Damage (4 page)

You pick Heather up early in the evening. You’ll take her to dinner first, then a movie.

While you’re waiting for her to answer the doorbell, you look around Heather’s neighborhood with its neat streets, its tidy yards shoved tight together. It makes your neighborhood seem downright shabby, with yards and pastures patched together not by concrete driveways, but by barbed-wire fences or white plank fences or no fences at all; brick houses neighboring wood houses neighboring trailers.

Then Heather opens the door, and you forget all about feeling shabby. When she walks down the sidewalk next to you, her perfume brushes against you like light, teasing fingers. It’s not flowers or spices, but the kind of thing you’d expect from a girl who went to the prom last year in a short little black strapless dress that made every
guy there wish it’d ride up just a few more inches. Or else fall down just half an inch.

You breathe a little deeper to catch the scent again.

Once the truck’s moving, you guess you wouldn't would mind putting your arm around her—she’s sitting in the center of the seat, right next to you—but you know from experience you’ll have to move your arm every time you shift gears. And once when you did that, you conked your date in the back of her head with your elbow.

So you let your right hand rest on your thigh, though it’s it’s actually sort of wanting to move over to hold Heather’s hand, fine boned and delicate, with its pale silvery polish.

“I heard you guys had a great game last night,” she's saying. “I was sorry I couldn’t be there. But still. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. You coming next Friday?”

“Mm-hmm. Even got a new top for it. A black knit shell—it’ll look good with jeans. I haven’t decided about the matching cardigan—it’s got short sleeves and all, I don’t want to get too hot. And of course I’ll wear my new sandals.”

She’s not asking for your opinion, but you nod, anyway. She smiles at you. There’s a love song playing on the radio. You really like having her here next to you, but you can’t think of anything to say. It doesn’t seem to matter. Heather radiates contentment, satisfaction, self-
esteem. It’s almost as if you’re huddled next to a campfire, enjoying its warmth.

And that trickle of interest is flowing, the one that’s always pulled you to Heather. Even though you don’t even know the small stuff about her, like whether she goes to church or what kind of music she likes. Or what her favorite color is. Or whether she can tell a zone defense from man-to-man. The only thing you know is that she doesn’t have any brothers or sisters. And you know where her house is and what it looks like.

And you know about her dad.

“You live with your mom, don’t you?” you ask.

“Yeah.” She glances at the radio. “Hey. Do you mind if we listen to some
real
music?” She doesn’t wait for you to answer, just reaches for the buttons and starts clicking her way down the dial. You almost admire her. Heather doesn’t need anybody’s approval.

“Put on anything you like,” you tell her.

Dance music blares from the speakers. Heather’s finger hovers over the button for a second, then she sits up; the dance music must meet with her favor. “What about your parents? Are they still together?”

“No.” It’s been awhile since you’ve said this next part “My dad’s dead,” you tell her, ready for Heather to catch your words up and carry them forward. Maybe she’ll turn to you in complete understanding, and say: “Really? My dad’s dead, too.”

The only sound is the drone of rubber on asphalt. When you glance over, she’s staring out the window—only there’s not much scenery on this stretch of 171.

“What did he die from?” she asks after a moment.

“Cancer,” you say, glancing at her again.

“What kind?”

Okay. She wants you to share first. Well, you’ve been through this part before. It’s always kind of awkward; this is the part where you’re supposed to tell your story. You try to oblige. “It was cancer of the esophagus,” you begin. “He died when I was three,” you finish.

There’s no middle to the story, because you don’t remember him. There’s nothing else to tell.

When you glance over to check Heather’s reaction, she’s watching you, her gaze straight and unwavering as she waits for the middle of your story.

You have to look away, clear your throat. Reach to turn the radio up. “This’s a good song,” you mention, careful to keep your eyes on the road.

You can’t tell her how you used to play at shaving, because that’s stupid. No way you could tell her about sitting on the bathroom counter in your pajamas. Or that your father was the one who taught you to shave, even though he was long gone at the time.

When you were fourteen, you had a few whiskers that you thought needed to come off, so you went and bought a can of gel foam. When you got home you locked
yourself in the bathroom and pulled out the wooden box that held your dad’s old-fashioned safety razor, the one you’d found tucked away in the back of the medicine cabinet, gathering dust. Mom, never one to be sentimental, had forgotten about it. She said you could have it if you wanted, that it’d been a gift from somebody—she couldn’t remember who—to your father a long time ago. It looked like a gift; gold plated, lying on red velvet.

Then you pulled the can out of the sack. On the back were the directions:
Leave skin wet. Put gel on fingertips. Gently rub over skin to lather and shave.

It didn’t say anything about what to do with the sink—but you already knew. You remembered very clearly how the sink was filled with warm water. You could almost hear the
dabble-dabble-shake
of the razor. You could almost see your dad’s hand holding it, strong and big and forever.

You’re driving along, not really seeing the road ahead of you, remembering all this. Your right hand is resting on the seat next to your thigh, and you’re vaguely aware of Heather touching the class ring on your finger, as if she’s looking at it, but you don’t really start to pay attention until she begins to stroke the back of your hand. It’s light touch, but slow and deliberate, and after a moment or two it begins to set off nerve endings that reach way beyond the area she’s touching.

You try to concentrate on watching the road. She
slides her hand under yours, interlaces her fingers with yours, and lifts the whole thing to her lips. “No sadness allowed,” she says, very low, and you glance at her as she kisses the very tip of your index finger. It looks like she’s tasting a drop of honey. You hear a quick intake of breath.

It came from you.

A horn blares, the center line disappears under hood—your pickup is drifting into the oncoming lane. You jerk your hand away from Heather and swerve back again.

Both hands are on the steering wheel now. Your is going like a jackhammer, whether from having fingertip sucked or from almost being killed there’s no telling. You have to pull over into the next parking lot that comes along. You can’t think.

When you turn to ask Heather if she’s okay, she’s looking across the lot…at the sign that says Giacotti’s Pizza and Spaghetti.

“Why are you stopping way back here? There’s a spot right in front.”

No indication she realizes she just gave you a boner that could steer the truck all by itself.

Inside Giacotti’s, you order the pizza while Heatther selects a booth to sit in. You want to slide in to sit beside her—you’ve always thought people who did that w
stupid, facing straight ahead, bumping shoulders and elbows. But tonight you think you’d like it, even as you take the seat across from her.

Heather calls some of her friends over; they stand gathered at the edge of the booth in the dim light, saying hi with big smiles, while Heather smiles even bigger. When they finally leave, Heather shakes back her hair and says: “We make a cute couple, don’t you think?”

Whatever that was, back in the truck, it’s over. Gone. Completely. When she looks at you her eyes are clear blue and completely blank.

“I always thought your hair was black, but really it’s dark brown, isn’t it? Anyway, we’re a good contrast,” she continues, as if she’s talking about a color wheel. She removes the wrapper from her straw. “Being as I’m blond and all. And the top of my head probably comes just about to your chin. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” you say, wondering what difference it makes. “I guess.”

“So we’re just about the perfect heights for everything. Pictures. Kissing. Sex.”

She says it matter-of-factly, like checking off a list. But it drives the breath from your lungs.

“Do you think I’ve got a nice body?” she asks, sliding her straw into the glass.

“Yes.” The word comes out a little hoarse.

“Thanks.” She sips her drink, and you watch the way
her lips close around the straw, and the way her breasts almost rest on the table as she leans forward. You’re sure how you feel about all this talk about looks. You are sure how you feel when she talks about sex, right up front like that. How you felt when she sucked on your finger.

Lighten up. Be joyful always.

God sure does work in mysterious ways.

After the movie you figure you’ll drive down by the railroad tracks. They’re easy to get to; down an unmarked farm road leading off the main highway.

But the moment you hit the blinker to turn right, Heather sits straight up, like she’s been shot. “Where are you going?”

“Where there’s a little privacy.”

“Sorry. I don’t do the parking thing on a first date.”

She’s got to be kidding.

You look over at her; one of her hands is flat on seat beside her. The other is gripping the door handle.

She’s not kidding.

Better double-check. “You mean you want me to take you straight home?”

“Yeah.”

Yeah.
All right. Fine.

She’s a tease. And this particular kind of dishonesty always did hit you like a shot of ice water, straight bone.

You zip your lip, turn off the blinker, and hit the gas.

You know the drill by heart. If not this night, then maybe the next. Or the next. Or the next. And if not, there’s always the next girl.

A couple miles of silence later, when you pull up in front of her house, you don’t make a move to touch her. Just get out, walk around, and open her door. Escort her up the sidewalk. On the front porch, you just flash her a grin and give her a quick kiss good-bye. No hands. “I’ll call you,” you tell her without meaning it. The usual.

Heather’s smile drops off her face. “You’ll
call
me,” she echoes, as if she can’t believe she heard you right.

“Yeah,” you say automatically. “I’ve got your number. I’ll call you sometime.”

“Sometime,”
she repeats in that flat, thoughtful then peers at you in the dim light. “No. I think not. I’m not some little football groupie who sits at home, pining for a phone call.”

You don’t know what to say to that. She doesn’t seem angry. Just a little puzzled. Like you’re some new type butterfly she can’t quite pin to the board.

“I would like to go out with you again,” she says with a slight frown. When you still don’t say anything, she adds slowly: “Like, maybe next weekend?” Another pause. “Oh, my God.” Her eyes widen, horrified. “I just asked you for a date.” Even in the dim light of the porch you can see that her cheeks are turning red. “I don’t do
that. I don’t ask guys out. God,” she says, and puts both hands over her face, “I’m gonna die.”

“Don’t die,” you tell her, trying not to laugh. “It’s right.”

“No, it’s not,” she says, her voice muffled.

You stand there for a while; she keeps her face hidden behind her fingers. “Really, it’s okay,” you tell her. “How about Friday night, after the game?”

“I guess so.”

Finally she lowers her hands. Her face is red, clear to the roots of her hair. “It’s not that big a deal,” you her.

“It is to me. I have never, ever, had to ask a guy out.”

“Can’t say that next time,” you tell her gently, and she looks at you for a moment before a smile rises up her face, slight and slow.

“It’s too bad you’re a guy. I get the feeling we could have been good friends.”

A laugh bursts out before you realize she’s not kid-. “It
is
possible to be friends with a guy.”

“I think not.”

“Sure it is,” you tell her.

Now it’s Heather’s turn to laugh. “You really are this decent, nice person, aren’t you? That could be a problem,” she adds, stepping closer. “I
like
people who are nice, but I never quite know what to do with them.”

She slides her arms around your neck. And then she’s kissing you.

And suddenly everything’s exactly what you expected, and this time she lets you squeeze her to you for a few moments before she pushes you away.

“Ohmigod,” she says breathless. “You are too much. I’m going in now. Call me, okay?”

“Okay. Tomorrow,” you add with a grin. “I’ve never, ever, called a girl the next day. So we’ll be even.”

She doesn’t say anything, just digs in her purse for that oversize key ring. “By the way,” she says, without looking up, “I was really glad you got junior favorite last year. I voted for you.”

You don’t say anything. She pauses, then looks up at you, as if waiting for something.

“Thanks,” you tell her, and she bestows one of those beauty queen smiles as a reward.

Driving away a few moments later, you’re thinking that there are two Heathers, and the outer one is like a paper doll, all propped up with a painted-on face. You should know, you keep yourself propped up, too.

You remember Curtis’s warning. If it’s your choice, sure, you’re going to try to lay that girl with the beauty queen smile. But the girl underneath—the girl with the flushed cheeks and the embarrassed smile—well, you can see where it wouldn’t be hard to get at least a little wrapped up in her.

The next morning is Sunday. Sunday always gathers own momentum; you just catch hold and ride along. You walk into church with that smile clicked on; surely it soak in if it’s on your face long enough. Be joyful always—right?

But when you sit down the smile is already trying fade. You prop up the corners of your mouth and look around the sanctuary; you’ve sat here every Sunday you can remember. The sun comes in through tall stained-glass windows on the side walls, making patches on the floor like pieces in some colorful puzzle. When you were little you’d tell Mom you wanted to sit on the side aisle, just so you could stretch a hand out in the dim light of the sanctuary and spread your fingers to feel the warm colors pouring over your palm.

But you’re not sitting on the aisle now. And you’re not little anymore. The pews are hard, and dark with age,
and the air is musty with old varnish.

The only thing that’s light is the thought of Heather. You’re pretty sure the two of you have something common, something about having seen underneath the skin of the world while most other people think the outside is all there is. Although, to be honest, it’s hard think about Heather
without
thinking about her outside since she comes wrapped in so fine a package.

Very fine.

But this is not the place for those kinds of thought Time to stand and sing. Becky holds the hymn book so the two of you can share. You don’t sing, just read along with the words.

Curtis and his mother are sitting two rows up. They don’t look much alike, even from the back. Gayle Hightower is short and faded and homey looking, while Curtis takes after his dad, tall and whip thin. He’s got on his usual sports shirt. No tie. His mom’s probably just glad he doesn’t wear jeans to church.

You’ve tried not wearing a tie, but you’ve never made it out the door without getting caught, nagged, and harped on. Mom wouldn’t care if the preacher himself
declared casual day—to her it’s bad enough you don’t wear a suit. She says dressing up is a sign of respect to God. You believe God looks inside people, not at what they’re wearing, but you don’t figure He’d appreciate you arguing with your mother about it, either.

He also wouldn’t appreciate the way your mind keeps hearing Heather’s voice, saying the two of you the perfect heights for sex.

So you make yourself notice how Becky is singing under her breath. That’s what she does lately. Must be some girl thing, like throwing a fit over who gets to use the phone, or screeching when you accidentally pull a box of
girl stuff—supplies
—out of the grocery bag. You kind of miss her singing. There was something light and sweet about her voice. Plus, when she doesn’t sing, everybody can hear your mother that much better. Mom never could carry a tune, but that doesn’t make her lower
her
voice one decibel. She just stands there singing in her trademark half croak, half bleat, wearing her Sunday dress that Becky picked out for her because she says Mom shouldn’t wear a suit to church, but Mom won’t make time to shop for dresses.

Everybody but you and Becky is singing. The words rise straight up around you, faithful and unblinking.
You’ve completely lost your place on the page now. With nothing to nail your eyes to, it’s hard not to remember how Heather kissed your finger last night—well, not kissed, not exactly. To be accurate, you’d have to call it sucking. No—more than sucking, actually, because you are fairly positive that Heather used her tongue. Fingertips are very sensitive, and there was definitely a split second where something more than sucking was going on; something soft and fluttery and wet.

Of course, it’s not right—thinking about sucking. Not here.

So you look at Curtis’s back and think about the Hightowers. Used to be, Mr. Hightower stood on the other side of Mrs. Hightower. Not anymore; five years ago he ran off with that intern.

You met her once. Her name was Tiffani with an i, and even though you were only twelve, you could see why somebody would want to run off with her. Of course, you met her before the divorce, before anybody knew was going on. She wasn’t much older than you are now, and pretty, too, in a vivid flowery dress that didn’t seem to belong in Mr. Hightower’s dull gray office. You made some stupid twelve-year-old joke, and she threw back head and laughed a bright, frilly laugh that didn’t belong in that office, either. She was blond and curvy and young—not at all like Mrs. Hightower.

More like Heather, actually.

But Heather’s prettier.

You look down at the hymnal, not really seeing trying to remember Tiffani’s face. All you can picture Heather’s—but it doesn’t fit with the dress Tiffani wore that day. You don’t know why, but you can’t imagine Heather Mackenzie wearing something with a lot splashy colors. Not that she’d wear some prim dress with a bow at the neck, either—you’ve never seen her in anything like some of these dresses in the pews around you. In fact, Heather doesn’t seem like the church type at You’d bet cold hard cash she’s at home right this minute. Even still in bed, maybe.

Now
there’s
a picture. Heather in bed. You can’t quite see her in pajamas. Maybe in a pajama
top.
Or some clingy thing with thin little shoulder straps, her hair spilling over her bare back the way it spilled over cheeks when she sucked your finger in the truck last night.

You suddenly hear the words you’re supposed to singing. You realize your mind keeps wandering to some mortal things. Very mortal. In
church.

The sanctuary fills with that rustling, collapsing sound made by a bunch of people sitting down at the same time. You sit down, too, a moment late.

Here you are thinking yourself into horniness, and in the one place on earth where you’re supposed to have a clean and pure heart.

I’m sorry,
you tell God, and wait for Him to answer—the way He used to answer your prayers, with a feeling of peace.

Nothing happens.

Of course not. The things you fail at are things inside, things that nobody but God sees. Things you couldn’t explain to anybody—like wallowing around in bed for hours when everybody else just gets up. Like moping around when you’re supposed to shake it off and b joyful. Keeping conversations light when they should get serious. Staying quiet when you should speak up. Having another beer when you should quit for the night. Putting your hands all over some girl when you should keep them to yourself.

A million things you screw up, and to top it off, now you’re thinking lustful thoughts in the house of the Lord.

“…because of his defect,” the preacher is saying, in
that rich voice that means he’s reading the words of God, “he must not go near the curtain or approach the and so desecrate My sanctuary. I am the Lord, who makes them holy.”

You feel yourself shiver. Becky glances at you; you ignore her. I’m sorry, you tell God again. He’s still not answering.

You can’t say that you blame Him.