It had never occurred to Elizabeth how incredibly intimate feet are. She
thought that they were generally the ugliest part of the human body—too
wide or too calloused, most often deformed in some small way, but then, no
one really sees this. Toes fan, splay, protrude, curl themselves one under
the other, vie for dominance (“Is your second toe longer than your big toe?”
This was the question that had most occupied her as a child), but always,
ultimately, balance.
She had always said to friends that she would rather sell her body for sex
than have anyone touch her feet.
So it was a bit of a shock when she found out about Elian's obsession with
feet. He had seen hers first, after the first few times they had sex, when
they had started leaving the light on. She was always embarrassed of her
feet, and tried to fold them underneath her when she was sitting, or tuck
one under her bottom, one under the sheet when they were in bed, trying
to look casual. But he found them out—he would slide his hand down her leg
and grip her feet, hold them up, kiss the sole until she jerked away and
pulled him up to her, focusing his attention somewhere else.
But he persevered, and finally she would let him hold onto them for longer
and longer periods of time. She began to think her feet were beautiful.
She noticed that whenever she was shy and insisted keeping her feet to
herself, he became sulky and the sex was never as good. So she started
letting him slip a pillow underneath her tailbone, so he could reach her
better and still get to touch and suck her feet.
The first time she watched him—watched his eyebrows come together in
almost-pain, whining, until his head, hands and chest jerked in separate
directions and she held up her arms protectively in front of her, so absolutely
sure was she that his dead weight would fall on her and crush her, because
he had seemed to have absolutely forgotten she was there. But he
managed to clumsily break his fall with bent wrists at her sides, breathing
heavily across her, their flat chests sliding on sweat, making soft sucking
noises.
After that, he didn't let her keep her eyes open.
* * *
He sits up and looks at her. His face pulls downwards with weariness. He
lets his gaze rest on her, then sighs, looking resigned and determined to
make her understand something. “You don't have to be here.”
Her throat is thick when she swallows. “No, I don't mind. I called work.
Anyway, I want to stay.”
“I'll be fine. Just go home.” He straightens up slightly, shifting his thighs
from where they had slumped against her own. When he looks at her at all,
his gaze is accusing. He is regal in his grief.
It suddenly occurs to her how unfair this is. She is uncomfortable and no
longer tries to touch him. He has cocooned himself in a shell of self-righteous
pain. He almost seems to be enjoying his right to push himself over an edge
he could only have imagined before the accident. Look at me. My mother's
dying. Aren't I lucky?
* * *
In the time before sleep, and never when he was completely, consciously
awake, Elian saw things, and he spoke what he saw. They were images;
random images he would describe, or people he would have conversations
with, until something would jerk him upwards into a whimper. He never
remembered what he saw and was never conscious of what he was saying,
only Elizabeth, bent towards him and holding her breath to drown out the
drumming in her ears, would hear clearly. It wasn't the mumbled confused
talk of sleep—it was full sentences and scenes spilling perfect descriptions.
“I have to lift it off you,” he was saying one night. And then she knew it was
falling, whatever it was, because he was saying “No,” and shaking his head,
“No, no,” then the jerk, and the whimper. He opened his eyes, and she
knew he was glad that she was there. Not because he smiled suddenly—
though he did—but because the down-turned mouth that followed was like
a child's, who, while reprimanding his mother for having left him too long, is
happy, all the same, to go to sleep once she has returned, arm flung around
her, wildly forgiving.
“I lof you.” These were the only times when he would say it, and she would
try not to giggle at his Spanish accent, would hide her wide mouth in her
pillow to catch any sound. It was the only thing he said to her in English,
and it always reminded her that he was strongly, solidly Colombian behind
the polished, school-boy Greek. “I lof you,” and the “f” was soft, like the
“ph” in “cacophony,” not hard like “fox” or “fish” or “fear.” The words were
soft in her ear—cushioned—and there they would hover, merging gently
into the whimpers that would come once more from his dark, troubled sleep.
* * *
“I want to go to the pish.” Carla was already unsteady on her feet, and it
was only eight o'clock. Spittle collected on her lips.
The Irish Pub.
“Okay, ma, okay,” Juan said. He pushed her thighs more squarely onto the
white kitchen chair.
Elizabeth watched as Carla's head kept falling forward. She remembered a
time in college. She had been asking for the pital. To be taken to the pital.
“Alright, alright, we'll take you to the pital,” Regis, the star basketball player
had said. Juan's tone now reminded her of him, brought his face leaping into
her thoughts. “But I don't think you need to go to the hospital, baby. You
just need some sleep. They ain't gonna help you at the pital.” And then he
laughed. A deep, sympathetic laugh. A jazz player's laugh.
“But we're not going until later, ma.” Juan was humoring, gentle, deceiving.
“Why don't you take a nap?”
Her head whipped up angrily. “No! I don't want to go to sleep!” She
reached unsteadily for her drink that was perched on the table, ice cubes
leaking into whiskey, sweating through the glass.
Elian reached for it. “No, ma. No, no, no.” It was the same tone he used
with his baby cousins who had tried his patience with couch pillows and
piggybacks. But she was strong in her stubbornness and pulled the glass
from him, liquid spilling out onto the table in droplets that widened and wept
into the yellow tablecloth.
Elian wouldn't catch Elizabeth's eye. He had taken to pretending that she
wasn't there again. He became engrossed with looking at the floor tiles
when she put her hand on his leg, smoothing his thigh. When everyone had
gone and Carla was in bed, she spoke to him hesitatingly. “Let's just go and
meet them at the pub.”
But he just looked at his beer, his features straight and determined. “I'm
not going to leave my mother.” Then a short pause before the obvious and
the unnecessary. “She's my mother.” Another pause. “You go, if you want.”
His face had on it the kind of resignation that hurries in age.
Elizabeth stood up to leave. He had left her again with the uneasy feeling of
being stuck. She felt she would be equally unhelpful if she stayed or if she
went. She felt herself to be equally a burden and a release.
next page
thought that they were generally the ugliest part of the human body—too
wide or too calloused, most often deformed in some small way, but then, no
one really sees this. Toes fan, splay, protrude, curl themselves one under
the other, vie for dominance (“Is your second toe longer than your big toe?”
This was the question that had most occupied her as a child), but always,
ultimately, balance.
She had always said to friends that she would rather sell her body for sex
than have anyone touch her feet.
So it was a bit of a shock when she found out about Elian's obsession with
feet. He had seen hers first, after the first few times they had sex, when
they had started leaving the light on. She was always embarrassed of her
feet, and tried to fold them underneath her when she was sitting, or tuck
one under her bottom, one under the sheet when they were in bed, trying
to look casual. But he found them out—he would slide his hand down her leg
and grip her feet, hold them up, kiss the sole until she jerked away and
pulled him up to her, focusing his attention somewhere else.
But he persevered, and finally she would let him hold onto them for longer
and longer periods of time. She began to think her feet were beautiful.
She noticed that whenever she was shy and insisted keeping her feet to
herself, he became sulky and the sex was never as good. So she started
letting him slip a pillow underneath her tailbone, so he could reach her
better and still get to touch and suck her feet.
The first time she watched him—watched his eyebrows come together in
almost-pain, whining, until his head, hands and chest jerked in separate
directions and she held up her arms protectively in front of her, so absolutely
sure was she that his dead weight would fall on her and crush her, because
he had seemed to have absolutely forgotten she was there. But he
managed to clumsily break his fall with bent wrists at her sides, breathing
heavily across her, their flat chests sliding on sweat, making soft sucking
noises.
After that, he didn't let her keep her eyes open.
* * *
He sits up and looks at her. His face pulls downwards with weariness. He
lets his gaze rest on her, then sighs, looking resigned and determined to
make her understand something. “You don't have to be here.”
Her throat is thick when she swallows. “No, I don't mind. I called work.
Anyway, I want to stay.”
“I'll be fine. Just go home.” He straightens up slightly, shifting his thighs
from where they had slumped against her own. When he looks at her at all,
his gaze is accusing. He is regal in his grief.
It suddenly occurs to her how unfair this is. She is uncomfortable and no
longer tries to touch him. He has cocooned himself in a shell of self-righteous
pain. He almost seems to be enjoying his right to push himself over an edge
he could only have imagined before the accident. Look at me. My mother's
dying. Aren't I lucky?
* * *
In the time before sleep, and never when he was completely, consciously
awake, Elian saw things, and he spoke what he saw. They were images;
random images he would describe, or people he would have conversations
with, until something would jerk him upwards into a whimper. He never
remembered what he saw and was never conscious of what he was saying,
only Elizabeth, bent towards him and holding her breath to drown out the
drumming in her ears, would hear clearly. It wasn't the mumbled confused
talk of sleep—it was full sentences and scenes spilling perfect descriptions.
“I have to lift it off you,” he was saying one night. And then she knew it was
falling, whatever it was, because he was saying “No,” and shaking his head,
“No, no,” then the jerk, and the whimper. He opened his eyes, and she
knew he was glad that she was there. Not because he smiled suddenly—
though he did—but because the down-turned mouth that followed was like
a child's, who, while reprimanding his mother for having left him too long, is
happy, all the same, to go to sleep once she has returned, arm flung around
her, wildly forgiving.
“I lof you.” These were the only times when he would say it, and she would
try not to giggle at his Spanish accent, would hide her wide mouth in her
pillow to catch any sound. It was the only thing he said to her in English,
and it always reminded her that he was strongly, solidly Colombian behind
the polished, school-boy Greek. “I lof you,” and the “f” was soft, like the
“ph” in “cacophony,” not hard like “fox” or “fish” or “fear.” The words were
soft in her ear—cushioned—and there they would hover, merging gently
into the whimpers that would come once more from his dark, troubled sleep.
* * *
“I want to go to the pish.” Carla was already unsteady on her feet, and it
was only eight o'clock. Spittle collected on her lips.
The Irish Pub.
“Okay, ma, okay,” Juan said. He pushed her thighs more squarely onto the
white kitchen chair.
Elizabeth watched as Carla's head kept falling forward. She remembered a
time in college. She had been asking for the pital. To be taken to the pital.
“Alright, alright, we'll take you to the pital,” Regis, the star basketball player
had said. Juan's tone now reminded her of him, brought his face leaping into
her thoughts. “But I don't think you need to go to the hospital, baby. You
just need some sleep. They ain't gonna help you at the pital.” And then he
laughed. A deep, sympathetic laugh. A jazz player's laugh.
“But we're not going until later, ma.” Juan was humoring, gentle, deceiving.
“Why don't you take a nap?”
Her head whipped up angrily. “No! I don't want to go to sleep!” She
reached unsteadily for her drink that was perched on the table, ice cubes
leaking into whiskey, sweating through the glass.
Elian reached for it. “No, ma. No, no, no.” It was the same tone he used
with his baby cousins who had tried his patience with couch pillows and
piggybacks. But she was strong in her stubbornness and pulled the glass
from him, liquid spilling out onto the table in droplets that widened and wept
into the yellow tablecloth.
Elian wouldn't catch Elizabeth's eye. He had taken to pretending that she
wasn't there again. He became engrossed with looking at the floor tiles
when she put her hand on his leg, smoothing his thigh. When everyone had
gone and Carla was in bed, she spoke to him hesitatingly. “Let's just go and
meet them at the pub.”
But he just looked at his beer, his features straight and determined. “I'm
not going to leave my mother.” Then a short pause before the obvious and
the unnecessary. “She's my mother.” Another pause. “You go, if you want.”
His face had on it the kind of resignation that hurries in age.
Elizabeth stood up to leave. He had left her again with the uneasy feeling of
being stuck. She felt she would be equally unhelpful if she stayed or if she
went. She felt herself to be equally a burden and a release.
next page
r.kv.r.y. quartlery literary journal summer-fall 2007 fiction
opening page three
opening page three