Cross, Part Four
Editor’s note: This following story is copied from its original draft, scribbled illegibly in a spiral notebook way back in September of 1989. Barring egregious errors in syntax, grammar, and style, it has been represented as faithful to that original, scribbled draft as possible. A kind of prosaic “time capsule” if you will….
She had let the whole thing drop just as quickly as she had brought it up. Bryanna had followed Fortune to the window to give her a hug when the phone rang. Fortune paused, then excused herself to answer the phone. She walked by without looking at me but gave my arm a good squeeze as she walked into the hallway. The phone hung on the wall halfway down the hallway next to some baby pictures of her and her little sister, Pride. Yes, her parents had been hippies and had spent several years hiking, camping, and canoeing in Northern Maine until one year, her father, Leslie (which was changed to Leaf then back to Leslie) decided to open up two camping stores in Kent Hills, Augusta during the colder seasons.
Within five years he had become a small chain along the Northeast and by now you probably receive their mail order catalogues in your mailbox. Believe it or not, both parents were at some clothing convention in Boulder. The convention only lasted three days but they were to vacation in Boulder for another week. Ski and cocaine. “The American Way” Fortune used to tease me our first few months together. She used to always try to convince me that she never did coke, but I’m almost positive she used to with her sister and possibly her parents, starting at a really young age. Fourteen, I had always thought.
I wondered if it was actually her parents on the phone, but it wasn’t. It was Bryanna’s mother’s mother checking to see if Bryanna had showed up. She, Bryanna, was supposed to call once she arrived at Fortune’s place; Bry had supposedly sped recklessly out of the driveway and had her mom was a little worried. Fortune told Bry’s mom that everyone—everything—was okay and that Bryanna would call her in the morning. Bryanna and I had overheard the phone conversation and we both decided that none of us needed any more personal drama that evening.
It was actually more Bryanna’s decision, which disappointed me since she had just showed up. I was the one who had just spent the four hours plus with Fortune who was crying, yelling, burning her clothes, locking me outside the house and making me watch her—through the living room window—cutting a cross in her belly with a razor blade,threatening me that if I tried to get her she’d slide it through her throat. I was the one who had to watch her do that to herself with a look of abject fear on her face that I had yet ever seen. We were all willing to “drop the drama” for the evening, but, in my opinion, Bryanna had nothing to drop and Fortune and I, routinely, would leave the “pieces” on the floor and ignore them.
Fortune walked back into the room and yawned. She sat at her desk and pulled out a cigarette from her pack. I was in the mood for a cigarette myself, but I knew there was only one left in the pack, which made me decide that I didn’t need it. Bryanna was still sitting on the ledge of the window, which was still slightly open. She looked tired, like she actually didn’t want to deal with this. I could tell her mind was on something else; places she’d rather be or friends she’d rather she’d rather have. She was there only to do her part as a friend, and she was probably wondering what she would be doing in her life at that moment if she’d never met Fortune. I was sure that all alternatives seemed more appealing than her present situation.
I became mad at her, then, for thinking that way. I couldn’t help feeling glad, or more like relieved, that I never did sleep with her, or I would have started feeling very disappointed in myself. I didn’t know exactly how long I would feel that way towards her, but realistically figured that I wouldn’t have been mad at her by morning. By morning, actually, I would probably be proud of her putting up the effort when she really didn’t have to,fully aware that she was only trying to do the right thing. My respect for Bryanna always, always fluctuated on depending on my mood, not hers.
Many times I had convinced myself that, had I met Bryanna first, I’d be dating her. Yet, I would soon doubt that it would have lasted as long, since I was soon completely convinced that I secretly thrived on Fortune’s dependence on me. I was sure that if it hadn’t been for me, it would’ve been some other guy. But I was the one laying doctor in her life and I had no complaints about it. At least, very few. And so did Bryanna, really. She and I served the same purpose essentially in Fortune’s life, except the sexual ones. I was the only one in Fortune’s life who was offsetting her pain with that kind of pleasure. And I did so. Often. With pleasure.
I was standing right by the desk, half sitting on it, contemplating whether or not I was going to ask Fortune for a drag of her smoke. She was staring at her calendar and without looking up, she grabbed ny hand and said, “You must be tired, Daddy….” I was always uncomfortable with her calling me that around Bryanna, who never reacted.
“I think we could all sleep. Bry looks tired.” I let go off Fortune’s hand. “Bry, I’ll grab your stuff and put in the den.” There was a pullout futon of a sofa in the den.
“Thank you, Paul.” Bryanna stood up,walked over to Fortune,and ran her fingers through her hair. I kissed Fortune on the back of her hand and she looked up at me and smiled. It was a smile that I liked very much. It said, thank you, I’m sorry, and everything’s going to be okay all in one. It convinced me that deep, deep down inside, she had plenty of hope. Plenty.
Tags: depression, doubt, drama, love, night, Westchester, youth
