He says he remembers lying on the kitchen floor as a kid, staring up at the white textured ceiling, the coolness of the tiles seeping through his T-shirt. His mother would step over him on her way to the refrigerator, phone to her ear. He lay there so often that she barely noticed him, which was perfect. The kitchen floor was his place of solitude, a place where he could think and not be bothered. Somehow he was invisible there, immune to his older brother’s misdirected rage and his parents’ arguing. Words like “family meetings,” “group counseling,” and “divorce” could not touch him there.
He tells me this as we lie side by side in a corner of our own kitchen floor, bellies and knees pressed against the dirty linoleum. We are propped up on our elbows, peering down at our rows of peat pots, arranged close together to give the illusion of a tiny plot of earth. We planted the seeds a few days ago, and some are already beginning to sprout, mint-green and fragile, barely visible, pushing up from the artificial soil. They all look the same now, but in a few days they will already have begun to distinguish themselves. And in two months, when it should be warm enough to transplant them to our backyard, they will become what the labels on their packages, each now resting on the floor next to its proper row, proclaim them to be: lettuce, tomato, cucumber, larkspur, morning glory, and gourd.
For now, though, it’s spring break, and six inches of snow cover the ground outside. From my position on the floor, I can see dusk out our front window. The bare, black tree branches criss-cross endlessly in front of the faux-Victorian house across the street, a white monstrosity with oval windows. In the top right one looms a life-sized figure of Jesus or Mary or some saint—it’s impossible to tell from our apartment.
Ben stops talking about his childhood to point out a seedling we haven’t noticed yet. The wonder in his voice is the reason why I love him. All the same, I wish he hadn’t changed the subject. He rarely talks about his past. Me, that’s all I talk about. If this annoys him, he never says so.
He tells me this as we lie side by side in a corner of our own kitchen floor, bellies and knees pressed against the dirty linoleum. We are propped up on our elbows, peering down at our rows of peat pots, arranged close together to give the illusion of a tiny plot of earth. We planted the seeds a few days ago, and some are already beginning to sprout, mint-green and fragile, barely visible, pushing up from the artificial soil. They all look the same now, but in a few days they will already have begun to distinguish themselves. And in two months, when it should be warm enough to transplant them to our backyard, they will become what the labels on their packages, each now resting on the floor next to its proper row, proclaim them to be: lettuce, tomato, cucumber, larkspur, morning glory, and gourd.
For now, though, it’s spring break, and six inches of snow cover the ground outside. From my position on the floor, I can see dusk out our front window. The bare, black tree branches criss-cross endlessly in front of the faux-Victorian house across the street, a white monstrosity with oval windows. In the top right one looms a life-sized figure of Jesus or Mary or some saint—it’s impossible to tell from our apartment.
Ben stops talking about his childhood to point out a seedling we haven’t noticed yet. The wonder in his voice is the reason why I love him. All the same, I wish he hadn’t changed the subject. He rarely talks about his past. Me, that’s all I talk about. If this annoys him, he never says so.
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When Ben asked me to marry him last summer, it wasn’t anything like how I thought it would be. He bought the ring cheap at a strip mall where I was getting my hair trimmed and then dropped enough hints about it afterward that the proposal itself came as no surprise. But I wasn’t expecting the time and place that he picked. I thought he would ask me at sunset, maybe, on the shores of Lake Superior, during our vacation. I would be barefoot, wearing a flowing summer skirt and a filmy flowered blouse. He wouldn’t get down on one knee or anything cliché, but he would get a little misty-eyed, just enough that I would know how deeply he cares for me.
Here’s what actually happened: he was too excited to wait until our vacation and asked me here in North Dakota one Saturday while we were camping at Turtle River. He was making French toast for me on the camp stove while I sat outside our tent and squinted into the late morning sun at the bright water. Tiny frogs hopped on the riverbank, rustling the grass and leaving small indentations in the mud with their webbed feet. I was wearing a tank top with no bra and damp denim shorts that reeked of river water. We were talking and laughing, pleasantly hungover from the night before.
“I guess I’ll be making you breakfast thirty years from now,” he said.
“What happens thirty years from now?”
“We’ll be married.”
I laughed. “It’s going to take that long?”
“No, I mean—you will marry me, won’t you?”
“Are you asking me now?”
He went into the tent and came out with a ring box. “I’ve been carrying it with me everywhere for two weeks.” He looked sheepish as he handed me the box. “Do you want it?”
“Yes,” I said without opening it. He took my hands and kissed me. He tasted like stale beer and cigarettes. When the kiss was over I looked closely at his face, which was covered with three-day-old stubble.
“You’re smiling,” I said, and smiled too.
“Well, yeah. I’m happy.”
Here’s what actually happened: he was too excited to wait until our vacation and asked me here in North Dakota one Saturday while we were camping at Turtle River. He was making French toast for me on the camp stove while I sat outside our tent and squinted into the late morning sun at the bright water. Tiny frogs hopped on the riverbank, rustling the grass and leaving small indentations in the mud with their webbed feet. I was wearing a tank top with no bra and damp denim shorts that reeked of river water. We were talking and laughing, pleasantly hungover from the night before.
“I guess I’ll be making you breakfast thirty years from now,” he said.
“What happens thirty years from now?”
“We’ll be married.”
I laughed. “It’s going to take that long?”
“No, I mean—you will marry me, won’t you?”
“Are you asking me now?”
He went into the tent and came out with a ring box. “I’ve been carrying it with me everywhere for two weeks.” He looked sheepish as he handed me the box. “Do you want it?”
“Yes,” I said without opening it. He took my hands and kissed me. He tasted like stale beer and cigarettes. When the kiss was over I looked closely at his face, which was covered with three-day-old stubble.
“You’re smiling,” I said, and smiled too.
“Well, yeah. I’m happy.”
What happens thirty years from now? |
The middle of April and still freezing. We had to pot some of the plants so they would have room to grow. We also moved them from the floor to the table so they could be closer to the natural light from the kitchen windows. One of the morning glories is starting to climb up the Venetian blind cord, wrapping its slender green body in tight little circles like a coiled spring.
Ben is gone most of the time—class all day, practice and rehearsal all night. He usually comes home late at night, kisses me on the forehead, and falls asleep on the couch. When he starts to snore, I move to the bedroom to finish my work and sleep in the bed. We see each other for a few bewildered minutes in the morning before we each drive off to our separate university buildings.
We’re both graduate students, but I’m the kind that reads and writes in a solitary fashion, while he’s the kind that collaborates and interacts with his peers. Ben plays percussion. He has these amazing hands—tough, calloused palms and thin, supple wrists. Long, practiced, steady fingers.
When I tell Ben that I’m lonely, he says we should get a dog. I point out that we haven’t had sex since the day we saw the first seedlings.
It’s late at night, so he yawns. “I didn’t know that you kept track.”
“I don’t, exactly. I just remember that day really well.”
He moves closer to me on the couch and puts his arm around me in a loose sort of way. “It’s not always going to be like this.”
“I’ll be thirty in July, Ben.”
He stares into space as if he’s thinking about that, but I know he’s just bored. We’ve had this conversation before.
Finally he sighs and says, “We should just elope.”
“How would that change anything? We’d still be in debt. We’d still be here. In a rented apartment in the middle of this wasteland.”
“You’ve been reading too much theory.”
“And I’m whining. I know. You don’t have to tell me.”
“I wasn’t going to say that.”
“And you’re too tired to talk about this right now.”
“I was going to say that, actually.”
“Goodnight, Ben.”
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I used to date this guy Henry. A complete fake, but for awhile he had me convinced. He would speak in poetry when we made love, stuff too silly to repeat, but during the height of orgasm it seemed divinely inspired, or, as I wrote in my journal at the time, “like the breath of heaven.”
Outside of the bedroom, Henry was your typical bad boyfriend, lusting after other women, always breaking up with me and taking me back whenever he needed money, or advice, or an ego boost. I remember thinking, if this is passion, I don’t want it.
I’ve been thinking about Henry a lot lately. Mostly at night, dreaming about him.
Outside of the bedroom, Henry was your typical bad boyfriend, lusting after other women, always breaking up with me and taking me back whenever he needed money, or advice, or an ego boost. I remember thinking, if this is passion, I don’t want it.
I’ve been thinking about Henry a lot lately. Mostly at night, dreaming about him.
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Ben says I should go out more. A few women from my postcolonial literature class have organized a “girl’s night” at a bar called Rustlers. The email says to “wear your best ‘boob shirt,’” so I do, but when I meet the others in the parking lot at 9:30 they are all dressed in fashionable yet conservative blouses.
“How’s Ben?” asks one of them—Brenda. She’s several years older than me, a petite mother of three curly-haired boys.
“I don’t know—maybe you should ask someone who’s seen him lately.” I laugh, but she shifts her gaze uncomfortably.
At the door, a tall guy wearing a cowboy hat asks for my ID. As he hands it back to me, he stares at my cleavage and says, “Weren’t you my English teacher?”
“Oh, yeah.” I smile and cross my arms over my chest. “Mike, right?”
“Yeah. Take it easy.”
“For sure.”
We sit at a corner table, and they talk about their husbands and kids and pets and houses and chiropractors and yoga classes. I order drink after drink and am appalled by how sober I remain. The music starts, club music with a loud, thumping bass that vibrates through the floor and gives me an excuse not to listen to them anymore. Someone, maybe me, suggests that we go out to the dance floor. We dance in a tight circle. The songs are all from seven or eight years ago, and I lose myself in them the way I can still lose myself in that time. Each song is associated with a different person: a former lover, a friend who died, a cousin I don’t see much anymore. I’m seeing myself with these people, living in these images, when suddenly I’m aware of a beefy, sweaty, much-younger-than-me guy dancing on the outskirts of our circle, trying to maneuver into my area.
I leave the circle and go back to the table. Only then do I take stock of my situation—tangled hair, breath coming in gasps, a river of sweat cascading between my breasts. The women I came with are still dancing, doing the Electric Slide, wiggling their asses. I choke a little on my rum and Coke, get up, and run past my student out the door. After vomiting behind the building, I pull out my phone and call Ben. It’s midnight and he’s still practicing, but his voice is appropriately concerned when he promises to come pick me up. I wait out in the parking lot for ten minutes before my ears start to go numb from the wind. Then I sit in my car for an hour with the heat on full blast, listening to Rachmaninov on public radio.
As soon as Ben arrives, I start crying. He apologizes, something about having to put equipment away. Sobbing, I tell him I want to go home.
“That’s where we’re going.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Well, what then?” But I don’t know what to say.
“How’s Ben?” asks one of them—Brenda. She’s several years older than me, a petite mother of three curly-haired boys.
“I don’t know—maybe you should ask someone who’s seen him lately.” I laugh, but she shifts her gaze uncomfortably.
At the door, a tall guy wearing a cowboy hat asks for my ID. As he hands it back to me, he stares at my cleavage and says, “Weren’t you my English teacher?”
“Oh, yeah.” I smile and cross my arms over my chest. “Mike, right?”
“Yeah. Take it easy.”
“For sure.”
We sit at a corner table, and they talk about their husbands and kids and pets and houses and chiropractors and yoga classes. I order drink after drink and am appalled by how sober I remain. The music starts, club music with a loud, thumping bass that vibrates through the floor and gives me an excuse not to listen to them anymore. Someone, maybe me, suggests that we go out to the dance floor. We dance in a tight circle. The songs are all from seven or eight years ago, and I lose myself in them the way I can still lose myself in that time. Each song is associated with a different person: a former lover, a friend who died, a cousin I don’t see much anymore. I’m seeing myself with these people, living in these images, when suddenly I’m aware of a beefy, sweaty, much-younger-than-me guy dancing on the outskirts of our circle, trying to maneuver into my area.
I leave the circle and go back to the table. Only then do I take stock of my situation—tangled hair, breath coming in gasps, a river of sweat cascading between my breasts. The women I came with are still dancing, doing the Electric Slide, wiggling their asses. I choke a little on my rum and Coke, get up, and run past my student out the door. After vomiting behind the building, I pull out my phone and call Ben. It’s midnight and he’s still practicing, but his voice is appropriately concerned when he promises to come pick me up. I wait out in the parking lot for ten minutes before my ears start to go numb from the wind. Then I sit in my car for an hour with the heat on full blast, listening to Rachmaninov on public radio.
As soon as Ben arrives, I start crying. He apologizes, something about having to put equipment away. Sobbing, I tell him I want to go home.
“That’s where we’re going.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Well, what then?” But I don’t know what to say.
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Every Sunday while I was growing up, my parents would have the same fight. Dad wanted eggs and Mom wouldn’t make them, wouldn’t let him make them either, because she had read in a magazine that they were high in cholesterol. After Mass they would scream at each other for two hours, each one accusing the other of being mentally ill. Then they would lock themselves in their bedroom for a long bout of makeup sex, and we wouldn’t see them again until dinner.
I hated Sundays. Every time my parents fought I was scared they would get a divorce. Now I know better—my parents lived for Sundays. Sundays kept their marriage alive.
Ben always makes us eggs on Sunday mornings. After eating we nap until four in the afternoon. Then he wakes up and goes to the music building until two or three in the morning. I’ve stopped waiting up for him.
I hated Sundays. Every time my parents fought I was scared they would get a divorce. Now I know better—my parents lived for Sundays. Sundays kept their marriage alive.
Ben always makes us eggs on Sunday mornings. After eating we nap until four in the afternoon. Then he wakes up and goes to the music building until two or three in the morning. I’ve stopped waiting up for him.
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The semester is over, but Ben is still busy with ensembles and music camps and drum corps. I take long walks, battling the fierce wind at each step, and read a book per day. My doctoral exams are scheduled for next spring.
The plants on the kitchen table have grown out of control, with tomato and morning glory beginning to flower and trail their vines along the floor, or climb up the Venetian blind cords almost to the ceiling. We planned to transplant them in early May, but the temperatures keep falling below freezing at night.
Finally, after consulting the frost advisory, we decide to take a chance. We purchase tools and soil at the garden center and spend the late-May afternoon in our backyard, digging, carrying, and transplanting. Soon we are sweating, despite the chill in the air. The wind is high as usual and stinks like the potato-processing plant a few blocks away, but the sun warms our backs as we work. We don’t talk much, but our synchronous movements, our breaths panting in a kind of jagged rhythm, and our common purpose make me feel closer to Ben than I have in months. I wonder if he feels this, too, but I know from experience that vocalizing the feeling will destroy it, so I don’t ask.
Soon we are finished, and it is time to think about dinner. Ben has a rare free evening, and I know that after dinner we will shower and have sex. As I help Ben gather up the tools and take them to the shed, I glance back at our garden and silently pray there will be no more frost.
The plants on the kitchen table have grown out of control, with tomato and morning glory beginning to flower and trail their vines along the floor, or climb up the Venetian blind cords almost to the ceiling. We planned to transplant them in early May, but the temperatures keep falling below freezing at night.
Finally, after consulting the frost advisory, we decide to take a chance. We purchase tools and soil at the garden center and spend the late-May afternoon in our backyard, digging, carrying, and transplanting. Soon we are sweating, despite the chill in the air. The wind is high as usual and stinks like the potato-processing plant a few blocks away, but the sun warms our backs as we work. We don’t talk much, but our synchronous movements, our breaths panting in a kind of jagged rhythm, and our common purpose make me feel closer to Ben than I have in months. I wonder if he feels this, too, but I know from experience that vocalizing the feeling will destroy it, so I don’t ask.
Soon we are finished, and it is time to think about dinner. Ben has a rare free evening, and I know that after dinner we will shower and have sex. As I help Ben gather up the tools and take them to the shed, I glance back at our garden and silently pray there will be no more frost.
Jennifer Robinette’s fiction has appeared in Silk Road Review, The Red Clay Review, TINGE Magazine, Glassworks, The Lindenwood Review, ellipsis…, Longshot Island, and Fiction International. Two of her stories have received Pushcart Prize nominations. She lived in Grand Forks for seven years while earning her doctorate in creative writing from the University of North Dakota.
