Stories We Never Told

by Sonja Yoerg

  Jackie rows until the pain in her thighs overwhelms her. Back at the dock, her legs tremble as she climbs out of the shell. She rests for a long while. When her sweat turns cold, she lifts the shell onto her shoulder, carries it across the dock, and stores it in the boathouse. It occurs to her that a river is much more useful to her than any hotel.

  On Sunday morning, Miles is packing for a few days in San Francisco—his last business trip before the holiday break. Jackie is cross-legged on the bed, working on her speech for tomorrow evening. It’s partially recycled from one she gave at a cognitive psychology conference last year, so she should be able to finish it this morning, then do something else this afternoon—like see a movie or read a book or go Christmas shopping. Something normal. She might even find out if Grace is free and get a dose of her nieces and nephews, or steal Grace away for an hour.

  Miles stacks his shirts into the roller bag on the bed. He could pack for work in his sleep—and sometimes does. “Antonio says he’s found another place but can’t move in till next weekend. Is that going to work for you?”

  “I guess so. I can’t supervise him, though.” Jackie never got the whole story of what happened with Antonio and his roommates. Miles told her it was a subletting mix-up, that the guy whose room Antonio was renting promised he could have it for the whole semester, but then reneged and wanted it back sooner. Jackie thought it odd that a college student would want to move during finals—and right before the holidays—and said so. Miles shrugged and said he could only relate what he’d been told.

  “He’s got three finals to go. That’s the hurdle, so anything you can do to help him would be fantastic.”

  “You could lock up the remotes.” She is only half joking. If Antonio is studying, he’s doing it on the sly.

  Miles smiles and shakes his head. “He’s twenty and has ADHD. He needs to be able to take breaks.”

  “I’ll do what I can. But please text and call him yourself, too. Let him know you’re there.”

  “Will do.” He zips up the bag, sets it on its rollers, and comes over to give Jackie a kiss. “Good luck with your talk.”

  “Piece of cake.”

  “Only for you, smarty-pants.” He smiles to signal he means it in the nicest way and heads for the door.

  “See you Friday.”

  Miles pauses in the doorway.

  “Forget something?” Jackie scans the bed—nothing there—and returns her gaze to her husband.

  He smiles again. “Don’t think so. Friday, then.”

  “Safe travels.” Jackie watches him go, wondering why he hesitated. He probably feels bad about leaving her with the responsibility of Antonio. Fair enough. She wonders, too, if she ought to feel a pang at his departure. They haven’t yet been married two years. Maybe it’s because Miles leaves so often, and she has become inured. Maybe it’s because they aren’t exactly young. Life isn’t a movie, her mother used to say, at least not one on the Hallmark channel. This must be what she meant.

  Jackie turns her attention back to her talk. Once she starts recalling her mother’s droll commentary on relationships, it’s best to move to safer ground.

  At one o’clock Jackie closes her laptop. Her talk is ready. She calls Grace, hoping to meet up with her this afternoon, but it’s the twins’ turn to have the stomach bug. Since Thanksgiving, the whole family has been ill at least twice, first with the flu, now this. “I haven’t seen this much vomit since that Sigma Chi party freshman year,” Grace tells Jackie.

  “Can I help?”

  “Nooooo. Stay far, far away.”

  “Well, call me if it gets uglier.”

  “It’s a twenty-four-hour thing. What’s today?”

  “Sunday.”

  “I knew that. Okay, I figure by Tuesday we’re done. If I can get a sitter, can we do something Wednesday? Something adults do?”

  “Hang on.” Jackie consults her calendar. “My afternoon is officially yours. I’ll make a plan and let you know.”

  “You’re the best, Jacks.”

  Jackie’s urge to hold her sister is so acute, tears of frustration sting her nose. “I love you, too, Gracie.”

  She ends the call, and daydreams about stealing a few peaceful hours with Grace. Outside the bedroom window, rain is falling in sheets. With an empty afternoon ahead of her, she decides to lose herself in a movie. Jackie checks the showtimes on her phone, grabs a raincoat, and heads downstairs. Antonio’s door is closed, and there’s no sign he’s been up. She texts him her plans and drives toward the Uptown Loews theaters.

  An accident on Connecticut slows her progress, and by the time she gets to the theater, the show is sold out. Wandering through stores on her own doesn’t appeal to her. She is seeking escape from thoughts of Antonio’s potential instability, news about the data fraud, and further disturbing encounters with Nasira. Nothing in the mall can promise that. Jackie gets back in her car and drives home, envisioning a prosaic afternoon with a book and a pot of tea by the window in her room.

  She parks in the drive. Rain is hammering down. She prepares her umbrella and dashes to the front door, which opens just as she reaches the bottom step. A tall, heavyset man in a black windbreaker with the hood up is in the doorway, turning to speak to someone inside. Antonio presumably. She can’t see because the man is blocking her view.

  Jackie takes the next step. The man still has not seen her. He extends his hand to Antonio. Jackie is expecting a handshake, but the man’s palm is up. It closes over whatever Antonio has given him, a practiced move, as smooth as the delivery of the item into his pants pocket. Antonio is closing the door.

  The man turns and sees Jackie. The cap he’s wearing under the hood shades his eyes. His cheeks are pockmarked, and his neck is heavily tattooed. Jackie steps back and feels an adrenaline surge.

  “Oh. Hey.” His tone is calm and his posture relaxed.

  Behind him, the door opens again. Antonio must have heard the man speak. When the boy spots Jackie, his eyes shoot open in surprise. “I thought you went to a movie.”

  The man shuffles past her. “Later.”

  Antonio retreats inside. Jackie watches the man until he is no longer in sight; her heart rate slows. She shakes out her umbrella and walks inside, impatient to find out what the hell is going on. Jackie finds Antonio in the living room, sitting in near darkness. She turns on the lights, her irritation growing. Antonio doesn’t look up and Jackie’s suspicions bloom.

  She takes a seat across from him. “Who was that?”

  “A friend.”

  “Antonio, look at me.”

  He gets up and starts toward his room.

  Jackie jumps up and intercepts him at the kitchen. “I saw you give him something. Was it money?”

  He doesn’t say anything, keeps his head down.

  “Did you take something?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like drugs. Like pills.”

  “No.” He glances at her. His eyes seem normal, but that’s not definitive.

  “Are you about to?”

  He throws his hands up. “Could you quit with the third degree?”

  “No, I can’t. It looked to me like that guy was here, in my house, selling drugs to you. I’m not going to let that go.” She searches for the right thing to say. He’s safer here than anywhere else other than a rehab facility, but she can’t tolerate drug deals under her nose. “I’m worried about you. You’ve got finals this week.”

  “Hey, I’m aware.”

  “Will you empty your pockets, let me search your room?”

  He pulls back. “What? No.” He wriggles his torso, shakes out one leg, then the other. “Just let me go to my room, okay?”

  Jackie doesn’t like the idea of physically blocking him, but neither does she want to let him lock himself inside his room and do God knows what. She steps aside. “You have to leave the door open.”

  He storms past. “No way.” He goes inside and slams the door.

  Jackie retrieves her phone
from her bag and calls Miles, but he doesn’t pick up. She texts him, saying she thinks Antonio has drugs. She fills a glass with water from the tap, drinks it. What is she supposed to do now? Call the police? What would they do? She resolves to give Antonio a few minutes, then talk to him again, maybe invite him to go out, have dinner with her. She can’t remember the last time the two of them did something normal together. No wonder he wasn’t very responsive to her. She always felt she was on good terms with Antonio, but when dealing with problems this daunting, nothing is more valuable than a deep reservoir of goodwill.

  She calls Miles again and leaves a voice mail. It’s Sunday evening—wasn’t he supposed to be free?

  A door opens down the hall, and Antonio lopes by, a bag slung over his shoulder.

  “Where are you going?” He walks to the front door and puts on his boots, lacing them. Jackie follows him. “Please don’t go. Let’s talk.”

  He straightens, adjusts the bag. “Listen, Jackie. I know you’re trying to do the right thing, but I can’t stay here.” He wiggles his shoulders, an abbreviation of his tic. “I’m crashing at a friend’s.”

  “Can you wait until finals are over? You’re so close.”

  Antonio groans. “Did I say I was skipping out on them? Did I say that?”

  He’s keyed up now, bouncing on his toes. Jackie wants to hug him, gather him together. He’s like a flywheel inside, about to let go, spin free, and he has no clue what to do about it. If he were a small boy, she could help him with this. She could hold him, ground him. But she doesn’t dare touch him, not when he’s so agitated. What choice does she have but to let him go? At least he doesn’t have a car. That’s a plus.

  “Will you tell me who your friend is, just so I know where you are?”

  He eyes her, considering. “I’ll text you later.”

  She figures he won’t. “Please stay. I’ll make you something to eat.” Be honest. Be real. “I’ve been having a really shitty time lately, and I’d love to just hang out with you and not think about it.” Jackie hears the pleading tone in her voice. Okay, so she’s pleading.

  His face darkens. “That’s so fake, Jackie. You wanting to be my mom so you can make up for the fact that my dad is never around.” He takes a step toward the door, pauses with his back to her, before swiveling to face her. “I don’t know how you can stand this. I don’t know what you tell yourself this is”—he gestures to the walls, the house—“but it isn’t what you think, and I can’t stand to be around it anymore.”

  Jackie stares at Antonio in confusion. “Stand what? What are you talking about?”

  He shakes his head. “I know I’ve got issues, and it’s a pain in the ass, but at least I’m not lying to myself.” He opens the door, and a blast of wet, cold air fills the entry. “See you later, Jackie.”

  She grabs the door, her head buzzing with confusion. “Wait!” He’s already bounding down the walk in the rain, pulling up his hood, hunching over. “Wait!” She’s on the porch. The wind drives the spray into her face. She wants him to stay with her, to be safe. She’ll let him be secretive and sullen. She won’t mother him. She’ll know he’s there, and when Miles finally calls her, she can tell him everything is fine. Everything is perfectly fine.

  Jackie wants Antonio to come back, explain what he meant, but realizes as she wipes the rain from her eyes and hugs herself, shivering, that she’s not fine, and yet she was prepared to lie. Antonio meant more by what he said, she is sure, but that’s the start of it, because maybe it’s true after all that the worst lies are the ones you tell yourself.

  Miles’s Story

  Essex, England, 1987

  I didn’t want to leave my school in France for a new one in England. Probably no kid ever wants to change schools, especially not at thirteen, but my father was transferred to Cambridge by his company, so that was that. His boss suggested Felsted for me, a four-hundred-year-old public school an hour away from our new house. It wasn’t Eton, but then, I wasn’t exactly Eton material.

  It was all the same to me. I didn’t mind studying—it came fairly easily—but I lived for rugby. Felsted had a respectable team, so I was as happy as I could be, with my Dutch-French-accented English and my feet as big as canoes. Having yet to grow into my own body, I tripped myself up regularly, but never on the pitch.

  The boys at the school were like boys anywhere: full of piss and vinegar, afraid to admit when they were scared, and always ready to settle any conflict with their fists. If I’d entered Felsted when they had, at age eight, I’d have fit right in. As it was, I knew from the outset I would have to see which way things fell, whether I would find a slot I could be content with and perhaps be a part of something, a group, or whether I would suffer as an outsider.

  Two things worked in my favor. Rugby is a fall sport, and I made the second team easily, giving me teammates if not friends. Second, I had a knack for languages; I coasted in French and Greek. The Greek, in particular, set me apart, although I was careful not to be too capable; nobody likes the kid with all the answers.

  Greek 4 was a small class, only ten of us, and since we shared other classes, too, I got to know those boys quickly—at least the ones who acknowledged me. Tim Grantham and Quincy Rodd were on my floor in Gebb’s House, and after my first week they invited me to study with them. Grantham, a quick-witted, chummy boy, seemed to know absolutely everyone. Friday night of my first full weekend, we were just finishing eating when Grantham grabbed the jacket of a boy passing our table and made him sit. I scooted over to make room.

  “Miles! Meet my mate Ryan Underwood. He’s all right when he’s not being a wanker.”

  Ryan smirked at Grantham and punched him in the shoulder. They grappled for a moment, but with subtlety, to stay under the radar of the masters at the high table. Ryan let go first. He pushed back the hair that had fallen into his eyes, shook his jacket straight, and turned to me, extending his hand.

  “Miles. Sorry about that.”

  I must have shaken his hand, but I don’t remember it. All I remember are those eyes of his, a blue like the sea beyond the breakers. I felt dizzy and a bit unwell, as if a hole had suddenly appeared at my feet and I was on the verge of falling in. He must’ve read my expression, or understood something, because one corner of his mouth lifted in a cockeyed grin. My dizziness eased, and in its place I felt extraordinary happiness, that first-day-of-summer feeling. I thought I was going mad. Who knows what my face betrayed, but Ryan just grinned wider.

  “Have you got a surname, my new friend Miles?”

  “De Haas.” And I stupidly added, “I’m Dutch.”

  “Better than French.”

  Grantham chimed in. “I figured you for Greek the way you can bloody decline.”

  They all laughed. By the time it died down, Grantham was telling a story to someone at the far end of the table. I fiddled with the treacle pudding on my tray—disgusting stuff if you’re used to crème brûlée—and tried to think of something to say. I could feel Ryan looking at me, which was making my thoughts jump around in my head like fleas.

  He nudged me. “Chin up, my new friend Miles.”

  I turned partway toward him, staying away from those eyes.

  “Tomorrow’s Games Day. Should be a bit of fun.” He stood and jumped backward over the bench. He smiled again, and I felt it in my knees. “I’ll find you.”

  “All right. See you.”

  After he left, I was relieved—and sorry he’d gone.

  I didn’t know what to do with myself. It was like the world had been shaken and reordered, and I was the only one who noticed. I couldn’t fall asleep that night, just lay there staring at the ceiling beams, listening to the other boys turn in their beds and murmur in their dreams.

  Ryan didn’t touch me that weekend or even the one after that. It wasn’t like that. Okay, maybe in part. For me, it was bigger than that. I was happy around him, and when I wasn’t, I was half-miserable and half-happy just to be able to think about him. I felt like a
fool around him, and probably was, and also as if I had a light around me only he could see. That was the heart of it. I’d fooled around some with girls, making out, a grope or two, but I’d never felt like this. The touching, the kissing—I’m not going to pretend I didn’t want it, or he didn’t want it, but he was as beautiful to me walking toward me on a footpath, unaware of me, as when I held him.

  And that, rather than the physical part, was what other boys noticed. Boys fooled around at Felsted like at any other school. It wasn’t a secret, but neither was it discussed. There was an unspoken hierarchy; for instance, Year 9 boys blew Year 10s and older, never the reverse. But mooning over someone? That was disastrous. Mooning was for girls.

  “Millie! Hey, Millie! I think I see Ryan coming!” they would screech. Once it started, it was relentless. I was new. I was foreign. I was a girl. Me, not Ryan, because he was there first, part of their tribe, and maybe he didn’t look at me the way I looked at him. It was hard for me to know for certain and still is. They called me other names, too—the predictable ones—and that shocked me. I wasn’t queer or a faggot or whatever else. I didn’t like boys or men. I liked Ryan. He ignored the taunts, reminding me of how my mother would pretend not to hear my little brother’s whining. Maybe it was an effective strategy, but it also felt like a betrayal. The idea of Ryan betraying me was also confusing. I was confused about everything, it seems.

  One evening in November, I waited for him outside the gym where he fenced. The fencing group was small and didn’t include any of our mates, plus it would be dark when he emerged. It was a safe place to meet, and I needed to talk to him.

  He saw me straightaway and peeled off from the group. We kept a distance between us and went to the back of the building.