Laura Adamczyk - Hardly Children

I’VE ONLY BEEN OUTwith the virgin three times, but he already wants to DTR—define the relationship. This, apparently, is a thing. He’s chosen the only hip restaurant in town—the dark place with red, glowing lights and little white plates—to do this. I look around at all the other tables where people wear dark, slim-fitting clothing. Surely they know what’s going on. They see his white-blond hair, khaki pants, and small, contained face, and they know.

The thing is, though, I kind of want him. I want to take him out and mess him up a little. I just can’t help it.

Our waitress comes. She looks like a model, as skinny as a Pall Mall. I don’t smoke, but will sometimes crave a cigarette harder than anything. I’ll bum one, take a few good drags, then remember why I don’t smoke. It’s not about the filling up of my lungs, but the gesture, making those movements with my hands, letting people know that I’m too cool to care about what happens to my body.

So how many little plates should we order? I smile up at the waitress. I want to somehow signal to her that the virgin and I aren’t really together, that I’d much rather buy her a fancy drink and kiss her cool, thin lips, or at least hang out, brush her long, silky hair, and talk about boys.

As many as you’d like, she says.

I look at the virgin. He’s got his nose in the menu.

I circle a block of tapas with my forefinger and she leaves, taking the menus with her. The virgin finally looks up and gives me a tender smile, but then lets it drop. It’s serious time.

So, he says.

So, I say.

So I was thinking about going down to Springfield this weekend.

Uh huh.

They’ve got the new Lincoln library. Have you ever been? I’ve heard it’s amazing.

The virgin is a Lincoln Studies Scholar. This designation exists in only one program in America, our very own university. I picture a Lincoln beard over his face, something he could put on and take off like those Groucho Marx glasses, but the image just gets me thinking of my Russian ex-boyfriend who had the most excellent thick black beard. He was always screaming at his mother over the phone in Russian: “ Nyet, nyet, nyet! ” I loved it when he fought with her; I loved it when he told her no. When he’d hang up the phone, I would pull him down on the bed and fuck him, thinking of how much his mother would have hated me had we ever met.

So what do you think? he says. I mean, well, what do you think about us? He looks as earnest as a Sesame Street character.

Well. I clear my throat. You’re a fine person to sit next to in a movie theater—you let me eat nearly all of the popcorn, and I never worry about you talking to me during. I trust you as a driver, even if you’re a little on the slow side. You always signal well in advance, which I appreciate.

Cassie.

You have really nice breath. Not to be underestimated. It seems like you eat an Altoid maybe fifteen minutes before we see each other—it’s not too strong, but it’s clearly there, definitely lingering.

Cassie.

The waitress brings a round of little plates. She barely fits them all on the table, their lips overlapping.

Well, this all looks really good! I beam. Each dish is delicately arranged, the foods glistening in their oils. I roll my silverware out of the napkin. I don’t know where to begin.

Cassie?

We eat quietly. I take exactly half of everything. When the food is gone, I excuse myself, go up to the bar, and ask the bartender for a smoke. I give him a one-sided smile, like I’m not trying too hard. I take it outside in the gray, slushy snow and choke the whole thing down in front of the restaurant’s big glass windows, so that the people both inside and outside can see me.

THE TRUCKER’S NAMEis Roger. When he calls, I ask him how old he is, because the only person I’ve ever known named Roger was my father’s best friend. My father’s Roger was a carpenter, skinny as a rail, and had a har-har-har style of laughing. I think of how My Father’s Roger sounds like a pretty good name for an alt-country band.

I’m thirty-two, he says.

Oh.

How old are you ?

Twenty-four.

Ah.

So doesn’t your name get a little funny over the CB radio?

Yeah, people have some fun with it.

Yeah, like in Airplane!

What’s that?

You’ve never seen Airplane! ? I think of how my dad used to say, And don’t call me Shirley, at least once a day, it seemed.

Sometimes they just call me Rog.

Rog , really?

Yeah.

Huh.

THE VIRGIN AND Idrive down to Springfield. I’ve decided to see where this might go. He’s seemingly forgotten about the other night, now too geeked over all things Lincoln to worry about relationship definitions.

It’s twice the size of any other presidential library, he says.

Twice the size, huh?

And this is the only house that Lincoln ever owned.

Lincoln’s bedroom is on the second floor of the house. There’s a dark wooden rocking chair and matching four- poster bed. A tiny bedside table. We stand just outside the room with the other visitors behind a looped rope. Mary had a separate room, the tour guide tells us before leading the group downstairs to the sitting room. The virgin moves to follow, but I tug his hand.

Hey, I say.

He smiles.

I let go of him and step over the rope.

Cassie! he whispers.

Tiptoeing across the room, I wave my hands just above the surface of a dresser, as though an invisible force field protected it. I open an imaginary drawer, take out a hat, place it on my head, and admire myself in the mirror on the wall. I walk back to the doorway.

Don’t you want to get a little closer?

Well, he sighs. He’s not even looking at me.

Lincoln slept in this room.

He’s leaning in at his waist, peeking around the corner, getting in as far as he can without actually entering.

The lady said the carpets aren’t original. It doesn’t matter if you get them dirty.

Whoa-kay, he breathes. He steps over the rope as carefully as if the Great Emancipator were still there sleeping. With the pace and reverence of the grieving, he silently walks the room, finally stopping next to me beside the bed.

Is it everything you imagined? I ask.

It looks a little different up close, he says.

I take his hand and gingerly guide it over the white quilt. He sucks in his breath like he’s been shot.

I turn and sit down.

Cassie.

You can’t tell me you haven’t thought of this. He finally laughs, his face loosening, his eyes traveling to a place just beyond us—beyond this room and house, beyond school and work, beyond the Land of Lincoln and into the Land of Yes.

Mr. President! I exclaim and pull him down on top of me. I bury my head in his neck and put my arms around his skinny waist, but he wriggles, slides off me, falls to the carpet, then gets up quickly.

Jesus Christ, Cassie!

He’s out, stepping over the rope, creaking on the floor to join the rest of the history buffs downstairs. I fall back and let my head drop to the bed, wondering whether Lincoln traveled to Mary’s room at night or she came to his.

I GO TO THE MUSEUM.Sit on a bench in the great hall next to the life-sized replicas of the Lincoln family. Abe, Mary, the kids. I’m feeling a little Mary Todd–ish. A little buttoned-up and restricted, as though, like that famous first lady, I too have a head injury beneath my bon net. In college, I dated a Lincoln reenactor. Now, I’m not a tall person. Only a little over five feet. We got some jokes, no doubt, but you couldn’t blame them. That boy was a lot of limb. I think of the trucker and traversing the trunk of his body like a hardened landscape, like tundra. I spot the virgin at the other end of the museum. He’s walking down one of the branching hallways, getting smaller and smaller. The Lincoln reenactor had an amazing beard. It was dark and real. It had to be; they were serious about that shit. He played the Civil War Lincoln, memorized the Gettysburg Address, but even so, I would sneak up behind him when I caught him sitting, would push my finger to the back of his head.