
Red, Wolfgang, and the Dream by Wendy Elizabeth Wallace
Red had never been to the Aldi by herself since her eyesight began to fail, and it overwhelmed her, the muddled beeping and chatter and footslaps, the efficient shopper-motion, the indistinct items crammed onto rows and rows of shelves. Usually, she went with her grandmother, who guided her without seeming to guide, who made Red feel useful by asking her to carry the basket and pick out the fruit by feel – Red had a gift for finding perfect ripeness. But her grandmother was sick, and it was up to Red to bring home the remedies she needed, the low-sodium broth and the sugar-free cough drops. Clutching the basket so tight the plastic ridged her palm, she remembered when she had, as a child, gotten lost in the Schwarzwald, the press of identical trees whose dark wood seemed grimacing, evil.
But she’d found her way then, and would now. She reached out, pulled a can close to her face, tried to catch enough light from the fluorescent above to make out the impossibly tiny print that wouldn’t stay still, wriggled like a line of insects.
She didn’t hear the man coming until he said, Do you need help?
She was embarrassed to be seen, nose nearly touching the label. No, she snapped. I’m fine.
He tapped his employee badge, which Red also couldn’t read but could at least tell was there. Just tell me what you’re looking for. Please. Something in his voice, his desperation to be useful, made her answer, open her palm for him to gently replaced the can she’d been clutching with the right one. I can help with the rest, too, he said, which Red had to admit the practicality of. She let him.
As Red packed her groceries into her tote, this employee, who’d introduced himself as Wolfgang, said he’d like to see her again. Really? she said, before she could stop herself. She’d felt humiliated, needing him at her side to do this simplest of things that was, for everyone else, so simple.
But this was how it started between the two of them. He’d meet her at the entrance to her apartment building so he could walk with her to the river or a restaurant, his hand resting on her elbow, restraining her at intersections and when the bike path converged on the sidewalk. These were things Red had learned to be aware of on her own, could feel the lip of painted lines with her feet, could see well enough to notice if people were gathered at a curb and could hear the windrush of oncoming traffic. But Wolfgang seemed to like steering her. And there was something to giving in to it, to letting him take control and relaxing the heightened awareness she usually practiced when moving through Berlin. And, with Wolfgang, she no longer needed to check menus online before she went out, to use her text-to-speech on her computer to decide what she wanted, because Wolfgang would order for her. Let me surprise you, he’d say, grinning. And, this way, she didn’t even need to pretend to be able to make eye contact with the server, didn’t have the anxiety of wondering if she’d looked accidentally over their shoulder, since she had to look at everything slant to bypass the incurable dark hole that was growing in the middle of each eye. And she didn’t need to use her phone to magnify the bill, because Wolfgang handled everything. Just enjoy, he was always saying, and I like taking care of you.
Then, after a few months, Wolfgang asked her to move in with him. Do you want to, Freda? her grandmother asked. Her voice had gone serious-deep.
Yes, Red said. She knew her grandmother wanted her to do what was best, what would make her happy. Red wasn’t sure if she loved Wolfgang. He was a loud chewer and he kissed like he chewed, and he didn’t particularly like books and some of his stories about what his coworkers said and did at Aldi were so boring that Red had to swallow her yawns. But he was serious about her and cared for her in a way no man had, in a way Red had always been afraid, since she started going blind, that no man ever would.
At first, it was nice, having someone to talk to in the hazy pre-sleep darkness, and someone to roll over and hold in the morning. They had a lot of sex those first weeks, much of it very good. His appetite for her body surprised her, the way he’d descend hungrily upon her when he came home from the store, snatching her away from translations for English-speaking tourists she’d lost herself in. It felt good to be so wanted, and to prove that there were parts of her that worked just as they should, she giving what she could in return to the man who was giving her so much.
Yes, she was grateful. And grateful, in those first weeks, for his insistence upon doing everything around the house, thought it was sweet, his way of welcoming her. But it continued. She shouldn’t use the stove. She might set it to the wrong temperature and burn the food, or herself. She shouldn’t try to read her mail or bother with the bills – it took her so long with the magnifier, and he could get it done so quickly. She shouldn’t go over to visit her grandmother – not by herself. She could get lost, or be run over by a bike or a tram or a car. For the same reasons, she shouldn’t go get coffee with her friends. He’d go with her, make sure she made it safely, but not right now. They were so cozy, in the apartment, just the two of them, and could watch another episode of the crime show he knew she loved. But she shouldn’t watch any shows while he was at work – that wouldn’t be fair, and she’d miss things, without him sitting next to her and describing action she couldn’t quite make out. You’re so lucky, he was always saying, you’ve got me to take care of you. I can’t believe, he was also always saying, how hard you made things for yourself, before. And, Just relax.
Except, she didn’t feel relaxed. All this being in the apartment with him, with his wet flapping smacks at meals, with him always following her, taking things out of her hands, telling her to just sit and let him, let him, let him, and shouldn’t, shouldn’t, shouldn’t – it began to feel, she marooned on the couch, empty and useless, like she was being eaten. Day by day, it felt like bite-sized chunks of her were missing.
And then, one morning, he wanted to know, did she really need to keep her job writing those English translations? Sure, she was good at it, but looking at all of that text on her screen, even with the magnification and the text-to-speech software, was so hard on her eyes, and he knew what terrible headaches it gave her. I like my job, she said, and it came out more shrill than she’d meant it to, because her work was something that anchored her, gave her days shape, puzzling over the ways she could bend one language into another.
You’re angry, he said, because you’re overworked, and it makes it kind of hard to be around you, sometimes. His voice was full of teeth. I’ve done so much for you. Do this thing for me, and we’ll both be so much happier. You’ll see.
Later, Red called the museum director, to tell her she would need to stop sending Red the German descriptions for the new exhibit, the one on mummies. But Freda, the director said. I thought you were so excited about this project. Red had been. She’d always loved mummies, imagining herself running her fingers over the rough fabric that held the mark of ancient hands.
I can’t work anymore, Red said.
But why? the director asked. Red didn’t know what to say, so she hung up.
That night, when Wolfgang pulled her in, Red yielded to his mouth, the way it tore at her, she feeling that something necessary had now been removed from her, leaving her limp and raw. He didn’t notice, or maybe he did, and liked it. It was hard to fall asleep, after, with the rasp of his breath.
In her dream, Wolfgang swallowed her whole. In her dream, she cut through hot layers of flesh and emerged, free. In her dream, she packed her suitcase, pulled it behind her down the stairs and into the street. She walked past restaurants, across intersections, over the river, through the park. In her dream, her eyes had not been magically cured, but she was not afraid of doing things alone. In her dream, she was not ashamed.
Wolfgang rolled in his sleep, waking her as he pinned her with an arm. With him heavy against her, she tried to remember what, moments ago, had been so clear, tried to slip out from underneath.
Wendy Elizabeth Wallace is a queer writer with vision loss originally from Buffalo, NY. She is the co-founding editor of Peatsmoke: A Literary Journal. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Rumpus, Carolina Quarterly, Pithead Chapel, The New Orleans Review, Longleaf Review, Willow Springs, and elsewhere. Twitter @WendyEWallace1, www.wendywallacewriter.com
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