Maryse Meijer - Heartbreaker - Stories

Oh, she says, wiping saliva from the side of her mouth. Where are we?

My house. Get out, he says, and then adds If you want.

She knows that they are in the foothills about an hour from town, though she doesn’t know exactly where. The house has a big porch, but that is all she can make out in the darkness. There are no neighbors.

He unlocks the door and stands aside for her to enter, reaching his hand around the jamb to flip on the light. There’s an old brown couch and chair on a balding rug. Shelves filled only with books line the walls, the volumes pulled to the edges in perfect lines. A television rests on the coffee table. In the kitchen there are black pots hanging from the ceiling, a large Formica table. She checks the refrigerator: milk and brimming vegetable bins, big tub of yogurt, a brick of meat in the freezer.

Are you hungry? he asks.

No.

Then go wash your face.

What?

Upstairs. First door is the bathroom. There’s an extra toothbrush in the cabinet.

He starts unloading his jacket pocket on the kitchen table. Clatter of keys and coins, the dead thump of his wallet. She stares at him.

I thought you said you weren’t coming on to me.

I’m still not.

She chews the inside of her cheek.

Go on, he says.

Without another word she turns and heads up the stairs.

Take off your shoes, he calls after her, and she slips them off and drops them over the railing.

* * *

In the tiny bathroom she pees and rinses out her mouth, peeling the cellophane from the new toothbrush but leaving it unused on the rim of the sink. He knocks at the door and when she opens it he hands her a stack of blankets.

You can sleep on the couch, he tells her. It folds out.

She stares at the blankets, then back at his face. This is weird, isn’t it?

Is it? he echoes. A door at the end of the hall opens and closes. She goes to the stairs and knocks the blankets around with her foot and then sits down, thinking he will come out for her in a few minutes. When she wakes up she is still there, on her back in the hallway with her socks on.

* * *

She finds him in the kitchen, an apron around his waist. Three pots tremble and spit on the stove. The air is thick with the smell of stewing fruit, and the sink, streaked with juice, is full of pits and skins.

Is that breakfast?

No.

Then what is it?

Jam, he says, pushing a jar toward her. Pot holders are over there. Hold this steady.

It takes them several minutes to get all the fruit into the jars, lined and coughing steam on the counters. She has seen people do this in movies, but wonders why anyone would do it in real life.

Who eats all this? she asks.

I do.

She begins pawing through the cabinets while he watches her. She frowns. You don’t even have cereal, she says.

There’s eggs.

What about lunch?

What about it?

Do you have peanut butter?

He shakes his head.

What do you eat with the jelly, then? She sighs. We need to go shopping.

He takes an envelope from the top of the refrigerator and hands it to her.

Write down what you want.

Can’t I just go with you? Sometimes I don’t know what I want until I see it.

No.

Well, get something good, like chips or something.

No chips.

She rolls her eyes.

Do you like fruit? he asks.

Some of it. Bananas.

Okay.

I also like ice cream, she says.

* * *

When he returns she is sitting on the back porch steps, eating a piece of bread with butter and some of the new jam. She can hear him in the house, tense footsteps upstairs and then down the hall and through the kitchen. Finally she hears the back door swing open but she doesn’t turn around.

Get in the house, he says. She licks a spot of jam from her thumb.

Back already?

Did you hear me?

Calm down, she says. She pushes herself up and squeezes past his body in the doorway, her shirt tangling against his. In the kitchen she reaches into the paper sack on the table and frowns.

You didn’t get any ice cream, she says, clutching a bag of mushrooms.

They didn’t have any.

Idiot, she groans.

* * *

Every morning for the next three days he leaves the house for a few hours. While he is gone she watches television, or sleeps on the couch, or looks through magazines he brings her. In the evening they play cards cross-legged on the rug or at the kitchen table, Rummy and Snap and War, with the radio on to something she likes. Then he goes to bed and she stays up late watching more TV. Once while he is gone she goes to his room and opens his dresser drawers, digging beneath the neatly folded T-shirts and underwear. She finds some money, small bills, and an envelope full of receipts. She doesn’t think about how many days pass or who might be missing her or what she is doing. She is just waiting for the next thing to happen.

* * *

One morning over his newspaper he says You smell like a bakery.

Like a nice French place or an outlet? she asks.

Outlet.

She looks down, pulling her shirt away from her chest. I need to get some clothes.

Now?

We could just stop by my house and I could—

No, he says.

She looks at him for a moment. Then we could go to the Goodwill, it doesn’t matter. But I don’t have any money. Can’t we wash stuff here?

The washing machine hose is busted, he says. Remember?

Oh. Well then, I guess you’re taking me out. She smiles, but he doesn’t smile back, and she can see him thinking, that he is upset.

What? she asks, reaching across the table to pinch the back of his hand. He flinches. Don’t you like shopping?

* * *

Outside, in the driveway, he asks her to lie down behind the bench seat of the truck.

You’re joking, she says.

Just lie down there. It’s clean.

Why? she asks, but he only looks at her. She waits to see if she feels scared, but she doesn’t. She climbs in. On her back, with her knees drawn up, she thinks, This is really fucked up. He drives carefully so as not to bump her.

You all right? he asks.

She presses down on her skirt. I’m fine, considering, she says. The truck vibrates all the loose flesh on her body and she has to clench her teeth to keep them from rattling.

Can we have the radio at least?

He flips it on, but all they get is static.

* * *

Kandy’s Super Thrift sits on a wide strip of road she has never seen before, bookended by gas stations and hamburger stands. Inside, half a dozen plastic fans whip up a breeze and a few sulky-faced girls snap gum at each other and spin the knobs on a black-and-white television.

Some dump, she says, idling through the racks, pushing at clothes that have fallen on the floor with her foot.

What do you think about this? she asks him, holding up a white top that says I’m Your Petty Cash .

I don’t care.

She plucks a straw hat from a dented foam head. This?

Would you hurry up? he hisses.

She drops the hat and continues digging around in another row. It irritates her that he seems irritated, that he keeps his eyes on her like a giant unhappy bird. She sees a gap in the aisle, just big enough for her to fit through, and on the other side, the door.

Where do you like to shop? she asks.

He rubs his forehead.

The mall? I bet you go to the mall, she says. I bet you shop at the Gap.

You have five minutes.

Just let me try these things on, she says, holding out her arm, over which clothes are slung like slack bodies. You can come with me if you want, she adds.

No. Whatever doesn’t fit I’ll bring back.

She shrugs. You’re paying.

You seemed older when we met, he says as they walk out to the truck. More mature.

You seemed normal, she snaps back. Less nuts.