Chapter 21
Debbie, Coco, Bananas, Peanut, Parfait, and Éclair
“She’s a nightmare,” he says affectionately as we board the train two days later. He didn’t shave this morning and he’s looking adorably scruffy.
“I like her, too,” I say. “How come I never met her before?”
“That’s the first time I’ve seen her in five years.”
I raise my eyebrows, astonished as I think of their greeting—Biz flicked his nose, he didn’t say anything. “But she’s been in school in the US since . . .” I try to calculate.
“2013,” he says. “I invited her to visit Indiana, but why would she travel all that way to see a brother she barely knew? She writes a sort of blog, and I read that. She’s been through a lot—struggled with anorexia since she was sixteen. Last time I saw her she was under a hundred pounds and full of rage. It was killing her, quite literally. She looks much better now, though she was in hospital a year and a half ago. The school sent her home.”
I wince. “I knew a lot of girls who were going through that. Dancers.”
“How did you avoid it?”
I shrug. “My parents taught me that strength and health are the most beautiful things a body can be, and how that looks is different on each person’s body.”
“Also,” he says as the train leaves the station, “you don’t have anxiety, depression, and no skill set for coping with the distress of the people around you.”
“That too.”
Charles watches the landscape go by and I ponder the luggage rack.
I put my head on his shoulder. “Charles?”
“Hm?”
“Can I ask a personal question?”
“Sure.”
I take a deep breath and say, “What the hell is that big thing you put on the luggage rack?”
“That thing, young Coffey,” he says with a grin, “is a crash pad, for bouldering. Today. Tomorrow. Climbing actual rocks, outside, in the middle of Manhattan.”
I lift my head and look at him. “You can do that?”
“Google it,” he says, and I do. Phone in hand, I spend the train ride watching videos of people climbing rocks I must have seen dozens of times in my life.
“Cool! We can go as soon as we drop shit off at home,” I say as the train goes underground and I lose signal.
“You’ll like it. It’ll help you learn to see holds and routes in natural settings. Great preparation for the Gunks.”
We’re going climbing in May, when my semester ends. I’m already terrified.
After taking the subway uptown and walking across the park, I wave a hand to indicate the building for Charles. “Here we are. Hey, Frank, Merry Christmas,” I say to the doorman as we approach.
“Merry Christmas, Miss Annie,” he says, and then, “This must be Dr. Douglas. Welcome to New York, sir.”
“Thank you, Frank,” Charles says, and I beam at him. He raises an eyebrow at me, like he’s suspicious of something.
We take the elevator up and I lead Charles into the vestibule. “We take off our shoes,” I instruct, and then I lead him into the gallery, and he laughs out loud.
I mean, it is really nice. It’s big. It has a lot of windows.
He drops his bag and the crash pad and his shitty old duffle coat the color of baby puke and walks to the windows, overlooking the park.
I stand next to him and watch New York in December.
“Annie,” Charles says in a strange voice.
“Yeah.”
“In Montreal?”
“Yeah?”
“When you were worried about me having money?”
“Yeah,” I say, remembering the fancy dinner.
He turns to me and says, “It wasn’t the money, was it.”
I worry my eyebrows. “You speak French and know how to order wine and eat asparagus without dripping sauce on your clothes,” I say.
“I’m a pretentious wanker, you mean,” he grins.
“But you’re not,” I insist. “Most of the people I know with money are stupid, boring jerks, basically. All they care about is being interesting to look at and knowing people who know famous people. They don’t do anything real. My parents do real work. I want to do real work. What you do is real. You help people, for real, every day.”
He narrows his eyes. “You have a trust fund, don’t you.”
I huff. “So?”
“You don’t live like a person with a trust fund.” He looks amused now.
“Neither do you,” I accuse.
“I haven’t got one,” he counters.
I roll my eyes. “My parents and I decided to set my allowance at the median household income so I could fit in. You know. Be friends with people who aren’t rich.”
“And then you end up mates with me!” he laughs. “Oh, this is too brilliant. Annie Coffey is a trust fund baby. Finally, a flaw! Thank god.” He hugs me with one arm and looks out at the park. Then he looks down at me with excitement. “Shall we boulder in the park, then?”
“Yes, please!” I burst, glad to change the subject. I lead him back down the hall to my rooms, so we can change into climbing clothes. “This one’s yours,” I say, opening the door to the guest room. “And this is your bathroom—just a shower, not a tub. I hope that’s okay.”
“Somehow I’ll struggle through,” he says.
“This is my room,” I say shyly, leading him in.
Charles stares at my Turing poster.
“You are a swot,” he says, sounding impressed.
“That means nerd?” I ask.
“More or less,” he says.
“Then yes,” I say. “Yes, I am.”
“Right. Rock shoes. Chalk bag. Warm clothes for spotting in. Get going.”
We get.
We start nearest home, at Cat Rock, then move to Rat Rock. At each, there are chalk marks along the face of the rock, where climbers before us have been.
It works. I learn to see the route without manmade, color-coded holds. I learn to fall off a bouldering problem safely to the crash pad, and to spot Charles as he climbs. I learn to traverse across the rock, seeing moves along the horizontal, as well as the vertical. I learn to feel what a rock can afford my fingers, even when the rock is cold and my fingers not much warmer.
I send a V2 and feel very proud of myself—it’s as difficult a bouldering problem as I’ve ever done. Then Charles does it without using his feet for the whole top half of the climb, his feet dangling in the air.
“Asshole,” I praise. “You and your ropy forearms.”
I spot him as he works on a V6 problem. It’s so hard, I can’t even do the first move of this route, but he makes it look easy, assembling it bit by bit. First he does just the first move, then begins again, adding the second move, his hand searching for the best hold. Then he begins again and does three moves. The entire problem is five moves, ending with a heel hook that would be easy for me—you just put your knee in your ear, as Charles would say, and then shift all your weight onto that foot—but his groin tendons aren’t that flexible. With an “Oof, bugger!” he falls eight feet to the crash pad as I lean in to break his fall.
It’s maybe forty-five degrees out, but he’s down to a T-shirt and there’s sweat down the center of it. He lies there, panting, with his wrists over his head and a dopey grin on his face.
“This is fun,” he says.
“It is fun,” I agree, eyeing the veins in his forearms. “How’s your hand?”
“Fine.” He flexes it unconsciously, then sits up and turns to the rock. He tries again. Grunting with effort, he pulls through the fourth move, digs his fingers in hard, and tries to get his weight onto his left foot.
“Bugger!” he calls, falling. I break the fall again, and he lies there breathing hard, with that sweaty, smug grin. But he says, “I’m not gonna get it today. That’s it. Oh, the lactic acid.”
More relaxed than I’ve seen him maybe ever, he hauls himself, grinning, to his feet. We carry our stuff home, dump our crap in the vestibule, and go to our separate rooms to de-funk.
I stand under the shower, dazzled. This is my city, my home, and I’ve just spent an afternoon learning things I never knew there were to learn about it. How does he do this to me?
It’s the way he sees the whole world as a puzzle he’ll never quite solve, but he loves the process of trying and trying again. It’s the way he can sit patiently, affectionately, as I work my way toward finding a path that works for me, along a problem he solved long ago. It’s his body, too—the way he moves, the way his arm muscles flex as he climbs, the way his fingers press into the rock. The way his hips pivot to shift his body closer to the rock.
And I bet he’s naked right now.
Why am I not in there?
I wonder if being able to be mad while I’m in the room has doused The Thing for him, like The Thing was a bubble that popped up when he pushed down the angry, and now that he’s allowed to be mad around me . . . no Thing.
It’s the opposite for me. I feel it every time I see him, as intense in the coffee shop, when he’s helping me study, as at the rock wall, when he’s competing with Linton to see who can do more one-armed pull-ups. I love when he gets frustrated or impatient and doesn’t kick me out.
I put my hands between my legs and lean a shoulder against the shower wall and remember the night on Simon’s couch when he fucked me until I couldn’t move, fucked me until I was helpless with it, then just kept fucking me. And the next morning when he told me to say I was his, my body belonged to him . . . and it does belong to him. I want him. I haven’t stopped wanting him for a single moment for four years.
With hot water streaming over my scalp and face, I tug at my clit and I mouth the words he made me say. I’m yours. I imagine him walking in right now, right now, when I’m this close to coming, and pushing me up against the wall to fuck me. Fuck me. I’m yours. You’re the only one. The way he’d kiss me. The way he’d come in me.
After my shower, I put on my pajamas and head to the kitchen for food. Charles finds me in the lounge with a trayful of sandwiches. His hair is damp across his forehead and he looks flushed and happy. He sits on the couch with me. I let him eat for a minute. He inhales his sandwich, then starts a second one.
We sit in another long silence. At last I say, “Hey, so how’s your mountain?” my attention studiously anywhere but on him and this very minor question.
“Fine,” he says.
“You got to the top? You slayed the dragon?”
“I can’t slay the dragon; I am the dragon.”
I ask, “Is it a friendly dragon? Like Puff, the magic dragon?”
“Annie?”
I look at him innocently, eyebrows raised, and blink.
He smothers a smile. “If I told you I didn’t want to talk about it, would you stop asking?”
I open my mouth to say, “Of course,” but instead what comes out is “Does he frolic in the autumn mists?”
“No,” he says with a reluctant smile. He sighs massively, leans back, and says lightly, “It’s more like Smaug. You know. ‘I am fire. I am death,’ et cetera.”
“Ohhhhh. So it’s protecting treasure,” I say. “And you have to slay the dragon to get the treasure. No, wait, you can’t slay the dragon, you are the dragon. You are fire, you are death. Plus, you’re the mountain. And . . . you must also be the treasure.”
He turns his face to me, his expression unreadable. “I never thought about it that way.”
“What way?”
“Protecting treasure.”
“That’s what dragons do,” I declare. “Harry Potter’s dragon was guarding her eggs, along with a golden egg with a clue in it. Maybe that’s what your dragon is doing.”
“Maybe,” he says, and I see that he’s had enough, he’s about to change the subject, so I say, “In Shrek, the dragon’s guarding treasure and a princess, and Donkey flirts with her—with the dragon, I mean, not the princess—and by Shrek the Third they’ve had six little baby Dronkeys.”
He purses his lips against a smile and says, “Six, eh.”
“Debbie, Coco, Bananas, Peanut, Parfait, and Éclair,” I recite seriously.
That does it. He snorts a laugh.
“Right. That’s enough of that, miss.” Raising one eyebrow, he says, “Behave, termagant, or I’ll tickle you to death.”
Striving to look contrite, I say, “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” he prompts like a patient teacher.
“In How to Train Your Dragon—” I start, and he moves fast, launching himself to my side of the couch, to hold me down by my wrists. He tickles me, and I shriek. Through giggles and squirming attempts to get away, I gasp and splutter, “Hiccup—gah!—injures a dragon—stop, don’t!—and so he makes it—wait!—he makes a prosthetic fin—” I roll onto my stomach and almost manage to wriggle away from him, but he twists my wrist behind my back and, with the other hand, keeps tickling me. Between cackles and gasping laughter as I try to escape, I say, “Maybe your dragon—wait!—maybe your dragon—gah! stop!—maybe your dragon just needs a new wing so it can fly!”
I manage to get possession of my wrist and I roll onto my back again, then I try to slide sideways off the couch, but he blocks me with his knee, saying, “Oh no you don’t!” and pins my wrists above my head with one hand and tickles my waist with the other, so that I wriggle and shriek under him, and gasp to breathe with his weight compressing me into the cushions.
And then I’m not laughing, because he’s not tickling me. He’s caressing my waist, under my shirt, touching my skin with his rough palm traveling along my side, from my pelvic bone to the side of my breast, my shirt riding up with his hand. He’s breathing as hard as I am. I feel it on my neck, feel his unshaven cheek.
His hand slides back down to my hip, then back up, this time palming over my breast briefly and I shudder and moan under him, and his hand travels back down over my belly to the waistband of my pajama pants.
He stops, his body completely still over me, but for his labored breath.
“Sorry,” he murmurs into my neck. “I’ll stop.”
But his hand travels back up. And over my breast. And back down. And it is really hard to remember why we shouldn’t do this.
And he’s kissing my neck now, and little noises are escaping me. With him pinning me down, I can’t move my arms, and he’s straddling my legs. So I make the only movement I can—I push my pelvis upward to invite him. I feel his erection against my pubic bone and I press against it. My shirt is bunched up around my armpits now and he’s kissing my breasts, his hands laced with mine over my head.
But then, “Sorry,” he says again. “This isn’t—we’re not—”
“We have A Thing,” I protest. “Neither of us knows where the boundaries should be.”
He’s silent and still for what feels like a very, very long time, while I breathe hard, hoping. Then with a growl he bites my nipple and moves his hand to pull down my pants.
“Domina,” he whispers urgently. “Let me taste you.”
“Yes,” I whisper back.
And from somewhere in the distance, I hear the elevator ding.
“Shit,” Charles says. He tugs down my shirt and bolts to the far end of the sofa.
“Hello?” calls Dad from the gallery.
“We’re in the lounge,” I call back, pressing my hands to my cheeks and trying to persuade my blood flow to change directions.
Dad appears in the hallway and I call as I watch him come toward us, “We went rock climbing in the park.”
He gets as far as the doorway, then leans against the jamb. “Hey, Anniebear, Mommy had an emergency surgery, so she’ll be late. How ’bout we make her something nice for when she gets home? Christmas Eve,” he adds with a giddy smile. Then he turns his smile to Charles and says, “You much of a chef, Dr. Douglas?”
“He’s a really good cook,” I affirm, and I begin to usher us all into the kitchen. On the way, I mouth silently at Charles, Sorry, and We’ll talk later.
We make the traditional Coffey Family Christmas Eve Dinner—pizza, with dough from scratch—leaving the dough to rise for an hour while we decorate the apartment.
In an effort to make Charles feel at home, Dad has brought home “crackers”—which I’m disappointed to find are not snacks, but paper-wrapped little firecrackers that you tug on with a partner and they pop open with little paper crowns and toys and candy and jokes. Once I adjust to the idea that they’re not food, I love them. I open a dozen, whapping Dad on the arm with the paper end until he takes it and pulls with me. I layer three paper crowns of different colors on my head and wear them all night. I make Dad and Charles wear theirs, too.
When Mom gets home, she disappears into her room for half an hour of alone time, as usual, and then appears, saying, “Oooh, crowns! How do I get a crown?” I try to give her mine but she says, “I want us both to have crowns!” so I pull a cracker with her and, delighted, she unfolds the crown and puts it on her head. We eat dinner that way, royalty all.
At bedtime, we disperse.
“Christmas Eve, Anniebee!” Dad says again, and he means to remind me to write my letter. That’s what they’re going to do now, write their letter to me and Charles.
“I know!” I enthuse back. I’ve been thinking about what I’ll say in my letter for weeks, but I always end up surprised by what comes out of my pen.
I follow Charles to his room and stand at the door.
“Hey, so, Christmas Eve,” I say, echoing my dad. “I have to go write my letter.”
“Yeah,” he says, sitting on the edge of his bed with his brace in his hands.
“Do you wanna maybe talk about this afternoon, though?”
He makes a reluctant noise and runs a hand through his hair. “There’s not much to say. I shouldn’t have done it. I apologize.”
“I liked it.”
“Nevertheless.”
“Neither of us knows where the boundaries should be.”
He shakes his head at that. He gestures me to the desk chair, rather than to the bed next to him.
“Annie,” he begins, but I interrupt him.
“I had an idea about why the boundary feels so complicated.”
“Apart from The Thing?” he asks.
“Yeah. It’s . . . I mean, even saying it out loud feels like it might be outside the boundaries. But it’s what you told me to do—saying what the other person needs to hear, instead of what’s most salient to me.”
“Oh lord, I’m in for it now,” he says with a teasing smile. “Go on, then.”
I look down and say, “I realized—god, I can’t believe it took me so long—I realized you’re the survivor you’re trying to save. It’s not your mom or your siblings or the incest survivor with the upcycled sweaters. I mean, it is all of them, but it’s you. When you were a little kid, your grown-ups couldn’t do the things grown-ups are supposed to do, so you had to be the one who . . . like . . . bandaged your own knee when you fell off your bike. You had to be the one who told you everything would be okay when you felt lonely or sad. You’re a superhero now, because little-kid-you needed a hero, and you were all you had.
“And you got stronger each time, right? Each time, you looked around for help and saw there was no one to help you, so you found a way to do it yourself. But that means every bit of strength you have, you paid for in loneliness. Not ordinary ‘I wish Person X were here’ loneliness, but a bone-deep certainty that when you needed help, no one would come. I think that’s what Rage Mountain is made of, just layers and layers of, ‘There’s no one to help. There’s no one to help.’ Because there’s supposed to be someone to help.
“But I think it might even be worse than that. I think little-kid-you maybe decided the reason no one helped you was that you had this monster in you and so you didn’t deserve help. Grown-up-you probably knows that’s wrong, but little-kid-you is like, ‘There’s no one to help, because you’re not worth helping.’
“And then here’s me, totally believing you deserve help, totally seeing that you need help, and totally wanting to help, and I think grown-up-you knows you can trust me, but little-kid-you is like, ‘Sure, dude, just like you could trust all your grown-ups.’ And why give the world yet another opportunity to remind you that you’re alone and unworthy of anything else?”
I look up at him at last. He’s staring at me. His lips are pale.
I conclude, “No wonder it’s hard to know where the boundaries are.”
We just look at each other for a minute, and then he says with a tired smile, “Your dad calls you Anniebear. And Anniebee, and Anniebelly.”
“When I was a baby, he called me Annieboobers,” I admit.
Charles throws back his head and laughs as loud as I’ve ever heard him laugh. Just watching him makes me smile. Then he shoves me on the shoulder and, with a grin, says, “Get out, you. Go write your twee letter.”
So I do.