Contemporary Fiction, Literary Fiction
Date Published: October 26, 2020
Publisher: Propertius Press
When an agoraphobic man develops a relationship with a vivacious grocery delivery woman, the order he prescribes to his apartment, and his world, begins to crumble around him. Wesley Yorstead Goes Outside explores the life of Wesley Yorstead, a thirty-three year old graphic novelist who suffers from a severe case of agoraphobia that has kept him shut inside for over five years. When he meets Happy Lafferty for the first time, delivering groceries on behalf of her father’s neighborhood market, Wesley can’t shake the inherent magnetism between them and seeks to get to know this young woman who invades his space—both physical and mental. As their relationship grows more intimate, the restrictions of his situation become an even greater obstacle. When Happy’s past comes back to haunt her, Wesley must decide if he can finally leave his apartment to help. A meditation on anxiety, fear, and human connection, Wesley Yorstead Goes Outside asks the reader to consider what our fears take away from our lives, and how we might overcome them.
Finalist for the Colorado Book Awards in the general fiction category
1.
It’s
mid-morning on a Sunday in mid-September and the persistent knock at the door
can only mean one thing. Angel’s arrived with my groceries. Angel works for
Lafferty’s Neighborhood Market, a
small place run by a boisterous man of Irish descent. The store has existed for
four generations, since the original proprietors came over from the Emerald
Isle. The original is in Manhattan. The current Mr. Lafferty’s parents brought
a satellite store to Denver, or so it says on the website. I’ve never met the
man in person, but the sturdiness of his voice suggests he hasn’t missed too
many pints of Guinness over the years. What’s important is that he’s willing to
send a delivery every week, and he doesn’t ask a lot of questions. This makes
his service indispensable.
Angel’s
the stereotypical grocery boy. He makes his deliveries in uniform black slacks
and white button down. He’s got slicked back hair and a gold chain around his
neck. If I were to sketch him, he’d sport oversized jeans that hung so low he’d
have to waddle. Maybe that’s unfair. He’s been delivering my groceries for a
while now, and he seems like a decent kid—always polite. He’s quiet and unassuming and he gets in and
out as fast as he can, which I appreciate because it means I don’t have to
struggle to converse with him. He comes in and puts my brown paper sacks on the
stainless steel counter in the kitchen, then stands silent, looking at his
feet. A month into our arrangement, he asked if there was anything he could do
to help me. I sent him down to the mailbox to get my mail. Now, that’s part of
an unspoken agreement. I hand him my key and start to organize my groceries
while he runs downstairs. I feel bad, making him run up and down, but he
doesn’t seem to mind and it’s a federal offense to make a copy of a mail key.
Not that I’d give him one anyway. He
comes back and after I reopen the door he hands me my mail, always with the key
on top. Then, he waits for me to produce the magic checkbook and send him away
with a little piece of paper, my signature scrawled across the bottom.
“How
much?” I’ll ask after I’ve checked that all my groceries are here. He recites
the amount he’s been given with an unobtrusive certainty and tosses me a sheepish
grin. I return a small smile before ripping the check out and handing it to
him. Then I’ll open the locked box where I keep cash and slide a generous tip
across the countertop. He’ll take the money and disappear as inconspicuously as
he entered, and I’ll relock the doorknob, deadbolt, and chain behind him.
The
buzzer rings again. This is unlike Angel, who might stand and wait all day if I
chose not to answer. I don’t bolt out of my chair. I’m in the middle of inking a preliminary
sketch for my To Kill a Mockingbird
project. It’s jarring, being pulled away from my work like this. It reminds me
where I really am. I place the cap back on my pen and blow across the fresh
lines enough to ensure they don’t go anywhere while I’m gone.
I take a few long strides across my front
room, stretching as I go.
“I’m
coming,” I call out, though it’s not entirely necessary. Where else would I
be?
Before I answer, I pause to straighten my
polo, check to make sure the collar is still turned down. I run my fingers through
my light blond hair. It’s easier for me to just to trim the edges with a pair
of scissors than to try and buzz it. Right now, it’s a little long, and it
falls in my eyes more often than I’d like. I smooth my gray slacks, careful not
to mark them with any residual ink on my hands. I’ve always dressed
professionally, even here in the apartment, when I’m the only one to see. It’s
one thing I can do for myself.
Angel
pounds on the door. This is unfamiliar protocol, certainly not part of our
well-oiled routine. I unlock the knob
and remove the chain. Why is Angel behaving so aggressively? Perhaps he’s
running late with his deliveries. Maybe something’s happened to make him upset
or angry. I consider what I might say to him, how I might address his behavior,
and I begin to feel that familiar pulling of taffy in my stomach at the
implications of such a confrontation.
I have to be careful when I open the door. I
have a peephole but someone, kids probably, covered it with black spray paint
and I can’t see through it. It was a surprising act of vandalism in my small
building and mine was the only one. Despite daily messages to the
superintendent, it hasn’t been fixed. I think he neglects me on purpose.
Perhaps he resents my persistence. I crack the door, expecting
to see Angel with my sacks of groceries dangling from each hand like bunches of
bananas.
A pale figure stands in the spot where Angel
should be. A woman. She has natural red hair, curled to frame her round face,
and she wears a yellow knit dress, ruffled in the front and hugged tight
against her narrow hips. She’s several inches shorter than my six-foot-one. She
is not a grocery boy. My bags sit on the floor at her sandaled feet, her toes
accented with black nail polish. This thin paper is all that separates the food
I plan to ingest from the forest green carpet of the outside hallway, which is
vacuumed perhaps twice a month. This means at any given time, upwards of two
weeks’ worth of my neighbors’ filth has polluted the ground with dirt and
bacteria. Not to mention that I know for a fact that there have been a couple
of degenerates running around, filthy, with their can of spray paint. It’ll
take at least three harsh scrubbings to ensure the fruits and vegetables alone
are safe to eat. I can’t afford to get sick, given my situation. House call are
expensive.
“Finally.”
She bends over to retrieve the bags and pushes her way into my home. Her hair
brushes my arm as she passes, so close I can smell the residual aroma of herbal
shampoo. “Any longer and I was going to leave these in the hall.” She places
the bags on the counter in the kitchen and props herself against the edge. Her
thin wrists contrast with her long, lean arms. They’re delicate, contoured like
flowing strokes on a canvas.
“Where’s Angel?” I’m careful to stay on the
other side of the island. She must be from Lafferty’s. She carries bags with the name printed across in looping cursive, but my palms begin to sweat as I watch
her, revolting against her uninvited presence.
“He
speaks.” She smiles but I don’t look at her face for long. I settle on the
length of her figure, the way her torso is the longest portion of her body,
almost too long, because her legs are a little short. But she would be striking
in a sketch. Not that I would do that. I’ve always preferred the freedom of
creating figures in my head over the unpredictable intimacy of live models.
“Who
are you?” I ask her. Mr. Lafferty hasn’t notified me of any changes in our
agreement. Now I have a stranger in my kitchen. She’s intrusive and her dress
is ridiculous. Angel is trustworthy, dependable, and monochromatically
clad. This girl could be a thief, or
some other imposter. Sure, she’s arrived
with the same bags my groceries come in each week, but that doesn’t mean
anything. The way her wrist bends as she pushes a stray strand of hair out of
her eyes is deceptive in its tenuousness. My chest tightens. The safety of my
apartment has been compromised. I squeeze my damp palms into fists.
“My name’s Happy.” She touches her long
fingers to the center of her chest as she says this. I could keel over at the
irony that this young woman, wearing an absurd manifestation of highlighter
yellow, has a name like that. “Angel’s grandma is sick again and he’s taking
some time off.”
“Is
she all right?” Angel’s lived with his grandmother almost his entire life. She
has severe asthma and it makes her prone to all sorts of complications.
“She
has pneumonia. My dad sent me instead.”
“Your father is Mr. Lafferty?” I cross my
arms. If I’d thought about it, I could have surmised the familial connection.
Her high eyebrows arched in my direction, she’s a modern Maureen O’Hara. And,
she appears to know a good deal about Angel.
Still, you can never be too careful. “I should call him and verify.”
“Go
for it.” She shrugs her shoulders and taps her fingers on the countertop behind
her. I take my phone out of my pocket. I have his business card hung on the
side of the refrigerator. It was tucked into my first delivery. On the back is
a hand-written note, “If you need
anything, call.” I always do, to place my orders and complain about wilted
produce. That’s when the bacteria begins to grow. At this point, I know the
number by heart, but I always check, just to make sure. I face her as I dial.
She won’t pocket anything while my back is turned. Someone picks up after a few
rings.
“Lafferty’s.”
The voice belongs to a man.
“Hello?
Mr. Lafferty?”
“Just
a minute.” The voice disappears into the background noise of the store.
Lafferty’s deep baritone booms somewhere in proximity. I cross my free arm
against my chest and furrow my eyebrows in the young woman’s direction. She’s
unflinching, smug even, as she taps her fingers. Another moment passes and Mr.
Lafferty picks up.
“This
is Frank.” He’s a mouth breather and the sound of his dense inhale/exhale makes
my skin crawl. I hold the phone away from my ear.
“This
is Wesley Yorstead and—”
“Did
you get your delivery?” He’s always concise on the phone, though not always
this abrupt. The store must be busy.
“I
just wanted to discuss your delivery person. She says she’s your daughter and—”
“Is
there a problem with Happy?” He takes a deep breath. Someone shouts in the
background.
“No.
She’s adequate.” I make sure I look across the kitchen as I say this.
She
lets out a solitary snort.
“She is your
daughter, right?” I realize how foolish this sounds as soon as the words leave
my mouth.
“Yeah, she is.” Mr. Lafferty laughs on the
other end. “Anything else?”
“Not today.” I hear the click as he
hangs up and I slide my phone back into my pocket. Now what am I supposed to
say to her?
“Your
total is $67.65.” She rocks back and forth on her heels, pushing and pulling
away from the counter like a buoy on the evening tide. Her constant motion is
so unlike my own. I sit for hours at a time. That’s why I wear the pedometer;
my goal is 8,000 steps a day. That’s also why I have a treadmill in my bedroom—I
can take 6,000 steps just walking for an hour at a steady pace. I do it every
morning when I wake up.
“You
can sit.” I turn and point behind me, toward the oval table. I don’t want her
to stay, but I’ll try anything to keep her still. She’s an alien in my house.
This adds another load to the weight pressing down on my chest.
“I’m
fine.” She looks down at her square nails. Am I boring her?
“Suit
yourself.” I bend over the stainless steel island and press my pen to my
checkbook. While I scribble, she turns a circle in my kitchen, like she just
entered some kind of grand parlor. There’s a strange fascination in the glint
in her eyes. The counter is spotless.
It has to be. The CDC reports around 76 million cases of foodborne illnesses a
year.
“Not
much for decorating,” she says.
“Guess
not.” I never saw the point of making the kitchen look like anything more than
a clean space for preparing food. Besides, everything has it’s place.
I
sign my name.
“Pretty
fancy pen. You a lawyer?” She’s referring to my Speedball Crow-Quill pen, a
#107 Stiff Hawk nib, great for cross-hatching. Also suitable for my scrawling
signature.
“Sure.”
I tear out the check. It’s a knee-jerk response to her personal inquiry.
Strangers always want you to explain yourself.
“I
know what you do. I was just trying to make conversation.” She leans down on
the island against her elbows. My palms
sweat like a glass of melting ice. She raps her fingernails against the steel
and it sounds like the harsh pitter patter of rain against aluminum siding.
“I
understand.” I nod like she’s just delivered a piece of bad news. Maybe she
has. The word “conversation” leaves a rotten taste in my mouth, like I’ve
dotted my tongue with the wrong side of the pen and can still taste the ink.
Besides, I don’t appreciate the implication that she knows anything about me
because that means I’ve been a topic of conversation down on the store or at
her father’s dinner table. The thought prickles my skin. Any kind of presence
out there in the world can be a danger of one kind or another.
“Okay
then.” She pushes off the counter, her expression a little crestfallen, and
holds out her hand.
I
pass her the check, careful our fingers don’t touch. She turns for the door,
just as I remember something.
“Wait.”
I reach into my back pocket for my billfold. “I have something for you.”
She
turns, re-crosses her arms over her chest. I head for my safety box of reserve
cash. I keep the key in my wallet. That
way, if I were robbed, they’d find the key to the cash instead of the cash
itself. At least I’ve kept a sense of humor.
I
take the small box to the island. My mother cashes checks for me about once a
month when I need to restock. Happy’s looking around the front room as though
she’s tracking a passing cloud. Her eyes settle on the framed print over my
couch. It’s a Kandinsky—“Composition 7.” Her head leans to the side as she
takes it in. I can’t see her face, discern what she thinks of it. You can learn
a lot about a person by her taste in art. There’s something intriguing in the
extreme levels of abstraction—like a visual puzzle that needs solving. The
artwork never gets tired, hanging there day after day. She’s still staring—I
can relate to that. It’s easy to get lost in the shapes and color.
I
clear my throat. “Happy’s a different name.” It feels like the right moment for
an informal pleasantry.
“It’s
short for Harriet.” She takes a step back and glances at me before her eyes
return to the painting. It stands out against the white wall and olive couch
below it, commands the attention of the room.
“I
guess it’s nice to meet you, Happy.” The words spill out as they come—like the
reluctant admission of a child after being asked if something really was as bad
as he thought it might be. Not the best phrasing.
“I guess it’s nice to meet you too, Wesley.”
She smiles and the lines around her face wrinkle in a natural way, as though
smiling is something her face was created to do. But she said my name and I
haven’t given it to her. Another reminder that she knows something about me.
I
force myself to breathe deeply and open the lockbox just enough to reach my
hand in and not enough to show her the amount of cash inside. Being Mr.
Lafferty’s daughter doesn’t earn her my automatic trust. For all I know, she
could return tonight with some thuggish boyfriend to break down my door.
“Here.”
I hand her some singles. Our fingers touch. The shock of the contact makes me
recoil with a sharp jerk, but she takes the cash without looking up and stuffs
it in her shoulder bag. I return the box to the cupboard. When I stand, she’s
suspended in the middle of my living space, craning her neck toward my drafting
table.
“My dad tells me you’re an artist?” She takes
a step toward the table.
“Graphic
novels.” I rock forward onto the balls of my feet. Frozen here in the entryway,
I’m stuck not knowing whether the world is coming or going, inside or out. I
don’t mention any of the freelance illustration work I do when I’m between
projects. Best to keep it simple.
“Comic
books, huh?” She takes another step toward my drafting table and uncrosses her
arms. “Do you have a favorite
superhero?”
She’s
looking for Batman in my living room. I ignore her tone. People who haven’t
read graphic novels often sound this way when they try to talk about the genre.
“You
don’t approve?” As much as I want her to leave, long to return to my
illustrations in peace, I goad her. Maybe I miss the opportunity to educate. I
debated more than one high-minded art history professor during my undergraduate
years. I even published a paper comparing graphic narrative to illuminated
manuscripts of the Middle Ages. But I won’t get into any of that now. Maybe I’m
just curious about her interest in my work.
“I’m
sorry.” She reaches her hand toward me but doesn’t touch me. “I’m sure you’re
really talented, but don’t you think you comic guys should take an anatomy
lesson?”
“How
do you mean?” I ask. Mainstream comics have never been my area of interest, but
I’ve studied enough to know where this is going.
“Impractically dressed women with beach ball
breasts and waistlines missing ribs.” I watch the way her mouth moves, like the
hinge of her jaw is brand new— the smile perfectly instinctive.
The
image of Catwoman pops into my head. Now’s not the time to bring her up. “So?” I sit down in the swivel chair at my
drafting table, the one I’d occupied for hours before she pounded on my door.
She
sits on the sofa, crosses her pale legs. “Isn’t it all about feeding the
fantasy of horny fan boys?” She folds her hands in her lap and leans back
against the couch, awaiting my rebuttal.
I
can’t say I wholly disagree with her. But she’s talking about a particular
cross-section. I should lend her Spiegelman or Satrapi. But that would be premature; one can’t just give Maus to anybody. I shrug my shoulders. “It’s a visual art
medium. Of course some artists focus on their interpretation of the feminine
ideal. What art movement doesn’t?”
My
eyes drift to the square, oriental style rug on the floor, then over to my
bookshelf, and the television fastened to the wall in the corner. It’s a slight
space, and it gets even smaller with her in it. The confines of my apartment,
something I often relish in, seem to press in on me when any bodies are added.
Lucky for me, I don’t have many guests to entertain. I rest my hand on the
unfinished drawing of Boo Radley out on the drafting table. Right now, it’s
nothing more than the outline of a man with no distinguishing features—an image
adrift between something and nothing. This lack of completeness makes my
fingers twitch with an urge to pick up my pen and finish it.
“Hellenistic Greece, 19th
century realism, any number of modern art movements.” She counts each one off
on her fingers. She has that smug look on her face again. Something about her
feels rehearsed, as though she’d prepared for this conversation ahead of
time. Her motivations here are a mystery
to me. Still, as sinister as this uncertainty feels, I’ve always been a chump
for a brainteaser.
I
should end this argument before it has a chance to spread its wings and flap
against the heat of the living room. The pen in my hand is as heavy as a brick.
It cries out to be put to paper. The longer I talk to this woman, the longer my
sketch sits on the drafting table, less than whole. I don’t have time to get
into an art history debate with the grocer’s daughter. I pull at the collar of
my polo. “I liked it better when you were just looking at your nails,” I
say.
The
apartment is starting to feel like a sauna. I get up to adjust the thermostat in
the hallway leading to my bedroom. I turn the temperature down by two degrees.
I’ll return it to 70 degrees—room temperature—after she leaves. I close my eyes, take another calming breath.
She watches, shifting so her legs
are crossed in the opposite direction. This doesn’t bode well. “What kind of
comic—I mean, graphic novels, do you write?”
“Graphic
versions of literary works.” I teeter at the edge of the sofa. I could sit.
She’s at the other end. There would be a whole cushion’s worth of space between
us—but I don’t know how she’ll interpret this, so I stay standing.
“Like
what? Can I see?”
“I—”
“Please?”
Her
abrasiveness startles me. She doesn’t know me, and I don’t know her, but she
wants to see what I do. It’s intimate, the idea of watching her survey my work.
I don’t have to see the faces of random fans who pick up one of my books off a
bookshelf or order a copy online. And yet, I think of A Study in Scarlet. How might she react to the black and white, the
ultra-realism of the Country of Saints
flashback, the allure of Lucy—a kind of Lauren Bacall? I want to watch her
expression change as she cracks open the cover.
“I guess,” I say. I walk to one of my
bookshelves, pushed against the wall on the other side of the couch and pull
off one of my volumes from the center shelf reserved for my own work. “This was
my first project.”
“Hmm…”
She runs her fingers across the cover, a black and white inking with the
profile of a suave figure in a dark alleyway, high contrast with the title in
bold, red letters. “Sherlock Holmes.”
“It
is.”
“So,
you took the novel and turned it into a comic book?” She raises her eyebrows,
drinking in the cover.
“It’s
a little more complicated.” I’m more than copy artist. I read words and see
worlds and try to recreate my visions. It’s about honoring the original but
also making something new. And, sometimes, it’s about absconding, to finding a
place where the fear just doesn’t seem to matter—not as much. I clasp my hands
in front of me, stand over her. She has my book, and I want to stay close in
case she bends it.
“Did
you draw it all yourself?” She flips through the glossy pages carefully, giving
each a brief glance.
“I did the writing, drawing, and
inking. My colorist, Rick, fills it in.”
“Sounds
involved.”
“It’s
a process.” I take the book from her. Her eyes widen in a moment of protest,
but the lines of her face soften and she settles back against the couch.
“So
how does it work, doing someone else’s book?”
“For this one, I turned Sherlock Holmes into a
film noir detective. The whole thing takes place in Holmes’ head. It’s very
Chandler.” I scan my bookshelf,
running my fingers along the volumes, pushing in spines that stick out farther
than the others. There’s a small comfort in this evenness. “Here’s another one…” I
settle on one of my more popular pieces, a test to measure her appreciation.
“Hamlet?” She studies the picture of a
sad looking silver-blond clad in black, standing before large gothic style
windows.
“That
one’s big with lazy students and theater people.”
“You
have good taste.” She’s found the large images in the back of the
volume—concept pieces of the Renaissance style castle, stylistic close-ups of
ornamental portals and Dutch gables. She turns the book sideways to look at
them. Her eyes move back and forth as she scans each image with careful
deliberation.
I’d
researched the entire history of Danish architecture to create a realistic
looking palace. It took me over a year to draw it. The waiting drove Rick
crazy. But I needed to believe that someone could find my palace erect at a
site of Danish historical significance, that it really existed and I could go
to it someday in another life or as a different person. The detail was so
precise that I visited the palace time and again, knew every pane of glass,
without ever leaving my drafting table. I’m almost positive a real building
could never feel like that.
“Thanks.”
I replace Hamlet on the shelf,
careful to ensure the novel lines up with the others. Then, unsure of what to
do, I return to the drafting table. She sits on the edge of the couch.
“What
are you working on now?” She points to the array of materials behind me,
including a pile of model sheets of completed characters, an open sketch pad,
and several pens with a fresh bottle of ink.
“I’ve just been commissioned to do a version
of To Kill a Mockingbird. I’m working
on a sketch of Boo Radley.”
“He’s
creepy. Can I look?” She hops to her feet before I have a chance to answer and
peers over my shoulder.
Why’d
I say that? Of all the characters I’ve drawn, I find him the most troubling.
How do you draw a ghost? How do you give him skin, teeth, hair, when he’s an
apparition in the window of a child’s imagination? I haven’t even begun to
sketch those final scenes yet. It’s hard to picture him in the flesh, He can’t
be real, not truly, until I give him a face. People need to see him to know
that he’s more than an apparition.
“These
are just preliminary drawings.” I shuffle the papers to hide the sketch, aware
of the hair rising on the back of my neck at the sensation of her body emitting
heat so close to my own. “Can you sit back down?”
She leans in to try and get a look. I hug the
papers to my chest and swivel the chair away from her. My heart pounds and I
close my eyes, afraid I’m about to succumb to the panic I’ve been suppressing
since she arrived. But she straightens and sits back on the couch. She bites
her lip and interlocks her fingers just below her chin as though she’s about to
utter a penitent prayer.
“Do
you want anything?” I say. Something about her gesture unnerves me, and I need
to change direction. But this question is silly. What could she want? What
could I give her anyway?
“I’m fine.” She waves her hand as though she’s
swatting at a fly. Of course she doesn’t want anything from me. “Do you ever
draw your own stories?”
“No.”
I don’t have any stories of my own. Besides, that’s not the point. The sketches
crinkle as I clutch them tighter to my chest. The tendons in my hand sting with
the ache to get back to work. “Haven’t gotten around to it.”
“Busy
social schedule?”
“Something
like that.” I set the drawings down and reach for my pen, spin it between my
fingers. She’s made it clear that she understands my situation. At least her
chiding is easier to respond to than a direct question.
She
pulls her cell phone out of her bag and looks at it. “I’ve got to get back.”
She rises, straightens her dress, pulling it tight so the bones of her hips jut
against the fabric. “You should put those groceries away.”
I’d
forgotten. They’re still in the kitchen, on the stainless steel countertop,
waiting. I hope nothing’s spoiled.
“Thanks.”
I follow her, watch her hike her bag up on her shoulder. I unlock the doorknob,
deadbolt, and chain and hold the door open for her. She’s pauses in the
doorway.
“Do you think I could borrow one of
your books? I’d really like to read the Hamlet
one.”
“I don’t know.” I shuffle my feet.
The thought of one of my books leaving my apartment, going somewhere I have no
control over, makes my stomach twist.
“I promise I’ll take good care of
it. I’ll return it the next time I bring your groceries.”
“You’ll be back?”
“I
think so.”
If she plans on returning, I guess I could
let her read the one. I turn for the bookshelf. She moves to follow.
“Stay there.” I don’t want her to come
back in, lest she decide to stay. I’m not sure I have the energy.
She remains in the doorway while I
locate Hamlet on my shelf. I cross
back to meet her. As I hand her the volume, she smiles. “Until next time.”
I nod and she strides down the hall
without another word. After relocking the chain, deadbolt, and doorknob behind
her, I go to the kitchen to unpack my groceries. What have I done? I’ll never
see that book again.
About the Author
Stephanie Harper is the author of Wesley Yorstead Goes Outside (Propertius Press, 2020), as well as a poetry collection entitled Sermon Series (Finishing Line Press, 2017). She received her MFA in Creative Writing from Fairfield University. She’s written personal essays and articles for many publications online and in print. She currently lives in Littleton, CO.
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