Hand in hand and laughing.
Was it nervous laughter? Amy wondered. Or the outlaw glee of getting away with something? Was it because Eric somehow knit them back together with the sticky thread of his spilled blood? Whenever these thoughts persisted, initially all the time, and then periodically over the years, when at odd moments like now they once again caught her by the throat—Naresh jogging slowly toward her, stopping to talk to Esmeralda Sanchez, late again, dismounting from her bike—she’d tried to shake them out of her head. Who cared, really? Her brother had died for nothing.
Amy had been in those Italian train stations. If it was raining outside, as the authorities reported, then Eric had bled to death on cold, wet, filthy stone, alone except for this well-meaning Polish gentleman, another hapless Good Samaritan like Eric himself, who’d foolishly pressed down on the wound with that dirty sleeping bag rather than applying it as a tourniquet, forcing the blood out faster. Although even a tourniquet probably could not have saved him, a doctor friend had reassured her father at the time (as if the surety of his child’s death were any kind of comfort) once the full reports came back from the embassy. It seemed young Eric was simply destined to die.
After that, when Amy grew up enough to escape her family home, she kept widening the gap between holidays and visits. Her parents were useless to her, and it was only prudent to move Michael out of her life as best she could. His anger regarding Eric’s death was volcanic. He blamed all of his failures (and what part of his life was not a failure? No relationships lasted, he could not hold a job) not only on the loss, but also on their parents’ response to the loss, which was numbness and prostration. As for their folks, they’d always been either in denial about Michael or terrorized by him. They probably should not have had children at all.
The last time Amy had seen her surviving brother was when the Things were still toddlers and she’d paid for two sitters for her three kids with money they didn’t have and she’d driven seven and a half hours up to Humboldt, where Michael’s photographs had been part of a group show against violence. In a panic, she’d thought, All I have left is this one brother.
What a laugh. Michael the activist! The do-gooder. He’d taken a Christmas card photo of Jack playing Splashball, which was like water polo Little League, and blown it up for the exhibition. (So now he’s an appropriation artist, Dan had said in a sideways effort to soothe, before threatening that if she ever exposed the kids to Michael again, he would divorce her.) Jack was so little back then, maybe six or seven; in the picture, he was wearing a soft helmet and he was sitting in the pool on a purple Styrofoam noodle, with the world’s biggest grin on his face. It was a beautiful photo of a beautiful kid. He’d always been a looker. Michael had superimposed an image of a bullet whooshing toward Jack’s happy head. That was it, for Amy. No amount of wishful thinking would ever change who he was.
Naresh reminded Amy of Eric. She’d never realized it before. They both had been attuned to her. Tears came to her eyes as Naresh finished scolding Esmeralda for her lateness, and jogged up to meet her. He took one look at Amy’s face and said: “That bad?”
Amy nodded, brushing the tears away. Eric, Dan, Chris Powell, Donny? She didn’t even know exactly why she was crying. “This day sucks and it isn’t even lunchtime.”
Naresh looked at his watch. “Why not? Why not call it lunch? Come on, I’ll sport.”
“Well, if you’re sporting,” said Amy, aiming for lightness.
“Your choice. Subway or Mediterranean Wraps?”
“Mediterranean Wraps, be still my heart,” said Amy. They continued walking toward the storefront.
Amy sat outside on the terrace while Naresh fetched his shawarma platter and her lentil soup from inside. It was a gorgeous day in Palo Alto, where it was reliably gorgeous. She’d lived in this neck of the woods for most of her life now and she was used to it, but she also knew enough to feel grateful. There must be an expression for that, for the pleasure you expect, maybe take for granted, but still appreciate anyway. A quotidian exaltation? A red-tailed hawk ascending over the Stanford Dish. The silvery shadow of the moon on naked skin through an open window. Her children at night safely dreaming in their beds. The day was bright enough for sunglasses—Amy’s were back at her desk—but the air was so cool that the wind was a constant caress and the sun felt so, so good. She closed her eyes and let it warm her and flood her bloodstream with vitamin D and damage her skin and give her wrinkles. She’d earned those wrinkles this morning.
“Here you go,” said Naresh.
Amy opened her eyes. Before her was a recyclable brown paper bowl of steaming lentil soup, a brown paper napkin, a brown compressed-paper spoon, and a brown paper bag full of pita chips. Also, although she hadn’t asked for it, he’d brought her black tea and white rice. No one in Palo Alto ate unadulterated white rice unless it was with their sushi. Naresh was already digging into his shawarma platter. There were two cups of water on the tray where his lunch still sat. He hadn’t even bothered to deplane it. He was scooping up the lamb and hummus before his bony butt hit the seat—he must have been starving. Naresh reminded her not just of her brother Eric but also sometimes of Jack. There was a specific pleasure in watching a male adolescent eat, and Naresh still ate that way, endlessly inhaling massive quantities of food with loud and apparent gusto, and he was still super-skinny even though he must by now be in his late thirties. How old would Eric be? He’d missed his whole life really. Work, love, kids. She did not want to do the math.
Amy sipped her soup. It tasted like rocky hot brown crayon water, which over multiple visits she’d kind of grown to like. The lentils still held firm.
Without looking up, Naresh said: “Thing Two? Dan or Donny?”
Amy said: “All of the above.”
He nodded. “Eat the rice,” he said. “Drink the tea, it’s sweet.”
She took a spoonful of the plain white rice, basmati, dry as tiny packing Styrofoam peanuts, fit for a dollhouse. She sipped her tea. It was sweet. And maybe there was some cardamom in it. What was Mediterranean about it? Still, it tasted good. Then she told Naresh about drop-off. The dreaded Maximus and his evil father. Theo. How she was failing him.
It took a while, constructing and presenting the narrative, adding color, hyperbole, jokes. The dry rice and the sweet tea gave her energy. How had Naresh known she was hungover? It felt good to let her hands fly in the air as she talked, to sip her stone soup now in between breaths, to be allowed to ramble. She was gratifyingly aware that Naresh was listening to her, really listening, as he shoveled away his hummus and his salad, all her pita chips, and then motioned toward the remains of her soup with eyebrows raised, as she had seemingly lost interest, she was so delighted by conversing, expressing herself, getting the chance to speak. She nodded yes, of course, he could have the remains of her soup, he could have anything he wanted if he just kept listening, and she continued, sufficiently warmed up, and let the real news of the day slip; her husband had texted her: Honey, we need to talk. Which was a sickening kind of warning, anyone on earth could tell you that much, right? It was a red neon sign. What the fuck did they need to talk about?
Naresh pushed the now empty bowl aside.
“First things first,” said Naresh.
“My marriage?” said Amy.
“Before your marriage,” said Naresh. “You have to keep your eye on the kid.”
He was right, thought Amy, even though when he said it, it felt a little like a punch to the stomach. It felt like a punch to the stomach in a way that somehow felt kind of good. It woke her up. The truth may hurt, but at least it’s true.
“You’re right,” said Amy.
“Escondido’s too hard on him,” said Naresh. “It’s the wrong school, the wrong place. Too much noise, too much distraction, he can’t learn there, they are not teaching the way he learns.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Durjoy was the same,” said Naresh. “Then, after six months at Waldorf, one day at breakfa
st he said to Nancy, ‘My life is getting better.’” Naresh’s eyes filled with tears. “Out of the blue. We didn’t even know it was that bad.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “It kills me now that we didn’t know.”
“So you’re saying Waldorf?” said Amy.
“Maybe,” said Naresh. “Or maybe somewhere else. You are going to have to look, Amy. You’re going to have to open your eyes and ask questions. Maybe you’ll have to sue the state, or sell your house, or move.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” said Amy, with a little laugh. “Nancy is a venture capitalist.”
Naresh smiled. “And I work for a narcissistic despotic two-year-old. Kim Jong-un junior. It doesn’t matter, Amy. You just have to do it. Nance and I are here to help you.”
His phone tweeted. The first bar of “The Ride of the Valkyries.”
“Donny,” said Amy.
Naresh read off his screen: “Where the f is Amy?”
“I’m right here,” said Amy. “Why the hell is he texting you?”
“You forgot your phone?” said Naresh.
“I forgot my phone,” said Amy. “It’s on my desk.”
Back at i.e., Donny was in the middle of a protracted paroxysm of neuroses. Apparently, he’d been pacing, Fitbit in hand, trying to make his fifteen thousand steps early and get it out of the way. (Zuckerberg did this sometimes at meetings when he was afraid he would come up short, Donny had previously explained to Amy.) He was also manically chewing Twizzlers, in an attempt to calm himself. The inside of his lips was lipstick red.
“My office,” he said when Amy and Naresh walked in the open door.
“Good luck,” Naresh said as Amy followed Donny behind the mirrors into the inner sanctum.
“Could you charge my phone?” said Amy, over her shoulder.
“Sure,” said Naresh.
“What’s up?” Amy closed the office door behind her. “Where’s the fire, Donny?”
“I think I cracked it,” said Donny. “Sit at my desk. Put on the VR headset.” He pointed to a familiar-looking apparatus near his computer.
“What?” said Amy. “Something that pedestrian? So you scrapped the old-fashioned hair dryer concept?”
“Too cumbersome,” said Donny. “Please effing sit.”
She said, “You know I hate this, right? I hate it, Donny. It’s like nostalgia, only a billion times worse. It’s like being boiled alive in oil.”
She hated it, but she was still curious. It was awful, but there was still something there calling her back. She’d tried to put it out of her mind since the last time, but she’d been thinking about it just the same.
She sat down in his chair.
“This go-around will be better,” said Donny. “I promise.”
He started to put the headphones on her. But she put up her hand.
“Where’s the weed?”
Donny sighed. Clearly, he hadn’t wanted to share. But he took an ashtray out of his desk drawer and a joint crumpled out of his shorts’ pocket and he lit up. “Not too much, Aim,” said Donny, the smoke still in his lungs. “This shit is strong.”
Amy took a deep inhale. She put on the VR headset. She let Donny put on her headphones. Then she toked twice before passing him the joint.
* * *
He was a motherfucker, but Amy loved him. He slept with other women, but she loved him. She was pregnant and she loved him. Her ankle was broken and she called him from the hospital, come get me and take me home. When he arrived at the ER, he shook hands with the guy who brought her in. It seemed like a touchingly grown-up thing to do.
Thanks, man, said Amy’s boyfriend.
Dan, said the bicyclist.
Thanks, Dan-man, said her boyfriend, and he hunkered down to look at her broken foot in its cast, and then he hugged both her knees.
Baby, what did you do to yourself? he said. He seemed really upset and concerned.
Actually, I ran her over, said the man named Dan.
Her boyfriend looked up. He was the best-looking guy in the world. Those dark gray eyes. No one else had eyes that were that color, a shade lighter than black. Plus, no one was sweeter than he was when he wanted to be.
It was my fault, said Amy. I ran into him.
Why? said the boyfriend.
Destiny, said Dan.
Destiny, said the boyfriend.
She’s pregnant, said Dan. She’s afraid to tell you. She says you cheat on her all the time. You’re a serial cheater and you come home smelling of other women’s vaginas.
What the fuck? said the boyfriend. Who is this guy?
We spent a lot of time together waiting at the first aid station in the park for an ambulance to come, said Dan. It took forever. She told me a lot of things.
You’re pregnant? said the boyfriend. Wow, that’s amazing! We’re going to have a baby? You and me?
He was back kneeling again, on the filthy Formica waiting room floor at Bellevue, only this time he was kissing Amy’s knees, both of them, including above the cast on the left side.
We’ll have a little blond girl, he said.
But neither of us have blond hair, said Amy, crying now.
I told you, you should tell him, said Dan.
Of course, you should tell me, the boyfriend said. This is exactly what we needed. A reason, a reason to make it official. A reason for me to man up.
To grow up, said Dan. It’s not about being a man.
Get lost, said the boyfriend. Amy, tell this guy to get lost.
Get lost, Dan, said Amy sweetly. But thank you so much! Thank you so much for helping me!! She was crying again.
Okay, said Dan. Here’s my card. If you ever need a friend, he said, looking meaningfully at the boyfriend. The card said his name and beneath it “writer guy.”
What’s that supposed to mean? said the boyfriend as Dan walked out of their lives, seemingly forever.
C’mon, he said, handing her the new crutches. I’ll spring for a cab, it’s time to take you home.
When they got to the building, he helped her up the four flights of stairs. When they got into the apartment he helped hoist her up into the loft bed, lifting the now heavy ankle for her. Then he brought her iced tea with lemon—he made sun tea every day on their kitchen table, the light snaking in from the air shaft through their open window. Alley cats came in sometimes, too, to play with Elle. Then he handed Amy the phone on the long extension cord.
Time to call everyone, he said. Invite them to the wedding. Just our friends, I mean, he said. Fuck the families. Your brother, Michael, man, that dude gives me the creeps.
He shuddered.
Are you kidding? said Amy.
Nope, not kidding, he said.
Where? she said. When?
Just like that they were deciding everything. It was so much fun to plan. City Hall with his roommate from prep school, Hal, playing the best man part, and Lauren, in attendance. Then a big dance party on the roof of their building. He even called City Hall to make the appointments, to get the license, and then for the two of them to get hitched.
He was annoying that way. He said “get hitched” and “howdy,” even though he came from Main Line Philly. He was full of pretentions. Smart, sexy, weak, trading on his good looks and charm. There was family money. He wanted to be an actor. Honestly, she didn’t see that working out, not because he wasn’t talented, he was, but because that road was so hard and he didn’t seem made for hard. When she’d pictured a future for them together she pictured him teaching poetry or history or guitar, being an environmental activist, maybe even starting his own theater company, but at the moment, who he was in his soul and who he would grow up to be wasn’t yet totally evident. But the baby, their baby, that seemed to give him direction. Definition. A reason to move forward. She knew he’d love that baby. She knew in her heart he would be a good father.
She pretended not to notice how irritating he was.
The next couple of weeks were insane! He had to help her up a
nd down the ladder just to go to the bathroom. Lauren took over the party planning because (a) it was easy, cake and beer, and if they were still hungry they could order pizzas, and (b) her ankle wasn’t broken. She could do the legwork. Lauren even picked up a cute little retro white minidress from one of the boutiques on Ninth Street that looked great on Amy and went out to Bay Ridge to get her a veil from Kleinfeld. Lauren was so generous; it was worth suffering through all her disapproval.
I owe you, said Amy.
You do, said Lauren. Someday, and that day may never come, I’ll call upon you to do a service for me.
It took Amy half a second to realize she was quoting Don Corleone from The Godfather.
At the time, both girls laughed.
The day they got the license, they went alone to City Hall, Amy on her crutches and him cute in his cutoffs and pink man-tailored shirt and huaraches. They took the Second Avenue bus. It was hot as hell and her foot itched inside her cast. She was lucky she was a girl and she could wear airy Mexican dresses that floated over her head and hung down to above the knee. Even putting on underwear was a chore. Sometimes he helped her pull them on. Sometimes his helping her led to sex, which was pretty fun, even when it was so motherfucking hot out.
After they got the license, they hobbled up to Little Italy and toasted with iced cappuccinos and chocolate-covered cannolis in one of the only old authentic Italian places to survive, the ceiling fans working so hard they sounded like they might spin out of control and take somebody’s head off.
He told the waitress, a young girl, younger than Amy, maybe even a teenager, that they were getting married and that they had just gotten their wedding license, and the waitress brought them a piece of cheesecake on the house. She also slipped him her phone number, which Amy saw, and made him tear up, laughing together on the corner. How am I going to live a lifetime this way? Amy thought, but she pushed the thought out of her mind, when he sprang for a cab home; his grandmother had sent him a rather big check after he’d called her. He was feeling flush. He was always welcome in the family business, Grandma said. They owned real estate in Denver and in Aspen. Grandma was sweet on him, too. Amy liked this idea. She loved the Rockies. She liked the idea of him having a job.
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