Battery Man
by Katie Strine
Northeast Ohio Writer
Jaren propped against a wall, an auxiliary cord plugged from his back to an outlet. Webbed against his skin, almost like a crater, a dip in his body allowed room for his battery which nestled between a system of coils and a row of conduits. An odd birth defect his mother blamed on his father’s job — overexposure to Lamda rays, she had casually explained — sat not quite between the shoulder blades but slightly below.
He reached for it, his elbow bent in a drastic fold, his wrist tired, and he yanked the cord from his back. He let it drop, a polite thud against the hallway floor, and found Alice in the kitchen.
The work week had been hectic, especially yesterday, with nonstop video conferencing and emailing the overseas offices and ongoing Slack messages. His boss had pressured him to take on another project and the team clearly didn’t know what they were doing.
And now it was Saturday and Alice had them signed up for the annual fair but Jaren wasn’t in the mood for another local event. That’s all the summer had been. Listless jaunts between the suburbs and the country. Doughnuts on the farm, that kind of thing. Tired attractions he didn’t care about, and tonight he didn’t want to make small talk with so-and-so from down the street.
"Wait," she held up a hand. She was in her weekend clothes, a tattered gray t-shirt with a faded Boys Club slogan. "Gotta clean."
He stepped backward, shrinking within the doorway as she zipped between the sink where the water steamed and the counters where she sprayed homemade cleaner.
“Forget the fair,” he said. “Let’s drive to the beach.”
“The beach?” She wrung out the sponge. Turned off the water. “How?” She tossed the cleaner and the paper towels beneath the sink and wiped the back of her hand over her forehead.
“Remember?” He knew she remembered, but he also knew she’d since ignored the conversation from two weeks ago. “Let my battery die?”
“Jaren,” she clenched her eyes and tilted her head toward the ceiling. She was tired, stuck in the office yesterday until seven. “It’s not like we never traveled. We used to travel all the time!” He thought she was finished but she wasn’t. “And it’s only been a year like this. A year isn’t so long.”
His body used to have a twelve hour charge, even longer as a child, but not any more. Now it had about four. Maybe four. Four on a good day. And the car charger was broken, had been broken, and insurance wouldn’t replace it.
“There’s nothing to say I can’t reboot. There’s no science, no reason. I mean,” he was still in the doorway and he pushed his hands against the frame, his elbows bent, his shape forming a narrow W, “it’s like I’m stuck here.”
He’d had the idea last month but waited to bring it up and when he finally did, he’d conceded to her — better to be safe, she’d said, and then muttered ‘suicide’ the rest of the day – but then he’d spent the last two weeks trying to figure out why he hadn’t put up more of a fight. Because he was the burden? Her having to plug him in, the outlets memorized for every errand, or because the bizarre needs were his and not hers? As though he should be thankful for these small favors she granted him.
“We should leave at four,” Alice said and squeezed through the doorway. But Jaren thought of being at the lake as a kid. The Atlantic was out of the question but with his extra protective lock box, like one placed over a thermostat, that his mother fastened by piercing the skin, and his swim shirt over his body (despite the slight bulge from the battery, the protective shield and now the lock box), he was like every other kid. And, his mother boasted, he was by far the strongest swimmer.
He reached for it, his elbow bent in a drastic fold, his wrist tired, and he yanked the cord from his back. He let it drop, a polite thud against the hallway floor, and found Alice in the kitchen.
The work week had been hectic, especially yesterday, with nonstop video conferencing and emailing the overseas offices and ongoing Slack messages. His boss had pressured him to take on another project and the team clearly didn’t know what they were doing.
And now it was Saturday and Alice had them signed up for the annual fair but Jaren wasn’t in the mood for another local event. That’s all the summer had been. Listless jaunts between the suburbs and the country. Doughnuts on the farm, that kind of thing. Tired attractions he didn’t care about, and tonight he didn’t want to make small talk with so-and-so from down the street.
"Wait," she held up a hand. She was in her weekend clothes, a tattered gray t-shirt with a faded Boys Club slogan. "Gotta clean."
He stepped backward, shrinking within the doorway as she zipped between the sink where the water steamed and the counters where she sprayed homemade cleaner.
“Forget the fair,” he said. “Let’s drive to the beach.”
“The beach?” She wrung out the sponge. Turned off the water. “How?” She tossed the cleaner and the paper towels beneath the sink and wiped the back of her hand over her forehead.
“Remember?” He knew she remembered, but he also knew she’d since ignored the conversation from two weeks ago. “Let my battery die?”
“Jaren,” she clenched her eyes and tilted her head toward the ceiling. She was tired, stuck in the office yesterday until seven. “It’s not like we never traveled. We used to travel all the time!” He thought she was finished but she wasn’t. “And it’s only been a year like this. A year isn’t so long.”
His body used to have a twelve hour charge, even longer as a child, but not any more. Now it had about four. Maybe four. Four on a good day. And the car charger was broken, had been broken, and insurance wouldn’t replace it.
“There’s nothing to say I can’t reboot. There’s no science, no reason. I mean,” he was still in the doorway and he pushed his hands against the frame, his elbows bent, his shape forming a narrow W, “it’s like I’m stuck here.”
He’d had the idea last month but waited to bring it up and when he finally did, he’d conceded to her — better to be safe, she’d said, and then muttered ‘suicide’ the rest of the day – but then he’d spent the last two weeks trying to figure out why he hadn’t put up more of a fight. Because he was the burden? Her having to plug him in, the outlets memorized for every errand, or because the bizarre needs were his and not hers? As though he should be thankful for these small favors she granted him.
“We should leave at four,” Alice said and squeezed through the doorway. But Jaren thought of being at the lake as a kid. The Atlantic was out of the question but with his extra protective lock box, like one placed over a thermostat, that his mother fastened by piercing the skin, and his swim shirt over his body (despite the slight bulge from the battery, the protective shield and now the lock box), he was like every other kid. And, his mother boasted, he was by far the strongest swimmer.
***
Jaren normally enjoyed the carnival rides at the fair. They’d actually celebrated his fortieth last summer at the state’s largest amusement park. But walking through the layout of rides that beeped and shrilled and the competing fried food vendors, it was difficult to balance the stimuli against the emotional weight he carried.
In the mirrored fun house, split from Alice, Jaren turned into a dead-end of mirrors, his image projected back in countless ways, his face flushed, his eyes crossed. Woozy and thirsty, he retraced his steps, went left where he had previously gone right. He took deep breaths. His reflections surrounded him. Alice, a genius in a maze, suddenly turned the corner and coaxed him down the right hallway.
From there they sampled corndogs and elephant ears. He ate less than her. Not just because he had a smaller appetite than others, his energy mostly dependent on the battery, or because he was still queasy from the funhouse, but because she was stress-eating.
“Ice cream?” she asked.
“Tilt-a-whirl,” he answered.
“Feels like last year,” she said once they were in line. Riders exited, the door slamming between each small burst of people. “Your birthday.”
“Oh,” he said, and although he’d felt it too, their responses to the birthday emergency (they sometimes called it) hadn’t been the same. “But it’s not. You know? We’re still within the allotted confines. House, charger, outlets. All right down the street.”
Coming home from the amusement park, Jaren’s battery pack had malfunctioned. They were caught without his specialty charger and Alice white knuckled the steering wheel as she sped, and she usually never sped, until they pulled into their driveway, his battery at three percent, where Alice rushed him to his charger, her hands fumbling with the cord. They hadn’t taken a road trip since.
“What are you hoping for?” She talked with a low voice, trying to keep this private from others as they moved up in the line. “I mean, the battery dies. You hang in limbo. Then? If you reboot, you’ll be better, different?”
All technology in Jaren’s life told him the solution was Restart. Computer’s not functioning? Restart. Phone is lagging? Slow to load? Restart. He assumed the same for him. But he couldn’t simply hit a power button. He was — he tried to ignore the truth — not completely generated by battery.
“What was your favorite activity as a kid?”
“Jaren, this isn’t —”
“No. Seriously. Flashlight tag? Climbing trees?”
She thought and watched the tilt-a-whirl speed up. Increasingly, a whoosh of air pushed against them, their turn next, their bodies at the front of the line. “Creek-wading,” she answered. “My sister knew all the best spots, the empty ones, hidden in the state parks.” She lingered in the memory until Jaren jostled ice in the lemonade they’d been sharing. “Why?”
“I want to swim in the lake.”
“You can swim in the pool.”
“You can creek-wade in the pool.”
Someone working the ride, his shirt smothered with rust, pointed them to a car. They settled and the same guy circled back to stab the metal enclosure of the lock.
“I’m going to let the battery die,” he said and then the ride started, the motion hurling them in space. The words floating between them, Alice unable to answer.
Stepping off the ride, their mental and physical equilibrium completely out of whack, Jaren watched Alice. She had a slender back, and with the summer dress she was wearing, her spine was exposed.
No harsh battery pack. No screws.
“Tonight,” he said to her and she turned, the sun hitting her eyes so she had to squint, his body, he assumed, reduced to a shadow, the sun at his back.
In the mirrored fun house, split from Alice, Jaren turned into a dead-end of mirrors, his image projected back in countless ways, his face flushed, his eyes crossed. Woozy and thirsty, he retraced his steps, went left where he had previously gone right. He took deep breaths. His reflections surrounded him. Alice, a genius in a maze, suddenly turned the corner and coaxed him down the right hallway.
From there they sampled corndogs and elephant ears. He ate less than her. Not just because he had a smaller appetite than others, his energy mostly dependent on the battery, or because he was still queasy from the funhouse, but because she was stress-eating.
“Ice cream?” she asked.
“Tilt-a-whirl,” he answered.
“Feels like last year,” she said once they were in line. Riders exited, the door slamming between each small burst of people. “Your birthday.”
“Oh,” he said, and although he’d felt it too, their responses to the birthday emergency (they sometimes called it) hadn’t been the same. “But it’s not. You know? We’re still within the allotted confines. House, charger, outlets. All right down the street.”
Coming home from the amusement park, Jaren’s battery pack had malfunctioned. They were caught without his specialty charger and Alice white knuckled the steering wheel as she sped, and she usually never sped, until they pulled into their driveway, his battery at three percent, where Alice rushed him to his charger, her hands fumbling with the cord. They hadn’t taken a road trip since.
“What are you hoping for?” She talked with a low voice, trying to keep this private from others as they moved up in the line. “I mean, the battery dies. You hang in limbo. Then? If you reboot, you’ll be better, different?”
All technology in Jaren’s life told him the solution was Restart. Computer’s not functioning? Restart. Phone is lagging? Slow to load? Restart. He assumed the same for him. But he couldn’t simply hit a power button. He was — he tried to ignore the truth — not completely generated by battery.
“What was your favorite activity as a kid?”
“Jaren, this isn’t —”
“No. Seriously. Flashlight tag? Climbing trees?”
She thought and watched the tilt-a-whirl speed up. Increasingly, a whoosh of air pushed against them, their turn next, their bodies at the front of the line. “Creek-wading,” she answered. “My sister knew all the best spots, the empty ones, hidden in the state parks.” She lingered in the memory until Jaren jostled ice in the lemonade they’d been sharing. “Why?”
“I want to swim in the lake.”
“You can swim in the pool.”
“You can creek-wade in the pool.”
Someone working the ride, his shirt smothered with rust, pointed them to a car. They settled and the same guy circled back to stab the metal enclosure of the lock.
“I’m going to let the battery die,” he said and then the ride started, the motion hurling them in space. The words floating between them, Alice unable to answer.
Stepping off the ride, their mental and physical equilibrium completely out of whack, Jaren watched Alice. She had a slender back, and with the summer dress she was wearing, her spine was exposed.
No harsh battery pack. No screws.
“Tonight,” he said to her and she turned, the sun hitting her eyes so she had to squint, his body, he assumed, reduced to a shadow, the sun at his back.
***
Jaren didn’t usually come to bed with Alice. He used to, early in their marriage, the opportunity for constant intimacy vibrating between them. In college they’d shared time in each other’s twin beds for fast exchanges, but they weren’t sleeping, and with roommates or excuses, Jaren trying to prolong the truth about his body, they’d separate into their respective dorms.
This way of separating worked itself back into their marital routines. She’d saunter into bed while he sat in his charging chair, an old kitchen chair near a hallway outlet, and once he finished, he’d roam the house, maybe clean or maybe answer work emails, but mostly he listened to records under a pair of headphones, the little cord dangling from him to the player, the proximity of sound, an electric beat right against his temple.
Tonight, though, he figured, if he was going to die, he should come to bed with her. He scooted beneath the thick layer of covers, shuffled into fetal position and faced Alice, whose body was straight, her spine against the mattress, her arms crossed over her chest.
When she finally said something, it was toward the ceiling. “We can go to the beach. Okay? We’ll just take more stops along the way. The gas stations, they’ll let us use an outlet, and it’ll take longer, but who cares?”
“Alice. No. This is about that but it’s more than that.” She shifted to face him and he saw a string of freckles on her collarbone that had darkened from the sun. He touched one and wanted to remind her to see the dermatologist but instead he said, “I’ve always depended on the charger, and now I can’t. But this. This could be a solution!”
“I’m scared,” she said, “because what if?” She held her words close to her chest. Tight and constrained, she finally asked, “What if you die?”
He kissed her and hugged her but he felt sluggish, drained of energy, his battery low. “See you in the morning,” he said, making it a type of promise, and he wanted Alice to say the same, to repeat casual good-nights, but she didn’t.
She said, “Jaren, don’t” and “Jaren, I love you” and when it was too unbearable and uncomfortable for him, he rolled to the other side, his knees tucked at the bed’s edge. He shut his eyes and she rested a hand on his back, her palm on a shoulder blade, the skin hot, and her fingers on the battery pack, the cool of the plastic cover slightly elevated. He felt the quiet convulsion of her crying but he had nothing left to offer, no power remaining to console her.
This way of separating worked itself back into their marital routines. She’d saunter into bed while he sat in his charging chair, an old kitchen chair near a hallway outlet, and once he finished, he’d roam the house, maybe clean or maybe answer work emails, but mostly he listened to records under a pair of headphones, the little cord dangling from him to the player, the proximity of sound, an electric beat right against his temple.
Tonight, though, he figured, if he was going to die, he should come to bed with her. He scooted beneath the thick layer of covers, shuffled into fetal position and faced Alice, whose body was straight, her spine against the mattress, her arms crossed over her chest.
When she finally said something, it was toward the ceiling. “We can go to the beach. Okay? We’ll just take more stops along the way. The gas stations, they’ll let us use an outlet, and it’ll take longer, but who cares?”
“Alice. No. This is about that but it’s more than that.” She shifted to face him and he saw a string of freckles on her collarbone that had darkened from the sun. He touched one and wanted to remind her to see the dermatologist but instead he said, “I’ve always depended on the charger, and now I can’t. But this. This could be a solution!”
“I’m scared,” she said, “because what if?” She held her words close to her chest. Tight and constrained, she finally asked, “What if you die?”
He kissed her and hugged her but he felt sluggish, drained of energy, his battery low. “See you in the morning,” he said, making it a type of promise, and he wanted Alice to say the same, to repeat casual good-nights, but she didn’t.
She said, “Jaren, don’t” and “Jaren, I love you” and when it was too unbearable and uncomfortable for him, he rolled to the other side, his knees tucked at the bed’s edge. He shut his eyes and she rested a hand on his back, her palm on a shoulder blade, the skin hot, and her fingers on the battery pack, the cool of the plastic cover slightly elevated. He felt the quiet convulsion of her crying but he had nothing left to offer, no power remaining to console her.
***
Two things happened when his battery died.
One. Dreaming. The elusive, sought-after, knock-you-over-the-head type of deep sleep dream that he’s never had. Concrete images wove together into abstract ideas: seagulls that cried and dove into his mother’s sewing kit; sandcastles the size of skyscrapers, hundreds of etched out windows, his reflection miniscule but present in each one; the depth of the lake below him, his body adrift, his battery back no longer a battery pack but instead a motor, his body humming atop the lake.
Two. He rebooted. It took eight hours — a solid night’s sleep — but he rebooted. When his system clicked back on, he was eager to sort through the dreams, maybe even return to them. Jaren’s father, a factory man, the factory with the Lambda rays, died when Jaren was young. Mourning him, his mother sewed. Was he mourning? he thought and touched his back. The battery pack was present — of course it was present. But the charge? How long would the charge last?
“Alice?” He turned, felt for her, yanked her from sleep. “Alice, wake up.”
He didn’t know that Alice, whose hand drifted off his back once the battery died, felt fear bang against her temples, couldn’t sleep. He looked peaceful — like a corpse, she shuddered – and she stole his long charging cord from the hallway and wove it from the socket behind the bed up and over a lamp and fidgeted it into him. She waited for the little lights, a response to the charge, but nothing happened, and finally, not long before he woke her up, she fell asleep.
Now, in her loose-fitting nightgown, she sat up and looked at him like he wasn’t real. Not scared or surprised but with such disbelief Jaren felt back from the dead. Like she had spent the night planning her life without him, telling herself she’d be okay, making that kind of compromise, he realized, that widows have to make. The same kind of compromise his own mother had made.
He tugged at a loose thread on a pillowcase until he grabbed it free. “My mother,” he said, unable to explain the dreams. The beach would be there, if this worked, and he felt certain it would, he could go another time.
One. Dreaming. The elusive, sought-after, knock-you-over-the-head type of deep sleep dream that he’s never had. Concrete images wove together into abstract ideas: seagulls that cried and dove into his mother’s sewing kit; sandcastles the size of skyscrapers, hundreds of etched out windows, his reflection miniscule but present in each one; the depth of the lake below him, his body adrift, his battery back no longer a battery pack but instead a motor, his body humming atop the lake.
Two. He rebooted. It took eight hours — a solid night’s sleep — but he rebooted. When his system clicked back on, he was eager to sort through the dreams, maybe even return to them. Jaren’s father, a factory man, the factory with the Lambda rays, died when Jaren was young. Mourning him, his mother sewed. Was he mourning? he thought and touched his back. The battery pack was present — of course it was present. But the charge? How long would the charge last?
“Alice?” He turned, felt for her, yanked her from sleep. “Alice, wake up.”
He didn’t know that Alice, whose hand drifted off his back once the battery died, felt fear bang against her temples, couldn’t sleep. He looked peaceful — like a corpse, she shuddered – and she stole his long charging cord from the hallway and wove it from the socket behind the bed up and over a lamp and fidgeted it into him. She waited for the little lights, a response to the charge, but nothing happened, and finally, not long before he woke her up, she fell asleep.
Now, in her loose-fitting nightgown, she sat up and looked at him like he wasn’t real. Not scared or surprised but with such disbelief Jaren felt back from the dead. Like she had spent the night planning her life without him, telling herself she’d be okay, making that kind of compromise, he realized, that widows have to make. The same kind of compromise his own mother had made.
He tugged at a loose thread on a pillowcase until he grabbed it free. “My mother,” he said, unable to explain the dreams. The beach would be there, if this worked, and he felt certain it would, he could go another time.
***
The drive was at least five hours. They packed their red travel cooler they’d dug out of the basement and filled the gas tank. Despite a night fraught with funeral planning, Alice wouldn’t shut her eyes as Jaren drove, asking him too often if he was okay as she sipped a coca-cola, a straw protruding from the metallic opening of the can.
But as the road opened up to them, the clouds crouched on the horizon, the pleasant hum of the car moving them along lulled their mood. Jaren counted miles and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.
His mother, aside from raising a boy with a battery in his spine, had been like every other mother. She baked cookies at Christmas and vacuumed when he was watching TV. But without a father, the two of them relied on each other, not unnaturally or in any unhealthy way, but — shouldn’t she have tried to find others for him? Or maybe talked to that factory — fought for some type of compensation? Small claims court? Early in their marriage, Alice asked these kinds of questions, but he didn’t entertain him — he’d defended his mother — she’d done all she could! But had she?
He tried not to think that way, to second-guess his upbringing. She’d protected him from feeling like an outsider, from feeling different or deformed or whatever. She let him be like everyone else. And that meant something — hell, that meant everything!
He knew though, he was different. In college, the year after she died, his first year on his own, he tried to care for himself. He used a two-mirrored system, craning his neck to see his back. He bought extra long q-tips that he could pry within those tight spaces. Necessary maintenance to avoid corroding. When finished, he contorted an arm to click the skin-colored cover in place, the little window overtop the pack’s lights.
But the lock box, the extra protector, he couldn’t line it up right on his own, he couldn’t hold the screwdriver at the right angle. Embarrassed, he’d asked his roommate for help. That first time was the worst, the reaction, the attention to his body. “I’ve just never seen anything like it!” and “Just like a toy!” and Jaren nodded his head in agreement and quietly took the screwdriver back from his hands.
With two hours left of the drive, he pulled off the highway. If his battery was going to die, it would be soon. He may have rebooted but they didn’t know if he’d last — if the battery was restored to its original life. If there was going to be an issue, they’d decided before leaving, they didn’t want him behind the wheel.
They high-kneed themselves over and into a pollen-coated picnic table and unpacked turkey sandwiches and apples and a thermos of coffee.
“Perfect day for this,” Alice said. She was right. The weather was fantastic. Far better than yesterday, the humidity pressuring his system. “You feel okay?”
The haze of the highway and the solitude of thinking while driving still lingered and while conversation felt like too much effort, something unsettling stirred within him. “You used to meddle,” he began but her eyebrows raised. “Not meddle — wonder — if there were others like me. Do you still?”
Acorns fell from the trees and plopped around them. “I know that if you admit that — or let’s say if there are others — that would imply — well, I don’t know. What would it change? For you?”
He poured from the thermos and sipped black coffee. A car alarm honked and honked until the driver emerged from the bathroom. “Maybe nothing. Maybe everything?”
Alice unpacked herself from the table and came to his side. She dropped her head on his shoulder and circled a hand on his back, avoiding the slight bulge.
“I think I’m just tired,” he said.
She lifted his shirt to check the battery, and the lights blinked happily. “I’ll drive,” she said. “Just in case.” She let the shirt drop, and he tugged it into a more comfortable fit.
She adjusted the rearview mirror, the side mirrors, the seat. With a firm handle on the gearshift, she switched from Park to Drive. Slowly, Jaren stopped watching the traffic, anticipating how Alice would hit the brake or the gas, and instead scrutinized old farmhouses and barns, watched cows and horses grazing, and considered his mother’s grave, how his heaviness wasn’t fatigue but a stale bereavement.
The cemetery was smaller than he remembered. The uncomfortable truth: he hadn’t been out to visit since college, since the summer before he met Alice. His hometown memories of childhood — the sticky goodness that comes with it — itched at something he wanted to own but couldn't. Home without Mom? Not possible.
But that dream had awakened a couple of notions: the sewing, for one, her handiwork, the way her needle dipped in and out of cloth, the same hand that had, on so many occasions, delicately touched the scar tissue of his back.
He set flowers crinkled in cellophane at her gravemarker, a subtle stump of rock, the edges rigid but the stone smooth. His body lumped against the earth as he settled and he waved at Alice who remained by the car, her body leaning against the passenger door, her head covered in a hat he’d never seen before. A tight pain stung in his chest and he rubbed two fingers on his sternum.
Death, too, that dream had conjured — and whether or not he’d properly mourned the loss of his mother. He leaned back, his hands spread in cemetery grass, and without uttering words, he worked a conversation between them. He told her about his wedding and his job and other nonsense he expected a mom would want to know. He avoided talk of the battery or last night. His urgency to die. He stole another look at Alice who now sat on the car’s trunk and flipped at a magazine.
Reaching the destination was a confirmation. A new lease on life, he thought and regretted the cliched sound of it. But it was, wasn’t it? Then he remembered the other gift he had brought, a small shell, the colors long-ago faded, one from Lake Erie, one from a day-trip they’d taken. When he placed it on her tombstone, the two harsh qualities scratched together.
Well, he figured, that’s that. Using the stone with her name on it to push himself up, he promised to come back sooner. Heartburn churned again under his ribs. The coffee, must be, and he wiped at the seat of his pants, though there’d be a grass stain Alice would find, one she wouldn’t bother to remove.
He looked from his mother’s headstone to the others, noticing names and dates, whether or not the stone was engraved, the letters of names carved and buried in the stone, or names that were raised, the rigidity of the letters sleek and cold. Beyond the rows of dedications, a young buck grazed lazily, and Jaren smiled, appreciating how the cemetery was as much for the living as the dead.
But as the road opened up to them, the clouds crouched on the horizon, the pleasant hum of the car moving them along lulled their mood. Jaren counted miles and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.
His mother, aside from raising a boy with a battery in his spine, had been like every other mother. She baked cookies at Christmas and vacuumed when he was watching TV. But without a father, the two of them relied on each other, not unnaturally or in any unhealthy way, but — shouldn’t she have tried to find others for him? Or maybe talked to that factory — fought for some type of compensation? Small claims court? Early in their marriage, Alice asked these kinds of questions, but he didn’t entertain him — he’d defended his mother — she’d done all she could! But had she?
He tried not to think that way, to second-guess his upbringing. She’d protected him from feeling like an outsider, from feeling different or deformed or whatever. She let him be like everyone else. And that meant something — hell, that meant everything!
He knew though, he was different. In college, the year after she died, his first year on his own, he tried to care for himself. He used a two-mirrored system, craning his neck to see his back. He bought extra long q-tips that he could pry within those tight spaces. Necessary maintenance to avoid corroding. When finished, he contorted an arm to click the skin-colored cover in place, the little window overtop the pack’s lights.
But the lock box, the extra protector, he couldn’t line it up right on his own, he couldn’t hold the screwdriver at the right angle. Embarrassed, he’d asked his roommate for help. That first time was the worst, the reaction, the attention to his body. “I’ve just never seen anything like it!” and “Just like a toy!” and Jaren nodded his head in agreement and quietly took the screwdriver back from his hands.
With two hours left of the drive, he pulled off the highway. If his battery was going to die, it would be soon. He may have rebooted but they didn’t know if he’d last — if the battery was restored to its original life. If there was going to be an issue, they’d decided before leaving, they didn’t want him behind the wheel.
They high-kneed themselves over and into a pollen-coated picnic table and unpacked turkey sandwiches and apples and a thermos of coffee.
“Perfect day for this,” Alice said. She was right. The weather was fantastic. Far better than yesterday, the humidity pressuring his system. “You feel okay?”
The haze of the highway and the solitude of thinking while driving still lingered and while conversation felt like too much effort, something unsettling stirred within him. “You used to meddle,” he began but her eyebrows raised. “Not meddle — wonder — if there were others like me. Do you still?”
Acorns fell from the trees and plopped around them. “I know that if you admit that — or let’s say if there are others — that would imply — well, I don’t know. What would it change? For you?”
He poured from the thermos and sipped black coffee. A car alarm honked and honked until the driver emerged from the bathroom. “Maybe nothing. Maybe everything?”
Alice unpacked herself from the table and came to his side. She dropped her head on his shoulder and circled a hand on his back, avoiding the slight bulge.
“I think I’m just tired,” he said.
She lifted his shirt to check the battery, and the lights blinked happily. “I’ll drive,” she said. “Just in case.” She let the shirt drop, and he tugged it into a more comfortable fit.
She adjusted the rearview mirror, the side mirrors, the seat. With a firm handle on the gearshift, she switched from Park to Drive. Slowly, Jaren stopped watching the traffic, anticipating how Alice would hit the brake or the gas, and instead scrutinized old farmhouses and barns, watched cows and horses grazing, and considered his mother’s grave, how his heaviness wasn’t fatigue but a stale bereavement.
The cemetery was smaller than he remembered. The uncomfortable truth: he hadn’t been out to visit since college, since the summer before he met Alice. His hometown memories of childhood — the sticky goodness that comes with it — itched at something he wanted to own but couldn't. Home without Mom? Not possible.
But that dream had awakened a couple of notions: the sewing, for one, her handiwork, the way her needle dipped in and out of cloth, the same hand that had, on so many occasions, delicately touched the scar tissue of his back.
He set flowers crinkled in cellophane at her gravemarker, a subtle stump of rock, the edges rigid but the stone smooth. His body lumped against the earth as he settled and he waved at Alice who remained by the car, her body leaning against the passenger door, her head covered in a hat he’d never seen before. A tight pain stung in his chest and he rubbed two fingers on his sternum.
Death, too, that dream had conjured — and whether or not he’d properly mourned the loss of his mother. He leaned back, his hands spread in cemetery grass, and without uttering words, he worked a conversation between them. He told her about his wedding and his job and other nonsense he expected a mom would want to know. He avoided talk of the battery or last night. His urgency to die. He stole another look at Alice who now sat on the car’s trunk and flipped at a magazine.
Reaching the destination was a confirmation. A new lease on life, he thought and regretted the cliched sound of it. But it was, wasn’t it? Then he remembered the other gift he had brought, a small shell, the colors long-ago faded, one from Lake Erie, one from a day-trip they’d taken. When he placed it on her tombstone, the two harsh qualities scratched together.
Well, he figured, that’s that. Using the stone with her name on it to push himself up, he promised to come back sooner. Heartburn churned again under his ribs. The coffee, must be, and he wiped at the seat of his pants, though there’d be a grass stain Alice would find, one she wouldn’t bother to remove.
He looked from his mother’s headstone to the others, noticing names and dates, whether or not the stone was engraved, the letters of names carved and buried in the stone, or names that were raised, the rigidity of the letters sleek and cold. Beyond the rows of dedications, a young buck grazed lazily, and Jaren smiled, appreciating how the cemetery was as much for the living as the dead.
***
An hour from the cemetery, Jaren, suddenly talkative, presented plan after plan, “And in Texas, the Alamo. The Elvis Presely estate! The Golden Gate Bridge.”
Alice drove, changed lanes and added destinations to the list. But then, like one who suffers a stroke, Jaren began to stutter. His words attached to his tongue, wouldn’t form, wouldn’t complete, wouldn’t pass from tongue to lips to air. And his arms. Numb. Useless. Again he tried ‘Statue of Liberty’ but only his tongue pushed between his lips, a wet sound emitting.
Was it his nervous system? Was it his heart? He’d had a charge — so what? But he couldn’t talk, he couldn’t guess. And his sight. His sight was failing.
Exhaustion begged for him to succumb. The dreams from last night took shape. The images inviting. The languid landscape of sea. The granules of sand between his toes.
“Jaren? What’s — are you okay?” Alice took the next exit. She slammed the car into a Wal-Mart parking lot. She ran from the driver’s side to the passenger’s side and forced him to lean forward. She clawed under his shirt. An emergency screwdriver was in the glove compartment. She had to keep shifting him, and the weight of his body strained her wrists each time she maneuvered him around. With frantic hands, the screwdriver shaking and unsteady, she turned metal on metal. Lefty loosey. Lefty loosey.
Green powder, like a poisonous sugar, dusted his pack. When had he corroded? Hadn’t they been checking? Nightly swabs? Routine wipe-downs? The usual? But, no. Not last night. Their attention elsewhere. Exhaustion from the fair. And the night before? Fuck, fuck, fuck, she repeated and looked around from where Jaren — his back exposed, his body folded like a doll — might be dead. Like for real dead.
She ran inside the Wal-Mart, grabbed baking soda, water, a pack of red solo cups to mix the two and she almost forgot q-tips but she grabbed those too. She insisted on cutting in the self-service line. She apologized to those who had been waiting. “Emergency,” she said and they complied. Her hair disheveled. Out of breath, she heaved, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” and scanned her items.
Back at the car, she dipped a q-tip in the cup and dabbed his insides. She cleared the green residue. She blew on the coils. She wiped each component dry. When all appeared clean – like factory clean — she replaced the skin-colored overlay, tightened the screws in place, and pushed his body back upright so that he appeared like a passenger out for a ride.
“Jaren,” she said. “Jaren, it’s time to turn on.” Wasn’t he also human? Do all those aspects of him — his eyes, a tint of green that mixed with gray, or the obnoxious curl of his lip that resisted symmetry — depend on the battery?
He’d been so tired lately, she thought, and that wasn’t normal. He didn’t need sleep. He lagged then he charged. The battery had been failing, she realized, and they’d been too preoccupied to notice, to worry about what they should have been worrying about, driving hours to a cemetery, of all places, driving hours from home.
The shrill cry of a seagull, its wings spread wide, pierced from above. Alice, crouched at the passenger side of the car who waited for Jaren’s system to resume, looked up and watched its flight. Watched it dip from the sky and dive toward the pavement, toward a puddle of sticky mess. Melted ice cream hot in the sun, dirty and splattered with gravel.
Alice drove, changed lanes and added destinations to the list. But then, like one who suffers a stroke, Jaren began to stutter. His words attached to his tongue, wouldn’t form, wouldn’t complete, wouldn’t pass from tongue to lips to air. And his arms. Numb. Useless. Again he tried ‘Statue of Liberty’ but only his tongue pushed between his lips, a wet sound emitting.
Was it his nervous system? Was it his heart? He’d had a charge — so what? But he couldn’t talk, he couldn’t guess. And his sight. His sight was failing.
Exhaustion begged for him to succumb. The dreams from last night took shape. The images inviting. The languid landscape of sea. The granules of sand between his toes.
“Jaren? What’s — are you okay?” Alice took the next exit. She slammed the car into a Wal-Mart parking lot. She ran from the driver’s side to the passenger’s side and forced him to lean forward. She clawed under his shirt. An emergency screwdriver was in the glove compartment. She had to keep shifting him, and the weight of his body strained her wrists each time she maneuvered him around. With frantic hands, the screwdriver shaking and unsteady, she turned metal on metal. Lefty loosey. Lefty loosey.
Green powder, like a poisonous sugar, dusted his pack. When had he corroded? Hadn’t they been checking? Nightly swabs? Routine wipe-downs? The usual? But, no. Not last night. Their attention elsewhere. Exhaustion from the fair. And the night before? Fuck, fuck, fuck, she repeated and looked around from where Jaren — his back exposed, his body folded like a doll — might be dead. Like for real dead.
She ran inside the Wal-Mart, grabbed baking soda, water, a pack of red solo cups to mix the two and she almost forgot q-tips but she grabbed those too. She insisted on cutting in the self-service line. She apologized to those who had been waiting. “Emergency,” she said and they complied. Her hair disheveled. Out of breath, she heaved, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” and scanned her items.
Back at the car, she dipped a q-tip in the cup and dabbed his insides. She cleared the green residue. She blew on the coils. She wiped each component dry. When all appeared clean – like factory clean — she replaced the skin-colored overlay, tightened the screws in place, and pushed his body back upright so that he appeared like a passenger out for a ride.
“Jaren,” she said. “Jaren, it’s time to turn on.” Wasn’t he also human? Do all those aspects of him — his eyes, a tint of green that mixed with gray, or the obnoxious curl of his lip that resisted symmetry — depend on the battery?
He’d been so tired lately, she thought, and that wasn’t normal. He didn’t need sleep. He lagged then he charged. The battery had been failing, she realized, and they’d been too preoccupied to notice, to worry about what they should have been worrying about, driving hours to a cemetery, of all places, driving hours from home.
The shrill cry of a seagull, its wings spread wide, pierced from above. Alice, crouched at the passenger side of the car who waited for Jaren’s system to resume, looked up and watched its flight. Watched it dip from the sky and dive toward the pavement, toward a puddle of sticky mess. Melted ice cream hot in the sun, dirty and splattered with gravel.
Katie Strine is a fiction writer from Cleveland, Ohio, where she earned an MA in English. Her work has appeared in numerous literary journals, has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and has been supported by The Kenyon Review.
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