so we got in your car with our kickabout hearts

It was a beautiful day.

The sun was up, the sky was blue, and the grass had never been greener. A light breeze touched the cheek, a hint of cool in the sun. There were children playing in the pool down the road. Three old women with enormous hats sat on a porch a few houses away, holding unused fans.

You looked over at me from the other side of the front steps. You had that look in your eye, the one that told stories of far away. “Wanna go?”

Before I knew my own response, I had some clothes, a toothbrush, and a blanket in a bag and tossed it into the back of my car. Your things were packed a little less neatly, thrown into some duffle you found under my bed. Between us, we had something that amounted to four hundred dollars. We were set.

I looked over at you. You knew my question.

“Just drive,” you responded.

I threw it into reverse and we were out the driveway. I had three seconds to say goodbye to the sight of my house before it went into first. The wide front door, the lazy cat in the yard, the hiding spots where we used to play. The tree you climbed up in the middle of the night and tore through your sleeve while opening the screen, and I had to give you a Band-Aid before you tumbled into bed with me. The fireflies. The buttercups.

The street was empty save for the sights of summer coming in through the windows, open because the air conditioner was broken. The door stood ajar to the yellow house on the corner, so the little ones could run in and out for popsicles. A bicycle lay in the road, abandoned for a trampoline. We could see the kid over the fence, at intervals — up, down, up, down; there, gone, there, gone. A rickety grandmother watered flowers as her grandchildren begged her to spray them with the hose.

I came to a halt at the end of the street. You nodded to me. I smiled.

I turned west.

We didn’t stop until it was dark, when you took over and I slept. We had planned this route for years, since we’d first heard of the golden land. I’d seen it on TV, and you’d gotten a postcard from some relative. We drew pictures of it and tacked them on our walls. You played your guitar and I sang you songs, always about the beautiful place we’d go. Our dreams were filled with the place, heads next to each other on the same pillow.

We drove through the night. We bypassed the giant cities with their famous skyscrapers. I kept you awake through the long, straight, flat roads that never ended. You guided me through the winding roads that took us over the mountains. We traversed the desert beyond.

We were close. We could smell it. Our skin was tingling. We were on edge. At the state border, we cried. But we couldn’t stop.

Finally, we were in the city. Finally, finally, we traversed the hills in your postcard. We saw the buildings in person, not blocked by a television screen. The indistinct grey of early morning was settled over the place. The bridge arched away into the horizon.

And then we smelled it. We opened our mouths and tasted it. We were like Spaniards; we were like virgins; we were like angels. You kicked on the brake and parked. We tumbled out of the car, legs aching, using each other as a prop. We stumbled through the sand and fell — fell — fell — into the ocean.

Somewhere our happy tears ended and the sweet salt and the water began; somewhere your exhausted body ended and mine began, all entwined in an embrace that would never end. The waves rushed over us, begging to take us out to sea, and it was a challenge not to accept the offer. The tide was rising over our heads and we had to move back. We sat on the sand, soaked, and simply watched it.

At some point later in the day, we managed to tear ourselves away from the beach we had dreamt of for so long and wander into the city. We were in slow motion as the city bustled around us. We knew we would never go home again.

Once, when I had been doing pretty well, I met you at the bus stop as an old acquaintance not seen since high school or before. As you came to stand next to me, I glanced at a grown body up into older eyes and broke into a wide grin.

Our raincoats happened to be the same make and model — the same bright, ducky shade of yellow. My toothy smile solicited a grin of your own, and you hugged me close and rubbed my head. I put my umbrella up as we stepped out of our hideaway enclosure, stomping through puddles with my sunny golashes. Anything to make you smile.

The bus came on time that day, but I wasn’t there to catch it.

—

We sat around in your tousled apartment on the fourth floor. The rain came in through the broken window; we sat on an empty, water-stained floor. An oven and a refrigerator, both in disrepair, were our treasure in the kitchen; more so what lay inside the nearly-cool compartment of plastic. For the first time in a month we weren’t living off cheap noodles.

This week, we had a fridge filled with a small hunk of cheese, a few slices of turkey, a loaf of bread, three tomatoes, two peaches, and our own secret stash more priceless than gold: a piece of chocolate cake. We didn’t try to save it; we ate it because we knew we could never get a chance like this again. How you had happened upon the money, I didn’t know; we didn’t like to ask each other how we earned what we made — often, we already knew the dark and illegal answers that lay within the question.

The night we finished the slice of chocolate cake, the family on the second floor had a tussle and the police showed up. I sang you a song and took your hand, and we danced among the flashing lights. Our empty floor became a dance hall, and we went on until we collapsed on my blanket in the corner.

—

I threw my cap up in the air, graduating fifth in my class. I had a life ahead of me. I could never figure out if it was something I had wanted, but it was something to be doing with my time.

As the other kids ran to their excited parents, I walked down the street. My gown billowed out behind me, revealing shaped and tanned legs hiding beneath a light green skirt. The pastor in his garden looked twice as I passed; the men at the gas station whistled.

The screen door slammed as I walked into the sun-soaked house. It was green and luscious outside, with whitewashed walls and a picket fence, but inside it was always dark and smelled of dad’s cigars. Mom was sitting at the kitchen table, staring. She never looked away from her hands. It was like she knew her hands could revive dad, or like she knew her hands had killed him.

My brother got up off the couch as I passed. He had only come home when dad left, to claim inheritance. My mother hadn’t the heart to deny the prodigal son, and I hadn’t the authority to enlighten her. His rusty junker sullied the driveway, and he slept in my childhood bedroom.

He followed me into the kitchen as I said my hellos to mother. He let me take off my gown and fold it on the table. He let me open a window to the summer and water the plant in the sun. He let me settle in, before he pulled up my skirt and took me on the counter, covering my mouth against quiet screams, as mother stared at her hands.

—

Three weeks after I had graduated with such promise, I made my first fifty dollars on a dumpster behind the gas station. I would have made thirty dollars if I had screamed; I would have made sixty if I hadn’t cried into my hands.

The pastor had been next, in his garden shed at dusk. He reeked of soil, incense, and hypocrisy.

With a little makeup, I could become twenty-one for a night and make the week’s meals in the bathroom stalls of the downtown bar. I learned quick to bite my lip and save the tears until I was safe within my run-down motel room.

—

Every morning, I’d wash my face and walk to the bus stop. I could catch a ride anywhere from that one concrete slab, out of all the others that made up the sidewalk. Some days, I would go to the library and read until it was time to ready for the night. Some days, I would go to the park and sit on the swings until I got up the nerve to try going over the top of the swing set.

I never made it that high, no matter how hard I tried.

Some days I would go to the market downtown. I liked watching all the people hustling about their business. A wrinkled old Chinese woman proved stubborn in her pricing of a few plums; she would have no haggling from the few customers that happened by her alleyway fruit galleria. A slimy-looking Hispanic man sold trinkets across from her, and would sell at nearly any price he was offered.

He liked it on a stack of crates in the alley behind his makeshift shop, just after sunset, so he could still see my face. He never failed to make noise and nearly give himself away to the people on the street.

—

You had been at the bar once, too, before the rain came. I made a quick smirk in your direction; your eyes caught mine in acknowledgement. We both knew what games we were playing, and how high the stakes were. One wrong glance and there would be no food for days. So we barely let the warmth show in our eyes as they met, and then we both glanced down at the drinks we nursed but never enjoyed.

—

It rained for three weeks straight. I finally gave in and bought myself a raincoat, something to keep the damp away as I waited under the bus stop. Then I found a lost umbrella, hiding behind a door in some place of ill repute. This all was completed by golashes, a sunny-colored, mismatched pair of puddle-stompers.

They must have been good luck, because I only had to wear them once before they tromped up the stairs to your apartment.

—

It had been six months, and I was learning my own ropes well. We shared the expenses on your half-stolen apartment. I brought a blanket from my ex-motel room to serve as our bed; the pillows under our heads became the couch when the sun came up.

We went on adventures together during the day, sneaking into the museum or climbing up onto rooftops to see the people down below. We would try to get over the swing set together.

When we both decided to take a night off, we fell asleep in each other’s arms, sharing my blanket and reveling in the warmth. We woke up with limbs tangled, hair tousled, and backs sore from the floor. But we didn’t care — we shared more than a blanket and a floor and aches. We shared dreams those nights, as our foreheads lay touching each other.

And what soft, innocent dreams we dreamed together.

—

There was a lot we needed, but that night we needed water. The pipes had frozen and the noodles sat dry in a pot on the stove. You had looked down at it, and then up at me. I had dressed up and was out the door a second later, promising to be back in an hour with what we needed.

Once we were safely cradling our nourishment and huddling in the stove-warmed kitchen, I smiled down at my accomplishment. I couldn’t stand the hungry look on your face; it had all been for you.

But as my hair fell down from my neck and you saw the bruises there, you looked at me with tears in your eyes. From that moment on, you never needed anything; you eyes never appeared hungry again after that night.

—

We went to the bus stop early that morning. We were evicted by punk newcomers to the block; they didn’t follow the rules of the old regime and let the peaceful be. To them, we took up space. Our dance floor was a place for them to cram as many people in as they could, overcharging all. I mourned for the quiet hum of the broken fridge and the loud music from the floor above us.

We looked around for a new place to stay. We had nearly found a new floor to dance on when my brother came back to town and spread my name to every miscreant client that ever saw my face. There was no way we could stay in town with my brother on the prowl; I argued with you, but you wouldn’t let me dance with that kind of danger.

We could carry all that we owned in backpacks; you had the pillows, I had the blanket, and we divided the crumpled-up bills that were all we had left between us. It was nippy that morning, and even our raincoats couldn’t keep the dampness off our skin. The umbrella lay forgotten at my golashes-covered feet. I could feel you shiver against me. I opened up the blanket and wrapped it around us, holding our hands tight to each other for whatever dry warmth we could share.

The bus came early that morning, and we sat in the seat above the heater, that day we left the city.

—

Our story ends somewhat happily. We jumped from bus to bus and wound up at the other end of the coast, tropical and sweet. You found your long-lost aunt, who kissed us on our unwashed cheeks and led us into her house. We were dreaming together, our foreheads close as we slept on the floor, but we never could wake up.

We had a bed and mattresses, but my blanket was the only one we needed with the heat of the night. We had meals that took hours to cook and called everyone on the street to come enjoy. We had long baths with sweet smells and warm water that lifted the dirt away.

We had reputable jobs: an internship at a local college and a knack for cooking that no one in the state could beat. We had no debts to our names; that wasn’t how it worked in that city. We saved up enough for a real apartment, and real beds, and a working refrigerator that never hummed quite like our old one had.

We could finally find each other in bed, willing for the first time in our lives to add an element we had never encountered before in our previous line of work. We found out quickly that love was meant to mesh with an act that fused our bodies carefully and perfectly.

But every morning, we would still walk to the bus stop at the end of our street. We’d wait under the shelter, hands enclosed in one another’s, until the bus came. We’d clamber on and sit as far away from the frigid air conditioning as we could. We’d whisper our goodbyes as my stop approached. And at the end of the day, you never failed to be in the same seat when I climbed back onto the metal giant.

We got off at the park, tonight. We sit lazily on the swings, sand between our sandaled toes. We recount our tale, but we have a dinner to get home to, and a wedding to plan, and a swing set to swing over, before the night is done.

She couldn’t sleep that night. The floor seemed harder than she remembered, the blankets less comforting, the cold more pervasive. She was pushed up against him, snuggled under his chin, protected by the cavern of his arms. His warmth was all around her. Any other night it would have been enough, but her restlessness and inability to move combined to set her mind racing.

She whispered his name, softly enough not to wake him if he were asleep but urgent enough to be heard.

“Mm hmm,” he responded from deep within his chest.

“Do you ever get homesick?” she asked cautiously. They never spoke much about what had been before they met, and generally avoided the subject out of politeness and respect.

He sighed a long sigh that came from his stomach and took his shoulders with it. He waited a moment; in the dark, she could see his eyes staring at some invisible point on the floor. A creature stirred somewhere in the floor below them; a car roared in an impatient idle outside.

“Sometimes,” he finally responded. “When I’m alone, and get to thinking.” He breathed. “Do you?”

“Never,” she lied.

He shifted around her, rolling away so he could try to see her in the blackness. She avoided the look she could not see. His warmth was sorely missed as every patch of skin that had been next to his longed for him back again.
Realizing his stare was doing nothing in the dark, he took her face in his hands. “You do,” he said. “Maybe… maybe it’s not the home you left that you’re sick for, but at least the home you remember. Do you remember? What home used to be?” He waited; she shook her head in refusal to answer. “Home was somewhere warm, where there’d be good food and a warm bed and a loving family.”

She flinched unmistakeably.

“Your family loved you once. Whoever it was,” he spoke with intensity, “Whoever thought they could get away with marring your image of family and love had that image torn from him a long time ago. I’m not going to forgive him or his actions,” he said, understanding the situation better than he knew, “But it’s like something contagious.”

She spent a long while hoping he was done. She would not think about what happened, not ever. But thinking about not thinking about it made it even more prevalent in her mind. Tears welled into her eyes.

“But that love you felt when you were young, it can’t be taken from you. You spent nine months closer to your mother than anyone else in the world can ever come. Your father will always be there to protect you, no matter how he failed. Your home is perfect, because your home is love.” He breathed. “That’s all a family is, an idea that can never be the same in anyone else’s mind.”

She waited for him to calm. He had worked his point; now he would clam up and deny ever saying it. He would hide his past in his present, deny it and move on.

Before she could let this happen, she moved closer, pressing against him. His warmth seeped in; his heart beat rapidly in his chest. “You’re my family,” she whispered, and slid his hand into hers.

I decided to take the cable car up the hill. I had a pass for all the city transportation — a handy thing to have simply for the convenience of it –, and I hadn’t taken one in a long time. I walked out of my apartment and headed a few blocks up the street, and there it was — just passing by. So I stood by the little sign written in Chinese letters I couldn’t read, and waited for it to pick me up.

It was rather full that day, so I stood on the outside near the front. The crisp wind of travel blew through my hair, and I could almost smell the ocean — almost. The city stands so precariously on its hills above the sea, but its own scents and sounds drown out those of the deep, vast water.

It was exactly like the first time I had ridden it. The bell on the front, the constant clacking of the car pulling itself up the cable; it was all nostalgic. It made me feel like I was seventeen again, holding my dad’s hand in the strangely chilly April weather. But I was on my own now: I had brought it upon myself, and I had left so fast that I was assured not to have a place to go back to.

I didn’t know where I wanted to go; not consciously, at least. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew where that car was taking me. It was a place that held some great mystery to me: it kept within it memories that weren’t mine, but I felt them within my soul. Memories of an uncle I never knew and a funeral I couldn’t remember came tumbling through my mind. I was dwelling on them, contemplating their importance, when I looked up and realized where I was meant to go.

Before me stood the massive stone arches and stained-glass windows of Grace Cathedral. Her wide steps called me; her giant doors were thrown open for any to enter. There were banners clinging to her sides, calling notice to an anniversary of so many years of existence; they hung limp, waiting for some breeze to pick them up and take them from the majestic, decaying walls on which they hung. Her steeple pointed to the sky, the only part that was lit above the buildings in the fading light.

I both revered and hated this place, and as I stepped onto the sidewalk, my blood grew cold. My mind wanted to flee from here, to turn right and walk down the hill until I was safe among the shouting tourists and the inviting smell of fried fish by the piers. It seemed that at that moment, my feet were moving completely of their own accord; my mind fought them, but they won. Slowly, one by one, I walked up the inviting steps, calling me onward and upward until I reached a door. I placed a hand on the doorframe, a physical barrier to the route my feet were taking me. The stone was cold and gray, seeping into the warmth of my skin. For a moment, I held my breath, and the next moment I was in the dark and cavernous interior of the Cathedral.

She came to me in tears. She didn’t have to say anything; I knew what had happened. It wasn’t the first time. We sat quietly together, her and I and her tears, fading now into quiet hiccups. I got up and grabbed my keys; she rose and gave me a passing hug, her hands lingering about my waist and her drying face against my chest.

We walked out the door together, my arm around her shoulders guiding her. She put her head on my shoulder and we walked out into the world together.

—

The Cathedral was beautiful at sunset. Its musty, molding stone walls crumbled, set on fire by the dying journey of the celestial object that warred with the beliefs inside the impenetrable fortress. The pilgrims cast long shadows as they trickled inside the giant doors.

It was dark inside, and felt old and mystical. It was filled to the brim with faithfuls, skeptics, and tourists. We slid our way along a wall; she knelt before an image of the Virgin Mary as I continued, drawn by the tempting glow of tiny candles.

Row upon row of them were lit; they added to the ambiance of deep sorrow created by mournful Latin chants and the dead scent of incense. Awed by the flickering lights, I scanned the rows until I found a lonely, unlit candle. I slipped a quarter into the slot designated — a small price to pay for such a wonder — and reverently allowed myself to light the candle, carefully replacing it on the row of others. It seemed to be just one more innocent life created, among many hundreds of others, to simply burn and burn until it had burnt itself out.

I smiled at the futility of the action and looked up, only to find her eyes smiling back at me, her face aglow from the soft light of the flames. “Beautiful,” she mouthed, as a tear fell down her cheek and glittered in the light. It wasn’t the first time she had said those words, and I hoped it wouldn’t be the last.

My arm around her guided her through the slow decay of the building, the crowds, the hill, and the city, all a-tumbling away around us.

—

The crowds on the Pier were wonderful. People cheered and made merry, their gaunt facts shadowed harshly by the flashing lights of the merry-go-round. Kids ran underfoot, giant stuffed animals in their arms. The air was filled with the scent of fried dough and hot dogs. They were all oblivious to the world; for just this night, they could all pretend like the Pier was their world, and there were no jobs or houses or family to have to go home to.

Somewhere, a distant trumpet played the haunting sound of the National Anthem, perfect in all its legato despair and simultaneous hope. She smiled and whispered, “Beautiful.” It wasn’t the first time she had voiced her delight at the melody that meant some kind of freedom for her; the smile in her eyes was uplifting as I put my arm around her shoulder.

—

On a cliff overlooking the city, the lights stretched on and on before us, only to end abruptly at the deep darkness of the sea.

“Beautiful,” she whispered in my ear, seated behind me on the tiny motorcycle we shared.

I looked at her, taking in her deep eyes watching the shimmering of the world below. “Always,” I whispered back. Taking her hand in mine, I continued, “The world is huge; look at it — it goes on and on forever. But you know,” I got quieter, making her look at me, “He’ll never be yours, not the way you want him to be.”

She sighed, her eyes shying from mine, and said quietly, “I know.” She gripped my hand. “I’ve known for a long time now, I suppose.”

A hole of light tore at the curtain of blackness enveloping the sea as fireworks were lit at the Pier. The sound hit us moments later, accompanied by the soft roar of voices on the shore. The bombardment of the stars continued a while, lighting our faces in time with the explosions.

“But today, I have freedom. Happy New Year, ” she whispered in my ear as, taking my face in her hands, she gently kissed me. It was the first time she had ever made love known to me — but it wasn’t the last time those lips told me secrets without the awkward use of words.