ARIZONA
He was a new dog. He didn't know better.
She was standing with him on the subway platform at Columbus Circle. Still more puppy than service dog, he was moving about, despite his harness, sniffing through her groceries and walking around within his limited range of motion.
"Down," she said in an authoritative timbre. The dog obeyed, placing its jaw on its paws and looking up at its mistress. Soon after, however, he was once again distracted, this time by a patch of chewed gum that was stuck to the yellow line on the platform. When the train's headlight became visible in the tunnel, the dog stood up, alerting her of its impending arrival. She picked up her packages in her left hand and waited. She could hear the screech of its approach in her left ear, the slowing rumble of it, the sparked cry of the third rail.
As the train approached, the dog stepped to one side of the support column on the subway platform, eager to be on the subway car full of lights, people, smells. Still a novice at riding the subway, she was unaware of the column, which is how she lost hold of the dog's harness. She stepped on the other side of the column, the harness sliding from her already tenuous grasp. As she whirled around in confusion, she lost her footing and fell onto the track.
She pushed with her arms against the damp soil beneath the rails, and managed to get onto her feet. But, because of her blindness, it was impossible for her to even figure out which way she should move. She whirled around with a drunken disregard, weaving back and forth in an attempt to situate herself. People were yelling, but it all just sounded like garbled noise. Because of the echo, chaotic sound came at her from all sides. As she sensed the train bearing down on her, large tears of fear welled up in her eyes. But her sobs quickly turned to hysterical giggles, the irony of it all. Strangely, she sat down on the rails and covered her ears with her hands and just laughed, even as the first steely wheels sucked in the hem of her skirt.
Had she been able to see, her last sight would have been of her dog looking down on her from the platform, barking frantically, pleadingly.
The 1 and 9 trains were rerouted for most of rush hour.
*
She was beautiful. They had pictures of her in the newspapers, her palest blue eyes almost coquettishly downcast, though it was probably just a reaction to the camera flash. On the news they showed her when she was only sixteen, blowing out the candles on her birthday cake. Her cheeks were rosy and her icy eyes were wide as she blew.
They didn't have videotape of her as she was before her death. They didn't have footage of her so hatefully blind that she lashed out at those that loved her most.
*
On NBC, they pronounced at first that she was just brain dead. They took her to the hospital where her lungs stopped working and, slowly, her heart stopped beating. In the Times, they had pictures of her dead body, twisted into obtuse angles. They reported that her arm and parts of both of her legs were completely severed. She wore long, blood-covered sleeves in the photo, a color shot. Her eyes were open, her wan irises barely discernible due to the poor contrast of newspaper copy. They remarked in Newsday that the shape of the subway bumper was dented in her chest. The Daily News speculated that if she had been closer to the head of the platform rather than the other end, there might have been less damage to her gross anatomy. Her death may have been less painful had she simply fallen on the third rail, said another less reputable news source. As it was, almost the entire length of the train rolled over her, the rumbling noise masking her laughter, followed by her deathly silence.
The casket was closed at the wake.
*
The man had first seen her when he was cleaning the windows in a classroom at the school. The other blind girls were playing games and running around in circles. Their laughs and screams rose to the second-floor window where he stood, watching. Most flopped this way and that like rag dolls. But she sat on the side, alone, her hands folded in her lap. She wore a blue dress and a ribbon in her hair. It seemed funny for a girl her age to wear a ribbon, but somehow it looked perfect on her. Her head was turned away from him. She sat like a statue, untouched by everything around her but the wind, which sent her ponytail billowing over her shoulder like a sail. She probably wanted to join in the games with the other girls, he thought. But she was a new girl and he knew how mean the blind girls could be to new people. So she sat alone, peacefully, as if she were carefully observing something in the distance.
He watched her until a teacher came into the room, followed by eight little blind girls, all on a string.
*
She liked to walk down the hallways alone, her hand sliding gently along the wall. The other girls held hands or were led on a rope like lambs. And she went to the bathroom at eleven thirty every day. He knew because he would be in his custodial closet as she passed, about to start his rounds. Her hand would brush awkwardly past the open door, waiting for the next stretch of wall.
One day he took her open hand. She started, her eyes flying open. They were the most beautiful of blues, though they stared nowhere in particular. She gasped and her whole body shook slightly.
"Don't be scared." He said, holding the hand tighter. As quickly as they had opened, her eyes closed and her face turned away from him.
"I wasn't." She replied. "Just startled."
That began their friendship. Each day she would walk by and wait for him to grab her hand. Each day he would grab it. She would smile and stop for a moment to talk to him about what was new with her. She was trying to convince her family to get her a seeing-eye dog.
"Then I could take the subway home instead of the school bus." She explained.
"Don't you like the school bus?" He asked, never letting go of her hand.
"No, I hate the school bus." She answered, casting her head downward. "I hate blind people."
*
He would sit in his room in the boarding home at night and think about her. She always had a kind word and a smile. But she was sad, deep down inside, just like him. She would have gone to college this year, had she not gone blind. She still wanted to go, one day. "Once I know this Braille stuff, I'm going to college. I don't care," her brow furrowing in emphasis. She hated being who she was, the blind girl, the new girl. She hated it.
He wished that he could help her, somehow, that he could make her happy the way that she made him happy, with her smile, her gently outstretched hand. He wished that he could make her understand what she meant to him, how beautiful she was.
*
He gave her the money that he had hidden in a Folger’s coffee can beneath his bed. He had been saving up to buy a motorcycle so that he could go to Arizona. A guy that used to work with him in construction said that Arizona was “gorgeous.” He had never been anyplace gorgeous. So he wanted to buy a motorcycle and go there. Just to see it.
He placed it in her outstretched hand one day.
"What's this?" She asked. She was so pretty.
"It's some money that I have. I thought you could use it to get a seeing-eye dog..." She thrust the money back toward him. "I couldn't. You probably need it."
"No. Take it. I wasn't going to use it for anything, really."
*
She walked by, her hand reaching toward him. This time he grabbed it and covered her mouth. Her body went stiff as he pulled her into the custodial closet and shut the door.
"Don't be scared." He said, touching her hair as he had so often wanted to do. Her body was so frail under his hands. The smell of ammonia filled the room, but when he put his mouth against her neck, she smelled faintly of perfumed soap. She cried out as he moved his hands down her body. Her rib cage was small, her hips only slightly bigger.
"Don't be scared. Don't be scared." He kept repeating it as he pulled up her skirt and unzipped his pants. He had wanted this so much. He wanted her to know that she was beautiful. He wanted to make her so happy. He wanted her to know how much she meant to him. She was just so frail, held there against the concrete wall by his thick, sandpaper fingers. He could break her with only his hands, she was so fragile. But he would never do that. He only wanted to make her happy.
With the first thrust she gasped. Her pale eyes flew open, looking nowhere in particular.
*
She walked by the next day, her hand reaching out to him. He took it and pulled her into his closet again. He buried his head in her chest and closed his eyes. Her hand rhythmically stroked his hair.
"You came back."
"Yes."
"You're not scared."
"No. Take me again."
"I love you, you know."
"I know."
"I-- I hope I didn't hurt you. Did it hurt?"
"Yeah, it hurt." He flinched.
"I'm sorry. I only wanted to make you happy."
"I know. Take me again."
"You want me to?"
"More than anything." She said sadly. "It was the first time since I was blinded that I knew that I was alive."
*
Her hands were small like the rest of her, he noticed as her fingers sought his.
"I got my dog." She said, smiling.
"Where is it?" He asked.
"In the kennel room, with the others." Her hand held his tightly. "And I took the subway today."
"How was it?"
"Wonderful." She gushed, her face flushing with the words. "My mom brought me here, but I'm going home by myself." She looked so happy. He was glad that he had done something to help her. Arizona was probably not gorgeous anyway. The guy from the construction site used to make up stories all the time.
"I named the dog after you." She said. "Want to go see him?"
"Sure." He said, pulling the door shut behind him.
"Wait." She commanded. "I want you to take me first. Please."
*
If she was going to be his girlfriend, he wanted to take her out on an actual date. School ended ended in late June and he wanted an opportunity to give her the romance she deserved. The big Black guy who stayed at the boarding house said girls loved romance, so that was what he she deserved. The only problem was that he had never been on a date, didn’t know what he was supposed to do exactly.
“Call her!” The Black man told him in his booming voice. “Take her out on the Fourth of July! It’s right around the corner. Take her for a ride in a carriage in Central Park. Chicks eat shit like that up.” The guy seemed to spend a lot of nights out, probably with women who loved his hulking frame and warm, lopsided grin.
He couldn’t find the Black guy to ask him where to take her first on the date. In the films they showed on movie night at the house, couples went out to eat, and he planned to take her somewhere memorable. The only person around to ask was an older Chinese guy. He suspected he didn’t understand English very well, because he didn’t speak it very well. He sat down next to the old man, who was whittling something that looked like a doll. He explained to the man that this was his first date ever, that he wanted to impress her and take her somewhere special, but he didn’t eat in restaurants and didn’t know where to take her. The old man nodded as flecks of wood flew from the flint in his hand onto the ground. He hoped he would clean them up afterward, but didn’t mention it.
“So where should I take her to make her want to be my girlfriend? Where is a nice restaurant for that?” The old man continued to nod, his eyes seeming almost closed in sleep, though his hands kept moving over the wooden doll. He was almost ready to give up, to wait for the big Black man to return-- which could take days-- when the old man finally spoke.
“Dim Sum. East side near 57th street. Best food in city. She will love you then.”
*
He went to the payphone with at least five dollars worth of quarters. He wanted to be prepared, in case she wanted to talk.
She didn’t. She accepted quickly and demanded a time and place. He gave her the address, but hadn’t thought about the time. Seven seemed good because then they could maybe catch the sunset, which was always romantic in the movies. Then he remembered she couldn’t see the sunset. She couldn’t see anything. Still, seven seemed appropriate and was already in his throat, so he blurted it out. Seven.
“Okay. See you then.” She said curtly and hung up. He pocketed the rest of his change and walked happily back to his room. It was a date.
*
He arrived early, just in case she needed help with her dog or something, but when he tried the door to the restaurant, it was locked. He read the hours on the door, stricken with horror. They had closed at three. He was four hours late for the meal that would make her love him. He didn’t even know what to do. He lurched up and down the street, looking for another restaurant. There was a diner on the corner of Lexington, but it looked greasy. Still, greasy food was better than no food at all, and she would be there any minute. He tried to take a few deep breaths and walked back to the bolted door of the Chinese restaurant, defeated.
She pulled up in a cab and opened the door. He rushed to help her out and up onto the sidewalk. She stepped gracefully, followed by the bounding dog.
“Hey! You brought my namesake?” He asked, letting her arm slide gently into the crux of his own. Her hair was down and blowing gently in the breeze like a movie star.
“Yeah. I hope it’s not a problem. Some restaurants may not let him in, but I figured I’d risk it. He hates when I leave him home alone” Of course, he thought. She was so smart. No wonder she was going to go to college. She thought things out like that.
“I don’t know how to tell you this,” he started shyly, “but the restaurant I had planned to take you to is closed. It’s a dim sum restaurant, but they close early. I didn’t know.”
“Ooh, dim sum! I love dim sum. I haven’t had that in a while.” She exclaimed. He felt chagrined, as if he had really let her down with his poor planning. He should have just waited for the Black guy; then none of this would have happened. Then he remembered Plan B.
“There is another restaurant close by. It’s a diner though. Want to try it?” He glanced at her to gauge her reaction. She wrinkled her nose in what looked like disgust.
“Did you know that one hamburger could have thousands of cows in it? I don’t really do greasy spoons.” She said flippantly. “I saw that in a movie once. Changed my life completely.” He wondered if she actually saw the movie before she was blind, or if she just heard the movie. He didn’t ask.
“I don’t know this neighborhood too well-” he started hesitantly.
“I do,” she cut him off abruptly. “We’re here all the time. Take me to The Plaza. They have a lot of things I can eat there. It’s on Fifth Avenue”
Fifth Avenue sounded expensive. He had cashed his entire check at the check-cashing place and, after he paid for his room, he wadded the rest of it up and brought it on his date. Fifth Avenue sounded like rich people, not like what was in his pocket. But it was his first date, and he was desperate to make her happy. So he led her down 57th Street toward Fifth Avenue. He wished she could see the color of the sky as they walked west, like a bouquet of flowers you would get at the hospital-- lilacs and blush colored roses, amber clouds hovering over the buildings, their windows lit with fluorescent energy like stars.
He said nothing. He didn’t want her to feel like she was missing something.
*
When he got to the Plaza, he realized that this was the fanciest place he had ever been into in his whole life. Once he had been to Carnegie Hall because he won tickets on the radio, but this was even fancier than that. His brown wool pants and white button down shirt seemed underdressed for this place. Even the guys holding the doors were dressed nicer than the was.
“Look,” he told her flatly, “I don’t know if I’m dressed nice enough to get in here.” He was right. At the entrance, a man asked his size and promptly returned with a suit jacket and tie. He slipped them on and thanked him, then gave him a dollar. He thought about it for a moment, then gave him a second dollar. This was way out of his league.
Once they were seated, he could barely keep his eyes on her because the room was so opulent. Frescoes and gilded everything. Real velvet on the chairs, he imagined. He was in awe of everything around him.
“Have you been here before?” She asked. He shook his head, then realized she wouldn’t see that, then answered negatively.
“It’s my parents’ favorite around here. They like the fancier restaurant, but I like it here in the Palm Court. The food is good. And they let me bring my dog. You’ll like it.” Unlike at school, she looked perfectly in her element, her hands folded neatly in her lap.
When the waiter brought the menu, he nearly burst into tears. Even just salads cost more than he made working two full hours. Was the water even free? She ordered something called an endive salad and a half-bottle of Blanc des Blancs. Half bottle? He thought, alarmed. He couldn’t find the items on the menu quickly enough to add up how much was already spent, plus he had to remember the two dollars he had given the jacket guy.
“And for you sir?” The waiter asked. He kept his head down as if he were gazing at the menu, but really he was fighting back tears. This was not the first date he had planned at all.
“Oh, I’m not so hungry…” He started.
“Nonsense!” She interjected. “He likes meat. He’s never been here before. He’ll have the rib-eye and a glass of Malbec. He’ll be in heaven. Medium rare, I’d guess.” The waiter bowed and promptly left. He tried to get around the knot in his throat to speak.
“Relax,” she said, finding his thigh with her hand. “I’m paying.” Though he was finally able to breathe again, he knew this was not how dates were supposed to be. Men were supposed to pay.
“I have a credit card. And you know the best thing about this place?” She leaned in conspiratorially, “They never card me because I’m blind.”
*
She was right. The steak was better than any food he had ever tasted in his lifetime. And the wine slid down his throat as if to catch the juices from the beef. The tiny potatoes were soaked in something that smelled and tasted like an elixir, and the “haricots verts” tasted exactly like green beans, which he loved. He could barely make any conversation because he was eating so eagerly and happily. When he finally did come up for air, his voice was more effusive than he expected.
“This is the most delicious meal I’ve ever had. Thank you so much!”
“Well, a first date should be special…” She replied, placing her hand on his thigh again. He could immediately feel himself getting aroused, the white linen napkin in his lap rising like a flag.
“You mean, this is your first date too?” He asked, astonished. He couldn’t believe that a girl this beautiful wouldn’t have gone on a date before.
“Oh, no! I mean it’s our first date. I’ve been on a lot of dates,” she snorted, “Too many. Mostly with losers from the boarding school I used to go to… So, wait. This is your very first date, like, ever?” He felt so embarrassed by the question, by his erection, that he couldn’t think up a clever way around the truth.
“Yes,” He said, “This is my first date ever.” He saw something like a sparkle flash across her face, something in her closed eyes that was still somehow expressive and sexy. She slid her hand further up his thigh toward his tented napkin.
“So, no girl has ever done this to you before?” She inquired as her fingers nimbly found his stifled penis encased in brown wool and draped in white linen. He jumped and almost knocked over his sparkling water. She smirked as her hand cascaded up and down the napkin. Holy Fuck, he thought as he let his head fall backward and closed his eyes.
He opened them to see the waiter standing over him. He sat up straight and put his hand on top of her hand, but she didn’t stop. She didn’t see him there. The firmer he grasped her hand, the harder her stroke became. He looked expectantly at the waiter, who said nothing but just looked on. As much as he didn’t want it to stop, he had to say something.
“Oh, look, honey, the waiter!” He exclaimed in a breathy timbre. He had been so close to coming that he had forgotten where they were. In the fanciest restaurant in the world. Getting a hand job. His face was beet red and downcast as the waiter cleared the plates.
“Can I interest you two in some dessert, perhaps? The chef has made something special for the Fourth of July.” So nonchalant, this waiter, as if this were completely normal.
“I think just the check, please. We’re ready to get out of here.”
*
Outside, the July air was nothing like the cool interior of The Plaza. Part of him was thinking how he couldn’t wait to tell the Black guy about how he got a hand job at the fanciest restaurant he had ever seen. But mostly he wanted to focus on her.
“I thought I would take you for a carriage ride in the park, if that’s alright with you.” He took her hand and gently threaded it through his arm so she could use him as a guide. He held the dog’s harness in his other hand. Her nose wrinkled again and she chuckled.
“Really? You’d want to do that?” He couldn’t tell if she thought it was stupid. It probably was stupid. Stupid Black guy.
“You know what? I’d love that. A horse-drawn carriage ride on the Fourth of July. It sounds very romantic, like something out of a movie.” He asked God to take back what he said about the Black guy and led her toward the park. Several carriages sat in a row, some of the drivers sitting in them, others talking and smoking nearby.
“Smells like shit.” She noticed. And it did. It smelled like every horse in the row had just taken a dump. Not romantic at all. He wanted to hit himself.
“You lovely folks looking for a ride?” One driver asked from atop his seat. His horse was white and looked princely, the way his coat gleamed under the streetlights. He looked exactly as he had imagined.
“Yeah,” he replied gruffly, then, realizing he had nothing else to add, he just said it again, “Yeah.” He helped her into the carriage and then began to pick up the dog. The driver made a “tsk” noise that really bothered him, reminding him of scoldings he had gotten as a child.
“No dogs, pal. We can leave him here with these guys though. They’ll watch him. I promise.” Uncertain, he handed the dog to the gaggle of drivers and hoisted himself up next to her. She shrugged. The seats were wooden and not very comfortable. Things always seem better in fantasy than reality.
“You picked a great night for this. From here, we should still be able to get a pretty great view of the fireworks on both rivers.” The driver told him as he prodded the horse and pulled him out into the street.
“She can’t see,” he told the driver, almost annoyed that he had mentioned the fireworks. It was like telling someone about something special that wasn’t meant for them. “She’s blind.”
“Well,” the driver said over his shoulder, nonplussed, “Whatever. You enjoy it then, buddy.” The horse stopped at a stop light, which struck him as funny, then pulled into the park.
He looked at her. She had a content countenance, relaxed, as the streetlights brought her face into glowing sharpness then obscure bas-relief. She had her hand on his thigh again, but he was just happy it was there.
“I’m drunk.” She said matter of factly, smirking at him. For the first time, he noticed a spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose. “And I have a present for you.”
A present? This was all so strange to him. He was supposed to pay for dinner. He was supposed to be the one making the moves on her. And now she had a present for him and he had nothing to give her. He wished he had bought her some flowers or something, but he didn’t think they would want to carry them around for the whole night. He made a quick resolve to get her some before she went home.
The first explosion happened in the east. Bright pinks and purples, followed by blues, white, and smoke. They followed in quick sequence, color upon color lighting up the dark, always followed by a cloud of grey smoke, even visible in the night sky. When the horse turned, the western heavens were filled with brilliance from above the Hudson River, crimson and gold.
“So what’s my present?” He asked, curious what she would give him. With little notice or hesitation, she moved her hands to his pants zipper and lowered her head onto his lap. The stratosphere exploded in reds and blues as he sat, astonished, bewildered, and in awe.
*
Before he took her to the subway, they stopped at a bodega. He picked a bunch of roses for her, then thought of the thorns and put them back. Instead, he chose a bunch of bright flowers dyed red, white, and blue, which he would explain to her, once he presented them to her. She had gone inside the store to get a few things she needed, while he waited outside with the dog. When she finally emerged, her arms were burdened with plastic bags.
“Wow,” he smiled, “You really loaded up.”
She shrugged. “I needed some stuff. I can never just get one thing when I shop.” He thrust the bouquet at her, then realized that she didn’t see he what he was doing. He grasped her hand and put the flowers in it.
“These are for you,” he said shyly. “They’re red, white, and blue.” She smiled slightly then bent her head to smell them. He wasn’t sure if they smelled or not. He hadn’t thought of that.
“Very patriotic.” She said with a genuine smile. “Thank you.”
They strolled to the obelisk statue in Columbus Circle and sat on the steps that surrounded it. The dog kept pulling on his left arm as he chased the pigeons into flight. Though it distracted him, he focused on his left, where she sat. This was the end of their date. It had been a lot of fun, not what he expected at all. There were a lot of firsts for him that night, some of which made him uncomfortable, but maybe love was sometimes uncomfortable. He knew he had missed his curfew at the house, but he didn’t even care. Sometimes the guy on duty let people in after hours; he had seen him do it. He never broke curfew before, but even if he had to sleep outside on the street until the doors were unlocked at 5:30am, it was worth it. It had been the most amazing night of his life.
"Hey, have you ever been to Arizona?" He asked her. She inclined her face toward his. Her hair fell over her closed eyes.
"Yeah, I went when I was a kid. Why?"
"What was it like?" He asked sheepishly.
"It was fun. I went with my parents and my brother. It was a vacation, you know-"
"No." He interrupted, shaking his head as if she could see. "I mean, what did it look like?" He implored.
"Oh, it was really beautiful. The landscape was amazing. It's a really pretty place. You should go someday."
He replied, but his face was turned away, his words lost in the breeze.
*
"Hey, can I feel your face?" she asked a few moments later.
"Why?" he replied, knowing the reason, but trying to delay the moment. Her head tilted to one side, toward the moonlight. "So I can imagine what you look like. I'm so curious..." She smiled and reached her hands toward his face. He closed his eyes so that he couldn't see hers when they flew open.
*
His story was followed by the papers and the T.V. news for months. The press loves a tragic hero, a victim. He was only eleven at the time and, though part of him was embarrassed about the whole thing, he thought it was kind of cool to see his picture in the Times, to hear his name on ABC news. His nurses started clipping the articles and taping the news shows for him, which they would present to him at the start of their shifts.
The attention became annoying, however. All the well-intentioned cards, flowers, and letters piled up on his bedstand. He hated the way that the people who wrote him would put down his mother, saying she deserved whatever she got. He couldn't understand how these people could condemn her when they didn't even know her. When he was especially angry, he would write back in his best print and explain that his mother loved him and that she was a very good mother and that it was he, not she, who had been bad.
*
He had been very bad. He tried to be good, but somehow he always did something horrible. He was a bad seed.
He had made soup for snack when he got home from school. It was pretty easy to make, just add three cans of water to the soup stuff and stir. He had ladled the soup into a bowl, put the rest of the soup into a Tupperware container, and washed the pot and ladle that he had been using. He was in a hurry because Superfriends, his favorite cartoon show, was about to begin and the first scenes always featured Aquaman, his favorite character. He raced into the living room, taking care to not spill his soup on the way. After the show, he took his bowl and spoon back to the kitchen, washed them, and put all the dishes away before he returned to the living room to take a nap. The first sensation he remembered was that of a presence over him as he awakened. He opened his eyes and smiled up at his mother. Her face was red and she looked hatefully at him.
Haven't I taught you anything? Why can't you do anything right? Do you do it to hurt me? You must hate me to be such a fucking awful child. Are you fucking trying to kill us both? Don't you know how hard I work just so we can stay here in this fucking apartment? Look at what you did!
She grabbed him by the throat and lifted him to his feet. She pulled him into the kitchen and flung him on the linoleum tile. He curled up in a ball and kept crying the same two phrases over and over, gasping for air between them.
I'm so sorry, Mommy. What did I do wrong?
The first thing that hit him was a folding chair. It slammed on his body with what felt like the weight of a person. His torso started to writhe and the words came faster, his lips wet with tears and saliva.
I'm so sorry, mommy, what did I do wrong, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, what did I do? I'm sorry, mommy, what did I do?
A jar of jelly hit him in the lower back, but didn't break. She grabbed him by the arm and yanked him to his feet. The chair clattered as it fell from on top of him.
WhadidIdo? WhadidIdo? WhadidIdo, mommy?
She led him over to the electric stove. The dial on the burner he had used was still set on medium high. The coil glowed red hot. He had forgotten to turn it off when he made his snack.
Sorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorry!
She pushed the back of his head and his face bounced off the burner. His head started tingling, his hands waving frantically, uncontrollably, at his sides. His mouth was moving, but he couldn't form words. He could only scream while his jaw moved, uncontrollably, up and down. She held him by one ear and pressed his profile against the coil. His wail grew fainter and fainter until he fell silent. In his last few moments of consciousness, he could hear his mother's voice and the sizzle of his drool and skin against the burner.
*
He never saw his mother again. She was convicted before he was released from the hospital. He spent the better part of a year in there, while doctors tried to reconstruct his face through various grafting procedures. He wrote, but she never replied. He even visited once, despite the disapproval of his foster family. His foster mother finally allowed him to go, accompanied by the next-door neighbor.
She refused to see him. He waited in the lobby, his legs dangling a few inches above the floor. He kept his eyes downcast. He hated the looks of pity that strangers gave him. His face was almost normal on one side, but the other side resembled a poorly crafted patchwork quilt. The skin was taut in places, loose in places, scarred virtually everywhere. So he kept his head down and slightly angled so that the ugly side would face the floor, a posture that became as much a part of him as his smile.
As he walked back to the fenced-in parking lot, the tears welled up in his eyes. His neighbor took his hand and put her other hand on his shoulder. The tears burned as they rolled down some parts of his face, still raw and unhealed.
He hadn't loved another woman besides his mother, until now.
*
Her fingers traced the scarred side of his face. He tried to explain what had happened, but the words didn't sound right.
"I love you." he said, reaching up to take the roving hand. She recoiled, pulling her hand back as if from a flame.
*
He called her for the rest of July, then August. Her phone generally just rang and rang. Sometimes her father would answer and he would hang up, ashamed. The first day of school couldn’t come fast enough for him.
He waited for her in his custodial closet. He could hear the distinct click of her heels as she neared. He checked his watch. Eleven-thirty, on the dot. But when she appeared, she was on the other side of the hallway, gripping the far wall. She didn't even turn her head his way.
He walked down the hallway after her. She kept walking. He grabbed her shoulder and turned her around.
"What do you want?" she said in a low tone.
"I… I just wanted to say hi." He looked at her entreatingly, searching her face for its usual warmth.
"Oh. Hi." she replied and turned around. She started to walk away, but he grabbed her shoulder again, more firmly this time, and held her there.
"Do you want to go out and get some food or a drink or something tonight?"
"I can't..." her hand flew to her throat, as if noticing that a precious locket were missing.
"What about tomorrow?" he asked hopefully.
"I don't think so."
"Friday? Saturday? Sun-"
"Look," she said, "I don't think that we should be... seeing that much of each other,"
"Why?" he asked, his words almost a cry.
"Why?" She laughed at his question then paused. "Because you are a monster. A living, breathing monster. You are grotesque. I never want you to touch me again. If I could see, this never would have happened. You took advantage of me because I'm blind and I can't see how ugly you are."
"What did I do wrong? Why are you being like this?" he asked, the words constricting in his throat. She paused and sighed. "If you were me, would you be embarrassed to walk down the streets with you?"
"Yes." he replied, shame bowing his head slightly at an angle.
"Would you take someone like you home to meet my parents, if you were me?"
"No." he said, turning his face further from scrutiny.
"So what would you do if you were me?" She turned and fled the corridor, occasionally tripping over her own feet.
*
grotesque (n): odd and unnatural in shape, appearance, or character; fantastically ugly or absurd; bizarre. Her sadness was grotesque.
*
He had imagined that she would take him in her arms and hold him there, that she would cry for him, that she would kiss all of his scars and tell him that he had been very brave. He had imagined that she would help him erase the past, through love.
How a blind girl could reject him because of his looks, something intangible to her, was beyond him. Still, he loved her.
*
He sat at the home that night, thinking. The T.V. was the only light, blue and electric against the walls of the room. He wasn't going to let her go that easily. With true love, you hold on, no matter what. He was going to follow her home, take her in the twilight behind a building, in an alley. He would do it forcefully at first, then gently, once she realized that it was him. Then she would know that he loved her more than he had ever loved anyone else, even his mother.
The guys at the construction site used to joke that he had a face that only a mother could love. They hadn't known that he had never even had that.
He fell asleep with the T.V. on.
*
He walked a good distance behind her. He was afraid that she would smell him, sense him somehow, and run away. He was very careful to cross the streets only after she had reached the other curb. He waited patiently outside the stores as she ran her errands. He went in the other entrance to the subway station. He stood by the booth to buy a token, watching her all the while. She went through the handicapped gate and walked a few paces down the platform, out of view.
He put his token in the slot and stood two columns away from her. She was having problems controlling her dog. He was jumping about, looking this way and that.
"Down." she said intermittently, pulling back on his harness.
He was concentrating on what he would do once they reached their destination. He would possess her in the twilight, behind a building, in an alley. He would do it forcefully at first, then gently, once she realized that it was him. He saw the light in the tunnel as the train approached. He would get on through a different door and sit at the far end of the car. The dog stood and started to move forward.
He watched until the train came to a stop on top of her body. As the crowd began to gather, the transit authorities muscling through to the scene of the accident, he shook. For about five minutes he stood and shook and shook and shook, his arms across his rocking body, his head twisted to its awkward angle. The sunnier side, though contorted with its trembling, was up.
He then noticed the dog, his namesake, frozen in place on the crowded platform, below which his master's dead body lay. Wordlessly, he took hold of his harness and hurried him toward the exit.