Heartbreaker (11 page)

When he opens the door there is no one inside, just a circle of dirt in the wet sink.

*   *   *

She walks until the pavement gives way to tall trees and soft earth. This is a different place, not the cemetery, not the side of the other road, where he might go to look for her again. This way is steep; she claws her way upward, her shoes slipping over the leaves, until the lights from the town are dim and she can start to dig.

She remembers this: the feeling of the dirt beneath her nails, the taste of it tamped hard into her mouth as the soil sucked her dry. There are white things in this earth, pieces of young roots or teeth or bone; she still can't quite see. Instead she sees him, recalls the naked rage in his face when she threw the ring from the window, the ring he had given her, the ring she did not want. It is on her hand now, because of him, the other one, and she takes it off, throwing it once more into black grass.

Sitting in the shallow pit, scooping dirt over her legs like a blanket, she watches as the white dress darkens; there is no young man here, she tells herself, no ring, no knife. The dress is gone. If she is lucky, she, too, will disappear.

 

THE DADDY

Daddy comes over on Thursdays. My husband and son are out watching movies where people blow each other up. They have burgers afterward and buffalo wings and milkshakes and they talk about TV shows and girls and the latest bloody video game. At least that's what I imagine they do. No way do they imagine what I am doing, sitting here at the kitchen table doing my math homework as Daddy microwaves the mac and cheese he brought over. We have three hours together and in these three hours I am twelve years old and my daddy is the most wonderful man in the world.

*   *   *

On craigslist I post the photo from my work website, the one with my hair scraped back in a ponytail, exposing my shiny forehead, my thin lips, my arms bursting from the sleeves of my blue blouse.
Daughter seeks Father
is all I write as a caption. In response I receive an avalanche of cell-phone numbers, chat invitations, and penis pics lifted from porn sites.

I delete all the emails except for Richard's:
Sweetheart, please call home.
I sit for a moment hunched in my cubicle, sweating, before lifting the receiver and dialing his number.

Daddy? I whisper, hand up to cover my mouth so no one walking by can see it moving.

He doesn't skip a beat. Sweetheart! he says.

Did you see the photo? I ask.

Of course, he says.

I'm not better in person, I warn.

You're perfect, he assures me.

I'm married, I tell him. I have a kid.

No problem, he insists.

I chew the inside of my cheek. There's not going to be any sex, I say.

Absolutely not! he agrees.

I wait for him to say something creepy or disgusting, but he doesn't. We make arrangements to meet at McDonald's for dinner on Thursday.

Don't kill me, I say, and he laughs.

Oh sweetheart, he says. What on earth?

*   *   *

I'm early. I don't know what Daddy looks like and every time the door swings open my head jerks like a ball on a string. I convince myself I'm going to be stood up and that it will be better anyway if I am. But at seven on the dot he enters and he looks straight at me and waves.

Our usual, sweetheart? he says, loud enough for other people to hear, and I nod. He brings a tray of chicken nugget combos to my table. He kisses my cheek. The food steams in our hands as we look at each other; he seems about twenty, twenty-two, with chinos frayed at the bottoms and red hair and glasses and biceps as skinny as my wrist. Maybe someday he will be good-looking.

Extra barbecue sauce, just the way you like, he says, gesturing to my nuggets. I smile and take a bite. He asks me about school and I ask him about work and he is as interested in how I'm doing in gym class as I am in the stocks he's trading at the office; we slip into our new roles as easily as knives into butter.

I almost forgot, he says. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a CD with a Christmas bow stuck on it. Just a little something, he adds, and hands it to me. I unstick the bow and turn the CD over in my hands: Britney Spears. I bounce, once, and my left butt cheek, which doesn't quite fit on the plastic chair, bangs on the edge of the seat.

Oh Daddy, I say, touched because I know he went into a store and asked what would be the right thing to get for his little girl, and he paid for it with his own money and put it in his pocket and found the gaudy bow to go with it and then brought it all the way here, to me, because he knew he would like me and already wanted to give me something, and this makes me want to give everything I have to him in return.

*   *   *

Apart from Thursday nights—and it's always Thursdays, always nights—we don't communicate, except by email. Sometimes he'll send me a note just to say,
Have a great day!!
or he'll tell me what plans he has for dinner:
Working late need a treat pizza sound good???
or he'll hint at imagined happenings in my little-girl life:
Don't forget dentist today xoxoxoxo!!
and
Good luck on the history quiz I know you'll do awesome!!!!
I write back in equally breathless terms to report the results of the history quiz or the number of cavities rotting my teeth or to squeal over the impending pizza feast. These exchanges give me a high so intense my chest muscles spasm and when my boss calls and says to bring her such-and-such a document I hit print and out comes an email from Daddy, not the work document, and I giggle into my hand and hit print again.

*   *   *

He always arrives exactly fifteen minutes after my husband and son leave. I sit on the couch with the television on while he fumbles with the keys and the empty banged-up briefcase he always brings.
Sweetheart!
he says when he enters, and I yelp
Daddy!
and if I was maybe ten or twenty or, okay, thirty pounds lighter, I might run toward him, but as it is I wait on the couch for him to come over and kiss my hair. I'll pour him a soda on the rocks and he'll pour me some milk and we touch glasses and smile. If my husband calls I stand by the back door with my head down and say Uh-huh, yes, fine, all right, see you soon, no, nothing for me, thanks, I'm enjoying the leftovers, have fun, love you.

*   *   *

Richard lives with his mother but I never meet her or hear anything about her. I only know she exists because I Google Richard's phone number and thanks to the white pages I know where he lives. She is seven years older than me and her name is Gayle. I imagine Richard when he is not Daddy, lurking unhappily beneath her thumb, still living in the room he grew up in. I wonder if he's done his homework and discovered that I am a loser, too. Or maybe it's obvious and he doesn't care. So when I'm with him I don't care either.

*   *   *

We never run out of things to talk about. There are dance recitals and music lessons and colds and heartbreaks to discuss and I am always the center of his attention. Sometimes he comes and crouches by the sink and pretends to fix a faulty pipe; I stand helpful at his side and listen to him slap and pull at the plastic tubes. Other times I refuse to do my homework or flaunt the fact that I've ignored my chores and he has to speak very sternly to me and point at the neglected essay assignment or the pile of dirty laundry in the middle of the floor until I melt with shame. He is patient and fair and my tantrums are mild, my rebellions quickly conquered. Sometimes, if I'm feeling low that week, I will cry for real, and he'll say There are lots of other boys who will want to go to the dance with you, or You can always try out next year for the team, or—and this is by far my favorite—The school photo came out beautiful. And I sniff and say Really? It did? And he literally dries my tears with his hands and says Yes, of course it did.

*   *   *

Some girls are being mean to me, I complain one Thursday. Daddy whips his head up from his food like a hunting dog smelling blood. Excuse me? he says. Who exactly is being mean to you?

Jennifer and Holly and Deborah, I say, using the names of women from work, women who aren't mean to me but might as well be since they are not and never will be my friends.

He shakes his head, wiping his fingers with his napkin before leaning back in his chair, his wrists on either side of his plate.

That is unacceptable, he says. When did this start?

I shrug. They've always had something against me.

Do I need to call the school? Do I need to have a conference with their parents?

Maybe, I say. It's just not fair that they're so stupid but everyone thinks they're so cute.

No one's cuter than you.

You're just saying that.

He puts his hand on mine. You are the most beautiful, wonderful, most talented girl I know.

You must not know a lot of girls, I joke.

I'm serious, Kathleen. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise, okay?

Okay, I say.

Promise, he insists.

I promise, I say, giggling.

He isn't laughing. Swear, he says, and I sober up, look into his eyes, and swear.

*   *   *

There are a few times when Daddy seems tired and we go out to eat and he sits there slushing his straw through his Diet Coke. Those Thursdays we're alone with our private miseries, just like every father and daughter in the world, and the feeling is tender and beautiful. What's wrong, Daddy, I'll ask, and he taps my hand with his fingers and musters a smile and says Nothing you need to worry about, sweetheart, and I'll suggest a long drive and sundaes to go. His car is old and strewn with trash and I sing along to the radio and Daddy sings too and when he drops me off he touches my cheek and says Sunshine, you always know just how to cheer me up. Then we both get teary from loving each other so much and I go into my house and wave from the window and watch him drive away.

*   *   *

I'm in the bathroom at work trying to masturbate. I have good enough sex at home but nevertheless there is a gaping hole in me somewhere that says
Do something
. If it's not sex and not food and not a night out with the girls then what is it that I need? What is the nature of this hole and with what do I seal it up? When Daddy comes home I am bursting with gratitude but when he leaves I am starving, I literally feel my mouth fill with saliva and I think with agony there are a maximum of hours to get through before the next Thursday evening. In the bathroom my hand sweats between my legs and I imagine Daddy gently pointing out to me everything I've got wrong and then coaching me on how to get it right. I wonder for a second if the no-sex clause was a mistake, but when I think about sex with Richard my hand flees from my crotch like it's been scalded. I shake it, wanting to yell at it, yell at myself
What the fuck-hell are you doing. You useless, you failure, you sad cow.
I yank my pants up over my hips and stuff my shirt in. Someone comes into the bathroom and I look through the gap of the stall door and see Deborah, my manager, wetting her fingers and then touching her bangs. She looks cool as a cucumber. I want to ask her How? and Why you? and then Why you and not me? But then I remind myself of Thursday night and I remember that getting off is something everyone does, one way or another, but Daddy is something that no one has, not even Deborah, and this is significant. I take a deep breath and exit the stall. The naughty hand is red and moist but I don't worry about whether Deborah thinks I am weird or sad. She keeps staring at her own reflection and I snap two towels from the dispenser and dry myself and hear Daddy saying to me Kathleen, don't cry. So I don't.

*   *   *

At dinner I bend over the table and wince. Richard half-rises, touching my arm.

Are you okay, sweetheart?

My stomach hurts, I say.

Is it something you ate?

I don't know.

Why don't you try using the toilet, he suggests. I hobble to the bathroom. I'm in there a long time, and when he knocks I don't answer. He eases the door open. I am staring into the toilet, where blood unspools in the water. He takes a deep breath.

You started, he says. Hey, that's great, right? Does it hurt a lot?

I nod. He takes my arm, opens the drawer I've stocked with Tampax in neon wrappers designed to appeal to teens. Solemnly, sweetly, he removes a tampon and hands it to me.

Do you know where to put this?

I bite my lip.

See here, on the box? He tilts it for me to see the drawing of a girl inserting a tampon into her penciled vagina. You take this and unwrap it. This part is the applicator and you use it to push this part—the cotton thing, see?—inside. Okay?

He caresses my arm, peering up into my face before leaving me in the bathroom alone. I hold the tampon in my fist and close my eyes as I squat over the toilet and push the tampon in. I know he's standing outside the door, listening, waiting. I want to cry out, but I don't. The tampon swells slowly inside me. I open the bathroom door. Daddy uncrosses his arms, pushes his glasses up on his nose.

Okay? he says.

Okay, I say, with a small smile, and he hugs me, his chin against my hair, and we stay that way for the next minute or so, and then he gives me a last little squeeze and we return to the kitchen for ice cream straight out of the container before he sends me to bed.

*   *   *

I know, thanks to LinkedIn, that Richard is a math major at the community college and I want to ask him if he knows anything about statistics and so could he tell me what the numbers are about people like us: how many in a town our size? In our state? In our country? What does
like
us
even mean? Come Thursdays I am ready to self-medicate up to my eyeballs in Daddy's laughter, his wrinkled khakis, his drives to the Dairy Queen for vanilla cones, and he never tells me to want anything else or anything less. We are special. We are us. We clasp hands and laugh and Daddy pays the bill, and when we get to the car again he has me do a little twirl under his arm, and even in old pants and clogs with the heels rubbed raw I shine.