by Pam Jenoff
As I reach the boathouse, I gaze back across the water at the skyline, unchanged in the months I have been gone. Beyond the park, Lords sits closest to the river, its chapel and chimneys rising above the still-sleeping courtyards. To the right, over the city center, the spires of Trinity, Saint John’s, and King’s are dark against the pinkening sky.
Turning away, I walk to the boathouse and open the wooden door, inhaling the familiar mixture of sweat and dampness as I climb the stairs. At the second-floor landing, I stop short. A tall, dark-haired boy I do not recognize stands on the balcony, his back to me.
I wait for him to turn and acknowledge that I am there, but he continues studying the horizon, shielding his eyes with his hand as though it is sunny, gazing left down the river to where it bends out of sight. “There’s an east wind today,” he says abruptly, as though we have been having a conversation. “You won’t feel it until you hit the long reach but you’ll want to hug close to the bank.”
I hesitate, caught off guard. “I’m Jordan Weiss,” I say, suddenly aware of my American accent.
He turns, revealing strong, chiseled features, high cheekbones, a slight cleft in his chin. His brow is thick, predatory. “I know. Second-year coxswain. You were elevated when Fergus went down unexpectedly.” It is clear from his scowl that he does not think I deserve the promotion. “Eight stone, though that could stand to come down a bit.” His eyes are an icy emerald green.
Anger rises in me. Who is this stranger to criticize my weight? I open my mouth but my reply is cut off by loud, lumbering footsteps on the stairs behind me. “Good to see you, mate!” Chris, tan from the summer holiday, leaps onto the balcony, brushing past me to pump the stranger’s hand like a politician on speed. He is shorter and broader than the other boy, with wide-set features, a handsome bulldog. Then he turns back and, before I can protest, lifts me from the ground in a bear hug, spinning me around. His hair smells freshly of soap. “Jordie!” he cries, kissing me on both cheeks before setting me down again. “Good summer in the States?” I step back, trying to catch my breath. He does not wait for an answer. “You know Jared, of course.”
Jared Short. My stomach twists. I know of him. Jared Short is a legendary rower. He rowed for Oxford three times as an undergraduate, trialed for the British national team. There was talk that he could have made the Olympics were it not for a recurring shoulder injury. So he had come to Cambridge two years earlier to pursue his doctorate. Then the news came at the end of the May term last year before the summer holiday: Chris, a friend of Jared’s since school, persuaded Jared to transfer from Caius College to Lords for his final year of studies, to row for the college and help us reclaim the Head of the River.
“W-welcome,” I manage, glad I didn’t get the chance to tell him off.
Jared does not answer but turns to Chris. “I was looking at the boats,” he begins and I know I am dismissed. I retrieve the cox’s headset from the women’s locker room, then start back down the stairs, hearing Jared and Chris discussing the new Aylings shell that the boat club trust purchased over the summer. Jared’s words are spare, his tone terse.
Downstairs, the others have assembled, a half-dozen fresh-faced boys in Lycra shorts and long-sleeved t-shirts. My boys. “Jordie!” Mark cries, spotting me and bounding over for a hug. Ginger-haired with freckles, he is the youngest of the crew, a second-year who made the boat because of his experience at school.
“How was your summer?” I ask.
He gestures with his head toward the cluster of boys. “Went inter-railing with this lot.” Mark and two of the third-years, Andy and Nick, have been an inseparable trio since the previous winter. Beside them, Roger, a sweet but nerdy boy with thick glasses, listens eagerly, wishing to be part of the banter.
“Wait ’til you hear what our Markie got up to in Munich,” Andy winks, then rolls his spaniel eyes. “We were at the Hofbrauhaus when…”
“All right,” a voice behind me interrupts. Jared has come downstairs, Chris close behind. The boys look at him, unfamiliar with his businesslike tone. They talked about Jared coming to Lords with great anticipation, excited about what it might mean for our chances in the May Bumps. But I knew it was a bad idea. The crew, almost entirely intact from the previous year, was cohesive, bonded. An ego like Jared’s would surely only hurt us. “Enough messing around,” he snaps, confirming my impressions. I look at Chris, wondering if as boat club captain, he will intervene. But he only watches Jared, his expression rapt.
“Why don’t you boys warm up with a two-bridge run?” I suggest.
Jared turns to me. “There’s no time for that. We’re late. A six o’clock start means warmed up, in the boat, ready to push off at six. Not standing here, joking around.”
“But if they don’t warm up…”
He cuts me off. “Land warm-ups are a waste. A good cox,” he adds, making clear from his tone that I am not, “can warm up the crew entirely in the boat.”
Feeling the eyes of the other boys on me, I bite my tongue, fighting the urge to retort. Dissent will only hurt us now. “All eight, hands on,” I say instead. Keeping my eyes low, I follow the boys through one of the now-open garage doors to the racks of long rowing shells. I struggle to keep my voice even as I give the commands to lift the boat and carry it to the river’s edge. “The blades should be here and ready,” Jared growls when we have set the boat to the water, sending the boys scrambling to retrieve the oars. Holding the boat in place from the stern so it will not drift away, I stare at him angrily. Who does he think he is?
The boys lock their blades into the metal riggers that just triangularly from the boat, four on each side. The bow-side rowers climb in first, extending their blades across the water for balance before they are joined by the four on stroke side. As they tie their socked feet into the shoes that are affixed to the boat, I study the crew, which sits backward facing me: Mark farthest from me at the bow of the boat, Roger in front of him at two, then Andy and Nick at three and four. Simon and Ewan, seated at five and six, spent last year rowing for the Blues squad; I do not know them as well as I do the others. Chris is at stroke, of course, seated closest to me, Jared in the seven seat behind him.
“What are you waiting for?” Jared snaps.
I hesitate, caught off guard by his nastiness, then reach across the boat, supporting my weight on my hands as I climb into the narrow seat at the back. As I plug in the cox box, I feel my cheeks burn. “Number off when you’re ready,” I instruct into the mouthpiece, fighting to keep my voice from cracking.
“Bow,” Mark calls, and each of the boys shouts his position in succession, signaling that he is ready.
“Stroke,” Chris says when the count reaches him, winking as if to say, Don’t mind Jared. But the rock in my stomach grows. All summer I looked forward to this moment, to pushing back from the bank and feeling the water beneath me once more. But now, looking down the boat at Jared’s stony face, I know that rowing as I loved it is gone.
chapter SIX
TICKETS,” THE CONDUCTOR calls as he walks through the train car. I refold the copy of the International Herald Tribune that I had been trying unsuccessfully to read and hand him the day return I purchased at King’s Cross an hour earlier. When he has punched the ticket and returned it to me, I sit back, gazing out the window. The last time I looked up, more than thirty minutes earlier, we’d still been winding through North London, past industrial buildings and gritty block flats, a gold-domed mosque set against the gray sky. Now green fields, dotted with sheep, slope gently on either side of the train. We’re somewhere north of Royston, I estimate as the fields give way to a cluster of brown brick houses, then a small shopping center. Not more than fifteen minutes out of Cambridge.
Cambridge. I shiver involuntarily. What am I doing here? I asked myself the same question last night as I brushed my teeth. Then I climbed in bed and lay awake, staring in the semidarkness at the wide-beamed ceiling. When I made the decision to come to England, when I summoned the courage to ask Van Antwe
rpen and get on the plane, I never considered this. I knew, of course, that Cambridge was just an hour north of London—quicker than a trip around Washington Beltway at rush hour. I suppose if I’d had time to think about it, I would have planned on ignoring Cambridge while I am here, simply pretending that it did not exist. I certainly never dreamed of going there, just a few days after my arrival, to ask questions about Jared.
I lift the cappuccino from the seat beside me, dipping my head downward toward the opening, inhaling the rich aroma. The cardboard is still faintly warm against my palms, the familiar bitter taste comforting. I gaze over the lid across the train car. It is nearly empty, a few students with luggage returning late from the Easter break, a couple of gray-haired tourists with cameras and fanny packs consulting a Lonely Planet guide, plotting their route through the colleges.
My parents, I think. Guilt rises in me. It’s been four days since I left Washington and they have no idea where I am. I pull the cell phone from my bag. Earlier, I called Mo’s number and, relieved not to have reached her directly, left a message that I would be working from the field today. Now I dial the code for the United States, then the number. The phone rings twice. “Hello?” My father’s voice, sleepy and confused, comes over the line, as clear as if he were next to me.
I smile, remembering the crackling static, the line delays of our calls a decade ago. “Dad, it’s me…”
“Jordan.” There is instant panic in his voice. “What’s wrong?”
“Everything’s fine,” I reply quickly. “I’m sorry for waking you.” It’s after eleven, I note, glancing at my watch; after six at home. My parents’ early rise time seemed to have muted in recent years, a silent concession to semiretirement, if not age.
“It’s fine. I was just getting up. But the connection sounds funny…and the phone number…Jordan, where are you?”
“I’m in England, Dad. I’m sorry I couldn’t call before leaving; it was all very sudden.”
“Oh…” I can almost hear him sitting up, turning on the light, and reaching for his glasses as he processes the information. “But I thought you said you would never…?”
“I did.” I hesitate. “I had to come. Sarah’s sick.”
“Oh.” His voice deepens with concern. My parents met Sarah once when she visited Vermont with me several years earlier, and they were quickly taken with her simple, unassuming demeanor. “How bad is it?”
“Pretty bad. Lou Gehrig’s. I don’t even want to talk about it now.”
“I understand. I’m sorry. How long are you staying?”
“It’s a permanent assignment. Two years, maybe more.” There is silence. “Don’t worry, I’ll come home to visit before too long. And maybe you and Mom can come here.”
“Maybe.” But I can tell from his voice it won’t happen. My parents have never been out of the country. Their passports, which I insisted they get in case of an emergency, lie untouched in a kitchen drawer. “At least you’re somewhere safe this time,” he adds.
Safe. England would never feel that way to me. Right now, just minutes out of Cambridge, I’d almost rather be dodging sniper fire in Monrovia again. “How are things there?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Fine. Lot of planting.” I smile, picturing the garden, my parents’ collaborative pride and joy. My mother cultivates fruit trees and vegetables plants while my father grows prize-winning flowers and ivy that climbs the nineteenth-century stone wall in vines. “Do you want me to wake your mother? She’ll be sorry to have missed you.”
“No, let her sleep. I’ll call again soon.” I give him my new cell phone number, knowing that they will never use it, but will wait for me to call.
“Love, you, Jord.”
“You too.” I close the phone, picturing my parents nestled together under their down wedding quilt against the brisk New England morning, Buster, their border collie, curled up stubbornly at the bottom of the bed.
Outside the gently rolling hills have flattened into the fenlands of East Anglia. We are almost there. Eager for distraction, I look down at the newspaper once more. The bottom half of the front page carries a story about Kosovo’s recent declaration of independence from Serbia, the concern that it may be bring war back to the already battered region. There has always been a tension, the article says, between the Serb state and Kosovo province, which is comprised largely of ethnic Albanians.
The mention of Albanians reminds me of the mob, the fact that I have a job to do. Setting down the newspaper, I reach in my bag and pull out a thin folder of papers, research on Infodyne I printed from the web. The company’s website was generically corporate, all pledges of environmental awareness and global citizenship. It took several more clicks before I was able to find a list of the conglomerate’s various businesses, ranging from shipping and containers to security staffing. I flip now to the contact page, the company’s name in boldface type, an address, phone number, and website listed beneath, then I open the phone once more and dial the number listed. An automated recording answers and I follow the prompts, punching in Duncan’s last name until the computer recognizes it and transfers me to his extension.
I hold my breath as the phone rings several times. Usually it takes weeks to make contact on a new assignment: identify the target, learn his or her routine, plan an incidental encounter. This time it is simply a matter of calling up an old classmate. But the same adrenaline I always feel surges through my veins, making my heart quicken.
“Duncan Lauder” a gentle male voice answers, its familiarity through the years startling. I pause; I expected a receptionist, another few seconds to figure out what to say. “Hallo?”
I take a deep breath. “Duncan? This is Jordan Weiss. I don’t know if you remember me from Cambridge? I coxed for Lords College.”
“Of course I do.” He does not sound as surprised as I might have imagined. “How are you, Jordan?”
“Um, fine, thanks,” I reply, caught off guard by the routine nature of his question. “Back in the U.K. for work. I was wondering if you might have some time to get together for coffee.”
There is silence on the other end of the telephone. I can almost see Duncan, an older version of the wiry boy I knew, pursing his thin lips, trying to figure out what I wanted. “Certainly,” he replies at last. “When?”
I hesitate, surprised; I half expected him to say no. But of course he is too polite to refuse my invitation. “You’re in Luton, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to be in Cambridge today, actually.” I fight to keep my voice neutral, to avoid sounding too eager. “Are you free sometime later this afternoon?” I promised this time to Chris, I remind myself. Then I push down my guilt. A meeting would provide an emergency escape hatch if the day in Cambridge got to be too much.
“Umm…” Duncan clears his throat. “Today isn’t good for me, lots of meetings and such. I’ll be in London on Monday, though. Why don’t we say Trafalgar Square, by the Waterstone’s, at ten?”
I wonder if he is telling the truth, or if he doesn’t want me coming to Infodyne. But I don’t know him well enough to push. “Perfect. Why don’t you give me your cell—” I stop, correcting myself. “I mean your mobile number, in case anything comes up.”
There is a slight hesitation and for a split second I wonder if he will refuse, but then he rattles off the numbers and I scribble them down on the top sheet of paper in the folder before giving him mine. “Cheers.” There is a click.
I pull the phone from my ear, studying it uncertainly. I should call Sarah. See how she’s doing, let her know where I am. But I’m not ready to tell her about Chris, what he has asked me to do. And I cannot bear to tell her that I am going to Cambridge, or to answer the many questions the news would surely bring.
The train rounds a gentle curve and slows slightly as buildings begin to appear on the horizon. I straighten, placing the papers and phone back in my bag, then inhale deeply. I close my eyes, counting to ten slowly as I let the air o
ut, willing my stomach to unclench as the train wheels screech to a halt. The buzzing in my ears grows until I can barely hear the conductor’s voice over the loudspeaker announcing that we have reached Cambridge.
Steeling myself, I follow the other passengers from the compartment. There is another train on the opposite track, waiting to make the return journey to London. Fighting the urge to jump on it, I walk down the platform, and for a moment it seems as though I might have been returning to college from a day trip to London, instead of coming back for the first time in a decade.
I exit the station, drawing my coat closer around me against the colder-than-expected air as I pass the racks of chained bicycles. I eye the taxi stand, the small buses unloading passengers. I could ride to the city center and be at the college in minutes. But I need to do this slowly. I begin walking straight down Station Road, past the large brown brick buildings, once grand houses now turned into language schools for foreign exchange students.
As I turn right on Hills Road, my shoulders slacken slightly. The outskirts of Cambridge are like any other English town, the streets lined with pubs and shops. A few minutes later I cross the busy intersection at Lensfield Road, which marks the edge of the city center, and make my way up traffic-clogged Regent Street past the University Arms hotel. The narrow sidewalk is crowded, shoppers from the villages jostling with students on their way to lectures. In my mind, Cambridge was grand and imposing. But now the buildings lean in, hovering over the pavement, giving everything a too-close feel. Farther along to my right sits the entrance to Emmanuel College, an ornate archway, high brick walls on either side. The thirty or so colleges are scattered throughout Cambridge, some in the city center, others like my own on the periphery. Feeling my stomach tug, I turn away from the college, walking instead toward the arcade of shops that line the narrow passageway of Petty Cury.
Soon the street gives way to an open-air marketplace, rows of awning-covered stalls. The air is thick with the smell of fresh fish and flowers and soap. I blink. What am I doing here? This is out of my way; I do not need to come here to meet Chris, to fulfill the bare minimum of my promise. It is more, I know, than just stalling for time. I continue through the marketplace, past the used book sellers and secondhand clothing merchants, as if pulled by a will not my own, until I have reached the far side and am standing on the cobblestones of King’s Parade. In front of me sits King’s, the grandest of the colleges, its hypnotic chapel steeples climbing toward the sky like giant sentinels. The clouds above seem to part and a single beam of sunlight breaks through, casting light on the chapel roof, illuminating the stained-glass windows. I gaze upward at the sight that I have forced so long from my conscious mind. Now the spires seem to stare down at me, demanding a reckoning. Where have you been? a voice asks in the breeze. What have you done to be worthy of this? And why have you come again?