Edwina

by Amy Glasenapp

 

Sometimes, even still, you think about those first few months in San Francisco. Back when you were throwing darts at a map to determine where to go and assuming the destination would tell you what to do with the rest of your life. You majored in English, so there was no obvious path for you besides getting a job at a used bookstore in a cool neighborhood, and that worked out really well for a while. Your parents were still sending you money then, and people liked you for no particular reason, or maybe they liked you precisely because you were just like everyone else. You chatted up girls at the register and tried to ignore the advances of older men who thought you were safely on the skinny, smiley side, so even if you were into girls, you wouldn’t get all put-out, and maybe you’d even have the good sense to be flattered.

 

Edwina came into that bookstore every Saturday with a blond friend who was slightly more attractive but mute. The friend would disappear into the gardening section and not return for a good twenty minutes. Edwina would browse and then come looking to you for advice on the classics. Bravely, you admitted to her that you’d never finished reading Moby Dick, and she was impressed by your honesty. You didn’t know why on earth you’d told her that, but you thought it must have meant something when she blushed.

 

A week later, you saw her at a party in your neighborhood. Turned out you were both sort-of friends with a girl named L’orange, who worked at the video store with the black and white photo booths. You avoided her at first, and then you found yourself in the keg line behind her. You said something funny, and she laughed. You felt warm everywhere.

 

You saw her around a couple more times after that. You found out her name was Edwina, but she liked being called Eddie. You found out she sang old country songs when she was drunk, and at the time, you thought that was the most kick-ass, adorable thing you’d ever seen. Her mute friend, whom you wanted to see naked when you were drunk, seemed to disappear next to Edwina when you weren’t. And eventually, she did disappear—along with everyone else—when you finally ferreted out a dark, unoccupied practice space at L’orange’s fifth warehouse-warming party. You bit all the buttons off her frilly plaid shirt, and her shoulder blades made the tuneless piano sing. She didn’t mind the damage to her favorite blouse (you didn’t know this yet, but she could sew). Her breasts were big, bigger than any you’d ever seen up close, the nipples dark and oddly-shaped, like wine stains.

 

You actually called her the next day, and she answered. She was trying not to sound glad that you’d called. You imagined you could tell these things with women.

 

She made pancakes on the mornings after you slept over. She didn’t have roommates, which was amazing, which meant she probably had a trust fund she preferred not to talk about. You liked the art in her house, and she told you it had come from all the old houses she’d lived in. Her grandmother’s, mothers, fathers. She’d saved everything. She said that saving everything was what had gotten her through losing everybody. Then she sucked in a little breath and shut up. Like you’d said something dismissive about her entire family, or about her wanting momentarily to talk about them. But you hadn’t said anything. Her back was to you, and when you moved toward her, she turned on you with a bright red spatula. You went back to the table and sat down, pretending to be interested in months-old women’s magazine bursting with perfume ads and fluorescent, wrenched-open smiles.

 

When she brought the pancakes over and flopped a few onto your plate, she smiled and told you they were banana-walnut, her grandmother’s recipe. This might have been an opening for you, but you stuffed as much of the syrupy mass in your mouth as would fit and pointed at your cheeks, hinting that you wouldn’t be able to respond for a while. She just stood there with the pan in her hand, like a cardboard cut-out of a mother. The pan slowly tilting.

 

You ended up sleeping with the blond mute so that Edwina would stop calling, and she finally did. The mute didn’t say much, but she made sounds like a foghorn when you touched her. Your uptight, yuppie neighbors complained to the landlord, and you decided you’d probably have her over again, just for fun. You forgot the idea, as well as the girl’s name, by the end of the week.

 

You think about Edwina sometimes, but you can’t remember her face. You can only remember the pancakes and the nipples and the feeling of warmth she gave you. You think about her when there’s a party and everyone’s young, like you were then. When having nothing to do seemed like everything. And plenty of people liked you. Now you stay indoors most of the time, trying to figure out what you’re going to do with the rest of your life. You have less time now to decide.

 

There’s that sound again. The squeaking and scraping up above. The bump, bump, bump. You could feel the upstairs neighbors’ bed frame pounding the wall if you reached up high enough. But tonight, you don’t. You already know what that feels like. You already know what happens in the end.

 

 

Amy Glasenapp is an MFA candidate at San Francisco State University. She writes fiction but occasionally dabbles in other genres. She teaches creative and critical writing to kids in the East Bay, and she’s currently working on a short story collection and a novel for young adults. She’s also co-editing an anthology of aunt stories, which you can check out here: auntichrist.wordpress.com.