Cross, Part Two
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….
I obviously lied. Once I paid attention to how I felt, I realized I was very tired. I found myself nodding with fatigue a little and decided that a cigarette was the last thing I needed. It all of a sudden felt much later. Bryanna should have shown up by now. I checked the desk clock instead of my watch and saw that it indeed was earlier than I thought. I looked over at Fortune who looked as though she were asleep, although I knew she wasn’t. She looked very pretty, with a smile under the skin of her lips that seemed to suggest that she was relieved to be out of danger and care not to know that it was only temporary.
And the fact that she would not be in this more contented state if it hadn’t been for me went straight to my head. Like I had some special charm unique to me and me only. I looked at her and wanted to show her how much I appreciate how she shows me the supposedly wonderful things I do for her. I wanted to make love to her and regrettable that the idea was entirely unfathomable at that time, for more than one reason. Then, again, I thought of Bryanna, and it worried me. I picked up the stranded cigarette from the pencil holder, grabbed her lighter with the other hand, and lit the cigarette.
I stood up and looked into the hallway. With my back to her, I couldn’t help feeling like she was staring at me, even though I knew her eyes were closed. She was in a light sleep; I could tell because her breathing had slowed and quieted. If I could have left a dummy of me in the room, I would have, then taken myself for a short drive. I stuck the lighter in my pocket, left the cigarettes on her desk, and walked to the top of the stairs at the end of the hallway. I thought about peeing when I passed the bathroom, but decided that I’d save the option for an escapist alternative later.
At the top of the stairs, I tried to decided if I should watch TV in the den or eat in the kitchen. Or get food from the kitchen, then eat and TV in the den. I walked downstairs, past the front door—which was closed but unlocked and startled me—through the living room and into the kitchen. I wound up eating in the kitchen and watching TV on a little Sony black & white portable that was on the corner of the counter.
I was watching some family-oriented sitcom and wondered what my children would look like in 10, 20 years. Realistically, I couldn’t see myself having anything to do with Fortune that far down the road. I doubted she’d be able to make that kind of turn around in one life. Not that she’s a fuck-up; Fortune was smart and everyone knew it. Rumored to be third in line for valedictorian in high school, head of the debate team for three years, and a published poet at 22. She felt her problem was that she always felt that she could be doing more with her smarts than she was doing, and she would never waste her talents on some project or endeavor she didn’t truly enjoy. She was never completely happy and probably would never be, I assumed that I was an amusing distraction from personal bullshit for her, as she was for me. And we had been amusing each other for almost three years now. And distracting each other.
The doorbell rang. I turned towards the door but didn’t move. From my seat in the kitchen, I couldn’t actually see the front door, but thought it was neat that I knew exactly who it was.
“It’s Bry…!”, she yelled through a cough .
I got up from my seat and walked towards the door. I wondered if Bryanna had awakened Fortune, who I was sure had been asleep by this time. As I reached for the doorknob, the buzzer rang again, which startled me and made me draw back.
“It’s open!”, I said to the door. I heard her drop a suitcase which me realize that she would, of course, have some luggage since she was staying over. She cracked the door open and picked up something heavy. I played the gentlemen and opened the door for her; she walked in wearing a long, red, leather jacket, with a huge bag strapped over her shoulder. I closed the door and locked it behind her as she dropped her bag by the front closet. Before I had time to appreciate the gust of cold air, she turned around and have me a quick but tight hug.
“How is she?”, she said, looking at the top of the stairs and not at me. I didn’t answer immediately because I had come up with about twenty different applicable replies and couldn’t decide which response would do best. “Is she in a lot of pain?”, she said grabbing my arm but still not looking at me.
“Yes, but not really. I mean, she’s fine. She’s asleep.” I looked at her eyes to figure out what she would do or say next, but was also trying to convince her not to go up and disturb her immediately. Fortune was feeling no pain, at least not physical pain. Physical pain she could always deal with. “You want some coffee or something before you—we—go up and wake her?”
“What…. Shit, Paul, how do we stop her from doing this?” She had hesitated at first, but now was making her way upstairs. I followed quickly; for some reason, it was important for me to reach the room first.
Tags: depression, doubt, drama, love, night, suicide, Westchester, youth
