A month after that first dinner, I moved in with Beth. It made money sense for us to share her apartment. The night I moved in was the first time we had sex. We both got about half drunk, she told me what to do, and I did it. A lot less awkward than me trying to figure out what to do. I guess it made both of us feel less lonely for a while.
Beth was older than me, maybe fifty. Old enough she had a couple grandkids and dyed her hair red to cover up gray. Like my ma, she had a big scar on her belly from a C-section. The one time I touched it, she slapped me.
I knew I’d waited too long to tell Beth about my conviction, because when I finally did, she gave me a dirty look and said, “What is wrong with men? What’s the appeal of a fourteen-year-old? Are they just easier to control, is that it? They don’t talk back?”
That was hard to take from a woman who bossed me around the same way she did her kids. Same woman who in the middle of sex once said to me, “Damn, Jesse, don’t you wear deodorant? You fucking stink. Get off me.”
“I loved her. I wanted to marry her,” I said.
“Huh, but instead you just had sex with her.”
“Do you want me to leave?” I wanted to leave. Sitting on the sofa with her curling her lip up at me was as bad as a parole hearing.
“I don’t know. Let me think about it,” Beth said.
I slept on the couch that night, and the next morning she said, “It was only the one time? You don’t have a thing for little girls?”
“It was the one stupid mistake. She’s the only girl I ever dated who was under eighteen.” Wavy was the only girl I’d ever really dated.
“Okay,” Beth said. I told her what I had to. The plea deal, the sentence, the no contact order, the sex offender registry. Whenever Beth’s grandkids visited, I stayed at a motel. Other than that, she never brought it up, but I always felt like she was looking at me and thinking, “What is wrong with men?”
Being with Beth was mostly better than being alone, as long as I got drunk before we had sex. As long as she didn’t say, “You need to lose some weight or you’re gonna have a heart attack,” while I was trying to enjoy my dinner.
Other times being alone woulda been better, especially at night, when I was lying awake next to Beth. She never put her head on my shoulder and definitely never pressed her face into my neck or my armpit and sniffed me. She didn’t know the names of any constellations.
Wavy had said, “Stay,” and I stayed. She’d said, “Hold on tight,” and I held on tight. I knew I oughta let go of her. I couldn’t.
5
RENEE
May 1990
In the fall of 1989, Wavy and I got our apartment, this funky place with two bedrooms, a giant bathroom, and a tiny living room. It was part of a big old house, so there were lots of funny things about it, like the pair of faucets that poked out of the living room ceiling right over the couch. We never figured out what they were for.
I spent most of the first year in our apartment trying to convince Wavy that we should throw a party. Wasn’t that the point of having our own apartment, being able to do whatever we wanted? Obviously, Wavy wasn’t a big fan of parties, but she finally agreed that we should invite some people over to celebrate the end of the spring semester. A little fun before finals week.
I expected I would have to invite all the guests, but Wavy invited some math nerd classmates, and a few co-workers from the hospital, where she did insurance billing. She also cooked a mountain of food, and went around the party encouraging people to eat. That was how she showed affection. When I went through some soul-crushing breakup, she made elaborate meals and desserts for me.
She invited a custodian from the hospital, Darrin, who turned out to be really nice. He said, “I was worried about coming, because she’s never said a word to me. But the invitation said there was food, so I figured why not?”
I wondered if Wavy liked him. Liked him liked him. He had a baby face and he was nowhere near the size of Kellen, but he was big-boned, so maybe she was thinking of fattening him up.
Except I spent all night talking to Darrin and she didn’t seem to mind, even when we went out on the second-floor balcony to smoke a joint and make out. The Bubbly Butterfly strikes again. When I came back inside, Wavy was talking to Joshua from my Philosophy class. I’d invited him because he had a totally hot George Michael five o’clock shadow, but there I was flirting with Darrin, and she was flirting with my date.
Okay, it would be a stretch to describe what Wavy was doing as flirting. She was sitting on the couch, almost close enough to touch Joshua, with a pleasant, “Yes, I’m listening” expression on her face.
I had this proud Mom feeling. She was coming out of her shell! She was blooming!
*
A couple of days after the party, I was sprawled out on the couch, kind of watching TV and kind of working on my final essay for my Women’s Studies class. It was the last assignment I had to turn in for the semester.
Somebody knocked on the front door, and when I answered it, Joshua stood out in the hallway. Finals had cost me enough sleep I thought I might be hallucinating. Perfect five o’clock shadow. Dreamy blue eyes. Cologne. Crisp white button-down shirt.