Damage - A. M. Jenkins [16]
“I heard you guys had a great game last night,” she's saying. “I was sorry I couldn’t be there. But still. Congratulations.”
“Thanks. You coming next Friday?”
“Mm-hmm. Even got a new top for it. A black knit shell—it’ll look good with jeans. I haven’t decided about the matching cardigan—it’s got short sleeves and all, I don’t want to get too hot. And of course I’ll wear my new sandals.”
She’s not asking for your opinion, but you nod, anyway. She smiles at you. There’s a love song playing on the radio. You really like having her here next to you, but you can’t think of anything to say. It doesn’t seem to matter. Heather radiates contentment, satisfaction, self-esteem. It’s almost as if you’re huddled next to a campfire, enjoying its warmth.
And that trickle of interest is flowing, the one that’s always pulled you to Heather. Even though you don’t even know the small stuff about her, like whether she goes to church or what kind of music she likes. Or what her favorite color is. Or whether she can tell a zone defense from man-to-man. The only thing you know is that she doesn’t have any brothers or sisters. And you know where her house is and what it looks like.
And you know about her dad.
“You live with your mom, don’t you?” you ask.
“Yeah.” She glances at the radio. “Hey. Do you mind if we listen to some real music?” She doesn’t wait for you to answer, just reaches for the buttons and starts clicking her way down the dial. You almost admire her. Heather doesn’t need anybody’s approval.
“Put on anything you like,” you tell her.
Dance music blares from the speakers. Heather’s finger hovers over the button for a second, then she sits up; the dance music must meet with her favor. “What about your parents? Are they still together?”
“No.” It’s been awhile since you’ve said this next part “My dad’s dead,” you tell her, ready for Heather to catch your words up and carry them forward. Maybe she’ll turn to you in complete understanding, and say: “Really? My dad’s dead, too.”
The only sound is the drone of rubber on asphalt. When you glance over, she’s staring out the window—only there’s not much scenery on this stretch of 171.
“What did he die from?” she asks after a moment.
“Cancer,” you say, glancing at her again.
“What kind?”
Okay. She wants you to share first. Well, you’ve been through this part before. It’s always kind of awkward; this is the part where you’re supposed to tell your story. You try to oblige. “It was cancer of the esophagus,” you begin. “He died when I was three,” you finish.
There’s no middle to the story, because you don’t remember him. There’s nothing else to tell.
When you glance over to check Heather’s reaction, she’s watching you, her gaze straight and unwavering as she waits for the middle of your story.
You have to look away, clear your throat. Reach to turn the radio up. “This’s a good song,” you mention, careful to keep your eyes on the road.
You can’t tell her how you used to play at shaving, because that’s stupid. No way you could tell her about sitting on the bathroom counter in your pajamas. Or that your father was the one who taught you to shave, even though he was long gone at the time.
When you were fourteen, you had a few whiskers that you thought needed to come off, so you went and bought a can of gel foam. When you got home you locked yourself in the bathroom and pulled out the wooden box that held your dad’s old-fashioned safety razor, the one you’d found tucked away in the back of the medicine cabinet, gathering dust. Mom, never one to be sentimental, had forgotten about it. She said you could have it if you wanted, that it’d been a gift from somebody—she couldn’t remember who—to your father a long time ago. It looked like a gift; gold plated, lying on red velvet.
Then you pulled the can out of the sack. On the back were the directions: Leave skin wet. Put gel on fingertips. Gently rub over skin to lather and shave.
It didn’t say anything about what to do with the sink