby for her second birthday. Even at fourteen years old, Evan had almost been jealous about how utterly cool it was, a tiny little sports car with a real gas pedal and brake, a real steering wheel that worked. That was so like Dad, to forget things like not letting babies put things in their mouths and then go out and buy something expensive, something unforgettable.

The only problem was that Libby wasn't old enough to drive it. She sat in it and opened and shut the doors and played with the steering wheel and the little horn, but she didn't know to put her foot on the gas pedal. And when Dad reached in and placed her foot on the gas, the car took off suddenly, with Libby unable to steer it, and she'd crashed into the curb. She'd been knocked
out of her seat onto the hood, and she'd started crying, scared but not hurt. Dad didn't go to her, didn't say much; he mostly seemed a little angry that his gift hadn't been appreciated. Mom had been the one to pick Libby up and comfort her while Dad ignored Libby and got Evan to help him carry the car back into the house. Then they sat down to watch the game together, and that was it for Libby's birthday.

Finally the water's at least warm, and Evan steps into the shower. He pulls the curtain behind him.

 

 

W
hen Evan gets out of the shower, the mirror is
steamed up. As he stands in front of it, wrapped in a towel, he sees his own reflection as a vague shape under the gray-white mist on the glass. For a moment it looks like there's something behind him, another vague shape—but when he turns to look, nothing is there. When he wipes the mirror with a hand towel, the only things reflected are himself, the door, and the walls.

After he's dressed in clean clothes, he goes to tell Libby that maybe she can listen to the song again later. He gets his car keys from the dresser, flips the light switch, and heads downstairs.

“Mom,” he calls without stopping, “I'm going over to Carrie's, be back by dinner, okay?”

He couldn't get away with that on a school night—she'd be asking him about homework and time frames.
But it's summer, and all Mom says from her computer-staring trance is, “Fine, have a good time.”

And so, free, he steps out the front door, letting it bang shut behind him, and leaves the house.

 

 

C
arrie's parents are out when Evan gets to her house
. Her eyes light up when he comes in. One of the things Evan really likes about her is that she understands that sometimes a guy doesn't have a lot of money to go on dates. She's never minded the times they've had to go to matinees instead of evening movies—and she doesn't even complain when they don't go anywhere at all. Carrie knows that it's all about being together; it's not about flash. She's happy just being in a relationship.

Okay, it's true that once in a while Evan thinks she's more interested in the relationship than she is in him, but then he always tells himself that's just a girl thing, the way they like getting cards and flowers on holidays.

Carrie thinks that her parents will be back in an hour or so, but isn't sure. To Evan, this means they need to have sex right away. As Evan sees it, sex is one
of the perks that come with monogamy.

This time it's in Carrie's room, on her bed. Afterward, he rolls over onto his back while she tucks herself up against him, letting one finger play over his chest. These are the times he's always liked best—apart from the sex itself, of course. He likes the quiet ease of it, like floating.

Times like this remind him of last summer, their first summer together. Carrie's mom was out a lot, so he'd come to her house on his days off and they'd make love and then go out back to laze around Carrie's pool all afternoon. Those were some of the best times of Evan's life—exhausting himself trying out new things in his first sexual experiences and then, utterly content, dozing on a floating chaise, aimlessly bobbing, disconnected from everything except the heavy scent of chlorine and Carrie's sunscreen—skin warm, water cool, eyes closed against the bright sun.

It's been different lately, though. This time especially he notices it. Maybe because the sex itself seemed rather flat to Evan, because he can't help but compare it to the
dreams he's been having—and he
has
been having them, ever since the move: the same girl, the same bed, the same intense familiarity. With Carrie it feels good, of course, more satisfying than scratching an itch; but when he's done he feels a little uncomfortable, as if he's just used his girlfriend with the same efficiency with which he'd have used his own hand.

He
has
wondered what it would be like to have sex with someone else. But that would mess things up; it would hurt Carrie and she'd get mad and make him feel bad. He doesn't have anybody in mind anyway, just sort of idly wonders sometimes.

He doesn't say any of this, of course. Carrie's watching him. She's been doing that sometimes lately. It's almost as if she's waiting for something. If she is, she never says anything. And Evan never asks.

He puts an arm around her. He doesn't feel like talking to Carrie much in person. On the phone, she is quiet and listens; in person, she seems quiet and needy. He can't put any of this into words, but he feels it, and it makes him inclined to clam up.

He doesn't know how long they've been lying there
before he asks the key question again: “How long did you say it'd be before your parents are supposed to be back?”

“I don't know. Maybe half an hour now?” Carrie answers.

There's a long silence. Carrie is running her finger along his chest. Then she starts circling his nipple with her fingertip.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks.

“I dunno.”

Carrie snuggles closer. He's pretty sure his arm is going to sleep, but doesn't want to let on.

“Of course you know what you're thinking about,” she tells him. “Tell me.”

What is he thinking about? Really?

“My mom,” he answers. It's only the truth.

Carrie's finger stops moving. “Your mom? We're lying here, and you're thinking about your mother?”

“Not just Mom,” Evan explains. “It's the whole thing. It's the new house. It's Libby.”

Carrie's hand is flat on his chest now. She's not looking at his face anymore, but staring at her unmoving
hand with a slight frown. Evan takes this as a sign of interest.

“Now that we've moved,” he continues, “there's nobody for Libby to play with. At the apartment she could just go next door, or over to the playground. Now there's nobody. It's not even a real neighborhood. There's a law office on one side and an old house that's just open for tours on the other.”

It's almost like talking on the phone; he's had all this in the back of his mind, but he didn't know any of it, not really, not until he started saying it aloud to Carrie.

Carrie seems to be considering what he's said. After a moment, she speaks.

“I can't believe,” she says, “that you're thinking about this right after we made love.”

Evan blinks.

“I mean, here we are sharing this tender moment, and you're thinking about your
mother
and
sister
.”

“You
asked
,” Evan points out.

Carrie pulls back to look at him. “I know I did.” She's got that all-or-nothing look in her eye. “And now
I'm going to be honest, Evan: there's a million kids out there who have to move and who don't live near other kids. She'll be fine.”

This
is another way it's been different lately. Evan doesn't get to lie there, relaxing contentedly, anymore. Carrie's got to dig up something that she can pick apart. It's not arguing, though—at least that's what Carrie says. It's “discussing.”

Evan only wanted to answer her question. But his answer was
wrong.
He should have kept his mouth shut.

So now he doesn't say anything.

Carrie watches him for a second, then nestles close again. “It's nothing against Libby. I'm only saying it because I don't want you to worry. I love you. You know that, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And…” She's watching him again, running her palm slowly back and forth along his skin.

“And what?” He knows what she wants him to say. It feels like a requirement that she's trying to drill into him, like saying
please
or
thank you
.

“And you love me, too?” she asks in a small voice.

“And I love you, too.” To Evan, his voice sounds as flat as he feels.

Carrie drops a kiss on his chest. It feels as if she's rewarding him for saying the exact words that she needed him to say.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

her hair flies up

like

cottonwood seeds in the wind