Nobody, Somebody, Anybody

by Kelly McClorey

  My breath ricocheted off the side of the crate and splashed, hot, back at me. I tried to focus only on that, on each breath, and to imagine the crate was a growth, an irregular mass comprised of my own tissue, and if I could only convince myself it was benign, it would be. Eventually I felt the hump of the curb under my shoes: I’d made it to the end of the street. I crossed to the next without attempting to look for traffic. For all I knew there was a parade of cars already watching, waiting for me to fall. Soon after, my hands became too slippery and I was forced to wiggle the crate to the ground. I took inventory of my aches, checked circulation, sensation, and movement of each limb, tested for capillary refill in the tips of my fingers. All this because I couldn’t simply say “No, I don’t have a car!” Then again, wouldn’t Doug have a hunch that I, the chambermaid, did not in fact own a car, and couldn’t this be some elaborate form of punishment? If so, Roula would be behind it. I spun around, as though I might find a clue out there on the sidewalk. Besides passing cars, the only noise came from a pub with its door wedged open, muffled voices and laughter. The air inside looked cool, dark. All at once my dry mouth began to open and close like a fish, and I tasted the shot of rum Doug had shared with me, it flooded my greedy tongue, and then I found myself hauling up the crate and carrying it through the door.

  Inside, two ceiling fans chopped the air, making me tingle all over. I thudded the crate to the ground beside a stool and ordered a rum and Coke with extra ice. Sweat drooled down my legs and into my sneakers. The instant the bartender slid the drink toward me, ice clacking, I guzzled it down and requested another.

  The television—how I’d missed it these past weeks!—played a familiar reality show: two strangers dropped onto a deserted island with no clothes and only one tool apiece had to prove their survival skills. At the other end of the bar, a couple discussed the show, projecting their voices for the benefit of the bartender and me and the one other customer, an old bearded man slouched over his drink. “You laugh now, but just you wait,” the woman was saying. “When everything’s gone to hell and there’s no more running water or electricity or grocery stores, then all those people living in huts in Africa will have the advantage.” She moved her plastic straw aside and sucked right from the glass. “You certainly couldn’t hack it, anyway. He wouldn’t survive one day without beer and a TV.”

  “What would be the point! Right, Jim?”

  The bartender nodded without looking up.

  I only wanted to savor my fresh cold drink and follow the closed captions, but the slouchy old man turned out to be even more burdensome than the loud couple. He kept burping, sending puff after puff of foul breath into the air, making no attempt to cover his mouth.

  “God. Do you mind?” I said, flapping the air. “That’s disgusting.”

  He burped once in my direction. I could hear gas circulating in his gut, and his burps began to detonate even faster, more like hiccups.

  The couple had paused to listen. The woman said, “You tell him, hon!”

  “You probably have heartburn,” I said. “Alcohol can be a trigger.” When he refused to acknowledge me, I said, “I once read about a man who had the hiccups for two and a half years. He thought it was heartburn, but it turned out he was wrong. It was a brain tumor.”

  The man huffed off his seat and into a booth in the back.

  “Is that true, or did you make it up?” the woman asked.

  “I’m an EMT,” I said, and held my card up.

  “I once had the hiccups for an entire week, remember that? I tried everything, even had Dale try to scare them out of me—as if it’s not scary enough just looking at him.”

  “It wasn’t a week,” he said. “It was like a day.” He stood and told the bartender they needed to head out, they’d be back as soon as humanly possible. An alarm sounded in my head—how much time had I let pass? I rushed to put money on the counter and heave the crate into my arms.

  The couple held the door for me, and as I passed through, a plan began to materialize. I followed the sound of their footsteps, groaning and panting to advertise my struggle. It was a shameful ploy, and normally I wouldn’t have the nerve, but I was desperate and emboldened by the rum and those two strangers on the deserted island.

  “She can’t carry that,” I heard her say from somewhere on the other side of the crate. “Honestly, Dale. When’s the last time we did our good deed? We’re low on karma.”

  There was a sigh, a pause, some whispering. I let my groans intensify. Finally the man peeked his head around the crate. “Just where do you think you’re headed with that monstrosity?” he asked.

  “Just down to the Salters Cove Yacht Club. It’s not too far.”

  “A yacht club! I thought you were an EMT.”

  “It’s just a summer job.”

  “Come on,” she said. “We’ll drop you off.”

  Reclining in the back seat, one hand securing the crate beside me and the air conditioner on full blast, I felt triumphant. “I liked how you said that, ‘Do you mind?’” the woman said. “It’s disgusting to go around burping, in a public place like that.” She held her hands over the air-conditioning vents. “It’s way too hot for you to be carrying that all this way. You could’ve passed out! They’re lucky we helped.”

  They didn’t know the way, so I told them where to turn and pull over. They squirmed to get a better look at the clubhouse, swarming with even more people now. “This kind of thing makes me sick,” the man said.

  “Well, thanks very much,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”

  The woman twisted to face me. “You make sure you tell them what I said. It’s too dangerous in this heat. You could’ve passed out.”

  “This place can’t afford delivery?” he said.

  I grunted my way through the mob and dropped the crate under the first white tent, hoping it was the right place; I couldn’t make it one more step. Two employees with tucked-in shirts swooped in. One of them said, “Finally.” They separated the layers of the crate and began pulling out the contents, peach and yellow bouquets arranged in crystal vases. Some water had spilled out and collected at the bottom. No wonder it had been so heavy. I lingered, in case one of them felt inclined to thank me or include me somehow.

  “So, what’s on the menu?” I asked, to remind them I was still there.

  No one answered. Not that I blamed them. They already had a whole team, each with his own designated role and a white tucked-in shirt with a stiff collar, and meanwhile I wore a ratty old T-shirt, now drenched in so much sweat it had changed color. They would never guess that I had my own professional uniform, arriving tonight by 8:00 p.m.—the secret made me feel giggly, untouchable. As I walked back to the clubhouse, the damp shirt slapped against my skin, making a sound like applause.

  * * *

  I found the package waiting outside my door. Though tired and sore, I made a ceremony of it, scrubbing my hands clean before running a knife along the seams of the box. I methodically inspected the pants and then the shirt, taking note of each thoughtfully planned detail and tugging on the material to demonstrate its durability. I saved the patch for last. I closed my eyes and passed my finger over the embroidery as though reading braille: the NREMT symbol, the letters in “Commonwealth of Massachusetts” and “Emergency Medical Technician,” the coat of arms in the state seal. With a sewing needle and thread, I fastened the patch to the shirt sleeve with painstaking care. Then I got dressed, topping it off with my black treaded boots and a ponytail.

  I observed myself in the mirror from every angle, taking it all in. I opened my laptop and set a ten-second countdown on the webcam. I stood back, my sleeve to the camera and my hands on my hips, looking over my shoulder. I smiled, waiting for 0. It looked good, except you could see the mess in the background, so I positioned myself in front of the front door and tried again. I typed an email to my father, thanking him so much for the magazine subscription. “P.S. Here I am in my new uniform!” I wrote at the bottom, and added my
brother to the cc line.

  In science, there is a preference for simplicity. The principle of Occam’s razor says that the simplest explanation tends to be true, and as I looked over the photo one last time before pressing send, that principle worked in my favor. It was much easier to believe that the person in front of me was an EMT than to believe she’d gone through all the trouble of creating a three-phase treatment to placebo herself into passing an exam.

  Nine

  Seared salmon and panzanella. With corn, shishito peppers, and Thai basil,” Gary said as I took a seat at his kitchen table. “Whatever all that means.” He dropped our plates right on top of a layer of envelopes and newspapers. I hadn’t been over for a few days, and it seemed he’d spent that time accumulating as much trash as possible, crusty bowls and pans and takeout cartons with food fossilizing inside. I, on the other hand, had been making the most of our off nights, getting used to the feel of the uniform against my skin and the sight of the patch on my arm in the mirror. One night I’d even ventured outside with it after the neighborhood had gone to bed, just one quick trip around the block, running at top speed as though responding to a cardiac emergency.

  “Panzanella?” I asked.

  “Some Italian thing—well, obviously. Like a salad but with bread instead of lettuce. I guess a salad made of bread should be right up my alley, ha.” His face was visibly damp, and a little scrap of onion skin was stuck to his forehead. “Oh, I almost forgot . . .” He touched his head and discovered the onion skin there, snorting when he saw what it was and crumbling it between his fingers. “These shisisto peppers, or whatever they’re called—apparently they’re supposed to be sweet, but then every so often one happens to turn out spicy. Don’t ask me why people would even bother with them, if that’s the case. But just so you know. Of course, that would be just my luck.”

  I ate slowly, not because of the peppers but because I was still distracted, taking in the state of the kitchen. He’d converted the third kitchen chair into a combination recycling bin, trash can, and laundry basket. I spotted the glass vase by the sink, full of dirty silverware. “So,” I said. “How have things been? Is everything okay with you?”

  We heard a meow, and the cat came striding in. She gave my ankles their customary greeting and meowed again, more forcefully. “She doesn’t like anyone eating without her,” he said, standing. She bounded over to take a handful of treats from his palm, and it gave me a clash of bittersweet feelings, seeing how familiar and exclusive they’d already become.

  Gary watched her wander back to the living room and wiped his palm on his pant leg. “When I have the AC on, she likes to sleep right here.” He raised his elbow, circled the space under his armpit. “I wasn’t sure if I should let her sleep in the bed, you know, in case Irina didn’t like that. But at this rate, it looks like a cat’s the only thing I’m going to be sleeping with. Might as well get used to it. Is your salmon rubbery?”

  “Not at all. I’m practically inhaling it.” I tipped my plate toward him. “So, is everything okay? You seem a little, I don’t know, down.”

  “To be honest, things are kind of rough right now. A little up in the air, I guess you could say. We had a fight. Me and Irina. I mean, not that we haven’t had fights before—that’s normal with any relationship. But this was, I don’t know. Different.”

  “What was it about?”

  “Well . . . you, sort of.” The blood drained from my face and neck. “I mean, not really, not like it’s your fault or anything.” He cast his eyes down and prodded the slab of fish on his plate. “It’s her friends, really. They keep putting ideas in her head about how I need to get her a bigger ring and a new house, because they think it’s weird, someone else living here. Especially another woman.”

  “But it’s a separate apartment.”

  “That’s what I told her! She has no idea how expensive things are here, what the housing market’s like—it’s just not feasible. I never thought someone that beautiful would get so jealous. I know she’s just nervous, that’s why she gets so hung up on every detail. But I can only take so much, you know? It’s always all about her, all the time. What Irina wants, how Irina feels.”

  I discovered a half-dissolved tomato on my tongue—I’d forgotten to chew. But now I saw it was my turn to talk, to respond somehow, and I fought to swallow it down. “That doesn’t sound very fair,” I said. “It’s a lot of pressure to put on you.”

  “Well, so the big news was she finally got her interview scheduled at the embassy. But now she’s saying she’s not going to show up. She doesn’t want to come anymore. It’s over, that’s what she said. And she’s going to mail the ring back. So dramatic.” He stabbed a cucumber with his fork and narrowed his eyes. “I always hated cucumbers.”

  “Do you think she meant it?” My voice came out quivery. It took me by surprise, how much I hoped he would say yes, she’d meant it, it was over, for good. With time he’d recover from the disappointment, and I would be there to help every step of the way, we would take care of each other.

  “Who knows. Honestly, it would be a relief at this point.” He lowered his plate and made a kissing sound, and the cat reappeared. It wasn’t like him to leave food behind.

  “If you feel relieved, maybe that’s a sign. You guys do seem to have a lot of issues. Maybe you’re just not that compatible.”

  “To top it all off, I’m supposed to go to a wedding, of all things. And I can’t back out—it’s for the head of my division. It’s like the universe gets a kick out of making me suffer.” He shuffled through the heap of mail on the table and unearthed an invitation, which I recognized instantly. Once upon a time I had pried it open with a butter knife after steaming it over the stove. Coming face to face with it again, without any of the haste or secrecy this time, I almost broke out laughing.

  “I thought once I was engaged, I wouldn’t hate weddings as much,” Gary said.

  “I’ve only been to one, that I can remember. My cousin’s. And that was a pretty long time ago.”

  He scraped the edge of the invitation across the tablecloth, collecting crumbs. “To tell you the truth, I was actually married before.”

  I felt my head jerk forward, as if I had no control over my own neck. “You were married?”

  “I like to pretend it was just a bad dream. I hardly ever talk about it. Irina doesn’t even know.” He raised his eyebrows, seeming almost amused by the idea of breaking that news to her. “It only lasted a couple months. She was cheating pretty much the whole time. So yeah, that was—” He scrunched his nose.

  “That’s awful.”

  “Yeah.” He’d amassed a pile of crumbs, and now he used the invitation to cut it into smaller piles. “That’s partly why the ninety-day thing makes me so crazy. I can’t make another mistake, it almost killed me the first time. I promised myself I wouldn’t rush into things again. But the way the visa works, they don’t leave you any choice. But I guess none of that matters now anyway. All this worrying for nothing, if it really is over. She might never even talk to me again. So anyway.”

  “I could go to the wedding with you, if you wanted. To keep you company. Maybe if you had a friend there, you wouldn’t hate it as much.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s on the Cape, a week from Saturday. I was planning to just drive back late, avoid the Sunday traffic.”

  “It could be fun.”

  “The food should be good at least—he’s making his famous southern barbecue. And it’ll be really laid-back, more like just a backyard party than a regular wedding, so you don’t have to worry about dressing up. Hank’s a good guy. I only met her once or twice. She’s got a couple kids from a previous marriage. But—I don’t know. What do you think Irina will say? She’d probably never forgive me.”

  “I thought it was over.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, if she really cares about you, she wouldn’t want you to go and be miserable, when you c
ould bring a friend. It can’t always be all about her, if it’s really going to work. She needs to consider your feelings too. Give and take. She should be happy that you’re happy.” I felt queasy as it came out of my mouth. Give and take, that much was true, but from what I knew about Irina, there was no way she would understand, let alone be happy. Here I was, his most trusted adviser, setting him up for failure. But on the other hand, appeasing Irina clearly wasn’t in his best interest, and maybe my role as his friend demanded that I act in his best interest even when, or especially when, he was unable or unwilling to do so himself. The doomed look on his face, the disorder in his kitchen, the relentless scraping of the invitation across the table, collecting more and more crumbs—all this conveyed a clear message that his mouth wasn’t yet ready to articulate: he wanted a way out and needed me to guide him toward it.

  “It would be nice to have the company,” he said. “You’re right, that shouldn’t be too much to ask. You’re sure you don’t mind, though?”

  “Positive. We can just relax, make the most of it. You’ll forget about all this stuff.” I finished my meal and leaned back, placing a hand on the knot of my full, satisfied stomach. “Hey, none of our peppers turned out to be the spicy kind. The universe isn’t completely against you.”

  He smiled, a meager, fleeting smile, but a smile nonetheless. “I’m sure lucky I’ve had you around this summer,” he said. “I mean, I feel bad, you probably feel like you’re in a soap opera or you’re my therapist or something. But I don’t know what I would’ve done.” He reached across and patted the table near my hand.

  * * *

  It wasn’t until I was back up in my apartment, reading my congratulations letter one last time before bed, that the dreadful, intractable, excruciating problem presented itself. I’d just finished luxuriating in a long, cool bath during which I’d strategized about all I needed to do before the following weekend: get my hair cut and purchase a dress that would be special but still casual, an airy style that would let me float by Gary’s side, self-assured and even-tempered, the polar opposite of Irina. He would watch me in my new dress with my new bouncy hair and discover how simple and easy things could be, and then a song comes on that he doesn’t hate—a classic, maybe Ray Charles or Frank Sinatra—and we glide onto the dance floor together, enjoying the experience without taking ourselves too seriously, and it occurs to him that he already has everything he needs. When my fingertips had shriveled up, I drained the tub and stepped into my uniform. Just as I reached the refrigerator and began “Dear Amy,” it hit me, the one detail my brain had blocked out. A week from Saturday, that would be—August 25. But no, that couldn’t be right. I opened my laptop and checked the calendar, running my finger over the days. I found the email confirming my registration for the exam. The numbers appeared on the screen, the 2 and the 5, in obnoxious bold text. Still, I couldn’t help refreshing the page as though it might somehow change. Even after I stopped hoping and wasn’t even looking at the numbers anymore, just glaring straight ahead with hot unblinking eyes, my finger continued to press the button, refreshing the page over and over and over again.