Amber Sparks - May We Shed These Human Bodies

So what happened to it?

Maine? It’s still there, I hope, he says.

No, your grandparents’ cottage. She tries to smile encouragingly, finds it a foreign sensation. It’s like her muscles have forgotten the trick of it. Do you still go there? she asks.

His face changes. She’s asked the wrong question. She is always asking the wrong questions. He straightens and picks up his book, starts to walk out of the aisle. It’s gone now, he says, mostly to himself. And she wishes she could feel bad, but all she really feels is relief because she doesn’t have to look at his maggoty chest anymore. She thrusts her face into the atlas and pretends to be absolutely engrossed in Maine’s highway system.

And then she is engrossed. Not by the highway system, but by the idea of Maine as somewhere she could go. She would like to drive to Maine, maybe live in a cottage on the ocean and catch lobster and never see any people at all unless she goes down to talk with the local fishermen or something. She could get a dog and walk it. Yes. Ruby can picture herself in deepest July, wearing floral print dresses and walking everywhere, everywhere barefoot and sea-salted and hardened as hardtack. Yes. It sounds right. It sounds like a place to be. A refuge.

She lugs the big book to the checkout counter and drops it in front of the cashier, a woman in a terrifying sweater. It’s one of those boutique-y things, probably handmade, with what may or may not be a cluster of grapes embroidered in bright purple thread on fake denim. It looks like it’s winking at her. She tries hard not to be distracted by the sweater, but it’s difficult, when one does not fully exist, to concentrate on much of anything.

I’m going to Maine, Ruby tells the woman and her winking sweater.

Neither the woman nor the sweater responds.

I’m going to live there, Ruby says, in a cottage by the sea.

Mmm, says the clerk. That’ll be $39.99, please.

Ruby hands her a fifty. I’m finally having a nervous breakdown, she says. I think this must be part of it. I’ve been expecting it for so long, it’s almost a relief.

The woman nods and gives her the change. She tosses the receipt into the bag and hands it to Ruby.

Ruby turns to go, but then stops and turns back. She feels she should say something else, something really meaningful and lasting. A farewell of sorts. But as usual, she can’t think of anything. The sweater, too, remains silent in its own jovial, winking way. She feels a kinship with it.

Ruby calls Caleb on the space wires when she stops at the gas station. What are you talking about, Maine? he asks. Or rather, she has him ask.

I’m going there. To Maine. Right now, she tells him.

For how long?

Indefinitely, she says. She can tell he doesn’t believe her, but because he loves her he will humor her slightly. And also because he is a figment of her imagination.

And what, exactly, he asks, do you plan to do in Maine with no money, no job, and no place to stay?

How do you know I don’t have any money? Anyway, I don’t need any money, she says. I’m going to run around barefoot and catch lobsters for food and wear Liberty print dresses and make all the local fishermen fall in love with me.

A long sigh from Caleb rustles down the wires. Ruby, he says. He sounds very serious. People don’t actually do those things.

She is quiet, says nothing. The speaker wires fizzle and fade out. Even her imaginary person is exasperated with her.

Ruby knows she is selfish and silent and stark-raving. This is why she has to go away from everyone. This is why she has to go away from Randy, plus all of the other reasons that she can’t be with him. For starters, he will want to marry her, and then they will officially be Randy and Ruby Richter. They will have to start wearing matching track suits with puffy designs sewn on them. They will have to start watching sporting events, and eating chips ‘n dip, and they will have to say it just like that: chips ‘n dip. Eventually they will have children, and they will have to give them names that start with R, like Ruthanne and Remus and Roxy and of course, Randy, Jr. They will acquire a minivan. They will use the minivan to shuttle children back and forth to soccer and baseball games, to carry loud and terrible musical instruments to band practice. Ruby will go slowly mad until they have to put her in a padded cell shaped like a kitchen, because all she will want to do is bake brownies and cookies and cakes with R names painted on in frosting, blue for the boys and pink for the girls and yellow for the ones who haven’t yet decided what they want to be, beautiful or strong because in this world you can’t be both.

She stands with her cell phone in her hand, debating whether or not to call him. She decides to text him instead, hoping he’ll be too busy at work to check his phone. Then she goes inside to pay for the gas. She flirts a bit with the young guy at the counter, a flame-haired and freckled type she’d never seriously consider. She feels so good, in fact, that she gives him her last five as a tip and purchases some wrap-around Oakleys with her credit card. With the sunglasses firmly wrapped-around her head, she strolls out the door.

What a piece of work is a man, she says grandly, loudly. People turn and stare. At first she smiles at them all, but then she gets depressed because the only Shakespeare she knows by heart is the same Shakespeare everybody else knows by heart. Then she gets even more depressed, because the only opportunity she has to quote Shakespeare is to a bunch of people pumping gas who are also trying to avoid making eye contact with her.

A couple of teenaged boys in a beat-up blue Honda pull up to the curb, their music forced so hard through crappy speakers it squeals and cracks against distorted beats. A kid in the white baseball cap is stepping out of the passenger side. Go fuck your mom, he says to the kid driving the car. They both suddenly giggle and Ruby turns to see what they’re giggling at and it’s Randy — oh, god — standing in the rain and sniffling.

He’s wearing his stupid Broncos sweatshirt that’s about ten sizes too small and leaves his hairy skinny wrists exposed. He looks as if he can’t decide whether to smile. He looks constipated. How is he here? Is he really here? Or has she begun to conjure even the people she loathes, her imagination so broken it can no longer do anything helpful?

What a piece of work is a man, she repeats, and fingers the keys in her jacket pocket. It has begun storming in earnest. The sky has turned a purplish-blue color, People are running for their cars now, and diving under the awnings, but Randy doesn’t move. He just stands there, water washing his features away and turning his face red and mushy-looking. Ruby thinks she could run past him to her car. Maybe she could distract him somehow? Throw something one way, then run quickly in the other direction?

I love you, he says, and she thinks she could stab him with her keys. She could say he was an attacker. No one would know. There is nothing to link him to her: no bills with both their names, no apartment lease, nothing. There is nothing permanent about their relationship, nothing that’s left to last.

Well, he yells, over the thunder. Her jeans are already so soaked they tug and threaten to fall right off. She feels distracted by this, distracted by everything. She pictures herself in judgment, standing before God or whoever, shrugging when asked, Why didn’t you accomplish anything in your time on Earth?

I just got distracted, she imagines herself saying. She knows, of course, that she is full of shit, full of excuses. Everything that’s ever happened to her has been an excuse to retreat into her worst personality. To close herself off and build a new exterior; an endless set of matryoshka dolls wearing her face and saying nothing.