The Old Stomping Grounds
by Kyle Heger
O.K. Things didn’t turn out exactly the way I wanted. As a matter of fact, the whole bottom came falling out of my life last night when I spoke the Magic Words. But, at least, I landed back in a place where I know what I’m doing, where I know how to get things done, terra cognita. I can work my way back up out of here. If I want to. I’ve done it before. I can do it again. And even if I can’t do that, I can still manage to survive here.
I was sure last night would be a high point, a turning point for the better. I had an intuition it would. Well, intuitions can suck as much as anything else, it turns out. As much as hope and devotion. And love.
But I was just so damn sure. All the signs were there: the restaurant, the dinner, even the flowers on the table. The waitress, and the way she smiled. Everything seemed to be encouraging me, inspiring me, saying, “Go on. Everything’s going fine. You’re on the right track. You just need to do this one thing, to say these three Magic Words, and you’ll be happier than ever.”
The walk back to my rented room through the snowy streets; the crisp, clean, intoxicating air; the sparkling stars; the way you and I licked honey from baclava off each other’s frozen fingers and sang along with music coming from someone’s car window: “She came in through the bathroom window, protected by her silver spoon.” It was all propitious. When you slid out of your dress in my rented room; stood in your slip, lit by a streetlamp; pressed your contours against mine and whispered, “spoons,” I knew I was on the edge of a great culmination.
Oh, we’d had sex before. A lot of it. But it had been, at least on your side, of a recreational type. No endearments. Plenty of pleasure but no affection. But this was going to be different.
As we lay under the covers, entwined, I told myself, “Now is the time. Now. It’s now or never,” and I rolled over. But, when I began to say the Magic Words, I suddenly knew that it was all wrong, that I’d been deceived, that I was making a terrible mistake from which I might never recover. From which we might never recover. I remembered what had been holding back all those other times: my awareness of how important, maybe how necessary, your borders were to you; of how you had come to entangle intimacy with abuse. Yet, somehow, I couldn’t seem to stop myself. The words were already coming out of my mouth as if by some unstoppable momentum, an act of faith, words which I knew I could never take back. “I love you,” I said.
But I was just so damn sure. All the signs were there: the restaurant, the dinner, even the flowers on the table. The waitress, and the way she smiled. Everything seemed to be encouraging me, inspiring me, saying, “Go on. Everything’s going fine. You’re on the right track. You just need to do this one thing, to say these three Magic Words, and you’ll be happier than ever.”
The walk back to my rented room through the snowy streets; the crisp, clean, intoxicating air; the sparkling stars; the way you and I licked honey from baclava off each other’s frozen fingers and sang along with music coming from someone’s car window: “She came in through the bathroom window, protected by her silver spoon.” It was all propitious. When you slid out of your dress in my rented room; stood in your slip, lit by a streetlamp; pressed your contours against mine and whispered, “spoons,” I knew I was on the edge of a great culmination.
Oh, we’d had sex before. A lot of it. But it had been, at least on your side, of a recreational type. No endearments. Plenty of pleasure but no affection. But this was going to be different.
As we lay under the covers, entwined, I told myself, “Now is the time. Now. It’s now or never,” and I rolled over. But, when I began to say the Magic Words, I suddenly knew that it was all wrong, that I’d been deceived, that I was making a terrible mistake from which I might never recover. From which we might never recover. I remembered what had been holding back all those other times: my awareness of how important, maybe how necessary, your borders were to you; of how you had come to entangle intimacy with abuse. Yet, somehow, I couldn’t seem to stop myself. The words were already coming out of my mouth as if by some unstoppable momentum, an act of faith, words which I knew I could never take back. “I love you,” I said.
I recognize this place where I am now so well. This place where I grew up. I never thought I’d be back here. Of course, at one point, long ago, I never thought I’d leave here. It’s all coming back to me now: how to hang onto what I think I’ve lost, how to stop the world from getting worse, what sacrifices to make to prevent the destruction from spreading, and, most of all, how to keep it all secret, how to never reveal that I live in this place, that I’m doing what I’m doing, thinking what I’m thinking, feeling what I’m feeling. Above all, in this place, I must never speak of love. Or even hint at it. It would be selfish. It would be destructive. It would be evil.
You were lying on your back, facing the ceiling. I could feel you freeze as my words hit you and sank through your flesh. I could almost hear a small glass vial break in your chest as the words struck it, break, and spill some poisonous substance that quickly circulated throughout your system, permeating every inch of you, killing something. You sighed once, low, and shallow.
I forced myself to look at you from the corner of my eyes. You were staring at the ceiling, expressionless, pupils dilated, letting the darkness pour in like formaldehyde while something else trickled out all over the sheets from your fingertips.
Yes, those had been magic words, all right.
I sighed too and rolled over, turning my back to you, as I fell back down the long black funnel to here.
But there was one bit of good news I clung to as I fell. You were still lying there. Yes, you looked like a statue. But you could have stormed out of the bed, out of the room, out of the house. And you hadn’t.
I forced myself to look at you from the corner of my eyes. You were staring at the ceiling, expressionless, pupils dilated, letting the darkness pour in like formaldehyde while something else trickled out all over the sheets from your fingertips.
Yes, those had been magic words, all right.
I sighed too and rolled over, turning my back to you, as I fell back down the long black funnel to here.
But there was one bit of good news I clung to as I fell. You were still lying there. Yes, you looked like a statue. But you could have stormed out of the bed, out of the room, out of the house. And you hadn’t.
Really, I should be grateful I spent so much time here, back then, learning the ropes. Some people would be completely freaked out, completely unprepared to be here. They might just curl up into a ball and die. But not me. For me, it’s second nature.
I went to work. I knew right away the first thing I needed to do: throw a life line around you with my mind, doing it so gently and slowly and cleverly that you didn’t suspect a thing. This was essential, so that you wouldn’t leave me, so I would have time to find other, subtler, more effective ways of keeping you with me. I already understood just how to spin the line out of my mind, like spider silk, direct it through the air, ease it over you, inch by inch, until it stuck.
Yes. It all came back to me as if I’d never left this place, as if my time “topside” had been a dream, an illusion. It was with knowledge earned by long experience that I quickly clamped a lid on that part of myself that had made the mistake of breaking the silence, of uttering those terrible words, that I chained and locked it shut, that I burned and salted the ground around it, that I pledged to make sacrifices there every day to keep the magic working.
Long into the night, I lay there in the fetal position, working my spells, cutting off hidden pieces of myself to fuel them, while you lay next to me, barely moving, barely breathing. Until at last, I fell into what passes for sleep in this place.
I went to work. I knew right away the first thing I needed to do: throw a life line around you with my mind, doing it so gently and slowly and cleverly that you didn’t suspect a thing. This was essential, so that you wouldn’t leave me, so I would have time to find other, subtler, more effective ways of keeping you with me. I already understood just how to spin the line out of my mind, like spider silk, direct it through the air, ease it over you, inch by inch, until it stuck.
Yes. It all came back to me as if I’d never left this place, as if my time “topside” had been a dream, an illusion. It was with knowledge earned by long experience that I quickly clamped a lid on that part of myself that had made the mistake of breaking the silence, of uttering those terrible words, that I chained and locked it shut, that I burned and salted the ground around it, that I pledged to make sacrifices there every day to keep the magic working.
Long into the night, I lay there in the fetal position, working my spells, cutting off hidden pieces of myself to fuel them, while you lay next to me, barely moving, barely breathing. Until at last, I fell into what passes for sleep in this place.
Now, the morning has come and it’s time for us to get up and get dressed and catch the bus and go to the college campus for our first classes of the day. If I’ve pulled it off right, if I’m up to the challenge, it will go, at least on the surface, almost like business as usual, as nothing traumatic happened last night.
You get out of bed without looking at me, silent and expressionless, and go to the bathroom to get dressed. I know you’re thinking something like, “I’ll have to break up with him now,” your green eyes cool and clouded. “Should I come right out and tell him, or should I just let him fall by the wayside?” But you haven’t said anything yet. I made the mistake of breaking a silence last night. I believe I can manage things so you will avoid breaking an equally important silence this morning.
I’m an expert at acting like I don’t care, on wearing the kind of mask you’re wearing: deadpan.
I reach for my pants and put them on. Then my shirt. Moving like you are. Like a robot.
We both pick up our back packs and head out the front door to the bus stop. We’re walking together. That’s a good sign. No honey licking. No singing. But we don’t need those. A good, slow, stubborn walk will suit us fine.
You haven’t said anything yet about the Magic Words. And even if you do, I’ll find some way to minimize their importance. I’ll laugh at them. I’ll make fun of them. I’ll deny them. You have no idea how hard it will be to get rid of me. You have no way of knowing just how much neglect and rejection and abuse I can take and still stick with you, how many sacrifices I can make. You can’t possibly see the powers I have at my disposal here in this world I was never meant to leave, my home, my old stomping grounds.
You get out of bed without looking at me, silent and expressionless, and go to the bathroom to get dressed. I know you’re thinking something like, “I’ll have to break up with him now,” your green eyes cool and clouded. “Should I come right out and tell him, or should I just let him fall by the wayside?” But you haven’t said anything yet. I made the mistake of breaking a silence last night. I believe I can manage things so you will avoid breaking an equally important silence this morning.
I’m an expert at acting like I don’t care, on wearing the kind of mask you’re wearing: deadpan.
I reach for my pants and put them on. Then my shirt. Moving like you are. Like a robot.
We both pick up our back packs and head out the front door to the bus stop. We’re walking together. That’s a good sign. No honey licking. No singing. But we don’t need those. A good, slow, stubborn walk will suit us fine.
You haven’t said anything yet about the Magic Words. And even if you do, I’ll find some way to minimize their importance. I’ll laugh at them. I’ll make fun of them. I’ll deny them. You have no idea how hard it will be to get rid of me. You have no way of knowing just how much neglect and rejection and abuse I can take and still stick with you, how many sacrifices I can make. You can’t possibly see the powers I have at my disposal here in this world I was never meant to leave, my home, my old stomping grounds.
Kyle Heger, former managing editor of Communication World magazine, lives in Albany, CA with his wife, Emily. He’s the father of three sons. His writing has won a number of awards and has been accepted by 67 publications, including London Journal of Fiction, Nerve Cowboy, and U.S. 1 Worksheets.