by Blake Crouch
“It’s good,” he says. “It really is.”
I don’t believe him of course.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Would you tell me if it wasn’t?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hannah’s great.”
“Yep.”
“Why doesn’t she like me?”
He looks at me.
“What are you talking about?”
“I know when someone doesn’t like me. She doesn’t.”
He sighs.
“I think the whole just showing up unannounced thing kind of got to her, you know?”
I don’t know. If I were married and my spouse’s brother showed up without calling, I’d be thrilled to take them in and give them a bed and food, because that’s what you do for family.
“I’ll apologize,” I say, and Bo doesn’t say anything, and this really upsets me, because he should tell me I don’t have to apologize for anything to his wife, since I’m his brother after all. You just fuckin’ show up. This is your house, too. Didn’t he say that to me the night I came here?
Hannah steps out onto the back porch and asks if she can speak to Bo for a minute. The way Bo doesn’t say anything, but just hops off the table and jogs back toward the house confirms two things for me:
(i) he’s scared shitless of that woman; and
(ii) he hates her exponentially more than I do.
Sam is pretty engrossed with playing in the pool when Bo runs back into the house, but he notices. I guess kids always notice when their parents leave. Sam immediately looks at me like “should I be upset about this?” and I’m thinking please don’t start crying, but I guess he feels comfortable with me because he returns his attention to the water toys.
I step down into the grass and walk over to the pool.
“Hey, there, Sam.”
He looks up at me but doesn’t say anything. I step into the pool. The water is cool.
“Can I sit down, Sam?”
He looks at me but still won’t talk. I sit down and shiver as the cool water comes up to my bellybutton. Sam is playing with a green, plastic boat. He’s sailing it through the water. After awhile, he hands me a red boat. I sail it through the water just like he’s doing. He takes the red boat back and gives me the green one.
“Sam?” He looks up at me, squinting now as the sun has come up over those distant hills. “I’m your uncle. Uncle Lance. I love you, Sam.”
He looks down into the blue water. I think he’s more interested in the boat.
Chapter 15
on the road with Kara ~ stops for snacks ~ what to call him ~ Los Padres ~ have their picture made at an overlook ~ hikes up Mt. Pinos ~ picnics in the meadow ~ why Kara’s dead to art ~ takes a nap ~ wakes and kisses her ~ a phone call from Rich
I arrive at Kara’s apartment building at 10:59. It’s a glorious Sunday morning, and she’s glorious in it.
She climbs into the Hummer. I ask her where she wants to go, and she tells me to surprise her. She’s wearing these little khaki hiking shorts, a navy tank top, and deep dark shades like mine. Her skin smells like coconut and it glistens.
California is full of wonders: Yosemite, Kings Canyon, Sequoia, Redwood, Death Valley, Lassen Volcanic, the Channel Islands…but these paradises are all so far away, so Bo suggested I take Kara north up I-5 into Los Padres National Forest.
At high speed, a Hummer is pretty loud. Especially on the interstate, with the top down and a steady sixty-mile an hour wind pummeling your face. But I don’t mind, and I’ll tell you why. It forces a comfortable silence. If Kara and I were in my brother’s minivan, it would be quiet, and there would be this pressure to make engaging conversation. I don’t think I’ve ever been on the business end of an engaging conversation in my life.
But things are going very well. I glance over every now and then, and Kara’s leaning back in the seat, just taking it all in. She seems to be highly relaxed, and sometimes when she sees me look at her, she smiles and pats my hand, the way a wife might do. You should see it.
In Castaic, I get off the interstate and pull into the parking lot of a convenience store. There’s an ice-filled cooler in the back seat which I swiped from Bo’s garage. I point it out to Kara and tell her we should go in, pick out drinks and food for lunch.
We walk through the gravely parking lot. The sun is bright and hot.
Inside the store, it’s cool and smoky.
I pick out two pimento cheese sandwiches from the freezer and a six-pack of soda. At the register, I wait for Kara. The clerk is an old man. He smokes an unfiltered cigarette and just stares at me, like he knows who I am and could give a shit. You’ve got to respect that.
Kara sets a tuna sandwich and a pint of vanilla ice cream on the counter and I pay for everything with warm, soft cash.
We walk back out into the noonday heat and stow everything in the cooler.
As I put the key into the ignition, Kara touches my arm.
“Jim, I have to tell you, I’m having a tough time getting past the whole celebrity thing.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I was doing fine until this morning. But all my friends from last night’s party called, and it’s not their fault, but they were just making such a huge deal out of our date today. I wish I didn’t even know who you were. Do you know what I mean? I’m just afraid it’s coloring this experience for me.”
“You think about things a lot, don’t you?”
She smiles and touches my arm again. “Often to my own detriment.” I love it when she touches my arm.
“I’ve just had maybe the best idea ever,” I say, and it’s true. I have a terrific one.
“What?”
“I’m not Jim Jansen.”
“Huh?”
“I’m not Jim Jansen anymore.”
“Well, who are you?”
“Call me Lance.”
“Lance?” She giggles. “Why?”
“I’m serious.”
“I’m not going to call you Lance.”
“What’s wrong with Lance?”
“It’s not your name.”
“Pretend it is.”
“This is too weird.”
“Weirder than spending a day with the James Jansen?”
She tilts her head in thought, and I glimpse myself in the reflection of her sunglasses: khaki pants, white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I’ve borrowed my brother’s leather sandals. I smile at my reflection and Kara thinks I’ve smiled at her.
“What?” she says.
“So what’s my name?”
“Lance, I guess.”
“You don’t like it?”
“You just don’t look like a Lance. What’s your last name going to be?”
“Dunkquist.”
She guffaws. “Lance Dunkquist?”
“Lance Blue Dunkquist.”
She punches my arm very flirtatiously and laughs.
“I know it’s a stupid name,” I say.
“Well, start the car, Lance Blue Dunkquist, and let’s get to wherever we’re going.”
Interstate 5 climbs above four thousand feet and the air turns cooler.
At Tejon Pass, we pull onto the shoulder and have our picture taken by an elderly couple on a Sunday drive up from Santa Barbara. I introduce myself as Lance. They are sweet old folks. The kind that make the prospect of old age not quite so horrifying. When we’re back in the Hummer and driving along the winding, secondary road, I tell Kara how seeing an old couple like that makes me look forward to getting older, and she looks at me like I’ve uttered a great truth or something. She holds my hand. I think we’re having one of those moments, and I guess the point of life is having as many of them as you can. This is my second. It feels even better than the first.
We park at the end of a national forest road at the foot of Mt. Pinos. It’s a few minutes past one. Most of the picnic tables are occupied by families. They’re a beautiful thing when you’re with someone li
ke Kara. If I were alone and feeling like myself, I would hate them.
Since the cooler is small and equipped with a shoulder strap, I lift it from the back seat and ask Kara to carry the blanket.
We set out up a hiking trail that meanders through the conifers.
Clouds obscure the sun.
The air turns even cooler.
No one’s on the trail.
We walk side by side.
The path climbs and climbs.
After an hour, we reach a meadow strewn with boulders and patches of old snow near the summit. Kara says that this would be a lovely spot to stop, and I agree. We’re both a little winded, a little sweaty.
I follow Kara off the trail, and she finds a level plane of grass and spreads the blanket. We remove our footwear and stroll barefooted through the warm grass. Then we sit down on the blanket, and I open the cooler. Plunging my hand into the ice, I emerge with two cans of cola and our sandwiches. The high altitude has created pressure inside the bag of potato chips.
We’re hungry from the hike, and we eat in silence. The sandwich tastes good. I love pimento cheese, even though I’m not exactly sure what it is.
I’m so happy. If you knew me at all, you could tell.
We pass the pint of ice cream back and forth. It’s soft and cold and gone in no time.
I stretch out on the blanket and put on my shades because the sun is directly overhead. Kara wipes her mouth on her navy tank top (I forgot to bring napkins) and then she crawls over to me and cuddles up with her head on my shoulder, her hand on my chest.
Says, “This is so nice. Not at all what I thought today would be like.”
“What’d you expect?”
“I was afraid you would try to blow my mind. I sort of thought we’d be flying up to San Francisco or down to Mexico. This is so…understated. You couldn’t have planned it any better.”
“You know a lot about me, but I don’t even know one thing about you,” I tell her as I begin running my fingers through her hair. “Except where you live and that one of your friends is getting married soon.”
“I’m a grad student,” she says. She stretches one of her legs over mine. “I’m in the art history program at UCLA. Which means I’ll be teaching the rest of my life.”
“What’s your favorite painting?”
“I don’t have one. I can’t enjoy them anymore. All I see is technique. Color. Brushstrokes. I see the artist. His life. What else was happening in the world while he created the work. I see what everyone else has written about it. I see other paintings that knock him off. That he knocks off. I see everything but the work itself. By the time I’ve finished my dissertation, I’ll know everything about renaissance period work, except how to be moved by it.”
“What was your favorite painting when you could still feel?”
She sits up on one elbow. Our faces are inches apart. She has very pink, perfect lips. “I don’t remember. But I’m sure someone ruined it for me.” She smiles and takes off my sunglasses.
We keep talking. About small things mostly. She doesn’t ask me anything about being famous, and this is a relief, because I wouldn’t feel much up to discussing it. She tells me about her roommate, Colleen, and the cat named Slick who inhabits their apartment (in violation of the lease). While she’s talking, I try thinking of what I might tell her about my life. I can’t really come up with anything, so I just keep asking her questions.
After awhile, she puts her head back on my shoulder.
The breeze is constant.
We close our eyes and sleep.
I wake before Kara. The only sound is wind rustling the grass blades. I stare at her face. The mountains. The pines. Bakersfield to the north and the trace of the San Andreas Fault, cutting through these hills. To the west, far, far beyond, the sky blue meets a deeper blue, and I wonder, Is that the sea?
I look back into Kara’s face. I kiss her forehead, her left cheek, right cheek. Her eyes open. We kiss open-mouthed for a long time.
As evening rolls in from the east, we drive down out of the hills into warmer air. LA looks beautiful in the distance. Lights winking on in the evening haze. It’s not such an indifferent place if you know what you’re doing.
I’m feeling so good. It’s like I don’t even care what happens now, because I’ve had this day with Kara. She’s so liberating. I glance at her sitting in the passenger seat. She’s called me Lance ever since we had our discussion in the convenience store parking lot, and the name isn’t so bad coming off her lips.
“Can I see your place?” she asks, jolting me out of my thoughts.
“Really?”
“I want to see where you live, Jim. I think I’m ready for it.”
I don’t say anything.
“Is that all right?” she asks.
My cell rings. First call on the new phone. I fish it out of my pocket.
“Hello?”
“Jim! Rich!”
“Rich, what’s up?”
“I didn’t see you again at La Casa, so I thought I’d call about Tuesday night. The premiere’s at the El Capitan. How many people you bringing?”
“Just me and a date.”
“I’ll have my assistant add you to the guest list. The party should be a real kick. Brendan’s coming. Max and Brody, too. Everyone’ll be just thrilled to see you. It’s going to be lavish.”
“Sounds good.”
“Okay, then. You need anything, anything at all, I’m your man.”
“You’re a good friend, Rich.”
“Where are you? Sounds like you’re in a plane or something.”
“Actually, I’m heading down the 405. I spent the day with this lovely woman I met last night at the club.” I look at Kara as I say this. Homerun.
“You must have the top down on your Porsche.”
“Oh yeah. I guess you can hear all the wind.”
“Well, you’re breaking up. I’ll see you Tuesday then. What’s that?” he says to someone else. “Oh yes, Margot sends her love.”
“Right back at her.”
“He says right back at you, babe.”
“What? Oh, that hurts. She asks if your torrid love affair is back on.”
“Absolutely.”
“Well then, goodnight you bastard.”
I close the phone and look over at Kara.
“Do you have plans Tuesday evening?”
“Nothing in stone.”
“Would you come with me to a movie premier and a party afterward?”
Her eyes kindle, then die.
“Jim, I’d be terrible company.”
“No you wouldn’t.”
“It’s no fun being the only nobody at a party.”
“You aren’t a nobody.”
“No offense, but in a roomful of stars, I’m a nobody. You don’t want to take me, Jim.”
“I do. And I don’t want to hear you say that nobody business anymore.”
“You don’t have any idea what it’s like to be obscure. And the prospect of having to mingle with movie stars isn’t enjoyable for me.”
“If you want to have a relationship with me, Kara, it’s something you’ll have to learn to deal with. People respect me. They’ll respect my date.”
She sighs. You can tell that deep down she really wants to go. I mean, who wouldn’t?
“You better hold my hand through the whole thing. I mean it, Jim.”
“What happened to Lance?”
She doesn’t ask to see my house again. I drop Kara at her apartment and promise to call her tomorrow with details of the premiere. It’s devastating watching her walk away toward the lobby of her building.
The best day of my life has ended.
Chapter 16
back in time for dinner ~ takes a stroll with Bo and cold beer ~ talks about Kara ~ sits on a bleacher and talks about fame ~ insomnia, then sleep
The Dunkquists are just sitting down to dinner when I return to Altadena. Hannah has prepared something called white chili and
jalapeno cornbread. She tells me she’s glad I got back in time to join them.
After dinner, I ask Bo to take a walk with me, and he grabs a couple bottles of German beer from the fridge and checks with Hannah to see if it’d be all right for him to step out for a minute. I think it’s pretty sad when an adult has to ask permission to go outside.
“Your son needs a bath,” she says from the kitchen sink. We’re standing in the foyer by the front door.
“I’ll give him one when I get back.”
“It’s seven forty-five, Bo.”
“Then you wash him, Hannah, and I’ll do the dishes.”
Hannah drops a drinking glass into the dishwater (it breaks) and walks over to the breakfast table where Sam still sits in his highchair, playing with his food. As she slides out the tray, Bo pushes open the front door, and I follow him outside.
I love Bo’s neighborhood at night. The crickets are chirping, the bungalows all aglow. The street is empty so we walk right down the middle of it, the lawn sprinklers whispering on either side of us, the soles of our loafers dragging along the pavement. Bo hands me a beer and a bottle opener from his pocket.
“Sorry I got you in trouble back there,” I say.
“Not your fault, Lance. We, uh…we have some things to work on. Hannah’s an intense person.” I’m not really sure, but I think that just means spoiled bitch.
The beer is dark, thick-tasting, and creamy, like cold, black coffee. I like it.
I tell Bo about my day with Kara. About Mt. Pinos and the meadow. I describe what she looks like, how she’s a grad student at UCLA. He’s so happy for me. You know how sometimes, when you tell someone a piece of good news about yourself, you can tell they don’t really care? It’s not like that at all with Bo. It’s like he’d spent the day with Kara.
We walk all the way to this soccer field. I feel lightheaded in a pleasant way. I think it’s from this good, strong beer. The goals are rusted, nets tattered. Bo and I head for the solitary bleacher. The sound of its metal resonating under our feet reminds me of playing baseball in middle school. That was the last good time before now.
We sit looking out across the playing field and drinking beer.