Almost Home

by Pam Jenoff

  “As a potential someone, I mean. He always adored you.”

  “Oh!” The question catches me off guard. “There’s nothing…” I start to protest. Then I stop again. I’ve seen it in Chris’s eyes, the way he watches me when he thinks I am not looking. “There’s always been an attraction between us, I guess. But too much has happened, too many years.” There is an awkward pause. I clear my throat. “Is the pasta all right?” I ask, gesturing toward Sarah’s plate. She has not raised her fork for some time and the penne are practically untouched.

  “Very good. But I think I’m finished.”

  “You’ve hardly eaten.”

  “I ate,” Sarah protests with a laugh. “You piled it on. Nobody but you could eat that much.” I smile, looking at my own empty plate. I’ve always had an enormous appetite for carbs. With my running and constant activity, I can still get away with it for now, but it’s going to catch up with me someday.

  I look at Sarah again, wondering if the effort of feeding herself is becoming too much. “Would you like me to help you eat some more?”

  “Absolutely not,” she replies firmly. “I’m full. But it was delicious, really.”

  I carry the plates to the kitchen, then fill and turn on the electric kettle, washing the dishes while the water boils. A few minutes later, I return to the living room with two cups of tea and a plate of chocolate-covered HobNob biscuits. I hand Sarah her cup, putting the plate on the low table between us close to where she can reach. Then I sit back down on the sofa, leaning back against the cushion. Onscreen, Casablanca has flashed back to Paris on the eve of war, Rick waiting at the train station for an Ilsa who would never show. Star-crossed lovers who met at the wrong time, destined to be pulled apart. At least Ilsa got to see Rick again, even if it was too late for them. I close my eyes, imagining what it would be like to walk into a café and find Jared.

  “Hey!” A pillow smacks me in the face. I snap my eyes open and sit up, blinking. “Wake up, you’re snoring!”

  “Mmph.” Rubbing my eyes, I lift my head from the sofa cushion. Though it feels as though only a few minutes have passed, the film’s ending credits are rolling.

  “You never could stay awake through a movie,” Sarah chides. “Jeez, I’m the one who’s supposed to be medicated.”

  “It’s the wine.” I point to the second, half-empty bottle on the coffee table. “My tolerance isn’t what it used to be.” I stand up unsteadily. “I’ll be right back.” I make my way to the bathroom. At the entrance, I stop, remembering the sight of Sarah lying sprawled on the floor. “Um, Sar,” I say when I have finished, returning to the living room. I hesitate, taking a deep breath. I am treading on dangerous ground here. “Do you think maybe it’s getting too hard for you to be on your own?”

  Her cheeks color. “I can manage,” she insists. “I mean, full-time nursing is too expensive. National Health would make me go to a home before they would pay for that, and I don’t want some bloody stranger around all of the time anyway.”

  “Maybe I could…”

  “What, move in here?” She cuts me off, her eyes flashing. “Play nursemaid to me? Forget it.”

  I raise my hand. “Sarah, please. I didn’t mean—”

  “Well I do mean it, Jordan. Like I told you before, I adore you and I’m very glad that you’ve come to be close to me. But if you’re thinking of putting your life on hold to watch me die, you can just hop on the next plane home!”

  I stand watching helplessly as she navigates around the furniture and wheels herself down the hall to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. For a minute I consider going after her and apologizing. But that would just make things worse. She needs a few minutes to cool off. I walk to the back door and step out into the cool night air. The chirping of crickets echoes in the darkness.

  There is a gentle buzzing against my leg. My cell phone. I pull it from my pocket. “Hello?”

  “It’s me, Chris.”

  “Chris! I’ve been trying to call you. Where have you been?”

  “It’s a long story but I’m on my way back to London. I need to speak with you.”

  “Me too,” I reply, remembering the stolen papers. “I have to tell you that—”

  “Not here,” he says, cutting me off. “We should talk in person. But I’m still a few hours away.”

  Where on earth, I wonder, has he been? “How about tomorrow after work?”

  “There’s a pub on the Marylebone High Street, just below Weymouth, called the Spade & Bucket. Can you meet me there at seven tomorrow?”

  “See you then.” Closing the phone, I walk back inside. Sarah sits by the desk in the corner. Her face is freshly washed, but there is a tiny streak by her eye where a tear has fallen. “I’m sorry. I never meant…”

  She shakes her head. “It’s not your fault. You were trying to help. I should apologize for snapping. I just get so frustrated sometimes,” she adds, her voice cracking.

  I want to tell her that I understand. But how can I possibly know what she is feeling? It was the same when Jared died. She was by my side every moment, but she couldn’t go through it for me. I squeeze her shoulder gently. “Let’s just forget about it, okay?”

  She nods. “Who was that on the phone?”

  “Chris. He found something but he wants to discuss it in person. I’m going to meet him tomorrow to talk about it.”

  As I carry the last of the dishes to the sink and rinse them, Sarah turns on her computer, a laptop plugged into a docking station with a flat screen monitor. “That’s nice,” I remark, drying my hands and walking to the desk.

  “I just got it last month. It’s my one luxury. This computer is my link to the outside world so I pulled out all the stops. High-speed Internet. Video.”

  I think about all of the time I spent trying to reach Sarah by post. She was just a click away the whole time, at least recently. If only I had known. “Nice.”

  “I didn’t have this the last time we spoke,” she explains, seeming to read my thoughts. “And I didn’t know your e-mail address.” I start to ask her why she hadn’t put her e-mail address in the letter she’d just sent me, but before I can speak, she continues, “There’s a whole international community out there of people who have ALS or other things that limit their mobility,” she adds, a note of pride in her voice. “Sometimes we chat about research into cures or medicines that help with the symptoms. But we talk about all kinds of other stuff. I’m a bit slow typing. There are voice-activated programs too.” I know she is thinking about the future, when she will no longer have use of her left hand.

  “Well I’ll leave you to it. Enjoy.” I bend down to kiss her cheek. “And try to get some rest. I’ll call you tomorrow.” I start for the door.

  “Jordie?” I turn back. “Thanks.”

  Forty-five minutes later, I climb the steps to my flat and unlock the door. Inside, I walk upstairs into the bathroom and turn the hot water tap of the tub on full blast. Undressing as the tub fills, I think about the investigation once more. We’ve been pulled off Infodyne, at least officially of course, because of my conversation with Lord Colbert. My mind reels back to the dinner at Formal Hall once more, trying to remember if I said anything that might have made him uneasy. But Chris did most of the talking. Chris. I wonder where he’s been, what he’s found out about Jared’s death. A few days ago, I thought his suspicions about Jared’s death were paranoid. Now I want answers, too.

  A few minutes later, I step gingerly into the tub, savoring the heat that envelops me. As I lean back, a dark flash on my lower torso catches my eye. I hesitate, fingering the spot above my right hip. I seldom notice the black swan tattoo, no bigger than a silver dollar. Now I press the spot softly, remembering.

  March 1998

  “Damn,” Chris swears as he bends down and lifts me from the cox’s seat. I wrap my arms around his neck, holding tight, shielding myself from the sharp wind that blows off the river. Normally I do not like to be picked up, but the sloping bank of the T
hames makes it impossible to pull all the way in as we do on the Cam, so the boys carry me to and from the boat to avoid my having to join them wading calf-deep into the cold, dirty water. He sets me down on land as the others collect the boat. “That was bloody awful.”

  Teeth chattering, I nod in agreement. The Tideway race proved to be a comedy of errors. The day was bitter and blustery, with gusts of wind that drove the boat nearly sideways, making the twenty-minute course seem twice as long. To make matters worse, Mark insisted on rowing despite a stomach virus and vomited midway through the race. “Gross!” Nick cried as the sick-tainted water splashed upward. Then, about twenty meters from the finish line, Andy broke the rigger that held his oar in place, making it nearly impossible for him to continue rowing, and we limped through the remainder of the race.

  When the boat is put away on the trailer that will carry it back to Cambridge the next morning, we shower and change at the boathouse we’ve been using during our weeklong stay. Then we migrate to a nearby pub to await the results of the race. “Fifth!” Chris cries when they are posted, sending up a collective whoop from the boys. Fifth place in the division would normally have been abysmal, but under the circumstances we are just relieved not to have come in last. Fifth means we had real speed, a good deal of precision before the catastrophes set in.

  Later, someone suggests food and we make our way to an Indian restaurant we passed earlier on Putney High Street. The wind has settled now, the March air cold and damp after the rain. Seated inside the restaurant, the boys tear into the meal with ravenous, post-race gusto: heaping plates of warm naan bread and papadums, curries of every variety served over steaming jasmine rice, washed down with pints of lager.

  Rubbing my nose, still red from the cold, I look down the long table at the boys as they eat, heads down, their seemingly never-ending banter momentarily quieted. At the far end, Jared lifts his head and his eyes catch mine, then dart away once more. My heart quickens. It has been more than three months since the Fairbairn dinner and our conversation on the roof. I did not see him again until I returned in January from the winter break and went to the boathouse for the first time. Part of me expected him to be warmer but in fact he was more aloof than ever. He seems changed in other ways, too, though, not all bad. He yells less at the crew this term, even me. He is still demanding, but I can see him restraining himself as he corrects a point that he thinks should have been obvious, struggling to keep his voice calm. It is as if he took to heart my advice about not scaring the boys.

  Forks scrape against plates as the boys finish the last of their meals and the chatter resumes. “If we did this well on the Thames with a busted rigger, just imagine what we can do in the Bumps,” Nick says.

  “If Mark doesn’t chunder,” Ewan adds, chiding.

  Embarrassed, Mark raises his pint. “To the Headship!” he proposes loudly. The others hesitate, reluctant to jinx our chances by toasting the ultimate prize.

  I clear my throat, wanting to break the awkward silence. Then I raise my mug. “To the Eight,” I propose instead, saluting the crew rather than the goal. The others lift their glasses, heartily echoing my toast.

  “This crew,” Chris says, after the plates have been cleared and another round of lager poured, “is a crew like no other.”

  “We should get a tattoo to commemorate it,” Mark suggests jokingly. A few of the boys laugh.

  “He’s right.” The group turns in surprise to Jared, who has been silent for most of the evening. “A tattoo would bind us forever.” No one speaks for several seconds.

  “Right now?” Roger asks, blinking through his glasses.

  Jared shrugs. “Why not?”

  “All right then.” Chris drains his beer. “What are we waiting for?”

  We make our way outside onto the darkened street, the boys still debating the logistics of getting tattoos. “I’ve heard of a place in Fulham,” Nick offers.

  As we walk to the bus stop, I hang back, noting how the boys seem to move as a unit, Chris leading at the front, Jared bringing up the rear. A cohesiveness has developed among the crew these past few months. Partly it comes from the hours and hours of training together, the quiet confidence as our speed and strength continue to grow. But it is more than that: freed from Jared’s harsh demeanor, the boys have been able to relax and laugh together. One unusually warm day a few weeks ago, we turned up at the boathouse expecting to row as usual. But Jared was waiting on the grassy patch beside the boathouse, holding a rugby ball. “Agility exercise,” he said, shooting me a knowing look as impromptu teams formed. The boys laughed and joked as they tossed the ball to one another, running and catching, their faces bathed in sunlight. Then Chris bumped into Jared and they fell to the ground, taking two or three other players with them. And though the change had in fact occurred gradually over the term, it seemed as if in that one moment, Jared became one of the crew and the Eight was born.

  The bond goes beyond just rowing. They are often seen together at meals, in the bar. It is exactly what needs to happen for us to take the rowing to the next level, to have a shot at winning the Mays. I only hope that it is enough.

  We board a night bus for Fulham, sprawling out across the empty seats. As the bus climbs Putney Bridge, my thoughts return to the tattoo. Do they mean for me to get one as well? My parents would be horrified. I toyed with the idea of getting one with my freshman roommate at college, but backed out at the last minute. This is different, though. I have to do it, to cross the divide between coxswain and crew and truly be one of them.

  A half hour later, we enter the tattoo parlor on an unmarked side street, a tiny, dark shop run by a man who doesn’t have any visible tattoos of his own, but is all too willing to brand nine inebriated people. “The Boys Are Back in Town” blares from an unseen radio.

  “What should we get?” Roger asks as the crew scans the illustrations of dragons and demons that line the shop wall.

  “There!” Chris exclaims, pointing to a drawing of a swan. The other boys murmur in agreement.

  Inwardly, I recoil. The swans on the river are nasty and terrifying; I don’t want one permanently etched on my body. Still, I can understand Chris’s choice. Swans represent power, grace. And the drawing is impressive in its detail, the bird poised on its haunches, wings spread.

  “I’ll go first,” Chris says, unbuttoning his shirt as he steps behind the curtain.

  “There’s a pub next door.” Simon starts for the door. “We’ll wait for you there.”

  “I’m going, too,” says Andy. “Come get me when it’s my turn.” Roger and the others follow him, leaving only Jared and me behind.

  I look up at him uneasily. “You’re not going with them?”

  He shakes his head. “Nah, might as well get it over with.”

  An awkward silence passes between us. For a minute I consider going to the pub, rather than being alone here with Jared. But the other boys are already gone, their laughter fading down the street. Jared drops into one of the plastic chairs, picking up a copy of the Financial Times that has been left on a low table. I study his face, and want to say something to break the tension between us, to get back to the place we were on the roof that night, but I cannot. Instead, I turn and study the drawings of tattoos on the walls.

  A short while later, Chris emerges. “It wasn’t bad. I’ve already paid for everyone,” he adds as he exits the shop. “My treat.”

  “Okay, who’s next?” the man behind the curtain calls.

  Jared and I look at one another. “I’ll go,” he offers.

  “Want me to hold your hand?” I whisper jokingly. But Jared nods, his face solemn. He’s nervous, I realize, surprised. I follow him behind the curtain. As Jared pulls his shirt over his head, I cannot help but notice his muscular torso, the way it tapers before disappearing into his jeans. I’ve seen him this way at the boathouse, of course, walking around as all the boys do between the erg machines and the showers in various states of half-dress. But close now, an unfamiliar
twinge of longing pulls at my stomach.

  Jared climbs onto the table and lies facedown. “Here?” the man asks, touching the spot on the back of Jared’s right shoulder that Chris chose. He nods and the man transfers the swan design from a piece of paper onto Jared’s skin. I position myself on the low stool that sits at the head of the table. Jared takes my hand, his large, calloused fingers interlaced with my own. His grip tightens as the man brings the tattoo gun to his skin. His face remains expressionless, his eyes locked on mine. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a thread of blood running down his shoulder to the table.

  “Not bad,” he remarks, rising stiffly from the table when it is done. But his complexion is pale. “You don’t have to do this, Jo.”

  Jo, I think, feeling my cheeks grow warm. It is the first time anyone has called me that. “I know.” I sit down. The table is still warm where he laid. “I would like it to be very small,” I say to the man, holding my fingers about an inch apart. “Here.” I pat the space just inside my right hip.

  “Do you want me to leave?” Jared asks as I unbutton my jeans. I shake my head, lying back and pulling my pants down just below my pelvis on one side, exposing a fine strip of pink lace underwear. Jared’s breath catches slightly behind me. As the tattoo gun presses down on my skin, I close my eyes and reach behind my head, gripping Jared’s forearm hard.

  Thirty minutes later, we step out from behind the curtain. Roger, who has come back from the pub, sits in the waiting room. “The others are locked in,” he reports. Some pubs lock the doors at the legally required closing time, letting patrons already inside remain and continue drinking. “But we ran into some guys from Downing and they invited us to a party at the Tideway Scullers. We’ll probably head there when we’re all finished.”

  “Good luck, pal,” Jared adds, clapping Roger on the back before we leave the shop.

  Outside, the air has grown colder, the March night still belonging to winter, not spring. Zipping my coat, I look both ways down the street, which is deserted except for two men emerging from a kebab shop on the opposite corner. “It’s late.”