“Ray, I can go. You don’t have to do this.”
“At least till the rain stops,” she said, opening the door wider. He made to follow her, but she stopped him. “You don’t want to leave that outside,” she said, gesturing toward the Rimshot. “Set it down in here. Anywhere is fine,” she mumbled.
He obeyed, and entered behind her. A dog yapped somewhere inside the house. Reagan had told him about her dog. He remembered it had a funny name, a deep cut from a book he’d never read.
As he stepped into the front room, he tried not to notice the smell. Stale and heavy, like the odors of the last three meals mingled together with bleach and damp laundry. The TV was displaying a generic, inane kids show, and Charlotte was lying on the floor, occasionally glancing up from her motley assortment of torn coloring books to stare at him. There was a large, lumpy recliner, and an open futon heaped with blankets. He started when he realized there was someone laying on it. A thin figure with his grizzled head slumped on the pillow. Casper’s stomach sank when he realized who it was. Reagan stepped toward the futon and briskly rubbed her dad’s shoulder. She stooped and murmured something. Her dad answered, but Casper didn’t catch it.
There was a sudden skittering around his feet, and he looked down. A small brown dog with a long, pointed muzzle and short legs was grinning up at him, its tail wagging in violent joy. Casper had always liked dogs before, but he could only stare at it dumbly. The dog hopped up on its hind legs clasped its front paws together in expectant beseeching, all the while regarding him with serious brown eyes that seemed able to intuit his inmost thoughts. Casper offered a terse smile, as if it were a stranger in front of him in the checkout lane.
“Down, Stace,” Reagan ordered. The dog’s ears flitted with comprehension, but the command was ignored. Its face and muzzle were white with age. Around its neck, Casper spotted a faded pink collar with a name tag. Miss Stacy, it read. “Down,” Reagan repeated, crouching to pick up the dog, who immediately attempted to wriggle out of her arms. Reagan motioned to Casper to follow her. Over Reagan’s shoulder, Miss Stacy fixed him with a look of unmixed welcome, nosing toward him with interest.
They inched through a hallway crowded by a sagging bookshelf. Board games, puzzles, errant scraps of construction paper, battered novels, and torn picture books were splayed out jaggedly, spilling on to the floor. Casper had to watch his feet so he didn’t tread on any of the mismatched shoes littering the worn carpet. They passed a small round table crowded with broken crayons, spilled beads, newspaper clippings, and half-empty drinking glasses. In the middle sat a plastic caddy filled with prescription pill bottles. He followed Reagan into a cramped kitchen area. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink, and the counters were utterly hidden beneath layers of newspapers and clutter which looked to have accrued over several weeks. He spotted the vodka next to an open jar of peanut butter and half a loaf of sliced sandwich bread.
Reagan put Miss Stacy on the floor, pushed aside a stack of junk to access the coffee pot, and poured a cup. She then placed it in the microwave and set it to heat for thirty seconds. They stood silent while the machine hummed. Miss Stacy had picked up one of Charlotte’s small shoes with her mouth and stationed herself at Casper’s feet, offering it to him with shy, worshipful eyes. Casper avoided her appealing gaze and stared at the fridge. It was plastered with sticky notes, preschool artwork, and comic strip clippings. He recognized Marmaduke, Peanuts, and Family Circus, but the rest were unfamiliar to him.
“Do you read the comic section to Charlotte?” Before Reagan could answer, the microwave beeped. Reagan gingerly picked up the mug and stepped toward what he believed was the dining table. She sorted through the assortment of pill bottles with a practiced hand, before finally selecting two of them. She didn’t ask him to follow her, but he did. He watched with a steadily growing pain in his stomach.
She sat on the edge of the futon and gently roused her dad. Casper tried not to notice the skeletal ridges beneath his t-shirt, or the evident effort he exerted to sit up. He took the cup from Reagan, then held out his hand like a child. She measured out the doses into his palm and closed the bottles, then crouched and handed him a newspaper which had been lying on the floor. Reagan asked him something which Casper didn’t hear. Her dad shook his head and slowly leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, wheezing uneasily, clutching the lukewarm coffee cup. An oxygen hose hissed under his nostrils. He didn’t seem to notice the blaring TV or the stranger in his house.
Casper felt Reagan’s hand on his arm, directing him to follow her. They trudged up a narrow staircase into a bedroom, Miss Stacy’s paws clicking the worn floor behind them. Reagan closed the door behind them and collapsed on to an unmade, twin-sized bed. Miss Stacy gathered all of her strength into her haunches, paused, then sprang, closing the vast distance with heroic vigor. She caught the edge of the comforter, scrambled up the side of the bed, and nestled beside Reagan.
“You can sit,” Reagan murmured. But Casper couldn’t move. There was single window, pale gray with the rain, smudged with fingerprints, and cracked open to let in a stream of damp, cool air. She had a desk where her laptop sat open, next to stacks newspapers, mailers, and bills. Her closet door was ajar, revealing a sliver of clothes he had seen her wear. He recognized the black skirts and prim blouses for work. There was the lavender sweater he loved on her, and his Hawkeyes hoodie. On a crowded dresser covered in chipped pink paint, he spotted her gold hair pin. The magic wand. Some of the shiny paint had flaked off, revealing plain black metal. He wished he hadn’t seen it. He hated to remember that he wasn’t dreaming. He turned to face her, hoping to think of something clever, anything to make himself believe that he wasn’t about to be sick. She was regarding him with a tired, wry smile.
“I’m sorry,” she said before he could speak.
“What for,” he shrugged.
“You probably believed I lived in a cotton candy castle or something.” He knew it was meant to make him laugh, but he only shrugged. “Come here,” she coaxed, sitting up on the bed and tugging on his sleeve. Miss Stacy demurely shifted to make room for him. He obeyed and sat stiffly, his hands in his lap. “This isn’t what you expected.”
He concealed a bitter smirk. She didn’t need to state the obvious.
“Is your dad — how long has he — is he sick?” he stammered, staring at the carpet.
“Yeah,” she said simply. “With a lot of things.” They sat silently. He felt something cold and wet on his hand, but ignored Miss Stacy’s prompting and crossed his arms.
“For how long? The last few years?”
“Forever,” she said quietly. He turned and looked at her.
“You’ve been taking care of him this whole time? By yourself?” He saw the smallest flare of her nostrils. She slowed a ragged breath in her throat, and pressed her lips. Her face was white, and her eyes were pink and trembling. She looked at him for a moment, then blinked away.
“Not the whole time, just—,”
“Since you were nine,” he said. She acknowledged the fact with a brief shrug. She was kneading her fingers in her lap. “I don’t understand, Ray.”
“It’s not a big deal,” she croaked.
“Ray…”
“It’s not,” she insisted.
“How have you done it? No one has helped you? There are no grandparents, no family, nobody?” He avoided asking the most obvious question. She had never volunteered any information about her mother, seeming to prefer leaving her complete absence unacknowledged.
“We’ve had some nice neighbors,” she offered. “But my dad’s family is not really in a shape to help us. I’m sort of,” she hesitated. “I’m the only one who—,” she shrugged, refusing to say the words aloud, though her face became redder by the moment. She furrowed her brow and intently stroked Miss Stacy’s ears. “Since I got such a good job at Carver… they expected me to help them out. So Dad cut them off.”
He stared at her, unable to answer. Horror and shock razed over him in jagged waves, with pity and grief undulating beneath. Embarrassment and shame at having been so mistaken. The pit in his stomach grew, and the room seemed to shrink around him. There was a terrible heavy sensation he began to feel within him, like a filthy, clinging mire that had already half-engulfed him.
Casper got off the bed and stood. He looked at the dingy wall, then paced the room, cracking his knuckles.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.
“I didn’t want to.”
“Why not?” As soon as the words were out, he regretted them. It was painfully obvious. “I mean,” he began again, “when were you planning on telling me?” He wished he could smooth down the edge in his voice, but he couldn’t help it. “You probably—all those times you couldn’t come over, or had to miss work — it wasn’t because of Charlotte, was it?”
“Not every time,” she answered. “Sometimes it was. I’m sorry, I just didn’t—,”
“You didn’t want to tell me. Yes, you’ve said so. Does he have a job?” Reagan sat up.
“He used to.”
“But not anymore,” he said curtly, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans. Reagan stared at him, a bewildered look in her eyes.
“He’s on Social Security. Has been since—,”
“You were nine,” he finished. “So what does he have? What’s wrong with him?” Reagan stiffened and her gaze hardened.
“I told you. A lot of things.”
“So for sixteen years, he’s been lying there all day while you wait on him hand and foot?” She only stared at him, her mouth hanging open. “Don’t you have enough going on? You’re never allowed to have a life?”
“Casper!”
“Have either of you ever heard of nurses?” he roiled, clutching his belly. “Can’t someone come to make sure he takes his pills?”
“Who’s going to pay for that?” she cried, suddenly standing and displacing Miss Stacy. “I told you there’s nobody else!”
“But why does it have to be you?” he shot back. “It’s not fair!”
“Fair?” she bristled. “It’s not fair? Yeah, it’s not fair that my dad can’t walk ten feet without needing oxygen. That his only working kidney is giving out, and who’s going to need to donate when the time comes?” Reagan thrust up her hand. “It doesn’t matter what is fair. Who else is going to do it?”
“But it shouldn’t have to be you,” he pleaded. “Anyone but you!”
“Why?”
“Because I —,” he stopped himself. “I think I’m…” The words were waiting on his lips, but even as he opened his mouth to speak, he stopped himself again. The ugly, sagging weight creeping up and becoming heavier and heavier. It was going to drown him. “I thought I was—,” he stopped again and tried to swallow, but his throat was unbearably dry. The stale air was making him sicker by the moment. “Never mind,” he mumbled. She was watching his face.
“Remember when you said you wanted this to be real?” she asked. “You still want that?” He fiddled with his zipper. He tried to shrug, to say something, but he couldn’t. “You know I wouldn’t blame you.” He studied her face. The tightening in his chest eased the slightest bit, and he managed to take a deeper breath.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said, looking her in the eye. The hint of an ironic smile briefly flitted across her face. She came closer and took his hand. He suddenly wanted to pull away, but he forced himself to stand there. In the harsh overhead light, her features were darkened, hung with shadows. She was strange to him. When she spoke, he could scarcely hear her.
“I never wanted you to be a part of my life.”
—
By the time he got back to the apartment, he was soaked through, feverish, and bent double as he heaved his bike up the steps.
He took off his coat and hung it on the peg behind the door, his fingers shaking as they performed the task by rote. He heard the paper crinkling inside. He reached in the pocket and pulled it out. He unfolded the drawing and stared at it.
He was relieved he didn’t show it to her. It was completely wrong. He crumpled it into a wad and let it fall to the floor.
He shuffled to his bed and sank onto it. He opened his phone, kneading his stomach with the other hand. He scrolled for a bit, hating everything he saw. There was nothing that could help him in the slightest. He wanted to talk to his brother. He would get it. Casper knew exactly what Nick would say, and he would nod along with him, and naturally arrive at the correct course of action. His family would praise him for it, and he would end up no worse for the wear. He dialed Nick’s number and waited. It went to voicemail.
He got up and took a shower, furiously scrubbing to rid himself of the smells that still lingered about him, to forget the wretched things he had seen. The sickness in his stomach had abated slightly in the hiss of the hot water and the searing jets coursing down his skin, but he couldn’t shake himself free from the nausea, which seemed to renew itself whenever his mind wandered back to her.
Pity. Raw, bleeding, human pity which stained whoever was smitten with it, and forced upon him the urgency to do something, anything, to end the suffering.
But what could he do? She was entrenched so deeply he couldn’t extricate her. And even if he could offer her a way out, she wouldn’t take it. She was constrained by her own pity, and failing that, still by duty.
She had liked him as a diversion, and nothing more. If anything, he was only complicating things for her. Actually, he had decent grounds to be angry with her. She had used him. She had purposefully drawn him in to be nothing more than a brief distraction, and had no apparent qualms about it. He had unwittingly called her bluff and forced her to reveal her hand.
He dried off and dressed. As he approached his bed, he saw the drawing balled up on the floor. He picked it up and flattened it, smoothing the hasty creases he had made, and inspected it again. It looked nothing like the woman he had just seen. The blissful, ethereal light in her eyes, the unaffected smile, the laughter in the curve of her throat — an angel he had dreamed up, an image he had worshipped. But the woman he had drawn didn’t exist.
He stared at the rain, running down the window in wide, undulating ribbons. He had always known it was wrong. His parents were right, and so was Nick. And God didn’t like it. It was for the best. Maybe he’d be able to sleep at night again.
—
It was good to hear Nick’s voice. His brother called every few weeks, but up until that exact moment, Casper had dreaded those conversations. He had been too vigilant to enjoy a single word, constantly alert to any unwelcome queries which might force him to reveal what he had wished to keep hidden. But now he was an open book, prepared to be scrutinized.
“So, what’s up?” Nick asked, after they had exchanged a few pleasantries. “Wait, wait. Don’t tell me — you’re moving back home.”
“Who told you that?”
“I knew it. The big city is eating you alive, and you miss running into Brent Bondurant at the Grover Kwik-n-Tire.” Casper laughed.
“You’re thinking Brent Grosse.”
“No,” Nick marveled. “Grosse clotheslined you. Bondurant spear tackled you. Right in the gut. Your feet flying over your head. I remember like it was yesterday. Wait, was it yesterday?”
“Love you too, man.”
“Brent Grosse is kind of cool now. He works at Kleen-Sol. Pretty stand-up guy.”
“Good for him.” Nick cackled.
“Fine. If you’re not moving back…let me guess—you’re getting married.” Casper’s skin went cold.
“Who? What? Why would you say that?”
“Aha!” cried Nick triumphantly. “We knew you were dating her. Rosa! Babe, you called it.”
“Seriously?!” Rosa giggled over Nick’s shoulder. “Cass, she’s totally stunning! Like, wow. Wow.” Casper shifted on the couch. He was finding her blatant astonishment the mildest bit insulting. “I’m so happy for you!”
“Thanks,” Casper muttered, not understanding why he felt compelled to say so. “Who do you think I’m dating?” he asked, trying to regain control of the situation.
“Ben Franklin!” Nick crowed. Awesome.
“How did you know? I never said anything.”
“The sweater,” Rosa called from across the room.
“Yeah, that was the big break in the case. We all knew you’d never get Mom anything so thoughtful. And you straight-up asked me for advice about her, remember that?”
“But you said you wouldn’t tell,” said Casper peevishly. He suddenly realized he sounded like an eight-year-old. His cheeks reddened and he sat up on the couch, trying to take the whole thing manfully. “I mean, it’s fine,” he mumbled. “But how do you all know what she looks like?”
“The internet, Genius,” Nick replied dryly. Casper cursed under his breath. “Don’t be embarrassed. She’s definitely the best you’ve ever done,” he added, lowering his voice and managing to deliver the compliment as a square backhand.
“Thanks a lot.”
“So, when’s the big day?”
“Not so fast, Nick.”
“Oh, great. You need me to tell you how to propose?”
“I need to break up with her.” Casper snapped. “It’s not working out.” Nick was quiet for a moment.
“Oh. That was fast. Come on, man. You’ve broken up with girls before, haven’t you?”
“Not really,” Casper admitted. “I just increasingly ignored them until they got the hint.”
“Ah, you’re one of those. A slow fader. Cold.”
“Anyway, Reagan’s different.”
“No kidding,” Nick lowered his voice again. Casper heard the screen door slam behind his brother as he stepped outside. “Reagan is really pretty, isn’t she?”
“It’s not about looks, Nick.”
“And she’s got to be super smart like you if she works at Carver. What is it that you guys do again?”
“Well, it’s two-fold. But primarily we develop processes for—”
“What reason could you possibly have for breaking up with her?” Before Casper could answer, Nick sighed and interjected. “Oh wait — it’s because she has a kid, isn’t it?” Dumb internet.
“It’s not that. Not only that,” he added.
“Are you surprised that the kid complicated things? I could have told you that. I could have told you six months ago that this wasn’t going anywhere.”
“Look, if our relationship was going to be such a major inconvenience to her kid, she didn’t have to show up at my apartment that night. She pushed for this to happen. I was happy to be friends.” Nick scoffed on the other end of the phone. “I was!” Casper insisted, knowing as well as his brother that he was full of it. “And you’ve seen her, Nick. What was I supposed to do? Tell her to leave?”
“Right, I’m sure. She really imposed on your…” Nick paused, searching for the right word, “gentlemanliness, or whatever. Your hands were tied.” His brother’s voice was dripping with contempt. “You knew she had a kid and you didn’t care.”
“I told you that’s not the reason!” His brother scoffed again, but waited. “I don’t think it’s right. Not anymore. I did, but now I don’t.”
“Look, man. I don’t want to get into this. Do what you want. Like you always do.” Casper’s jaw dropped.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Casper bristled. “You can’t be seriously judging me, when you’re the one who got caught sneaking girls up through the bedroom window. Cassie, Bekah, Lina, Jenny—,” he counted them off on his fingers, “and you’re going to accuse me?”
“Yeah, I was an idiot! But by the time I was your age, I got my life together. By the time I was your age, we’d been married for a year, we were going to church—“
“I go to church! Why else do you think I’d end it with Reagan?” Nick was quiet, but Casper knew why. Three hundred miles away, there was that stupid, incredulous gape on his brother’s face at that very moment.
“You can’t be serious, Cass.”
“It’s not right. Never has been. I know that. I’ve known it for a while.”
“I must have missed something. Did you experience one of those Damascus road things in the last thirty seconds? Suddenly you’re too good for her? Save your breath, Cass. We’re not that dumb.”
“We? What, is everyone hovering over the phone listening?”
“If you don’t like Reagan anymore, fine. Cut her loose. But don’t pretend you’re doing it for God. It’s — I don’t know. It’s gross. Find another excuse.”
“Thanks, Nick. Really appreciate it.”
“Bye, Cass.”
The call ended and he slammed the phone on the couch cushion. He stood and paced, furious.
He’d always suspected it, but now he knew. Hypocrites. It was so obvious, he couldn’t believe he’d never seen it so clearly before. They prohibited everything for all of those years, and held him up as an example, and praised him for his rule-keeping. They warned Nick to shape up and to learn from him. But they didn’t really care about it. It was all about control. When he was finally ready to come around and abide by the creed, now he wasn’t good enough. They slammed the door in his face.
He had only tried to be kind to her. She needed a friend, she said. She lied. She told him nothing, endeavoring to conceal the truth from him as if he were a child. If he had known she were only using him to escape her miserable life, he never would have…
He stopped pacing and stared at the rain, relentless and unheeding. He thought of the colorless house and sagging porch. The half-empty drinking glasses and half-loaf of bread. The grizzled figure on the makeshift bed. The alcohol on her breath and the bags under her eyes. The lonely child on the floor. The little brown dog.
A cotton candy castle.
The drawing was lying facedown on his bed. On the other side of the paper smiled a face. A warm, sunlit face, shot through with the glow of his own desire, and he had long gazed at it in unblinking hunger and lust. She had cloaked herself with light and painted herself over with rainbows and he had believed it. Like a child.
He turned away from the window and knelt by his bed. He removed the box of books. He opened his sketchbook, stuffed the drawing between the leaves, and pressed it closed. He replaced it on top of the stack.
He saw it there again, buried on the bottom, a thousand gold-tipped pages, solemn and stern, always silent yet always speaking. He knew what he would hear if he opened it. He closed the box and shoved it out of sight.
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Katie Bertola 