Douse (Book One: At the Edge of a Hurricane) (17 page)

CHAPTER 32

“Are
you both all right?” Caddy says. His knocking at the door wakes us. I
scramble out of bed and pop open the door to a worried man on the other end.

“We’re
just resting.”

“Don’t
you have work?”

“God.
Yes. Work.” I pat myself for my phone. The kitchen. I run past Caddy and
search the tables, then dial the office.

Preston doesn’t rag on me for not showing today after explaining the assault.
He’s cool on understanding his staff’s needs, even offering a week
off without penalty.

“When
you get back, you’ll be shocked.”

“Why’s
that?”

“We
have a surprise for you.”

“I’ll
be ready,” I say. “Thank you for understanding.”

I
thank Caddy too. “I owe you over and over. Saving my ass at work, taking
me in and tending to us. Thank you, thank you.” My arms fit neatly around
his waist. “Thank you for caring. Where’s Piranha? I don’t
hear roll call this morning.”

“She’s
out.”

“I
have to thank her too. Amazing, guys. When she wakes, I’ll find
her.”

“You
were robbed. It’s what friends do to help.”

 “Thank
you,” I say one last time. Back in the bedroom, Bishop lolls around,
spotting me upon entry. I turn off and on my phone to relieve my jitters.
“My boss isn’t angry.”

“That’s
great.” Bishop cages my hands in his own. “You’re so
tense.”

“I’m
just grateful.”

“You’re
surrounded by good people. Flanked by angels, my love.”

“Love.
I like that pet name.” I lift a leg onto the bed and tap the edge with my
foot, thinking. “So, love, that trip we discussed. How should we go about
starting that one up?”

“I’ll
drive. It can be this weekend. Can camp out or stay in a motel. I don’t
care. Spending time with you is the goal, not money.”

“We
can camp. We can stay in the car. You’re right. I don’t care
either. The farther the better. Away with you.”

“We
should do something special for your friends too. They deserve kindness.”

“The
day before, we can take them out. How about…the place you showed up late
to?”

A
blush crawls across Bishop’s cheeks. “You still remember
that?”

“I
remember everything about you.”

“We’ll
take them there then.”

Piranha
wakes. She doesn’t play her usual music. She searches the apartment for
us, and that’s before brushing her teeth or combing out her greasy
tangles.

“They’re
here,” Caddy says.

She
stands at the threshold in a nightgown, barefoot, humming softly.

“I
bought a new rendition. Want to hear?”

“What’re
we celebrating?” Piranha only buys new renditions for special occasions.

“You,
Amazing Grace.” She hums louder, rocking on her heels. “I’ll
make breakfast?”

As
weird as she is, I appreciate her immensely.

“Thank
you, Piranha. I’ll come and help. Stay here,” I say to Bishop.

“You’re
tired looking,” Piranha says. We walk the hallway, though she’s
more ambling than walking. I keep her upright and reroute her to the couch.

“You’re
tired looking. You’re not doing anything today.”

“But
you’re going to get caught.”

“You’ve
done so much already.” Caddy comes up from behind, and I usher him onto
the couch too. “You’ve both done so much. We’ll make
breakfast for you two.”

“But,
I can stay up,” Piranha says as Caddy clocks out. “I can stay
up.”

“Stay
down. Stay down.” I soothe Piranha into the couch cushions, easing her
head against the fluffiness. “If you open your eyes, I’m going to
play the anthem of China.”

“All
right, I’m here then. You know how to work the stove, right?”

“I
can try.”

“That’s
the American way.” Piranha’s eyelids slid across her pale irises.
They bounce upwards in effort to retain the vision of her domain: the kitchen,
the living room, the apartment itself. She’s always awake, doing things
for us, living like a maid. Seeing her on the couch though, pacified by
fatigue, fosters an unerring devotion, a sisterly love I’ve never
recognized enough. I’ve used men as vehicles of validation and painted
women as treacherous competitors, ones to avoid. As I reflect on Piranha,
watching her fall asleep, slowly, I see that she is my sister. She is a woman
to truly admire, far better than my own mother. Far better than me.

Finally,
she sleeps. Curled up against Caddy, Piranha makes soft huffing exhales, and
the two cuddle close enough to feel each other’s breath on their skin.

I
once had an abusive father, abusive mother, and multiple men rotating in and
out of me as if passing through a revolving door.

Now
I have a sister, brother, and boyfriend.

CHAPTER 33

The next week
heralds an oncoming long haul. Days of work. Days of nine-to-five.

But I
haven’t forgotten my surprise.

Preston comes around
the front desk frequently, more than usual. It's like he knows a change has
occurred within me but doesn't want to speak of its existence. The
confidence must be brimming on my skin, making me beam.

"I like the
updates you made,” he says. “Also, just wanted to comment on how
seriously you're committed. It's..."

Fantastic.
Predicting his flattery is like shooting darts at the Sun. You’ll always
miss, but you glimpsed the great light.

“I’m
just really glad to be working here.”

“I’m
super enthused. You’ve got skills that I didn’t think you initially
possessed, but after looking over everything, seeing you work here—my
point. You’re a fit for the web admin position. You’d also be great
for keeping tabs on design aspects, and if you don’t mind, you can still
keep the front desk.”

“You want me
to take calls?”

“Yes. But
don’t consider it a hindrance to your ascension.”

“From desk
jockey to desk jockey?”

“From
receptionist to company woman.” He extends his hand, and I shake.
“We’ll still have you bookkeeping though, if you don’t mind.
Nobody’s ever gotten everything ordered like you. One thing after
another—you’re an organizing superhero. You’ll do even better
since much of the work can be done telecommuting. I’m sure you can
organize yourself even at home and get everything done and more.”

“I’ll
be telecommuting?”

Preston drops to a
whisper. “Recovering after your entire ordeal must be tough. We were
going to convert the position to a mostly online anyway. But with your thing
happening, it’s fine.”

“You’re
flattery and kindness is unwarranted. Anybody could do this.”

Preston lingers at
the table for no more than three extra seconds. He shakes his head.
“Remember, lunch starts at twelve, okay?”

“I packed
baloney today.”

“Fantastic.
I brought bread.”

Another coworker
bothers him with a client follow up. I’m left to admire my new life. I
stare at the tile flooring, the impenetrable doors. Steel and glass. Metal.
I’ve busted through. I’ve ascended like Preston’s said.

When did the
self-depreciation start though? Have I always subconsciously undermined myself?

I know.

The tough-girl
façade doesn’t last. People see through it. Just before I asked
Bishop on a date, Caddy called me out. He read my apprehension. I can fool some
but can’t fool forever. Insecurities leak, weaken the foundation,
insidiously melding you into another person on the inside while letting you
retain your mask. Beauty, strength, intelligence, front all you want, you know
what you are. Ugly, weak, stupid.

Wrong. I’m
wrong too. I’m wrong about being ugly, weak, and stupid. I’m not
any of those. I am beautiful, strong, and intelligent. Like Caddy and Piranha
and Bishop and Preston have all told me, except now their validation means
nothing.

I validate myself.
I am good enough for myself and the world. Anybody can and should love me
because I
am
great. Look at the radical choices made, look at the path
taken, look at the final act—I’m here, act III, ladies, I’m
here and not wimping out.

Within boils an
enervation, complete tiredness with my former self. I slough off the victim
girl, the pitiable girl, the girl who faced abuse and hurt.

And from that
trauma concoction springs a new me, one who’s truly confident without
airs. A woman who’s graduated from college and graduated from young
adulthood.

Not a survivor but
a warrior. Championess. Tigress.

Violet Walker.

Be careful, Spade,
Dad, Mom.

Because I’ll
run you over next time I see you.

CHAPTER 34

 “Pin-yas.
Pin-nyas. Try it like that.”

“Pinahs.”

“You should
be banned from dealing with Spanish-speaking customers. Knowing how you butcher
their crazy pretty language hurts the kids in Africa.” Caddy breaks apart
his salad with a spork and passes slabs of lettuce and tomato my way.

“I see
we’re back with our acid in our throats.” I nibble on his
leftovers. Caddy saturates his salads in sour cream and onion dressing, thus
deleting the beneficiary effects of his whole greens. I almost sigh but catch
myself in the act.

“You guys do
that so much,” Piranha says. “I keep telling them, go see a doctor,
doctor, doctor for those throats. But they never listen.”

Bishop grins at
her, sprinkling croutons on his salad. “Everyone has their quirks.”

“Three years
ago, she used to snore. Badly. We had to kick her out one night.” Caddy
waves his spork at me. “Yes, sir, be careful if you marry the
girl.”

“I’ll
keep that in mind.” Bishop winks. Underneath the table, we lace our feet
together. And Caddy chomps, big scoops into his big mouth. And Piranha hums
Amazing Grace, possibly the first time in forever that she hasn’t sung
verses directly related to America.

“I’m
just warning you,” Caddy says. “Since you’re going on that
trip tomorrow.”

“When do you
think you’ll be back?”

Never.

“Monday,”
I say. “Just a getaway thing.”

“Make sure
to come back,” Caddy says. “We’ll miss you too much
otherwise.”

The
drive to the countryside shoves us along multiple alleyways and dirt paths. We
kick up dust in our wake, though you can’t see the fanning particles in
the night, only a stream of black-blue trailing and at the wind’s mercy.
Clouds paint the sky in deep smudges that threaten to cover the moon dabbed
center overhead. I capture as much imagery with my eyes but eventually concede
to snapping a few photos. I don’t know. Photography seems girly. But
that’s a silly insecurity attempting to spread its roots. I nip the buds
before they bloom and take photos as I please.

“All
your angles are great. Should be a model.”

“America’s worst liar, right here, folks.”

I
clap his shoulder and lower myself. Entire fields of flowers roll past washed
in lunar colors, petals catching the light and appearing like stars.

“You
can actually see them.” I point to a cluster in a corner of the sky.

“You’ve
never seen stars.”

“Show
them to me then.”

Bishop
revs the engine, and then presses his boot down. We hurtle down the road,
gravel bulldozed aside. Moonbeams bend across the landscape, soupy bands of
light so thick you could ladle out the brightness.

We
storm across several crossroads. Wind catches on Bishop’s convertible,
purring and licking at the steel, thrusting my hair straight behind me like a
banner of victory, declaring to the world my newfound carelessness and freedom.
I swing my camera around my neck and simultaneously fiddle with the lens and touch
Bishop’s crumpled shirt collar and shutter my eyes. I mark the sights
with my memory. Here’s a field of corn, there’s an oak tree, and
large bales of hay, big enough to hide in. The cows must play during the
daytime.

“Do
you know where we are?” he says.

“No!”

“We’re
heading towards paradise. The real country.” I fold my legs up on the
passenger’s seat, throwing my arms to my left and right, just trying so
desperately to capture the happiness.

I
cling hard to control. That is the last remaining bastion my parents built in
me. They erected a console panel of which they could press upon. The red button
would elicit fear, and the blue sorrow, and the yellow melancholy. They could
push, press, slam the console at during their most abusive spouts. I’d
join all those clubs and extracurriculars  and wrangle the controls back,
and when I’d failed, I exerted control on those around me, on what I
could. 

And
now, with my arms to the sides, and my legs folded, and the world roaring
tirelessly, I finally relax. I dismantle the panel. I shoo away control. No
more.

If
my happiness falters, if my sorrows come, let them soak me completely. Let them
soak me entirely in emotion and event. No more wrangling the rollercoaster.

“You’ve
got a shit-eating grin plastered on right now, what’s up?”

“I’m
so happy.”

“Want
me to try faster? We’re in rural country now.”

“Don’t
kill anyone!”

The
engine blasts and spites the moon. It shrinks as we travel onward towards an
unrelenting darkness, until array of stars bursts through the clouds,
illuminating what Bishop was speaking of. A starry carpet, no single star more
prominent than the next. Constellations unravel overhead, and I pull against my
seatbelt as if strumming Lyra’s harp or stroking Leo’s mane.

“I’ve
literally never seen anything like this.”

“Cityslicker.”
Bishop pinches my nose and I wriggle free from his touch. “Can you see
why leaving home was hard for me?” He slows the convertible to a modest
hum and shuttles us between swatches of wildflower. He hangs his arm over the side,
and he pats his door. “It’s like living in a cocoon.
Everyone’s religious. Everyone’s quaint. They can keep their
systems outside of modernity’s reach. It works grandly if
everyone’s on the same page, but when you get bad seeds like me, no
dice.”

“Bad
seeds like your parents,” I say.

“They
were so hell-bent on saving me. On having me believe in Jesus their way, the
right way, the only way. Everybody else is on track to Hell but them in their
minds. Leaving here was hell.”

“How’s
coming back then?”

“Nothing.
It doesn’t matter that I’m here. It matters that you
are
.”

I
clutch my camera. Though the flash is off, I snap. Even in the dark, Bishop can
be seen, the contours of his cheeks and the definitive profile curving through
the photo like a sickle.

“I’ll
remember you saying that every time I look at this one.”

“That’s
sweet. You like that camera?”

“That
should be a firm statement. Something you can yell.” I cup my hands
around my mouth and inhale a deep breath. “I love this man and the camera
he gave me!”

Bishop
laughs. “I’m glad you do!”

“Where
are we stopping, sir?” I loll my head around, tasting the raw country
tang of nectar and clean air. “Tell me where we’re stopping. I
can’t wait to set up camp.”

“Did
we have a goal in mind?”

“We’re
getting lost?”

“We
already are.”

“I
already am in you.”

Bishop
careens off an exposed pathway, following a line of tulips. Beyond the line, an
open space rises out of the earth. The ground rumbles from the weight of the
convertible. I bang my head against the window shield, and the seatbelt
strangles me, but the thrill of discovery strangles my apprehensions. Where to?

“There,”
he says.

I’m
careful about sticking my head out. Bishop brakes for me to understand.

A
trickling. Trickling water. With the high beams, we can make out a single
stream cutting through soil and rock.

“We’re
camping here?”

“The
chariot has stopped.” Bishop unbuckles me. “You can roam anywhere
you want, Eve. This is your kingdom.”

The
waterlogged soil squishes underneath my soles. I bounce on my heels,
stabilizing myself. After a long drive, with few reference points, I decide on
staying still, just saturating all senses with the outdoors. Crickets rub their
legs. Birds cut the sky with deep, harrowing swoops. Insects bug out on my
skin.

“You
need another application of this, miss.” Bishop shakes a can of repellent
and sprays. He smears the product with an open palm, rubbing my bare forearms
and sliding a hand up the length of my hamstring. An icy jolt worms its way
along my tendons. Him touching me is nothing new but an experience to be
savored.

“What
about you?”

“What
about me?”

I
drape my fingers around the bottle, stroking the elongated portion with the
tips. He releases his hold over the repellent.

“You
need some too, sir.”

I
squirt a blob out and begin patting down his exposed areas, the mountain bicep
of his arm, the flanks of meat creating his sloping neck.

“How’re
we going to set the tent up?” I ask.

Bishop
rounds the corner of his sedan and wriggles free our tent. It’s flat and
circular like a CD and zipped in mesh. He unzips the top portion, and the air
fills with the whine of metal teeth unbuckling.

He
bites the disc’s edge. “You ready for magic?”

“Go
ahead, magician.”

The
disc spins into the air, and with a
pop
, it unfolds as an elongated
rectangle. Bishop catches the farthest end of the tent and begins hammering a
stake through a rivet.
“You like it,” he says.

“I’m
glad we live in the future.” I crouch next to Bishop, scrounging around
in the soil for debris. I swipe my hands across rocks and toss them.
“I’ll admit, pitching a tent old-style wasn’t super appealing
to me.”

“Cityslick
er
.”

I
pinch soil between my fingers and flick them at Bishop.

“Dirty
girl.”

He
charges at me and grabs a hold of my ass, lifting me onto one foot. He then
dips me, pushing my hair aside.

“I
love when you can feel your hair falling behind you.”

“Yeah?”

Bishop
twists his feet and swings us around in a particular triangular pattern, stepping
this foot left, that foot up. He reverses his step and falls into a mesmeric
line dance.

“You’ve
got quick feet.”

“In
the dirt, yeah.”

“You
know, you’d be great in a ballroom setting.”

Bishop
locks up his arms and forces me upright. The moon shines on his stubble and
crowns his head in wispy blue column of light. I rub his chin. Feel the scrape.

“I
like freefalling hair. I like men who can dance. I like men who put spells on
me like you have.”

“Yeah?”

“What
do you see in me?”

“A
woman. An Amazon.”

Bishop
hitches my standing leg up and carries me against his chest. His sweaty skin
warms us both in an oily slick. If he were anybody else, I might be disgusted.
But there’s something odd about being in love with someone. When you do,
you realize the nastiest aspects about human beings are some of the most
fundamental. You see them in yourself and can’t fault others for acting
so or being so. They’re ingrained. Shared.

I
inhale his musk. I press my forehead to his and let our core temperatures dance
their dance, modulate our bodies. He might be colder one moment and I hotter
the next but we are the same within.

Bishop
carries me to the tent. He dangles my feet, and I climb off him.

“After
you,” he says, opening the front side.

I
weigh the tent down even though there’s only one stake in the ground.
Bishop steps out and brings in a foldable cot. It comes complete with blue
blankets and cotton sheets that ruffle when the wind blows at its hardest. I
sit at the foot of the cot, enjoying the breeze shuttling through the
tent’s canvas fabric.

“Sit,”
I say. “You’re doing all this work, I feel bad.”

“You
deserve this kind of service, miss.”

“I
missed that pet name”

“That’s
how I think of you.” Bishop kneels, unbuttoning his shirt. “As my
miss.”

I
help him roll up his sleeves, and then he strips off his shirt, revealing his
muscularity for my pleasure.

“It’s
hot,” he says.

“It
is.”

“You
want to cool off too?”

“Why
not. The breeze would be great all over me.”

Bishop
peels off my oversized t-shirt. Sweat drenches the shirt. Not a blush rouges my
cheeks though. I’m not uncomfortable knowing Bishop in the most feral
way.

“I’m
not much of a country girl, but I do have to say it’s much more peaceful
here in the country than anywhere in the city. Getting away from all the noise.
It’s so peaceful.”

“It’s
a blessing for sure. Something I took for granted when I lived out here.
God.”

“We
had to make our decisions.”

“Absolutely.
No hassling yourself over choices. Just do it and go.”

“Exactly.”

I
crawl towards Bishop. I draw my hands onto his distinct Adam’s apple.
Patches of stubble drape his neck in a forest of rigid hairs. They resist my
even the strongest press of my hand.

“You
are my man,” I say. “I hope you never felt emasculated. Like the woman
coming to save you was a horrible thing.”

Bishop
clenches my wrist. He yanks me against him, and I clamber around his neck for
support. “Never,” he whispers. “You were only defending
what’s yours. I would do the same. Expect the same.”

“I
wanted to make sure. When we were first discussing what happened, you seemed
almost ashamed.”

“I
was a little. Only a little. But exposing vulnerability as a man…you know
that’s taboo too.”

“I
know. I want it though. Show me everything. Don’t hide behind shields or
barriers or gestures. Like leaving our homes. Just do. We should feel connected
and uninhibited. I crave that connection with you.”

“I
crave it too.”

“But
do you feel that way?”

“Do
you?”

“Yeah.”
I stroke the length of his nose, then pluck the tip, following along downwards
to the points of his upper lip. “I’m touching my own face,” I
say. “Yours and mine are so similar. If I had my eyes
closed—” and I do so for dramatic effect “—I would
think your face was mine.”

“We’re
a couple. We have to be connected somehow.”

“With
work though. We’ve worked so much. Sometimes seeing you during the dates
we could get, it felt like there was this distance. A gulf. And I’d try
to reach across, really hard, but I couldn’t
feel
you. I
didn’t feel like
yours
.”