The Nakeds (3 page)

He watched the dawn come, the sun rising just outside the window.

He had another beer.

Sometimes he was like this, unable to sleep, an insomniac on and off since seventh grade—and he found it was better not to fight it. He sipped his beer and thought about Tony. He thought it was good that the two of them had remained friends after high school and then again he thought it wasn’t so good—maybe Martin would be doing other things, impressive things, if he didn’t have Tony’s shit life to compare to his own shit life.

He missed his ex-girlfriend Margo, who’d left California for some college in Iowa, but he didn’t miss her enough to ask for her back or to fly off to the middle of the country for a visit. “Too much cheese in Iowa,” Martin had told her on the phone when she invited him out.

“It’s corn,” she had said—and he could have sworn he’d heard her eyes rolling.

“Too much of something, right?” he said, feeling stupid, holding the receiver away from his ear a second and giving it the finger.

He watched Tony sleep and decided that, yes, he’d register for fall classes at Manhattan Beach Junior College. He’d take a full load, in fact. He’d tell his parents that he could wait tables at one of their restaurants only on the weekends. If he went to college, even junior college, he’d damn well know which state was known for its cheese and which one was known for its corn. Margo wouldn’t roll her eyes. Maybe he’d go ahead and major in business management or restaurant science—it wouldn’t be so bad to go into his parents’ line of work. He was thinking that it might be cool to feed people, own his own place, be the boss, the one who goes from table to table making his father’s sort of small talk, when Tony farted in his sleep—a loud one. And smelly. Martin was surprised the bass of it didn’t wake Tony up. He picked up the pack of matches they’d used to light the bong and ignited one, waving the flame around, waving it toward Tony’s ass, which was pointed directly at him. He wished his friend would adjust himself so that his ass faced the wall.

You stink, man,
Martin said.
Fuck, you
stink,
Vancelli.

Tony thrashed around, opened his eyes, startled, and then closed them again.

Martin popped open another beer.

And another.

And then he got up from the floor and stumbled into the kitchen. On the counter sat a moldy loaf of bread and a fruit bowl with one lone apple. There was a line of busy ants on the counter, and a dense, red circle of them right in the middle of a sponge next to the sink. A perfect bull’s-eye. The sink’s paint was peeling and a horrible smell like old meat emanated from the drain. Martin thought he might vomit and stepped away from the sink, bumping into the fridge. He turned around and opened the freezer, where he found a nearly full bottle of vodka. That’s what he needed—a little vodka and Seven Up to settle his stomach, and he’d be on his way.

Martin didn’t remember leaving his friend’s house, but he remembered hitting the girl. Hitting the girl was like Tony thrashing around and waking up in the chair—it was being thrust into time and space, after being unconscious.

He wasn’t there and then he was.

She wasn’t there and then she was.

Now Martin wanted sleep and he wanted his bed and he wanted his sheets and blankets, and he wanted to bury himself there, he wanted to close the three little windows in his studio apartment, pull the shades, and block out the light, and he wanted to escape the car, the bucket seats, the seatbelt, the windshield, and the dusty dashboard, and he wanted out now, so he pressed his foot to the gas pedal and sped away.

THE OXYGEN
tent was a transparent canopy tucked under the mattress, a clear cube that went over Hannah’s face and shoulders and covered the top half of her chest. Asher and Nina stood by her bed in the ICU, both of them red-eyed and weepy. Every now and then one of them reached inside the tent and stroked Hannah’s cheek. When drops of water gathered on the tent’s walls, Nina reached inside and wiped them clear.

“It’s like fog. My baby hates fog,” she said to Asher before she remembered that she wasn’t talking to him.

He moved to touch her arm, but she stepped back, away from him. “Don’t,” she snapped.

Asher had bought Hannah a present at the gift shop downstairs, a ceramic lamb with fake flowers and plastic green leaves shooting out of its back, and now he held the gift out to her. It was a dumb gift—what kind of a freak lamb grows leaves out of its back? And even dumber was the gesture, holding the damn thing out, as if she could take it from his hands, hold it herself, and thank him. The leaves scratched at the oxygen tent and Hannah turned her face toward the sound, opened her eyes briefly, and then shut them.

“What’s she going to do with that?” Nina said angrily. She squeezed the tissue in her fist and barely looked at him.

Asher didn’t answer her. He couldn’t imagine a worse thing happening on a worse day. His daughter hit by a car on her way to school and the bastard who hit her not even sticking around to make sure she was alive, to take the slightest responsibility. It was all too much. He held the lamb tight at his side, trying to hide the dark oval spots of sweat he felt growing under his arms.

There was one oversized vinyl chair with puffy armrests sitting empty in the corner of the room. A couple that wasn’t on the verge of divorce might have squeezed into that chair together, shared the space, and comforted one another while their daughter slept. At the foot of the bed, a plastic rolling tray with cold metal legs held an orange plastic pitcher of ice water, fat drops of condensation slowly rolling downward.

Asher had a pair of deep cuts on his left cheek. The gashes, two distinct lines, were so red and thick and fresh that the young nurse wondered out loud if he was the one driving the car that hit Hannah. “No offense,” she said. “I was just wondering. He’s hurt and she’s hurt, that’s all.”

“He’s her father, her flesh and blood,” Nina said, annoyed. “How could you think such a thing? Do you think I’d let that monster stand by my daughter’s bed? What kind of mother would I be then? He’s her father,” she repeated.

“Oh,” the nurse said.

“It was a hit and run,” Nina said, her voice rising.

“That’s terrible.” The nurse arched her eyebrows, interested.

“He left her in the road like an animal,” Nina continued.

“When I find him—” Asher began, but Nina cut him off.

“You?” she said with a sad laugh.

“That’s right.” He stood up straight, nodding vigorously.

“
Please
,” she said.

“Bastard left her there,” he said.

“She could have died,” Nina said.

“When I find him,” Asher said again, seething.

The nurse leaned down and fiddled with the dial on the IV bag before pointing at Asher’s face. “What happened there? It looks like you might need stitches. You’re bleeding.”

“He’s fine,” Nina said dismissively.

The nurse looked at her, confused.

“I’m worried about my baby—that’s who I’m worried about.” Nina gestured at Hannah in the tent.

“I understand that,” the nurse said. “But he’s bleeding.”

“Asher would know if he were really hurt, is what I’m saying. He’d be the first one running to a doctor.” Nina looked at Asher and shook her head. She didn’t care whether he stood right there and bled to death. She imagined prying the damn lamb from his grip, backing up into the hall, and aiming the stupid thing at the opposite side of his face. She’d like to split him open one more time before the day was over.

It was strange to Asher that Nina and the nurse were talking about him like he wasn’t in the room. He felt like a big, dumb sweating child. He looked out the window and toward the parking lot, still holding Hannah’s gift at his side. Outside, an orderly helped a very tall middle-aged man out of a wheelchair and into the backseat of a car. Unsteady on his feet, the man swayed in the wind like a drunk, and the orderly held him around the waist, swaying too. Finally the man dipped into the car and disappeared. Asher wanted to disappear. He lifted a hand to his face and felt the blood. It was drying in raised bumps. He probably looked hideous, scary—maybe even insane, not giving a shit about such an obvious injury. He turned from the window and looked at his wife, who was now leaning toward the nurse, getting a look at her nametag.

“He ran into a door. Clumsy him. Silly him. Can’t see what’s right there in front of him, Penny,” Nina said.

The nurse turned to Asher. “You should really have your face looked at. At least get checked out. You don’t look so good. A wound like that could get infected. Maybe get a tetanus shot. Do you want some water?” she asked him.

“I’m fine,” Asher said.

“He’s said he’s fine,” Nina snapped. She’d had enough of Penny and her meddling. It was her marriage. He was her husband, at least until he wasn’t anymore. His face was their problem. Hannah was the one who needed attention, not her cheating asshole father.

“I’m a nurse,” Penny said, stating the obvious.

“I know what you are,” Nina said, wearily, but she wasn’t looking at Penny. She was looking at Asher, who was physically standing there, yes—he had just let go of Hannah’s hand and was now wiping the misty tent—but seemed to have mentally stepped away, out the door and down the hall and into the elevator and out to the parking lot and into the car and down the street and onto the freeway and to
her
house, whoever she was, and into her shiksa arms.

Asher sighed. He thought about putting the lamb down on the nightstand but couldn’t let go. He held on tighter. He had no idea why. With his free hand he reached for Hannah’s again.

Leaving Nina was something he’d been doing more and more often, leaving whatever room she was in, sometimes literally getting up and walking off, sometimes picking up a magazine or book or turning on the stereo, leaving that way, and sometimes doing what he was doing now: two feet planted firmly, but vanishing still.

Nina started to cry again. She reached into her purse and rummaged around for more tissues. Her nose was running; she could feel wetness above her lip.

Penny hurried over and opened the drawer by Hannah’s bed, pulling out a box of Kleenex. She popped it open, plucked out a few sheets, and handed them to Nina. “Here,” she said.

Nina gratefully took the tissue and blew her nose.

The nurse set the box of tissue on the nightstand, apparently putting their past behind them. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“I know. I know you are. It’s not your fault. Of course it’s not you,” Nina said sincerely.

Women never ceased to amaze and confuse Asher, the way they could hold one opinion of each other and then a gesture or a short, innocuous conversation could instantly change their assessment. He stared at Nina and the nurse, perplexed, imagining that soon they’d be greeting each other with overwrought hugs and cheek kisses.

“I’ll just leave the three of you alone.” Penny paused at the door. “Mostly she’ll just sleep now, but if she wakes up and wants anything, needs anything, ring that buzzer like I showed you,” she said before turning away.

“It’s so cold in here,” Nina stammered when the nurse was gone. “I don’t want my baby girl to be cold.”

Asher imagined what a better man would do in such a situation, or a man who still loved his wife, and then forced himself to do just that. He put the lamb down on the nightstand next to the box of tissue. “I’m sorry,” he said. He walked over and put his arm around Nina’s shoulder—and she let him.

MARTIN HAD
been living in a studio apartment above his parents’ garage rent-free for the last four years. It was one room, but it was many rooms to him, his living room and den, his bedroom and kitchen. It had even been his guest room when Tony got too fucked up to drive home and stayed over, sleeping on the floor without a pillow, with a towel for a blanket, and when Margo had lived around the corner. It was where they played house, where they made coffee or mixed margaritas from a sugary powder and fumbled through drunken sex. Now, though, the studio was the place where he was always alone, where he hid with his secret, where, when he slept, he was exactly parallel with his Chevy Nova, which was beneath him in the garage and covered in a white sheet like a dead person.

Martin thought about other people who didn’t drive: blind people, people with muscular diseases who couldn’t control their limbs, really old people. Lots of people used public transportation, he told himself. He took the bus or rode his bike. No one had to convince Martin to stash his car key in a drawer and leave the piece of shit Nova in his garage; he just did it.

It sat there, a neglected secret. Sometimes he kicked the car. One time he spat on the corner of the hood not covered up by the sheet. He used a hammer and the fattest nail he could find to give it two flat back tires. The fucking thing just took up space. He wished it would disappear.

Pot was a secret too. He stopped buying it from Tony and instead took the bus downtown and walked the streets, 3rd and 4th, sometimes all the way to 7th, until he found someone haggard enough to approach. Most nights he couldn’t sleep, thoughts of the girl kept coming and coming, and he’d smoke the sweet joints until he passed out. Drinking was a secret now too, something he only did alone, like masturbating or picking his nose. “I don’t drink anymore. And I don’t smoke pot either,” he lied to Tony.

“What did you do, find God?” Tony said, laughing.

Martin tried to laugh with him, but what came out was a stilted chuckle that made both of them stiffen.

“Hope we can still hang out.”

“Yeah, sure,” Martin said.

“You don’t sound sure.”

“What do you want from me, a promise?”

Tony shrugged.

“Don’t be a pussy,” Martin said.

“
You’re
the pussy,” Tony said. “No drinking, no smoking. What else is there?”

Martin’s parents had owned two restaurants for the last decade and had just recently purchased a third. When Martin didn’t have a shift at one of them, he started drinking vodka as soon as he woke up. He’d stay in bed all day in a ratty T-shirt and pajama bottoms with a short glass balanced on his chest, trying to rewrite his own personal history. He’d close the windows so that day looked like night, and he’d smoke pot, joint after joint or bowl after bowl, until the room filled with a sweet, thick gray smoke that burned his eyes.