Rita Hayworth's Shoes (11 page)

Once they had their ice cream, they found a table by the entrance and sat down.

“Honestly, I've always been a bit too sensitive. You can ask my dad,” he said, and he took a bite that spanned about half the sandwich. “Well, not my real dad. I never knew my real dad. I mean the guy who raised me. Chuck. He's a fireman in Indiana. That's where I grew up, in case you cared.” Deck took his second bite, finished the ice cream, and crumbled the wrapper into a ball on the table.

“I care,” she said. “Of course I care. What about your mother? Is she still around?”

“Irma? Irma was never around. You could say I never knew her either. Chuck married her even though she was six months pregnant with another man's baby. What can I say? He loved her like crazy.”

“What happened?”

“Well, she never loved him. Nor, I guess, me for that matter. She left me with Chuck when I was four and never came back. Chuck explained it all to me in bits and pieces as I got older. It seems like every year there's something new. Anyway…”

“So what happened to your father? Did she leave you guys for him?”

“Nah. He died before I was born. She left because she was crazy.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Anyway, I guess I didn't handle it all that well. Chuck will tell you that I apparently cried for a month straight.”

“Who could blame you?”

He opened his mouth to speak, and then hesitated. “There was something else…” he hedged.

“What?”

“I don't think I could tell you. You wouldn't understand,” he said, shaking his head.

“Try me.”

“After she left,” he started and took a deep breath. She nodded him on. “After she left, I guess you could say I got a little violent.”

Now she regretted asking, scanning the room and hoping no one heard him but her. “In what way?” she whispered.

“At first I guess I was just a little destructive. Kid stuff really. Smashing in the neighbors' windows with rocks. Lighting small fires…”

“Kid stuff?”

“This was actually the ‘normal' stuff. Seriously. That's what the shrink told us. You'd be surprised to learn some of the things very normal boys will do.”

“Okay.”

“Then it escalated a little. And then…”

“Then?” she held her breath.

“I kind of killed my goldfish.”

She exhaled. “Everyone kills goldfish.”

“Uh, no. I creamed the little fucker. Popped him out of his tank and watched him flop around. I can remember that it made me so angry to watch him flipping and flopping like that, and I didn't know why.” He stopped talking and this time Amy wasn't sure she wanted to encourage him to continue. Except she did.

“Then he died?” she asked. “He suffocated?”

“I smashed him with a shoe.”

Amy gasped.

“I'm sorry. I don't know why I told you that. I don't think I ever told anyone that. Except my shrink. Aside from her, I think it was only Chuck that ever knew because he came in while I was smashing it. And that's when I started seeing Mary.”

“The shrink.”

“Yep.” He paused for a moment as he watched her take it all in. “Too fucked up, huh?” He pursed his lips.

She was quiet as she tried to decide how she felt about all this. Of course everyone does things as a kid they aren't proud of. And the circumstances were extraordinary, of course. “You were only four,” she decided out loud. “You were just a baby.”

“Personally, I'm horrified by the whole thing, but I guess it could have been worse,” he said. “I mean, if Chuck hadn't walked in when he did and I didn't get the help I needed.”

Amy did not want to imagine. “If it matters any,” he continued, “Mary gave me a clean bill of health. Chalked it up to extreme childhood trauma and swept it under some rug somewhere. Honestly, I really don't remember much of any of it.”

“Probably all for the best,” Amy said, and she believed it. “I mean, not your mom leaving like that.” Her own words dug like a spike in her heart.

“Yeah well, not much damage done. Sure I get a little snappish sometimes, but I think that's more to do with my age than my youth.”

“So then, it's just you and Chuck?”

“Pretty much. I did have an uncle actually. My real dad's brother, but—”

“What?”

“You know what? Let's save that shitstorm for another time, shall we? I think you already know too much about me as it is, and here I am knowing nearly nothing about you.”

“There isn't much to know.”

“What are some of the fucked up things they did to you? You must have had some problems with your parents.”

“Oh, no. Not really. They were kind of free-spirited and flaky, but they were there for me.”

“Were
?”

“Yes,” her voice cracked. “They disappeared in Brazil. On vacation a few years back. Presumed dead.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“The worst part of it is I kind of feel like it was my fault,” she said, dead serious. He started laughing. “Why is that funny?”

“It's funny, because…it's kind of your calling card, huh? Innocently walking around, killing people?” he laughed some more.

“This is funny?”

“I'm also laughing because like most intellectuals, you think way too much and you drive yourself crazy thinking yourself into things that probably aren't even true.”

“You're an intellectual.”

“By default, really. But I don't know a lot of intellectuals. I mean, for someone who went into this line of work. I basically grew up in a firehouse.”

“Strange,” she said.

“That I grew up in a firehouse?”

“There's that. Yes. But I meant because I don't think I know anyone who isn't one.”

“Not me. Seriously. You could fit all the intellectuals I want to associate with in a rowboat.”

“Am I in the rowboat?”

“Do you want to be?”

There was a long pause before Amy screwed up her face and let out a shriek. “Oh, my God. Eeew!”

Deck shook his head and looked away. “Hey, that's okay. You can just say no. You don't have to do me any favors.”

“No,” she panted. “Not that. On the table. Right next to you!”

He looked over his shoulder, still confused.

“A spider! A spider!”

He finally spotted the offending arachnid, ready for a tarantula or black widow at the very least, and unimpressed by the small spider that sprawled almost lazily across a student's abandoned copy of
The Turn of the Screw
.

“This?” he taunted, gently lifting the book and holding it before her like a tray. “This is what gets you all riled up?”

“Oh, God!” she shrieked. “Are you going to kill it? Kill it!” she screamed. “Kill it!”

“Quite the sadist, aren't you?” he joked, as he carefully balanced the spider on the book, walked over to an open window nearby, and gingerly lowered the spider onto the outside sill.

He placed the book back on the table and he smiled at her. “Despite my brief era of terror in my childhood, I'm actually kind of a big pussy,” he said.

“And I guess I'm the sadist, then?” she said, bitingly, her arms crossed in front of her.

“Forget about it,” he laughed. “It was only a joke.” She stared blankly at him. “You know. Joke? Ha, ha and all that?” he shook his head. “Okay, so you don't. No biggie,” he said. “Should we head back?”

They made the walk back to the English department in silence as Amy stewed and Deck smirked. By the time they arrived, Amy had cooled.

“Hey, do you still have that box?” Deck asked, as they passed his office.

“Box?” she asked.

“Heimlich's trunk?

“Actually, yes,” she said. “No one wanted any of his things, actually. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, nothing. Just something Chuck told me. An Elvis song I wanted to hear. Is it here?”

“It's in my cube,” she said. “Do you want me to get it?”

“Nah. No worries. I don't need it now.”

Deck stepped into his office and Amy stopped at the door. “It's a little strange, don't you think? How no one came to claim any of his things? That in the end, no one wanted to hold on to even a small piece of him?”

“I'm not that shocked about it, actually,” Deck said, sliding behind his desk.

“But all those people at the funeral. His family. Surely someone would have wanted something. Even a small memento?”

“For one, Heimlich was about as popular with his family as he was around here. Tolerated, and that's about as far as it went for the mean old crankasaurus.”

“How would you know?”

“Look, all I'm saying is that people get weird around death. It's not always real, what happens at a funeral. Some people just like the drama of it,” he said.

She considered this. “So, why didn't you like Heimlich?”

“Let's just say he complicated my life.”

“In what way?”

“Well, because of him, I almost didn't get my PhD. He brutalized me at my defense, and not in a good way. He was a…how do I say this gently? He was a total dick.”

“He was a real ass, wasn't he?” she mused, leaning into the door frame.

“In ways you will never know,” he said and he sighed.

She folded her arms around herself again, but this time not defensively. “You're so much nicer to me than he ever was.”

He smiled. “It can't actually be a secret that I got the hots for you?”

“Oh,” she stammered, a little shaken by his directness. “I just don't think it's appropriate,” she lied, her flushed face clearly giving away her deception—to him and to herself.

“Appropriate?” he asked, cocking his head. “Or appealing?”

###

Amy was confused about what she imagined was starting to happen between her and Deck. She knew she wasn't attracted to him, and yet, there was something about him. Something that seemed so reassuring. Something that put her at ease, but also intrigued her. She was both shocked and honored that he had shared such a dark secret with her, and she couldn't help but want to know more about him. She was filled with questions.

But she couldn't get past the most significant question, which was
why
did she care so much? He wasn't her type. And he was her boss. And yet…she couldn't deny that she was starting to feel something for him. She was still conflicted over David, yes, but with Deck, something stirred. Except the last thing she needed right now was to have more complications in her life. So she decided to bury herself in the tedium of her work and hoped that it would all somehow go away.

Except her work wasn't tedious anymore and her thoughts were still with Deck. How could they not be, especially as she sat here, organizing his conclusions on Tolstoy, his words echoing with meaning as she drank in his interpretation of a story she loved, but for different reasons than he did. She was so caught up in it, in fact, that she hadn't even noticed David standing over her until he spoke.

“Hello, Amy.”

“What do you want?” she asked, not looking up.

David cleared his throat. “I wanted to apologize for the other night. It was a little awkward.”

“I know,” she said. “Anything else?”

He cleared his throat. “Uh. Yeah. Word around here is that you're going to go through with your defense?”

“How do you know that?”

“Uh. Hannah,” he stumbled and she narrowed her eyes. “I mean, not directly or anything. I overheard her talking to someone.”

“Well, what if I am?” she asked, without emotion.

“Uh, nothing. I mean, well, that's pretty cool. I guess. I mean, if you think you're ready and all.”

She glared at him. “I've been ready for years,” she said coldly, and looked away again.

“Scruffy… I mean, Amy…are you ever going to stop being angry at me?”

“I don't think so,” she said.

He shuffled from one foot to the other, awkward and uncomfortable and not really sure what to say next. “Okay, well, I have some of your things.”

“You have
most
of my things.”

“I meant your books. I mean, some other things, yeah. But you probably need your books to prepare?”

“You think?”

“We packed up so quickly, I guess I didn't pay attention to what was mine and what was yours.”

She sneered at him. “Let me make it easy for you,” she said. “All the sci-fi novels and biology textbooks—yours. All the
good
books, mine. Not so hard.”

“Right. Well…”

At that moment, Liz stomped over with a box. “Where can I get rid of these?” she snarled, looking at Amy.

Liz was here, making deliveries? Had he really thought this was a good idea?

Amy pointed to a small corner of her cubicle. “Just over there is fine.” Liz nodded at Amy and looked away. Amy continued to watch her.
Was she looking for something?
“Right there's good,” Amy said.

Then Liz looked at David. What Amy had not noticed, because her eyes had not left Liz since she arrived, was that David's eyes had not left Amy, and were fixed in a gaze that was more than a little uncomfortable for Liz. “David,” she called, but he didn't seem to hear her. So she whistled to him, like he was a dog.

“Huh?” he said.

“A little help?” she snapped.

“What? Oh, yeah. Right.”

“Thanks,” said Amy halfheartedly, as she turned back to her computer screen and slipped on her headphones. She shuffled through the selections on her iPod before settling on an especially angry No Doubt song and blasted the volume as high as it could go.

Exactly how many trips Liz and David each made back to her cubicle, Amy hadn't a clue. So when she finally turned around after about the fifth or sixth song, she gasped. There must have been forty boxes stacked in the corner and overflowing out to the hallway. “Shit,” she said as Deck returned from a lecture.