The Lines You Cross
I was in my twenties, wandering through downtown Philly in a tight skirt and tall boots. I had a baggie in my sock. The guy at the door didn’t check my purse after all. Just glanced at my ID and waved me inside.
Halloween was still dying down. I pushed my way past a couple of zombie cheerleaders and a priest. You say I smiled at you. I remember trying to get the bartender’s attention. Yelling above the music. Then you were there, by my side. You asked me what I was drinking and reached behind the bar. You grabbed a lager for yourself too and clinked your bottle’s neck against mine.
That December you invited me to come home with you for the holidays. You laughed when I said I would. You laughed because I would drive thirteen hours into a Maine winter with a guy I had just met. We drove up the coast and into the woods on Mount Desert Island. Your home was an octagonal barn house with chickens and a wood-burning sauna. Your father built it all from recycled materials. When you told me that, I knew you would always want to go back there.
Your parents were real people. They liked me but they wanted to talk about other things, hear how you were doing. There were pictures of them around the house and some of you as a child. They were long haired, your dad like the cool guy in a ’70s film. Like white people I had seen in documentaries about Woodstock, but sturdier. My parents never would have gone to Woodstock, I told you. Who cares, you said. That shit was overrated. You said this winter was much milder than usual. I got off easy. I’d have to come back.
On New Year’s Eve we stood around in flannel shirts and sipped bourbon. Your dad pulled me aside to confess that his parents never could have met me. That they were from a different time and place. You wanted to die, but I didn’t mind. They were from the Ozarks, your mom said. Missouri. She pronounced it Missoura.
The next day your dad played one of my favorite songs on the record player by the firepit. A soul singer with a string band. Your dad said, they’re Black—if you can believe it. I laughed and said that I could.
When we returned in the summers you took me on hiking trails through the national park. I swatted at black flies and ate berries that you and your mother pointed to on bushes. We swam in lakes and made out in your childhood bed.
One night after dinner you walked out into the driveway. You are an only child and you needed a break from your parents staring at you. I followed you and we left the front door unlocked. No need to lock it, you said. We breathed the silence of the night back and forth to each other.
I was reminded of one of my dad’s favorite stories—about the years he lived in East New York, or somewhere far out in Brooklyn, and he had only his leather jacket to shield him from the cutting winter wind. He had to make his way from the subway to some godforsaken apartment where his father was staying, and it was so dark, he says, that when he held out his arm, he couldn’t see his own hand in front of him.
I did that too, on our walk. Stretched my own handless arm through the dark. See? I asked you. I didn’t have to tell you my dad’s story; you’d heard it before.
It was such a good scene, your woods. You were taller out there, more sure. You wanted to offer me this: a going home, a coming back, a life rooted in taking our time. I wanted it to be enough. But I was nervous, flinching at every rustle in the brush.
I rolled my neck around in your mother’s coat. Dragged my boot through a blanket of damp pine needles. I was craving another drink—something to take the edge off that quiet.
Back in Philly, I applied to law schools and gave up. I moved into an apartment I couldn’t afford. I got roommates and became a social worker. You continued to DJ and fix bicycles. I was almost thirty, so I started planning our life. You told me to slow down. I moved on. Back to New York.
You emailed about your father dying. I imagined visitors arriving at the barn house, the front door open. The chickens were gone and you were using the old coop to store tools. You wanted to visit, but I had just met a writer who lived in Harlem. You met someone else and tried living in Chicago. She was an ex-bike messenger, like you.
Whenever I had guys over, they said your playlist was impressive. They wondered where I had heard all that weird electronic stuff. You still texted to tell me about new music. You would say, they’re Black if you can believe it.
When I turned thirty-five, I wrote back to say that I was freaking out. Nothing was going as planned. What was the plan, you asked. You invited me back to the barn house. I balked at the drive. You reminded me that I could fly to the Island—it was out there, but not really.
You made whipped cream from scratch and sautéed scallops in butter. We took ferries and rode bicycles and smoked pot in a canoe. On warmer nights we slept outside. We filled the dark with the sound of our bodies. You told me to stay. I said I had to get back. To what, you asked. You kissed my forehead and told me I could never decide. That wasn’t the way I remembered it.
Ariele Le Grand (@arieleelise) recently received her MFA at Temple University, where she also taught fiction and first year writing. She lives in Maine with her partner and their tree climbing dog.