Surface Tension

  Sooooo, what have you been doing? Lake stuff? Sounds like fun—kind of. I mean, it does sound like fun, but I wish you were here. You would LOVE it.

  I'm sending a photo so you can meet some of my sweet mates (just kidding—suite). From the left it's Angela, Christina, Chelsea, and Robin. And me, of course—you remember me, right?

  LOVE without borders,

  Jenn

  P.S. If you call here at eight o'clock on

  Tuesday night, someone you love might just be waiting by the phone.

  P.P.S. I wrote you a poem.

  Silent rivers run

  underground no one knows where

  like my lust for you.

  That's sweet. God, I miss her.

  I look at the picture. The girls are all smiling for the camera in the cheesiest way possible and doing jazz hands in a dance studio. They all look like really nice girls and a lot of them are really hot.

  In the background of the photo there's a big mirror and I can see the flash of the camera reflected in the mirror. I can also see the person who's taking the picture. It's a guy. He looks tall and he has messy brown hair.

  I don't recognize him, but that doesn't mean anything, because there's no reason that I should recognize him. He's probably a teacher or maybe one of the other girls' boyfriends. I'll have to ask Jenn about him when I talk to her on Tuesday.

  I've been watching Mr. Richardson work on his stone wall while I pretend to read my Stephen King book. Shirtless in the sun, his hair wet and matted to his chest and back— that's the way he likes it.

  He brings the wheelbarrow over to the mountain of rocks and loads up about ten of the bowling balls. They're heavy obviously, because his old-man arms shake as he lifts them up and into the wheelbarrow. Then he brings them over to his work area and lays them all out on the grass. He looks at them for a while like he's figuring out how to put a jigsaw puzzle together and then he stacks them into his wall. He's not using mortar or anything, so it's pretty amazing that the wall is holding up at all. I know it wouldn't if I were building it. I bet he thinks I'm lazy just sitting here and watching him work, but I'm not lazy. I actually don't feel like helping him.

  I walk over, sort of in his direction and sort of in the direction of the water. I haven't decided if I'm going to say anything to him.

  I get within ten feet and he says, “Cool Hand Luke,” just like he used to, but he doesn't look up.

  I say, “Hey, Mr. Richardson, whatcha workin' on?”

  “A wall.”

  “Yeah, how's that going?” He's finished about ten feet, and he's got about another hundred and fifty to go.

  “It's going.” I knew he was going to say that. I look over at the big rock pile, and I almost offer to help him wheel a few loads over, but I don't, because I hate that he's building this thing. I really hate it.

  “Well, keep up the good work.” I'm not sure if he can tell that I don't mean it.

  “Will do.”

  I walk down to the lake and skip a stone. The feeling doesn't go away.

  I got a postcard from Jennifer. She must have gotten my letter. It's on the back of one of those free postcards you can get from a restaurant. It has a picture of a bunch of daisies blooming and a few cows chomping on them in a field. There's a poem written on the back.

  Distance is a bitch

  A flower eaten by cows

  Our love becomes shit

  I love her sense of humor. It's brilliant. The cows eating the daisies and all that. It's just a little depressing to read that last line, “Our love becomes shit.” I'm going to call her tonight at eight.

  It's seven-fifty. I check my cell phone. No service. I pick up the house phone to call Jennifer, but someone is on the fucking party line. I can't make a call until they hang up. This sucks.

  I hang up the phone and sit down on the green couch and stare at the phone. I wonder who's on the phone. It's probably the minister.

  I look out the window across the lawn. Yup, he's on the phone. Pacing back and forth, wrapping the cord around his hand like a twelve-year-old girl.

  I pick up the phone lightly and listen without breathing.

  “Hey, what are you watching?”

  A thin voice on the other end of the line says, “Matlock.”

  “Oh yeah? You having fun?”

  I can't tell if the voice is a really old woman or a little girl. The voice is strange. I think it might be a little girl, because I can hardly understand her, but it could be an old woman who had a stroke.

  He says, “You can watch that when you get here. What did you have for dinner?”

  “Hot dogs.”

  “Were they good?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ha-ha.”

  Oh for fuck's sake. I can't believe he's talking about hot dogs. I say, “Excuse me, I need to use the phone.”

  He pauses for a second and then says, “So what did you have on the hot dogs?”

  “Mustard and relish.”

  “Yeah? That sounds good.”

  I try and say it with more force. “Excuse me, I need to use the phone.”

  He doesn't even pause this time. He just continues his stupid conversation.

  He's ignoring me. What a dickhead.

  I walk out of the house and stare straight at him. He's not looking over here. I walk out into the middle of the lawn and stare at him. He is the biggest asshole in the world. I can't believe I ever thought he wasn't. He still won't look at me.

  This is bullshit. All right, I'm not going to get caught up in this bullshit just like everybody else. I'm going to calm down. I walk down to the lake. I walk past him, but I don't look at him.

  He says, “So did you have any ketchup?”

  He's got to be talking to a little kid. I try and skip a stone. I get a couple, but nothing spectacular.

  The summer light is fading and the moon is rising up over the lake, and it looks like an orange lollipop. I should write a poem about that for Jennifer.

  Moon like a lollipop,

  Orange or mustard-colored.

  What did you have for dinner?

  Hot dogs? That sounds good.

  Fuck it. It's almost eight o'clock and I need to use the

  phone. I stomp back toward the minister's house. He's gone

  inside, but he's still talking on the phone. I can hear him

  through the sliding screen door. The dogs are growling, but

  at least they're inside the house.

  “Yeah, should I put mustard on mine?”

  I say, “Excuse me, I need to use the phone.”

  He looks up like he can't believe I have the guts to talk

  to him. He says, “Hold on,” into the phone and then looks

  back at me. “What do you want?”

  “I need the phone. It's important.”

  “I'm using it. You can use it when I'm done.”

  “No, you don't understand. I can only call right now.

  This is when I can call. I need to use the phone.”

  The minister turns his back to me and says, “Hey, sorry

  about that. What were you saying? Oh yeah, what kind of

  mustard should I put on it?”

  I can't believe this fucking guy. I would hit him, but he

  probably outweighs me by a hundred pounds. Fuck.

  I walk back down to the beach and sit in the plastic chair.

  Shit, now what do I do? My fucking cell phone doesn't work

  around here, and I have no idea where the nearest pay phone is.

  I guess I could just wait and use the phone when he's done, but

  who knows when that's going to fucking be? I wish I could use

  the phone just for a minute. Just so I can tell her I love her. I look around. The Richardsons are on the same party

  line, and so are the Vizquels.

  This is bullshit. I just want to call my girlfriend. Why

  doesn't my stupid fucking cell phone work here? Try it again.


  Jesus, there's not even one little bar on the thing. Fuck, I

  wish I had my license and a car.

  I start walking up the driveway to the road, watching the screen on my phone. I have to find a place that has cell phone reception. As soon as my feet hit the pavement, I start sprinting. I'm not in soccer shape yet, so I can only sprint as far as the four-way stop sign where the broken-down old gas station is. There's no pay phone here, and my phone is still fucking useless.

  Now which way? I've got to pick a direction. Up the hill. That's probably the best for cell phone reception. If I had been thinking when I left, I would have brought my bike, but I wasn't thinking. I could go back, but I don't like to do that.

  I've got this weird thing about going back the same way I came. I just hate to do it. It feels unnatural to me, like there's a blockade behind me. Whenever possible, I go in a loop to get back to where I came from.

  I jog up the hill, past the house where they breed the scary dogs. One of them starts barking at me and it's so loud it actually hurts my ears and makes the hair on my neck stand up.

  I hope that thing is on a leash. I'm sure he's on a leash. He's on a leash, right? Fuck, he's chasing me. I hear someone with a Canadian accent call out, “Klaus, come here!”

  I run again as fast as I can, and I can hear the dog getting closer. I keep running and I hear the Canadian guy call out again, and this time the dog stops chasing. I keep running. I'm not going to stop running until I put some distance between me and the fucking dog. I get as far as the Civil War graveyard and run in and hide in back of the iron fence, among all the little gravestones. I can't catch my breath.

  I lie down. I still can't breathe. I check my phone. Nothing. When I was younger, we used to come up here every once in a while. We'd park at the modern graveyard right next door and then walk through here and down the old path to the waterfall.

  This little graveyard used to be all covered with weeds and bushes and vines and crap until, I don't know what happened, but they cleaned it all up.

  Each one of these guys just has the smallest little piece of stone with his name on it, the day he was born, and the day he died. Some of them are so worn away by time and acid rain that I can't even read them.

  Next door at the modern graveyard, there's a whole mess of people with huge monuments to themselves. They all have quotes from famous poets and long lists of family members, but when you really think about it, the Civil War guys had it right. Maybe it all just comes down to the day you were born and the day you died. That's all that's left.

  Nobody writes on their gravestone HAD A REALLY GOOD SANDWICH—MAY17, 1987. Or FINALLY GOT CELL PHONE SERVICE—JULY15, 2008. It's just birth and death. Birth and death.

  I've got to get out of here. This is too depressing. I walk out of the graveyard and back onto the road. I'm just going to keep walking up the hill until I get at least two bars on my stupid cell phone. I don't care how far I have to go.

  I get all the way to the big cornfield before I get service. I pull the piece of paper out of my pocket and dial the number. Come on. Come on. It's ringing. Yes. Answer the phone. It's still ringing. Answer the phone.

  “Hello.”

  “Jennifer?”

  “No. This is Megan. Who's this?”

  “I'm a friend of Jennifer's. I was supposed to call her at eight, but I didn't get a chance to. Is she there? Is she around?”

  “You know what, I think she went out.”

  “What time is it?”

  “It's like eight-twenty. So yeah, she's not here. Do you want me to like take a message or something?”

  “Yeah, yeah, thanks, just let her know that I called and I'm really sorry that it took so long but I'll explain everything.”

  “Okay, you want me to write that down?”

  “No, I guess not. Just tell her I called.”

  “Yeah, but who are you? What's your name?”

  “Luke. I'm her boyfriend.”

  “All right. I'll tell her when they get back. Bye.”

  “Wait, when who gets back? Who is she out with?” Shit, she's gone. She hung up. Fuck. What did she mean, “when they get back”? Did she mean like a group of people? Like a whole bunch of people? Or did she mean Jennifer and one other person?

  We don't have very good pronouns in English. There should be a pronoun for when it's two people doing something, compared to a whole group of people. One person is easy: she did it or he did it. But when it's two or eight, it's the same: They are out. They aren't coming back.

  It's not that I'm jealous, because I know that Jennifer would never, ever do anything with anyone else, but it still kind of bothers me. Fuck, I just wish I could talk to her. I just really need to get ahold of her. Come on.

  What did that fucking girl mean, “when they get back”?

  When they get back. Where did they go? What were they doing? I guess, what are they doing, because they're doing it right now. I don't want to even think it, but I can't help it. Is she screwing another guy? She wouldn't do that, would she? Would she?

  I don't think so. Right? She's just not that kind of girl. Except who was that guy taking the picture, that tall guy with the messy brown hair? I don't want to be thinking this, but I can just imagine … I can just imagine the kind of thing that's going on.

  Whatever happens. Whatever happens, I'm always going to love you, Jennifer. I'm always going to love you.

  I walk back to the cottage, past the Vizquels' house and the minister's cottage. His van is gone. At least now I can use the phone. Jennifer should be back by now.

  Mom and Dad are reading on the couch. They both have their reading glasses on. They look really old.

  “Hey, Luke, where were you?”

  “Trying to get cell phone service.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Not really.”

  I walk over and pick up the phone. There's no dial tone. There's only a fast busy signal. It sounds like an ambulance in England. “If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and try again.”

  I hang up. That's weird. I pick up the phone again. “If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and try again.”

  I hang up again. What's happening? What is the deal? The minister isn't home. Why does the phone sound like it's off the hook?

  Oh shit, I think I know what's happening. The minister left his phone off the hook. I go outside and look across at his cottage. All the lights are off except one, but that doesn't mean the phone isn't off the hook. I walk across the lawn and head toward the minister's cottage.

  I don't see anyone in the cottage. I just see the light on, but it's not enough light for a person to be in there. It's a light you leave on when you leave and you don't want anyone to know you've gone. There's no one home. I don't think there is anyway. I want to make sure, though, so he doesn't come out with a shotgun and kill me. The dogs aren't barking. He must have taken them with him.

  I realize I've been walking on my tiptoes to keep from making noise. I walk up to the sliding glass doors and try and look in to see if anyone is in there. I don't see anything except for one little bare lightbulb hanging over the sink. It looks really weird in there.

  I can't just be peeking in the window, though. What if someone is home? I have to knock. Fuck, I don't want to do this, but I just really need to call Jennifer. I just really have to talk to her.

  I knock three times on the glass door, and it sounds hollow, like there's nothing at all inside the house.

  I can't tell if anyone is coming, because it's so dark in there, so I knock again, this time louder, so the whole neighborhood can hear it.

  Jesus, how did I get myself into this situation? I see another light come on inside. Oh great, he's home. Okay. I'll just say, “Hi, I'm sorry, but your phone is off the hook.”

  I can't really see him at all through the door, but I can tell there's a shape moving toward me in the darkness. He doesn't look as big as he did earlier, which is just bizarre. Maybe it's the girlfriend.
r />   The door opens and there's a little girl standing in front of me. She's maybe six years old, and I've never seen her before. She's kind of cute. She's got these big brown eyes that look sad, like a cartoon of a hound dog. She's wearing a little white nightgown. She looks like she was sleeping, but it's not that late, is it? Maybe for a kid.

  I say, “Hi, I'm your neighbor. Is your mommy or daddy home?”

  She looks up at me like I'm made out of clear plastic and she's looking at the trees and sky behind me. She doesn't say anything, or shake her head, or give any indication that I'm really even here. The way she's acting, it almost makes me wonder if I'm dreaming. Am I dreaming?

  The little girl turns her back to me and walks away back down the hall and goes into a room. She left the door open, though, so I'm not sure if she's going to get the minister or if she's just going back to bed. This is weird. Maybe I'm supposed to go inside. I don't know what to do. I step inside.

  I look around. This isn't at all what I expected. There are piss-soaked newspapers on the floor and clothes folded neatly on all the furniture, like someone is about to move. There's nowhere to sit down. There's a skillet on the stove with what looks like what used to be onions or peppers in it, but they're so overcooked it could be anything. There's a window open somewhere, and the drapes look like they're breathing.

  I just got the creeps. I got that feeling that someone is watching me and that I'm not supposed to be here, but if someone didn't want me to be here, why wouldn't they just tell me that? What would be the point of hiding?

  I walk a little farther into the cottage. What am I doing? I shouldn't be doing this. But I really have to find a way to call Jennifer. She's probably back from being out and waiting by the phone.

  Where is that white phone with the thirty-foot cord? I don't see it anywhere. Wait, there it is, all the way across the room, sitting on top of a pile of clothes.

  I walk like an Indian across the floor. I just have to hang up the phone, and then I'll get out of here. This is too freaky. The smell in here is disgusting. It's like rotten apples, paint thinner, and dog piss.