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grumkin · 6 years

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More Fairyland

I can’t stop thinking about you, she texted him.

Same, he came back right away. Lily will be out of town next week. I want to see you. I am so ignited by you.

She told Jesse she was going to meet up with a friend for coffee and rode her bike over to Tayo’s apartment, thinking of their last kiss. He opened the door to her sweaty knock and smiled, perfect teeth, intense brown eyes, smelling even better than she remembered. His apartment was spotless, masculine, well-appointed, and reminded her of the TV show Mad Men, with its modernist furniture and fixtures, the bar cart.

They sat on the couch, drinking tea. She asked him questions about his childhood. They talked about their mothers. His fingers stroked her thigh through her jeans. There was a drawing of Lily on the wall near the door, a portrait really, her ceramic features and sparkling eyes represented photo-realistically in graphite. The more Eva looked around the room, the more of Lily she saw. The photos on the side table. The handbag on the back of a chair. Her presence, elegant, ethereal, hinted at here and there. The vase of tulips on the sideboard.

“Who did that drawing of Lily?” Eva asked.

“I did,” Tayo said.

“It’s amazing. I didn’t know you were an artist.”

“Yes well, I used to be. Now I’m just a lowly designer.”

“I’s a beautiful portrait. She’s an elegant subject.”

“She is.” Tayo took his glasses off, laid them carefully on the coffee table, and turned her chin to look at him. “You are an elegant subject too.”

“You seem to be a collector of those.”

“That is actually true,” he said, chuckling. Holding her face in his hands, he kissed her, sucking at her lips, tracing them with his tongue. They lay down, and he pushed his body against hers. Into his kisses, Eva spoke.

“Are we going to get to do this more than once?”

“God I hope so,” Tayo said, moving his teeth gently to her neck.

“You said you would tell Lily about it if we did it more than once.”

“Did I?” He bit her again, a little nip. She let out an involuntary groan, struggling against the memory.

“Yeah, you told me that in the bar last week.”

He pulled away and gazed up at the portrait, quiet for a moment, then looked at her. “I’m not going to get consent. I know that’s just the case,” he said gently.

“And you’re okay with that?

“I can work around it.”

She almost did it, then, almost let go, said who gave a fuck, they would figure it out later. He pushed his body against hers. She wanted him, the blood thrumming in her head and between her legs. His pupils were huge and black in his golden irises, his breathing fast. Her mind raced ahead. They would fuck. She wouldn’t cum, she never did the first time with someone new, someone who didn’t know her body very well, regardless of how attracted she was to him. Afterwards, she would shower in his bathroom, use his soaps, mess up his perfectly-hung towels. Then, after some awkward niceties, she would ride home to Jesse, rushing a bit, avoiding sitting on the bike seat. He would ask how coffee with Kirsten was, distractedly, paying no attention to her mumbled answer.

But she would have to tell Jesse about Tayo eventually. And she then would have to tell him that Lily didn’t know. It would get lopsided right away. Someone was bound to get hurt; most likely her, but also likely was at least one of the other three people in this equation.

“Someone is going to get hurt,” Eva said, “And I think it’s going to be me.”

He sat up, genuine concern on his face. “I would never want that.”

“I know, but it’s true.”

He looked out the sliding glass doors and over the city, grey and hazy today.

“Yes,” he said, simply.

“Well, it was nice to see you again, Eva,” Tayo said, downing the wine in his cup. “We should probably get going, eh Lil?”

“Yes, nice to meet you, Jesse.” Lily held out her manicured hand for him to shake. Jesse took it in his paw and gave a little closed-eyed bow to her. Lily turned to Eva. “You too.”

“Nice to meet you, Lily. You’re beautiful,” Eva said, suddenly relieved and generous.

“Oh thank you!” Lily colored prettily. “So are you!”

“Yes, you’re both fly,” Tayo agreed. “We’re surrounded by beautiful women, man,” he said to Jesse.

“Yes we are,” Jesse said, looking at Lily. Nobody was actually looking at Eva, including Lily, who was gazing off into the distance looking slightly uncomfortable. Tayo finally turned to Eva and took her hand.

“Goodbye.” Tayo said.

“Great to see you again,” Eva said, feeling sincere.

“You, too.” He dropped his glasses down his nose and looked at her over the top of them. She gazed back at him.

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grumkin · 7 years

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Early, Brooklyn, Present Day

I decide to ride my bike to the cemetery. The breeze will cool me down. Last night I dreamt of Grandma Klara and it seems like a good time to pay a visit.

I’m not a goth, but there is something I love about cemeteries. The inscriptions, the mausoleums, the crazy angels and plinths. All those bones beneath the grass, the years they’ve lasted. There are lots of trees in the cemetery, too. It’s kind of like hanging out in a sad, quiet park.

I lock my bike to the fence and wander down a side path. Some of these graves are from the 1800’s. Why do people bury their dead? This place is like an underground neighborhood, coffins stacked on coffins, bones taking up space. My mother’s mother, Grandma Klara, is buried here. She died two years ago. I loved her. I miss her. Before she died she was obsessed with her funeral, with who would be there, what Scripture she wanted to have read, what her headstone would say. She got it just how she wanted it, a Catholic ceremony, the tolling church bells. The only thing she wanted that she could have was to be buried in the cemetery in Gdansk, right next to Grandpa Peter. The first reason she couldn’t have this was that Grandpa Peter wasn’t buried in Gdansk. He wasn’t buried anywhere we knew of. Klara believed they would be together in heaven, though. She was the one who made sure I was baptized, that I had my first communion. She made me go through confirmation too, which I did only because I loved her so much, biting the insides of my cheeks the whole time.

My mother Agatha grew up Catholic, but now she’s new-agey; she insists we Gorski women have witch blood. She gets all worked up about the patriarchy of the Church, things like that. She majored in Women’s Studies, was working on her dissertation on Women’s Religions. Then she had me, an accidental detour from a life of academia that never quite got back on track. Grandma Klara wanted her to be an English major, so proud of her ambitious American daughter. But Mom has never been known for doing what other people want her to do.

Grandma Klara once told me privately that my mother entered college as a literature major, but was seduced by the chair of the literature department. “Then,” Klara said, taking a deep breath, “Agatha, she got pregnant, by Chair of Literature. And then, Early, your mother did very sad thing.” Klara pressed her lips together. Tears stood in her eyes. “Very, very sad thing.” She sighed, sniffed, flicked her hand. “And then, Vomen’s Studies.” Klara thought I was a miraculous child, sent by all-forgiving Jesus as a healing gift to a woman who committed a grave sin. “Your mother so lucky to have you,” she told me all the time.

My grandmother’s headstone is the kind that lies flat on the ground, and I like to stretch out on it, especially in the summer, when it holds on to the coolness of the shade of the small pine trees that stand overhead. I don’t think it’s disrespectful. I see it as a sort of an afterlife cuddle.

Light comes through the pine needles above, flaring as the tree limbs rustle in the breeze.

Grandpa Peter died before I was born. I only knew him from the pictures, him with Lech Walesa, under the banner of Solidarnosc. Once, when I was nine or ten, Grandma Klara told me he was murdered by Communists, but I didn’t know what that meant. She was always promising to take me to Poland with her to see the old town of Gdansk, the Golden Gate that her father helped rebuild, piece by piece, after it was destroyed by the Nazis.

We never made it to Gdansk, I think, staring at her grave, and now I’m going to die never having seen it, not knowing my roots on either side, all that history that made my ancestors who they were and that makes me who I am.

I lie on her headstone, staring up at the sky, and calculate how much it would cost to get to Poland within the next forty days. A thousand dollars for a week there? Where can I get a thousand dollars? I picture going to Grandma Klara and saying, Grandma Klara, I’m going to die. How can I get a thousand bucks, quickly? She would laugh and elbow me and suggest I get a job. You gonna die, you better get job so you can afford funeral.

So. I won’t be going to Gdansk. Where else will I never go? If I die on my birthday, that is. The Dominican Republic, where who knows, I might have a whole half-family waiting for me. Budapest, where my great Aunt Julianna, Klara’s sister, moved after their mother died. Among many, many other exotic places that I can’t think of right now, not to mention the other 49 American states. Things I’d like to see but will never see, if I die on my birthday: the Nile, the Amazon, the Eiffel Tower. Among countless other things. I’m going to have to start another list, an “If I Live” list.

Feeling restless, I stand, say, “Bye, Grandma,” and keep walking, heading towards the center of the cemetery.

I scout the graves of children. It’s gloomy business. Some of them just say ‘Baby’ and the dates. One tomb has two sons lying next to each other, born ten years apart, each dead within in their first year. What are the chances? The epitaphs are all tearjerkers: So small, so sweet, so soon. And, Sleep, my little one, sleep. One tomb features a sculpture of a little girl sleeping, her golden retriever puppy asleep in her arms. Louisa and Puppy. I have to wonder, is the dog in there with her?

What will my grave say? I assume they’ll bury me. I guess I could request to be cremated. Mom will never go for it, though. We bury our dead, she’ll say. Absolutely no cremation for you, young lady. The body is the temple of the Holy Ghost, according to Grandma Klara. That’s why you bury it in the dirt instead of burning it. That’s why Grandma Klara hated it that Mom smokes; it desecrates the temple. I personally have never felt a whole lot of Holy Ghost up in my own body, but I’m assuming that will change when I start having sex. I mean, with other people.

One grave, with a brass marker, just reads: VIRGIN. 1911-1923.

By the time I unlock my bike from the fence and leave the cemetery, the sky is reddening and I am thoroughly depressed. I miss my Grandma. And I’m suddenly very worried about the status of my virginity.

My mother calls herself a Catholic feminist. She works at the community college and holds women’s groups at our apartment. Some of the ladies come from the neighborhood and some from the university. A few even from as far away as the Bronx. They are of all stripes, but they all love the Virgin Mary. And most of them have a pretty strong crush on Jesus, too. Mom definitely does. But they are also into Oshun and Santeria, and there’s a lot of chanting and incense burning. I make it a point to avoid these little gatherings. Drama.

Grandma Klara was very religious and superstitious, afraid of the evil eye and bad omens, which can be found constantly, anywhere. Passing someone on the stairs? Bad luck. Walking under a ladder? Puts one in league with the Devil, automatically. Put your shirt on inside out? Bad luck. Breaking a mirror, singing before breakfast, putting a hat on a bed, putting the button in the wrong buttonhole, an owl hooting three times, all these things are bad luck. Very bad. Conversely, sneezing three times on an empty stomach, putting your dress on inside out, getting your hair cut during a storm, an itch on the top of your head, all these are good luck. No wonder my mother is crazy, given her upbringing.

My own childhood was fraught with prayers to guard against the evil eye, Tibetan singing bowls, and creative visualization techniques. As a result, I can change stoplights from red to green by simply visualizing it, and I almost never go to church any more. I mostly keep the stoplight thing to myself—I’m not a freak, and I don’t want people thinking I am. I can do the same thing with trains, though, especially the j-m-z, which is my bitch. So people like hanging with me, ‘cause it’s convenient. I just have to make sure I don’t talk about it.

Lying in bed that night, I can’t sleep. The summer night wind blows my curtains gently up, and they float down again, making the slightest rasping noise across the carpet. The rasping has gotten louder and louder and it’s keeping me awake. Besides, there is something else bothering me. VIRGIN. She died without losing it. What is it they say about the Virgin Mary? She doesn’t die, she just goes to sleep. Like a Disney Princess.

So to some people, dying a virgin might seem like a holy thing to do. The purity of it. Unspoiled by human (male) hands. How did they know, though? How did those folks who put the VIRGIN grave marker over their dead daughter know for sure she was one? Did they have her hymen checked, post-mortem? Maybe she was one of those holier-than-thou Catholic school sluts who did it in every hole except that one. Or the kind of girl who had sleepovers with her girlfriends and they experimented in bed together, not that I would know anything about that. If you asked the dead girl what she wanted on her grave marker, VIRGIN might not be the first thing she would have picked. I myself have found the excuse of “I’m saving myself” fairly all-purpose when it comes to boys. But that was before the prophesy.

I do not intend to die a virgin.

Birthday List:

Good hair

Have sex

I could have lost it before now, I guess. I know a lot of girls who have. Boys have wanted to do it with me before. My last boyfriend almost talked me into it, but I chickened out at the last minute because I was afraid his mom would come home and catch us. Irrational, since she was in PR and not due back for a few days yet, but I became obsessed with the idea that she might decide to come home early and surprise Justin, and catch us in the act. I hated the idea that Mrs. Torres could know something about me, anything at all. That if she saw me on the street, she might whisper to her friends, I caught that little puta in bed with my Justin.

Maybe I just wasn’t ready to do it. Justin was kind of a dipshit, when all’s said and done. He whined at me the rest of the night.

The curtains rasp across the rug, whispering virgin, virgin, over and over all night, and I toss and turn and wonder whether or not I can find someone worthy of deflowering me in the next 39 days.

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