The Trouble with Lexie Read online

  The spinning, the anxiety, dissipated and was replaced with a spaghetti-legged, blunt-edged looseness. Drunkenness, perhaps. Lexie got up, went to the kitchen, and retrieved the phone from her purse. She needed to call Betsy Simms and Betsy’s parents to tell them she’d canceled the wedding. Hopefully, Mr. and Mrs. Simms could get their money back on the ticket they’d bought for Mitzy. Lexie needed to call Mitzy, too. Her mother would likely be relieved to hear the news. In regards to most of the forward-moving events in Lexie’s life, Mitzy had been disinterested, if not scornful.

  Lexie leaned against the counter with one hip, turned on the phone, and waited for the screen to light up. Dot’s dishes were in the sink: a teacup, a coffee cup, a glass. No plates. Lexie had already gone through the cupboards and found that the only food in the house was a red holiday tin of cookies and a jar of olives. She knew Dot’s meals were taken with many other people in the dining hall. But the three single glasses, not one having a twin to suggest a beating heart had had a drink with Dot, felt so lonely. How could the Buddhists be right about peace and solace in aloneness? Lexie wanted nothing more than to never feel alone. To never find a single teacup in the sink.

  The phone made chirping noises as it loaded up everything Lexie had missed. There were texts from both Daniel and Peter. And twenty-two voice mails from Peter.

  Instead of listening to Peter’s messages, Lexie read Daniel’s texts. He was worried about her and wanted her to text as soon as possible. Lexie called his number and it went to voice mail. She texted him: Extremely difficult breaking it off. He didn’t El Kabong me. Feel like such a shit I should go out, buy a guitar, and El Kabong myself. But I’m relieved. It’s the right thing.

  Daniel wrote: Stay strong! I’m with you in spirit.

  Wish you were here in body, Lexie texted.

  At a boring, too-long dinner party in body. Am texting under a starched tablecloth. Brandy and dessert on the table.

  Wish I had my foot under that tablecloth and was twaddling your zipper.

  Is twaddle a word, Miss James?

  Is now. Gonna twaddle the hell outta you soon.

  Mon raison d’être. More later. Must pull hands above table before host suspects me of jerking off. Xx

  Lexie was grinning from Daniel’s texts as she clicked over to Peter’s texts. He wanted to talk. He didn’t understand. He was heartbroken. She stopped reading and ran her thumb over his name, deleting them all. It was kinder to cut him off with an assertive finality.

  The phone rang. Peter’s face was on Lexie’s screen. She dropped to the floor, butt on the ground, her back against the cupboard, knees up. If she answered he might think there was a sliver of an opening into her heart when she knew it was shut and sealed. But he was ringing in her hand. She could do the phone. Phone confrontation was easier than in-person.

  “Peter.” Lexie started crying. Peter was crying, too, and that was all they did for a couple minutes until Peter coughed and cleared his throat.

  “What happened?”

  “Something shifted.” Her words came out with a wet stuttering.

  “But why? Why did things shift?”

  “I don’t know. I’m so sorry.”

  “I never even saw this coming.”

  “I couldn’t stay with you if I wasn’t feeling it anymore. I didn’t want to fake it.”

  “Were you faking it?”

  “No! Never.”

  “Don’t you love me?”

  “I . . .” She wasn’t going to tell him again that she didn’t love him. “I don’t want to be together.”

  “This is fucking brutal!” Peter sounded angry rather than sad. “Brutal!”

  “I’m sorry.” They were silent. Lexie could hear him breathing. Her body rocked with her own deep breaths.

  “Fuck you.” Peter hung up. Lexie felt relieved. It was so much easier to process his anger than his grief. Grief made her hate herself. Anger let her off the hook.

  Twenty-five minutes later, Lexie was still on Dot’s kitchen floor, sniffing, thinking, spacing out, when the phone rang. Peter again.

  “I’m putting all your things out on the driveway and changing the locks,” he said. “You can get everything tomorrow night after nine.” He hung up again.

  “Okay,” Lexie said, to no one. She remembered he was playing music with friends at nine tomorrow. He wouldn’t bear witness to the gathering of her stuff. Lexie was grateful for that.

  13

  I’M LIKE A SCHIZOPHRENIC,” LEXIE TOLD AMY. THEY WERE AT THE top of the long driveway of what Lexie now thought of as “Peter’s house,” organizing and assembling her clothes, cosmetics, shoes, coats, boots, framed artwork, vases, dishes, pots, and pans. The spotlight above the garage door lit up what had been removed from the house. It looked like everything had been dropped by a crane from an eagle’s height. “One second I’m happy,” Lexie continued, “the next I’m bawling, and now I’m . . . I guess I’m relieved more than angry.”

  “Well, keep reminding yourself that you’re relieved.” Amy sat on a folded blanket, her legs spread into a V. She was piecing together broken plates.

  Lexie pointed toward the plates. “Forget it.”

  “But y’all only bought these dishes last year when you moved in together.”

  “I know, but you can’t glue ceramic. It will never survive a dishwasher.” Lexie had learned this after gluing together a teacup Peter had accidentally knocked off the counter with the headstock of a guitar (he had been serenading Lexie while she prepared dinner).

  “There’s a dishwasher in Dot’s apartment?”

  “It’s about twenty years old, but it’s there.”

  Amy tossed the plate pieces toward the pile of things to be thrown away.

  “I’m glad silverware can’t break. I like this set.” Lexie held up a knife, looked at it, and then feigned stabbing herself in the neck with it.

  “Oh, that’s no joke, honey. The way he smashed up this stuff, he mighta knifed you if you’d been nearby.”

  “No way. This is probably the worst thing he’s ever done in his life.”

  “So far. Worst he’s done so far.”

  “If he were truly a bad guy he’d be here watching me deal with this heap of garbage.” Lexie surveyed what amounted to her estate. Twirling in the back of her head like a fuzzy white dandelion was the idea that she didn’t need any of it. Once she and Daniel were openly together it all would be replaced.

  Lexie opened one of the giant Hefty bags she’d brought and filled it with the garbage. She dragged the garbage bag to the pile of framed pictures and lobbed in every one. The glass was cracked on most of them.

  “You don’t want those frames, at least?” Amy asked.

  “Even with different pictures in them, I’ll remember that they once had pictures of Peter, or me and Peter.”

  “You sure aren’t acting like a girl who grew up poor. You would never see a poor girl from Alabama throw away perfectly good frames like that.” Amy rescued the frames and plucked out the shards of broken glass. Already, she had amassed a trunkload of things bequeathed to her: snow boots purchased by Peter (Lexie had never liked them), a couple of throw blankets that had been on the couch (used when Lexie and Peter snuggled while watching TV), the red wrap dress Lexie wore the night Peter proposed, a boxy leather storage-ottoman Lexie had bought Peter for Christmas, and a speaker system Peter had purchased for Lexie’s iPhone that she’d never learned to use.

  “How would you know how a poor girl from Alabama would act? You were a debutante!”

  “And Young Miss Huntsville, too, don’t forget.” Amy curtsied.

  “Poor people from California throw everything away.” Lexie placed the Crock-Pot into the trash bag.

  Amy reached in and pulled it out. “Come on! There’s nothing even wrong with this!” She held it aloft like a tennis trophy and examined the sides and bottom.

  “It’s Peter’s. When he cooked dinner, that’s how he did it. He even cooked dessert in it awhil
e back.”

  “So why’s he throwing it out?”

  “He probably didn’t even throw that one. I bet it doesn’t have a single nick on it.”

  “Yup, it’s clean.” Amy placed the Crock-Pot on her keep pile. “Maybe we should leave it for him.”

  “Nah. Let him believe it’s in my apartment. He definitely put it here so that I would use it and think of him.” Lexie put the bags destined for the Salvation Army in the trunk and what little she was taking on the backseat, floor, and the passenger seat of her car. Amy put her take in the back of her old Bronco.

  Together they hauled the two big trash bags into the cans at the side of the house. When they’d returned from the trash, Lexie walked the driveway, picking up stray chunks of glass or ceramic, which she dropped in a plastic grocery bag. She surveyed the driveway one last time. “Wait. My wedding dress isn’t here.”

  “I guess he wants to keep it.”

  “I was going to return it. I never cut off the tags.” Although it had cost less than Dot’s outlet dress, it was the most expensive piece of clothing Lexie had ever purchased.

  “Well, you can ask for it back. Or consider it the price for your freedom.”

  “What’s he going to do with it?”

  “Save it for his next fiancée?”

  At the sound of a car coming up from the road, they both turned their heads. The headlights from Peter’s van blinded Lexie for a second before he passed Amy’s car and parked halfway on the lawn, beside Lexie’s Jetta.

  “Uh-oh.” Amy waved and smiled like the Southerner she was. Lexie felt an undulating roll from the bottom of her gut up to her throat.

  “How you doin’, Peter?” Amy said when Peter got out of the car.

  “Terrible.” Peter’s eyes were pinned on Lexie.

  “I’m sorry.” Lexie’s voice felt like it was made of broken rubber bands.

  “There’s one thing I forgot to put out for you. Wait here a second.” Peter went into the house.

  Amy and Lexie huddled together. “I’m sure he’s bringing you the dress,” Amy said.

  “I feel sick,” Lexie said.

  “Say thank you, put the dress in the car, and then we’ll drive outta here.”

  “I hate this feeling.” Lexie’s head was swirly. She was edging into a panic attack. “I’m gonna pass out.”

  “Do you still have that old bottle of Klonopin?”

  “Mm, maybe. I’ll look.” Yes. Of course she had the Klonopin. But Lexie’s need to have the bottle with her at all times was something she had a hard time admitting. Even to herself.

  Lexie opened the back door of her car, dropped the little bag of broken bits onto the floor, and then took her purse from the seat. She found the battered old pill bottle, but her hands were shaking so hard she could hardly get past the child safety lid. Once it was open, she fingered out a pill and swallowed it dry.

  Peter walked out of the house with an unvarnished, unstrung, raw guitar. Lexie shook out another pill and bit it in half. She shoved the bottle back into her purse before flinging the purse past the open car door onto the floor next to the bag of trash.

  “I was making this for you for a wedding present.” Peter held up the guitar like he was presenting a child.

  “It’s beautiful.” Lexie’s voice squeaked out.

  “Do you see this inlaid wood?” Peter pointed to the swirling pattern of brown and green leaves that surrounded the hole. “Do you know how long it took me to do those leaves? Do you have any idea how many hours I’ve spent on this?”

  “It’s an amazing guitar,” Lexie said honestly. “You should finish it and sell it.”

  “That’s real beautiful,” Amy said.

  Peter jerked his head toward Amy for one instant, and then turned back to Lexie.

  “Fuck you both.” Peter lifted the guitar over his head. Lexie screamed and ran to Amy.

  “Fuck you!” Peter brought the guitar down onto the hood of Lexie’s car.

  Lexie huddled into Amy. They watched as Peter pummeled the car until he was only holding the guitar’s skinny neck, which had broken into the shape of a pistol. He hurled the neck, Frisbee style, in the direction of Amy and Lexie. They both ducked, but it didn’t come near them, instead landing quietly on the lawn.

  Peter turned and walked back into the house. Amy pushed Lexie toward her car.

  “Go! Get outta here quick!”

  LEXIE PARKED AT RUXTON. SHE FELT LIKE SHE HADN’T BREATHED since Peter’s driveway. She snatched up her purse from the floor of the backseat and then pulled out her cell phone to send a text to Daniel. With shaky hands, Lexie typed El Kabong.

  Lexie got out of the car and staggered to the hood. Using the flashlight on her phone, she examined the paint. There were faint gray lines, like Daniel’s stray gray hairs, etched into the hood. The minor damage didn’t match the enormity of the act. How sad, for Peter, that the wedding-present-guitar had been destroyed while her car barely felt the hit.

  By the time she unlocked her door, the Klonopin had kicked in and Lexie was feeling a juicy liquidness. The El Kabong incident receded like smog on the distant horizon.

  Lexie inhaled the sharp, rubbery smell of new paint. Five painters had come in that morning. They had done the walls and the kitchen cupboards, which were miraculously, beautifully, new-looking. The trim and ceiling hadn’t been painted yet, but Lexie figured that would happen tomorrow.

  Lexie thought about Dot living between these walls. Her furniture was there, somewhere, but mostly invisible as everything had been pushed together and covered with tarps. Lexie didn’t know when Dot’s family was picking up her things, but she didn’t care. Even though she couldn’t sleep in Dot’s bed, she liked being surrounded by her things: the physical evidence of Dot.

  There was a knock at the door and Lexie’s phone rang simultaneously. A picture of Amy giving the finger was on her screen. Lexie answered the phone and walked toward the door.

  “Hey,” she said into the phone. “Hey!” she said to Ethan Waite standing in her doorway. “Come in.”

  “What?” Amy said. “Are you talking to me?”

  “No, I have a student here, I’ll call you back,” Lexie said, into the phone. She motioned for Ethan to come in.

  “Who? I’ve been trying to get you since we left the house.”

  “Ethan Waite. I couldn’t reach my phone while I was driving. I’ll call you later, okay?” Ethan sat on the floor and started to lean back against a wall. Lexie waved her free hand back and forth to stop him. He turned, looked at the wall, then dove forward and lay back on the floor, his arms folded behind his head as he examined the plastic-covered mountain in the center of the room.

  “Should I pick up a bottle of wine and come calm you down?” Amy asked.

  “I think it’s all okay. My aunt was with me, remember?”

  “Your aunt? You got your period?”

  “No, the other aunt, the one who’s a nurse practitioner, like you—you know, she can write prescriptions and all that . . .”

  “Oh, that’s right, you took the Klonopin!”

  “Yes. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

  “Okay, you sleep well. And call me at any hour if you need me.”

  “I will. Promise.” Lexie ended the call and put the phone on silent.

  She sat on the floor next to Ethan. He sat up.

  “You okay?” She was glad he’d stopped in. An imperative to focus on someone other than herself was exactly what she needed.

  “I dunno.” Ethan shrugged and looked around the room as if he didn’t want to look Lexie in the eye. “I’ve been in this apartment so many times but I can’t remember what color the walls used to be.”

  “Did you ever know anyone who chewed tobacco?” The couple years Bert chewed tobacco, his lower lip bulged like he’d been punched in the face. Every few minutes, he’d turn his head and spit into a Slurpee cup. In the morning, while she was gathering the empty beer cans, Lexie also picked up the Slurpee cup and
threw it in the trash. Often Bert would stir awake, reach into his pocket, and pull out a one- or a five-dollar bill that he’d hold in the air. Lexie would take the money and mumble something about buying a Slurpee and bringing home a new cup for him. Bert would smile, but he never opened his eyes. She always thought it was dumb luck when she landed a five.

  “I’ve seen people chew, but I can’t think of anyone I know who does it.”

  “Well, the walls were the color of tobacco spit. Or maybe more the color of a chewer’s teeth. Sort of a gooey stain that you know was once off-white.”

  “Gross.”

  “Yeah. Don’t ever start chewing. Unless you’re interested in the kind of woman who likes guys with brown teeth.”

  Ethan smiled in the shape of a rectangle on its side. Like his dad. “What are you gonna do with all of Mrs. Harrison’s stuff?” He bobbed his chin in the direction of the heap.

  “Her family’s taking it and I have to buy new stuff. Or, actually, Ruxton is buying new stuff for me to use. Want to help me pick out furniture?” With many students, and boys especially, Lexie had found that it was often easier for them to talk if you got to the problem indirectly. Ask them a question straight on and they felt under attack. In her office she kept both a crossword and a sudoku book and she occasionally handed one or the other to a student claiming she needed help on a half-filled puzzle. While working one of the puzzles, most students would slyly but precisely let Lexie know why they were there. Maybe furniture shopping would bring forth whatever problem had compelled Ethan Waite to stop in.

  Lexie brought her computer out from the bedroom and placed it on the floor in front of herself and Ethan. She went online to the Crate and Barrel catalogue. “I was thinking of doing everything in yellow and gray.” A lie. Until she said those words, Lexie hadn’t given her furniture palette more than a glancing thought. But yellow and gray were the colors Mrs. Simms used for Betsy Simms’s room when Betsy turned sixteen. “These are colors that can take you through adulthood,” Mrs. Simms had said at the time. Adulthood was so far away then. Yet here it was, and Lexie barely felt any more adult than she had that day.