Lisa Unger - Fragile

In his room, everything in the space around him, everything that had occurred in the last twelve hours, seemed fuzzy and indistinct. He found himself grasping at memories that slipped away like water through a cupped hand. He lay on his bed and stared at his computer.

The screen saver was a racing galaxy of stars; a doorway to that other universe. He had so much control there. In the real world, life was so messy, so many variables-things spun out of his grasp. Even inside himself, he seemed to have so little control over his emotions. And once his emotions took over, he split in two. There was the watcher within him, the creature without. The watcher could only look on, its desperate commands, pleas, and warnings ignored while the creature acted.

We don’t choose where we come from, Marshall. And we often have little to say about what happens to us. But the adult understands that he and he alone is responsible for his life. You have choices now, choices that will affect your future. Let me help you make the right ones .

It was one of the first things Mr. Ivy had said to him. And the words had seemed strange at first, because no one had ever said anything like that to Marshall. He actually, for a moment, wondered if Mr. Ivy was making fun of him. When Marshall was called to anyone’s office, it was for a reprimand or for the delivery of some bad news-like he was being held back a grade or was being switched to a lower-level class, one of those small rooms with one or two other students and a teacher who spoke very soft and slow, repeating the same stupid shit over and over. But Mr. Ivy never treated him like a moron or a mental case. He’d treated Marshall with respect, offered him a hand up from the swamp he was wading through.

Through a kind of mental fog, he heard a car door slam outside. He went to the window, wondering if Mr. Ivy had come back. But instead, Marshall watched his father climb into a taxi, saw the car pull up the street. Where was he going? He couldn’t imagine his father calling for a cab, paying for a ride. A low-level anxiety started to buzz inside him. There were some flashes of memory-his mother crying, Charlene on all fours puking by the side of the highway. His head ached. It ached so bad he was nauseous from it.

He stumbled to his computer and, as he moved the mouse, the screen came to life. Charlene’s page was open in front him; he read the list of comments from her last posting: “Charlene is large and in charge, living in New York City! The Hollows SUCKS!”

Even if she hadn’t told him her password, it wouldn’t have taken him long to figure it out. Rockstar . They were all living inside their heads, weren’t they? They were living on dreams because life didn’t quite measure up, and even in their teens they already had the vague sense that it never, ever would.

He started to laugh then. It came from a deep, dark place inside him. He thought of Mr. Ivy, Dr. Cooper, his aunt and uncle-all the people who believed in him, who put themselves out because when they looked at him, they saw something that wasn’t there. His father always thought that he knew better, that he was smarter than everyone else. If they were any good, Son? Trust me. They wouldn’t want anything to do with you . As it turned out, his dad was right.

It felt like laughter, ripping through him in great uncontrollable peals. But when the screen went dark, he saw himself. The boy in the reflection was weeping.

Charlie floated through the day on the memory of Wanda’s perfume; he imagined that the unique scent of her body and the floral melody she wore still clung to his skin. The sense memories of their night together kept coming back to him in flashes as he drove from job to job, as he crawled around in attics, carried traps to his truck. He barely noticed the hours pass. He kept hoping to hear her voice on the Nextel. But Old Joe was on dispatch today; it was Wanda’s day off.

“I’ll cook dinner for you tonight, Charlie, if you don’t have any plans.” She’d said it shyly, as though she worried about seeming too forward, too eager.

He didn’t care about seeming too eager. Hell, he was eager.

“I don’t have any plans, Wanda. And if I did, I’d cancel them.” He could still hear that mellifluous giggle.

He’d intended to knock off a bit early, pick up some flowers and a nice bottle of wine before going back to Wanda’s. But as he was finishing his last call, he remembered Mrs. Monroe and the traps he’d left in her attic. He’d promised he’d go back to her today. Remembering her standing there watching him leave, he couldn’t bring himself to let her down. He called Wanda from his cell, her home number on a folded sticky note in his pocket. He wondered if she’d be angry, or annoyed. Most women would be.

“That’s what I’ve always liked about you, Charlie,” she said. “You’re a kind person. A man of your word. Trust me, it’s a rare, rare thing. You take your time.”

“Wanda,” he said, a rush of feeling pulsing through him. “I’m dying to put my arms around you.”

There was a moment of silence, when he heard her breathing. He wasn’t worried that he’d said the wrong thing. They were past that awkwardness already.

“I’m waiting for you, Charlie,” she said. Her voice sounded breathy and sweet.

He let out a little moan. “Okay, I better go before I come racing over there right now.”

“Go take care of Mrs. Monroe. And then get over here and take care of me,” she said and hung up with a playful laugh. He thought of her perfect breasts and parted lips and was glad he had a ten-minute drive to Mrs. Monroe’s to get his pants under control.

• • •

As he pulled up to the old house, he saw Mrs. Monroe standing in the big bay window over the porch. She stepped back quickly when she saw him turn in the drive, maybe embarrassed to be caught waiting. She greeted him at the door.

“I thought you forgot about me. I called your dispatch,” she said. “The guy who answered the phone was a moron, not that nice girl on the phone yesterday.”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Monroe. I wouldn’t forget.”

She waved a hand. “People today forget everything. They even forget to take care of their children.” She wasn’t crotchety, not complaining. She just seemed sad, wistful.

He wanted to disagree with her, to say something positive to change her mind. But too large a part of him agreed with her. He wondered if he was the only one who felt frightened and agitated watching television-the terrible programming, the manipulative advertising. What is this doing to our culture? he’d wonder. But on some nights, he was too tired to turn it off. And suddenly everyone was driving like they were mildly drunk-people pulling out into traffic without really looking, weaving in their lanes. Inevitably, he’d glance over to see someone entrenched in conversation on a cell phone, oblivious to everything else. People did forget everything. They even forgot themselves.

“Well, I’m not one of those people.”

“A throwback,” she said with a smile, giving him a pat on the arm.

“I guess so.”

He made his way toward the staircase. “Any noise last night or today?”

“Not a peep.” She stayed at the bottom landing. “Forgive me if I don’t follow you up. My arthritis.”

“No problem. I remember where the attic access is.”

But the traps in the attic were empty, the bait untouched. He moved some of the junk around but still saw none of the usual signs-no feces, no evidence of gnawing. The scent he’d caught yesterday was gone. Maybe it had been his imagination. Or hers. He entertained the notion that the old lady might be losing it, hearing things that weren’t there. But no, she didn’t seem the type. Still, what he’d smelled yesterday was an odor that only intensified with time. If there was something dead up there, it should only smell worse today than yesterday. Maybe the cool weather had slowed the decay. He’d leave the traps one more day, come back again tomorrow.