Pins & Needles

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  contents

  Acknowledgments

  Unction

  She Fell to Her Knees

  Breach

  Beautiful

  Apparitions

  Confessions

  The Ropewalk

  Pins & Needles

  On the Lake

  Destiny

  Mouth of Friend and Stranger

  The Returning

  Dead Boyfriends

  Galatea

  The Longings of Wayward Girls Excerpt

  May 5, 1979

  September 22, 2002

  About the Author

  About Atria Books

  For Mary Lee Brown

  Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? Is it for such I agitate my heart?

  —SYLVIA PLATH, “ELM”

  acknowledgments

  “Unction” and “Destiny” originally appeared in The Georgia Review, “She Fell to Her Knees” in Tampa Review, “Breach” and “Pins & Needles” in EPOCH, “The Ropewalk” in StoryQuarterly, “Apparitions” in Ascent, and “Dead Boyfriends” in Alaska Quarterly Review. “Galatea,” winner of the Crazyhorse Fiction Prize, appeared in Crazyhorse no. 27 (2007).

  I am grateful to the University of South Florida Creative Writing Program, my fellow writers and teachers, especially John Fleming and Rita Ciresi, as well as Tom Ross and Bob Pawlowski, who were there from the beginning. Many thanks to the editors who provided space for my work in their fine journals—Michael Koch, T. R. Hummer and Stephen Corey, M. M. M. Hayes, Ronald Spatz, W. Scott Olsen, Kathleen Ochshorn, and Lisa Birnbaum. Special thanks to the Association of Writers and Writing Programs, to Sugarspoon, for “Pins & Needles,” and to my husband and family, for time.

  unction

  They gathered each morning at seven o’clock in the bookbinding machine shop, in the back where the parts were stored in long, narrow, metal bins and stacked on metal shelving to the ceiling. Fans spun the dusty heat. They drank cups of dark coffee. They moved, their teenage bodies dull and inarticulate, to the plywood counter where thick sheaves of computer printouts listed the parts they needed to count. It was a summer job, this inventory. Lily was pregnant, seventeen, and no one knew, not Orlando, the young draftsman, who taught her to drive his Renault, or Tish, the owner’s niece, who brought in bags of the watermelon candy Lily secretly craved, not even Matthew, with his soft hair in his eyes, with his bashful glances that made her feel a part of herself had come undone, a blouse button, the clasp to her shorts, the silent, swift unraveling of her heart.

  She could not tell you, now, who the father was. There had been a succession of boys at the time. She would leave her parents’ house and walk the three blocks to the center of the small town, to the outdoor mall and its fountain, onto the town green’s damp evening grass, and meet her friends, and wait for the boys. They would appear like gliding birds in their cars, paint jobs shining from a new waxing, the tires thick and ready to grab the parking lot’s black asphalt. They stuck their heads out of car windows, their hair wet from the shower, from a quick swim in oval-shaped pools, from the lake in Suffield where some of them skied and a few would die in a boat accident the following summer. They lived without any fear of death. They grinned and promised a fearlessness that she desired more than the inexpert movements of their hands on her body, their mouths’ wet urgency, their rising heat beneath her sliding palms.

  They never forced themselves on her. She was practiced at how to make them want her. It became a simple game. Each boy was a new beginning. Each had an eventual parting, signaled by a new girl in the passenger seat of his car or a general disregard that she learned to intuit, never an angry rebuff, never with any malice, just a folding away of himself from her, a closing-off that made her sad at first. She would remember the smell of his upholstery, the salty taste of the skin on his throat, the way his mouth opened, or how he used his tongue. She would pine for the places they parked: the meadow beyond the reservoir, the smell of the grass dampened by rain. She would miss his groans, his efforts moving inside her, the way he fell panting afterward. She held all their faces the same in her hands. She gazed into their eyes. They all had a way of not looking back, of shielding themselves, as if from the force of her love.

  The father of her child might have been any of them from that spring or early summer. She did not know for sure about herself until the end, in August, when the heat in the machine shop was the worst, and the black grit settled grimly on the handrails of the tall rolling ladders they moved up and down the aisles of shelving, seeking out the parts. Her breasts hurt. She drank her coffee in the morning and promptly threw it up. Only Matthew noticed, waiting outside the ladies’ room for her, the worry in his eyes something they pretended wasn’t there. He would brush her hair from her face. He would grin wildly to make her smile. In the afternoons he would sit on one of the high ladders and draw caricatures of all of them or the comic book superheroes he created. His body, large and ungainly, would curl in on itself, double over. His arm bent along the wide, white paper moved lithe and supple, like the appendage of someone else. He would present the drawings to her rolled up into long tubes, paper-clipped at the ends. She sensed her happiness was, to him, of the utmost importance.

  There were six of them that summer, hired to work the seven-to-five o’clock inventory. At first she did not spend much time getting to know any of them. She took her list and went off into the aisles, working to decipher the language of screws and pins and bolts and clamps. She found time went faster this way. At lunch, she bought a sandwich from the truck that parked in the lot. The machine shop used to manufacture the bookbinding machine parts, but it had been closed for two years. Only a husband and wife ran the shipping department. There was Matthew, hired to build the wooden crates, operate the forklift, and pack things up to ship. A few machines remained operable. Two men ran those. Most parts were made in another of the owner’s factories down by the Connecticut River—a bigger, more efficient place. The sense of the small bookbinding machine shop was of desolation and decline. Its dirt and grease, ground into the brick floor, were ancient, from another time. The sun lit the high row of narrow windows filmed by dust, turning them a pinkish orange. There was no other source of light beyond the hanging fluorescent lamps. Each morning Lily came into the heat of the shop and felt a new, raw wave of despair.

  They worked without any supervision. After a week they grew bored. There was no one to please with their progress through the stacks of computer printouts. Lily knew that up in the front offices women in accounts receivable gossiped and split blueberry crumb cake, and purchasing agents lounged in each other’s offices, sipping from cans of soft drinks, tipping cigarette ashes into cupped palms. The office manager carried on an affair with a file clerk, the blinds to his office drawn, and a receptionist sat at a switchboard by the American flag in its stand facing the double glass doors, waiting to greet the mailman. There were foreign engineers, three of them, spread out in cubicles, their suit jackets draped over the backs of their chairs, their drawings clipped to slanted tables, their ashtrays spilling over with the ends of hand-rolled cigarettes.

  That summer, none of the office workers ever came to the back, except for Celie, one of the purchasing agents, who checked on things occasionally. She wore bright floral skirts and high heels and dangling earrings. She seemed uncomfortable in the dark shop, as if she might become soiled. She wou
ld stop in at shipping with her stack of paperwork, and then head to the other end of the shop, where the parts were kept, where by the second week the six of them sprawled on the metal steps of the rolling ladders, sat in folding chairs around the computer printouts, pretending to look busy. Orlando had the best performance. He would hold the printout like a book in his arms and thumb through it. He kept a pencil behind his ear and always seemed to appear from around a shelf at the appropriate moment to report in to her.

  “We’ve got all the Rounder Backer parts accounted for,” he’d say.

  Celie would smile at him, making a special effort. Her earrings shook and made a sound like small bells. “Wow!” she’d say, shaking her head. “Good.”

  Orlando had applied as a draftsman just out of trade school. The summer inventory was the only job open, but they had emphasized there was potential to learn and the possibility of a later position. In the beginning, Orlando worked to entrench himself. He brought the engineers samples from his family’s bakery. He made a round of the front offices daily, presenting himself as an affable employee. Lily begged driving lessons from him. She knew he would have to steal time from the company he was trying so desperately to join, that he did not want to do it. But she saw, too, that during that summer there was something about her that no one could refuse. After lunch, they drove in circles around the empty back lot where the machinists used to park. Orlando gripped the door handle when the car jerked and stalled. Sometimes he cried out in Portuguese and put his hand over his heart when her foot confused the clutch and the brake and she came too close to the shop’s brick wall. Lily liked the smell of his car, the afternoon sun warming up a mixture of talcum powder and the baked crust of the bread he’d brought in that morning. She liked the way she could confuse him, how in the little car with her he stammered, no longer the expert.

  During work hours Orlando was the only one who could describe the parts they sought, their size and shape, what to actually look for in the narrow bins. But by the third week of inventory they grew weary of consulting him, and they counted anything, their hands oily from the screws’ threads, gray with dust from the castings piled up on the floor, their part numbers raised metal that no one, in the dim lighting, could truly read. If it looked like a lever arm, Jamie said, then it was the lever arm on the list.

  Lily suspected that Jamie was working, like she was, as some form of penance. Lily had been hired in the shop’s front office that winter. She got the job from her school disciplinary counselor, who met with her one afternoon after she had been discovered inebriated in French class. It had been French V, Advanced, and the other students, with their straight-A averages and bowl-shaped haircuts and polyester button-downs, had been shocked. Madame Dorn had led her by the hand out of the room. She had chastised her in French. “You disappoint me,” she’d said. They stood in the beige brick hallway, on the pale and shining waxed floor tiles. Lily remembered the bright blue of her eye shadow, the way her small hands had clung to her wrists, the sound of the verb, decevoir, like an unending and upturned sadness. The disciplinary counselor was gruff and stocky with a broad face. He was missing half of one of his thumbs. He set up the interview with the bookbinding shop’s office manager.

  “You need this,” he said. “Keep you out of trouble.”

  She worked every day after school making blueprints on the large machine. All the drawings of parts were stored flat in long, metal file drawers. She kept them in order, filed by their part numbers, some of them very old on tobacco-colored paper worn at the edges. She found that making the blueprints, the mindless feeding of drawings into the big machine, its heat and hum and ammonia smell, kept her content, and she was grateful, in a way, for the job. When they’d assigned her to the summer inventory, she found she’d become good at accepting whatever she was given.

  Jamie had been hired under similar circumstances through a friend of his father’s. A safe occupation for the summer. He wasn’t resentful. With his checks, he claimed, he would put a down payment on the Trans-Am his father had already refused him. Jamie kept his blond hair cropped short. When he looked at Lily, his eyes lingered, needy and intent, on her face, her mouth, the slope of her shoulders down to her breasts. Tish came in each morning, primly, in a different colored sleeveless blouse, carrying her canvas tote bag. Her father wanted her to learn the value of hard work, she told them, crossing her brown eyes. She would leave each afternoon, her face shining, her blouse ringed with sweat under her arms. The other girl working with them, Geri, was tall and had a long, bushy mane of hair that she spent time twisting and piling and clipping back. She wore her boyfriend’s UCONN T-shirts. Even these, Jamie announced, could not hide the bouncing effect of her large breasts. Geri was good-natured about Jamie’s observations. She stuck her tongue out at him and disappeared down an aisle of shelving.

  “Do you think she wants me to follow her?” he would ask Lily. “We could fuck in D row, under the Smyth sewer bolts.” Lily and Jamie did the least amount of work. They sat at the plywood counter amidst the printouts, rifling through them, organizing them, pretending to mark things off. They separated the work into piles for everyone. Jamie smoked Camels, dropping his butts on the floor and grinding them with the toe of his boot. He looked over at her.

  “This is unendurable,” he said, his eyes fastening on her bare legs spread out under the counter. She looked back at him and shook her head, refusing him, her body taken over by an inexpressible lethargy, an emptying of desire. She felt drawn into a current of deep and swirling water. No one seemed angry that she did less work. Matthew wheeled the big ladders around for her. Tish brought her the watermelon candy. Matthew and Orlando, finally, unbolted the green vinyl couch from the break room’s linoleum floor. They carried it to the back wall of the shop, beneath the high row of windows, hidden away behind the last row of shelves. They said it was for everyone to take turns. Jamie offered to double up with Geri. But they relinquished it to Lily, who fell asleep every afternoon, her eyelids heavy, her limbs lifeless, her body drawn under invisible tidewater.

  Once in a while, the Russian engineer would saunter through the shop. He would make a point of walking over, stopping, and asking for Lily. He needed a blueprint made. He couldn’t find a drawing. He wore his dark suit pants and polished shoes. His shoe leather creaked, making his footfalls menacing. Matthew’s face reddened when he saw him approaching. They made up excuses so Lily would not have to speak to him. That spring, the engineer had asked Lily to model, to pose wearing a nautical shirt and white shorts and a sailor’s hat, with a bow thruster he had developed and patented for the owner as a side job. She had agreed, flattered at first. Celie in purchasing had done her makeup in the ladies’ room. The engineer had taken the photos himself with a Nikon. He stood, stiff and unfriendly, issuing orders. He had her straddle the design, something that looked like a heavy, riveted pipe. Then she stood up beside it with one hand on her hip. Frustrated, he gripped the fleshy part of her arm above her elbow to position her, and his thumb and forefinger left a darkening print.

  They took the photos in the machine shop. The late afternoon shone serene and unconcerned through the high row of windows, and the dust swirled about. She was not ready to reveal to the adult world her own knowledge of sex, and so she pretended she did not read anything in his eyes’ movements over her body, his positioning of her, roughly, in poses of his liking. She could endure his gaze under this pretense, her hips and mouth prodded to assume falsely, awkwardly, the expression of seduction. Later, the engineer tried to persuade her to attend a trade show with them in Boston and hand out brochures, offering to pay for her hotel room and traveling expenses. But the office manager intervened, pointing out that she was a minor, and Celie had taken her aside. “Don’t go,” she’d said, grimacing. “I wouldn’t if I were you,” fully convinced of Lily’s ignorance concerning the engineers in their suits, their thick waists and formality, their other uses for her they were not telling. The engineer improvised with a photo made
into a life-sized cutout to stand alongside their display—Lily in her sailor’s hat, a hand placed on her outthrust hip, her look conveying a disarming innocence.

  Matthew had been in the shop during the shoot. They took the photos once everyone left for the day, and he stayed under the pretense of working late, suspicious of the engineer’s intentions from the first. Later, he drew a scathing caricature of the Russian holding his camera, his oversized head stern, his one exposed eye sly and lascivious. During the summer inventory, Matthew drew a whole series of characters. They were heroes from fantasy stories, men and women who had survived the last battle on earth and now fought latex-suited foes from space or mutant animals, lion-mouthed, vulture-winged, who inhabited earth’s dark recesses. The human survivors wore only remnants of their old clothing. Their nearly naked bodies swirled in motion, spun on muscled calves, swung weapons that looked cumbersome and medieval. Their faces tightened in anger or horror or pain. Their eyes glared or softened or filled with tears. Matthew would bring the drawings to Lily, shyly, when the others weren’t around. She had never seen anything so beautiful emerge from a pencil on paper before. She held the drawings and her hands shook. The characters looked back at her from the tumult of their movements, frozen in the midst of their unfolding stories.

  She wouldn’t say much. She would hand them back and look at him and smile, and she could see he knew what she felt, that she believed his ability was a gift, something that resided in some self other than the one maneuvering a forklift, stacking castings on wooden pallets, searching out 105 casing-in bolts. His caricatures of all of them brought out their beauty, the small defect in each of their personalities—Orlando’s simpering and debonair nose; Tish’s crossed eyes and self-deprecating smile; Geri’s horsey face, its lack of imagination; Jamie’s rakishness, a Camel hanging from his bottom lip. Of herself, Lily could only sense a kind of tragic weakness, her eyes too wide, too seemingly childlike, and she believed he had gotten her wrong. He would not draw any others of her, only real sketches he would not show her until later, near the end of the summer.