Heart
Section X
Pump
Amount Due: $63.14.
Joseph stood at the pump feeling overwhelming embarrassment as he dumped pens, buttons, napkins, water bottles, even his socks into the bin hoping that they would cover the deficit he still owed. The bin began shaking and humming as it scanned his deposit. To his relief the numbers were rolling down quickly. In his mind’s eye, he was picturing his room, his dresser, and his wallet on top where he had left it.
Why didn’t he check his pocket first? Why did he fill the whole tank?
First he had tried change, but the ¢31 in his pocket and the $2.47 scattered in the car were far too little. Now he had dumped all the junk in his car, but the price which had been dropping quickly started to slow, then stopped abruptly.
Amount Due: $5.98
Now what.
All he had left with him were the clothes on his back and his father’s old hunting knife. It still shone like it did when his father bought it fifty years ago. He took the knife from his pocket, unfolded the blade, and cut his heart out. The thump of its beating resonated in the bin.
Amount Due: $1.23.
Mail
“Mommy.” It was little Gracie’s voice from the living room. “What’s this?”
I entered the living room and found my five year-old daughter sitting in the middle of a pile of envelopes I had just brought in from the mailbox. “B-R-I-D-G-E-R,” she read aloud.
“What does that spell?” I asked.
She furrowed her brow in thought; then there was a dawning of realization. “Bridger!” she said. “That’s our name!”
“That’s right,” I said. “This letter is for us.”
Smiling, I began gathering up the scattered mail when she asked, “Mommy. Who’s Maggie Smith?”
“What did you say?”
“M-A-G-G-I-E S-M-I-T-H. Maggie Smith. Right here.”
I swallowed hard and said, “Well, you know how your Grandma Bridger is your dad’s mommy?”
“Yes. And Grandpa Bridger is his daddy.”
“That’s right,” I continued. “And before I married your dad, my last name was Smith. Maggie Smith is my mom.”
“So . . . I have another grandma?”
She was so smart. “Yes . . . you do.”
“Cool!” she said. “Why haven’t I ever seen her before?”
With my maternal reflexes, I snatched up the letter. “Go play outside, Gracie.”
“Okay,” she said and scurried out the door. As calmly as possible, I slipped the letter into the trash.
Breakfast
The scent of chlorine from the pool hung around her like perfume. His fingers tapped as relentlessly as a metronome on any available surface. In the entry of the diner, they were inescapably aware of each other’s presence. Both stood restlessly next to a sign reading, “Please wait to be seated.”
They recognized each other, of course, but neither spoke. No one even made eye contact. But they never did, though chance had persistently intertwined their paths before this. Admittedly, the breakfast options in town were limited, but it was uncanny how often they met. She would come straight from her morning swim, he would tumble out of bed, and they would find themselves eating breakfast at adjacent tables. Just this week, they had seen each other at Bagel Haus, Eggs n’ More, and the Mug Shack. Sidelong glances, quickly diverted eyes, wistful sighs. Still they sipped their coffee separately, refusing to believe in fate.
Today both had decided to risk the slow service at Toby’s Diner, arriving at almost the same time. Carol, Toby’s wife, approached them with a coffee pot in one hand and menus in the other.
“Table for two?” she asked.
Both reddened. Their eyes met.
Ring
Ring . . .
He always let the phone ring twice before answering, just to be sure it was a real call.
Ring . . .
“Hello?”
“I hate you and I never want to see you,” a shrill voice rang out.
“Um . . . who is this?”
“Cheryl” the voice replied.
He paused a moment to reflect, his mind swimming through a sea of names and faces, but landed on nothing familiar. “I don’t know anyone named Cheryl.”
“Who is this?”
“Matt. Matt Reinhart.”
There was a pause. A gasp. A click. And he walked away from the phone.
Ring . . .
Ring . . .
“Hello?”
“I want you to know that I hate you, and I never want to see you.”
He sighed. “Cheryl, this is Matt again. Goodbye.” The phone was barely out of his hand when he heard it.
Ring . . .
Was it . . . ?
Ring . . .
Should he . . . ?
Ring . . .
“Hello?”
“Don’t hang up” the now familiar voice squeaked.
“Cheryl?”
“Just let me explain . . .” He decided to let her. “Today has been very rough and filled with a lot of misdirected hostility. Then I heard your voice and your name, and something changed inside me. I knew. Matt Reinhart . . . do you believe it’s possible to hate someone you’ve never met?”
Knock
Knock, knock, knock.
The door was rough against his knuckles and left them slightly red and tender. He rubbed them each individually, an old habit he barely noticed anymore. It was just something to fill the time. Waiting was the worst part.
Knock, knock.
She wasn’t answering. Or maybe she wasn’t home. But there was a car in the drive. Maybe she was out walking or just couldn’t hear him.
Knock, knock, knock, knock . . . knock.
He rubbed his knuckles and looked down at his shoes. They were shabbier looking than he remembered. The faded brown leather and frayed shoe strings were held together by little more than quaint familiarity. Not very impressive. If she didn’t answer today, perhaps he would come back wearing better shoes, just in case.
Knock, knock, knock.
Nothing. He could hear birds singing and a cyclist riding past, perhaps an ice cream truck somewhere in the distance, but no sound from the house. He checked his watch and sighed. Once again his hopes had proved a waste. Fortunately, he had come prepared for such a failure. He slipped a card into the mail slot and trudged slowly away. It read:
Kent Barker
Super Sucker Sales
869-3352
Notes
When Travis had to clear the trash off tables in the food court, he used to pretend that any notes he found were for him. One scrawled on a napkin said, “Remember milk.” So, after work, he stopped at the gas station for a gallon of milk. Written on the back of a receipt was, “I hate her dress.” He chuckled, and wrote back, “Me too.” One scrap of paper had seven digits followed by “xoxo.” He actually made the call, but when someone answered; he panicked and hung up. More provocative was the condom with “Meet me in the bathroom in five minutes” on the wrapper. But by then, the joke was old. Every note meant for someone else was a reminder of his loneliness. He dumped the condom with the rest of the trash and moved on to the next table.
Soon, they were just annoying. So, when he found the note saying, “Hi, I’ve watched you for so long. You’re cute, and even though you don’t know me, if you want—” he didn’t even finish reading.
Across the food court, Elaine watched as the words she had written with the greatest anxiety disappeared into the trash.
Choice
I saw her in the park—a grown woman at a small booth made of 2x4s and plywood, like some parody of a Peanut’s cartoon. A sign read, Deal of a Lifetime. I strolled over and asked, “Are you selling something?”
With a nod, she answered, “A choice.”
“Sounds odd. Any buyers?”
She smiled. “Ever
yone’s left with something.”
“Really. What kind of choice?”
She delivered a practiced sales pitch: “For no cost, I can give you a question: ‘What would have happened?’ And for the price of just your heart, mind, and body, I can answer that question.
“What?”
She began again. “Give me your whole self now, and you’ll know true love. You’ll experience joy and anguish and lose any control of your life. Or, for free, you can walk away whole, but carrying the weight of the unknown forever.”
My heart was racing. “I don’t want to choose.”
“No one ever does.”
Looking over the rickety stand, I asked, “How long have you been here?”
“Months.”
“Has anyone chosen love?”
She answered flatly, “No one.”
My decision had already been made. “I’ll take it.”
“Are you sure?”
I held out my hand. She took it, and everything changed.
Visit
I had planned on making burgers for Andy and me. It was Memorial Day, the day we brought out the grill for the first time. This year, I would let him try to flip the burgers—now that he was finally tall enough to see over the grill.
The car door must have been quiet, or maybe Andy’s TV show was too loud, so I was busy flattening the patties when the doorbell rang.
“Dad, someone’s here.”
“Can you get it?” I asked. “My hands are covered in cow flesh.”
“Eeew. Gross, Dad.”
I moved to the sink, assuming it was the Jehovah’s Witnesses or some poor kid selling candy bars on his day off school.
“Hello,” Andy was saying. “Can I help you?”
“Hi there,” a woman’s voice answered. “Andy.”
“You know me?”
Hand’s still wet, I rushed into the living room where my son stood looking bewildered in front of a tall, blonde woman. “Andy,” I said, “Go to your room now.”
“Don’t do that, Frank,” she said.
“You know Dad too?”
“Andy. Room.”
“But Dad, who is she?”
“I’m your mother,” she said.
And it was out. The three of us stood motionless in a triangle. Silent.
Bitter
George always loved watching the sugar crystals dissolve into the oils on the top of his espresso as he stirred it. It gave the experience a feeling of completeness for him.
tink-tink . . .
He sipped the bit of coffee still clinging to the spoon, and his face brightened. It was perfect. As sweet as heaven and as black as hell—just how he liked it. This was a roast he had been looking forward to for some time. Once every five years, his old friend Giulian Moreno sent him an espresso roast directly from Rome on his birthday. No one made coffee like the Italians. This morning, he had dug through the cupboards for the cast iron hand-grinder he used for these beans and no others. Once it was finely ground, he percolated the coffee never leaving it unattended. This was an art—a ritual.
“Ahh . . .”
The first drink brought back five years of hopes and disappointments. Fortunately, the sugar held back the bitterness of those disappointments. That was how he liked it, and presumably how Giulian liked it as well. No bitterness.
George thought back. Hand shaking, he held the cup to his lips, but could not drink any more.
Silence
When you ask how my day was, are you trying to say something else? I listen closely to hear you say, “I love you,” but even if you said those words directly, I wouldn’t recognize the sounds. Whenever we talk at all, it’s like seeing an old acquaintance: searching for a name, a context, a means of understanding the friendly smile. Flustered and tongue-tied, I tell you my day was fine. It’s not what I want to say, but for months, I’ve waited in silence for you to say “I love you too,” and I can’t wait anymore.
After hanging up, I press a few buttons. Nights like this, I used to listen to old voicemails where you whispered sweet nothings, but they became too painful. One by one, I deleted them. Tonight, I summon the only ghost I have left. Murmuring crowd, passing cars, distant music. You say, “Hey, Kat, sorry I missed you again. Guess we’re just not connecting today. I was hoping to find out if you were close or not, ‘cuz I was about to leave. Maybe I’ll see you at the Jen’s thing tonight? Anyway, talk to you later.”
Silence.
I play the message again.
Gift
Evelyn’s most valuable possession was her antique Victrola. She’d found it in a garage sale as a freshman in high school and spent fifteen years of allowance money on it, just because it looked pretty. And it was a beauty. It was hand cranked with a brass sound horn, and the box was made of stained, polished oak. However, in the fifteen years since then, she had never gotten around to buying any records.
But with their tenth wedding anniversary approaching, Josh had decided to do something about that. A friend at work was looking to sell his grandmother’s collection of antique 78s. He had all sorts of show tunes and jazz crooners that Frank knew his wife would love. But it was also expensive.
On the morning of their anniversary, Josh led Evelyn into the living room where she found a dozen boxes all filled with records.
“How did you afford this?” she asked.
“You know my dad’s old 69 Camaro? I knew I’d never get it running again, so I sold it. Now you would have records to play.”
“Oh, honey,” Evelyn said, “you shouldn’t have. You see, I sold my Victrola to buy myself an iPod Touch.
Sleepover
Alder finally understood that something was seriously wrong around the time Jonah had to get dressed for tee ball. All the other boys’ moms and dads had picked them up a long time ago. For a while, Alder barely noticed and didn’t care. He and Jonah were best friends, and they were the ones who came up with the idea for the sleepover in the first place, and now they had the fort all to themselves.
By lunch, things were different. Alder was missing his mom and dad. He felt like he shouldn’t talk, even when Jonah asked, “How long are you staying?” The grownups were whispering:
“She said she would be here by 10:00 . . .”
“Well what are we supposed to do?”
“Did you try calling her?”
“Of course.”
After lunch, they didn’t play anymore. Jonah’s dad kept looking at his watch, and his mom was making lots of phone calls. Alder just sat next to Jonah, who was wearing his uniform and holding his glove.
Then Alder’s dad was there. Only, he didn’t seem happy like usual. He picked up his son and said, “It’ll be okay, Alder. It’ll all be okay.”
Without knowing why, Alder started to cry.
Meeting
While waiting, I watched the cars passing on the interstate. I wondered what had led those drivers to the road they were now taking, wondered if any of them spied my face and wondered what had brought me to that Denny’s. I wondered too, afraid to hope.
Finally, you arrived. We embraced—your touch still familiar. The waitress brought coffee, and then you said, “I’ve been thinking about you.”
“That’s what you told me on the phone,” I answered.
“I wanted to see you.”
“You said that too.”
“Are you upset?”
“Not yet,” I said, trying to hide my trembling. “Have you talked to her?
I saw your jaw clench. Hands shaking, you sipped your coffee and said, “I told you; she dumped me.”
“Six weeks ago.”
You sighed. “We’ve talked.”
I studied the shadowy reflection in my coffee cup. “Then why am I here?”
“I miss you. I want to be with you.”
“That’s not enough.”
“Because I love you,” you insisted. “Because we l
ove each other.”
I wanted to believe you—to believe things could be different. “And her?” I asked. “Do you love her?”
You paused. By the time you found your words, I was driving away.
Doors
If it weren’t for my son, I could have pretended I wasn’t home. My window looks out on the porch, so I can see anyone at the door and decide whether or not to hide. Even with just a glimpse of his profile, I knew immediately who was there, and I knew I wanted to disappear. Unfortunately, Monty had just learned knock-knock jokes, and called out loudly, “Who’s there?”
After sending him to his room, I opened the door. “What do you want.”
“Hi, Ella. I bet this is a surprise—”
“Save it,” I snapped. “What’re you doing here?”
“I wanted to make things right.”
My muscles tensed. “Make things—How? What could you possibly do? How could you—”
“I know, alright?” he said. “I know. If life was fair, I’d be dead, and dad would be alive. I wish I could change that, but . . . come on, Ella. I’m your brother.”
I had never felt love and hate so strongly at the same time. Then I heard Monty’s voice, “Mommy, you’ve got a brother?” I sighed. He was never good at staying in his room.
Turning back to Devon I said, “Would you like to meet your nephew?”
Warrantee
I couldn’t find the warrantee. I rifled through drawers and folders, uncovered old receipts, instruction manuals, old ads and catalogues, paperclips, several half-empty packs of gum, but not what I needed.
It had been an accident—a stupid, stupid accident. She didn’t realize I was holding it out to her, I let go, it fell. But if I had the warrantee, I’d be fine.
That’s when I remembered a letter I had received from the manufacturer a couple of weeks before. Determining it wasn’t a bill, I had set it aside, but it might be able to help, even just give me a phone number. I fumbled through old mail until I found an envelope with that unmistakable red logo in the corner.
“Dear valued customer, It has come to our attention that your initial fifteen year warrantee is set to expire in fourteen days. To renew, please . . .”
I checked the date of the letter and counted back. I double checked and counted back again. It had expired two days ago. The warrantee had run out. I looked toward the table where I’d left the broken remains of my heart, wondering if I’d ever be able to use it again.
Waiting (ii)
It’s 2:00 AM. I’ve been at the diner for six hours. My waitress is an attractive girl named Janelle. This late, there aren’t many other customers, so we’ve been chatting on and off about working our way through grad school. I’ve heard every detail of her thesis on Anne Sexton, and she knows all about my work on sculpture in Late Antiquity. We pretend not to be bored. I think she’s been flirting, and she’s probably convinced I’ve stayed here so long just for her, but I’m actually waiting for Linda.
It’s 2:06, and I finally spot the nametag on a waitress just starting her shift. She approaches my table carrying a pot of oily black coffee. Clutching an envelope in my pocket, I examine her wrinkled face, her sagging shoulders, every strand of her drably dyed hair. Though I don’t need more coffee, I hold out my empty mug, and she stops to fill it.
“Room for cream, Hun?”
“No thanks.”
They are the first words I have ever said to my mother.
She disappears into the kitchen, and Janelle returns. “My shift’s ending,” she says. “Wanna get out of here?”
I can’t answer. I’m crying into my coffee.