Page 13 of Deep Gap

“Just a friend from work,” I supply, rubbing my chin. Greer hasn’t asked me to defend her, but there’s no reason not to. “The first time I was at Greer’s place was to drop her off earlier this week. I asked to go inside to use her restroom. On the way back to the kitchen, I overheard Waylon propositioning Greer in exchange for getting her bathroom sink fixed. He wasn’t happy to find me lurking in the doorway behind him, and while I can’t prove anything, it stands to reason that Waylon was the one who caused the issue in the first place.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Aside from a roll of toilet paper, there was nothing else in the sink cabinet. Whoever did it turned the cold water valve off, risking someone getting burned.” Pause letting like me hang in the air and hoping the guy is smart enough to surmise like her, too. “Those knobs don’t just turn on their own.”

“Where’s this sink located?” Phil asks, jotting down some notes.

“In the bathroom off of the bedroom,” she states.

The man looks up, not at all surprised at Greer’s answer, and drops his pen. “Has your landlord asked you to engage in sexual congress at any other time?”

“I don’t know. Maybe… yeah,” she whispers, picking a nonexistent pill from her red sweater. Her eyes roll back and close and her face blanks, concentrating on trying to find a way to fix her problem.

“My advice is to find someplace else to live.”

“I can’t afford to stay, anyway. Waylon upped the rent on me.” Greer shifts, taking a folded paper out of her pocket.

“When?” Phil reaches across the desk with a gimme motion.

“Yesterday.”

He blows out a breath and shakes his head. “Listen, Greer, I’m investigating this on my day off because I never hear a peep about you unless it’s when I confirm your employment status. Those people at the dog center like you. They never have anything bad to say. If you were my daughter, I’d tell you not to bother going back to the apartment tonight—especially not alone. This is the type of person who, once he gets his nose bent out of joint, is likely looking to cause an issue. So, if you do keep living there, and Waylon doesn’t find another thing to drive you out sooner, expect to be right back here, accused of doing something else. And next time it won’t be some jerk-off’s complaint. Waylon will bring me whatever proof he can to back it up.”

________________

Byron lives on the side of town that Sweet Caroline’s faces. There are speed bumps and signs cautioning children at play. Happy people here lead a contented existence, doing the things they were destined to do; buying milk on the way home from their nine-to-fives, teaching the babies they are raising to pedal a bicycle, paying off student loans, and saving for the future.

The neighborhood is filled with identical single-story houses in yellows and blues. Byron’s is tan, but the sun casts a pink hue and my mind runs through the refrain from a John Mellencamp song—the only line of lyrics I know—before it launches into American Kids by Kenny Chesney.

I’m standing in his backyard, throwing a ball to Jovie and Tallulah. They chase the ball toward the fence line that has towering pines behind it, jumping and playing. Every burst of energy makes me feel awful that they were cooped up even longer today because of me. Tallulah spits the ball at my feet. It rolls over the toe of my boot leaving a smear of drool, yet I don’t think twice about picking it up and throwing it for them again.

I’d like to ignore Byron’s penchant for collecting strays. However, not sure what to do with me, Byron brought me home. He let the dogs out. We untied the tree from the roof and braced it against an empty corner in the living room. He showed me how his washer and dryer worked so that I can wash what I wore cleaning this morning and have fresh clothes for work tomorrow. And then, because I’d been stewing in the car, and my emotions got the best of me, I had what’s probably the most embarrassing breakdown in recent history.

“Greer, you can talk to me about it.”

“About what? That my landlord accused me of prostitution? We both know that’s ludicrous! But what am I supposed to say to defend myself and what does it matter, anyway? Even if I still had a shitty place to live, who’s going to believe that I’ve never been with a man?” I snarl, taking my frustrations out on the closest target.

I catch sight of Byron’s face before he has a chance to stop the frown that forms. He flushes and not to be outdone, my cheeks turn brighter than the sweater I’m wearing.

“I didn’t just say that.” My palm slaps my forehead. “It’s not. I’ve…” I swallow. “I had a girlfriend once.”

“So you’re—”

Honestly, I don’t know what I am. Ellis consumed my thoughts my entire childhood. A few years after he died, Ilona and I became cellmates. Prison is not a bastion of tenderness. Having someone to touch. To hold. It kept me going. Until she was gone—moved to another cell block—and I was back to being having no one to trust my heart or my secrets to, and with someone new resting opposite me.

I’m not stupid. I knew what Ilona and I had wasn’t forever. But losing something precious to me a second time was enough to not seek it out a third. My luck in love is like a rickety wooden pail with a hole in it. It ran dry before the bucket left the edge of the well.

“Celibate.” I finish Byron’s sentence.

I’m not in or out of the closet. I’m not ashamed of loving Ilona the way I carry the shame of Ellis’s death. I just am. I found the beauty in Ilona’s soft curves and can see it underneath the brow and red scruff in the hard line of Byron’s jaw. Accepting both sides makes me who I am. And so does choosing to live my life alone since my release.

There is a deep gap in my experiences. A cavern that’s virtually uncrossable because I took responsibility for my actions; a crime that will haunt me for the rest of my days. All the things I believed were on my horizon at eighteen, I didn’t get to accomplish. I didn’t go to college, get to have a fulfilling career, or marry my high school sweetheart.

And now I’m standing out here past dark with no place to go except a run-down apartment that the landlord wants me to pay for with my body. There’s not much further to fall, so why is letting Waylon steal a piece of my soul that I haven’t robbed myself of seem like the most demeaning experience I’ve had? After all, people belittle me for an impulsive decision I made nearly a decade ago. I should be used to the disparaging remarks and insinuations that I haven’t grown past the person I was. That I’ll be forever stunted, rooted in place like these pines that watch the families, but are gated away by the neighborhood fences that keep everyone else safe.

The back door opens and closes. I hear the creak of a loose porch board and the shuffle of Byron’s steps behind me. The dogs retrieve the ball again, bringing it to him instead, proving my point. I am an observer rather than a participant.

My mind tweaks the last line of the earworm. I’m a little messed up, but it’s all alright, right? It matters to no one. Therefore no one has to know.

---