BOUNDARIES: A Louisiana Love Story (Post 24)

Note: To learn more about Penelope Przekop's novel, BOUNDARIES, and to start reading at the beginning, go here!

Chapter 10: Andrew (continued)

But the sun came up, the plants were scorched, and they withered because they had no root.

Mark 4:6

A few weeks later, Matt stands like a ghost on my concrete slab. Rather than recognizing his face, I notice his body as he disappears through the tight boundary between my building and the next. The heavy grocery bag I’m holding slips, falling to the pavement. Its contents spill across the parking lot. The eggs crack and the apple juice jar explodes. I watch a lone jelly jar roll under someone’s car before hopping over the scattered mess to run after him.
     Holding my breath, I slither through the narrow, dirty space that leads to the garden. There’s no time to find the true path. I crash through the thick, green foliage. Branches and leaves slap my face, arms, and legs. Ignoring the sting, I run in a crazy path of my own creation, knowing that if I just keep running I’ll intercept the paved walkway that winds in circles through the small man-made jungle. Outdoor lamps hang every ten or so feet, but numerous tall, bushy plants steal the light away. My feet finally hit the true path. I call Matt’s name over and over again, hoping my voice will somehow lead me to him like a string.
     But something beyond merely finding him keeps me running in circles. He led me to a place I was hesitant to revisit. I consider that maybe he is ordinary after all. Maybe he isn’t as smart as I believe, and just maybe, he doesn’t have all the answers. But he came into my life and shed a new, completely different light over who I am. He somehow gave me a clue about who I can be.
     The joy I feel running into that odd jungle without thought or fear is exquisite. The confidence that something I’ve wanted for so long is waiting for me keeps me in motion. I’m not afraid of the insects or the darkness or the demons. I run, calling his name long after I know he’s gone or that I only imagined him there in the first place.
     When I finally return to the front of my apartment building, prepared to assess the grocery spill, I find him. He’s leaning against his car at the far end of the parking lot, his leg crossed nonchalantly over the other. Bathed in the streetlight he appears like Gatsby, so real that he can never be forgotten—real enough to change lives.
     But not real at all.
     He holds out his arms and I go between them as if it’s the next step in my long, lonely journey. My body melts into his the way I merged into my mother’s long ago. There’s no gaping hole between us. It’s been a long time, too long, since I’ve felt that embrace.
     He says, “I wanna make love to you outside.” His wine-filled breath washes over me. I swoon, realizing that he’s finally given in to much more than just alcohol. He shudders in anticipation. “I know a place,” he says urgently, as if afraid he’ll change his mind. “I wanna be outside.”
     We drive several miles from the city. Field after field of corn and cotton line the two-lane highway, ushering us toward the inevitable. He finally turns onto a small dirt road that’s barely visible and comes to a stop on the side of a large cornfield. The car headlights point through long hallways created by stalks that rise nearly seven feet. They aren’t ready for harvesting, but I know it will soon be time. We leave the car and I follow him down one of the dirt corridors, away from the headlights that guide our way. Soon, we find ourselves standing in darkness, on the edge of another field.
     But it’s barren—like me.
     He leads me over the rolling mounds of dirt toward a gigantic tree. He rushes ahead as if he’s been there before. I can barely keep up with him. “How do you know about this place?” I ask.
     He doesn’t answer and I wonder if he heard me.
     “I wonder why this field’s not planted,” I say as I hurry after him. I stop when I see his outstretched arms. His head eases back until he stares into the night sky. He turns in a slow circle and says, “Maybe the soil’s bad.” Then he hurries toward the tree. He plops down on one of the tree’s giant exposed roots and surveys the surroundings while I struggle to catch up. From a distance, the tree appears to be at the center of the field, but it actually stands on the boundary between two unplanted fields. “Somethin’s definitely wrong with the soil here,” he says as I approach. “This tree’s dead.”
     I sit down beside him, trying to catch my breath. “But all the other fields are fine. Why would this dirt be bad? It doesn’t make any sense.”
     I’m sure there’s an explanation,” he says. “There’s always an explanation.”
     I remember when Dr. Broussard said the same thing. “But don’t you think it’s kind of weird?” I ask.
     “Forget it. It’s not important.”
     We sit, side by side, staring into the distance. “I don’t know what matters anymore,” I say. “What is important?”
     He kisses my cheek and whispers, “This is where we are; that’s all that matters.” He pulls me down into the dirt. “That’s all I care about right now.”

     “Nobody’s watching—except God maybe.”
     “Sometimes I don’t want him watchin’ either,” I say, still trying to look around in the darkness.
     “You cain’t do much about that. He’s either there or he’s not.”
     “It’s irrelevant?” I ask.
     “Exactly.” His breathless body pushes into mine with such force that my toes dig farther into the soil.
     “Why did you come tonight?” I ask.
     “Please don’t talk. Don’t ask me that.” He moans as I wrap my legs around him. “I don’t know the answer. I’m not as smart as you think. Some thangs are just too hard for me.” The flat field turns around me and the tree falls over me. My arms shoot out and cling to the roots that cradle me as a ripping pain tears through my back. Despite the intensity, I continue to thrust against him with curled toes buried in the soil, arms clasped around rough roots, and eyes toward heaven. I hope the ecstasy will erase the pain. I let him assume my screams are cries of passion. It feels right to be torn in half by him, by God, there, beneath invisible stars that will never fall.
     In the end, he lays across my body as if the very thing that caused the field to be barren and the tree to die has killed him, too. When he stirs, he wraps his arms around me, making the searing pain in my back worse. “Do you see what I see up there,” I ask, although I know he isn’t looking.
     “I see it,” he says. “I don’t know what it is, but I see it.” He speaks slow and sad, and I wonder what he’s thinking. I rub his back in an attempt to comfort him. The pain in my own is becoming impossible to ignore. The corn moans as the hot breeze blows through their lonely, dark hallways.
     “You once said that I’d do anything for love,” I say. “But you don’t understand. It’s not just love. I’d do anything for your love … out here in the dark, lying in the dirt, tree roots cuttin’ my back.” I begin to cry. “I cain’t forget about you. I’ve tried to forget. I tried. It hurts.”
     All I can hear are the deep labored gulps of air he’s pulling in.
     I say, “I think I’m bleedin’.”
     He sits up, pulling his arm from beneath my back. He feels my blood between his fingers.
     I pull his hand toward me. “And you came to me tonight. You came to me.”
     He resists until his hand pops free. “Let me see your back.”
     “No—just hold me.” I sit up against him and kiss his face. I don’t care about anythang but you and me. I don’t want anythang to ruin it. I wanna stay here forever.”
     “Peyton, you’re gonna bleed to death.”
     I put my hand in his and feel the slimy blood. It seems to be the only life around us and it’s mine to give. I trace a line of red around his mouth. He shudders and takes my fingers in his mouth. A steady stream of blood runs down my back onto the dead tree and into the weak soil. I feel it now. We’re no longer deaf or mute, but something dumb holds on, a numbness that enables me to deny the pain.
     “Your love should be for me, not for my love,” he says. “There’s a difference.”
     “It is—you just won’t let me love you. I’m not gonna to stop tryin’. You don’t want me to stop, do you?”
     ”No,” he says.
     I’ll never forget that one tiny word and how he said it.
     “Then say you love me,” I insist, back throbbing.
     “I cain’t.”
     My wound gapes open and a rush of stinging air fills the hole. “Say it.”
     “Peyton, you have to get up. Let me look at your back.”
     “No!” I fall back down onto the ground, shaking my head, grinding dirt into my hair. As my body rocks between the roots, the pain grows until I finally stop and lay still.
     “You’re makin’ it worse.”
     “I don’t care.”
     “You have to care. That’s your problem,” he says. “You don’t care about the stuff you’re supposed to care about.” He reaches down, grabs my arms, and jerks me up. Then he crouches down like a dog, his face close to the dirt. I stare at his naked body as he combs the ground, looking for what injured me. “My parents would disown me, cut me off, and stop payin’ for med school if they knew I was here with you.” His voice is barely audible. “My dad doesn’t give second chances. He told me this would happen. I should have listened.” He sits up on his knees and holds a large piece of jagged brown glass toward me. “Broken beer bottle.”
     “It’s not fair. We have some kind of connection. I don’t understand it, but its there. You cain’t deny it. You’ve got to make your own choices.”
     I’m not denyin’ it tonight.” He tosses the sharp weapon far out into the field. “I do want you. I always have,” he says to the piece of glass as it flies away forever. We watch it glisten in the moonlight until it disappears.
     “Then why cain’t you love me?”
     “I cain’t explain it.” He blots my back with his shirt and examines the gash. “This is bad,” he says. “You’re gonna need stitches.”
     “Please don’t hurt me. I don’t want you to hurt me anymore.”
     “It’s gonna be alright, but we have to get dressed. I’ll take you to the emergency room.” He looks around as if afraid someone is there, watching. “I’ll stay with you.”
     As we hurry across the field, I look back at the painful bed we shared. Through the darkness, I’m sure I see some growth in the shallow moonlight.

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Chapter 11 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.