I was a bottle set to crack, soon to spill. I was filled with their stories.
Judith and William had been together for four years. They were married the summer after high school. One day, she just left. She brought a few changes of clothes and slept on my couch. At first, William called nearly every day. But Judith wouldn't talk to him. Instead, he talked to me.
"I don't know what happened," he said. "I mean, I know we're different. But we've always been able to work through those differences. I'm three semesters away from graduation and then I'll have a good job. She can do anything she wants. Hell, I told her we'd get a darkroom built for her after we buy a house. I like who she is. I like that she's an artist. I like that we're different."
And, of course, Judith told me her story:
"That simpleminded fuckwad. Already he was talking about kids. Kids. Just kind of asking me questions, thinking I would change my mind or something. I told him that no matter how many ways he asked and no matter how fucking subtle he was in his questioning, I would never change my mind. No way's some fucking head gonna pop out of my pussy. Ever.
"And I'm an artist. I don't need a house or kids to keep me happy. But apparently he does. Even though he told me from the beginning that kids and a house and all that shit didn't matter. But I should have known they'd put crazy ideas like that in his head. Fucking business school."
I spit out my wine, laughing.
William eventually stopped calling and they got a quick divorce. Judith found a waitressing job and eventually found an apartment of her own. But it was in the same complex, just a few buildings down from mine. So we still saw each other all the time. We went to the movies and hung out in blues bars. We picked guys up sometimes.
A year passed like this and I never heard from William and Judith rarely mentioned him. When she did, it was usually to make fun of him. I had almost forgotten about him when he surprised me at work.
It was the middle of the day on a Tuesday. I was pricing and stocking canned soup. Someone gave me a friendly pat on the back and I turned around and saw William. He gave me an awkward hug. Then he told me everything.
He wove his story in and out of casual flirty small talk. He only mentioned pieces of it at a time. But I put it all together, just like he wanted me to.
He told me about the older woman he was living with. She had a three-bedroom house on Peach Street. She was paying his way through school. He could concentrate on his education, instead of pursuing his degree piecemeal. He didn't have to work to save enough money to take a few classes anymore. He was going to graduate in May. He was very happy.
Of course, I thought. Everyone who lives on Peach Street is happy.
He gave me another awkward hug before leaving.
His story was like a tumor. I knew that I would eventually have to free myself of it.
I freed myself from it a month later.
Judith had a birthday and we spent it on her couch, watching horror movies and drinking. Judith pretended to be interested in the movie but I watched as she studied her wineglass, stirring it a bit with her fingernail, and then slowly drinking, savoring it in her cheeks and suddenly swallowing it all at once. Then she put the glass in her lap, holding it steady with one hand and tapping it softly with the other. Tap. Tap. Slowly, almost methodical.
I asked her what was wrong.
"You'll think I'm being stupid."
I told her that I wouldn't.
"Fucking William," she said. "He didn't call me today."
I reminded her that on her last birthday, she had barely separated from him. He still had hope. He thought she still might come back.
"I don't know what to make of this," she said. "I don't know how to explain this sudden feeling of fucking—loss. It doesn't make sense. I don't want kids. I never wanted kids. And yet, how do I explain the dreams I've been having recently? How do I explain the baby in my arms and the comfort that I feel as we rock together on a porch swing? It's like my mind's been telling me that I made a mistake. That I left William because I don't really want to be happy. Something like that at least. Something. I don't know."
And before I knew why, I was telling her William's story. And as I was telling it, I realized that I was doing exactly what William wanted. His words were meant for Judith, not me.
Judith absorbed the story stoically. She didn't smile but she didn't cry either. She just seemed to accept it.
I thought that might have settled everything but a few days later, Judith was over at my apartment again. She had a confession.
"I e-mailed William today. It was a friendly enough e-mail. I didn't mention anything about my dreams. I just wished him luck with school and told him that I was thinking about him a little. Later today, I checked and there was a reply in my inbox. Goddman, William. He was always to the point. All of it, the whole message, was a single sentence: Please take me off your contact list. Fuck. I really, really fucking wish you hadn't told me all that shit the other day. I just—I really wish I could have left the whole thing a mystery. Mysteries are nice sometimes."
A couple nights later, a puzzling sickness woke me from a peaceful sleep. I touched my blankets and realized that my sleep had only seemed peaceful. My bedding was covered with sweat, as if I had been having a nightmare. But I couldn't remember a thing about it. And now—but who was about to knock on my door?
And then I heard the knocking and I knew that it was Judith.
A knock. A violent and urgent knock. I opened the door and she walked into my apartment. I noticed immediately that her hands were shaking a little. There was blood between her fingers. Something had happened. Some resolution to the story.
And she started telling me her story. The sounds were like a dying music—a piano played out of tune.
As I listened, I began to react physically. My skin began to flake off and fall onto the carpet. More words, more story. I was a skeleton with exposed meat and my skin had turned into pearls underneath my feet. My chest collapsed into itself and I fell to the ground. I started to convulse, to dry heave. My muscles cracked and fell away. My bones turned into powder.
But Judith kept on with her story, as if nothing had happened to me.
Pat King is a founding member of the Guild of Outsider Writers. He's been a part of the small press for seven years. Besides writing, Pat's interests include film and music. He's currently compiling a /music/spoken word CD for the Outsider Writers that should be available early this year.