conversations with him. He always waited for her, always half smiled. Frank sometimes said that Eddie looked beaten on by life,
but Celeste didn’t see it that deeply. He seemed to energize himself when he came towards the window and any
exhaustion that Frank picked up on came across to her more as a softness, a
care, a presence.
When he knocked later, she opened the door,
stood awkwardly, wondering whether to lean against the doorjamb or to stand
upright. She felt like she was
fourteen and the neighbor boy had knocked to give her a book she’d need for
homework after a sick day. With
her mother sitting at the square bridge table behind her, she had blushed and
dug her toe into the ground, making small talk until the boy’s energy burnt out
and he walked backwards with a half hearted wave, “I’ll see you at school
then.”
Eddie stood still himself, saying perfunctory
hellos.
Feeling the heat of the new cashmere on her
prickled skin, she stepped aside and invited him in, a lovely warm sweat on her
cheeks, a flush in her lips.
She’d made them both a cocktail. He’d stopped at one so she poured them
each a glass of water.
He was shy, looking around her apartment like
he was scouting a stakeout but then he relaxed. They laughed a bit and then came closer physically on the
sofa, Celeste felt an electric shock between them when they both mentioned
living in the tropics some day.
Eddie told her in a quieted voice that the
heat of the flatlands between the mountains in Afghanistan had not been what
he’d expected as a born and raised Detroiter. He’d expected to feel warm there with some humidity but the bone
dry dust, the oppressive heat, then the quick change to freezing weather in
higher altitudes, along with the deafening shelling had obliterated any sense
of similarity, any connection to the hot and humid summers of his childhood.
“Were you homesick?” Celeste asked.
He pulled his head back like he had been
poked, she thought. He sputtered
and looked away, unable to communicate. It was as though he was reticent to talk about
anything he didn’t bring up himself.
Celeste sat, took a deep breath in. She reached for his hand and said,
“Have you ever been to Florida, or Hawaii or the Caribbean?”
His eyes lit up and a smile crept across his
face. “No, I haven’t. But I want to have a dive shop and I’ve
read about lots of places and I think I want to move to Hawaii.”
As he told her about Florida tornadoes and
Caribbean tropical storms that ruled out those locales, she breathed more easily. He was brought back to life by talking
about his dreams.
She found herself interjecting what she knew,
about storm windows, about coastal cottages and their ability to withstand high
winds. She heard herself tell him
about the cottage she wanted to live in some day, surrounded by trees with the
sweet oxygenated air she had read about on the Hawaiian islands.
He’d looked around her apartment and said ‘How
do you survive here, then? Why are
you still in East Detroit? Family?”
This time, she felt herself deflate, her
dreams punctured by the heavy weight of her own lack of momentum, her
paralysis, her inability to animate her own dreams.
Her mother was dead, the old lady was
dead. She had Frank. And she had her steady job. Maybe she’d never have the courage it
would take to buy a plane ticket, pack up and leave behind what she had known
all her life, even with Frank leading with his already strong vision of moving
to South Carolina. She felt the
betrayal of her inner voice that spun warm, creative dreams, not knowing if she’d
ever be able to make simple, devastating changes.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “there’s nothing wrong
with you living here. I just felt
we were so alike.” He enveloped
her with his arms. “Maybe we can
push each other, get ourselves off our asses, out of Detroit, to Hawaii. Unless you have
but Celeste didn’t see it that deeply. He seemed to energize himself when he came towards the window and any
exhaustion that Frank picked up on came across to her more as a softness, a
care, a presence.
When he knocked later, she opened the door,
stood awkwardly, wondering whether to lean against the doorjamb or to stand
upright. She felt like she was
fourteen and the neighbor boy had knocked to give her a book she’d need for
homework after a sick day. With
her mother sitting at the square bridge table behind her, she had blushed and
dug her toe into the ground, making small talk until the boy’s energy burnt out
and he walked backwards with a half hearted wave, “I’ll see you at school
then.”
Eddie stood still himself, saying perfunctory
hellos.
Feeling the heat of the new cashmere on her
prickled skin, she stepped aside and invited him in, a lovely warm sweat on her
cheeks, a flush in her lips.
She’d made them both a cocktail. He’d stopped at one so she poured them
each a glass of water.
He was shy, looking around her apartment like
he was scouting a stakeout but then he relaxed. They laughed a bit and then came closer physically on the
sofa, Celeste felt an electric shock between them when they both mentioned
living in the tropics some day.
Eddie told her in a quieted voice that the
heat of the flatlands between the mountains in Afghanistan had not been what
he’d expected as a born and raised Detroiter. He’d expected to feel warm there with some humidity but the bone
dry dust, the oppressive heat, then the quick change to freezing weather in
higher altitudes, along with the deafening shelling had obliterated any sense
of similarity, any connection to the hot and humid summers of his childhood.
“Were you homesick?” Celeste asked.
He pulled his head back like he had been
poked, she thought. He sputtered
and looked away, unable to communicate. It was as though he was reticent to talk about
anything he didn’t bring up himself.
Celeste sat, took a deep breath in. She reached for his hand and said,
“Have you ever been to Florida, or Hawaii or the Caribbean?”
His eyes lit up and a smile crept across his
face. “No, I haven’t. But I want to have a dive shop and I’ve
read about lots of places and I think I want to move to Hawaii.”
As he told her about Florida tornadoes and
Caribbean tropical storms that ruled out those locales, she breathed more easily. He was brought back to life by talking
about his dreams.
She found herself interjecting what she knew,
about storm windows, about coastal cottages and their ability to withstand high
winds. She heard herself tell him
about the cottage she wanted to live in some day, surrounded by trees with the
sweet oxygenated air she had read about on the Hawaiian islands.
He’d looked around her apartment and said ‘How
do you survive here, then? Why are
you still in East Detroit? Family?”
This time, she felt herself deflate, her
dreams punctured by the heavy weight of her own lack of momentum, her
paralysis, her inability to animate her own dreams.
Her mother was dead, the old lady was
dead. She had Frank. And she had her steady job. Maybe she’d never have the courage it
would take to buy a plane ticket, pack up and leave behind what she had known
all her life, even with Frank leading with his already strong vision of moving
to South Carolina. She felt the
betrayal of her inner voice that spun warm, creative dreams, not knowing if she’d
ever be able to make simple, devastating changes.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “there’s nothing wrong
with you living here. I just felt
we were so alike.” He enveloped
her with his arms. “Maybe we can
push each other, get ourselves off our asses, out of Detroit, to Hawaii. Unless you have
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