A Stranger Like You by Elizabeth Brundage Page A

with a porch. A big red tractor out in the field. She could twirl a baton, she’d said, and he imagined her festooned with pom-poms in the Fourth of July parade. The images seemed familiar to him, selected from his mental archives—visual scraps from old Budweiser commercials—and he realized they were not his own.
    Ida was looking out at the ocean, squinting with such earnestness that he thought she must be drunk.
    “Hey,” he said, and touched her back. “You look sad.”
    “I’m not. Not really, I’m not.”
    “What are you looking at? What’s out there?”
    “Everything,” she said. “And a whole lot of nothing.”
    Holding hands, they walked over to the pier. It was strange holding hands with her and he found himself wondering how to break apart without insulting her. He imagined what Marion might think of it. They walked on the pier, toward the lights of a carnival. Ida wanted to ride the Ferris wheel. The air smelled of popcorn, a buttery rancid smell—maybe it was puke. He had never liked rides and now, whirling up backward after drinking so much, made his stomach turn. “Scaredy cat,” she accused him, as he gripped the handlebar and closed his eyes. She took his hand in her sweaty palm and held it very tight and whispered into his ear, “Don’t be afraid.”
    Later, they lay on the beach in the cool sand, looking up at the stars. For a while they didn’t speak. You could hear the ocean, the breaking waves, people screaming on the rides. As he lay there beside her, he thought about the variations of terror that existed in the dark.
    He turned onto his side and looked at her. She had put her hair into two braids and looked wholesome as the next Midwestern girl, and yet he was pretty certain that she was not. On the one hand, she was sturdy and resilient and resourceful. She seemed dependable too, like if she said she would do something you could count on her to do it. On the other, she had a kind of wounded beauty that came from being let down. She was like a pressed flower in somebody’s scrapbook, he thought, signifying some important event, the memory of which left something to be desired.
    “About my script,” she said. “I’m realizing how awful it is.”
    “It’s not awful. I know it’s not.”
    “You don’t know that.”
    “I know you. At least I’m getting to know you.”
    “You don’t know me,” she said disdainfully.
    “I want to. I want to know you.”
    “Maybe you just want to fuck me.”
    The comment startled him and he said nothing because there was a possibility that it was true.
    “You’re still married.”
    “I know. I have to figure that out.”
    “I’ve been through a lot,” she said. “I’ve been hurt.”
    “I promise not to hurt you,” he said, touching her arm gently, and he meant it.
    “Men suck.”
    “Not all men.”
    She nodded. “All men. Men can be brutal.”
    “Not all men.”
    “Most.”
    “I don’t think that’s true.”
    “That’s because you’re one of them. I could provoke you, if I wanted to.”
    “Why would you do that?”
    She looked away. In a strange way, the conversation was turning him on. “Go ahead, provoke me.”
    “You asked for it.” She rolled on top of him and started tickling him all over and he laughed even though he hated being tickled and then she pummeled him wickedly all over his chest. He got a little angry and rolled her onto her back and climbed on top of her and held down her wrists and she strained against him and her face changed slightly and for a moment he imagined being inside her. He could feel her squirming, the bones of her hips, her belly, her thighs. He seemed to come out of a haze and released her and rolled back onto the sand. Side by side, they were breathing hard.
    “You provoked me,” he said.
    “I know. It’s okay. Maybe I liked it.” Her eyes were shining, her face flushed.
    He didn’t know what to say to her, so he said nothing.
    He lay back down and looked up at the stars. At