Carrie Pilby Read online

  “I’ll bet it’s worse if you think about it while you’re doing it,” I said.

  “Let’s see,” he said. And he pulled off the road.

  After about a month of my sleeping over regularly, David began telling me a few new things he wanted me to do.

  They were only slight variations on the norm, and I considered them a small sacrifice to make. Whatever kept his attention. As long as they didn’t go too far.

  But soon, he began to tell me some of the things he wanted me to say.

  They bothered me. They weren’t the kind of things I’d ever said before, and I’d probably never say them again, if I could help it. It wasn’t just that they were dirty—the words were harsh. I didn’t feel I could utter some of what he wanted. But I didn’t want to disobey.

  “We’ll start slowly,” he said kindly, one night in his room. “Just like with everything else. I just want you to say this one thing.”

  I was silent.

  “Carrie?”

  What’s wrong with you, I thought to myself. It’s just words. You know that intellectually. So what?

  But I knew that even if I could say it, it would come out unnatural. And thus, it wouldn’t have the effect he was hoping for. I was sure of it.

  “Come on,” he said, sweat on his brow. “Say it.”

  “It won’t…it won’t sound like me.”

  “Just say it,” he whispered. “Say it once.” He kissed my lips, then my neck. He ran his hand down my chest and rested it in my crotch, then took his index finger and began circling. “Say it. What do you want me to do to you?”

  “‘I want… I want you to…’”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I can’t.”

  He sat up. He didn’t look so kind anymore. “What’s the matter?”

  “It won’t sound like me. It won’t sound right.”

  “Say it any way you want.” He leaned over me and kissed me again. “Come on.”

  I just looked up at him.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “It’s not…I can’t.”

  He sat up and looked into the distance.

  “David?”

  He ignored me.

  “Come on. I’m…”

  He rolled over on his side and pulled his blanket up. “Forget it. What’s the use?”

  “Are you mad at me?”

  He ignored me again.

  I turned over, too, but I couldn’t sleep.

  I lay there, my back to him, quietly waiting for him to change his mind. I wanted to get up and put on some bedclothes, but I thought that the more silence there was, the more he’d need to break it. I was scared even to breathe. I watched the red numbers on his clock radio change.

  Eventually I fell asleep. At some point in the night, I woke up and pulled on a T-shirt. Then I went back to sleep.

  In the morning, when I awoke, David was already in the kitchen, heating up coffee. I padded in there, and he gave me a silent nod and went back to the coffee. He also was quiet in the car going back to campus.

  I went through my classes upset but trying to concentrate. When I came home, the light on my answering machine wasn’t blinking.

  I collected my introductory philosophy books and read in bed. An hour passed without a call. I was scared. Why had I been so stupid?

  But he would have to give me another chance, right?

  I read Meditations on First Philosophy, but my eyes just kept rolling over the same words again and again, as if I were highlighting the book in varnish. Nothing stuck. Every few minutes, I looked at my clock. Dinnertime was approaching. I’d have to hike down to the dining hall and sit at the end of a table alone. Doing that always gave me an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. I didn’t want to do it if he was going to call.

  I felt hungry. I ignored my stomach and tried again to concentrate on Meditations, but I decided maybe I needed something light to read. So I picked up Thus Spake Zarathustra.

  The phone rang.

  I reminded myself, even as I dashed to it, to make my voice sound uninterested.

  “Hello.”

  I wouldn’t have admitted it, and it sounds very clichéd, but clichés become clichés because they happen: when I heard his voice, my stomach jumped.

  “I went out and got wood for the fireplace,” David said. “I could use a little help initiating it.”

  I wanted to tell him how happy I was that it was him, how scared I’d been, how much I’d missed him and how I would say whatever he wanted. But I didn’t. I told him I would meet him outside in ten minutes.

  That night, we ate heaping bowls of linguine at an Italian place, then went to David’s apartment. Once in the living room, we lay down on the rug in front of the fireplace, a bottle of wine between us. David put his glass down on the brown tiles and lay on his side in an S shape, his knees bent. I rested my head on his jeans and stared into his chest. Thank God everything’s okay, I thought. It felt so good just to lie there, listening to him breathe. I closed my eyes, and we both lay quietly for a while. Then, I felt his fingers move over my wine-ripened lips. “Come here,” he whispered, and he brought my chin to his face. “Let’s stay here for a change,” he said, and I nodded. Soon he said, “Say it. What I wanted you to say yesterday. Please.”

  Before he’d called, I had told myself I would, and on the way over, I had told myself I would, but now I couldn’t. It didn’t seem like the right words. It didn’t seem to fit with either me or with us. And why did he want me to say it, when he knew how much it bothered me?

  “Say it!”

  I started. “‘I… I…’”

  “Yes?” His eyes were closed.

  I couldn’t finish.

  “Come on,” he said. “Go ahead.”

  “David,” I said.

  Then I said no more.

  He sat up again. “Is this it?”

  “I…”

  “Is that the best you can do? You’re not even going to try?”

  I just looked at him.

  “One compromise?”

  It just didn’t fit.

  “Didn’t I teach you? Didn’t I say it over and over? Why can’t you learn it?”

  I didn’t know what to say to that.

  “Is it such a hard thing to learn?”

  Finally I said, “It’s not something I would say.”

  “But you can learn.”

  “We’re not in class.”

  “Just say it!”

  I looked at the rug. “It wouldn’t be me….”

  “Do you always have to be such a goddamn prude?”

  Before I could say anything else, he jumped up, stalked into the bathroom and shut the door. I sat still on the rug and suddenly felt very cold.

  He came back out in a minute and said he’d drive me home.

  We rode to my dorm in silence. He didn’t say anything when I got out of the car.

  In my room, I curled up in my bed in the dark and stared at the phone, sure he’d call. I rehearsed various speeches in my mind, speeches in which I would tell him that maybe there was a way we could get past this, that maybe there were things he wouldn’t say, either, if I asked, that I had already made compromises and that I’d been happy to make them for him, but this was something that bothered me. And if we couldn’t get past this, I wanted to say why it was hard for me to yield to his request.

  But I never got the chance to say any of it. He didn’t call.

  The only time the two of us did talk was in class, when all of us were discussing the reading materials. That was it.

  The semester eventually drew to a close. He and I never had another personal conversation.

  I got an A in the class. I guess David would have been afraid to give me anything less.

  By the way, I deserved it anyhow.

  For a long time after that, I had trouble seeing couples kissing on campus. Their lives were so normal; why did mine always have to be strange? Did these carefree couples know that for some people, not
everything worked out so neatly? Did they appreciate that?

  The worst was, I knew a lot of the couples were together just for sex. At least David and I talked about books, music and his work. What did these people who did nothing all day but face-mash actually talk about? Some of the girls on my floor had boyfriends whose biggest accomplishment was making fifth-string lacrosse or flunking astronomy.

  The rest of my time at Harvard wasn’t much of an improvement. I studied hard, graduated and moved into the apartment my father found for me.

  Now that I’ve just spent some time thinking about the relationship with David, I feel sore and unfulfilled, similar to how I often felt after the encounters themselves.

  So I go out to the supermarket to grab some ice cream and rainbow sprinkles.

  I wend my way through the murky city air and into the perfume-and-garlic world of D’Agostino. I pluck a frosty pint of Cherry Garcia from the freezer, and as I’m pacing the aisles, I pick up sprinkles and cherry soda, too.

  Once I get home, I make an ice-cream soda. The fizz bubbles high above the glass. When I taste it, I immediately realize I shouldn’t have been denying it to myself for so long. The ice cream slides down my throat into my gut. It feels absolutely wonderful. There is nothing better than this.

  I pass a mirror on the way back into my room and notice that my lips have turned red.

  Chapter Four

  In the morning, I’m depressed. I don’t know what to do. I have another appointment with Petrov. This probably won’t help. But maybe it will.

  The sidewalk is soggy, but the sun is out. I keep my eyes on the ground, feeling just as low. When I descend into the subway, there’s only one other person in the station. Still, I have to glance up at him.

  The way he looks strikes me immediately. He’s wearing a gray bowler hat. He appears to be in his early thirties. He’s also got on a long raincoat, and he’s clean shaven and looks unusually neat. But it’s the hat that strikes me. No one wears hats these days, especially a gray bowler hat. He looks like he’s out of an old detective movie.

  He paces before the complement of full-length Broadway ads: You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown; Les Mis; Phantom of the Opera. Occasionally, he starts muttering to himself. Just one of the many people in this city who are on the borderline.

  I lean against the wall and stare at the ground, at the oval slabs of gum that have been there so long they’ve turned black, and at the dirt and stones and wrappers. The Hat Guy is still pacing, still muttering, and I don’t want to appear to be staring at him, so I look away. There are so many places where we pick things to stare at in order to avoid looking at strangers. We do it in elevators all the time. But there is hardly anything to stare at on an elevator. I should start a company that manufactures sticky blue dots that read “Stare at this dot to avoid talking to the person next to you.” I could make a fortune.

  I wonder what people are supposed to talk about in elevators. “Wouldn’t it be funny if these Braille ‘numbers’ were really curse words?” “You know, it has been statistically proven that ninety percent of ‘door close’ buttons don’t really work.” “Hey, wanna order pizza from the emergency phone?” “You know, most buildings don’t have a thirteenth floor because the builders were superstitious. But this building actually used to have a thirteenth floor. It collapsed last year during a storm.” Come to think of it, I might use that one.

  The light from the subway train comes out of the tunnel, and then the train itself appears. The Hat Guy hops on, and we immediately head to opposite corners of the car like boxers in a ring.

  The Hat Guy pulls a long, thin book out of a flat paper bag and again starts muttering. On the train, there’s not much to stare at, except ads for community colleges. I think the quality of a college is inverse to how much it has to advertise. You don’t see Yale putting ads in the subway. The other ads are about made-for-TV movies on cable. Years ago, you used to be lucky if you could find one decent program out of three networks. Now, through the wonder of cable, the odds have been reduced to one in twenty.

  I get to Petrov’s a few minutes early and the door to his office is closed. I crouch next to the door and put my ear to it.

  I hear the guy inside say, “It’s in every one. In every sexual fantasy I have, right as we’re about to…uh, do it, the phone rings.”

  Petrov: The phone rings in your fantasies right as you’re about to have sex.

  Man: Yes.

  P: Do you answer it?

  M: No. But it completely ruins the mood, and the fantasy’s over.

  P: So you’re getting hot and heavy with a woman, you’re about to have sexual intercourse, and the phone rings.

  M: Yes.

  P: I think you have intimacy issues.

  M: What makes you say that?

  What idiots. Petrov shouldn’t even charge me, after having to listen to this dreck all day.

  I hear him approaching the door, and I scramble away from it. The guy who comes out is about four foot ten. I wonder how people like him even have sex. I’m not trying to be funny. How do people who are so different in height have intercourse? I’ve seen four-foot-eleven girls with men who look like they’re six foot three. When they’re in bed, do the girls climb up to kiss them, then lower themselves and have sex, and then, when they’re finished, climb back up and kiss them again?

  “Hi, Carrie,” Dr. Petrov says. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine.” I enter and sit down.

  “Is there a ‘but’?” he asks, sitting across from me. “You seem hesitant.”

  “Well,” I say, “I sort of have this problem.”

  “Okay.”

  “Whenever I’m having a sexual fantasy, the phone rings.”

  Petrov shifts uncomfortably. “I’d appreciate your not listening in on my sessions.”

  “I couldn’t help it. The door was just flat enough for my ear.”

  “Let’s see what kind of progress you’ve made on your to-do list.”

  ZOLOFT®

  Do things from list of 10 things you love

  Join an org./club

  Go on date

  Tell someone you care

  Celebrate New Yr’s

  “I had ice cream,” I say. “To fulfill mandate number one.”

  “That’s great,” he says. “Did you get rainbow sprinkles?”

  “Yes. I made a whole ice-cream soda.”

  “And how did it make you feel?”

  I have to admit it. “Pretty good,” I say.

  He smiles, as if he’s earned a victory. This bugs me, so I add, “I haven’t made any progress on getting a date. Or joining an organization.”

  “What about the guy from legal proofreading who flirts with you?”

  “He doesn’t flirt with me. And I haven’t seen him again yet. I will, though.”

  “Good. Remember not to back down if he wants to get to know you better. Even if he’s not exactly like you, you can still become friends with him.”

  “Okay.”

  “Have you found any clubs you might want to join?”

  “I’m looking around,” I say. “I’m still considering that church.”

  “You know, you’re in New York City. If you pick up the Weekly Beacon, there are lots of events in the listings section.”

  This reminds me of something. The Weekly Beacon has a very popular personal ad section. It gives you a little more than the usual personal ad websites on the Internet. You can read the Beacon’s ads in the paper or on the Web, but they also have a feature where you can have a voice mailbox so you can hear the other person’s voice and they can hear yours, without having to give out your number at first. So not only can you trade e-mails, but you can trade phone messages, too. That provides me with optimum chance to talk to them and rank their creepiness potential before I have to meet them. A lot of people on the Internet pretend to be different than they are. This is perfect. I should be able to get at least one date and satisfy Petrov’s requirement e
asily, even if this wasn’t the method he had in mind.

  I can place an ad and tell all about myself. What’s more, I can mention in the ad that I have morals and that I’m smart. And I can include my restrictions for the people who respond. That way, I might actually meet someone who has standards and intellectual interests.

  I’m definitely going to do that.

  Petrov asks, “Are you okay? You seem a little down today.”

  We go into how my week went, how my father is, and about New York in general, but I don’t mention Professor Harrison. I tell Petrov I’m going to rent classic movies after the session. That’s how I’ve been occupying several evenings lately, since I’ve read a lot of classic literature but haven’t seen enough classic films. The movies come from a top-100 movie list recently released by the Association of American Film Reviewers. They actually released a whole bevy of lists, including 100 best movies, 100 best movie scores, 100 best leading men, 100 best leading women, and 100 best movie characters. If I had to do my own film characters list, number 1 would be C. F. Kane, 2 would be Nurse Ratched, 3 would be Dr. Strangelove, and 4 through 21 would be Sybil. There are some great characters in movies—greater than in real life.

  When I leave Petrov’s office, I figure I’ll walk home instead of taking the scumway, so that I can pick up a DVD on the way. It’s not that long a walk. Maybe this is good practice for staying out on New Year’s Eve.

  A few blocks out of Petrov’s office, I see someone familiar. It’s Hat Guy again. He disappears around a corner. Is he following me? It’s awfully odd to see someone twice in one day whom you’ve never seen before.

  I wonder if my father is having him tail me to check up on me. I decide I’ll follow him a bit. I run up the block and around the corner. He disappears again. I try to catch up, but I lose him.

  Maybe I’m imagining it.

  When I get back to my apartment building, Bobby is outside, bending over a cellar window that’s caked with mud and damp leaves. He notices me from between his own legs. “Hey, beautiful,” he says. I quickly turn and don’t say anything. I push the front door open and jog up the stairs, which have been trampled for so many years that the black rubber matting beneath the carpeting has bled through on the edge of each step, and the color of the rug has turned from yellow to sallow.