Maryse Meijer - Heartbreaker - Stories

* * *

When they get home he runs a bath while she watches.

Get in, he says.

She turns her back to him, undresses. He sits on the edge of the tub. She slips into the water.

You have a grout problem, she says, shaving her legs with his razor. It’s missing in a lot of places.

Mm, he says.

Will you wash my hair?

He stares. Why?

She stares back, then shrugs. Nicer that way.

Scratching his jaw he sighs. Close your eyes, he says, and kneels beside the tub.

She leans forward, her chin on her knees. He scrubs shampoo in circles over her head, his thumbs hard against her scalp. He does the conditioner, then puts one hand on her forehead and the other on the back of her neck and lays her down flat in the gray water.

Rinse, he says, the ceiling light bright behind his head. From beneath the water she looks straight up into his face. When she is finished he squeezes her hair into a rope that drips over her shoulder.

You’re all set, he says.

As she gets out of the tub water slops over the porcelain and onto the floor. She stands in front of him, water slowing in the hair between her legs. He reaches up to touch her face. She opens her lips and he pushes two fingers past them and as she closes her eyes she thinks, Now. But she is wrong.

* * *

Because she wins the next night’s game of Rummy she is allowed to have one beer.

Toast me, she says, lying next to him on the living-room rug. She tips the neck of her bottle toward his.

No chance, he says. You cheated.

She laughs and forces the lip of her beer into his. When she is finished drinking she turns toward him, propping herself up on her elbow, her fist against her cheek.

So where do you work? she asks.

Slaughterhouse.

Oh, she says. She can’t tell whether he is joking or not. Do you have a girlfriend?

He shakes his head.

Why not?

He shrugs. Just don’t.

You have me, though.

He grunts, taking a long swallow of beer. She scoots closer to him.

Your hair is in my face, he says. She leans down to kiss him and he kisses her back. She tastes alcohol and that night’s spaghetti sauce. His eyes are closed for a moment but when she lifts her leg and spreads it over his hip, reaching for the zipper on his jeans, he puts his hand on her chest.

Stop, he says, sitting up.

Why?

Because.

Don’t you like me?

I like you, he says, rubbing his eyebrows. I like you.

Why, then? Why not?

He gets up and takes the bottles to the kitchen, throwing them into the trash so hard they crack. She follows him in, hands on her hips, and he turns to her and says Don’t you know anyone who doesn’t want to fuck you?

She flinches. You’re the one who brought me here! she shouts. We do the same things every day and you never want to go anywhere and I have to lie down in your stupid truck on the floor and you make me—

I don’t make you do anything, he cuts in, flinging the back door open. You want to go? Get out.

Fuck you! she screams, kicking the door shut so hard the windows rattle in their frames. His face twitches.

What’s wrong with you? she says. He looks away.

It’s late. You should go to bed.

Would you stop telling me what to do?

* * *

Early the next morning she goes to his room. He is lying on his side beneath the sheets, one rough cheek resting on his bicep. Everywhere there is cracking plaster, more bookshelves, the painted dresser with its drawers shut tight. Water and a cluster of keys stand on a little table beside his bed. Everything feels familiar to her but also strange, because she sees so clearly the pieces but not how they fit together.

Come here, he says.

I thought you were sleeping.

No. I don’t sleep very well.

She shuffles toward him until the backs of her hands brush against the mattress. He makes room for her and she lies on her side next to him, her breasts chafing against her T-shirt.

He touches her eyebrow with his thumb. I’m sorry I made you lie in the back of the truck.

It’s okay. She tries to look him in the eye but she can’t.

Go to sleep, he says, and somehow she does.

* * *

When she wakes up he is gone. She rinses her underwear and shirts in the kitchen sink and when he comes home he sees her clothes slung over the shower rod, dripping on the floor, and he stops and says Didn’t I tell you I fixed the washer?

* * *

That evening he says he wants to go for a walk. Outside, it’s still light. It’s too cold, she says, stopping at the bottom of the porch, but he doesn’t turn around.

You should have put on a sweater.

She throws her hands up. This is exactly what I’m talking about. You always want to do something that doesn’t make any sense . She considers turning back, but instead kicks at a rock and keeps going.

* * *

They walk about a mile and then there is a loud cracking noise, like a gunshot.

What’s that?

Just a branch, he says. We can go back now if you want.

No, she says.

We can.

No, she says again. Chase me.

He looks at her.

Come on, she urges.

Okay, he says. Run.

She takes off into the trees.

* * *

As soon as she knows she is out of sight she stops, leaning against a tree, the air on her lips brittle as she catches her breath. The sky is hooded with leaves and where the sun melts through it turns the dust in the air to gold.

You’re fast, he says, coming up behind her. She stumbles away from the tree.

Shit, she says, still panting. You scared me.

Should we go back?

Not yet.

Then what now?

She smiles. Now you have to kill me.

He pushes his hands into his pockets.

Yeah?

Yeah.

And what if I want you to kill me?

She blinks. What?

Go ahead, he says.

She reaches out and touches his stomach with the palm of her hand, running it up to his chest and then down past his belt while he watches her. She wonders about beauty, about the way he looks right now — older and folded in on himself — and the heat in her body that will not stop.

Aren’t you going to hit me? he says.

Her hands slide off him and she takes a small step sideways.

Don’t be scared, he says.

I’m not, she says.

Then hit me. He lifts his chin. Come on.

I can’t.

Yes you can.

When she sees him raise his hand she thinks for a moment that she should try to stop him, but she doesn’t and he hits her, hard, across her face, knocking her to her knees. He crouches down behind her, an arm wrapped tight around her waist.

What do you want? he asks.

Tell me I’m beautiful, she says.

You’re beautiful, he says into her ear, and then again into her hair. You’re beautiful. Her shoulders start to shake.

Listen to me, he says. You have to go home.

No.

You have to.

No, she says, sinking her fingers into the ground.

When I count to ten, he says. One. Two.

Why? she whispers. I don’t want to.

But he keeps counting. And when he gets to ten he lets her go.

Did you do that? he asked, his hands on his hips, squinting, as I held up the pigeon for him to see. It was the first thing I killed. I was four. I dropped the bird at his feet.

You didn’t mean to, he said.

I kicked the bird and it bounced off the front door, leaving a rich red smear. One of its eyes, pried loose by a butter knife, fell out. I had stabbed it all over. He pretended not to notice.

We’ll give it a nice burial, he said.

I snatched the bird and shook it. I gnashed my teeth and made dying sounds and sailed the corpse over the porch railing, where it splashed into the dirt. I smeared my fingers down the front of his shirt, leaving behind ten wet tracks branching over the cotton, delicate as a Japanese painting. My hands were small then. He held them, he kissed them; animal blood touched his mouth. I howled, I hissed, trying to free myself from his grip.