Later.
You can call them now. I don’t mind.
That’s okay. She rubs the balm over her lips then replaces the cap as on a stick of glue.
I park in the back at the Salvation Army. We open up the double doors. The warehouse is scattered with piles and piles of stuff. Clothes, housewares, books. No shelving, no clothes racks, just pile after pile, like an industrial yard full of garbage waiting for a band of hoboes to come along and set it all on fire.
This is the wrong one, Emily says.
No it’s not, I reply.
She drops her shoulders. You’ve got to be kidding me.
There are two Salvation Armies in town. The regular one, the one with eighties blazers and bins full of balled-up scarves, and the reject one, the one that takes all the stuff that doesn’t sell at the regular Sal’s. We’re at the reject one, the one that sells by the pound.
I approach a pile. Shoes without their mates, bras the color of stained teeth. I pick up a vase.
Look at this vase! I hold it up like a trophy. It’s purple with two turquoise dolphins on either side. They’re curved into S’s with their heads pointed up, mouths open in smiles.
That’s nice, Emily says.
Don’t you love it? I can’t believe it didn’t sell at the other place.
It’s truly a wonder, she says.
I wonder how much it costs. I weigh it in my hand.
You’re not buying that.
I want it.
You’re not bringing that thing into my home.
But look at them—they’re making a heart with their bodies. Their dolphin bodies. They’re saying, I love you, other dolphin!
I don’t care what they’re saying.
They’re mammals, I reply, as though their possible relation to eels were causing the holdup.
She stuffs her hands into her shorts and walks down the way, too quickly to really look at anything.
I get back to the pile. I tuck the vase beneath my armpit so I can pick up an old rubber doormat, but when I stand to examine it, the vase takes a dive to the floor, and one of the dolphins cracks off. At the far wall, an employee heaves a bag of garbage over his shoulder and walks toward the exit. I push the vase pieces back into the pile with my foot, hoping they’ll be able to keep themselves together in all that mess.
I SKIPPED A COUPLE OF DAYS of washing my hair, so when I shower this afternoon, gobs and gobs come out. I pick it from my palms and place each strand on the tile. Emily works the four-to-midnight shift, and most days I manage to get in before her. It’s just that sometimes the hair dries. It curls away from the tile and falls to the tub with all the intention of leaves from trees.
IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO TALK
It seems clear, but I worry about how she might fill it in: I have the number for a great therapist. You should try journaling. Maybe Will was just kidding!
I LIVE DOWN THE HALL
And I can’t help but wonder how long it will be true. That maybe if I don’t break any of her vases, she’ll keep me on as a partner, a sort of life assistant. Sometimes I go to the store and buy these gluten-free crackers I know she likes (though I often end up eating half of them when I’m home alone). I let the water run a half hour more and splash some onto the wall to make sure my message doesn’t fall away.
A COUPLE OF DAYS LATER Emily and I are lying out on the side of the La Quinta swimming pool. Short green bushes run along the perimeter, and on the other side of them we can see the tops of semis as they drive by. It’s barely eleven on a Monday and we’re the only ones out here. Tiny speakers hidden in the bushes pump out crackly dance tunes—a little Motown, a little funk. A man is singing about how his woman is as sweet as or sweeter than honey.
Emily’s wearing a white short-sleeve button-up and a pair of loose chambray pants. When we arrived and she didn’t undress, she said that even on her day off, her employees should not see her in a bathing suit.
You’re going to get an awful farmer’s tan, I said.
She only shrugged and opened up a magazine.
Hey, Emily, check this out. I stand up and take a running dive into the deep end of the pool. When I come to the surface and look up, her head is still tilted down, her eyes covered by her big sunglasses.
Did I splash?
You jumped into a pool of water. Of course you splashed.
But a big one? I ask, hoisting myself up onto the side of the pool.
Yeah, a big one.
I want her to rank me—8.3, 9.2. Like I said, these small things, these seemingly small things, are important. I walk over to the table between our chairs and open up a bag of salt and vinegar chips. There’s something satisfying about my body dripping wet and the chips being dry and crisp inside their bag.
This is fun! I say, sitting down in my lounger. We never get to hang out.
We hang out all the time.
I meant before, I guess. I crunch into a chip. Aren’t you having fun? I ask.
Not really, no.
Emily’s phone rings on the table between us. She looks at its face then presses a button on the side, silencing it and turning it over. It could be La Quinta or the deep voice from the other day or someone else entirely. Emily rubs her eyes then moves her hand to her chest, letting it rise and fall there.
Emily, I say.
What. Her head is down, her face hard beneath her sunglasses.
The music has clicked over to a funk song with lots of bass and brass. I stand up and start doing this dance I made up where I pretend my arms don’t work. I leave them dead and hanging and get them flopping around by moving my legs and torso.
Emily.
I’m not looking at you, she says.
I move so that my shadow is cast over her. I twist back and forth so hard that my arms fly up and hit their opposite shoulders.
Stop it, she says.
Em, I don’t know what’s happening—my arms don’t work.
You look like an idiot, she says, but I know she doesn’t mean it; her mouth is smiling without her permission and her shoulders start to shake. This is my favorite part. When she’s laughing at me but doesn’t want to. When she tries not to encourage me, but her smile keeps cracking through.
Stop it! she cries. She pushes her hand into her smile as though to crank it back down, unable to stand the way we give each other joy.
BACK AT HOME, I pass her room on the way to the shower. The door is cracked and I can hear her soft crying.
Em? I push open the door.
She’s sitting on the edge of her bed. She raises her face, eyes red-rimmed and too wide, like I’ve caught her at something. I walk in and lower myself next to her, and the depression of the bed sinks our shoulders together. The water in my hair, full of chemicals from the pool, has bled through my T-shirt and dampened my back.
Will was never really my favorite person, I say.
She lowers her head and sniffs.
He was always a little goofy, a little cheesy for my taste.
She slowly shakes her head.
Didn’t you tell me once that he got all of his jokes from a book? A joke book?
She puts her hand to her brow.
And, truly, the incessant video game playing was a little tired, like maybe he was kind of a clich é? Of a dude? Who plays video games?
It’s not Will, she says, breathing deeply. She rubs at her eyes and gets to telling me some things. She goes back in time and then moves forward. I sit beside her, and it takes so long, me not saying a word, that my hair dries up into its natural curl and the light of the day passes over us.
IN THE SHOWER, I don’t have much loose, so I work my fingers through my hair and tug. I tug and tug until I have enough.