Oh! Oh! Grandpa says when he spots me, doing a little jog over, opening his skinny arms out wide. He hugs me tightly, and it feels the way it always does, bony and a little painful, but mostly good. He gives me a shake and then releases me.
You came to get some jam, did you?
I nod dutifully.
It’s been a while since we’ve had any elderberry, he says. But let’s see if we can’t dig some up.
I follow them through a door and then another one. Shelves are laid out on either side of me, stacked with scrap wood for burning or building, used cans of spray paint. My grandparents disappear into a dark side room, and I stop to dig through a red milk crate of vinyl records. A feeling of cool fear comes over me flipping through the albums, not finding anything I recognize. I have no idea who could have owned anything by the Carpenters.
We’ve found something here, Cassie!
My grandma is just on the other side of the wall, working her way toward the doorway between us. Your father used to love this! she says, but I’m already backing away. She says something about how quickly the weekend goes by, and behind her, Grandpa replies, All the snow will melt soon enough, Fran. But I can’t listen. It is as though their voices are arriving to me from a future that does not include them. I turn to go upstairs. It’s cold down there, and I’ve forgotten why I came.
THE TRUCKER PICKS ME UP in a small maroon car. It reminds me of boys I knew in high school.
Where’s the truck?
He laughs. You think I drive that around town?
Oh, right.
I turn behind me. I think about climbing in the back later, but it doesn’t have the same allure, none of the tight order of the truck cab. There’s something embarrassing about his tiny car, his tininess within it. And he looks different, his hair no longer hidden beneath his cap, something open and bare about his face.
Where to? he asks.
I suggest the hip, dark place with the white plates. It’s a joke, but he takes me seriously. I want to say that he wouldn’t like it there, that the lighting, the music, everything about it is delicate and precise—pretentious—but we go anyway.
At the table, he squints into the menu. So a bunch of little things, not a regular entr ée. He purses his lips. I can tell I’m going to leave completely sated, he says, nodding.
A different model-waitress from last time takes our order and comes back with red wine. We touch glasses ceremoniously, and when I bring mine to my lips, some dribbles down my chin. This always happens. It’s like I’m throwing it at my face and just hoping some makes it in.
I have a drinking problem, I say. He laughs, though I know he doesn’t get the Airplane! reference. I realize now what it is about his face. He’s trimmed his beard. What was once thick as Bluto is now like lace, snow-white pieces of skin visible across his cheeks.
So your dad used to work for Peterbilt?
Yup.
Retired?
He’s dead, actually.
Oh, I’m so sorry.
That’s all right, I say. He doesn’t mind.
He pinches his brow.
I mean, what are you gonna do?
He tilts his head, a tentative smile shaping his lips. He clears his throat.
So what kind of truck did he drive? Local? Long haul?
Long haul, I say, and he nods slowly, as though he just correctly guessed my zodiac. I don’t want to explain that my dad never drove the trucks. He only worked on the engines, taught people how to fix them, but that it kept him away nonetheless. He only wore plaid on the weekends.
You know, this place isn’t horrible, he says, looking up at the Edison bulbs hanging from the ceiling.
No, not horrible, I say, grabbing my glass, not spilling any this time.
AFTER DINNER I convince him to take me to the truck yard. I jump up and down and tug on his arm until he says yes. There is a long line of semis, staggered as neatly as a card trick. I can’t tell which one is his until we’re beside it and I’m climbing up the little ladder. We get in the back, and I start jumping on him. I bury my head into his armpit and try to push him over. I crouch up and fall down on his chest, he taking my weight like he’s wrestling a toddler.
Jesus, girl, settle down! he says, laughing. I’m really spazzing out; I can feel it. But I can’t stop myself. My laughter comes up like seltzer.
You’re out of control, girly!
I told you I had a drinking problem!
Shirley, you must be joking.
Hey, I thought you said you’d never seen that.
I watched it the other night.
I’ve got him in a bear hug. I want to turn him over. I’m grunting and straining against his bulk, but he doesn’t move.
Hey, come on, settle down. Let’s have a conversation.
Bor-ing. I climb over onto his back and whisper in his ear, You’re a lumberjack and you’re okay. You sleep all night and you work all day.
His body finally comes alive, and he yanks me around to face him, grabbing my shoulders. Let’s get out of here, he says.
I crinkle my nose: I want to stay. I try to shrug him loose, but his hands hold my arms down. I drop my head to my shoulder, my neck feeling vaguely whiplashed.
What’s going on with you?
I shrug my shoulders. He’s trying to look into my eyes, which only makes me sad. I cross my arms and shrink a little. I want to move and keep on moving, but I’ve lost my verve.
Let’s just drive somewhere. Do you have to make a run?
A run? No, he sighs, shaking his head. He dips his chin to hide his smile. He’s patronizing me now, I can feel it, but I don’t know how to explain to him that I don’t want to know anything outside of his cab, where everything is small, where everything has its place. I think of the virgin. How nice it must be to know all there is to know about a dead president but nothing about what he did in his bedroom. It feels right, as close as we should get to any one thing. The trucker drops his hands from my shoulders. His body is as thick as a buoy; if tossed into the ocean he would float forever. His hand is warm when it touches mine, and at first I want to pull away, but I take it and squeeze. I squeeze as hard as I can, like I’m gripping a pair of those springy hand grippers, like I’m trying to break them. I look at him. He looks back and squeezes my hand just as hard. His face has become serious and rigid, his warm eyes sunk to somewhere darker. It starts to hurt. I want to ball up my other hand and punch him in the face; I want to bite his lips. I want him to bite me. But we stay right there, him squeezing my fingers hard enough that I stop feeling them, his hands and arms so big that he could fold me up and shove me into one of the storage compartments, stuff me inside the little closet. I think of how cramped it would be in there with all his jackets and work boots and movies, how, with my arms pushed to my chest and the door shut, I might never get out.
GIVE AND GO
THE PROBLEM WAS THAT THE MAN was too tall. Or the woman too short. He didn’t want to lord over her. She didn’t want to be so far away from his mouth. She wasn’t the kind of woman to wait, to pine, to wish and hope and pray to someday maybe be kissed. If she wanted to kiss, she was probably kissing. The man knew this about his friend, appreciated that directness, and so on their walks, and on this walk in particular, a basketball tucked beneath his arm, her striped athletic socks pulled up to her knees, he found himself slouching, while she pulled herself up as tight and tall as ever, her large breasts pushed out forward, as though guns ready to be fired. What more could she do? Ask him to stop so she could get some height from a concrete planter? Hook her foot in a fence? He, sensing her frustration, sometimes wondered if it wouldn’t be best to just get it over with and pick her up. She was heavier than most short women he knew—the elastic of her sports bra pushing out the excess flesh of her body—but he was stronger than he looked and wouldn’t mind the strain. He thought this consciously, held it out before him in his mind, that this kissing, this coupling, was something he should do, but he couldn’t bring himself to close that last bit of gap between them. He’d broken up with his girlfriend of two and a half years at the beginning of the summer, and he saw how something had turned on in the short woman. He felt a sudden desire, could sense her pushing, pushing, nearly running in his direction, this forward momentum forcing him to unfold a thought that had lain closed in him for some time—that he might not like women or men for any kissing whatsoever. The feeling left him slack and weighted, filled with sad guilt that he couldn’t return his friend’s big desire. Like today, all their walks took place in the middle of the afternoon, the summer heat drawing sweat from their necks, no time at all, the tall man reasoned, for two people to smash their faces together anyway.