Irene Tries by Sarah Kendall
Irene Tries
It was only after Irene turned the knob, slipped off her tattered sneakers, and collapsed on the living room couch that she realized this was not her apartment. Past two in the morning, it took several seconds to notice the blue glow filling the room was not the TV, but a large fish tank. A stream of fluorescent sea life swished to one side, pausing for an eternity to study a stranger.
The weight of the day – four classes and the six to close shift at Wendy’s– cemented her in place. Edwin had poured rum and coke into an extra large to-go cup, pressing down all three dimples for Diet, Other, and Tea. The drink in her bloodstream slowed the panic at first, but it soon arrived, sharp and tingly on her neck. Irene peeled off the couch, grabbed her shoes, and left as quietly as she could.
Out in the hall she checked the apartment number and turned to the next door on the right. The key stuck in the lock and she pushed in hard with her foot, peeling off a half-moon of mustard yellow paint. She fell back into place. Someone had left the kitchen light on, and the switch left her fingers sticky. The people upstairs clomped; Jordan’s novelty shot glasses clanked against the bottles above the fridge. Irene pulled out a container of leftover lo mein and sucked on the greasy noodles. She reached for her drink. But she’d left it. She’d left it in the other apartment. On the floor next to the smooth pleather sofa leaned her gnawed plastic straw and Wendy’s cup half-full of melted ice, coke, and cheap rum.
She entered the apartment again with the knowledge of trespassing. The place, identical to hers in so many ways, offered up a different world. Nothing blemished the creamy beige walls or the speckled carpet. No nail-hole pock marks, no food stains on the furniture. A single pair of blue jeans hung over a tower of boxes in the dining area. Shiny black appliances lined the kitchen counters, and a single white dish leaned in the drain board. Irene ran a finger over a gold horse sculpture, still swaddled in bubble wrap. A pink purse had been tossed on the carpet next to a pair of green leopard print high heels. She picked up her drink and gulped the last few swallows. She slipped on the shoes. Just like her apartment next door, the narrow hallway off the kitchenette led to two bedrooms. Who slept behind those doors? Did this woman live alone? Did she use that bread machine in the corner, or was it just for show? Why had she moved here in the first place?
Irene hadn’t intended to steal the shoes. She’d never stolen anything in her entire life, not even a glance. An obedient child and an apprehensive adult, she never considered theft an option. But the unopened boxes, the wild heels of an Amazon goddess, and the blue aquatic glow seduced her. She had to take something with her. She had to remember this.
When she crept into her bedroom, she considered Jordan, his long legs spread diagonally across the bed. He’d stuck a yellow Post-It note next to the piece of gray green glass. She picked it up and placed it in the jar by the window. Sliding the high heels off, she nudged them under the bed. Jordan turned to her, stretching his arms wide then scratching his goatee.
“Jamie got home late. He didn’t say a word to me – just went to the spare room and shut the door.”
Her brother had been staying with them for the past three weeks. A temporary stay – that’s what she told Jordan. But she liked him there, even if they rarely saw each other. She hoped he would at least stay until Christmas.
“He probably just had a bad day at school. High school is always crappy.”
She crawled into bed, and Jordan made room for her. With no curtains on the windows, the streetlights cast bars on the wall opposite the bed.
Irene’s mind slipped back into the neighbor’s kitchen. She asked Jordan if he’d ever made bread before.
“Did you see the earth glass?” he asked.
She kissed his shoulder and looked at the jar again. Two months ago Irene had started picking up what she called earth glass. She found the first piece in the Wendy’s parking lot by the dumpster. A shard from a beer bottle had been worn down so smooth it reminded her of sea glass. She brought it home because she couldn’t stand Jordan’s collections anymore: bottle caps, Orioles junk, American flag hats, found playing cards, pool cues, ticket stubs. But having her own collection didn’t make her feel better. It simply added to the mess.
Irene woke up alone in the apartment. She showered and drank the rest of Jordan’s coffee left in an Orioles mug on the counter. She wanted to wear the leopard shoes, but knew she wouldn’t.
When she got to work she told Regina what had happened last night. Regina shoveled a scoop of fries into a purple carton.
“You need to get out more.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
Irene chewed on her plastic straw and sucked lemonade through the narrow channel. Regina worked the drive-thru today, and Irene wondered who could hear her through the mouthpiece hovering above her plump lips.
“Do you and Jordan ever do anything?”
“We’re both really busy,” she lied.
Routine plagued them like an outbreak of rare, foreign mites. No matter how hard they worked to kill it, somehow it surfaced out of the woodwork. She could see herself as an eighty year-old woman, with fluffy gray hair and puckering skin, everything just the same.
“I’m taking my fifteen,” she told Regina.
She clocked out in the break room and looked inside Edwin’s locker: a foil pack of Pop Tarts and his duffle bag. She found the bottle of rum from last night and poured a generous amount into her cup. Edwin wouldn’t mind. It was only mid morning and the smell made her gag. She’d only eaten burnt fries and six green hamburger pickles. Pinching her nose, she forced the liquid down.
She felt sick and told Regina she needed to take the next bus home. On the walk from the bus stop to her building, she ran her fingers along the cars she passed, pulling each handle just to see. One alarm screamed to an empty street. When she opened the door to her apartment, she found Jamie on the couch on top of a girl. His elbow bent at an odd angle, his hand explored the denim cavern of her jeans.
“Jesus,” she exhaled, not loudly.
The girl shrieked and swatted at Jamie’s glossy fingers. He didn’t apologize, just leaned back and fell against the flowered cushions. The girl buttoned her pants and stormed past Irene.
“What about school?” she asked.
“It’ll be there tomorrow,” he said, turning on the TV.
She wondered if he’d ditched school or if he’d been asked to leave. They hadn’t had a day together in a long time, not since they both lived at home. They’d been a team for years, her and Jamie versus the world.
“Do you wanna carve pumpkins? They’re two for one at Giant.”
“No, thanks, I’m about to meet up with some people.”
Sure, Irene thought, that’s just what you were planning on doing. Alone would be better anyway. She spent the rest of the afternoon on a tear, clearing off shelves and filling up garbage bags. She pitched every shot glass and 8-ball and flimsy Jack of spades. Splintering several cue sticks in half, she tucked them into their bed. Jordan would be angry, but maybe she wanted that.
Around dinnertime, she poked her head into the hall and reached for the neighbor’s doorknob. Locked. The woman would have noticed the shoes by now. She could sneak them back inside. Or maybe she could keep them as her own forever.
“Let’s go to The Warf,” she told Regina.
On the other end of the phone she heard a TV audience clapping and cheering as if for her.
“I knew you’d come around. Jordan coming, too?”
“Just us.”
Irene wore tight black pants, a top that crisscrossed like shoelaces in back, and the leopard print heals. She rode the 37 bus through the city and pulled the chord at Light Street. They hadn’t met up at The Warf or any other bar in downtown Baltimore for months. Irene had used Jordan as an excuse for a while, and then Regina stopped asking altogether. Regina chose two seats in the middle of the bar, what she called prime real estate. They ordered beers, and Regina told her about last night when she took Edwin home.
“Did you guys…” Irene pressed her hands together at the fingertips. She didn’t like talking about sex, not even to Regina, but this seemed a necessary question.
“He tried, but we were both pretty drunk. We just fooled around.” She knocked her red platforms against Irene’s heels. “I guess we both did some crazy stuff last night.”
They drank more and brought their bottles out on the dance floor. Men stood at the periphery and looked in, scoping and plotting. Music pulsed. Regina draped her arms around a man wearing suspenders and a tight white t-shirt. A petite blonde Irene swore she’d seen trudging down her street in a Gilman high school uniform, spilled her drink. A splash landed on Irene’s shoes. She had this coming. The cranberry juice left a stain on the left toe. At the end of the night, the white t-shirt man dropped Irene back off at her apartment before peeling back onto the road with Regina.
Standing in the vestibule of her building, slightly woozy and damp with sweat, she remembered the trash bags in the living room. She leaned against the row of mailboxes and closed her eyes. A door opened on the second floor. Someone whistled low and loud.
“You looking for someone?”
“I live here, thanks,” she said.
He took three heavy steps down the stairs, licking his lips.
“I’ve never seen you before. Sure you’re not lost?”
She needed to pass him and walk down the stairs. His body looked like a barrel, round and cumbersome. She wanted Jordan. She wanted to rewind.
“Good night,” she said, and tried to move past him. He shifted to one side, blocking her.
“Why don’t you come upstairs for a drink?”
She laughed and smiled like this didn’t bother her. He slid his hand over her elbow and she wrenched it away, throwing a quick punch to his face. He huffed, like he’d been bitten by a mosquito, and let her gain half a yard. The door handle to her apartment wouldn’t turn under her palm. She pounded her fists against the muddy yellow paint. She screamed for Jordan, for Jamie, for help. She turned to the neighbor’s door and knocked hard until she felt the man’s hand on her neck. The door beside her opened and Jordan stepped out.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
He yelled at both of them. Jordan hadn’t changed from work, and his shirt was smeared with construction grime. Irene felt grateful he’d opened the door at all, considering what she’d done.
The man called her a tease and a slut. He felt around his eye with a fat finger as he strode up the stairs. Jordan hadn’t yet touched her. Inside their apartment, he took a seat beside her on the couch and looked at the pile of trash bags, a mountain of their past.
“I just needed something to change,” she said.
“This wasn’t yours to change. It’s my stuff. I don’t just throw out your shit.”
She could feel something welling up inside her. She wanted to pass through the wall and rest her face against the clean, smooth pleather and fall back into the blue of the room.
“I can’t explain it.”
“Try,” he said.
Someone knocked at the door.
“I swear to God, if that asshole’s here to pick a fight.”
Jordan opened the door a crack. Irene only heard his answers.
“Yes, everything’s fine, thanks,” and “Nice to meet you – I’m Jordan. Sorry to scare you. Have a good night.”
“Did you know someone moved in next door?” he asked.
“I’m really sorry. I’ll fix what I can, I promise,” Irene said. She chewed on her thumb skin and tried resting her cheek against the couch cushion, warm and coarse.
“Jamie’s still not home,” he said. “But I left some dinner for him in the fridge.”
Jordan looked her over. He didn’t ask where she’d been. For a time they just watched each other in silence. Following him to bed, she swept the broken pool sticks to the floor. She would have to kiss him first. He bent her across the bed. That night the sex felt thrilling and important. He put his mouth to her ear and whispered hard truths. She closed her eyes, spreading her legs wide. She kept her high heels on.
* * *
SARAH KENDALL, a graduate student in the Master of Arts in Writing program at Johns Hopkins University, lives in Baltimore, MD. Her fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Halfway Down the Stairs, Ink-Filled Page, Barely South Review, and Bluestem.
She wears red shoes exclusively and has never stolen anything leopard print.
Preferring her coffee cold and her eggs piping hot, her ideal world would revolve around stories and breakfast foods.