BOUNDARIES: A Louisiana Love Story (Post 13)

Chapter 6: Luke (Continued)

When I finally get home I don’t want to go inside. I struggle to think about something else but can’t. I walk around the end unit townhouse to our small back yard. My mother's landscaping is half dead. My legs are unstable, my mind crazy. The champagne bottle swings in my hand. I go to the back edge of our tiny property and walk beneath the limbs of the Crepe Myrtle that has grown up beside me. I feel a strange compulsion to climb the white stucco fence that serves as the boundary between our miniature yard and the real yard on the other side. I don’t need to get to the other side; I just want to see it.
     Climbing the fence is easy but staying on is difficult. The narrow ridge cuts into the tops of my legs as I struggle to keep my balance. I try to drink the rest of the champagne but drop the bottle. I stare into the neighbor’s yard. They’ve set up a new kennel. There, trapped inside, is the ruddy-haired dog. I watch him watch me and swear to God that one day I’ll cross the fence and set him free.
     Once inside the house, I pull the ruffled edges of my bedspread up around me until only my eyes peer out. I decide to forget Luke’s name. Soon I’d forget the whole night altogether. I wipe my runny nose with the side of my hand and try not to cry.
     The demon in my head urges me to grab the phone.
     I can’t resist. “Matt, it’s me,” I whisper.
     “What do you want?”His voice is hollow and businesslike.
     I draw a blank; I'm not good at business. “I don’t know. I was wonderin’ what you did tonight. I mean, for New Year’s.”
     “That’s irrelevant.”
     “Did you think about me?" 
     “That’s irrelevant,” he repeats.
     “You keep sayin’ the same thang.”
     “And you keep saying nothin’. Just tell me what you want,” he begs, his voice becoming more animated and real. “You cain’t just call me in the middle of the night and not have anythang to say. People don’t do that.” He seems sincere.
     “I think they do.”
     Silence.
     He finally says, “Nobody I know does. So what do you want from me?” His silent moments are like opening doors, full of possibility, but when he speaks, they all close.
     I’m mute. The lingering fizzle of champagne eats at my throat. But in the end, not even drunkenness can perforate my narrowness. So I struggle to come up with what I imagine is a legitimate reason for calling. “I’m taking Medical Sociology next semester,” I blurt out, oddly cheerful, “and I was wonderin’ if I can borrow your book? I promise to be careful with it.” He worships textbooks. He never touches them with the highlighters most college kids use when they study. Once, when we first met, he’d carefully placed his thick histology textbook on my head saying, “Knowledge really is power.” I stood still, gracefully balancing the book on my head for several minutes. He made faces at me until I laughed. When it finally fell, he caught it and put it back on the shelf where it became just another book.
     “You called me in the middle of the night to ask if you can borrow a book?" he asks, sounding disappointed. "Do you realize how stupid that sounds? Why do you think I threw you out of my house last night?”
     “I’m so confused. Just tell me.”
     Silence again.
     “Fine, just borrow the stupid book,” he says. “Can I go to sleep now?”
     “Just tell me if you’ve thought about me.”
     “That’s irrelevant. Good-bye, Peyton.” He sings his good-bye. It almost sounds nice.
     “Wait! What are you trying to say?" I ask. "What do you mean?”
     “Look it up in the dictionary.”
     There’s something hidden in his words, between the lines, hiding in the tone and the pauses. I learned the fine art of deciphering the spoken word early. I was my mother’s sounding board as she scrutinized Simon Taylor’s every syllable with a precision that would astound any psychologist. I observed firsthand how a lonely but sharp mind can hear and see amazing things in a bunch of absolutely nothing.
     Now I know that some of those hidden pearls of truth exist but some are just empty shells that trap us.
     That night I have another dream. I’m standing on the third floor of the LSUS library. A wall of glass created by several large windows separates me from the students filling the courtyard below. Their preppie clothes and punk hairdos form the dotted colors of a picture framed by the surrounding buildings. The spring day is perfect. What was once dead has been resurrected, but several gardeners pluck away weeds that no one notices.
     As I watch from my secure position, torrents of rain suddenly splash down on the startled students. Their bodies twist and flop like plastic toys in a bucket filling with water. I watch as the vibrant colors melt into a psychedelic mess. A bleeding sea teeming with their unidentified dreams closes upon them, swallowing them whole, while I stand like Moses, safe on the mountain’s edge. I dance around the library. “Thank you, God. I knew you’d save me,” I pray. My everlasting life lifts me higher than my lingering drunkenness ever can. Driven to continue, I laugh as I gyrate in circle after circle. I’m not sure what will happen if I stop.
     Then I begin to feel dizzy.
     I manage to slow myself down and just as I feel the last sick feeling ebb away, I look up at the giant wooden cross of Simon Taylor’s church. Oh, God! I knew this would happen. This is not where I’m supposed to be.
     Desperate to get out, I race through the corridors I remember from childhood. The familiar musty church smell clings to me. The unattended nooks and crannies fill my senses with mold and mildew. The very things man failed to do here choke me. Soon I’m lost. There are only twisting pathways that seem to lead in circles. There are no thresholds to cross, no windows to open. As the way becomes narrower I lose my sense of space, and am filled with myself alone. The claustrophobia becomes unbearable.
     I fall to my knees and begin to crawl.
     At last I see a dim light through the darkness. Crawling through the dirt and cobwebs, I come upon a small opening in the side of the wall. I pull my body up and into what turns out to be a narrow tube. It quickly envelopes me like a dry cocoon. I can’t move. Sucking forth what seems my only tool, I spit at the sides of the tube. I vomit. Sliding towards freedom through my own filth feels right. Perhaps only the sick part of me can somehow save me.
     When I come to the end of the tunnel, I can only squeeze my head through the small opening. I’m trapped. I can see freedom waiting just outside the canal. I call for someone— anyone—to pull me out.

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More of Chapter 6 coming this 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.