by Meg Rosoff
He tried texting Julie to say Dante was missing Wilma, could he have Wilma’s phone number? But when he checked to see why she failed to respond, the text didn’t record as delivered. She’d blocked him, the evil harpy.
He called to make an appointment with the vet.
‘Well I think you really hurt Dr Barnes’s feelings and we’ll have to charge you for the skipped appointment. But I know you like to see Dr Clare,’ Iris squeaked. ‘Can Dante wait till Monday?’
Did he have a choice?
In the interim he lay in bed thinking thoughts that kept him awake. He barely slept on Saturday or Sunday night and arrived at the vet’s three hours before his appointment on Monday looking ragged and tense.
‘You should go out and get lunch,’ Iris suggested. ‘It’s her first day back and she’s very busy. Otherwise you’ll just have to sit and read old magazines.’
‘That’s fine,’ Jonathan said, running his hand through his hair and realizing he hadn’t brushed it in recent memory. His clothes felt as if he’d slept in them and he thought he might have developed a twitch. He wished someone had done scientific experiments to determine whether attraction could be completely one-sided. What if she felt nothing in his presence? Had anyone done definitive work on the subject? Was there time to google it?
She came out to tell him she was running late, but when he tried to smile his face contorted into something halfway between a grimace and a scowl. Did she look tanned and happy, as if she’d been to Greece with some new boyfriend? Not really, he thought, peering at her. She had faint purplish shadows under her eyes.
His hands shook so he sat on them. It was cool in the waiting room but he found he was sweating. He loved her just as much with purplish shadows under her eyes, possibly more.
‘Jonathan. You can come in now.’ Her smile seemed paler than usual.
He followed her in.
She looked at him and he noticed that the rims of her eyes were pinkish. ‘Is Dante still not eating?’
‘No, no. No no. He’s eating.’
‘Coughing?’
He shook his head.
‘Limping?’
‘No, nothing. He’s fine, actually.’
A silence fell. It seemed to last a long time. He struggled to speak. She waited.
‘Dr Clare, did you have a nice vacation?’
‘Not particularly.’ Her voice had an edge to it. ‘I went to London. To see my parents.’
‘Parents,’ he said, nodding, thoughtful, as if unfamiliar with the concept. ‘Are they nice?’
‘Nice?’ She screwed up her face and shook her head slightly in confusion. ‘Jonathan, please. Why are you here?’
He inhaled deeply. ‘Dr Vet,’ he said. ‘I’ve discovered something.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I’ve discovered that your ex-boyfriend is Mark.’
‘My what?’ She seemed genuinely confounded.
‘I discovered that my ex-girlfriend left me for your ex-boyfriend. Mark. My ex-girlfriend is your ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend.’
‘Sorry?’ Bewilderment followed by shock.
‘No, I’m sorry. Very very very sorry. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t, in fact.’
‘Are we talking about Julie?’
‘Julie. Yes.’
‘You’re Julie’s boyfriend?’
‘Ex-boyfriend.’
‘How on earth did you stand her? She’s appalling.’
‘You’ve met her?’
‘Mr Arsehole introduced us. Like we’d start a bloody book club together.’
‘You don’t like him any more?’
Her face emptied of what little colour remained. ‘Like him? What do you think?’
‘It’s just that I’ve only heard about him from Julie, who made him sound like a cross between Nelson Mandela and Mahatma Gandhi. I thought you might want him back.’
‘You thought wrong.’
‘The thing is,’ Jonathan searched her face for encouragement, ‘Julie said the dogs missed Wilma. I figured there couldn’t be two dogs named Wilma in New York City. Or at the very least, it was exceedingly unlikely.’
‘So it was your dogs that caused the break-up.’
‘Not exactly.’ He felt a little desperate. ‘I don’t think you can say they caused it. And anyway, by that logic, Wilma’s not exactly blameless either. They’re dogs. They had no idea they were messing up everyone’s relationships by wanting to hang out together.’
From the floor, Dante lifted his head but Jonathan refused to meet his eyes.
‘You were about to marry her.’
‘I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.’
She stared at him, dumbfounded. ‘That’s why you were getting married?’
‘I needed to change my life.’ The pitch was not going well. ‘Look, it’s incredibly complicated but . . .’
‘If it was change you were after, why not jump in front of a train? It’d be just as effective. And quicker.’
‘I wasn’t thinking straight. I often don’t. It’s not my best thing.’
Dr Clare covered her face with her hands and then dropped them, slowly. ‘If there are no actual medical problems, you’d better go. There are patients waiting.’
‘I’ve quit my job,’ he said. ‘Actually, I was fired.’
‘What?’
Jonathan sighed. ‘I worked for a third-wave marketing company called Comrade. It was hell.’
‘Why are you telling me all this? I haven’t a clue what a third-wave marketing company is.’
‘No one does,’ he said. ‘It’s a horrible job, but it paid the bills. I’m not sure what I’ll do now. I, I just thought you should know. I guess I hoped, maybe . . . I hoped maybe telling you what a disaster my life is might make you feel a little bit better about yours. Your break-up, I mean.’ Oh lord. ‘Dr Clare?’
‘Yes?’
‘I wish I could make you feel better. Making you feel better would make me feel better.’
She swiped a hand across her eyes. ‘I think you should go now.’ Was she crying?
‘I hate the fact that I’ve been associated with your unhappiness. I want your life to be filled with joy.’
She laughed, an incredulous laugh. ‘Filled with joy?’
‘Joy and love and happiness. Exultation. I apologize on behalf of my dogs for spoiling that. And on behalf of my ex-girlfriend.’ He looked up and met her gaze. ‘You should be exultant. An amazing woman like you. You deserve to be happy all the time.’ What could he say next? Could he prostrate himself at her feet? Offer references? Send the list of charitable donations from his tax return?
The silence deepened. He was done. There was nothing left to say.
‘Please, Jonathan.’ Her tone was softer. ‘Please. Just go.’
He’d been wrong. His dreams had misled him. She hadn’t warmed to him. He was the enemy. He was that crazy guy with hypochondriac dogs or possibly a deep psychological problem projected on to two perfectly innocent animals. He was the moron who nearly married the harpy who broke up her perfectly happy relationship with the lawyer.
He stood up, gathered the leashes and left with his dogs, hoping until the very last second that she’d call him back.
She didn’t.
35
Jonathan took the dogs down to the East River and they sat for a long time, watching the boats go by in the soft light of a summer afternoon. Pulling out his phone, he stared at it and thought about texting Max. But Max would be at work, and later he’d be out having a fantastic time with his new gorgeous girlfriend. Probably the girl who’d taken his job. The beautiful, employed one.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket and sat, thinking about Dr Clare.
And sat, thinking about Julie.
And sat, thinking about the dwindling money in his bank account.
And sat, thinking about the shady characters who owned his apartment, wondering if they’d all been wiped out by a mob hit, or were just waiting for him to be so far in a
rrears they felt justified in killing him.
Hour after hour he sat, thinking about his life, until the light began to dim and shift and the setting sun cast shadows across the river.
All at once a wave of anxiety crashed over him. His lungs twisted shut as he gasped for breath, his heart hurtled nowhere in frantic rhythm. Despite the cool evening, sweat ran down his face and neck. Sissy looked up at him and whimpered.
I’m having a heart attack, he thought, or something worse. I can’t breathe, I’m going to suffocate in my own lungs.
He couldn’t even scream for help. Pitching forward, he pressed his head to the ground, his breath coming in desperate heaves.
After five terrible minutes, his symptoms began to recede. His lungs unclenched, air flooded his chest. He wanted to sob with relief and misery. This was all just great. First a hysterical stroke, now a near-death panic attack. Whatever next?
He called Greeley.
‘Hello,’ Greeley said. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Fabulous,’ said Jonathan. There was a long silence. ‘It’s going shit, actually, Greeley. I don’t know what to do.’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘What kind of question is that? If I knew what I wanted to do, I wouldn’t not know, would I?’ Greeley the wise could be a real pain sometimes.
‘How about coming up to the forest this weekend?’
Jonathan sighed. ‘I’ll just ask.’ He looked at his dogs, who gazed back, expectant. ‘You don’t want to go upstate, do you? Veer off the path? Stumble across a life-changing eddy? You don’t want to have long walks in the woods, meet a moose, learn the meaning of life from Uncle Greeley with his Wisdom of the Ages? Or, we could just stay here in a state of suicidal despair and wait for the mafia to gun us down in cold blood.’
Sissy wagged her tail faintly.
Jonathan turned back to the phone.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘We’d love to.’
‘Good. I’ll pick you up at seven on Saturday morning. I have to be back Monday night, but time expands when you’re up there.’
‘OK.’
‘And pack light. My car’s pretty small.’
‘Change of leash and a toothbrush,’ Jonathan said.
He could hear Greeley nod.
‘We’ll be ready,’ Jonathan said, and hung up. ‘Well,’ he said to the dogs. ‘We’re going on a bear hunt. We’re not scared.’
Which was not strictly true.
Greeley arrived a few minutes before seven on Saturday morning and double-parked while Jonathan and the dogs came down.
‘I hope the beds don’t take up too much room,’ Jonathan said, placing them on the back seat, where they fitted perfectly. The dogs hopped up on to the seat, settled, and looked expectantly at Greeley.
‘They’re set,’ Jonathan said. ‘Let’s go.’
Jonathan’s backpack contained dog food, a sweater, an extra T-shirt, clean socks and underwear, a toothbrush, iPad, phone charger, book. He dangled it on one finger and Greeley nodded approval. Three minutes later they were driving west, stopping two hours later for coffee and to stretch all twelve passenger legs.
The landscape grew wilder as they drove; the distance between signs of human habitation gradually increasing until there were mostly trees, punctuated by occasional sudden vistas opening briefly across a valley to mountains beyond. Jonathan thought about Dr Clare and how he’d blown his chance, spinning in spirals of self-loathing until misery made him drowsy. Greeley didn’t seem to require conversation so Jonathan allowed himself to doze off to the sound of the engine and the stream of music, all of which he liked but very little of which he recognized.
At the signpost for Finger Lakes National Forest, they pulled off the main road on to a narrow byway and from there on to a badly paved track that forked on to a dirt road, ending at last at a sand parking lot. Just beyond, a cluster of well-kept cabins perched along the edge of a lake. A square building sat at the end like a full stop.
Greeley parked the car. They were greeted by a man in his thirties dressed in a plain green shirt and chinos, who leaned in the open window.
‘Thought you’d be up yesterday,’ he said.
‘Me too,’ Greeley said. ‘This is my friend Jonathan.’
The man stuck his arm through the window and across Greeley. ‘Randall,’ he said, and Jonathan shook his hand. ‘Lunch is still on if you hurry.’
Dante and Sissy shot out of the car and raced down to the water. Sissy waded in and began to swim, turning a smooth arc back towards shore when Jonathan called her name.
They dumped their stuff in Greeley’s cabin and went for lunch, which was vegetarian or vegan: bean chilli or pumpkin risotto with a green salad and walnut bread.
‘Is this a cult?’ Jonathan whispered to Greeley. ‘I only ask because, well, everything. The dirt road, the friendly people . . .’
Greeley chewed a mouthful of bread. ‘Scientists. They present culty.’
Various stragglers chatted over coffee and tea; most came over and said a few words to Greeley. Everyone in the place seemed calm and busy; Jonathan wondered whether you had to have your blood pressure monitored in order to be considered for membership or whether something about the diet and the company caused your average twisted individuals with grudges on perpetual rerun to turn Zen. It was thrilling, like discovering the source of the Nile, but he couldn’t imagine himself as one of these serene personages and guessed there must be a compost heap out back full of cursing rejects.
‘They’d never let me live here,’ he said. ‘I’m the wrong psychological demographic.’
Greeley smiled. ‘You’re fine.’
Jonathan wondered briefly whether he’d been invited here as part of a seduction. Greeley was channelling field-station chic today in jeans, boots and a baseball cap, his sole concession to individual style a pale blue cashmere sweater. Jonathan paused to check the air for vibes, felt none and let the muscles of his jaw release. It felt unfamiliar but not unpleasant.
Greeley introduced him to every member of the team: Lucy, late twenties, serious expression, pale eyes; Elaine, fifties, slim, competent; Ben, tall, broad and friendly; Macca, ginger hair, round glasses, slow smile; Kahlo, young face, short dress, muscular calves. Kahlo asked if he was planning to stay.
Was he planning to stay? Of course not. Maybe. Not much was stopping him except the fact that there was no reason on earth for him to be here and nothing for him to do. He could always give up his apartment, he thought, and the rush of relief he felt surprised him.
Greeley smiled his Mona Lisa smile. ‘Stop thinking so much.’
They went to load a trailer with cut logs, working until Jonathan’s arms and back ached. But the results were satisfying and he had to resist the urge to take a picture on his phone.
Greeley spent the remaining hour before dinner entering data from his project into his laptop while Jonathan lounged on a somewhat dusty couch. The cabin had two small bedrooms, a living room, galley kitchen and a tiny study. Basic but perfect.
‘We’re testing DNA from adjoining plant species to trace the evolution of ecosystems,’ Greeley told Jonathan, who tried to look interested.
At dusk they walked a long path through the woods as the light dropped. Kahlo joined them, striding ahead and conversing nonstop with the dogs.
‘Is her real name Kahlo?’ Jonathan whispered. ‘Like Frida? She looks more like a Beth.’
Greeley shrugged. ‘Refugee from a bad family. I doubt she was born Kahlo.’
Jonathan wondered if he’d be considered a refugee if he stayed here. Refugee from career humiliation, dangerous real estate and the failure of what, for seventy-two hours, had felt like the real thing.
Late that night he lay in bed, trying to imagine living here for six months or a year, assisting one research team or another, or maybe working in the kitchen. He liked the feel of the place, the simplicity of life. He squinted, trying to imagine himself in L.L. Bean shirts, making hearty vegan stews and chopp
ing wood, living in a forest with a community of the spiritually pure, with a lumberjack transvestite for a best friend.
He liked loam, of course he did. But he also loved people and crowds and noise. He loved New York in the rain, in a soft covering of snow, ankle deep in slush. He didn’t mind the unbearable heat of summer because there was always somewhere cool to go, and anyway, you were supposed to complain all the time if you lived in New York. He liked the regular neighbourhood crazies and the take-out restaurants where he and the waiters who barely spoke English greeted each other by name. He loved the blue skies and the pink sunsets glimpsed in slivered reflections on buildings. He liked knowing exactly how long it took to walk ten blocks and the outdoor markets and the Korean grocers and the fact that, in the age of Netflix, everyone still went to the movies. He even liked the acrid smell of New York streets on garbage day.
The woods were lovely, dark and deep, but was he finished with New York?
Greeley kept him busy most of Sunday with a mountain hike and a comprehensive tour of his DNA test sites, and when at last it was cocktail hour and they retired to the cabin for a beer, a faint buzz reminded him that his phone had been on silent since they arrived. It was nice not thinking about technology, even for a day or two. He picked it up and checked the display.
A new message from an unfamiliar number read: What is your best thing?
His heart pounded as he texted back: Dr Clare?
You said thinking straight wasn’t your best thing. What is yr best thing?
He trembled violently and tapped out: Making bad decisions, then getting out of them in the clumsiest possible way.
Wow, she wrote. That’s quite impressive for a best thing. And yr worst thing?
Not till I’ve known you for decades, he texted. There was a long pause.
I’m sorry I was horrid the other day, she wrote. There was another pause. His phone indicated that she was still typing. It wasn’t what I was expecting.