August,
1999
Scott Ditzler
Is that him? They rolled up on him at Sonic of all places. Yeah, that’s him. You ready to go? He nodded, already had the padlock in his hand, the latch looped around his knuckle. They pulled the truck up right behind him and it was on from the start. You been talking shit about my sister? Get out of the car, motherfucker. You been talking shit about my sister? No? That’s not what she’s been saying. He was trying to act hard at first, said he didn’t have time for this kind of bullshit, just trying to get himself a fucking limeade. I didn’t say shit about nobody’s sister. Then that padlock came across and changed the conversation real quick. It didn’t matter who had or hadn’t said what about anybody. It was all mixed up at first, him swinging big and wild, and the two of them coming in with the boots and that lock. People honking, some lady hanging out the window, screaming about calling the fucking cops. Who’s talking shit now, motherfucker? Who’s talking shit now? The boots coming down on him. Don’t you ever say shit about my sister, motherfucker. You hear me? Blood on the hot concrete, him coughing and not saying shit, trying to curl up, trying to crawl away. His box still rattling in the trunk. Some blonde carhop on her fucking roller-skates, standing there with her hand over her mouth. People outside their cars now. Come on, he said, that padlock still gripped in his hand. Let’s get the fuck out of here. But those boots still coming down on him. Who’s talking shit now? Huh? Who’s talking shit now, motherfucker? They hadn’t even been out looking for him, just happened to see his Camaro parked
there at the Sonic. Motherfucker was just trying to get a limeade. Next thing he’s getting beat down by some mean motherfuckers he doesn’t even know. Didn’t matter who said what now. Come on, he said. Let’s get the fuck out of here. Another boot for good measure. Let that be a lesson to you, motherfucker. Don’t never talk shit about my sister. And that could have been that. It could have been a quick afternoon ass-beating. That’s all it was supposed to be. But who knows what it was about that particular day, the heat coming off the pavement, all those people standing there watching, and for some reason the motherfucker being on the ground bleeding and twitching and it just not being enough. And so up on his back with both boots, balancing at first, and then one big jump, and then—crack—lights out. Come the fuck on. It’s time to fucking go, now. Sirens faint in the distance. Throwing that lock out the window as they drove away.
Did you hear about Renfroe? They both shook their shaggy wet heads. What’s up with Renfroe? Oh, man, he got all fucked up. Some guys jumped him at the Sonic near the highway. No shit? Yeah, no shit. Fucked him up real bad. What’s that all about? Don’t know. But now he’s in the hospital breathing through a fucking tube. The shaggy boys looked back and forth at each other. That’s crazy, they said. They had their arms propped up on the edge of the dock, everything else floating in the lake. The water was warm, felt almost like bathwater. We just bought a bag from him the other day, one of them said. The guy at the top of the stairs lit a cigarette, said it looked like he was going to be out of business for a while. She watched from the metal ladder, didn’t know who Renfroe was, or the older boy at the top of the stairs. She was supposed to be at youth group, had told her mother that’s where she was going, but with the hours her mom was working there wasn’t any way she was going to know. They had been swimming
long enough to be tired of it. She was just about to climb up and dry off when the older boy came to the top of the stairs asking if they knew about Renfroe. He was always cool with us, one of them said. Yeah, me too, the older boy said. What are you all doing later on? You know about anything happening? The other girls came out from under the far side of the dock. They looked like they had been talking about her. They had invited her to come swimming but had been looking at her funny all day. She knew both of them from school, but not well. Same with the boys. One of them lived down the street, a year older, knew her brother. He had reached for her under the water, playing like he was chasing her, his hand grabbing at her ankle, then up closer along her thigh. No way anybody could have seen it, but those girls had been looking at her funny ever since. She held on to the metal ladder. The older boy at the top of the stairs finished his cigarette, then flicked it into the water. Why don’t you jump in? I wish I could, he said. I got to be at work in fifteen. You still at the pizza place? He said you bet he was. It’s easy as shit, he said. Drive around, smoke a bowl, listen to music, get paid. She wondered what would happen if she left with him, if she hopped up and threw on her clothes real quick, if he would take her home. Maybe on one of his deliveries. She could feel eyes on her from across the dock. It’s a shame about Renfroe, one of the shaggy boys said. Who fucked him up so bad? The older boy said that he didn’t know. Supposedly two guys in a pickup truck. That’s all he knew about it. She took a breath and pulled herself up the ladder, grabbed her clothes and hurried up the concrete stairs. Can I get a ride?
Cave painting. That’s what his assignment was about. Summer class. Final project. Ten full pages, minimum. The book he’d checked out from the library lay open across the coffee table. He leaned back on the couch, cigarette in hand, trying to think about
something to write about some rhinoceros or whatever the fuck it even was. He wanted to do comics, illustration. Maybe tattoo. He wasn’t quite sure. That’s one of the reasons he was taking the class to begin with. Teacher was cool though, got real deep and philosophical about what art even was, talked about universal human expression and this need to reveal ourselves through shape and form, things he hadn’t considered before. He just knew he liked to draw. All the time growing up people would be like, You’re such a good drawer. I wish I could draw like you. He sat forward, took one final drag, stubbed it out with the rest of them. He turned the pages in his book. Lions. Some deer. More lions. Those weird rhinoceros motherfuckers. The yellow notepad on the couch beside him was as blank as it had been that morning. His mind drifted to the twelve pack of longnecks he had waiting in the fridge. His reward for finishing his paper. It was supposed to be different this time around. He was finally getting his shit together. Not just talking about it, but actually doing it, actually signing up and then actually going to class. I wish I could draw like you, they would say. You’ve got real talent. I can only draw these stick figures. Yours look so good, like actual people with all the shading and everything. How do you make them look like that? He stood up, stretched his arms over his head, leaned from side to side. Teacher had been talking him up too, had said he always had some of the most interesting comments in class. Always contributed to the conversations. It was supposed to be different this time around. He stood in front of the sliding door, looking at the dead plants on the balcony and then out across the parking lot. The old lady who lived on the first floor was outside picking up trash and putting it in a plastic grocery bag. Hot as fuck outside. Crazy lady was out there picking up everyone else’s trash. And she got every pop can. Every cigarette butt. One at a time. Into the plastic bag. That’s when he heard the key jangle in the door. You’re not going
to believe the shit I saw go down at Sonic today. She went straight to the kitchen, tossed her purse on the countertop, opened the fridge. Thank god, she said. You want a beer? He said he needed to finish his paper first. She peeked her head around the corner. I thought you took off work today. What happened?
He set the bottled water on the pallet next to the canned beans. Should be able to get five or six more on there. Should be fine. A good start anyway. He peeled off his hat, wiped the sweat with his shirtsleeve. No telling how bad it was going to get. But he still had time. He was grateful he had started when he did. Just no telling how bad it’s going to get. He cleared his throat, went back out through the basement for another load. Purification tablets made more sense in the long run. Maybe a separate filtration system. But the bottled water would have to do for now. He was just trying to cover the basics. The first few weeks. After that there was no telling how bad it was going to get. Crazy world out there. Kids running around with pants half off their ass. Didn’t make any sense to him, but didn’t matter much, or wouldn’t come January. He came back with another case of bottled water. Only twentyfour per case. The dog was scratching at the door, whining at the bottom of the stairs. Maybe time for an iced-tea. She jumped on him when he opened the door. Sweet girl, didn’t have the heart to scold her for it. Not anymore. Not after his wife passed. Poor dog still wasn’t the same. Not all these ten—had to stop and think—almost eleven months later. Whining more. Eating less. He stirred the tea in with the water, took it with him across to the window unit. Better enjoy this while it lasts. Might not have any of the modern luxuries come January. Might be too busy fighting the Russians. Hard to say, really. Looked at her picture up on the mantle. Took a second to remember. Drank what was left of the tea. That truck wasn’t going to finish unloading itself. Neighbor
lady gave him a look when he came around the house with that second case of water. We’ll see who’s giving who what come January. Bunch of liars and cheats making the decisions. What do you expect? Best you can do is be prepared. Take care of your own. He thought of her again, not sick, but before that. Wasn’t nothing he could do. He wanted to, lord knows he did, but doctors even said wasn’t nothing could be done. It’s going to be a whole new world come January. Russians will shoot those baggy pants right off your ass. He stacked the water on the pallet with the rest of them. He looked at the stack of canned goods, the bags of brown rice. He had plenty of ammunition. Plenty of firepower. For one person at least. Dog was pawing and scratching at the door again. He went back out to get the last of the water, stood in the driveway looking at each house. Going to be a different world come January.
She stood at the living room window, looking out over the backyard. She could see her face, faint but reflected in the glass, overlayed against the backyard. He would be home any minute and she hadn’t done anything. It hadn’t seemed that way, but it did now that he was almost home. She could see the lines in her face, the slim pinching at the corners of her eyes, reflected in the glass. The house was cool and quiet. She had meant to go to the grocery store. He’s been at the hospital all day and you barely got out of bed. The thought just made it worse. She could see the rest of the house even fainter in the reflection—the living room furniture, across to the dining room, the front door, even the chandelier. Why can’t this be enough? Why can’t it be that simple? He had left the adoption pamphlets on the counter this morning. She knew he’d ask if she had taken the time to look at them. She could already see his disappointment when she said she didn’t get around to it. I thought we talked about this, he would say. I’m just not ready, she would say. He might press her, depending on his
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mood. She might cry, depending on hers. Sometimes for real, but sometimes just to get him to drop it, to leave her alone. She was working on it, she might say. She was doing everything they had told her to do. Even taking the long walks and that stupid workout video. She was taking the new pills. Just like she had taken the last ones. If there was a difference she couldn’t tell. A bit of dryness in her throat, a bit of tension in her neck. Other than that she felt the same. He would ask her when he got home. How are you feeling? And she would have to answer. She would have to have an answer for him. How are you feeling? Such an impossible thing to know. I’m still fucking sad if that’s what you mean. I’m still a crazy person. Is that what you’re asking? She reached out and touched the glass. She pressed her palm firm against it, feeling the oil, the moisture from her skin slide against it. She imagined herself pushing through the glass and then falling. Not into the backyard, but off a higher building, and her falling and falling and the people in the building going about their lives as she passed by each floor on her way down. She pulled her hand away, looked at the ghostly print on the glass, like a marker—someone was here. Thousands of years later they could come in and see that someone had stood here at this window. She checked the clock when she went to get the cleaning spray. He should be home by now. It could mean traffic. It could mean a lot of things. But it usually meant that he had lost a patient. It usually meant an extra glass of wine and a different kind of conversation.
She said it was cool. He had asked about the music, what she thought about a certain CD that had just come out. It sounded like all the other loud angry music most of the boys listened to. They were on their way to the pizza place. The car smelled like pepperoni and cologne. He drove with his right hand hanging limp over the steering wheel. He had said he would have to take her
home when they were out on one of his deliveries. It might take a minute, he had said. Until I get an order on that side of town. She had said that was fine. She was nervous but excited. Happy not to be on that dock anymore. She didn’t know this boy. Just that he drove fast and he delivered pizzas. And that he was older. Must have already graduated. I like their last album better, he said. She nodded like she knew what he meant, said she did too, a lot better. He looked over at her. How old are you? She rubbed her palms together, collapsed her shoulders. Seventeen, she said after a silence. He smiled. How old are you really? She said seventeen, and she said it with more emphasis the second time. She was fourteen, but today it felt like she was seventeen. In this moment in this car she was seventeen. How do you know those other shitheads? She said because of her brother. This wasn’t true, but she wanted him to know who her brother was. She hoped he would ask, which he did, said he knew her brother, not well, but knew who he was, more by reputation. People say not to mess with your brother. People say he can be a mean motherfucker. Hearing him say this out loud made her feel better. Feel like she could relax a bit and enjoy being in this car listening to music with this boy she didn’t know but who knew her brother and what might happen if he tried anything, which she might like, but wasn’t sure, and wasn’t trying to seem that way anyway. When they pulled up behind the pizza place he put the car in park and then took off his shirt. His skin was pale and his muscles were tight against his bones. Not big like her brother’s, but leaner, cuter. He reached into the backseat, brushing his skin against her shoulder as he did, fumbling around with things until he came back with a green collared shirt. It had the name of the pizza place stenciled on the chest. Sit tight, he said, putting his arms into the shirt. I’ll be back in five minutes. He turned to get out, but then stopped and turned back to her. There’s a big book of CDs under the seat, he said, pointing. You
can put on whatever you want. Then he got out. She hoped he didn’t have any deliveries to her side of town. Not yet anyway. She had to pick a CD. No telling which one she might choose, or how far it might take them.
He said he didn’t want to talk about it. The poor kid was alive, but barely. Blunt force trauma. Multiple lacerations. Broken vertebrae. He was in a drug-induced coma. They had to open his skull to make room for all the swelling. But he didn’t want to talk about it. It was part of his job. Poor kid had just graduated in May. Had his whole life ahead of him. Now he would spend it in a wheelchair. And that’s if he gets to wake up at all. Parents hadn’t put their mind around it yet. Understandable, natural, of course. But he didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want it to ruin their dinner. It was part of his job. What he had been trained to do. Still wasn’t easy of course. Anyway, what about you? What kind of day did you have? She sipped at her wine, said it was a good day, pretty quiet. She said she had done both of her workout videos. He nodded, sipped at his wine. Both, huh? She said she was just feeling active today, felt like putting in the extra effort. She could see approval in his eyes. He didn’t compliment her because he didn’t want to seem patronizing. He always made an effort not to seem upset with her, making it all the more obvious when he was. Those silences where he tried to find something positive to say. He had wanted a family. She had wanted a family. That was supposed to be the arrangement. She would not have to work. She would be busy raising their family. They would build a life together this way. But then nothing. Trying and trying. This specialist. This medication. This new position. This time of the month. Different foods and clothes and herbs, some of which she had not told him about—the tarot readings and the acupuncture. And she had not told him that she knew that it would never happen. Not
that she knew in the medical sense, but in some different, deeper sense, some place inside her knew that it was not her purpose. Her purpose was elsewhere. At times this was clear and almost empowering. But most of the time, days like today, it was anything but. He rubbed his chin and looked across the restaurant. When he finally caught the waiter’s attention he raised his empty wine glass. He asked her if she wanted another. She said that she did. He held up two fingers for the waiter. She wondered if he would ask about the adoption pamphlets. She had conflicting feelings. She hoped these would steady themselves in time, but that time had not yet arrived. She had married a doctor, a handsome doctor who wanted nothing more than to start a family with her. It never gets easy, he said when the second glass arrived. It’s part of the job and everything. But that doesn’t mean it ever gets easy. Sometimes I feel so helpless I could scream.
This is fucking fascinating, she said. They only discovered this like a couple years ago. Some people were just out looking for caves and found this fucking place. Look, she said, pointing at one of the pictures in the book. Can you imagine that? You’re walking along and then there’s this cave with all these paintings on the wall? Fucking crazy. And skulls and shit. Look here. Cave bear skulls. What the fuck is a cave bear? This is fascinating shit. They don’t even know who did it. No idea who made all these paintings. It says here they’re the oldest paintings ever found, that they’re like a million years older than the other cave paintings. That’s crazy that they just found it a couple years ago. We’ve got to put that shit in there. Go ahead and type that. They were in the bedroom. He was sitting at her computer. She was beside him on the bed with the book across her lap and a beer between her feet, still had on her nametag from work. His plan had been to take notes on the yellow notepad and then type it out later. He hadn’t told her
he didn’t know how to turn on her computer. The paper was due by midnight tonight. Had a special after hours drop slot at the community college. Now that she was helping he might actually finish the fucking thing. Might actually pass the class. Here, he said. Switch me spots. You type it. You’ve got all the good ideas. Some of these look terrible, she said, but some of them look like they could have been painted yesterday. That’s so fucking trippy to think about. Look at this one, she said, pointing. It looks real, like a real fucking lion. I had no idea this was what you were talking about in your art class. He said it was a pretty good class. Teacher was cool as fuck, always going deep into shit. He didn’t understand it half the time. They don’t even know who did it, she said. And it says here it was a bunch of different people. Look, she said, holding the book up and pointing. They say they can tell that by the art. They can tell that it’s done by a bunch of different people. It’s like a tattoo but on a wall. It’s more like everybody has their tattoo on the same wall. That’s good, he said. I like that. Teacher will think that is smart. Type that, she said. Hurry up and type that and save it so we don’t forget about it. How did I say it? Something about different tattoos on the same wall, he said. Shit, she said. You’ve got to type faster than that. I can’t keep it all straight. There’s so much to write about. The cave is like skin, she said. He stood up. Here, he said. You type faster than I do. She gave him a knowing look. You owe me, she said. I love you, he said. You better, she said. She sat down. It’s like skin, she said, getting herself situated at the keyboard. We’re going to need food pretty soon, she said. Why don’t you get something started? Oh, she said, handing him the empty bottle. And maybe another beer?
You should think about it, he said. Still got, what, almost five months left. You could get a pretty good plan together in that time. There’s no telling what’s going to happen. Best to be prepared.
She seemed interested. At least she was paying attention. Wasn’t treating him like a crazy person. But of course she never did. They had a good early dinner special. He had made it something of a habit. This was at the restaurant connected to the grocery store. That way he got to hit two birds with one stone. She was usually his waitress. Not always, but usually. She was in her late forties, he would have guessed. He knew she had a daughter and a son and an ex-husband. She never complained, but there were days when he could see that it was wearing her down. He always made sure to leave a couple extra bucks on the table for her. I wish I had gotten started sooner, he said, but I’ve been making up for lost time. Heck, you’ve got most of what you need right next door. Canned goods. Bottled water. Charcoal. Just the basics. Get you and your kids through the first few weeks. No telling what might come after that. She tapped the end of the pencil against her notepad, said she would think about it. He sat up straight and looked at the menu. They both knew he was going to order the chicken fried steak, but he liked to think that one of these days he would throw her a curveball. I’ll have my usual, he said. She took the menu from him and said she would be right back with his iced tea. He watched her walk away and felt guilty for the way his mind would jump to different scenarios, ones where she needed his protection or assistance. They all ended in a kind of romance he knew was not possible. It would be tough to be a parent these days, he thought. The world had become such an unforgiving place. No thought of morals. No thought of doing the right thing. When she came back to refill his iced tea he mentioned if she needed any help getting prepared—he had to stop to clear his throat—if she needed any assistance or advice that he would be happy to provide that for her. Free of charge, he joked. She smiled a peculiar kind of smile. Thank you, she said. But what if nothing happens? She looked across the room at one of her other tables. He wasn’t sure if she was kidding.
What do you mean? She said she meant what if nothing happens? What if the clock turns over and it’s just like it was before? He said he didn’t think that was very likely. Yeah, she said. But what if that’s what happens? He stumbled over himself, stared up at her blankly. I’ll be right back with your chicken fried steak.
Motherfucker wasn’t even moving. Didn’t know if he was dead. But the motherfucker wasn’t moving. Not like he was going to stick around to find out. Glad to get rid of that lock. The water was getting cold. It was his second shower. First one hadn’t felt like enough. Still didn’t. First thing he did when he got back to his mom’s place. Mind all fucked up. Motherfucker wasn’t even moving. Didn’t know if he was dead. Couldn’t be dead. Wasn’t trying to kill the motherfucker. Why’d he have to jump on him like that? Fucked up. Something in the sound. That crack. Then nothing. Motherfucker wasn’t even moving. Wasn’t me. Wasn’t me that jumped on his back like that. People there seen it. I wasn’t up on his back like that. I popped him good. Yeah, a few times. But I wasn’t up on his back like that. Wait a second. Turned the water off. Listened real close. Might’ve heard something. Maybe his sister. Turned the water back on. Didn’t look like anybody had seen him. Nothing to see really. Just getting out of the truck. Just coming home. Nothing out of the ordinary. Arms folded. No blood on these hands. Motherfucker wasn’t even moving. Looked back and he was just flat. Couldn’t be dead. Wasn’t nobody trying to kill the motherfucker. Wasn’t even out looking for him. Just rolled up on him at the fucking Sonic of all places. Motherfucker just trying to get a limeade. He stuck his head under the water, left it there, letting the water run down his neck, off the sides of his face. He put his hands up against the tile, propped himself there to let the water run down his body. Mind all fucked up. Just need to chill out. Just need to get his shit together. He had come home
and thrown his clothes off first thing. Stuffed them in a trash bag. His boots too. Stuffed it all under his bed. Jumped in the shower and scrubbed the shit out of his swollen hands. Then hurried out. Didn’t even dry himself off. All in a hurry but nowhere to go. Thought about getting the fuck out of town. Mom had the van at work. Sister at some camp. He walked around the empty house, hair dripping water onto the carpet. Mind all fucked up. Motherfucker wasn’t even moving. Should just take that bag and dump it somewhere. As soon as she got home with the van. No sir, he could hear himself saying to the cops. I was here all day. Playing video games. Didn’t leave the house. Took another shower. Now just letting the water run over his head. Motherfucker wasn’t even moving. When he looked at his hands they started shaking. So he didn’t look. Kept them flat against the tile, leaned his weight into them. Motherfucker laying there like he was already dead. And then those boots up on his back. Was here all day playing video games. That sound when they came down on him. Wasn’t me. No sir. Here all day. Just chilling. Playing video games.
She felt a kind of energy underneath her skin, a tingling electric feeling. It moved through her in waves. She had to look at her shoes to keep from getting dizzy. He hadn’t forced her to smoke. He had just said he wanted to show her his collection of pipes, which he kept in a special case in the trunk. They were all colorful and elaborate with intricate designs. They looked more like small sculptures than pipes. He had taken her on a back road through the woods and had parked at a dead end. There were a bunch of small boats stacked on top of each other. It was weird. She had just taken a couple hits, but it was enough. He had said she didn’t have to smoke if she didn’t want to. It’s cool, she’d said. I smoke all the time. Now she hoped she wouldn’t puke in his car. She didn’t feel bad, but she wouldn’t say she felt good either. She felt funny.
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Stoned, she said out loud and then laughed. I think I’m stoned. He laughed, said that was the idea. They drove in relative silence, just the music on the stereo and the breeze through the open windows. After the first initial rush of electric energy she settled into her seat. She hung her hand out the window, letting the air lift and drop her hand like the wings of a plane. The sun was just beginning to dip on the horizon and the neighborhood seemed to soften in the dimming light. He went from house to house, delivery to delivery, somehow keeping it all straight. When one CD finished they put a new one in. He smoked a fresh cigarette each time they went back for more pizzas. As long as they were in the car and moving and the music was playing there wasn’t anything that could touch them. He said the cops in the area knew his car and didn’t pull him over because they knew he was just doing his job. He had all the streets memorized, some of the specific houses. Others he had to slow down and squint. Sometimes he asked for her help. What’s the number on that house over there? He had mentioned throwing a couple bucks her way for the extra effort. Sometimes she held a two-liter of soda between her shoes, sometimes a salad in a plastic bag on her lap. It was better than babysitting. The time has come, he said, sliding a stack of fresh deliveries into the backseat. They were parked behind the pizza place. Got one over by your house. He hopped into the front seat and threw it in reverse. She squeezed her hands between her knees. He asked if she wanted to pick one more CD. She didn’t respond. You don’t have to go home, he said after a silence. If you want you can ride along for the whole shift. It’s whatever you want to do.
It was terrible, she said, stopping a second to chew her food. I was there on my lunch break with one of the other girls. We were just eating our tater tots, minding our own business. This truck rolls up a few spaces down and then we hear this argument—
motherfucker this and motherfucker that—you fucked my sister. People were getting out of their cars. And we were like, What’s going on? So we get out to check. Some lady is yelling out her window about calling the cops. And I figured it was a fight or something, but it was more than that. These two guys were just stomping the shit out of this other guy. He was down and they were just kicking the shit out of him. She stopped to take another bite. They were sitting at the table. He had baked a frozen pizza. She only had three more pages to go. It wasn’t done yet, but it might as well have been. He was already planning on getting her something for her help, some flowers or maybe some fancy tequila, the kind they kept behind the counter. Hell, maybe both. She had saved his ass big time. He’d been looking at that book all day and hadn’t been able to come up with a goddamn thing. She had already written half of the fucking paper. Had only learned about the cave a couple hours ago. Things were supposed to be different this time, he thought, and here your girlfriend is doing your fucking homework. You’re lucky to have this girl. Better hold on to this one. It was terrible, she went on. The girl I was working with started crying, and I was yelling at these fuckers to get off him. Other people were shouting. First time in my life I was hoping the cops would show up. Because they were still kicking this kid. I started shouting, You’re gonna fucking kill him. That’s enough. Get the fuck out of here. And then one guy was pulling at his friend’s shirt, and it seemed like it was over. She set her pizza back on the plate, took a slow sip of beer. Then this evil fucker got up on the kid’s back. Keep in mind he wasn’t even moving. Might have been dead for all I know. Blood on the ground. Just terrible. Anyway, he got up on this kid’s back and then fucking jumped, put all his weight down. You could fucking hear his back snap. I’m telling you. They left right before the cops showed up. Everybody was describing their truck and what they were wearing. They’re
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gonna get ’em. I hope they do, too. Wasn’t anything that kid could’ve done to deserve what he got. I’ve seen fights before but this was something different. This was something more. You could just feel it in the air. It was a terrible feeling.
She was naked on the couch, knees pulled up against her chest, arms wrapped around her knees, the way she had read about, rocking back and forth. She could feel him, what was left of him, still inside her. She didn’t have much faith in the position—it hadn’t worked in the past—but she wanted to put in the effort. He had kissed her in the garage, a kiss that had meant more, a kiss she hadn’t felt from him in quite a while. And then inside, taking off their shoes, and more kissing, more hands on her body, through her hair. He was like a different person, the kind of urgency she hadn’t felt since they first got married. He was trying to take her clothes off right there in the entryway. She reached for him and then felt him swell in her hand. Couch, she said, and he nodded, already breathing heavy, licking at the side of her face. Now he sat beside her, naked except for his socks. Something had come over him. Something animal. She had been able to feel him bigger than normal, thrusting with more depth, almost like he was trying to hurt her, trying to fuck something out of her. And then when he finished she could feel it like an explosion, like someone had popped a balloon between their thighs, and then the sticky smacking sound as he moaned and grinded to a halt, still kissing her, the weight of him still on top of her, settling that way for a second, just catching their breath. The house seemed suddenly and remarkably quiet. Maybe this was it, she thought. Maybe her intuition had been wrong this while time. Maybe they needed something like this to happen, something sudden and tragic to give them new perspective. Something more like fate, the energy of the universe working in their favor in some complex and
unforeseen way. She rocked back and forth on the couch, trying to keep her pelvis elevated, trying to keep him from leaking out of her. She thought then about the mother of the boy who had been beaten, what she must be feeling right now, what an impossible place her mind must be trying to navigate. Everything started out this same way. A sticky sensation between bare legs. Such a bizarre set of circumstances. She wondered if the boy died, if she then might become pregnant. She felt guilty for the thought, selfish and strange. But it was just a thought. Just something that found its way into her mind. Just something to think until she had been rocking for the five minutes it was supposed to take to encourage conception.
What if nothing happens? He had tried to let it go. She was busy with her other tables. Then his food came, and it seemed wrongheaded to bring it up again. But now he felt like he should have said more. He walked around the grocery store with the sense of something still being undone. He felt he had a responsibility to help. She couldn’t be expected to keep up with what was going on in the world. Working double shifts. Raising two teenage kids. It was too much to ask. He walked the aisles without a cart or a specific purpose, feeling like something was still undone. He didn’t want to scare anyone. Or tell them what to do. But how would he feel come January? How would he feel knowing he hadn’t done all that he could do to help? Two teenagers rolled by on their skateboards. Hey, he heard someone shout. You can’t do that in here. Get off those things. No decency left in this society. Nothing sacred anymore. Nothing taken care of for the common good. The television had them all brainwashed. And then the drugs. The drugs finished the job. All of that was going to change come January. Better have your fun now. Things are about to change here soon. Better pull your pants up. He hefted a bag of
charcoal over his shoulder. Might as well make use of the trip. He thought about the waitress as he was checking out, and then again getting into his truck. She couldn’t be expected to keep up with what was happening in the world. It was too much to ask. He sat in his truck, the key in the ignition, thinking maybe he should pick her up a few things. Just to get her started. Just some of the basics. Just something extra for you and your family. He thought about his wife, about her telling him how he cared too much. Her telling him how he couldn’t help everyone. The thoughts so close together made him uncomfortable. He felt at times that his wife was watching him, even speaking to him. It was mainly at the house, but lately he felt like she had been following him. It’s the right thing to do, he said out loud in the truck. I’m just trying to help her get started. I know what it looks like, but I’m just trying to help. No telling how bad it’s going to get come January. Feels selfish just to save myself. Feels like a waste of resources. He started the truck, feeling angry at the new confusion. Maybe he could bring it up again later this week. He had some literature at home she might be interested in. Books he had picked up at a seminar. Maybe he could make her a copy. Take it to the place and have them make her a copy. She would thank him come January.
Not right now, she said after a silence. He had asked if she had a boyfriend, which for some reason took her a minute to answer. He held the delivery ticket between his fingers, a cigarette glowing between his lips. I know what you mean, he said. It’s hard to meet someone you can just be real with. You know? Just be yourself. It was full dark now. The deliveries had settled down and he had said he would have to do some cleaning in the restaurant before he could go for the night. She wished she had taken the ride home when she had the chance. But at the time things had been different. She was having fun. Fun in a way she had always wanted
to have, a random thing like this, taking a chance, the way it might happen in a movie. This is what it will be like, she had thought, to be older and to be driving around with her boyfriend. It felt almost like practice this way. And it was nice to be around a boy who wasn’t making fun of her, who wasn’t telling her everything she did was wrong or dumb. She liked that he asked her questions about her life, about what she thought about things, and seemed to listen and care about her answers. But all that sun from earlier was catching up with her now. She felt tired in a way she was already fighting off. And bored. She was ready to be home in bed, ready to call and tell a friend about it the next morning. The air was thick and still. It seemed to hang between everything. It’s a shame about Renfroe, he said. It took her a minute to remember what he was talking about. That guy who got jumped, he said. Did you know him? She shook her head, said that she didn’t, but she thought maybe her brother did. They drove in silence for a minute. It’s a messed up world out there, he said. She wished she had told him she had a boyfriend. There was something in his voice, the way he was speaking to her now, that made her wish she had made up a story about a boyfriend. I heard they weren’t even looking for him, he said, rolling past a stop sign. That’s what people are saying. Crazy world. No telling what can happen. Got to be smart. Keep your eyes open. She was having a hard time following what he was saying. It was all the driving. And smoking that weed. It was all catching up with her, and she felt her eyelids being pulled down by the heavy night air. We’re almost done, he said, reaching across the console and patting her on the knee. Shouldn’t be many more deliveries. Then I just have to scrub the dough mixer and tip-out. Then we should be ready to go. How does that sound? Silence. Hello?
* AUGUST, 1999
Finished, she said. Fucking finished. She pushed herself back from the desk, spun in a circle in the office chair. He leaned in and gave her a kiss. Now all we have to do is print it, she said. Beautiful, he said. She finished the rest of her beer. He said they should celebrate. After they printed it out and turned it in they should get something fancy to drink, whatever she wanted. Okay, she said, her eyes lighting with excitement. This was fun, she said. I don’t know what came over me. All day his mind had been turning over scenarios about how he was a failure. About how he had always been a failure. How this was proof of his being a failure. How he was stupid and would never amount to anything. But she had saved him. If he finished school this time it would be because of her. She was the one who had encouraged him to enroll in the class in the first place. He realized this sitting on the edge of the bed, watching her fumble through stacks on the computer desk. She was looking for a disk to save the paper. What had he done to deserve this woman? Must have done something in a previous life, he thought. Must have been a different person. He almost didn’t want to leave the room to print the paper, didn’t want to leave for fear that the energy he was feeling would vanish. Here it is, she said, and held up the disk. I knew it was here somewhere. They just had to take it to the print place, and then drop it off. Then it was done. He could spend the rest of his life with this feeling, he thought, the rest of his life with this woman in this room. He was suddenly nervous, almost shaking. He could feel the weight of the permanence of his thoughts, the sense of things lining up in a way that he had not planned, but suddenly made perfect sense. We should get married, he said. She turned to look at him, smiling like she wasn’t sure if he was serious. He was a bit surprised himself. Her smile softened. Are you serious? He didn’t want to hesitate, didn’t want to seem unsure. Dead serious, he said. She spun the chair to face him. He was on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped in his lap.
I love you, he said, reaching out for her hand. Then getting down on one knee. Oh my god, she said. You’re serious. She held her hand against her chest as if to catch her breath. I didn’t think you were serious, she said. She smiled and laughed. I’m—she stopped, wasn’t able to speak. I’m sorry, she said finally. I wasn’t ready for that. Just wasn’t expecting you to be serious. He held eye contact. Will you marry me? Her eyes got wide, as if hearing him for the first time. His mind seemed to hover above them, watching him hold her hand and tell her how much he loved her, how much he had always loved her. She was crying now, her feet shaking. He said again that he loved her. He watched her nodding, her lips still unable to speak, nodding and sniffling and her eyes saying yes without saying anything at all.
You want me to copy the whole thing? He nodded. Did you write the book? He shook his head. What difference does it make? The clerk said it was a violation of copyright. He pointed to a list of rules taped to the counter that were too small to read. Well, how much can you copy? The clerk pointed again to the rules and said no more than half. Well, if that’s all you can do, he said, then that’s what I want. The door chimed and a young couple came in smelling like beer. He gave them a nod of acknowledgement and then turned back to see what kind of progress the clerk had made. I still can’t believe it, the girl said and made a squealing sound. I know, the boy said. It’s crazy. There was a silence where he was pretty sure they were kissing. The clerk pressed some buttons on the machine. Papers began sliding out the other end. There had been a time when he and his wife went around smelling like beer and kissing in public. He had not paid enough attention, he thought. If he had known he was going to lose her when he did he would have done things differently. He would have paid better attention. The clerk gathered up the papers and tapped them on
the top of the machine to straighten them up. When he and his wife first met they had gone dancing on the weekends. They had even entered a few contests at the country and western bars. He remembered her dress. Blue gingham with white frills. He had to clear his throat to keep his composure. The clerk was finished. Afterwards, he drove straight to the grocery store. If he waited until another time to give her the copies it would seem strange. He imagined his wife telling him it already seemed strange. I know what it looks like, he said, pulling into the parking lot. There’s a lot of people that need help these days. Things are going to change come January. Inside, he didn’t see her, just one of the busboys clearing a table. Finally the manager came over and recognized him, asked if his dinner had been all right. He said it had been fine. He was just here to see the waitress, to give her some papers they had talked about. The manager shook his head. She’d had to leave early tonight. Phone call, he said, something about her son. Sounded pretty serious. But I’d be happy to take them for her. Keep them in the back with a note saying they’re for her. What if nothing happens? He could hear her saying it. What then? What if we wake up the next day and the world is exactly the same?
She wanted to see if she looked different. Her thoughts had a new sense of clarity, and she wanted to see if there was something different in her face. The only light was the lamp beside the couch. Her husband was upstairs, asleep with the television on. She had come down for a glass of water. That’s what she had told herself. At first she had stood in the center of the room, looking at the couch itself, smiling at the memory of their love-making. Then she moved to the window to see if she looked any different. She could only see half of her face reflected in the glass. She looked like a baroque painting, she thought, like a figure in some candlelit tale. She reached her hand up to touch the glass the same way she
had this morning. It was colder and somehow more tactile, as if the moisture in the air was different, or the moisture from her skin. Was this a mother’s face? Was this the face a child would see and know forever? She wanted to believe there was something in the circumstances of the day that had played out in her favor, some cosmic overlap of energy and event that had brought her to this place, that now she was pregnant, and that it was meant to happen this way. You will be an even better mother, a friend had reassured her early on, having gone through this struggle. You will be even better than you would have been otherwise. And she had held on to that, not even realizing it at the time, but had believed it these last few years, wanting to believe it was simply a matter of earning what it was she could not have. Because it felt like a punishment. It felt like a response to something she had done, some mistake she had made or wrong she had caused that had come back to manifest itself in her life this way. She thought about the boy who had been beaten. She thought about one life leaving this world and another one entering. She tried to tell herself she was not wishing for the boy to die. She tried to tell herself it was all part of some larger exchange, the way things worked on a level not yet understood by modern science. But when she looked at her face in the glass she did not see the change she wanted to believe was there. She ran her fingers down the glass, pressing so that they made marks with the sweat and oil from her skin. She traced the outline of a figure on the glass. She had to lick the tip of her finger to get more moisture, drawing a second, smaller figure beside the first. So simple it seemed. So ordinary and effortless. For someone else, she thought. Someone more deserving. Someone whose other wishes had not already come true.
She had tried to fight. She had tried to push and slap and kick. Even tried to bite. Anything to get him off of her. Anything to get herself away from everything she still didn’t want to believe was happening. She had woken up in the middle of him carrying her to the backseat. Then he was on top of her, kissing at the side of her face, holding her wrist after she had tried to push him away. And then she was flailing, turning away, trying to roll. The whole time his weight shifting, always holding her under him. The car shrinking down to the smallest thing in the world, the smallest space she had ever been. She did not know where they were parked. Only that they were in the car. Only that she could not get out of the car, could not get out from under him, could not get him to stop. And not wanting to believe it was going to happen this way, not wanting to believe it could happen like this—like she had been warned about, had heard stories about, had been told to look out for, to be aware of, to know where you are at all times. She tried to reach a hand above her head, tried to get to the door handle, straining at the shoulder. It’s okay, he said. Don’t be like that. It was a voice that was meant to be calming, a voice you might save for a child. The strength in her arms felt soft, as if her movements were through water, some thick water that smelled like cigarettes and baked cheese. She could barely breathe, could barely take in air in this fucking car, in this fucking world where everybody wanted something from you. She was unable to move her arms but could still scream, could still cry out, and then him trying to put his hand over her mouth. It’s okay, he said again. Relax, he said. Don’t be like that. It all echoing inside this collapsed space of the backseat. Him fumbling with his belt now. The music still playing on the stereo. Delivery tickets crinkling under her shoulders. The terrible smell of his cologne, of his sweat against her body. She took a big breath and rolled, pushing with her foot against the back of the seat, getting leverage to turn her body under him. She could
feel his weight unbalanced. She got one leg loose and kicked with everything she had. Then kept kicking. Hey, hey, hey, he said. She reached for the door handle, yanking it open. She could feel the air like a wave. She shouted, still kicking, then jumping out of the car. Gravel road. Boats stacked in the tall grass. She started running. It was dark, but she could see the road. She tried to imagine herself already home. She could see herself already in the shower. Already washing him from her body. She could already see herself telling her brother, could already see him breaking the windows out of that fucking car with a fucking baseball bat. That’s him, she could see herself telling her brother. That’s the motherfucker right there. You’re dead, she could see herself shouting. You’re already dead, motherfucker. You just don’t know it yet.
The light was bright but not painful. He did not need to look away or shade his eyes. He was aware of a presence that existed within the light, or was the light itself, and that the two were in some way inseparable. He was in a space without shape, without edge or definition, impossible yet somehow obvious and comforting. There was no fear. There was no pain to speak of and no voice to speak it. The light was both him and itself. The two seemed held together in a silent communication. There wasn’t a tunnel. There weren’t any angels. No one greeted him or wore a robe. The exchange was in perception. It was in image without individual order or sequence. There was no sense of time, only what was and what had been and the two playing themselves out in a vivid expression of consciousness. He did not witness himself or his experience, but rather was the experience. He was the blood and the squirming in his mother’s exhausted arms. He was the grass in a field where a boy went running as if across the whole of a new sun-drenched continent. He was the crack of the ball against the bat, the energy condensed into that very moment, the
SCOTT DITZLER
same energy that carried it out of the infield and over the heads of everyone’s expectations. He was the line in the sand at the end of a thin stick and the hand that held it, the miracle of making the mark that was his and only his and then erasing it with the palm of his hand before making another. He was the hesitant touch of the neighbor girl’s lips down in her parents’ basement, under the blankets they had draped across some chairs to act like they were older, the way they had seen in the movies they weren’t supposed to watch and the thoughts they weren’t supposed to be old enough to think. He was the soft hairs on her skin, the nervous sweat and heat of the body before there needed to be anything more than this, anything beyond the discovery of the moment, the chance and accident of one thing falling into the next. He was the painted mask of his grandfather’s face resting lifeless in the coffin before him. The grease smeared across his father’s skin after a long week at the shop. The press of the clutch shifting into fifth gear towards a falling summer sunset, that mercurial hum of the engine, that teeth-biting whine of speed and uncertainty. And he was the weight of the boots climbing onto his back under the sharp August heat, the weight of another person and all the weight passed down from one pair of boots to the next until they all came landing smack in the center of all this inescapable light. This light that existed without boundary or explanation, without direct comparison, neither hot nor cold, simply there and everywhere and somehow perfect. He did not feel dead. It did not feel like the end of anything, rather quite the opposite.