If that child were mine I’d fry it up in a frying pan and eat it.—captain vasily solony
I rushed around my classes during the day, rehearsed every night, and filled my spare time with papers and reception shifts. By the time I got home from work on Saturday, I watched part of a BBC period drama on Veoh and dragged myself into bed at ten.
My much-needed slumber was interrupted by a curious melody tinkling in the dark. I slapped the nightstand and remembered that I didn’t have an alarm clock. Still the song continued. The ditty was in its third repetition when I opened my cellphone and ventured into the mouthpiece a very sleepy “Hello?”
“Who’s thiz?” the slurred voice on the other side shouted.
I rubbed my eyes, hoping to clear my head as well. “You called me, so why can’t you tell me who you are first?” From across the dark room, the hour hand on my clock appeared to be near the 3.
“My name’s—I mean, this’z Cole! Cole Douglas!” Cole Douglas laughed.
“Oh! Hi, Cole. This is Rebekah.” He was silent, so I added “Cardim.”
“I know you, Bekah, my favorite Bekah. I jus’ canna figure why.”
I took a deep breath; I was not awake enough for mind games. “Why what, Cole?”
“Why does he have your number? Ya don’ even know the dude.”
“Who?” The line was silent again, and I slid back into my covers. “Uh, Cole, I think I’ll just . . . hang up or somethin’. I’m kinda—”
Cole sighed, “But this guy, Bekah. This guy came to a party at my house, and now he won’t leave ’cause he’s passed out or somethin’.”
“But who is it, Cole?”
“I don’t know! Stop yelling at me. He’s kinda skinny and blond, and he’s got your number in ’is pocket. You know, the new guy in your ward who’s completely loco?”
Chris. “Oh.”
“Just come pick him up and take him somewhere out of my house. Like back to his house, if you know where that is. I’m trying to get my party ended.”
I sighed and listened to Marianne’s gentle snores coming from upstairs. Graça was awake, her hand over her ear. Surely Marianne would be devastated if anything bad happened to her brother. What if he was hurt or sick? She would also be upset if he embarrassed her somehow by staying at Cole’s. “Alright, Cole. I’ll come pick that guy up, so make sure he’s okay until then?”
Stumbling, I pulled on my worn tennis shoes and wrapped my coat over my pyjamas. Marianne’s car keys were on the kitchen counter, and I tiptoed out the door and into the frozen night.
* * * *
Cole lived in what had been a big frat house on University before BYU banned the Greek system. Trevor had lived there with him the year before, but he’d moved into our ward to be with Marianne. Lights shown out nearly all of the windows of the crumbling Edwardian building when I pulled into the driveway. All sorts of beverage cans skittered from my feet as I crossed the lawn to the front door.
Cole met me at the door, more awake than I had felt all week. He smiled and led me through a swamp of empty drink containers, chips, and other party paraphernalia to a sitting room where Christian Miles was sprawled unconscious on a couch. I rushed over and felt his forehead—it was cool and damp.
“I wasn’t watching, but he could have taken something,” Cole suggested.
“Something?” Chris was still breathing through his Classical nose; his pulse was slow but weak.
“I don’t know. Our parties are so big, and sometimes people bring in undesirable elements, but we don’t even know about it.”
“Like the beer cans outside?” Around Chris’s head, his hair spread dark with perspiration.
“Yeah. But he’s not like someone drunk. I think he may have had something—stronger.”
I sighed and wished I had paid more attention to the cursory drug unit in seventh-grade health. Marianne’s brother was thin, but his muscles showed definition under his white shirt and he was so tall—I had no idea how to get his dead weight into the car. I looked up at Cole with my best helpless supplication.
“Do you wanna have some pizza while we wait for him to wake up?” he offered.
What else could I do? “Um, okay.” I followed Cole down to his basement to a video-game and sports-watching room with stained white carpet and beige walls. BYU Cougars pennants were tacked to the walls. Gesturing at the reeking mess in this room too, I asked, “How are you gonna clean this all up?”
My clean-freak companion swept trash off a red leather couch with one burly arm. “We hire a maid named María. She’ll be here at six to tidy up.” He found a pizza box with a few slices of pepperoni inside, switched on the television, and motioned for me to join him on the couch. The late-night feature was Bob Hope and Bing Crosby’s The Road to Hong Kong. I sat on the opposite end of the couch and was soon laughing along with Cole at the black-and-white antics. “You must be dying of heat in that coat,” Cole observed, eyeing my puffy mint-colored parka. “You know, my dad sends me enough money that we can afford not to wear coats in the house.”
He was right; his furnace was very efficient, and my skin was beginning to prickle in the heat. Under my parka, my pyjamas were skimpy and worn. “This is embarrassing, Cole,” I squirmed as he tugged at my jacket, “I’m in my PJs.”
“I’ve seen girls in less,” he teased and pulled the parka off. Then his caramel eyes got wide.
I followed his gaze down to my chest—my unbound breasts were straining the fabric of my thin t-shirt. My parka was now to Cole’s right, and I did not want to reach over him to get it when his face was so wild. Mentally, I made a note to always sleep with a bra beside my bed in case I were ever called on a late-night rescue mission again. I shrank into the corner of the sofa and crossed my arms. Cole grabbed a Rock Star, tilted the can at me, acknowledged my head shake, tore the top open with his teeth, and swallowed half the contents in one gulp.
He jerked his head over to look at me. “Did you really make out with Trev after your ward’s Christmas party in December?”
My crossed arms moved to cup my breasts, but I arrested them before Cole detected movement in that area. “Um, is that what he told you?”
“Trev said he and Marianne were in another fight, so she stalked off with your date, that Asian kid, and you an’ Trev got it on over your mutual rejection or whatever.”
“Okay, Cole.” I leaned towards him from my corner. “First of all, we just kissed; we didn’t ‘get it on.’ Second of all, Trevor and I haven’t hardly spoken since that night, so we don’t have anything mutual going on, and third of all, Derek and I are just friends. He didn’t reject me. The whole thing was just stupid.”
Cole stared at the movie for a moment. “So you’re not dating the Asian, Derek, I mean?”
“Nope.”
“So who do you like? C’mon, Bekah, there’s gotta be somebody! Who’re you crushin’?” he egged.
“Nobody, I swear!”
Cole pursed his lips and nodded his head up and down, “Okay, Bekah, keep your little secrets.” We settled back into the movie.
Just as Bob Hope made another ineffectual pass at a woman, Cole leaned over with his left arm across the back of the couch. All teasing was gone from his voice, “Bekah, have I told you how beautiful I think you are?”
“Um . . .”
“Your hair,” he began, taking some of the aforementioned and rubbing it between his fingers, “it’s driving me crazy. I almo’ flunked college algebra last year because I was watching your hair a couple rows forward—how shiny it is, you sitting by the window in the Talmage[1] like that.”
At a loss for an appropriate response, I giggled. Cole was leaning closer, leaning over me. I put my hand on his chest to playfully push him back, but I might as well have tried to hold back the Wasatch Front when it wanted to fall. I pondered Cole’s glazed-doughnut stare for half a second too long; he lunged forward and pushed his mouth on mine. His lips were firm and clearly experienced, but his saliva was sour. “Uh, Cole,” my voice only shook slightly, “maybe we shouldn’t.” I tried to duck under his arms, but he shifted his heavy legs on top of mine.
“Aw, Bekah, why not? You’re a girl, I’m a guy . . .” He kissed me again and started to slip his hands under my shirt. My belly was soft, and I was mortified.
“Cole, it’s too late right now, you’re not thinking.” I used both of my hands to shove his massive shoulders. “Let’s talk about this.”
He twisted one of my arms behind my back. It hurt.
“cole!” I commanded.
“Relax. You’re so beautiful,” he repeated, grabbing my hair and tilting my head back so he could better choke me with his tongue.
I wanted to bite, but I thought of his bitter blood in my mouth and reconsidered. Instead I kicked upward with my knees, getting him somewhere in the lower abdomen. Cole reared back and punched my jaw just below my left ear. Primal panic burst out of me in one wordless scream.
“Why’d you have to be like that, Beki? People nicmo[2] all the time.” He pulled his lips back over his teeth and snarled. Now his hands were on my shoulders; two-hundred-plus pounds of hormonally charged young man had me in complete submission. “Let’s try this again.”
“Stop, please,” I muttered, and I squirmed as he kissed me again and bit my neck. I imagined I was Faulkner’s fish, lying cold and apathetic. Through his buzz cut, I saw a birthmark on Cole’s crown that I had never seen before. It was a shaky triangle with two elongated points—as if that old goat, the devil, were staring at me.
A foreign sound entered my new world of Cole’s moans and my pleas—the sound of shoulder hitting doorjamb. At the room’s entrance, a bleary-eyed Christian Miles was leaning against the archway, surveying the situation. Was he waiting his turn? “Uh, a little help . . .” I croaked.
Chris flew across the room and grabbed Cole’s far shoulder while swinging his other fist up Cole’s ribs. The pair went flying away from me in a tangle of limbs on the littered carpet. I rolled off the couch and picked myself up. Cole wanted to grind Chris’s face into the carpet. Chris tore at Cole’s ears until they bled; he boxed and kicked and swore, but he could not match the trained-wrestler Cole in bulk. Cole, who soon had red running from his nose across his rage-white face, scooped Chris up from behind and slammed him into the ground. The sickening sound of broken glass echoed from the spreading brown wetness on the calf of Chris’s jeans.
“Stop!” I squealed, “This is insane!”
Raging, Cole slammed me to the floor, everything went black for a moment. In the next moment, I saw Chris standing above is with strain on his face and a fancy iron lamp in his hand. He swung the base of the lamp into the side of Cole’s square head. With a gurgled bleat, Cole fell unconscious.
I shimmied out from underneath Cole. Chris was leaning against an end table, breathing hard, his teeth clenched. Blood dripped from his leg. His eyes followed me as I collected my coat and wandered over to him. I stood, mouth gaping, for longer than was polite. “I—there is a first-aid kit in the back of the jeep,” I whispered and arranged Chris’s arm around my shoulder. We only got lost twice in the frat mansion before finally limping into the healing cold of the driveway.
* * * *
I helped Chris into the passenger seat and examined his leg. I handed him a dressing and instructed him to apply pressure to the wound. As I moved onto
Chris snapped to attention, “ER! Where are we going?”
“The hospital, we’re almost there. I did my best, but a doctor’s gotta look at that.”
“No.”
He must be delirious from the loss of blood, I supposed. “Don’t be silly. I’m glad you helped me tonight, and I’ve gotta pay you back by making sure you don’t get anemic or infected.” I stopped at a red light on 500 West and 500 North, and Chris opened the passenger door. “Oh, no you don’t!” I warned.
Chris’s eyes shone feverishly, “You have to understand, Bekah: I can’t go to the hospital. You’d pay me back even more not to take me there.”
The light turned green, and we were frozen: a bloodied young man half out of the car and a confused young woman gripping the steering wheel as if it were an anchor. A car drove up behind us, honked, and passed us in the turn lane. The light turned red again. “Okay,” I exhaled. “I’ll take you home. But if you end up having complications . . . I told you so. Alright?”
The smile I received was genuine but just as melancholy as Chris’s other looks. He closed the door, and I made a U-turn towards home.
On entering our condo, I caught my reflection in the hall mirror. “Holy crap!” Bruises were blossoming on my neck and arms, Cole’s nosebleed was streaked across my chest, and sweat stuck in my hair like foul glue. “I look like a reanimated corpse on Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” I muttered.
For a moment that was so fast I doubted it the second it was over, Chris chucked—really chuckled: “I loved that show,” he whispered. “If you want, you can take the first shower,” he offered.
With a weak moan, I gathered a fresh pair of sweats, a t-shirt, and a bra, and I shuffled to the bathroom door.
“By the way, Bekah,” Chris asked as I closed the door, “why were you at that party in the first place? I didn’t think you were into that kind of entertainment.”
A blush heated my cold pallor, and I stuck my head back out of the bathroom door to tell him, “Chris, I was there to pick up you.” I escaped to the shower.
The healing balm of hot water only washed away part of my troubles, but it was enough. When I reentered the living room to tell Chris it was his turn, I was sure I would sleep for a thousand years. But when he disappeared into the bathroom, I knew I would never sleep again. I sat down on the couch and shivered and cried, salty streams running down my cheeks and soaking a throw pillow. In the dark my hands found a chenille blanket, which I drew around me.
I was empty by the time Chris hobbled back, shirtless, rubbing his hair with a towel. His body was the wiry kind of muscular I had assumed it would be, but seeing his defined chest and abdominal muscles in all their glory did not affect me the way I had expected it would. I guess he looked attractive, but I was not attracted, necessarily. Maybe it was the tattoo on his right bicep—crash written on a crab’s shell—or maybe it was the jagged scar that ran up his left side, from below his bellybutton to his ribcage. Most possibly, his harmless, platonic attitude just didn’t send me a signal to be attracted to him, so I wasn’t, exactly.
Chris had evidently come in the living room to brood, as I had been, and had not expected me to be there. He put on his shirt and wrapped the unbuttoned sides around himself, defensively. “Uh, I had my appendix out,” he told me.
What was he saying? Nothing made sense.
“My scar—on my stomach—it’s from appendix surgery.”
“Oh.” I rubbed my eyes. “You know, you don’t look anything like my brother.”
“Really?” Chris sat down next to me on the couch. “Tell me about him.”
“Well, let’s just say that Rock is the linebacker to your forward.”
“You call him Rock?”
“If you had a funky Portuguese name like Roque, you’d have a nickname too.” I stretched out on the couch. Chris tucked the throw more securely around me.
“I do have a nickname.” Chris fumbled with his socks; his injured leg was not cooperating when he tried to pull a sock over its long, thin, white foot.
“Mmm?” My eyes were closed, but I felt air displaced above my damp cheek, as if Chris had nearly brushed it. Then the moment fled, and my tear-drenched face was free to dry alone. I waited to hear Chris’s nickname, but I instead slipped into dreamland.
A while later, I awoke breathless with cold sweat prickling at my skin. Grey light was beginning to peek between the drapes. Rather than the lonely chill I usually met at waking, I felt warm and safe. I dozed into dreamless bliss.
No comments:
Post a Comment