- -
"I'm not saying there was nothing wrong,
I just didn't think you'd ever get tired of me."
- Matchbox Twenty
She thought of how he would react when she brought his world crashing down
on him, as hers had done on herself. All because the stick turned blue.
Blue, like the ocean tint in her cerulean eyes. Crystal clear they were, as
she stared at an ancient tree in her back yard. Infested with leeches, it
awaited its own doom.
"Smackdown!" shouted Kirk, his own special goodbye. From the inside of his
trusty tractor, he tipped his orange plastic construction hat in a final silent
sionara before proceeding to knock over the tree, relieving it from its
suffering, effectively taking it out of its misery. Pain shattered, leaping from
its ancient host to Rory's tender flesh. She hugged herself tightly, trying to
keep from doubling over in shock and pain. She stood at the funeral of her
favorite childhood tree, dying inside as it died on the outside.
Rory was a little girl again as the tree came falling down. It fell away from
her, leaning on an edge and then collapsing in an undignified heap; as it
smacked the ground, the thud of it was sickening. Rory blanched, willing the
vomit in her stomach to stay there. She didn't want another showing of all that
she had digested that morning. She couldn't handle it. Not again.
Beyond Rory's tears, she could see the many rings on the inside of the tree
trunk, telling of a rich and lengthy life. A life longer than her own. Behind
these tears she could see an eleven year-old Rory, proudly singing old '90's
songs to her tree, one of her best friends. Skipping around, being careful to
jump over any flowers that sprung out beneath her small feet. Rory was never
fond of death, at all. Not for plants, fish, bugs, zebras, cows... not for
anything living and breathing of air.
Why, it was a wonder she wasn't a vegetarian. Then again, not. She had tried
to ban meat from her diet, once. It lasted for almost a day. With a tummy filled
with only plain noodles gone stale, the eight year-old, who was once again
proving she was exceptional for her age - - for any age, followed her mother
into the nearest McDonald's for dinner. She made a thing of mirroring Lorelai's
steps exactly, and counting them out loud. This habit drove Lorelai crazy (well,
crazi-er), becoming one of the top-most things she would pray to Bob for Rory to
outgrow. (Lorelai raised her daughter not to believe in God, but to trust in
whatever deity she found worthy. The very day she clarified that, the day Rory
finished reading through the Bible for religious "research" - - God, that kid
researched from the day she was born, Lorelai took Rory by the hand, all seven
year-old, fifty-some-odd pounds of her, and lead her around the quaint streets
of the small town of Stars Hollow. Pointing out this guy and that, the tree with
moist moss growing out of the grooves of its trunk, the squirrel who stole one
of her fries, Lorelai encouraged her perky-eyed daughter to choose for herself
what should be believed in.
Rory looked at the tree; squealed half in fear, half in delight as the black,
chipper squirrel - - she'd never seen one that color before - - seized the
crinkly fry from her hand. She mourned the loss of a dead flower on the
sidewalk, and a stepped-on lady bug. Eyes that were always alert scanned through
the mass of dancers across the street, little ballerinas, hardly bigger than
her, practicing endless leaps and jumps, perfecting arm movements that were
graceful enough to be called perfect in the first place, dancing, dancing,
dancing past the wide open doors of a studio obviously built for that purpose.
Oh, to fly through the air like that!
She thought of leopards at the zoo she had seen on a class trip, and wondered
what her mother thought of the zoo. But she was wise in knowing that this was
not the time to ask. Green grass poked out of dirt in the ground, waiting to be
plucked, and tossed away. There were lawn mowers buzzing - - wasn't that an
amazing contraption? What to believe in, what to believe?
"Hun..." Lorelai prodded, jiggling around Rory's hand that was still clasped
in hers. "This decision was not supposed to be so hard. What do you want to
believe in? I don't care - - it could be a toaster, or a hot dog. It could be a
snail! And you know the magic of our games? You can change the answer later.
Believe me, you're going to wish that I administered the SAT's."
"What are the SAT's?"
"High school. Big test. Later."
Rory nodded. She understood this kind of impatience. Mom was hungry. Rory
exhaled with a shrug of her shoulders, narrowing her eyes. Slowly she surveyed
the block before her one more time, tilting her head to the left and to the
right while her feet stayed rooted in place. This was a very important
inspection. She was going to find her higher power on this street today.
Having noticed everything already, the street looked bland. But then, wait -
- there was something. There was a break in between two buildings, a small
alley. It didn't look like any alley Rory had seen before. Alleys were dark,
dirty, scary. This one was paved by bricks stained red, like blood over a scab -
- over a healed wound. It was a sign. But it was too far away.
Rory stepped closer. Gently she let go of her mother's hand. Something was
calling her, something, and the future journalist in her had to see. Baby steps
forward took her to the alley holding the secret she sought. The sunny air was
stationary. No wind ruffled her hair. She was growing it out long now so that it
would learn to flow in the breeze, the way long hair does.
The strange silence that had rested in the air was pierced by a heavy-set man
who called himself "Taylor". "Sir, do you see a mattress here?" he asked. "Is
there some bedside table that coaxes you into sleep?"
Rory stopped just outside the narrow lining of bricks leading sideways from
the street. She stared before her, at a pitiful sight. A man in his late fifties
with a big belly, like Santa Clause, sat on the ground against the wall of one
of the buildings blocking the alley in - - the one on the right side, Rory noted
(proud of herself). His legs were sprawled out before him, his chest hunched
over, his closed eyes aiming at his shoes that were falling apart. Honestly,
they resembled bowling shoes. Perhaps, thought Rory (for she was always thinking
something), he had stolen them from a bowling alley. What desperation. Who
designed those shoes, anyway? Were they just the inevitable rejects? Who would
wear them by choice? Not only were this man's shoes hideously ugly, but they
were obviously not built to last - - among the frayed stitches and large scuff
marks was the toe end of one of the shoes, completely worn off! It looked like
an animal had tried to eat the shoe and, on second thought, had spit it back
out. A wise decision, really. (And who said animals weren't remarkably
intelligent?)
Rory sighed, feeling sorry for that man and his shoes that were falling
apart. In fact, everything about him seemed to be falling apart. Maybe his heart
was, too. She looked down at her own shoes that were far too small to give away
to that stranger on the street. She doubted he'd want them, anyway. They would
be hard to part with. They were made with her own two hands. Sort of. She and
her mother didn't have much money - - Lorelai tried to hide it from her, but she
knew. They had taken a trip into K-Mart together, Lorelai's strong arm around
Rory's shoulders that she hoped would one day be as strong. Nobody was as strong
as her mother, but she'd like to be second best.
Plain canvas shoes were being sold for five dollars a pair. Five dollars for
mother, five dollars for daughter. Next, there were fabric glues in all sorts of
radical colors, and paint brushes, three for a dollar. Lorelai sorted through
her change purse to provide the extra 43 cents needed.
Once home, Lorelai handed Rory her much smaller shoes as well as the colors
they had chosen together. And Rory set to work. The colored glue tubes had long,
fine points at the end for precise placement. Rory drew yellow cows and blue
bunnies; pink clouds and purple starfish. She finished off with emerald green
grass, wanting some color to be realistic, but her colorful zoo was worth
admiring. In the end, though, she found that she much preferred her mother's
shoes, which had been delicately painted with gold and silver sparkles all over.
The shoelaces were decorated with shiny blue squiggles. All in all, both pairs
were good shoes, created with love, and Rory's were shoes that later would be
kept by Lorelai her whole life through.
These shoes were now worn in, no longer brand new. Rory had taken many a step
in them. She decided she would be the one to take them many steps more.
The sleepy man grunted as Taylor nudged him with his foot. He kicked a foot
of his own groggily, gently - - apparently his strength was gone. In his hand,
Rory could see a whiskey bottle within a small crumpled paper bag. The homeless
man stereotype.
"Sir," Taylor continued, his tone whiny and annoying, "You cannot litter our
streets this way. This is a respectable town, and I will not have you littering
our streets this way. There are plenty of shelters in - - Sir?"
The man's bottle had tipped over so far that the alcohol was now overflowing,
spilling onto the bricks.
Rory felt for him. Even if he did continually spend any change he may beg off
of someone on booze, in a self-destructive cycle, over and over again. Even if
he was only drowning himself. We all make our mistakes. It doesn't mean we
deserve them.
This man meant something to her. He symbolized something she wanted to
remember.
She thought of her old fish. Drowning in alcohol, too. Floating upside down
in its little circular glass fishbowl. Golden and beautiful, still as death...
because it was dead. She had poured some of Mom's beer into its tiny tank,
thinking it might be thirsty for something other than water. She learned
something that day. Alcohol really does kill; really does solve nothing. On this
day that she stared at the homeless man, she hadn't touched it since.
Up until that day of death that Rory would feel guilty about for months, her
pet had always just been called the fish. She thought finally it deserved a real
name, if for nothing else at least the purpose of having something worthwhile to
put on its headstone. Really... everything deserved a name. Especially to be put
on a piece of cardboard marking its existence, in front of which flowers would
be placed for roughly five days, until the mourner became bored or found another
pet.
"Bob" she would name him, as her eyes focused in on her old friend bobbing
up and down in the water. It was a good fish, who now would have a good name.
Bob became one with this drunk old man on the street. Their alcoholic
stomachs collided, and became a single spirit that would learn its lesson in
time.
Bob, stupefied and on the ground, would become Rory's God. (At least for
now.) A man who kept near him what he desired most. Bob, someone who would give
up everything else for that little bit of happiness he could grasp. Bob, who
gave the best lesson (in this case through his "conversation" with Taylor)
without opening his mouth: just ignore what you don't want to see.
Oddly charmed, Rory cocked her head at the scene before her eyes. As Lorelai
stamped her feet in the background, seeming more a child than Rory herself,
Taylor stole the bottle of liquor from Bob's sedated hands, and kicked him a
little harder this time.
Rory frowned. An assault on Bob was an assault on her! She would protect her
demented role model. She looked down to her feet, and searched the ground for a
weapon. A few feet away, she found a small rock that wouldn't inflict much
damage - - but would startle someone, all right! She hurled it at Taylor.
Feeling the small slap of an object on his back, Taylor turned around to
confront the angry eight year-old with her hands on her hips. "Hmph!" Rory
voiced, proud of herself. She lifted her chin up higher. Taylor's eyes bulged,
realizing he was being attacked by this small but determined thing. He stepped
forward, but Rory had to work to keep the giggles down. He was no threat to her.
Obviously, with the way Taylor had handled the previous situation, merely asking
Bob to budge rather than getting his hands dirty and making him, he was a
softy, a pushover. Usually Rory was as well, but right now, so close to Bob...
she believed.
Taylor found his voice to speak. "Young lady..." Rory gave him her meanest
eyes. "...ouch."
"Leave him alone!" she commanded.
Raising a pointer finger in lecture stance, Taylor slowly stepped closer and
closer to Rory. She took off running. Her mental strength was gone. But Bob,
still on the fringes of sleep, he would make sure she got away.
"Leave him alone forever!" she yelled. She reached her stunned mother, and
grabbed her hand in mid-run. She dragged her along, leading her toward
someplace, anyplace that wasn't here.
As they got away, Rory turned her head back to yell in a voice that was shaky
with her running steps, "Catch me if you can!")
That was the story of Rory's leader that Lorelai revisited as the two stepped
into McDonald's that day, Lorelai ruing the day she let Rory learn to count. But
at least this counting of the steps thing sharpened Rory's math skills to a
finely chiseled point, one that would mock Lorelai by correcting her, many a
time.
A burger, that was what Rory wanted. A big, meaty, disgustingly greasy burger
that soaked right through the bun.
But... that was once living... She heard the dead cow's moo...
Lorelai sat down with her Big Mac, her slaughtered meat. Rory sat down across
from her, sipping her Root Beer and glaring at nothing in particular. Hungry she
was. Damn hungry. She was surprised as she formed that swear word in her head.
Her innocent little head. God, she really was hungry.
Lorelai's face held a wicked grin. "You can eat the skimpy lettuce off my
burger," she teased.
"I hate you," Rory mocked, her small voice a monotone.
"You're the one who wanted to save the world and its cows. Oops - - here
comes my mouth - - I'm going to kill this dead cow all over again. Grr..."
Hungry Little Rory uttered something like a sob. She couldn't take it. She
stabbed a fry with the plastic fork in her hand.
"I'm going to tell them that you're damaging the merchandise," Lorelai
promised, always loving to play. This woman had energy in her sweat, and resolve
in her bones.
Some people just never gave up.
But those people weren't Rory. Not that day. She whimpered and stuck out her
hand to accept change that had been weighing down Lorelai's pocket. Off she
trotted and back she came with a burger bigger than her own stomach. Her dietary
days were over.
In the present day, a tree was falling... Kirk was hollering like a drunk
Gilmore in a bowling alley. He raised his arms up over his head. "And it's down
for the count! WooHOOOO!"
"I am unmoved," Rory muttered, annoyed by how easily others could abstain
from caring. But no one was there to hear.
Kirk's tractor started digging up the roots of Rory's tree. Disemboweling it.
It was gruesome.
She couldn't breathe. She didn't know how to say goodbye. And yet she was.
Sometimes things happen whether we can take it or not. Bitterly she thought
this as it drew a parallel. The parallel rested within her flat tummy that had
yet to expand.
Reeking of death, Rory stepped back in through the back door of her house.
Facing the kitchen, she hugged herself still, alone and trembling. If she were
ten, right now she would be making a headstone for Terrance. Terrance the
Towering Tall Tree. Not with red stripes, nor purple polka dots, but cold, cold
grey. For this was no laughing matter. Laying a friend to rest.
She shivered.
Rory's day was just beginning.
It was on that morning, on the day after the day after, that Dean told
Lindsay the truth.
Still mourning every inch of bark on her deep-rooted friend, Rory stood
solemnly before the full-length mirror in her room, examining her upper body,
exploring it as if for the first time. Faded blue jeans hugged her legs,
clinging tightly, as if her body was some wonderful thing... she wondered if
they mirrored Dean at all.
Possibly. Just to close her eyes was to feel the touch of his hands on her
skin, snaking up the length of her legs, savoring the hike on the way to the
peak - - the body part beneath the "v" shape of her panties. She blushed, just
at the thought, her drumming heart awakening the blood of her veins, allowing it
to surge through to the surface and stain her face a deep pink. Such womanly
thoughts were these. Who was the girl whose mouth suddenly formed a weak smile
with lips shut to contain a gasp from the memory?
Lorelai knocked on the door, startling Rory and taking that smile away. "Rorrry?"
Lorelai purred.
"Me no comprende," Rory replied. "Thanks, come again."
"Maybe if you let me in, I'll explain the English language to you."
"Si?"
"My head is nodding."
"Sorry, Mom..." Rory started, ready to keep the dam up between them, before
her eyes bulged as the doorknob turned. "Don't come in, I'm naked!"
Lorelai paused. "This I've gotta see." Barging right in behind the door that
was open exactly two seconds later, Lorelai stopped short at the sight of her
daughter, scrambling for a shirt to cover the fact that her upper body was
covered only by a tight black sports bra.
"So..." Lorelai began awkwardly, "you're naked." Rory rolled her eyes and
shifted her weight to her right side. "What a great mother-daughter moment,"
Lorelai continued. When it looked like her daughter was ready to shoot her, she
cleared her throat. "Checking out the merchandise?" She indicated what was
obvious.
Eyes full of laughter, Rory said in a haughty way, "If you must know, yes."
"Ah." Lorelai understood. "Before your body becomes damaged goods?" Rory
looked on. "Before you grow a basketball where your stomach used to be, and your
thighs expand as if with built-in water wings, the stretch marks invade, and
your boobs sag down to your knees?"
Rory's lips moved, but nothing came out. She struggled to absorb that and
therefore form words. "...Is it really that bad?" she finally managed.
"Yes," Lorelai said without pause, her lips forming the Lorelai grin. Evil
she was.
"Hmm." Rory raised her eyebrows, all excitement stifled. "Well, thanks for
the heart-to-heart."
"It is what I'm good at," Lorelai replied, bowing her head gracefully
as her hand moved over her heart. She almost seemed genuine sometimes. Almost.
Rory began moving her right foot back and forth over the floor in front of
her. "So..."
"Right. So. Anyway. Um... I was thinking of cooking that bag of fries in the
freezer, so I thought, you call the fire department, and I'll turn on the oven."
"Can I put on a shirt first?" asked Rory, continuing to shield herself with
an afghan full of holes.
"Hmm..." Lorelai considered this. "How fast can you dial?"
"Faster than I can type."
Lorelai's face lit up, half in amazement and half in sarcasm. "Really? Faster
than sixty-two words per minute with no mistakes?"
"Do you forget nothing?"
"I'm sorry, what were we talking about?"
"Out," Rory ordered, her finger pointing at the open door.
Lorelai closed her smiling mouth in mock hurt. "Wow. Naked and mean.
Dean's a lucky guy."
"Mom!"
"All right, all right. I'm outtie."
"Lame."
"I know you are but what am I?"
Rory muffled any further banter by closing the door behind her mother as soon
as she had left the room. She sighed, and took her place again in front of the
mirror. Holes in her shield of afghan revealed large dots of pink skin. She
zeroed in on one particular patch, envisioning it growing and stretching. Her
body had always grown steadily and proportionately, never leaving any noticeable
stretch marks as evidence that a growth spurt had visited. Truthfully, she
didn't even know what a stretch mark would look like, especially on her own
body. A lot of women acquired them during pregnancy, this much she knew. She
gave up quickly the task of asking her mother about any derogatory marks on
her body when Lorelai's reply kept being, "My body is, has been, and always
will be more perfect than it would have been had I not been me." Rory shook her
head - - moving right along - - she grimaced when she imagined considering
stretch marks on herself as being downright ugly. Would Dean think they were
ugly?
Dean. At that thought, she was no longer standing in her room. Closing
her eyes, she shivered. Suddenly she saw herself under a spotlight, blackness
all around. The light shone brightly down on her, baked her in its heat till she
was hot, hot. Dean smirked as he stepped out of the shadows, as naked as
she. They stood matching in tight-fitted blue jeans. Rory's eyes found their way
to Dean's chest, so full of skin and ripples. She dropped her blanket.
Dean said nothing, but she heard him in her ear: "I want you." She swallowed
a lump of nothing, her dry throat causing her to cough. She couldn't be sexy
anymore. But, "You're always sexy," Dean said to her, again without forming
words. He was sexy, the way he could be so alluring as he just stood there, that
slight smile on his lips. His chest was just as she remembered it: hard muscle,
enclosed by taut, very tanned skin. Dean's skin was always that way, as if the
sun stopped on the way to its rise every morning just to give him a kiss that
made him glow the way he did. But there was something from within, too,
something that made his eyes sparkle, some inner happiness; some form of
sunniness inside. He was something else through her eyes. Something beautiful
couldn't touch.
So gracefully, he got down on his knees. Rory swallowed again as that smile
turned to her. That precious, winning smile that won her over from the first
time she saw it. His top row of even, white teeth glistened, calling her name.
Rory lowered her head so that her eyes were directly on him, past the glaring
spotlight, past her bra that really was so tight, it made her breasts seem to
fill out further.
Dean wet his lips with his tongue. He found the hole of one of the belt loops
on Rory's jeans, wrapping a finger around it. He held tightly to it, with his
whole hand, making a fist that promised he wouldn't let go. That was all right;
she didn't want him to. With his other hand, Dean loosely gripped Rory's ankle.
Confused, she looked on.
Looking deeply into her eyes, Dean took her confusion away as his hand began
to trace up her leg, past her calf, past her knee, then higher, and higher...
and higher, until it was as if her heart lost consciousness - - the beat of it
went as dead as everything else except this moment, this ecstasy. She threw her
head back, and she was falling... falling...
Out of the deafening abyss, there came a sound. Rap rap rap. Tap tap tap
tap.
Like the sudden jolt from a dream, Rory was snapped back into the present
time. From a darkened stage back to her room she zoomed, and so startlingly
quick, her eyes popped back open. Dazed, she watched as the lazy swirl before
her slowly developed, like a Polaroid picture. She found herself collapsed on
her floor, her leg still quivering from its journey. She didn't like it here,
away from her dream-like fantasy. She wanted to go back, she wanted to go back!
Because, who would want to stay here, in a heap, on the cold floor?
Disoriented and grouchy, Rory performed the necessary movements to push
herself up half-way and then sluggishly rise to a stand.
Again came the tapping, this time sounding more urgent. It was coming from
her window. Embarrassed all the way down to her toes that she had been seen like
this, Rory sharpened her motor skills in an instant, busying herself with
covering her upper half before she could face up to her gentleman caller, the
only one who ever tried to contact her in this way. Some people use doors. She
had previously introduced this notion to him, the love of her life, and had
gotten a line about how her mother had once said very much the same thing. Along
with that she got a "Huh," and a "Go figure." It was at that point that she had
given up, because really, she was only teasing. It was so romantic to see him
this way, at her own bedroom window, patiently (well, not on this day) waiting
for her to want to see him, too, and throw open the window. Not once had she
turned him away.
Carelessly, Rory reached into her closet and yanked out the nearest shirt
with so much hurried force that the pink-fuzzy-decorated hanger (Lorelai's idea)
lost balance, and fell to the floor. Rory neither noticed nor cared. She yanked
on the fitted blank tank top that accentuated the smallness of her torso, the
delicacy of her bones. She never stopped to notice things like this that her
lover could see from behind the thick glass of the window. In a rush, Rory
lifted the bottom half of it up, exposing the outside world. Where there was
Dean.
His face was white as chalk, his strong lips quivering. He didn't speak, and
Rory didn't know what to say. But she knew what to do. She looked longingly into
Dean's troubled face that was too young for such worries. A mirror of her own.
She pressed her lips together definitively, and shut the window, before flying
out of the house. Lorelai's cries of "Fire! Fire!" were ignored, taken as the
sarcastic silliness that they were. Rory thought of nothing else but Dean.
She caught up with Dean as he finished crossing her front lawn. His back was
to her, his hands in his pockets, the extra fabric of his t-shirt billowing in
the wind.
"Dean!" she cried. Come back, come back.
He heard her. Dean stalled his steps as they reached the street, exhaled and
turned around. Rory approached him carefully. His brown eyes flickered with
pain.
"I..." Rory faltered. "I wasn't turning you away, I just... my mom is in the
house and I thought I should talk to you where only you can hear me, I... Dean?"
Breathless, she waited for him to speak. Her life hung on his answer.
He parted his lips. "Okay."
Rory nodded uneasily. Then they were as still as porcelain miniatures.
Sitting on a shelf, both staring at nothing. It seemed so much time passed, so
very many seconds.
Dean tried to smile. It came out as such a weak gesture.
So tenderly, he took Rory's hand. Together they walked, without a word, to
Dean and Lindsay's house.
--
Rory had driven down this street many times just for the sake of passing by
something familiar. Everything in this town was familiar, but this street held a
building that held a person worth remembering. A memory of first love worth
revisiting. It was painful, and it was permanent, and it was gorgeous, and it
rocked her world. Now she stood in the middle of this street, facing Dean's
doorway, with him by her side. The quiet around them drew no thoughts from her,
whether it was a good or a bad thing. There were things that could have, and
probably should have been said. And there were things that would be said now,
but what order and what way they would come out, and what the result would be...
nobody could know. For now, the task was simply standing in the street,
side-by-side with the ally of her life.
"I've been meaning to re-paint the house." She didn't look at Dean as or
after he said these words. And she didn't need to question why his tone was so
strange.
"Oh." She continued to stare straight ahead. "What color?"
"Shades of green... I have them all picked out." Soft voice; soft man voice
that was Dean.
"Oh."
Silence stretched for a millisecond or two, and then Rory unclasped their
hands. It was time to let Dean go.
"I'm going in alone," he promised, "But I'd like it if you would be here.
After..."
After.
"There's a window on the side of the house over there. Where you can watch,
if you want to." Dean's voice faltered, but then found life again. "Maybe you
should. Maybe it's better if you see."
No more words spoken. Time for action now. Dean left the street, and left
Rory's side, on his way to his own front door. Did it still feel like his? she
wondered. Would it still after this? She took her own action - - she hurried to
the side of the house, hiding among the bushes as she peeked in the window, the
dirty glass separating her from this scene where perhaps it wasn't her place to
eavesdrop. But still, she would. Maybe it was wrong. Maybe it was bad. But after
entering the cycle she was now caught up in, maybe one more bad thing wouldn't
make a difference. Maybe it was all she could do anymore, and maybe that meant
it didn't matter.
So unsure of herself, Rory looked in the window, her eyes searching for
Lindsay. She could see a small dining table, and beyond that, the living room,
no wall separating between. Just linoleum turning to carpet. There was a small
couch, its back facing Rory, dark, dark blue with some small design peppering it
that she couldn't quite make out. It didn't look new, and she wasn't surprised.
Dean must have been composing himself before he opened the front door. When
he did, he seemed so unsure of what we wanted to do. The door swung open, and in
he stepped, and out he bailed, and in he stepped again. Tentatively, he planted
his feet on the carpet inside and closed the door behind him, sealing him in.
There was no stopping this now.
He opened his mouth and spoke. Rory couldn't hear anything, and took that as
a blessing.
Mere seconds later, Lindsay came storming into the living room from someplace
beyond Rory's sight. From some back room that she didn't care to see. Without a
second's pause, she raised her hand and slapped Dean right across the face! As a
reflex, his head turned to the side; immediately he righted himself, just in
time for another blow. There was now one pink splotch on his cheek due to two
separate slams. Rory meant to gasp, but it was swallowed before it came out, and
she merely looked on in silence, feeling just sick.
The window was dirty. The wind that kept enveloping the town on this day from
time to time had obviously spread some dirt from the yard onto the glass that
might have otherwise been meticulously cleaned. Rory didn't want it to be. She
didn't want the window to look perfect as she looked into a perfect household
that held the perfect wife. There had to be a reason to justify why Dean did
what he did, and there had to be something to give her mind peace after knowing
that what Dean did, she did, too. Though the window was dirty, she found no real
fault in Dean's wife as she stared at a Dean who looked so beaten down, so sad.
He seemed lonely standing there all by himself, up against the one who had done
no wrong. Rory felt she deserved one of the slaps he had so valiantly taken.
Dean's lips were moving periodically, but it was obvious that he wasn't
really trying to defend himself. Obviously Lindsay had known something from the
moment he walked in that door, for he hadn't uttered a word between the original
call he gave out and Lindsay's attack. But he was talking now, being interrupted
many a time by a hysterical wife. Her face was just as red as the splotch she
had created as she flailed her arms and just seemed to scream. She said
this, and she said that - - she yelled, from the looks of the effort, and Dean,
he just stood there and took it, seeming to offer a little bit of nothing to the
conversation from time to time.
Rory felt like an intruder, not only on this conversation, but on both of
their lives.
Suddenly Lindsay was crying; tears were streaking her face. She pushed at
Dean's chest ineffectually, sinking down into a crumbled ball on the floor,
looking all the same as a two year-old denied their current desire. Except this
was a real problem. Dean deserved to see these tears. He hadn't meant to hurt
her, but he had done it just the same.
Lindsay's shoulders and back heaved with her sobs. Her perfect blonde hair
spread across the carpet. Dean brought a hand to his mouth as though thinking
Rory's very same thought: What have I done? He appeared to sob himself;
his shoulders quivered. Rory pressed her lips together, and bowed her head. She
had seen enough.
Her body was numb as she left her hiding place, feeling as though she had
been playing the snitch to herself. Her limbs didn't want to coordinate as she
made her way out to the sidewalk. She didn't even have the presence of mind to
steer clear of the front of Dean's house. She just... stood there. Facing
nothing. Feeling everything all at once.
She didn't have to stand there long alone. The front door behind the lawn her
back was facing reluctantly shut, but the latch was a loud boom. A
gunshot wound to the traitorous hearts that now stood in battle. Before she
could recover, there was a presence beside her, and Dean gently grabbed her
elbow, and steered her away from the house. They only got as far as the other
side of the street before his already slow steps stalled and he began to speak.
His voice was so strange, as if somehow in there Lindsay had drained all the
life out of it. Maybe that was what he deserved.
"I waited until this morning to tell Lindsay..." he began, and then stopped.
Air escaped his mouth as if to signify frustration in not being able to find the
words to articulate what he needed to be saying. "And even then I wasn't ready.
"I wanted it to come out so right, but... God, I messed it up." He faltered
again.
Luckily, Rory's mouth was ready: "Fuck," she threw out. Then both she and
Dean blinked their eyes in shock. She had never uttered such a word before. It
just wasn't in her vocabulary from day one. It exploded out of her mouth before
the thought could form in her brain, before she could analyze it and proof-read
it, scan it till she was sure it made sense. And now her brain was seriously
confused. She had no idea what to do. "I - - I mean..." she stuttered,
"something else."
Brilliant.
"Okay, I need to sit down," she said, dropping to her knees and then taking a
seat on the grass in front of her. She was now on the lawn of some random
strangers directly across the street from where she didn't want to be seen.
There were too many things to think of at the moment. Basic necessities were
forgotten.
Dean sighed, and made his way to the curb where he surrendered, sitting on
the cement, his feet in the gutter.
Rory somehow managed to will her limbs to move as she desired; she came and
sat next to him.
In a moment of clarity, Rory raised her head and stared right in front of
her. "What if she looks out the window?"
"She won't," said Dean in his robot voice.
"What if she does?"
"Then we'll both die, on the spot." Dean was in no mood to talk. Nor to get
up and move.
Rory clasped her hands around her twin bent knees. She saw a scar she'd had
since childhood and wanted to point it out. Just to take the transfixed agony
and sprinkle powdered sugar on top. "You see that?" she asked, placing her
finger on the ugly mark that, thank Neosporin, had faded considerably since it
was first placed.
Dean's eyes flicked over to it and he grunted his response.
Rory told Dean that she suffered such a scarring from trying to ride a bike.
And suddenly she was remembering something that hadn't entered her mind for
years.
(Rory had fallen in a tumble to the ground. Lorelai had been so quick to
quip. "I can't wait till you start driving." Rory had rolled her eyes in an
attempt to keep the tears from falling.
"I'll have to hide the keys," said Lorelai. "But then they'd probably hide
from me, too. Metal little buggers. I am officially going to become one of those
annoying perky people who weigh their keys down with twenty-five keychains. I'll
win an award. 'Gaudiest Keys in Stars Hollow'. Though knowing this town, my
reward will probably be another keychain.
"I was in some kind of thrift store once," Lorelai had continued, as if this
was the opportune time to chat. About anything. "Looking at crap that nobody
wants, but they buy it, anyway. Because it's so tempting to show said crap to
other people, so you can say, 'Look how stupid this is. I was stupid enough to
buy it.'" Right, because that's something to brag about. "And thus, other
innocent people are infected with the knowledge that such an object exists.
"I was merely trying to entertain myself while you were resembling the
bookworm that you are way at the other end of the store. You see, you've always
been weird like that. I have no idea how you got that way. Other kids would ask
for pop star posters, but not you. No, you wanted Harvard handbooks. With no
fingerprints on the cover until your own fingers touched the surface. So
weird...
"Oh, oh, okay. I remember the point of this story. I'll say it fast before I
lose the memory, 'cause, you know, that could happen. So, I got to the keychains
section. And there was this keychain that was a small box, with Michael Jackson
on it. And when I pushed a button, it played 'Thriller'. ...Somewhere, someone
in the world is just dying to have been there... But I'm guessing that person's
not you, from the look on your face."
Rory was quick with her outburst, the only thing she wanted to be said: "You
said you wouldn't let go, and you did!"
Lorelai looked down at the bike sprawled across the pavement. "Yeah, well, I
didn't want to be a back seat driver."
"There is no back seat!"
"Oops, I overlooked that." Rory's eyes showed no mercy. "I promise that I'll
never, ever do that again."
"Your promises aren't any good," Rory fired. Very rarely had she ever been
this mad.
"Yeah, that's true."
"Swear you won't do it again," Rory said with such intensity, it was scary.
"Do what?"
"Mom!"
"I just wanted to be clear. Promises are a big commitment. I've got to be
able to size up my odds."
Ignoring her, Rory continued, "You won't let go. Swear."
"I swear on..."
Rory sat back, thinking. "Pop Tarts. Say that if you break this promise,
you'll never eat a Pop Tart again."
"Whoa. Nobody's capable of that kind of commitment." Lorelai gasped. "I can
feel the sugar degradation already." She clutched at her heart in an exaggerated
way. "What if I sneak one behind your back? Why am I telling you my secret deeds
yet to be done?")
"Did she swear?" Rory snapped out of her reverie at those words from Dean.
Quickly, she recovered.
"With a little bribery, yes."
"Did she let go again?" Dean pressed, curious with caution.
"Yes," Rory answered without pause, as was the Gilmore way.
"Does she eat the forbidden fruit to this day?"
"You know my mother."
"That I do."
Anxiously Rory cleared her throat, letting go of her clasped knees, taking
her eyes from the bike wound born so long ago. She was quite suddenly back in
the here-and-now, just where she didn't want to be. God, if only there were a
way to escape... But there was no escaping this. Not for any of them. Not for
the rest of their lives.
She didn't dare take a glance at Dean.
Silence became their partner, and it stretched as though it hadn't stretched
in years, as if it had been a faithful Yoga practicer who had quit some time ago
cold turkey.
"She already knew," Dean finally muttered, lifting his head from where it sat
hanging low near his bent knees. He stared forward, past his house, it seemed.
His eyes weren't focused anywhere. Rory knew because she looked. She just had to
look at him right now; it was so hard to keep forcing herself to look away. He
was where her eyes wanted to be.
"Lindsay," he clarified. "She already knew." More silence, and then, "She
told me my parents called her this morning, before I could get to her." It was
so hard for him to force these words out, and it was obvious that every syllable
he choked out caused him great pain. "I knew they were mad, but... They sold me
out. ...I knew I shouldn't have gone to them first. But I thought they would
understand - - well, not really, but I hoped they would try."
Rory made a mental note to stay clear of Dean's parents' house from now until
eternity was over.
Dean's words sank into mumbling as he looked down once again, focusing those
tortured eyes of his on his worn tennis shoes. "They were so disappointed in me,
Rory. That's all they could say. My mother looked at me, and... she said she
didn't recognize me. That she didn't know how, and she couldn't believe, that a
son of hers would do something like this. She started crying, and she snapped
that she wished I had never told her, that she had never known what a horrible
person I would turn out to be."
There were no words to say. "She was probably just in shock... she was
upset," Rory found.
"She was upset, but she still said it." Dean heaved a big sigh. "She said it,
and I'll remember it the rest of my life."
Rory's voice was so sad; it reflected so well the color of her insides. "I
wish I could have saved you from it... And from Lindsay..." She bit her lip,
hard, daring it to draw blood, and smear her face with her pain. "It was hard
watching you in there with her. ...I'm sorry you cried."
"I did not cry." Dean exhaled through his nose. "I don't cry, I'm not like
that."
Rory looked at him, and after a moment she looked away. She had seen the lone
tear slip from his cheek as he stood quivering in front of his wife. She had
watched it fall to the ground, the weight of its wetness drawing it downwards to
take passage with his soul that seemed to drain to his feet. She didn't call him
on it, but she knew. She knew now that she wasn't overreacting. She knew now
that in her grief she was not alone.
A stray food wrapper went tumbling by in the breeze. Seconds later, hurried
footsteps sounded from down the street. Panting from exhaustion, Kirk came
running, his hand outstretched as if reaching for something that just wouldn't
be caught. "Taylor's assigned me to litter duty this week!" he somehow managed
to get out, breathing hard, his shirt soaked with sweat, tiny beads at his
hairline, a few running in streaks down his reddened face.
And Rory remembered, Taylor bringing that problem up in the last town
meeting. Too much trash on these streets that should be at all times kept
squeaky clean. His tone was so menacing, nothing new, just something to be
commented upon: "You people should be ashamed of yourselves."
"Sorry," Kirk had muttered. The crowd had paid him no attention; he was as
insignificant to them as ever.
"I've got to get it!" yelled the Kirk running through the street. "Did you
see which way it went?"
Wordlessly and with hardly an upward glance, both Rory and Dean pointed to
their right, the direction the wind had blown. It picked up again and so Kirk,
without a stop to rest, continued on his desperate journey. He really was
committed to any job he undertook.
"If you see any litter, call me! I can pick it up and dispose of it in the
correct way!" yelled Kirk as he sprinted on. In and out came his harshly drawn
breaths. No answer came as he disappeared, both witnesses ignoring him as if he
were a part of the scenery. As was the story of his life.
Rory felt absolutely sick as she contemplated her next move. She didn't want
another minute to pass. She'd prefer it if time just stopped until she could get
it together enough to move on. But the seconds just kept ticking. She could tell
by the birds that just kept chirping.
Rory sighed. "Dean..." She touched his shoulder lightly. It was as if they
were afraid to exert any amount of force on one another's bodies. As if by doing
any more than tentatively resting fingers, they would create another disaster.
"I have to go in there."
Dean groaned. "What? Where?"
"I have to talk to Lindsay."
"No, no, Rory, you don't want to do that," Dean so quickly interjected.
"Lindsay is... lethal right now."
"I know. I saw."
Dean pressed his lips together so tightly they turned nearly white with the
strain. "Right. Well. Don't. Don't go, Rory. You can't."
"You know I don't want to... But Dean, I did this, too. I owe her something."
"There's nothing you can say, Rory, nothing you can do. What we did is out.
Pretty soon it will be all over town. Everyone's going to hate us, me especially
- - they'll be lenient on you, they adore you. But me... I'm gonna be ground
into the asphalt. Taylor's gonna throw all the collected litter on me."
"That's not true, Kirk will never collect any," Rory tried innocently. "Come
on, seriously, you've seen him run."
Dean sighed. "That's not the point."
"I'm going," announced Rory, getting to her feet and striding toward her
destination before she could really think about it and therefore stall. She had
no idea what she was doing, no idea what she could possibly say. All she knew
was that she owed it to Lindsay... and maybe to herself... to at least feel the
situation out on her own. She rightfully deserved one of those stinging slaps
Dean suffered. She rationed that not being ready for it didn't matter. There was
no rationing this. There was no rational thought. There was just the pacing of
her feet that with every step brought her closer to this house that she had
tried so hard to avoid for so many recent days.
"Rory, no!" Dean had sprung to his feet behind her. "Stop! Rory! Don't do
this!"
"Dean, I have to," Rory threw over her shoulder. And then... she was there. A
doorstep had never looked so grim, but upon it she stood. Suddenly tentative,
she looked over her shoulder again. "Dean, you don't have to stay. In fact...
maybe you should go."
He kicked a stray stone and sent it skittering a-mile-an-hour. "Rory..." His
shoulders slumped. "Please."
She swallowed over a sour lump in her throat. She looked at Dean, with that
pleading gleam in his eyes, and suddenly she lost her nerve.
"Okay." Rory gave in. "Some other time." She could see the relief on Dean's
face, though it seemed too difficult to smile. He began walking away, and she
trailed behind him, counting their steps as they hit a unison stride.
- -
to be continued...
