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?” “Get this,” Stephanie continues. “We pull down his pants and his penis is swollen and purple. And tied around the middle is this immaculate gold engagement ring with a diamond the size of a kidney stone.” “Nice,” Dale says. “A rock on his cock.” Bonnie chimes in. “I was going to say some bling for his thing.” “So what did you do?” Michael asks, leaning in. --"So what did you do?” God, you sound like a child. --And you sound jealous. Just admit it. --Admit what? --How much you love me. --Do you remember what the last thing that I said to you was? --Come on. That’s not fair. --And I don’t mean, “Michael, look out!” or “Michael, are you sure you’re okay to drive?” I mean the last thing I said—after you went through the windshield and after I managed to lift my head and spit out my two front teeth and saw you lying in that cornfield and just before the car burst into flames? You probably didn’t hear me, but do you know what I said? --Melissa, come on. Please don’t. --I said, “Michael! Help us.” --Us? --Yup. --You were… --That’s right, Michael. --Why the hell are you telling me this now? --Because I think you’re forgetting the promise you made to me. --I…haven’t forgotten. --Prove it. --Card numero dos: “A random fact I love is…” You wrote: that snails will only mate with snails that possess the same chirality, which means that a snail with a shell that spirals counter-clockwise will only mate with another snail with a counter-clockwise-spiraling shell. Card tres. “Unusual skills include…” You wrote: juggling when fruit is lying around, flossing periodically, painting a flat surface a single color, writing unsent letters and unpublishable essays, losing track of time, collaging, making appointments, listing things, remembering anniversaries, not drowning. Card number four… --Michael. --"A life goal of mine is to…” You wrote-- --Become a doctor and save lives. --Become a doctor and save lives. “I did what any good doctor would do,” Stephanie continues. “I cut it off of him. The ring, I mean. Then I ordered a catheter and a battery of blood tests, and got him on antibiotics as quickly as possible. Removing the ring was the easy part. Yes, there was a little bit of blood, but you should have seen this thing. You could tell he had tried every trick in the book to get it off before he finally admitted defeat and came to the hospital. I’m pretty sure he had WD-40 in his pubic hair, maybe some bacon grease too. There was also ample evidence of scratching, tugging, and pulling.” Dale winces and puts a slice of lime in his mouth. “Did you find out why he had an engagement ring on his dick?” Bonnie asks. “I’ll bet it was a proposal gone wrong,” says Dale. “Someone trying out a ‘Dick in a Box’ without thinking it through.” “Really?” Bonnie says. “It sounds more like a terminated engagement to me. I’ll bet he proposed, she said yes, and then during their love-making, he shouted someone else’s name and the jig was up.” “Way up,” says Dale. “Right,” giggles Bonnie. “So she gives him back his ring in a place where he can’t very easily be rid of it.” Stephanie finishes a long sip and sets down her glass. “No, it was dumber than that. Way dumber. The first thing you need to know is his name. HIPPA be damned: his name was Johnson Pullmaister. Hand to God. Johnson was his first name! And his last name was fucking Pullmaister.” “Get the fuck out,” Dale says. “Shut up,” Bonnie says. --Jesus, Michael. These people are the worst. If you don’t tell her, I’m gonna tell her. --Tell her what? --What day it is, stupid. She doesn’t know. Because you haven’t told her. --She knows what day it is. She just got off a double shift. Her friends are visiting from out of town. I’ll tell her later. --She’ll be asleep later. You’d better tell her now. “Hand to God. Hand to God. I go to see him after the antibiotics start to kick in. He’s awake, he’s alert, he’s ready to talk. He’s afraid to look downtown, but at least he doesn’t have to pee anymore. And I’m like asking him questions about what he remembers, and he claims he doesn’t remember how he got to the hospital. And then I show him the ring, which is cut in two pieces now, and I’m like, ‘I found this ring around your rosey,’ and he makes this face like he’s about to start crying, almost like he’s mad at me for saving his life. And he’s like, ‘Did you have to cut it in half?’ And I’m like, ‘Should I have cut your sausage in half instead?’ And so I remind him of what happened and how I saved his life, and then I’m like, ‘Okay, so spill it. How did you end up with a ring wrapped around that particular finger, Mr. Pullmaister?’ And he says, hand to God, that he has a fucking gold fetish, and that he likes to decorate his Johnson Pullmaister with jewelry.” --Oh, I’ve heard of that. I’ve met people in hell who have that. Michael bursts out laughing. --What’s so funny? “What?” says Bonnie. “What’s a gold fetish?” “It’s when you have a swimming pool full of money,” Stephanie explains, “and you decide you love money more than sex, so you get off with precious jewelry and gems and shit.” “So there was no fiancé at all?” Dale says. “No fiancé. He said it was his mother’s wedding ring.” Dale makes a face. “That seems worse, somehow.” “Tell me about it,” Stephanie cackles. “Can you even fucking imagine? And I’m not one to kink shame. But when you’re sharing your bed with inanimate objects, you really only have yourself to blame when something goes wrong.” --What if you’re sharing your bed with a cold, frigid, plank of wood? Michael? Would you care to comment? “That’s unbelievable,” Dale says to nodding heads. “No, really. I think that sounds like he made that up so that he didn’t have to tell you the humiliating truth: that he put his junk in that box and thought he could propose in a way that might get his Pullmaister pulled.” “God,” says Stephanie, rolling her eyes. “That’s the only thing that would have made it worse! Can you imagine? I swear, if I knew that he was trying to propose by putting a thirty-two inch gold belt on a forty inch waist, my hand might not have been so steady. The only thing--the only thing--I hate more than stupidity is romance. A public display of affection? Like, ‘Look, I need all of these people to see how much I love you! Oh my God, she said yes! What a perfectly spontaneous outcome to a classic will-they-or-won’t-they! How delightful!’” Stephanie took a sip of her margarita, and nearly broke the glass when she set it back down. “Please! I’d rather shit in my hands and clap!” Bonnie and Dale howl with laughter. Michael smiles and excuses himself to use the bathroom. --Did she seriously just say that? Michael, if you don’t break up with her in the next ten minutes, I swear to God I’m going to do it for you. One way or another, I’ll-- --Okay, you’ve made your point. Just shut up. Please. Michael checks his teeth in the bathroom mirror. He stares at himself and tries to imagine where he will be in a month, in a year. He’ll be a doctor soon, like Stephanie, Dale, and Bonnie. But then what? Vacations on the cape? Spontaneous deposits on real estate investments? Sitting around and laughing at the misfortune of his patients? Michael looks in the mirror and sighs. He pulls his wallet from his rear pocket and carefully removes the engagement ring he bought for Melissa six week after she was killed in a car wreck that was entirely his fault. --Why do you do this to yourself? --Do what? --Michael, I’m not real. Ghosts don’t exist. I’m just you. I’m in your head. You could just let me go and get on with your life. Why do you let me get to you so bad? --You…wouldn’t understand. --Try me. --Because I don’t deserve to be happy. --Do you think if I was still alive I would let you keep doing this to yourself? --If you were still alive, I wouldn’t have to do this to myself. --Michael, if I was still alive, do you really think we would be together? Still? Come on. We were in college. Have you talked to people who marry their college sweethearts? They’re so boring they make we want to puke. Michael, look. I wasn’t pregnant, okay? I was just saying that. My body was burned beyond recognition. They had to consult my dental records. You were too drunk and too concussed to do it, remember? You know all this. Or, maybe I was pregnant, and the baby wasn’t yours. Did you ever think of that? Maybe I was going to break up with you as soon as you got me to wherever it was you were trying to take me in such a hurry-- --We were driving home. --Home? Really? God, I really hope you embellish these details when you remind Stephanie about this later. Home? That’s so boring! Why not to the beach? To the desert? To a water park? To some adventure? Home? You drove me into a tree at eighty miles an hour so that you could get home? Wow. That sucks. --I know. That’s what I’m saying. --Well, stop it. Try saying something else for once. --“Between grief and nothing, I will take grief.” --Who said that? You know what? Nevermind. I don’t want to know. Whoever did probably never tried nothing. It’s not as scary as it sounds. Three loud men stumble into the bathroom and startle Michael from his thoughts. He slips the ring and his wallet back into his pocket. Then he washes his hands, reciting the Gettysburg Address in his head as he does. Michael is only a few steps away from his table when he feels the rough diamond poke into his thigh. It hits his foot and rolls away from him, like loaded dice. He stoops to pick it up but has to lunge on both knees to prevent the ring from falling through the wooden planks of the rooftop bar. When he catches it, he looks up to see Stephanie staring down at him on his knees with a ring in his hand. A hush falls over the bar. Michael realizes that everyone is looking at him now. “Whoa!” says Dale. “Oh my god!” says Bonnie. “Michael!” Stephanie says. It only takes her a moment to realize that everyone is listening for her answer. --Barf. I’d rather shit in my hands and clap. Michael does not say anything. He stands and begins to put the ring back into his pocket when Stephanie rises and proclaims, “Yes, Michael! Yes!” She holds out her hand and Michael puts the ring on her finger. It is way too big, like a forty-inch belt on a thirty-two inch waist, but Stephanie makes a fist and pretends it is a perfect fit. Then she plants one on him and orders another pitcher of margaritas for the table. Somewhere, there is a round of applause. The bartender sends them champagne—on the house. Dale pays for dinner. Bonnie kisses Michael on the cheek when they say goodbye. On their way out the door, Michael gets Bonnie’s parking validated. When they get to the car, Stephanie pukes on the blue handicap symbol painted on the floor of the parking garage. Michael holds her by the waist to make sure she doesn’t fall over. He helps her into the car. “My knight in shining horror,” she says, touching his face. “Kiss me.” “You just threw up,” Michael reminds her. “Aw! Baby! You saw my street pizza! You want a slice? It’s pepperoni! Just shut up and kiss me, my little wet cat.” Michael kisses her on the cheek, and she sticks her tongue in his ear. Then he buckles her seatbelt and shuts the door. Stephanie is asleep before they get out of the parking garage. At the first stop light they come to, Michael takes Stephanie by the hand. He holds her limp fist up to the light and studies the ring. Then he gently removes it from her finger and puts it back into his wallet. Michael wonders if she will remember what happened in the morning. |
WILLIAM STEFFEN
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. |