BOUNDARIES: A Louisiana Love Story (Post 11)

Chapter 5: Judas (continued)

You blind guides!  You strain out a gnat but swallow a camel.

Matthew 23:24

“Believe it or not, it’s supposed to snow tonight,” my father says, the newspaper covering his face.
     “I’ll believe it when I see it,” I say. Lately all I can see is the past.
     We never get real snow in Shreveport--only a tease. As a child, I cheered at the site of snow thinking a real winter had finally come. I waited for the heavy white blanket I’d seen in pictures.  In the end, what looked like a thin white sheet melted into dirty sludge and turned to ice that we weren't equipped to handle. It paralyzed the city.
     It’s becoming difficult to avoid thinking about the past; it's as if childhood memories that were once fuzzy are becoming clearer. Those sharp disappointments seem to trap me like the ice; I can't seem to move forward. One of those memories is the time our family got kicked out of the church; asked to leave and never come back.
     There was an embarrassing scandal, and of course, my mother generously shared details that were over my head. I only knew that she had somehow caused the trouble. A formal church hearing was called in which she appeared before the elders and deacons. Simon Taylor stood by her side, but according to my mother, he told lies while she told the truth.
     On our last Sunday, I watched my father watch her stare into the eyes of Simon Taylor as he shared words of comfort with what was left of the congregation. It turned out to be his last Sunday, too. He and his wife, and their four small children, tossed their baggage into the largest truck they could find and moved north. That time in our lives became known as when the church split. Our family also split but within months we reunited. In the years that followed, my mother spoke of Simon Taylor as if he was a god--far away but still living in her heart.
     I grab my keys and head for the door. “Where are you goin’?” my mother asks. “Even if it doesn’t snow, watch for ice. Remember when we slid around on it that time on the way to Dallas?”
     My father continues reading the paper.
     She makes a face and asks, “Thomas, are you listenin’?”
     “Sure,” he says, still reading, “That was terrible. We never saw it comin’.”
     They forget to find out where I’m going and in a way, I’m glad. I don’t want them to know I’m going to see Matt. Nobody knows I’ve been sleeping with him for months. Not even Becca. I wanted to tell her when she came home for Thanksgiving but I chickened out, ashamed even to tell my best friend.
     Part of me wants my parents to yell and scream, to force me to my knees if that’s what it takes to get the truth. I need them to hear it. Only then can they save me from it.
     As I turn to leave, my father says, "They're saying here in the paper that AIDS is definitely a transmittable disease."
     My mother yells, "Be careful!" 

On the way to Matt's apartment, it begins to snow just as my father predicted. The flakes grow larger and come down faster. Soon I’m engulfed. As I drive past the neighborhood Exxon, I try to keep my eyes on the road. In the corner of the station lot a yellow piece of construction equipment holds up a small, crumpled red car. A giant sign reads, “Don’t Drink and Drive.” I wonder how the bodies of my three friends were able to fit into the ball of mangled metal. I wish the snow would cover it. Then I could pretend it’s a giant snowflake. I look but only for a second.
     The snow seems to have made its way into Matt’s apartment and a good two inches covers me. Like a veil, it’s a lie draped across my body. He hasn’t offered to take me on a date and I haven’t asked. It seems the business we have together is too powerful for the normal rules of dating.
     We run in the same social circles but when we see each other in public, we behave like strangers. I know it's stupid but I can't seem to snap out of it. We’re bizarre performers, each striving to show the other how alike we are, yet we can’t interact. It’s somehow too painful. But late at night, after the ordinary people carefully wrap up the contents of their day, storing it in its proper place, he and I yank everything out of our boarded up closets. We throw the junk on the floor and roll over it together.
     I should have known it couldn’t last. The timing is off. The climate is all wrong.  But the human mind is steadfast in its belief that the seasons will change and that the one it’s anticipating will arrive.
     We're lying in bed. “Few people make it.” He says, tracing my hairline with his thumb. His voice is smug, as if he’ll make it but I won’t. I have no idea what he’s talking about but I know I want to make it, too.
     “Make it to what?” I finally ask.
     “Self-actualization.”
     I shove my hips toward his. “What’s that?”
     He smiles. “That’s the theory of a man named Abraham Maslow. He believed that in order for a person to meet his higher needs he has to take care of the lower ones first.”
     “I have lower needs.”
     “I know,” he says, straddling my calves. In the darkness he seems so far away. He claws at my thighs with his chewed fingernails. “Maslow believed a person will scratch and claw his way to the highest point on the ladder of needs.” He scratches faster and harder and I beg for it. His brand of pain is healing, like a fever. “The lower needs are thangs like food, shelter, sex, love.”
     “What made you think of self-actu … whatever?”
     “You make me think about a lot of thangs.”
     “Why me?”
     “Shhh …” he whispers, disturbing my snowy layer, that lie I'm trying so hard to believe.
     “No, I wanna know why I make you think of thangs.” His large hand covers my mouth and parts of my nose. I can’t breathe. A scream is building. I can see the truth, like a treasure on the other side of a steep, slippery wall. I can’t quite make it out but it looks like salvation. But realizing there are no footholds on which to anchor myself, I give up. His hand falls away and I take a deep breath. It’s hopeless. “What are the higher needs?” I ask. “I thought love would be the highest.”
     “You believe that because that’s your highest goal.” His hands travel to my small breasts. “You’re struggling to reach that level.”
     “I have love,” I say, clinging to him.
     “Maybe you think you do.” His words filter through my mind, falling onto my snow, his hot breath melting it. I know the ice will soon come--fast like it always does with Matt. “Self-actualization is the highest pinnacle a man can reach. Actualization means the act of realizing in action or to make real, also the act of describing or portraying realistically.”
     “You sound like a dictionary."
     He smiles.
     "So it means bein’ realistic with yourself?" I ask. "I can do that.”
     “No, it’s more than that. It means knowin’ your absolute dream or purpose, and bein’ able to carry it out without losing the fulfillment you have in all the lower needs. Very few people ever rise that high.”
     “You’ve risen pretty high,” I whisper. He laughs and I curse myself for making such a crude comment that was probably predictable. Hoping to redeem myself with an intelligent question, I ask, “What do you think makes a person capable?”
     “If I could answer that question I’d probably be able to solve the world’s problems.”
     “Do you think everyone has a higher calling?” I ask.
     “That’s the theory, but most people are so burdened by their lower needs that they never even hear their true calling.”
     I touch his face. “Do you feel called to be a doctor?”
     Rather than answering, he gets up from the bed and walks away. It feels like rejection.  As he goes toward the window I realize that I overstepped my bounds. There’s no natural out, no way of bringing the oddly emotional situation back to normal.
     “The snow’s not gonna stick,” he says, looking out the window.
     “It never does.”
     He turns and looks at me but I can’t see his face clearly in the darkness. “Bein’ a doctor is just a job,” he says.
     “But it’s a special job.”
     “I don’t know,” he says. "Maybe in some ways."
     “Do you think we’re on that ladder … of the needs?”
     “Why would you be different from anybody else? Why would I?”
     “I don’t know. I’m weird.”
     He doesn’t argue.
     I say, “Well, I don’t know about havin’ a callin’, but I’ve decided to change my major to pre-med.”
     “Why would you do that?” He seems surprised.
     “I wanna be a doctor, too.”
     He turns his back on me again. When I realize he isn’t going to respond, I stand on the small bed, feet apart for balance. “Don’t ignore me,” I say, swaying from foot to foot until my nakedness becomes silly. I feel like an idiot. My assertiveness seems to be failing when he suddenly swings around and comes toward me. In the dark it almost seems as if he’s flying. Falling to his knees, he wraps his arms around my ankles causing me to crumble onto the bed. He doesn't say anything.
     “Please say somethin’,” I beg. “Didn’t you hear me? I wanna be a doctor like you.” I begin to cry. He can no longer ignore my tears so he wipes them away.
     I’m sure he loves me.
     After we make love, I feel his body change. His muscles tighten and the veins on his forehead bulge. He stares up at the ceiling. It’s mended and perfect now. “I want you to go,” he say as if he hates me.
     “What’s wrong?”
     “Just go.”
     “What’s wrong?" I ask again. "You can tell me.”
     “I can’t tell you anythang,” he says. “This is all wrong.”
     “What’s wrong?”
     “You bein’ here," he says. "You shouldn’t be here and I don’t want you to come back."

The drive home is slow; icy sheets cover the roads. I curse myself for being so dramatic and for being who I am. I’m sure God forgot to give me some detail or component that everyone else in the world has. Matt’s right. Whatever it is--it's at the top of my ladder. I'll snatch and crawl to find it.
     I hate myself.
     I drive faster; I don’t care what happens. If I die it will be his fault. He can feel guilty about it for the rest of his life. I wish God would take my life. My mother taught me to love the Lord. She said that God should come first but surely He understands our love for one another--our humanity.
     I hate her, too.
     Like an answer or a punishment from heaven, the car lifts from the ground. Then it slides across the ice and turns in circles. No matter how frantically I hold the wheel or which direction I steer, the car will not obey. I cover my face with my hands. “God, please help me,” I call out. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
     Finally the car slows, hits the curb, and stops. When I peek between my fingers I can’t tell which direction I’m facing. I’m lost on a road I've known all my life.

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Watch for Chapter 6 next week!

To find out what BOUNDARIES is about and start reading at the beginning, go here.

BOUNDARIES is Penelope Przekop's first novel. It's a work of fiction based on true events. Since writing BOUNDARIES, she has completed two other novels. ABERRATIONS was published by Greenleaf Book Group in 2008. CENTERPIECES is currently being considered by several publishers. Penelope is working on her fourth novel, DUST.