ࡱ> HJG M<bjbjVV 4D<<M4 9!  #%J   R  r@T@ zD  !09! & &@ &@  9! & : SAVE THE LETTUCE by Natalie Sypolt West Virginia Fiction Competition, Second-Place Prize We saw the sky getting dark and Chris went out to cover the lettuce. He wanted the vegetables safe and unbruised. Tarps and buckets were collected in the out building for just such an occasion. He waited for a storm to come on so he could save the lettuce. Id learned not to ask if he wanted help. If I offered, he thought it was because I figured he couldnt do it himself. It wasnt like thator maybe it wasbut it didnt matter. I didnt care anymore. When he went out to cover his lettuce, I watched from the kitchen window. When I was ten and visiting my aunt in Illinois, we had a storm, what the news people said was a derecho. It was like a wall of hella horizontal tornado some said, but it rolled on more like a hurricane. It lasted a long time, and I was crying before it was over. When we looked at the sky, the layers of dark heavy clouds looked just like I always thought Armageddon would look. I was sure it was the end of the world. But then finally it cleared, and people picked up, cleaned up, moved on. The rain started falling, fast and hard. I saw Chris stoop, but he didnt want to sacrifice the tender lettuce. Then the hail came. The pellets began hitting the roof of the porch, tinny and loud. Chris tried to cover himself by holding his right non-arm up over his head, but still he didnt quit because now it was even more important to save the lettuce. Some wives would run out, grab an umbrella or a pot or something, but I stood and watched, wondering just how long it would take him to give up. Before the storm came, Id been grating carrots for a salad. We ate a lot of salad since Chris was now a vegetarian. This had irritated me from the beginning, not because I care about the food, but because it seemed so predictable. That was just like something that would happen in a movie, and thats what this feels like sometimes. Its not our real life but some melodramatic, made-for-TV movie. Boy goes off to war, sees unspeakable, loses left arm in IED explosion, cant stomach the blood and the flesh of meat anymore. I couldnt name any movie where that happens, but Im sure it has. Its not that I think Chris is faking, or that I dont have any compassion either. I was nothing but compassion, a giant pudding ball of compassion, until I couldnt be anymore. Today when I was grating the carrots with the sharp grater, the stainless steel one Chris mom gave us as a wedding present, I heard a car coming up the drive. Really, it wasnt in our drive, just going slow up the bumpy dirt road, but as I jumped to look, I slipped. The carrot nub flipped out of my hand, and my knuckles went down hard and fast across those sharp little teeth. It took a minute to sink in, you know, the way it does when you hurt yourself in some stupid way and you cant look down for the fear of what youll see. Pictures flashed in my head of shredded skin, white knuckle bone shining through blood and gore. I grabbed a dishtowel and pressed it to my knuckles, but when I looked down I saw that a few tiny drops of blood had dripped into the salad bowl. The red was bold and hot against the orange of the carrots, and I knew that I should throw it all out. But the big wooden bowl was full of tomatoes, lettuce, cucumbers, and peppers. Throwing it away would just be so wasteful. This is how I told it to myself. And when I came back downstairs after washing my hand and putting band-aids around my knuckles, I mixed the carrot shreds up good so the bloody spots were gone. Thats what I did, and Im not sorry. Later, Ill watch Chris eat it, and I still wont be sorry. Son of a bitch that came on fast, Chris says when he comes banging in the door, soaking wet and dripping all over the kitchen floor. I think I got it in time. I hope I did. Im sure you did, I say, but I knew I didnt have much in my voice to convince him. He didnt really notice, so I didnt try too hard. I dont remember the weather man saying it was going to rain today, do you? Is it still hailing? You know what they say about hail. Chris looked out the window, though we could still hear the ice bouncing off the porch roof. They say hail is sometimes a sign a tornado is coming, but I didnt know if that was what Chris meant. He could mean anything. Youre dripping, I say. You shouldnt track that mud upstairs. Just strip your clothes off here then go put on something dry. His face went a little funny because he didnt like the idea. Come on Chris. Its a mess. Fine, he says. I crossed my arms and watched as he pushed off his boots, then one handed undid his buckle, button, and zipper, sloughing his wet jeans off like a snake losing his skin. His boxers were wet through too, but I decided not to push. I wondered if hed leave the non-arm on as he tried to get his wet t-shirt off, or if hed release the contraption which I hate. I saw that he was also wondering which would be best. He didnt like for anyone to see his scars, not even me, and it wasnt because of vanity. Chris was a good looking man, always had been, but didnt try too hard. No hair gel or fancy clothes. He wore the same brand of drug store cologne that his mother bought him when he started shaving, even through the army, even still. I thought he was afraid the scars and the stump and machine like parts of the non-arm made him look weaker, and thats something he didnt want. He already felt weak, even after all the months in physical therapy, even though his good arm was stronger than most two put together. Some men got to hide their damage, but Chris had to wear his, artificial flesh toned and veiny, every day. But then there was damage inside too, in all the soft spots, and that was what was too big for me. * * * It took a little while, but now Chris can dress and undress himself, take care of all his bathroom things. He can do garden work and some of the farm work for his daddy, like drive the tractor. Use the arm, the therapists told him. Its not like the old prosthetics. These new pieces are incredible. At first, they wanted to give him a hi-tech, robot-like one that could grasp cups. It was an experimental model, and they tried to tell me how it workedsomething about nerves being re-routed, something about muscles in the chest learning to twitch in a way that would make the fingers move. I didnt understand. When they showed me, I couldnt stop staring at the icy silver of it. Chris would be able to hold your hand, one therapist said. She was a young girl with bright eyes, a long curled ponytail, intricately applied make-up. She wasnt that much younger than we, but she seemed like it. She seemed like a kid. To her, the idea of Chris being able to hold my hand again probably sounded sweet, romantic. I touched the robot hand and tried to imagine the cool fingers beginning to tighten. I thought I felt a twitch, though impossible, and jerked away. What good is this doing? Chris asked the girl. Ill never be able to feel her hand. Why would I ever do this in real life? My cheeks went red then, imagining real life and what he might do with his bionic arm. Images flashed in my head of our bedroom, of Chris saying, Look how my chest muscles make my fingers close, look how I can make them move on you. I felt a sick quake in my stomach and had to get up. I was outside the door so quick and slid down the wall to rest on the hard floor. The pretty girl couldnt understand. She met men like Chris and wives like me every day, but then she went home to her own boyfriend who still had everything he was supposed to have. Some farm boy who still had his twinkle, who held her and undressed her and touched her with two warm hands. Thats the last time shes in here, I heard Chris say to the girl. Thats it. * * * Chris has a different sort of arm now. This one still fastens around his body with thick straps but was still incredible, though not quite as incredible as the robotic one. Chris thought that one scared me, that I was embarrassed. He told the therapist it just didnt feel right, that maybe he wasnt strong enough for that one yet. So instead he got one that looked more like the real thing from the elbow down, the hand always slightly bent, ready for gripping. The doctors told him that the technology was improving, especially now with such a demand. Chris told me that he was on a list to get a better arm permanently. I read about it on the internetthe Luke they call it after Luke Skywalkers bionic arm in the Star Wars movies. I dont know if I believe him. * * * I watched Chris struggle, trying to get the wet t-shirt up and over his non-arm. Normally, he could do it, but the shirt was wet and stuck tight to his skin. Okay, Jenny, he says finally. Help me. I peeled from the bottom, gently, first over his good arm so he could help, then over the non-arm. I was close enough to him now that I could see the little welts on his shoulders and on his forehead, where the hail had hit him. Thats when I remembered to listen, and heard that the storm has stopped. Just rain now, I said, and realized that I was holding the shirt still above his head and that our chests were touching. On my tiptoes I could just reach his lips because he is tall and I am not. Im surprised that I kiss him because I didnt think I would. My hand touched his hair, long now, grown out, so that I could grab it, wrap my hand up in it like he used to his in mine. Jen, he said around my lips, but I kept my hand in his hair, and kissed him so hard that I tasted blood in my mouth. I didnt know if it were his or mine. If he would take off the arm, I would lick his scars. When he was awake, he wouldnt let me touch them or look at them, but sometimes when he was asleep, I kneeled on the floor beside the bed and ran my finger around each purple crevice, each indention. I cupped the missing piece. Id remember what was there, but rejoice in what was here, and if hed let me, Id tell him this. The non-arm is fake and ugly, but Chris is real and beautiful, the old one and the new one; he just wont believe it. The pills make him sleep deeply and I was glad, because if he woke to find me there, he would howl. He would push me and my kisses, my touch, away like he always did now. He wouldnt let me tell him. I pulled his hair, forced his head back and kissed his throat. Whats gotten in to you? he said. He tried to move away, to laugh me off, but I didnt want to let him go. How would the movie go? If we were living out this thing, this drama, would he push me away now, again, or would this be the climax where Chris finally let me unstrap his non-arm and lie down on the cold kitchen tiles? Would he cry? Just when I was ready, would the hail start again, or the lightening and the thunder? Before, I had loved those nights when the air would be thick with electricity. The thunder would roll around the house in waves, and the lightning show Chris to me in flashes as it lit up the bedroom. Then, when it was over, there would be the slow, soft rain. Wed lie there together, so close. I knew everything then. There was no phantom pain. * * * With his good hand, Chris patted my shoulder. Isnt it about time for dinner? he asked. Ill go get some dry clothes on. Okay? He used his hand to disentangle mine from his hair. He didnt want to hurt me. He just wanted to go. Okay, I said. Scene over. I watched Chris gather his wet clothes from the floor. I thought that I should get the mop and take care of the puddles, but I didnt. Instead I got the vegetarian lasagna from the oven, the salad from the refrigerator. The storm had somehow circled around us, and when we sat down to eat, the rain was loud again; when the thunder came, I could feel it in my whole body; the house shuddered. Here it comes again, Chris said. He was wearing a blue t-shirt now, one from high school with the school mascota wildcaton the front. His hair was in his eyes. He looked so young, so much younger than I felt. How unfair that he could look like that and I had to feel like this. His non-arm was resting on the table. He was waiting for me to serve him. This looks good, he said as I cut the lasagna and scooped it into his plate. I was not a good cook, especially when it came to dishes where delicate vegetables were expected to pull together and make something hearty. The food looked like layers of pasty skin covered in cheese. I already knew that after Chris went to sleep tonight, I would sneak out of the house and drive the 45 minutes to Morgantown to get a greasy fast food cheeseburger. Maybe two. Have some salad first. I used the plastic tongs to fill his bowl to the top. At least I can make salad, I said. I gave myself some too. I speared some salad with my fork but didnt put it into my mouth until I watched Chris take a mouthful, mostly lettuce, accented by vivid streaks of orange. He chewed and when he saw me watching, he smiled again. 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