Athlete's Tongue

B y RK Daley

Sandy lifts her hand from my leg under the table to readjust the elastic waistband of her pregnancy pants. She exposes a cross hatched pattern of pink that runs a railroad track around her stomach. We’re having dinner at her parent’s house. Her father sits directly across from me and talks about the pet bird he got from his wife last Christmas. He’s describing all the tricks he’s taught it. The bird will hop over to him when he whistles, it’ll chirp back to him when he asks it a question and it can fetch a little ball that has a bell inside. I listen and smile at the appropriate times letting him know I think he’s done a fine job at training a bird and yes, after dinner I would love to see these feats. He goes on to tell me he didn’t like the bird at first and couldn’t figure out why his wife thought he would. He’s never been one for pets he says, but the bird has grown on him. This is encouraging news to me since I’ve known his daughter less than a year and my baby is about ready to come out of her.

Table talk bounces from the bird to the high quality of food her mother has prepared, to how nice this Christmas will be with a little one around. Talk of pets, Christmas and baby are fine with me. I’m grateful he isn’t asking me direct questions like, “Are you still working at the gift shop? What are your plans for the future?” or worse, “Why did you get my daughter pregnant?”

Sandy thinks I got her pregnant the very first day. It happened fast, that’s for sure. We met at my favorite breakfast spot where she had recently started working as a hostess. I told one of the waitresses I would have “that,” pointing to Sandy for breakfast. Before my food arrived Sandy was standing at the table with hands on hips asking me to explain my comment. I did and by dinnertime we had consummated our meeting several times in her apartment.

The dinner conversation continues to revolve around baby and the effects of pregnancy on Sandy. Swollen feet, weight gain, lack of sleep, heartburn, backache, and sore breasts are all covered. She is bonding with her mother over their shared experience. I agree with Sandy’s comments about her physical condition, careful to stay silent about the weight gain. Her mother offers up remedy suggestions and I listen as if I’ll be tested later on the subject.

“Well I guess we know our daughter isn’t a virgin anymore.” Her father says looking around the dinner table for appreciation of his joke.

Sandy gives him a look of ha ha, very funny dad.

I blurt out, “Yeah, not since she was like thirteen.”

I hear crickets, the bird eating its seeds out in the living room, my heart attempting to beat its way out of my chest. I am now the slide under his giant microscope. I look around the table and all eyes hold contempt and disgust. Crawling under the table isn’t an option, but I wish it were. If they’re still staring at me I don’t see it. My eyes stay fixed on my plate. I want something to say to appear in my food the way tea leaves tell people their future, but nothing appears. I am in a realm beyond the help of mere tea leaves, beyond embarrassment and shame.

Sandy’s nails, which have grown fast and strong during the pregnancy, dig into my leg. She told me the story of losing her virginity while we were curled up in bed. We were asking each other all the questions new couples find so important, things like our first time, how many, our likes, dislikes and never trieds. I exaggerated my experiences claiming to like everything. She was honest about hers and some stories brought her to tears.

This isn’t the first time I’d stuck my foot so far down my throat I could taste my knee cap. A few years back I bought a Subaru Brat, one of those part-car-part-truck things with seats in the back where the cargo should go, only this one didn’t have any seats. I bought it from a coworker of my brother, a guy who had just been released from jail. The car ran and I needed something to move me down to southern California where I’d eventually end up meeting Sandy and her family. I shook the guy’s hand to close out our transaction and said, “Okay, see you later, have a nice night, don’t kill anybody.” The guy gave me a blank stare and said, “Yeah, don’t worry, I won’t.” As we walked away my brother informed me the guy had gone to jail for killing his own sister when they were teenagers. He did eight years for his crime. I wonder how long I would have to do for mine.

Sandy’s mother breaks the stunned silence around the table with promises of dessert. She’s baked a pie and I can’t help but hope it’s humble pie. I could use a big serving. I want to tell them all I’m sorry, but appropriate apologies and explanations for my comment don’t exist. Sandy has let go of my leg, but hasn’t looked at me. There is no more talk of the future and her father doesn’t show me any bird tricks after dinner.

I haven’t spent many holidays there. Sandy and I agreed to split up not long after our daughter was born. She didn’t trust me and I didn’t respect her. Since then I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut. Just because there’s a joke there that doesn’t mean it has to be said aloud. Just because I know something about someone doesn’t mean I have to say it. I do my best to hold people’s secrets close now, especially the secrets that come from the pillow next to me.

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