Sunday Story: Brig*id

by Kevin Rush

The man pushed through the double doors onto the landing above the atrium and immediately felt his head and shoulders lift. Off was the weight of another day of corporate servitude. The fresher-by-comparison air of the three-tiered court filled his lungs, and the fading light of another expiring day beckoned from the exit doors below. Eight hours of squinting at code had taken a toll, he conceded, as he blinked to adjust to the soft twilight of early October. In a week—or was it two?—they’d turn the clocks back, and his six o’clock exit would be met by pitch darkness. Sunlight would be a weekend luxury until Spring.

At the first landing, he heard the elevator doors jar open and, flicking his eyes rightward, thought he saw the brunette. If he timed his descent, he could intercept her on the atrium floor. Perhaps hold the door for her, exchange pleasantries, and have her vanish again for weeks on end. Weeks he would fill with scenarios in which he actually spoke to her and she to him. He tried to recall some of the banter he’d drafted, all of which was probably absurd. Anyway, it wouldn’t matter if he didn’t meet her, casually, on the floor, and he couldn’t decide whether to speed up or slow down to make that happen. And anyway, again, she’d probably have a colleague with her, engaged in conversation, and either not notice him or worse, act politely dismissive. And, finally anyway, that might not even have been her on the elevator.

His foot hit the tile surface as the elevator doors rolled open. He dared not look, but maintained his moderate, deliberate stride towards the door. From the corner of his eye, he determined it was she, his brunette, and that she was alone. He made a quick estimate of their relative paces and determined he’d be two steps ahead of her at the door. Perfect. He shifted his tote bag to his left hand, freeing his right to open the door. He pulled the door inward and stepped aside for her to pass.

Say something or not? Her brown eyes met his and warmed at his gesture. Would speaking spoil the moment? Should he just leave it alone, a cornerstone to build on?

“Apres vous,” he said stupidly.

Her mouth curled into an involuntary smile. “Uh, mer-cee, Monsieur?”

“Je vous en prie.”

He stepped behind then quickly around her to grab the outer door, holding that open for her, then joining her on the concrete portico.

“Well, that’s impressive,” she smiled. “Uncommon gallantry for Union County, New Jersey. But, what if I’d said ‘muchas gracias’?”

He shrugged and babbled, “Yo te respondería, ‘De nada,’ y probablemente comentaría en tus ojos o tu sonrisa.”

Her jaw descended just enough to fit her tongue into her cheek. “So, you’re a man of the world?”

“Via the Internet.”

“Well, you get a break from the computer now.” She looked at him uncertainly before nudging, “Friday, time to cut loose!”

“Ay, si, si. With the Salsa and the Meringue!” It had been ages, but he executed a few quick Salsa moves. He might have gyrated like a complete dork, but at least he wasn’t standing stiffly like a complete dork. She laughed, whether with him or at him was unclear.

“Well, that’s a start,” she said. “And not half bad.”

“A couple of lessons,” he admitted. “Ancient history.”

They step down the concrete steps onto the asphalt of the parking lot.

“You should try that with a partner,” she suggested.

Which would have been the time to close the deal. And he was ready to, but his eye caught his car, stark and white among the black and silver vehicles, and he saw the green sweater, and knew she was there. He nodded in that direction, signaling the brunette that he had to go, and that she shouldn’t follow.

“That’s mine over there,” he said, apologetically.

“Okay. Well.” She turned a shoulder in the opposite direction, then held. “You ever go to Fusion? For the Latin dancing?” she asked.

He stared coldly at his car, the green sweater, the plaid skirt, the head of caramel blonde hair.

“Used to. Kind of, I don’t know, I kind of fell out of it.”

“Well, tonight. You could fall back in.”

He pulled himself back to the brunette. “I’ll keep it in mind. Thanks.”

She headed out, and he marched towards his car, directly to the driver’s door that he clicked open. He addressed the girl over the roof.

“Brigid. We discussed this, didn’t we?”

“I need a ride home.”

“From my office?”

She pouted. He hated that pout. “You’re not going to make me walk, are you?”

He drove through the suburban streets. The setting sun added flame to the changing leaves. Trees burned without being consumed. He burned, as Brigid went on an inane rant.

“And my teacher is so lame. He thinks Roosevelt solved the Depression when everyone knows…”

“His policies only made it worse.”

“Yeah. When he was inaugurated for his second term in 1937, the Depression was worse than it had been in 1932. Five years of worsening depression, you’d think a smart man would have changed his approach.”

The man huffed. “I feel like we’ve had this discussion before.” He jerked the car right, towards an open stretch of curb.

“Here?” she whined.

“Have a good night.”

“It’s like three blocks.”

He gripped the steering wheel in tight fists. “I’m not driving up to your parents’ house.”

“Why?” she asked, suddenly earnest. “They don’t blame you. Me. It’s my fault. Keep saying they taught me better. Maybe they blame themselves.”

He shook his head. “Whatever. This is as far as I go.”

She pleaded, as she always pleaded. “Look. What happened with us happened.”

“Brigid,” he said firmly, “I really need you to get out of the car right now.”

He stared down the opposite side of the street. A woman walking her dog. Would she recognize him? Would she tell the neighborhood watch? He heard the oddly distant sound of the car door popping open and slamming shut. He jerked the wheel left and pulled away from the curb.

Back in his apartment, the man poured a generous tumbler of bourbon onto rocks and carried the drink to the living room. Sitting on the couch, he picked up the TV remote and aimed it at the screen. Then he picked up his home laptop, opened it and waited for the screen to light up. He sipped his drink and typed in his password. Then the doorbell rang. It was she.

“Are you going to help me?” Brigid asked, then just pushed past him, brushing him with a huge backpack crammed with textbooks. She made a beeline for the dining room table. “You said you’d help me with trigonometry.”

“I don’t remember trigonometry.”

“You said — ‘I’m a Math guy, whatever you need.’ Well, I need trig.”

“I know what I said,” he answered. “I wanted to sleep; I would have said anything. But I don’t remember trig.”

“Selfish bastard.”

He closed his computer and clicked off the TV. “Y’now, I’m not doing this.”

“You have to.”

“No.”

He strode to his bedroom, and Brigid followed. He slid open the door to his closet and fished for a fresh shirt. He found a rayon print, palm trees and sand against a dark blue sky.

“I know what I did. What I took from you.”

“That’s an interesting way to put it.”

“I didn’t want it to happen, but it did.” He changed his shirt quickly, his back to her. “And it’s over. And dealing with your craziness; that’s over, too.” He slipped off his sneakers and donned some loafers he could dance in. He didn’t look at Brigid as he marched to the door. “When I get back, I want you gone.”

He vaguely remembered where Fusion was, but after cruising up and down Route 3, he broke down and consulted Siri. The mechanical voice told him to make a U-turn and proceed a quarter of a mile. Of course, he now saw familiar signs and storefronts his eyes had been blind to. You’d think he’d know better than to drive in a rage, and Siri’s voice gave him gentle reassurance. She told him to make a right turn, and he saw the nightclub’s façade.

In the backroom, the Salsa lesson had already begun. He took his place at the end of the leaders’ line, surreptitiously scanning the line of women, his heart pounding slightly at the prospect of her being there. As usual, the crowd tended towards middle-aged divorcees. But as the instructor called for followers to rotate, he saw her, his brunette. Their eyes met, and he smiled slightly. No big deal. He’d keep it casual.

He knew the sequence from a lesson long ago, and was able to lead it smoothly and in rhythm. The followers’ line rotated a few more times, until she was standing in front of him.

“You made it.” Her tone was welcoming, maybe a little teasing.

“You were right about ditching the computer.”

They took their turn through the sequence and broke off, but not before she gave his hand a playful squeeze.

Class ended with a burst of applause, and the music cranked to a deafening din. He saw her immediately dance with someone. Which was okay; it was customary to dive in with whoever was closest when the music started. He offered his hand to an awkward girl who’d struggled and really needed the practice. She seemed reluctant to accept; maybe she’d already had enough. He hadn’t meant to pressure her. Just trying to be gracious. And leading her was tedious; her steps were too big, which threw off her rhythm, and she rocked back on her heels, so her weight distribution was all wrong. She was ponderous in his arms and the song went on forever.

But he was able to maneuver her nearer to the woman he actually wanted to dance with, hoping to catch her for the next dance, if this song ever ended. Which it didn’t, exactly. The DJ just mashed the next song in on top. But the mix was abrupt enough that partners took the clashing chords as a cue to thank each other and move on. He caught her eye and extended his hand, in which she placed hers.

So much was coming back to him. The hammerlock to inside turn to cuddle. The Hurricane. Miami Special. And this lady was pretty good. She followed well, turned sharply. He’d taken her for Italian, but maybe she had a drop or two of Cuban blood.

“Uh-oh,” she cried, and stopped, clinging to his arm as she perched on one leg. He thought she’d twisted an ankle. But she held up her shoe in her other hand. It was missing a heel. “And they’re a week old.”

He spotted the three-inch black spike and scooped it up. “Well, there’s a bar,” he suggested. She nodded agreement and limped along at his side to the other room.

But just because there was a bar didn’t mean there was service. Patrons stood three deep, one remarking that he’d been waiting fifteen minutes. “Imagine all the money they’re not making, because they couldn’t put one more fool behind the bar.”

Someone jostled the woman from behind. She hopped closer to him, holding her hands up nervously, as if trying to create a force field.

“I know where there’s bourbon,” he whispered. She tilted her head, as though she were open to suggestion, so he hiked a thumb towards the door, and they made their exit. He gave her his address in case their cars got separated.

It was a bold move. But maybe not. Maybe it was just survival. The crowd was oppressive. He never felt as alone as he did in a crowded place. Even standing next to her, he didn’t feel like he was with her. She must have felt it, too, so it wasn’t just him being weird. Or phobic. And he had nothing to worry about back at his apartment. He kept it neat, almost compulsively the last few years. So, he shouldn’t be embarrassed to have a woman drop in. Anyway, he didn’t expect anything much, at all, to happen. Except, maybe he might learn her name. That would be something to build on.

“I don’t know yours either,” she said, as she curled her legs up onto the couch.

“Maybe we shouldn’t tell,” he suggested. He went to the kitchen to pour drinks. “Savor the mystery.”

“Oops, too late,” he heard her call.

Returning with two tumblers of bourbon, he found her holding his master’s diploma she’d lifted from a nearby bookshelf. “Mark B. August. What’s the B for?”

The man blushed slightly. He handed her a tumbler and crouched to sit beside her. “There is no before, there is only now.” He clinked her glass and they sipped.

“I love that photo,” she said, pointing to a framed print on the wall. The man stood before Fuente de Neptuno as streams of water gushed high into a cloudless summer sky. “I love Madrid.”

The man nodded, and a patch of color on the white carpet caught his eye.

“Barcelona. Sevilla. I’ve been to Spain maybe half a dozen times. I can never get enough.”

A Kelly-green knee sock.

“You seem to favor France,” she said, waving at the wall of his Paris photos.

“I-I did,” he said. “When I was traveling.” He pointed to a random image, and when she turned her head he grabbed up the sock. And another. He balled them up and thrust them under the cushion.

“When you were…? Don’t you still…?”

“Not for a few years. Excuse me. Be right back.”

She’s here, he thought as he marched down the hall. Sure enough, she’d shed her uniform sweater, her white blouse, and her plaid skirt on the floor outside the bathroom. He gathered up the clothes. The door was slightly ajar, and he pushed it open.

Brigid was standing at the sink, brushing her teeth. Wearing only an oversized t-shirt that belonged to him.

“You can’t be here,” he said.

“You gonna make me walk home?”

He placed her clothing on the side of the basin. “I’ve asked you not to drop your things all over my apartment.”

“How else can I mark my territory?”

“This is my territory,” he whispered harshly. “My space. And you are to leave. As quietly and unobtrusively as possible.”

He left the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He padded quietly towards the living room. He found the woman standing at his photo wall, peering intently at a shot of him in front of an ornate eighteenth-century building.

“This one, it’s not France.”

“No, actually, that’s Quebec City. My French wasn’t ready for the big time yet.”

“Right, those Parisians can be snooty.”

He laughed, perhaps too freely. “I never had a problem,” he explained, “because I would, the first thing I’d say was, ‘Je suis un Americain touriste ici en vacance. Je parle Francais terriblement, mais je dois practiquer.’”

“Aw, that’s funny. Terriblement. So, they loved you after that?”

“They tolerated me.”

“Funny, these photos. No traveling companions?”

He took her empty glass. “Let me freshen this up.”

She held him in place with a touch of her hand.

“Odd how you can fly to France alone, but won’t drive to Fusion?”

He mentally ran through his usual list of excuses. He wanted to say something that wouldn’t make him sound bitter.

“He doesn’t like to drive.”

Brigid was behind him, fully dressed at least, with one strap of her backpack over a shoulder.

“Especially in the dark. I guess he didn’t tell you.”

He handed the woman her glass back and just threw up his hands.

“This is Brigid,” he huffed. “She was just leaving.”

“Yeah,” the girl taunted. “He’s kind of ashamed of me. And our relationship.”

“We don’t have a relationship,” he said. “Once and for all—”

“Maybe I should go,” the woman said. She placed the tumbler on the coffee table and grabbed her shoes. She cut a wide swath around him, and he didn’t dare move. She headed straight for the door, which Brigid was now blocking.

“Brigid, let her pass,” he demanded. Exasperated, he turned away from the scene, towards his haunted wall of yesterdays. Then, as the door hinges moaned, he turned back around to catch a final glimpse of her. Brigid, too, had vanished. She’d successfully defended her turf. Now where had she gone? He found her in his bedroom, on the edge of his bed, peeling off her socks.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Well, you need something to fill your night.”

“Stop it!” he screamed, clenching his fists to his temples. “Just stop!” He looked at himself in the full-length mirror that hung on his closet door. He had to end this now.

“How long have I known you, Brigid,” he asked.

“You need to ask that?”

“Five. Years? And you’re still in high school?”

“I’m a slow learner.”

“One of us is.” He laughed at himself, even as tears salted his eyes. “She heard me yell at you.”

“So?”

“And she walked out.” He paced before the mirror. He raised an index finger demonstratively, ready to present his case. “What kind of woman would leave a furious man alone with a sixteen-year-old girl?”

Brigid had no answer. She puckered her face in a bratty scowl as she so often had. But she couldn’t shame him. Not anymore. “She didn’t see you. Because. You’re not here.”

“Of course, I am.”

He put his head in the vice of his hands and tightened. “You’re here! And I want you out!”

“I have to stay here.” She tossed a sock on the floor.

“How many times do I have to say I’m sorry? Why can’t you forgive me?”

The girl wagged her head and threw in an eyeroll. “Try forgiving yourself.” She floated another sock through the air. It twirled like a falling leaf, even glistened as it caught the afternoon sun. And there were more leaves, and long shadows, and the glare you sometimes get in September when the sun hangs low, and the windshield isn’t as clean as it should be.

And there were kids, fresh from school, laughing and tramping under the weight of heavy backpacks. And a blonde girl, in a green plaid uniform, pulled a binder open to show her friends the unfair grade. But the wind took the paper, blowing it between two park cars. So, the girl pursued it, crouching to grab it, when the wind blew again and she lunged and she wasn’t between the cars anymore, but—

He hit the brake as hard as he could. He wasn’t going that fast. But the wet leaves. He skidded. He saw her face, pale in his headlights, and heard the dull thunk as her head struck.

He trampled white paper on golden brown leaves. She bled from the mouth and her eyes swam in the jelly behind them. He pressed 911 as her friends cried and her hand went limp and cold.

“Hey, it’s going to be okay,” he lied. “Hey. What’s her name?”

“Brigid,” a girlfriend said.

“Don’t leave me, Brigid,” the man begged. “Stay with me. Don’t you leave me!”

Monday morning saw the return of corporate servitude. The man parked in his usual spot at his usual time. But his legs felt leaden, as they had all weekend. So, when he reached the atrium, he headed to the elevator. Its doors were closing as he approached, and he called out for someone to hold it. He saw a hand reach for the panel, and knew he had held it as they’d danced.

As the doors sprang open again, he stepped back, not wishing to make her any more uncomfortable. 

“Well, are you getting on?” she asked.

If you insist, he said, entirely to himself. Once inside, he crossed his hands and kept his eyes straight ahead.

“I found out who Brigid is,” she said.

He shrugged. “It’s public record.”

“Would seem the public doesn’t know the half of it.” The car arrived at his floor and the doors opened. “Did you ever… try to get help?” she asked.

He remembered how her hand had felt in his. How the touch of her arm made him want to stay with her. He gave a curt nod.

“But.” He extended an arm to hold the door open. “I just really wanted her to be alive. And, yeah, I know that’s crazy.”

“Not really.”

He lowered his arm and let the elevator go. The door closed on a pair of warm eyes, and a slight smile. He walked towards his office, stepping vaguely in Salsa time.

If you enjoyed this story, please explore this website for more fiction choices, such as The Wedding Routine, which Online Book Club calls an “amazing book” with “dynamic characters” who “produce nothing but comic gold.” Or visit my Amazon author page and consider purchasing one of my books. You can also support this website by clicking on an affiliate link and making a purchase. For example, the Product of the Week, featured below. When you click and buy anything at all in the next 24 hours, the website receives a small commission at no extra cost to you. Thank you for your support.

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