Zen and Xander Undone

by Amy Kathleen Ryan

  “We’re looking for Professor John Phillips?” Xander says in her most confident, professional-sounding voice. Only someone who knows her well would know she’s been crying.

  The woman crinkles her eyes. “He couldn’t be in Comparative Literature.”

  Xander wilts a little. “Then he must be a former faculty member,” she says. “He taught here in the eighties?”

  The secretary’s eyes wander over the mess in front of her as she thinks. “That was before my time, but I might have something about him in our files.” She starts to get up, but seems to think better of it. “Would you mind telling me what this is about?”

  Xander stares at her for a second, kind of stunned. I sense something building in the room, and I take a step toward her to stop her, but I’m too late. She totally vomits up the entire story, seeds and all. It goes something like this: “Our mom and dad met here in graduate school . . . she sent off this bird statue . . . we’re afraid Mom might have a past with this man . . . we’re just looking for some answers.”

  As she talks my eyes get wider and wider, and finally my mouth drops open. I squeeze her elbow to stop her, but she is like a giant truckload of cow manure cruising downhill with shot brakes.

  I look at the plump secretary, trying to gauge her reaction. She’s leaning in closer and closer as though gossip is a drug and she’s a desperate junkie. Finally Xander sputters to a stop, and the woman just stares for a second, but then she does something I never would have anticipated. She gets up, walks around the desk, and gives Xander a big hug. She pats her back and says, “I’ll look through my old files. Just sit tight, hon.”

  “What the hell was that?” I ask her after the secretary leaves.

  She shrugs. “I figured I couldn’t come up with a better story than the truth.”

  We walk over to an ugly, threadbare couch in the corner of the room, and we both sink into it.

  It takes a long time, but the secretary finally comes back with a folder in her hand. “I found it!” she says triumphantly. “He was a visiting professor here, fresh from his Ph.D. program at Brandeis. I don’t know for sure where he went from here, but I do have a few copies of recommendation letters that were sent out on his behalf. These are the schools.” She hands Xander a list of what looks like a dozen schools. “Of course, you didn’t get this from me. In fact, we’ve never met.”

  “Thank you,” Xander whispers. She stands up, gives the secretary another hug, and shuffles me out the door.

  Once we get outside, she reads over the list of schools quickly and hands it to me. They’re spread all over the country, but if he is still working at one of them, we’ll be sure to find him. I get butterflies in my stomach imagining talking to him, and while Xander drives I fall asleep, haunted by restless dreams.

  It’s almost dusk by the time we get home. The streets are quiet and small in the dim light. A cat trots across the street in front of us. “Make a wish,” Xander says out of habit.

  I roll my eyes. When I was a kid, for a long time Xander had me believing that when a cat crosses in front of you, you’re supposed to make a wish. She also had me looking into the toilet after I went number two for clues about my future, like some people do with tea leaves. I got over that one, but I still sometimes wish on cats.

  As we pass by it, I watch the dark feline shape lazily slinking between two cars. Please let us find out Mom was innocent. That she’s who we thought she was.

  The house is dark. Xander turns on the light and we stand in the doorway, looking at our home, not talking. The crystal mantel clock is ticking quietly. Dad’s Sunday newspaper is spread out on the coffee table, the book review section on top. That was the only section Mom would ever read. The moonlight glows on the pinewood floor in a ghostly yellow streak that leads toward the staircase. I could almost believe this is a room Mom left just a moment ago. I close my eyes and smell the air for her scent, but all I smell is a garlicky hint of some pizza Dad must have ordered for dinner.

  I hear a creak on the basement stairs, and Dad hobbles into the room, arms held out to hug us. We let him, though I can tell by the way Xander’s face is all scrunched up that the odor of stale, depressed Dad isn’t doing it for her, either.

  “How’re my girls?” he asks, his voice husky with relief at seeing us.

  “We’re good,” Xander says into his sweatshirt.

  “You had a visitor,” he tells me as he releases us. “Some kid carrying a camera.”

  I stare at him blankly before I remember the boy I’d met at the prom. “Oh yeah. For the yearbook committee.”

  Xander’s ears prick up at this, but she says nothing about it, for now.

  “How’s Doris?” Dad plops backwards into his armchair, letting out an old-man groan.

  “A little burned out,” Xander says. “A little daffy.”

  “So, unchanged,” he says, nodding approval.

  “Speaking of unchanged,” she says ominously, “is that the same sweatshirt I saw you wearing when we left? Three days ago?”

  “I might have washed it,” he says teasingly.

  “You might have slept in it,” I say. I’m trying to hide my disdain, but I know he can see it on my face, even in the dark room. I’m starting to lose patience with him. We’re all sad about Mom, but at least Xander and I haven’t given up.

  “I know, girls,” Dad says, his face long with embarrassment. “I’m beginning to think my sabbatical was perhaps not the wisest choice.”

  “Have you gotten anything done?” I ask him.

  He shrugs.

  “Don’t you have to do something?” Xander nags. “An article? Anything? Isn’t the department going to expect something to show for all this time off?”

  “I’m tenured,” he says with a shrug.

  Xander tilts her head at him. He drops his eyes to his watch, which has carved a depression in his wrist. I don’t think he’s taken it off since Mom died. I have a private theory that he’s trying to avoid seeing the love poem she’d had engraved on the back of it. “It’s late, girls,” he says, not because he’s tired, but because he doesn’t want to talk about how he’s not working. “Good night,” he says as he shuffles to the basement door.

  “Sloth,” Xander calls after him.

  “Go soak your head in broth,” he tells her as he starts down the stairs.

  “Take that stinky sweatshirt off!” I yell.

  “But I like the feel of the cloth!” he yells back.

  “You smell like a horde of goths!” Xander yells louder, never to be outdone at a Vogel rhyme-off.

  Dad doesn’t answer, so we go into the kitchen for a late snack. Xander turns on the light, which makes us both blink. The kitchen feels fake, like it was taken apart while we were away and reassembled almost right. I want to ask Xander if she feels the same way, but she’s looking down the doorway that leads to the basement where Dad has gone, her eyes wide and absent, her expression blank. Suddenly I don’t want to ask her what she’s thinking about. I want to be alone.

  I get a banana and go up to my bedroom. There’s a note on my pillow, and I click on my reading lamp.

  Dear Goddess of Wisdom,

  Your dad thinks I’m stalking you. Sorry.

  I lost your phone number because my mom took my leisure suit to the Goodwill in an attempt to rehabilitate my fashion sense. Your number was in the pocket. I was despondent, but I remembered that you are Xander Vogel’s sister, and I asked her pizza parlor friend where you lived, and she told me. Now that I think about it, you should probably ask that girl not to go around telling strange guys where you live.

  So I came by your house with my camera hoping to get a few frames of you demolishing something, and your dad answered the door, and he seemed very concerned that I tracked you down. So I decided to leave you a note assuring you that I’m not a crazed fiend. In case he says something.

  If you’re still willing to let me take your picture, please contact me at 245-5984. But please don’t give my number to any
crazed fiends. Only now am I waking up to the terrible danger of stalkers.

  Paul

  The last part of the note makes me laugh, and that makes my back hurt, so I lie down on my mattress. It feels unbelievably good to be in my own bed with the feather mattress and flannel sheets, and for a minute I weigh the pros and cons of falling asleep without brushing my teeth.

  I’m young. What’s a little tartar?

  Pretenses

  “ARE YOU GOING TO CALL HIM?” I don’t have to look to know she’s waving Paul’s note in the air like it’s a winning lottery ticket.

  I open my eyes to a view of Xander’s belly button. At first I think she has lint in it, but then I realize she’s had it pierced and there’s a garish rhinestone stud in it. “When did you have that done?”

  “Last week with Margot. It doesn’t hurt if you’re drunk.”

  “That’s what you said to the last guy you seduced.”

  “Funny ha-ha.” She flaps Paul’s note in my face. “Is he cute?”

  I try to remember what he looked like, but all I can picture is that terrible polyester suit. “Not really. I think he had shiny hair.” I rub the sleep out of my eyes. I try to move, but my whole back has completely stiffened up.

  “Paul Martelli. He’s Italian.” She gently sits down on my mattress instead of just plopping down and bouncing the way she usually does. She must be able to tell that I’m in pain. “Swarthy can be good.”

  “He wasn’t swarthy so much as . . . I don’t know. Goofy.”

  “Goofy can be good.” She scans his note again. “Yeah, he’s funny. I like him.”

  “Go out with him then.”

  “He’s hitting on you, dumbass.” She gets up and goes into the bathroom. For a second I think I might be in the clear, but then she comes back with a Motrin and a cup of water. “Take.”

  “He just wants my picture for the yearbook,” I say before knocking back the drugs. “It’s not like he’s hitting on me.”

  “Come on. You’re not that stupid.”

  I close my eyes like I’m falling back asleep.

  She’s right, I’m not that stupid. I just don’t want her input on anything to do with Paul Martelli. For weeks now, ever since I went to the prom with Adam, she’s been itching for me to start dating and get laid, and she’ll stop at nothing short of actually putting the condom on the guy herself. The less she knows about Paul the better. “He’s ugly,” I finally have the presence of mind to say.

  “Nice try. What are you going to wear?” She opens up my closet and starts pawing at my clothes. “Jesus, Zen, don’t you own anything that isn’t Puritan?”

  “Don’t knock the Puritans. They had nice belt buckles.”

  “Everything is gray and brown! You need red.”

  “He’s taking a picture of me doing shotokan. I’ll be wearing my gi.”

  “Ugh. Those stupid pajama pants give you grandmother-ass.”

  “Too bad.”

  “I have the perfect top for you. And you should let me do your hair.” She sits down next to me again and smoothes my hair out of my eyes. This is something Mom used to do. I think Xander realizes she just reminded me of Mom, because she pulls back a little, her mouth twisting in a pout. “Anyway, Zen, this is good. You should go out with him. See if you like him.” She stares out the window, a weird, determined look on her face.

  I can’t see where she’s looking without wrenching my back, but if I had to guess, I’d say she’s looking at Adam’s house. “Why don’t you just tell him how you feel?”

  “Who?” she asks innocently. She doesn’t look at me, but at the floor, as though this conversation isn’t worth the effort to lift her eyes.

  I just stare at her and wait. This is the only way to cut through her crap.

  She sighs angrily. “I’m a slut, Zen, remember? I don’t date guys I care about.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just want to have fun.” Her face takes on a hard expression.

  “Fine,” I tell her. “Thanks for the Motrin.”

  She walks out of my room and I try to drift to sleep, but I hear her march back in and drop something heavy onto my bed. I open my eyes to discover a phone in my face. “Call him, then sleep,” she says, arms folded.

  “Bossy,” I growl. “Leave the room.”

  She backs out and closes the door, but I know she’s standing just outside listening because I can see her shadow under the door.

  I dial Paul’s number, my mind racing, as if choosing the right greeting will assure the survival of the human race. Hello? Hey? Hiya? Good morning? What’s happening? The phone clicks on the other end, and I hear a guy’s voice, much deeper than I remember from the prom. “Hello, goddess.”

  Damn it. Caller ID. “Hi, stalker.”

  “I was afraid my leisure suit might have frightened you off.”

  “I’m a brave woman.”

  “So, when can I come over and watch you bust some boards?”

  “I’m not in board-busting shape at the moment. I threw out my back.”

  “Ouch. You okay?”

  “I just need to take it easy.”

  “Need a male nurse?”

  I’m not sure what to say. Is he suggesting a sponge bath? Or just being funny? Suddenly I feel awkward. “Um . . .”

  “Well, I’m not one. No medical training whatsoever, actually. But I could photo-document your misery.”

  “If you must.”

  “How about you just put on your white outfit and stand there with your fists raised?”

  “That I can do. Probably in a few days.”

  “Okay, how about Wednesday then? At like eleven?”

  “Sounds fine. Just come by.”

  “Um, your father doesn’t own a gun, does he?”

  “Just don’t make any sudden moves.”

  As I hang up, I realize that my fingers are white and shaking. I liked the way his voice sounded, deep and throaty, but clear too. And he’s smart. I can tell by the rhythm of his speech.

  Xander bursts through the door. “That was good! You sounded cool. You only said one really funny thing, but I think it’s better to be dull than to try too hard to be funny, because then you just come off as desperate.”

  “Thanks for the critique.”

  “Least I can do.” She holds up a red shirt and wiggles it at me. “This will go great with your tits.”

  “I’m wearing my gi!”

  “For the photo shoot. For the date, you’ll wear this shirt and those nice jeans I got you for Christmas that you never wear.”

  “Because you’re always wearing them.”

  “I know how to appreciate a fine garment. They’ll make your ass into a tight little cream puff for our Paulie,” she says as she backs out of my room, a wicked smile on her face.

  Why did I think I could keep her out of this? She’s like radioactive gas. She leaks in through the tiny cracks in the walls and fills up the entire room.

  She grants me a grand total of thirty peaceful minutes before she comes in again, papers in her hand. “He’s at Marquette!” she yells. She’s holding a jar of Vicks VapoRub.

  “What’s that for?”

  “Turn over. I’ll rub.” She slaps at my thigh until I turn, and bends over me. “Tell me how hard.”

  I feel the horrible coldness of Vicks on my back, but as it melts into my skin, my tight muscles dissolve. Xander gently rubs her palm over my back, up and down, until I can release my tension enough so that she can really knead. It hurts, but it feels nice, too. “You can push harder,” I tell her.

  “That’s what you’ll be telling Paul this weekend.”

  “Gross, Xander.”

  “So Phillips is at Marquette. That’s in Wisconsin. Where they have cheese.” She works a knuckle into a hollow near my spine until I wriggle. “And football.”

  “Did you get his phone number?”

  “I think we should go there. People are more forthcoming in person.”

  “Have fun.”r />
  “Like I’d ever let you stay home.”

  “Xander, where will we get the money for a trip like that? It’s not like we can ask Dad for it.”

  She’s silent as she works her fingers into a knot between my shoulder blades. For a second it hurts so much that I want to tell her to stop, but then it starts to loosen up, and I find I can take it. “We’ll let your back heal up a little before we go.”

  “Gee, thanks. In the meantime I’ll build us a flying machine to get us there.”

  “I’ll figure out that stuff.”

  “I think we should try calling the guy, first,” I say.

  “That’s why I’m the one who does all the thinking.”

  Xander plunges her fingers into my lower back, and for a while I’m incapable of speech. I turn my head toward my dresser and see the red shirt Xander wants me to wear draped over my mirror. It’s a sexy little V-neck, with tiny pearl buttons down the front. It looks soft and comfortable, and not too showoffy. It’s pretty.

  She’s probably right. It would look great on me.

  But I’m not going to Wisconsin.

  Paul

  THE DOORBELL RINGS, and I slowly pull myself upright and walk to the door. My heart feels like it’s wiggling around in my ribs, but I don’t know why I’m nervous. I’m not even really attracted to Paul. At least, I wasn’t at the prom.

  I open the door, and he’s standing in front of me with a crooked smile, holding an enormous camera. He takes in my gi, and my bare feet, and he presses his palms together and bows deeply, just like they do in Bruce Lee movies.

  “Konnichiwa,” he says.

  “Huh?” I retort.

  “Japanese for ‘good afternoon.’ I don’t know the word for ‘morning.’”

  “Oh. Um. Konnichiwa to you, too.” I open the door wide for him and he sort of slides in sideways, like he’s nervous my dad is going to leap out at him from behind the sofa.

  “Dad’s taking a nap,” I say, trying to make that statement sound normal at eleven in the morning. “He’s really tired lately,” I add, as if that explains anything.