Melissa’s Ring |
Issue 7
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Michael is late for dinner.
It’s only about a mile walk from his apartment down Clinton Street to the Brewery, but he stood in the cold shower longer than he meant to. Then he couldn’t find Melissa’s ring. It had fallen from his wallet into his shoe when he changed his pants. He tore his apartment to pieces looking for it—moved stacks of books from their foundation, revealed footprints of dust on the floor. He even shuffled through the shoebox of Melissa’s “Precious Memories” that he kept hidden in his closet. It was not in the hamper, not in the pantry, and not in either of the sinks. He only found it after he finally put on his shoes—after he had given up completely and convinced himself that he would be okay without it, just this once. Out on Clinton Street, he starts to jog to make up for the lost time. It doesn’t help that it’s ninety degrees outside. --Funny. It’s always in the last place you think to look. --"Well, while I live, I’ll fear no other thing/ So sore as keeping safe Melissa’s ring.” --Is that from something? --I think it’s Shakespeare. --So, you’re afraid of me now? --Wouldn’t you be? You’re a ghost, after all. --Gee, I wonder how I got that way? --Ouch. --Too soon? By the time Michael arrives at the rooftop bar, Stephanie has just finished her second jalapeno margarita. He glides over to her and kisses her on the cheek, suddenly conscious of how damp his shirt is. “Boy, am I glad to see you,” Stephanie says to the massive margarita glass with the salt rim that arrives at the table at the same time he does. “It’s nice to see you too,” Michael says, taking a seat. Michael and Stephanie have been together for three years. “Michael! I’m glad you’re here. I have something for you.” Stephanie rummages through her purse and pulls out a parking slip. “Please don’t let me leave without getting this validated.” Michael takes the slip. “You can count on me,” he says. --She knows what today is, right? Michael? --Not now. Please. --Oh my God. She really doesn’t know. Are you gonna tell her? --I’m sure she’ll remember. Just give her a chance. Michael finds a waiter and orders a Dr. Pepper. He sits and listens to Stephanie talk about her day—the twins she delivered that morning, the heart attack she lost the previous night when her double shift began. Mostly, she complains of the incompetence of the residents with whom she is forced to spend the market of her time. Beneath the table, Michael clutches his sobriety chip in his hands, which is charmed out of his pocket as she speaks. Holding tightly the things he carries in his pockets is a side-effect of two other bad habits Michael possesses. For one, Michael carries pens in his pockets, sometimes at work in his scrubs, and sometimes at home in his slacks and shorts. Sometimes the caps go missing, and the pens poke holes in his pockets. Sometimes they even find their way through the holes, scribble mad ravings on his thigh which he discovers in the shower later on and attempts to decipher before erasing with soap and water. Often, they breach the pocket completely, slither down his pants, and deposit themselves on the floor. Sometimes he notices and picks them up. Other times, he does not. Michael’s other bad habit is that he will not replace his pants once his pockets became pen-poked and holey. It’s not that he prefers pants with holes in the pockets to pants without holes in the pockets. He simply does not aspire to have pants with working pockets. He is a doctor, after all, or will be one soon, anyway. Why should he spend any amount of time worrying about such things? He has lives to save. Michael tries to decide if Stephanie’s is one of them. “I swear to God,” Stephanie says, taking another swig of margarita. “I would be better off with trained monkeys.” --Her life sounds really tough. Not! --Knock it off. Please? --Try not having skin, you drunk bitch. --That’s enough. Stop it. --Did you ever feign interest like this when we were together? --I’m not feigning anything. And you know I did. --Oh my god! Do you remember our first date? How corny you were? With those flash cards? --I remember. Your mother gave them to me when she finally cleaned your room. I still have them in my closet. It seems that someone kept them in a shoe box marked, “Precious Memories.” And someone even wrote answers on the back of them! --Whatever. I’m not the one who carries a ring around with me all the time. --Admit it. You love me. --I used to, sure. Before you killed me. Michael knows that Stephanie used to think of him as a trained monkey. He wonders if she still does. He only has three weeks of his residency left to complete. Then he will be a full-blown doctor. Her equal. Michael remembers the first time he met Stephanie. He had never been so intimidated by a woman before. It was his first day working at the University Hospital and he was soaked from walking through the rain without an umbrella. It didn’t help that she was beautiful. “You there, wet cat,” she had said, pointing at him. Even after the rain had dried, the nickname stuck. “Can you tell me how to treat a patient suffering from alcohol poisoning who has a sulfite intolerance?” “I would start by telling them to stop drinking.” “Oh, how brave of you,” Stephanie said. “And is that what you will tell this patient’s family at his funeral when he doesn’t take your advice? Anyone else?” Michael had always meant to ask her if she had called on him because she knew he was sober. Stephanie could control a room with her walk, which matched the cadence of her voice. When she first asked him for his number, he thought he was providing a professional courtesy. How could he have said no? Their first date had been just a drink after work. Michael ordered a Dr. Pepper. Then Michael walked Stephanie home to her Manhattan apartment. “I have to tell you something,” he said when they reached her building. “You don’t drink, I know. Good night, Michael.” “I’ve been to prison.” Stephanie looked back at him. “Can I ask what for?” “Manslaughter,” he said. “It was only three years.” “Would you like to come upstairs?” She wore her brown hair in a bun then, and bold dark glasses which gave her brown eyes depth and pitch. The power she had over him drove him half insane. But she had cut her hair after her mother died six months ago, around the same time she started drinking more heavily. She only ever wore contacts anymore. Michael has never met Bonnie and Dale before. They are old friends of Stephanie’s from medical school. They are driving through New York on their way home from a vacation in Provincetown, Massachusetts. Michael doesn’t know what to expect, but when the sweaty white polo shirt sporting a pompadour and sunglasses appears at the top of the stairs beside an unbuttoned blouse hanging from a tanline-streaked shoulder, he is pretty sure it must be them, and he waves them over to their table. --You didn’t tell me this was a double date. Hubba hubba. He looks good enough to eat. --Melissa, please. Not now. “Sorry we’re late,” Dale says, hugging Stephanie with his muscular arms, “we were just finishing up a call with our real estate agent. We loved our Air BnB in Provincetown so much, we bought it! Oh, Steph! Wow! It’s so good to see you!” Dale’s embrace makes Michael suspect that the two had dated at one time. The way he smells her neck all but confirms it. “You must be Dale,” Michael says, putting out his hand. “And you must be Nicholas,” Dale says, taking his hand and shaking it. “We’ve heard a lot about you.” “It’s Michael, actually.” “Bonnie,” said Bonnie, extending a hand that moves like a dead fish when Michael takes it in his. “Charmed.” The old friends sit and begin to catch up—the drive from the cape, the traffic on 95, the changes to the city. Stephanie stops a waiter who is carrying a tray full of dishes. She orders a pitcher of margaritas for the table without consulting Bonnie or Dale. Michael slurps Dr. Pepper and stirs the ice melting at the bottom of his glass. --Is this what being an adult is like? Fuck. Sometimes I’m glad I died when I did. --I’m pretty sure I can recite them by heart, you know. --What? --Those flashcards. From our first date. --Bullshit. --Card numero uno. “I’m weirdly attracted to…” On the back, you wrote: garlic breath, morticians, Steve Buscemi-- --Damn right. --Professional bowlers, Republicans… --They know how to wear a tie, I’ll give ‘em that. --…and yours truly, Michael Tran. --Ok, smart guy. Do you remember what you said? What you’re weirdly attracted to? --Ghosts? --You wish. Skeletons is more like it, looking at this skinny bitch. --Watch it. --You really don’t remember what you said? --No. What did I say? --Beats me. I’m not responsible for recalling every little thing you ever did. Remember? I’m dead. And it’s your fault. “But enough about us,” Dale says at last. “How the hell have you been?” “Oh my god,” Stephanie begins. “This has literally been the week from hell. Let me ask you something: have you ever laughed at a patient before? And I mean, like laughed right in their face? At their misery, I mean? Or maybe I mean at their stupidity and misfortune?” Michael can see memories stirring in both Bonnie and Dale, who are both family practitioners in Chicago. Stephanie means the question as a rhetorical one. “I had a patient this week—" she continues, “—no! It was today! Oh my god, it was today! When I finally get to him, he’s practically in septic shock—his blood pressure’s bottoming out, he’s barely conscious, feverish, you know? He’s muttering something to me that I can’t understand. And he’s like tugging at his pants. And then, right before he passes out, he’s like, ‘I need to pee!’ So he loses consciousness and this piece of shit resident who’s practically nineteen and who probably couldn’t find his own pulse comes in and is like, ‘Is this the guy?’ And I’m like, ‘First of all, excuse me! Is that any way to address your attending?’ But then he says, ‘Is this the guy with the thing on his thing?’ And I’m like, ‘Seriously, bro, learn how to address your superiors. Also, this is a hospital! “A thing on his thing”’? He actually said that! And then I look at his chart. And I look at this piece of shit resident and we both run over to the bed and we rip off his pants. And I’ll be goddamned if there isn’t this—” Stephanie slaps the table loud enough to make the silverware clang. Out of nowhere, the waiter appears. “Hi, I’m Derek, and I’ll be taking care of you guys tonight. Are we ready for some food?” --Did you try the flashcard thing on Stephanie? For your first date? --Weren’t you there? Of course I didn’t. --No, I wasn’t there, for your information. You hadn’t invented me then yet, remember? --“Invented you”? Melissa, I didn’t invent you. You-- --You were ignoring me. Admit it. All those AA meetings. Your therapist. Your parole officer. What a crock. --I think I was afraid of you. Can you blame me? --Till the cows come home. Dale orders first—a steak, blue. “You do know what ‘blue’ means, don’t you?” “Raw in the middle,” Derek says. “Good lad,” Dale says. Bonnie orders the fish tacos; Stephanie, the steak—rare. Michael orders a salad. “That’s all you’re getting?” Dale asks him. Stephanie steps on his line. “Michael’s a vegetarian, aren’t you sweetie?” Stephanie pours herself another margarita from the pitcher and raises her glass. “To Michael, whose carbon footprint shall remain as small as… his ego.” Dale raises his glass and clinks it violently against Stephanie’s. “To small egos!” Bonnie clinks glasses with Michael, whose glass is still empty, and who asks for a refill. --Jesus, if you’re gonna be with this woman will you at least stick up for yourself? She’s insulting your masculinity right in front of you. And her ex. --You’ve said way worse shit to me. Today, in fact. --And you probably deserved it. “We could use another pitcher of margs, too, huh?” says Stephanie, handing Derek the pitcher, but not before putting it to her lips and swallowing the dregs. “So what was it?” Dale wants to know. “The thing. Piercing gone wrong? VD?” |
WILLIAM STEFFEN
won 3rd Place of the Fiction Writing Contest. He is an assistant professor of English at American International College in Springfield, MA, where he teaches courses in Composition, Shakespeare, and Creative Writing. His creative writing has been featured in an anthology of gothic retellings of Shakespeare plays called, Violent Delights and Midsummer Dreams, published earlier this year by Quill and Crow Publishing House. He lives in Holyoke, MA with his wife and two children. |