Awake
It was the doorbell—and not the nightmare—that woke her.
She had slept long past it, though not without considerable effort. Her comforter was in a ball against the wall and her sheet was wrapped around her in such a way that seemed nigh impossible at first glance.
Raising her head, she inspected the clock on the nightstand.
Time to wake up anyway.
The doorbell rang again, the noisy ding-dong sound of it one of the few remnants of the world before.
She rose up and began unraveling her bedsheet, unwinding it from around her body and pushing it aside. She swung her legs over and put her feet down. She extended her arms and arched her back, feeling it crack in several places, then reached down to the floor to retrieve her jeans. She found them in the same rumpled state she had left them the night before. She straightened them, slithered both her legs inside, then stood to pull them up to her waist. After a zip and a fasten she was stumbling tiredly from the bedroom and into the living room.
Sunlight was bursting through the gaps in the curtains, its golden rays capturing millions of undesirable dust molecules floating in the air. They stirred and undulated from her path as she broke through them, disrupting the calm that had settled over the house since the night before and welcoming in the new day in their own grandiose, miniscule style.
All the artificial lights in the house were switched off—save for the nightlight in the hallway—just as she had left them.
The carpet was soft on her feet and maybe even a little damp. (She wanted a dehumidifier, but the town committees considered them an unnecessary use of electricity.) There was a well-worn path from the bedroom to the couch and a very noticeable lesser-worn path from the bedroom to the front door. She followed this path and by the time she reached her destination her stumbling feet had found their coordination and her morning grogginess had dissipated enough that her brain would be useful.
She could catch glimpses of movement through the modernistic diagonal windows in the door, but not enough to determine whom exactly was out there. So she gathered her best morning voice and asked, “Who is it?”
And the muffled, masculine reply answered, “
She yawned ferociously, swiped her hair and tucked it behind an ear, then went about the process of opening the door. First she pulled away the metal bar and set it aside, then she released deadbolts one, two, and three, and finally she turned the handle and pulled open the heavy wooden monster.
Sunlight hit her straight on in its typical unforgiving manner, mercilessly wounding her morning eyes. She had not grown accustomed to this despite the many times it had already happened, nor had she even considered this annoyance when she decided on a house facing east.
Yet sure enough, when her pupils shrank enough to filter away all this new light, standing there on her porch, she saw, was Leon Wolfe. Wearing jeans, a plain blue shirt, and sporting his styled hair, he appeared to have been awake for at least two hours already and had something to show for it. In his hands he held a styrofoam container, which he was extending to her in offerance, all the while grinning his obnoxious grin.
She glanced at the container through the screen door, then back at him. “And this is...?”
“Breakfast.”
“Breakfast?”
“I took a chance,” he explained in his typical, arrogant, know-it-all demeanor, his head cocked slightly to one side. “I didn’t see you in the cafeteria. Haven’t seen you anywhere, actually. Not for a week.”
She thought about it for a moment, then opened the screen door and snatched the styrofoam container from his hands. After opening it for a quick inspection she saw that he wasn’t lying—that it wasn’t another trick—and that there was actually breakfast inside. Grilled bread (better than toast,) scrambled eggs, a slice of ham, a sealed cup of what looked to be orange juice, and one of those pesky little plastic forks. She closed the container and looked at him oddly.
“Why are you bringing me this?” she asked.
“Because I know how you are,” he replied. “You don’t stock your refrigerator and you don’t leave your house until you’re two minutes away from starving to death.”
She groaned.
She knew that accepting this would give him a small amount of satisfaction—and that was something she’d rather avoid—but then again, having breakfast delivered would spare her a trip out of the house. This way she could just stay inside most of the day, at least until dinnertime.
She stepped away without a word, leaving him standing there holding open the screen door. She then found a spot on the couch between two piles of unfolded laundry and placed the styrofoam container on the coffee table in front of her. A bit hesitant, she peeled open the orange juice and took a sip. It tasted like orange juice and not something else, which was a good start. She licked her lips. For concentrate, it wasn’t bad at all.
“Is this an invitation to come in?”
She glanced back over to the door, took a deep breath and shrugged her shoulders, and mumbled, “You’re still here? Whatever then.”
He stepped inside and let the screen door swing closed. Though he didn’t know it, he was the first person she had allowed to enter.
“Juice taste all right?” he asked.
She shrugged.
“A
She nodded sourly.
“Well, good morning,
She didn’t bother looking at him. She was almost tempted to roll her eyes, but even that would require too much effort. “Good morning,
He smiled. She would have preferred him to have gotten angry and stormed out, thereby leaving her the hell alone.
“Can I sit?” he asked, motioning to the cushion next to her.
She put down her orange juice and shrugged her shoulders.
There was a pile of unfolded laundry where he wanted to sit, but true to
“Ah, what do we have here?” he teased, his hand probing closer. “Female underthings?” At this point he appeared ready to take something and—more than likely—tease her. “Hey, I recognize this one...”
She turned quickly and snapped “Stay out of my stuff” as she knocked his hand away. She then used her forearm to swoop all the clothes off the cushion and create an even messier heap on the floor. After mumbling, “Show some respect and stop being a goddamn brat,” she turned forward again, hoping maybe he would leave her alone to eat. Her stomach was growling, after all.
Books, some open and some closed, some disregarded without care, were scattered across the floor. Videotapes minus their dustjackets were stacked in three piles next to the television against the far wall and compact discs without their jewel cases were stacked haphazardly in a cylindrical pile on the stereo. A layer of dust had begun to settle over most everything. Now added to all this was the clothing she had just strewn about to help stir some of it up.
“Your housekeeping’s worse than mine,” he commented.
“My maid’s on vacation,” she countered. “Is there some reason for you being here?”
“I brought you breakfast.”
“Yes, I told you thank you.”
He slowly eased himself down on the cushion next to her where the clothes used to be. He didn’t get close to her, but he didn’t sit far away either.
She tried her best to ignore him as she cut up the breakfast ham, being careful not to cut into the styrofoam in the process. She took a bite. The ham wasn’t too bad, but it was kind of salty, which was to be expected.
After a moment
It was inevitable. She exhaled deeply and dropped the plastic fork into the scrambled eggs. She turned her head then, not enough to look at him completely, but just enough to see him in the corner of her eyes. She asked, “Are you just going to keep babbling on? What’s the use of bringing me breakfast if you’re not going to let me eat it while its warm?”
“I just want to talk,” he replied. “The way you are, it won’t take long.”
She let her gaze fall to the carpet.
He began, “I’ve been doing some thinking.”
She couldn’t resist: “Congratulations. I know that must’ve been hard.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” he exclaimed, putting his hands in the air. “This is going completely wrong. I didn’t come here to argue with you.”
“You’re being irritating.”
“I’m not trying to be irritating. I’m trying to be... I don’t know. I thought I could be playful with you now. Maybe I’m trying to make you smile.”
“It’s not working.”
“I can tell.”
Then there came a noise from outside—someone shouting, “Toss me the shuttlecock!” Then someone answering, “Shuttlecock?” and another person replying, “The shuttlecock!”
Peering across the room and through the screen door, she eyed some of her neighbors starting a game of badminton across the street. Cindy was over there and it looked like Mike and Delmas were there too. They’d need a fourth player and she knew that that was where
Idiots—like him.
However,
“Why?” she asked.
“Because.”
“Then just say what you’re going to say.”
“I don’t know what to say. I was hoping you could do half the talking. You know—like two people do when they’re having a conversation.”
With a deep, frustrated sigh, she tilted her head back and looked at the ceiling. She saw a couple of dusty cobwebs up there and quickly put her head down again. The house really was a mess.
“Fine,” she snapped. “Then I’ll just say it and we can get this over with: It was a mistake.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say.”
“Then why’d you bother?”
He grinned his annoying grin. “Because that’s the typical scapegoat answer.”
She gritted her teeth and groaned, simply not in the mood for a morning-after talk—a week-after talk—with Leon Wolfe. She said, “You slept with a girl. That’s not a new experience for you, is it? Not you, the local gigolo, the local slut. Do you go back and talk with all your conquests? Try to string them along in case you want to go back for seconds someday?”
He chuckled softly, then stood and walked to the door. Instead of leaving like she would have wanted, however, he leaned against the nearby wall and put his hands in his jeans pockets. “I thought your attitude toward me might’ve changed,” he said. “I couldn’t figure out why you showed up at my door because I knew you hated me—And you still hate me.”
“Yes,” she replied.
“But I don’t hate you.” He paused a moment, and mumbled, “Gigolo... I wish.” He chuckled again.
She leaned back on the couch and threw her feet onto the coffee table, being careful not to spill the styrofoam container. Even though it was a gift from Leon Wolfe—of all people—it meant she wouldn’t have to go over to the cafeteria at least until later today.
He said, “Tell me why you don’t like me and then I’ll get out of your hair.”
“Well, gee,” she began, turning to glare at him. “I can’t seem to forget that one time when you served me a glass of vinegar and told me it was ice water—”
“Wait,” he interjected. “That was almost five years ago. I was a kid. Jesus, we were only like, what—seventeen?”
“You were an asshole then and you’re an asshole now.”
“I did get in trouble for that, you know. Made to stay on food service duty for month. You know how much it sucks to be a lunch lady for an entire month?”
“Well, I was sick for almost that long.”
“Because of a little vinegar? I kind of doubt that.”
She turned away to stare at the opposite wall. There might be emotions growing behind her eyes and that was the absolute last thing she wanted him to see.
“It was a joke,” he explained. “A prank. Granted, yes, a bad one. But I didn’t single you out. I was hoping to get one of those cranky Odd Fellows running this place. It was just plain random that it was you who got that glass of vinegar.” He paused for a moment, staring off at nothing, then softly added, “So why else do you hate me? Is there any other reason?”
She didn’t say anything.
After waiting for an answer and not receiving one, he looked around the room again, gathering his thoughts, and said, “You came to me, remember? Completely out of the blue. So did you get what you wanted? Did you get it out of your system?”
“What do you care?” she mumbled.
“Because I see the way you live,” he replied, motioning with his outstretched arms to the wholeness of the room’s interior. “Jesus Christ, Courtney, this is depressing.”
She turned to look at him then, despite the pressure building in her eyes, and said as fiercely as she could, “Leave.”
“Tell me why you hate me first.”
She looked away again, a sensation running through her veins causing the muscles in her arms to tighten and her fingers to begin closing into fists.
A moment passed.
“Are you going to tell me?” he asked again.
She mumbled, “I could have fit in here if you hadn’t ruined it.”
“What?”
A spark lit in her gut. She stood and stomped over to him and when she got close enough she pressed her forefinger hard into his chest. She gritted, “You jerk. You don’t get it. What you did did single me out. You and all your other jerk friends—the way you laughed at me and teased me from then on. Things were hard enough without all that.”
Looking shocked—and a bit scared by her sudden aggression—he stuttered, “Nobody made fun of you.”
“The hell you say,” she retorted. “Do you realize how hard it was to make friends? Impossible. That’s how hard.”
“But you didn’t even try. You just went around with your sassy attitude pretending you didn’t need anybody. You can act as high and mighty as you want, doll, but I see through you.”
And with that, she hit him. Not a girly, feminine slap on the cheek, but a full-fledged, closed-fisted slug on the chin; the perfect spot—she knew—if you wanted to knock someone the hell out. Besides, it just felt right. It seemed that his chin and her knuckles were just destined to be together.
Reeling, clutching his jaw with one hand and holding the wall with the other, struggling not to see the inevitable stars, he mumbled, “Ouch. Jesus, you hit hard for a skinny girl.”
She knew that now was the opportune time. This was when she could tell him that the morning after their little encounter she had immediately sent the clothes she had worn to his house to the laundromat, then took a two-hour shower simply to get rid of the last scent of him. She could tell him how it irked her to no end that his
Instead of saying these things, however, she pulled back her fist. Talking simply required too much energy.
Seeing another punch in his future, he grabbed her wrist and forced it down to her side. “Wait. Just wait.” He used his free hand to adjust his jaw once more. “Okay, maybe I deserved that.”
She cocked her head to the side as if to say, ‘Well... DUH.’
“I don’t know anything about you,” he said. “I just know everyone has some kind of story about how they got to Eastpointe, and stories about people they know that didn’t get to Eastpointe. I just—”
“Leave,” she again gritted.
“Wait, I’m going to try to explain this to you,” he said. He slowly let go of her wrist, certainly wondering if he would regret it, then softly continued, “I’ll be the first to admit that I wasn’t blessed with an overabundance of brains, so I’m a little slow catching on to things. But I’m starting to figure you out.”
“Oh really?”
“Yeah—You were in love with him.”
She took a step back. “What? Who?”
“Gordon Levi.”
She didn’t reply just yet, but instead stared at him angrily.
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
“That’s entirely none of your business.”
“Aha!” he said, his eyes widening with enthusiasm. “You just inadvertently answered my question.”
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, letting her eyes drift away. After a moment she asked, “So, what kind of name are you going to call me first?”
“I’m not going to call you a name,” he replied. “Why would I do that?”
“Then what are you going to point out that I don’t already know? That he was twice my age? Or just something as simple as him being black? Or that I was just seventeen and I didn’t know what I was doing?”
“I’m not saying anything.”
“Then why are you bothering me with this?”
“I’m just trying to figure you out, that’s all.” He lifted his hand close to her face and seemed ready to make some kind of tender motion she knew she wouldn’t be comfortable with—especially from him.
She shied away.
He lowered his arm. “If you loved him, then I’m sorry he didn’t make it.”
“Just go,
Instead of obliging her, he stayed right where he was and explained, “Before everything went nuts, I was in high school, like you. I played baseball and I guess, well, that pretty much sums up and defines my life til that point. I didn’t really get over that whole locker room mentality, all right? So, what I did to you, that vinegar thing, it was to impress other people, the new people I met here. It was wrong of me and it was immature and it was stupid. I admit it and I’m sorry. But I’ve grown up since then. We all have.”
“Will you leave now?”
“Just one more thing.” He smiled then, that cocky smile, but whether he was forcing it or not she couldn’t tell. “This might just be a psychological issue, but I have a thing for bad girls.”
“Well,” she groaned, “I don’t have a thing for pretty guys.”
He laughed. “You think I’m pretty?”
She quickly caught her slip of the tongue and compensated for it by pointing to the door and stating, “Out.”
Then came a mistake, when she caught his gaze and allowed herself to hold it. Their blue eyes meeting and staying met made her very uncomfortable.
“You’re a gorgeous chick,” he said. “Always have been. And when you’re not yelling at me or hitting me, I think I actually like you.”
This statement caught her much by surprise and it might even have flattered her had his
She stated, “Did I mention I hate your accent?”
Another smile. “Oh, come on. I’ve had five years to blend my style with everyone else’s. The accent’s going away, so it’s not all that bad.”
She sneered. “Yes it is. Leave.”
His smile faded. He pushed open the screen door and held it there while he paused in thought. With his back still turned, and in a tone that sounded both sarcastic and apologetic, he softly stated, “I didn’t realize I was the sole cause of you being unhappy. I’m sorry.”
Then he left, heading down the concrete walkway and across the street, probably to join in the game of badminton.
Courtney closed the main door, putting the outside out of sight again.
And that was that.
She returned to the couch, but instead of digging back into her breakfast she put her hands through her hair and rested her palms against her temple.
She got even angrier. She didn’t get to tell him about her repetitious nightmares and how she still had them even with someone in bed beside her, so her one night of weakness hadn’t helped matters at all.
He probably wouldn’t have understood anyway.
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