The Ice Age (17 page)

I know things now…I know what things feel like. I belong in his club, if anyone does. I stole a look at Gunther. He was giving me that downcast look that is becoming all too familiar, basically the look that's haunted his face off and on since I staggered behind a shed with a couple of rough hicks. But I'm still the same person I was before they laid their big stupid paws on me, when he looked at me with ‘love in his face' and not this distant, useless pity.

I really did burst into tears then, and snapped, ‘I'm not some broken toy, you know.' For lack of any recent physical contact, I smacked him on the arm. ‘I'm not a fucking broken toy! You can't just, don't just…' I was breathing too hard. I stopped shouting, and sort of gasped, ‘Can't just throw me away.'

He held me until I stopped crying. He said no one was throwing me away. And he said, ‘Sorry, so sorry,' just as he'd said to Stephanie. But he sounded like he really, really meant it.

Cynthia came back, smelling of fresh nail polish. She had on ‘The MTV', as she calls it, and was holding her fingers splayed out at her sides, swaying to some godawful loud song. Some nouveau punk. Gunther and I hate that shit. I saw him cringe ever so slightly, and it made me feel somewhat better, made me feel like we were still on the same side.

We walked her to work. She runs a secondhand retro clothing store. You wouldn't know it to look at her. Gunther wanted to go to the library. I went back and forth between the animal and art sections, mostly looking at pictures. Gunther was scanning all the periodicals. We were there for about an hour. When we were walking down the steps, back out into the sunny day, he said, ‘He's all right.'

‘Huh?'

‘That guy you clobbered over the head.'

‘Oh, him.'

‘He's going to be OK.'

‘That's good.' I probably should have sounded more enthused.

‘That
is
good. Now you can't be charged with second-degree murder.'

‘Hmmmph.'

‘Yeah, hmmph.' He clapped a hand on my shoulder.

We walked down the street and got some ice cream in the diner. Meandered over to the shop. We brought Cynthia a soda. She was very appreciative. I tried on about a million outfits. She gave me a shirt. It's kind of a green seventies number that hugs my waist. Cynthia said it makes me look like Stevie Nicks. Kind of an odd compliment, I think. Gunther approved.

That night I lay on the couch and watched MTV. Couldn't sleep. They had on a Blondie retrospective. Now there was a beautiful woman, the old Debbie Harry. I've never known anyone to disagree with that statement. Seems she's
everyone's
type. I decided I should try and get some sleep, and switched it off. That's when I heard the moaning.

I pricked up my ears, hoping I was mistaken. But there was no mistaking it. Cynthia was carrying on like a porn star, all thunderstruck gasps. I couldn't believe they were fucking. After all that fussing and not getting along. But then, I guess that's always the way. You can be as patient as a saint with a man, and he just goes for the first hardened bitch to slap him with some criticism. Some good old nagging. Seen it a million times. And heard plenty a nice girl complain about it. My friend Jemma, in high school, caught her boyfriend cheating on her with her dykey aunt, who ran the tuckshop at juvenile hall. And Jemma used to iron his shirts. In high school.

That fucking moaning just went on. I felt like getting up and hovering in the doorway, floating over the bed like a vengeful ghost. Because you do wish you could just be dead, in moments like these. Just make it all stop. Finally it did, with simultaneous moans from both of them.

Gunther was up early the next day. He walked past me, slouching, and didn't meet my gaze. What am I, the wife?

He muttered, ‘Good morning.'

I replied, ‘Fuck's sake.'

He said, ‘I'm sorry?'

And I said, ‘Nothing.'

Cynthia had no problem meeting my eyes, brash bitch. She was strutting around the place like she had bluebirds on her shoulders chirping out happy songs. Seemed she hadn't had a good lay in a long time. But it wasn't enough of an occasion to fix anything other than fucking toast. Again. So much for going to Cynthia's and getting a good meal into me.

I took a shower and fumed over this situation. There was no way in hell I was going to hang around while those two fucked each other. That was just too much to bear.

I wrapped myself in a towel and stormed down the hall, dripping. Gunther was coming the other way, and grabbed my upper arm, gently.

‘We'll leave today,' he said.

I kept walking, and dressed so quickly I got all my clothes wet. I sat on the couch with the intention of watching more MTV, but was so wet I could feel a puddle forming under me. And they were playing booty-shakin' RnB. This whole scene was getting more and more pathetic. Too lame even to serve as a symbolic reflection of my current downtrodden spirits. So I went outside and sat myself on the porch in the sun, to dry.

Gunther passed me with some bags. He'd packed my bags, too. I heard the jingle of car keys, from inside the house.

And I heard Cynthia say, ‘That's it? C'mon, Gunther!'

She got on the phone to another friend of theirs. Told Gunther to stay until he got here. Murray, as it turned out. Took him half a day to get here. Old walrus face.

I was on the front porch smoking a joint all to myself when he pulled up. He was jovial as ever when he saw me. He shouted, ‘Hey, you little hooligan!' and smooshed me in a long bear hug. I'm pretty sure I accidentally singed a hole in his flannel shirt.

Gunther came out to meet him, and Cynthia stood in the doorway. Murray released me and turned his attention to Gunther, with a ‘Hey, old buddy', and punched him on the shoulder.

He went inside with those two and said, ‘Still make quite the handsome couple.'

I stayed out on the porch. This situation really was trying my patience. I heard them talking inside, but couldn't hear what they were saying. And I wasn't really listening. This is Gunther's and my trip. We decide when we come and go. In fact, mostly Gunther decides. And that's fine. Because he's Gunther.

It was like watching a cheetah get hit by a tranquilizer dart. It was just unnatural, undignified. Unholy. In the name of friendship, in the name of old flames, in the name of whatever the fuck, I wished they'd just release him. And I couldn't believe he didn't have the balls to stand up to them, but yet he'll stand up to me, who'll walk to the ends of the earth for him with smoking embers on my toes. Couldn't believe he was kow-towing to these peripheral fuckheads. I mean, they go back a ways, but what about now? It's me. It's me and him. And we need to get back to it. And I wish he'd make it happen, the way he makes everything happen. And I was well stoned.

I got up, stood in the doorway, and said, ‘Gunther?'

He looked at me with all his gentleness.

And Cynthia looked at me at the same time and said, ‘Little lady, you're out of your depth here.'

‘Don't underestimate the kid, Cyn.' It was Murray who stuck up for me, while Gunther just stared at me weakly.

‘We're not leaving tonight, are we?' I addressed this to whoever had the wherewithal to answer. No one spoke, and Gunther looked at me with an expression of even more weakness. So I said, ‘I'm going to go sleep in the car.'

Cynthia said, ‘You can take my bed.'

I was already on my way out the front door when I said, ‘No fucking way.' As if I would lie down in their crusty love juices. I wasn't going to sleep in any bed in which Gunther had so recently bedded someone else. God fucking damn it.

Strange, because Gunther is Mr. Protocol, but when I got to the car, the keys were in it. I guess Cynthia really startled him into submission. They were lying on the driver's seat. What did I have to lose? The man I love was in the talons of someone else, and we needed to get out of there, even if it was only one at a time.
I
needed to get out of there. I just couldn't stay one minute longer. I needed to show Gunther. They can't stop us. They can't stop me.

Before I knew it I was hurtling down the black rocky road, bouncing over the jagged little countryroad stones, under the towering pine trees. It was kind of spooky. But also kind of exhilarating. And it seemed the perfect way to show Gunther what a lame ass he's being. Show him how it's fucking done. And show him what it feels like to be without me. Let him wonder when I'll be back, for a change. But then I thought, ‘When will I be back?' Was I even going back, or was he supposed to come after me? I just knew I wanted to get moving. Beyond that, I didn't know what I was doing. The concept of heading out on my own and calling the shots was cool. But it only meant something if Gunther could see it. Could feel it. I don't like to kid myself.

Do I really need him here, though? I can feel him from everywhere. Such is love. Maybe I could leave him, after all the trouble he's caused me, and feel my leaving him, for a long, long time. Feel him, wherever he is, knowing he's done me wrong, and I am at large, punishing him. In all my innocence.

I slept in the car, pulled over in a ditch. I woke up the next morning when Murray's pick-up pulled up alongside me. Turns out I'd only driven a few miles. I got sleepy. And truth be told, I don't think I really wanted
that
much distance between me and Gunther. He was sitting in the passenger seat.

He leaned out the window and said, ‘Had us a little worried.'

It was about 4:00 or 5:00 a.m. The sun wasn't even up yet. He disembarked from the pick-up and came and sat next to me. I turned us around and drove back to Cynthia's house. I think I got my point across.

We left later that day, amidst loads of hugs and affirmations. God, for a jaded gal, Cynthia really could lay it on thick. And Murray, he was always pretty affectionate.

After a long silence and safe distance, I said, ‘That was weird.'

Gunther said, ‘Yeah. Don't worry about that.'

We drove half a day, and stopped at a roadhouse, where I finally got a decent fucking meal. With onion rings. And finished off with apple pie. A mug of coffee. And some lemonade. Gunther got a conservative grilled cheese and tomato sandwich. On Wonderbread, which he pulled apart and looked at with disdain. He had two coffees and a tall glass of water.

It was getting late, and we planned on driving some more. So we found a little corner shop, and got some supplies. When we walked in, there were a couple boys around my age playing pinball. One of them stopped dead when he saw me, dropped his hands to sides, and his jaw, and blurted, ‘Gawd DAMN!' He nudged the other one.

I don't think my entrance really warranted that. (And oddly, I thought I saw Gunther blush.) I think if anything, I was looking a little worse for wear. Sleeping in the car hadn't done me any favors.

I never knew this country was 85% hick towns, until this trip. Up until driving around the whole damn thing with Gunther, I was happily ignorant of the fact. And now we were in the South. Again. I don't know how that happened. Gunther was driving.

He got some change and used the pay phone outside. He stayed on a while. It sounded important, but I don't like to pry.

There was an altercation between two large men when we were walking back to the car, in the parking lot. I don't know the origins of the dispute, but as we came upon them one said to the other, ‘…Why you bitch-faced asshole.'

To which the other replied, ‘Did you just call me a…
bitch-faced asshole
?'

I was glad we were down South, because it didn't seem right to ask that sort of question without a Southern accent.

Gunther grabbed my arm and said, ‘Come on sugar, let's get out of here.' And herded me 'round towards the car.

‘Did you just call me…
sugar
?' I laughed. Now even Gunther was going Southern. ‘Jeez, why don't you just call me molasses?'

He was quiet.

‘Gunther, huh?'

He snickered.

We really sped along after that point. We drove all night. Gunther had a bunch of coffees, and manned the wheel. I slept in the car, for the second night in a row.

And would you believe when I woke up the next morning, I saw the monstrous constructions of New York City, towering in the distance.

‘GUNTHER!' It was as much an accusation, as a plea, as a jolt of shocked surprise.

‘There it is,' he said, matter of factly.

So here it looked like Gunther, the knight in shining armor, had delivered me to safety after all.

I couldn't believe it was all over. And, not one to beat around the bush, I turned to him and gasped, ‘Gunther, is it all over?'

He paused, and said, ‘It's only just beginning. For you. Small One, it is only the beginning.'

Tears poured down my face. That damn huge city just appeared out of nowhere.

Although once we got into its midst, into those narrow cluttered streets, with the buildings that climbed up to the sky…all that mayhem was distracting. I got lost in just looking at it all. I had more tears, but it was as if they forgot to fall.

We drove around, and around, and around until Gunther found somewhere to park. He took me on a walking tour of Lower Manhattan, which comprised the East Village, the West Village, SoHo and the Lower East Side. We even contemplated walking across the bridge to Brooklyn. Oh, and Little Italy, and China Town. It's all pretty close together, really. At least, it seems close together, because you don't know how far you're walking, because there's so much to look at.

We paused on the corner of Houston and Ludlow, where that gross Katz's Deli belches out the combined smell of pig fat and sweat. Heaven help anyone walking past those air vents. He reached out and stroked my hair. Usually he's a bit cagey about that sort of thing. But I guess old guys probably stroke young girls' hair all the time in Manhattan. I don't know why he doesn't just stay on. Seems like no one would bat an eye here. But then, I guess Gunther is just Gunther, wherever you put him. An island. Damn, though, I'm still hanging on to the hope he might not go.