Authors: Sarah Bird
NOVEMBER 5, 2009
O
n Thursday the first cold front of the year blows in. At the quarry a chilly wind pebbles the surface of the water. We jump in anyway. And play until our lips turn blue. We drive home with the heater on full blast. The windows steam up from the cold air outside and our wet clothes inside.
It is obvious by now that Tyler is not attracted to me and that is fine. Most likely he is gay and squelching rumors by taking a girl out to the quarry. A girl that none of his friends will ever talk to. I don’t care. Our suspended moments are better than any of the so-called sexual encounters I’ve had where I did things that I made myself believe I wanted to do. Then worried whether I was doing them the right way and whether my body was good enough. My whole life Mom has drilled into me that sex is all natural and beautiful and nothing to be ashamed of.
Playing with Tyler at the quarry feels the way she always told me that sex was supposed to feel.
FRIDAY, AUGUST 13, 2010
D
ori’s departure stirs Pretzels. She hobbles to the edge of the high porch and sniffs, her black nose twitching as she picks up the scent of a squirrel she can no longer see. Some ancestral synapse is triggered by the smell; she growls her muted, grumbling growl and her legs twitch.
“Steps, girl! Steps!” I yell, remembering Black Ice Night. I jump up and lead Pretzels to the stairs at the middle of the porch. Once she’s positioned in front of them, I hoist up her arthritic hindquarters, and as she puts one trembling front paw down, then another, I help her down to what remains of the grass. She settles onto a sunny patch and pokes her nose into the breeze.
I return to the porch and watch my sweet old girl. She drops her big head onto her front paws and discovers a black-and-white mockingbird feather lying in the grass beside her. After chewing on it for a bit, she picks it up, waves it around in the air as if she’s conducting a tiny orchestra, lets it fall, rediscovers it a moment later, snaps the feather up, and starts conducting all over again.
With Dori gone, I am free to play my favorite game, Time Travel. I return to my last Christmas with Martin and replay the way it really happened: Two-year-old Aubrey unwrapped BeeBee and hugged her to her chest. I hugged Martin to mine and pleaded to know what I had to do to keep our marriage together. He told me, “Join Next and raise our daughter as a Nextarian.”
Aided by my fourth Milwaukee’s Best, I rewrite that history into an alternate reality in which, instead of my informing my husband that he had gone totally fucking insane and that my child would be raised in his science-fiction pyramid scheme of a cult over my dead body, and him then walking out of our lives, I say, “Hallelujah, sign me up, baby!” And Martin, Aubrey, and I live happily ever after in this and the next ninety-nine incarnations.
In the Beer Five alternate version of reality, I respond by finding the most bloodthirsty hellhound of a divorce lawyer ever created in the cyborg attorney lab, so that when Martin comes to the table flanked by a couple of Next’s legal pit bulls, and announces that he has signed over all his worldly assets and basically indentured himself for all eternity, in exchange for “the church’s extraordinary generosity” in putting a big chunk down on the Parkhaven house and setting up an irrevocable trust that will fund Aubrey’s college tuition, provided he never has any contact, whatsoever, with either of us again, my goons would have taken Martin to the mat. Or at the very least written a document that couldn’t be codiciled into irrelevance.
The Beer Six version of history, oddly, takes me back to an unusually clear-eyed replaying of events pretty much exactly as they happened. I got pregnant. We bought this house. I began my suburban exile. I quit my nursing job in my sixth month. Martin was miserable at his job in the city, where programming, a skill he’d developed as a hobby, an intriguing mental challenge to supplement his interest in systems of logic, had become his whole life, the thing he could do that made money.
Then “some guy” at work told him about Next. From the beginning, Martin was open about his interest and committed to getting me involved with him. At that point, I knew nothing about Next except that a few starlets with more silicon than gray matter were ardent followers. But I could see that Martin was benefiting from it. At first in ways that I actually liked. Though he was home less and less, when he was here there was more and more of him. Just as my belly was swelling, Martin began filling his body in a way he never had before. He’d always
been
tall, but for the first time he
seemed
tall. And he’d always had a deep voice, but before Next he’d modulated it, swallowing his words so that I’d have to lean in close to hear what he said. His timidity had forced me to make more and more of the decisions—like having a child and buying this house—for both of us.
After a few months of Next, though, Martin the Soft-spoken was transformed into a Rush Limbaugh clone. Suddenly his every utterance was delivered in a bone-rattling bellow with a majesty and volume that reverberated off the high ceiling of the great room. His new assurance made everything he said sound obvious and irrefutable, like he was explaining gravity and I was an idiot if I didn’t agree.
Which is why, when I was eight months pregnant and he said, “Cam, the best thing you could do for yourself and our child is to go to the Hub and take the basic Next course,” I agreed. “The Hub” was the converted nursing home that “the congregation” met in for classes and exorbitantly expensive “counseling sessions.” It was where Martin had taken to spending all his lunch hours and most evenings except for the few when I put my foot down and made him stay home and do something like assemble the crib, whereupon he’d act like a teenager who’d been grounded. So I thought,
Why not
? I tried to look upon it as something we could do together, a shared interest like salsa-dancing lessons or a wine-tasting class.
The course turned out to be two parts assertiveness training combined with one part three-year-old’s birthday party. We had staring contests in which the first to blink was the loser. We played Simon Says and took turns ordering other class members to “Go stand on the chair!” “Jump up and down!” “Go drink out of the aquarium!” The entire time our trainer kept yelling that if Next technology was not causing us to be filled with “bright surges of energy” and “connecting with our own power source,” we should leave. Walk out. Right that very moment. Then the class, champing like hounds on the hunt, waited for the backsliders among us to reveal themselves. It was a canny crowd-control intimidation tactic. Each time you didn’t have enough gumption to declare yourself an infidel by walking out, you were, essentially, doubling down on Next; you were publicly announcing, “I believe.”
For our final challenge, the trainer took away all our money and commanded us to go out into the city and use our newly honed mastery over time, space, and the unenlightened boobs of the non-Next world to get something for free.
I drove to the nearest convenience store; bought an Almond Joy with the five-dollar bill I’d slipped into my bra; went to the library; discovered that all material about Next was kept under lock and key, since adherents considered it their sacred duty to steal or destroy anything negative about the church; gave the librarian my driver’s license to hold while I perused what books and articles they’d been able to replace; researched Next; concluded that it was one Spanish Inquisition away from being the most dangerous group ever to pass itself off as a religion and that I had to save Martin and our unborn child from its patent idiocy.
When Martin came home that night—late as usual because he’d had to attend “muster” at the Hub—I expressed the belief that he was being brainwashed by a dangerous nutball cult and demanded that he quit. Now. For me. For our child. For us.
“Cam, how do I make you open your eyes?” he’d asked, his own eyes glittering the way they always did after a session at the Hub. He spoke quickly, with a hint of mania. By that time, even his smell had changed. It was sharper, almost acrid. “I want my life to be a masterpiece. I want
your
life to be a masterpiece. I want the life we create together with the child we have created together to be a masterpiece. Next has the tech to give us that.”
“Martin, Next is a scam. A giant, snake-oil-drenched scam.”
With all ten fingers, Martin pointed to his eyes and demanded, “Is
this
a scam?”
“Martin, your vision was never that bad to start with.”
“But bad enough that I needed glasses when I drove. I ran Opt Tech and look.” He indicated his glasses-free face. “Do I wear glasses anymore when I drive?”
“No, but that doesn’t prove to me that you no longer need them. In fact, I might be endangering my life and the life of our unborn child every time I get in a car with you.”
He shook his head at that, more sad than angry. “There is something worse than not being able to see, Cam. Imagining that you can see when you are totally blind.”
“Oh, my aching ass. Did you really just say that?” I laughed. Laughing was a mistake.
“You dismiss Next at your own peril,” Martin intoned in the Old Testament voice he’d developed. “And the peril of our entire planet. I know this for an absolute, indisputable fact: The only way we will survive as a species is if we all learn and implement Next tech as expeditiously as possible.”
“Martin, please, I need you. Our child needs you. Come back to us. Quit Next.”
“If I had a kidney disease would you beg me to stop doing dialysis?”
“You don’t have a kidney disease.”
“I might as well. Without Next I’d be just as useless to you, to myself, and to our child.”
We argued until dawn. I dragged out all the articles about Next that I’d Xeroxed, along with warnings about tactics cults use to brainwash converts and separate them from their families. Martin tossed back brainwashed-cult rantings that separated us more and more.
In very short order, we became a virulently hostile interfaith couple, Martin turning from me to protect the bright jewel that was the beliefs I ridiculed. Me hanging on, clinging to the hope that the instant his child was placed in his arms, Martin would come back to us.
I was pregnant through one of the hottest summers on record. At night, I stopped sleeping. During the day, I sat on our porch and pretended to work on the online course I was taking to upgrade my nursing diploma to a bachelor’s-in-nursing degree. But every time my eyes hit terms like “concepts of management” or “collaboration with an interdisciplinary team,” they glazed over. My grandmother Bobbi Mac had died that spring, and all I wanted was to be with her and her nurse buddies in North Africa. With Pee Wee, Speedy, Slats, but especially I wanted to be with Crazy Mac. I wanted nursing to be having a gang of friends who put on talent contests and watched out for one another. Mostly, though, I wanted to walk into a room where a person was hurting and make it better. Right away. Not after “collaborating with an interdisciplinary team.”
I might have stuck it out with nursing if I hadn’t been pregnant. Or not in despair. Or not lonelier than I’d ever been, trapped out in the suburbs where the one person I knew had turned into a stranger. But I
was
pregnant, lonely, and in despair, so instead of studying, I sat on the porch and rocked, like I am rocking now, while Martin spent his days in the city working at a job he hated and his evenings at a place he loved more than me, and I watched our new suburban lawn parch and turn to straw.
Right after the delivery, when Martin and I were alone in my hospital room for the first time since two became three, he picked up our child, and the love that flooded his face was so undeniable that I knew the spell had been broken: Martin had been returned to me. To us.
He cooed to our child, bounced her gently, sniffed her head. We decided to call her Aubrey after a song that Martin used to sing to me because it was about a “not so very ordinary girl or name.” Aubrey’s eyes flickered beneath blue lids closed tight against a painfully overlit world as he stroked her head. I thought we were going to be all right.
But Aubrey had colic and screamed eighteen hours a day. Martin begged me to allow him to take her to “a practitioner” at the Hub. “We do astonishing work with gastro issues,” he said, but all I noticed was that he said “we” when he talked about Next, and I couldn’t recall the last time he’d used “we” when he talked about us.
Martin spent more and more time at the Hub. In addition to sleeping, I stopped eating and having rational thoughts.
When I sobbed through Aubrey’s twelve-month well-baby visit, the pediatrician sent me to a psychiatrist who put me on Lexapro. Clearly, I was too far gone for Lexa-amateur. Martin promised that if I swallowed the same fistfuls of Next-produced vitamins and supplements that he did, I would have no need for the “lobotomy in a bottle” dispensed by psychiatrists. I suggested that he was a deranged lunatic who should either stop actively torturing me or get the hell out of my life.
Martin begged me to try to understand. He bared his soul. He wept. We had desperate, amazing sex that I thought signaled a new beginning, but was actually a long good-bye. By Aubrey’s second birthday, Martin was in the process of turning over all his worldly possessions to Next. At the divorce hearing, I learned that it was an extraordinary concession on “the church’s” part to let Martin hold out enough money to put a big chunk down on the house and set up the college trust fund. Of course, Next made Martin promise in return that he would have no further contact with Aubrey or me. And if he ever did, that would lead automatically to the forfeiture of the trust. And, for the next sixteen years, there had been no contact.
It is obvious now, though, that he and Aubrey had been in contact. Just one more of the apparently limitless things my daughter did last year that I knew nothing about.
NOVEMBER 6, 2009
F
riday is cold enough that Tyler wears his corduroy jacket and we don’t jump in the water. We take chunks of limestone and scrape powdery outlines of each other into the flat slabs of black granite at the top of the quarry. We do a crime scene story, each of us changing positions and taking turns outlining the other.
We start with our dead bodies. Corpse outlines. Then we draw our victims’ bloody fight. We keep adding scenes, backing the story up in time. The last scene we draw, which is really the first, where it all starts, is a kiss. I lie down on my side first and Tyler draws around me, being especially careful to trace my profile as I lean forward, head tilted up. Then he lies down. I trace around his back, his butt. I reposition his head and trace his profile. Limestone powder dusts his jacket, his jeans, his chin. My fingers touch his lips as I outline them. In the drawing our lips meet.
We step back and look at the whole story wobbling across the uneven surfaces. I try to figure out which one of us made it into a lovers’ quarrel but can’t. It is like the Ouija board, where the answer just magically comes out of two hands touching. Maybe he was imagining that he was outlining a guy. That’s fine. I had my own imaginings.
Tyler takes the back route home, a narrow, twisty road that used to be lined with farms and small ranches but is now deserted. We are deep in the country when he points to a road with weeds growing up through the cracks that has an old rusty mailbox beside it and says, “I used to live down a road like that one.”
“You did?” I try not to sound too interested. He never talks about growing up and I don’t want to scare him away from telling me stuff.
He glances in the rearview as if the only way he is ever going to look at that mailbox is if it is far behind him. He watches until it is lost in the darkness, until he has a safe head start on it; then he says, “Yeah,” in a way that makes me know that that is all he is going to say.
We slide onto the freeway. He turns on his player. Carrie Underwood. In a million years, I never would have imagined that I’d be driving around in a pickup truck with a gay football player who likes Carrie Underwood. And that it would be more fun than anything else I have ever done in my life.
I try to sound casual as I lift one of the crutches stowed behind us and go, “You’re not using these anymore.”
“I never really needed them that much. I kind of strung this out a little.” He pauses. “But Coach says I have to come back to practice Monday, though, or he won’t play me in the game next Friday. So—”
I rush to save us both from embarrassment. “No problem. It’s cool. It was fun. Maybe we’ll hang out again sometime.”
“Sometime? Uh, yeah. Like at practice Monday. I mean, if you want to.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, ‘really.’ Why not?”
“I don’t know. Guess I thought that what happens at the quarry would stay at the quarry.”
“Why would you think that?”
“I don’t know. I just did. The quarry … You know. It’s the quarry.”
“Yeah. I wish my whole life could be the quarry. Just simple like that. Like we could all be some primitive tribe that existed at the quarry hunting and gathering and shit.”
“I know. Like you either kill the rabbit and eat or you starve. That day. Just that day. Not like, ‘Oh, I have to figure out a whole strategy for eating for the rest of my entire life. And I’d better be hunting at only the most exclusive hunting spots or the whole tribe will think I’m a big fat loser.’ ”
“That’s exactly it. Puke, you’re amazing. You are exactly who I thought you’d be right from the beginning.”
“What? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I guess it means I’m psychic.”
Tyler won’t tell me anything more about who he thought I’d be, just nods, happy about being psychic or right or whatever, then stares out at the landscape like he is trying to figure out how to turn it all into one big quarry.
Tyler has been dropping me off at the corner for the past week so that I can tell Mom that I walked home from Shaniqua’s house. He stops a block from my house and, before I get out, asks, “So? Monday? Practice?”
I have my hand on the door handle. I want to be simple. I want to be the one simple thing in his life, but I can’t
not
ask. “Not that it matters one way or another. I mean, I seriously don’t care. But, just for curiosity, why are you hanging out with me?”
He faces me, turns the engine off. “I don’t know. You’re fun. I liked it when you busted me for macking on you.”
“You mean when you were all, ‘Hey, baby, I’m Tyler Moldenhauer,’ that time at the attendance counter?”
“Yeah. You treated me like such a creeper. That cracked me up. In fact, the first thing I ever heard you say cracked me up.”
“You mean, after I puked on you?”
“Oh, that was hilarious too. No doubt. But, no, before that. The first time I noticed you I was like, What is different in this picture? Oh right, one girl doesn’t have a giant feather protruding from the side of her head. Then that band director dude—”
“Shupe.”
“Yeah, that dee bag. Such a jarhead wannabe. He is yelling at you that ‘it’s Semper Fi!’ and you come back at him in this total Parris Island DI voice, ‘Not Semper I,
sir
!’ That cracked me up. And he completely did not get it. No one on the team got it. I got it.”
“So I didn’t have to puke on you to get you to notice me?”
“Hells to the no.” He goes into his skeevy playboy act. “I had my eye on you, girl.”
I play-flirt back at him, purring, “Mmm. Tell me more, my fine playa manwhore.” It is exactly like being with Javier, the gay kid who was my only real friend last summer at Lark Hill. We loved to pretend in front of the other counselors that I had a giant crush on him and no idea that he was gay. It was fun to mess with them, to have some designated representative come over to me and whisper, “We’re worried about you, Aubrey. You do know that Javier is gay, don’t you?” Then I’d pretend to be shocked and in mad love denial and say, “Gay? No! My Javier is not gay! He’s just
theatrical
!”
I play-slap at Tyler, just like I used to do with Javier, and he jokes back, “How could I resist. You were like the palest person I had ever seen. What did you do all summer? Sleep in a coffin? I thought you were an albino. And that was
so
sexy.”
“You did
not
just call me an albino!” I windmill a flurry of bunny pats onto his chest. It is like slapping a saddle.
He raises his hands in front of his chest and I slap at those. “I just had to see those white-rat red eyes up close. Find out what lab you escaped from.”
I accelerate my attack. He squeezes his eyes shut and squeals. It seems irrelevant whether he is gay or not and I kiss him.
Tyler’s eyes spring open. For a fraction of a second, I think he is going to kiss me back. But he doesn’t and I want to blurt out that I know he is gay and I didn’t expect him to kiss me and let’s just pretend I didn’t do that.
He drops his arms. “You are a nice person, A to the J.”
“Nice! That is such an insult. Nice is the most boring thing anyone can be.”
“No, believe me. Nice is not an insult.”
“Well, I’m not that nice.”
“Yeah, you are. You’re so nice that you don’t even know how nice you are, which is why I better make you leave right now.”
I walk home in a state that ping-pongs between ecstasy and utter humiliation. Inside the house Mom ambushes me and asks, “Why don’t you bring Shaniqua over here sometime?”
“Oh, she has to babysit. She’s got two little sisters who fight all the time. And a brother who’s got dyslexia.”
“Bring them all over. Give me a time. I won’t schedule any consultations and I’ll help her watch the little ones.”
“Mom, you always do this.”
“Do what?”
“Try to take my friends over.”
I see the same question going through her mind that is going through mine:
What friends
? Knowing that she would never actually say the words, I escape before she can figure out another way to grill me.
I am all the way in my room, closing the door, when she yells out, “Peninsula sent you something! It’s from the housing office!” Her voice startles me. I’d already forgotten that she was there. And I haven’t thought once about Peninsula since our trip. I pretend I didn’t hear her, shut and lock the door, and go back to remembering how Tyler’s lips felt on mine.