Heavy With Future
Protected and Provided For
Marcy’s boobs had always gotten her in trouble. In third grade her plans to emulate her older sister deteriorated along with the tissues padding her training bra. She didn’t need to wait long to get a double-helping of what she wanted; she smuggled a full bust into the the first day of fourth grade. She got into a habit of assaulting the boys at recess that year. The front started with slaps upside the head and developed into full kicks to the balls. She thought it just to remind boys that men can’t hit women. She figured she’d need practice to be a professional goalie someday. Whether she was conscious of it then or not, she was frustrated the boys hadn’t developed as fast as girls. At the end of that year, she had grown as much as she would – out of reach of the top shelf. In middle school, the high school girls pecked at her relentlessly. Perhaps the locker she threw one of the raptors against still has the dent, but she wasn’t one to look back. Gradually, she was convinced to get reduction surgery. For her back. She needed to support herself. This was all some time ago. She behaved as if not a soul could recall.
She had spent the past five days nursing a psych ward bed in the biggest city in the state. She spoke to no one and stared past others as though they didn’t exist. Those around her thought she was stuck up for not noticing them. Her cellmate was a woman old enough to sport a gray mane, whose peace couldn’t be shaken, who abused silence without effort – had anyone cared to listen. This mate was catatonic, though Marcy didn’t know what that meant yet.
That fifth evening in group she practiced her case, not staring at anyone – or anything – in particular. She had to get good marks from the wardens to be let out. However, nothing leading to this point had been arrived at. What she did manage to convey was that she was anorexic; not unhealthy so, at least physically. She couldn’t see herself through the fog in her head. That was on good days. Other days the fog dissipated into total darkness. She had to borrow other eyes to see. She knew someone was there, but who that was needed shelter from the light.
Out of nothing she heard a voice ask modestly, “Is it men who make you feel the way you do or women?” She stumbled on her words, not sure what she said. Something stirred nearby though, shocked by a sudden insight half-remembered. It wasn’t until group concluded that she noticed who said it, he sat next to her the whole session. She found initiative the next day at lunch and took the seat across from this man.
He wore a smile she clearly reproduced from somewhere, but couldn’t place the face. “I almost didn’t believe it. How have you been Marcy?” he asked earnestly as he stood to hug her. She froze, still not sure what was happening. His smile switched sides, “I recognize those boobs anywhere.” She felt herself pulled from a depth, “Angel? Holy shit. Is that you?” “Present,” he puffed through his nose. “I haven’t seen you since…” she struggled. He lead, “It’s been a long time.”
She had been with the same man the past two years. He was a proper protestant on a mission and treated his future trophy with respect. However, he had placed her on the most remote pedestal possible – public outings – and refused to steal a peek up her skirt. She liked him because he was still near in the morning. He had a habit of drunkenly passing out on the lawn to escape his demons. She had a habit of keeping hers locked up. Angel seemed content keeping things on the surface too; all the crowds he found himself in only made him lonelier. He said, “Williams was only half right about ‘people who make you feel.’” She laughed and tried her hand at reminiscing.
“You were such a chicken shit in High School” she tried picturing the goldfish from anatomy class. His memories of her were as clear as the dawning of the originals. He smiled, “Hey, I knew you were the chicken shit, I promised to swallow one if you did.” She blushed. “I’m a man of my word and you know how much I love to bet,” he goaded.
She would have considered her aesthetic “cowgirl”, but found the association too close to that of Disney princess. She liked jeans. She liked sweat. She liked getting dirty. She hated posing. He laughed at the Disney bit, relieved her taste in music hadn’t calloused either. She still listened to the raw tunes they used to share, now alone or when her man was hammered. Neither deviant saw sense in being reminded of small towns by big city hucksters. He told her how soulless the corporate world was, but he had to find out for himself. The lives of office dregs, or lack thereof, still astonished him though. “You ever get the feeling all a person is are the thoughts of those around them?” he ventured, “Merely a vessel for fleeting spirits?”
A botched party scene paraded through her mind, “What happened to the farm house after we trashed it?” His eyes scanned the top of his tilted head, “The folks burned it down when we were away, long ago.” “Was your grandmother in it as it flaked away, Angel?” “Mercy!” he teased, “It’s On-hill.” He mused further, “How the hell did I come to even prefer bible-thumpers to the Victorian city-scapers?” She found it funny how she knew exactly what he meant. “Nothing’s out there now but rusted barbed-wire in tall grass,” he wondered aloud.
He told her his imagination was hard to maintain. The last woman he warmed up to had no pulse. Thawed personal dishes and over-watered bar piss was not enough to keep him on his best behavior. He knew why his drinking partner kept thumbing her upside-down wedding ring, but couldn’t get over her using a phone to push who she once was. So, he took a chance to converse. She told him it was sexist to rub one out at work, but invited him to her place anyway. He didn’t understand how he could be, alone in a latched men’s room. It was the tipping point he needed to trip through tipsy. He crashed on the couch the moment he got through her front door. She was the one to apologize in the morning and told him how attentive he was. “Men insult without meaning it, women compliment without meaning it,” he claimed he’d been trying to verify.
“God, you still need to do that at every new job?” she jostled past the cobwebs. “Nobody orders me around without me getting something out of it,” he shrugged happily. “Do you remember the faculty bathroom?” his smile twitched straining to keep one eyebrow down. She smiled too, as the memories peeped through, “I thought telling you my nipples hurt would throw you off.” “You couldn’t get me off even if you wanted,” he hedged. “Did you know it was the only one that locked from inside?” she didn’t need to ask.
She puzzled over their first memory, sensing that wasn’t it. She began to see how no one had nurtured her sexuality, just measured it as she did. These fragments formed an exception that brought a warmth she could rest in. At last she stumbled upon the true first.
“Did you stay after on purpose?” she dared. Their typing instructor kept them after school often, the only teacher who understood discipline. “I thought you did,” he affirmed, “I was quick with my fingers, but I kept pressing the wrong buttons.” His smile cast a new shade, “Mrs. Pitts was the only one looking out for us.” It was better than being home.
After they had been released – they explained how it was all a misunderstanding – she found herself in his bed. He placed his hand on her chest – bellow the neck and off-center of her breasts – and jolted her into the mattress. “I’m a vessel for your thoughts,” he smiled, watching his hand bounce her playfully, “I’m a harsh critic though.” His smile remained but his expression softened, “You know your boobs will grow again if we keep going like this.” She considered this and thought and pondered. No one had ever taken an interest in her future like this. He was more knowledgeable than she, but her instinct was stronger; she had found a home. In another tongue this feeling would have sounded “intuition”, but she understood better now. This time, she chose when to mature; her man was willing.
When she woke the sun had yet to rise. The room stunk with heft, but he was still in bed with her, arm slung across a tit. She began to feel her heart constrict as her chest became lead. She bolted upright and shook her man awake, “Angel, why are you with me?” He sighed deep, easy, rubbing yesterday from his lashes, “Because you still feel real to me.” She lay back down, closer to him. He stared his smile into her, “Our bodies know each other better than we think. I want to find out why we didn’t find ourselves sooner.” His smile wavered for the first time she could remember as he asked, “Do you want to share a future with me?” He placed her hand on his heart and found both quivering. She let slip, “What happened to us?” He was quick, as always, “We both wanted to grow too quickly, we just had different means. I knew I had to escape that town. Reality takes a backseat in the tunnel vision we think is freedom.” He caressed whatever his hand groped, “The light at the end was always behind us.”
It doesn’t matter which sense the body is violated, the heart never forgets. “Why didn’t you ever go all the way with me?” she was at a loss. “There was one future I dreaded more than any,” his smile wavered a second time, she was keeping count now, “a premature burial.” She pinched him out of it, “Please don’t be angry with me, but I can only just now remember back then.” Her heart began tightening again, but this time it felt different. She felt safe with him, like she could find release. Her body shook as though possessed of an abused animal, but those who knew her better understood she was starving.
“Please don’t let go,” she clung to him more gently than she knew how. They could barely distinguish each other as they fought back the morning. It was not yet their time, but now they had at least rediscovered each other. His smile had gone but his expression was more alive than she could possibly remember. He said, “I’ll stick around if you do.”
“So I just walked away,” something gurgled. “Wow, you’re so strong!” another grunted, picking a discolored lock from a crevice. “Can you believe the gall of some people? To objectify women like that?” postulated the mound of flesh before downing a cafeteria pudding cup. “You can’t just ogle a lady’s breasts like that!” belched the other, licking gravy from a frost-bitten country-fried steak. The canned spam squelched a shrill squeal as if porked, “Oh. My. God! This place is so much better than the last.” Jowls undulated in agreement, “The staff really does care for us, so understanding.” A wheeze countered, “I do miss my little Rascal though.” None of this was taken in over the splintering of the woodpecker boring its nest in Marcy’s head.