by James Gregor
He went out toward Broadway and when he turned south, he saw Anne walking in his direction. It took him a moment to register that things were, of course, different now, that this previously routine scenario of the two of them together on that street, bumping into each other in the vicinity of campus, might have a new temperature. It was the first time he’d seen her since the brunch at Sant Ambroeus. When the fact of this separation did finally clarify itself, he was pressed by a feeling. He had the urge to move. Where? Toward her?
She looked up and saw him.
“You’re here?”
He shrugged. “I was at the library.”
“You were?”
“Yeah.”
She nodded. He stretched out his arms and put his palms up, narrowing his eyes. “You haven’t answered any of my texts.”
She shook her head.
“If you want to be rude, then by all means.”
Flung out from genuine emotion, the words left his mouth before he could think. It was only on seeing her now that her neglect or indifference assumed its full sting. Before, having her out of sight, it had been easier to assume he didn’t miss her.
“The responsibility always falls on me,” she said.
“The martyrdom too.”
She rolled her eyes.
“I didn’t mean that,” he said.
She nodded ironically.
“You never mean what you mean.”
“I’m sorry. About everything that happened.”
“You’ve said that.”
“I’ll keep repeating it.”
“Please don’t.”
“Well, I miss you.”
“You’re repeating yourself again.”
“I miss swimming with you.” He stepped forward without meaning to. “And I miss talking with you.”
Seeing her at the edge of campus, only a few hundred feet from where everything had begun, he felt again the gravity of her presence, the tremendous threat and promise of her personality. He was both happy and frightened; he wanted simultaneously to demolish and maintain the distance between them.
Her face softened.
“Look, I do want you to know,” she said. “What I said before, about telling everyone. I didn’t mean it.”
This had never been his main worry. Nevertheless, he was relieved to have her say out loud that she didn’t intend to destroy him.
“I still need you, Anne.”
“I’m supposed to meet with Antonella,” she said. “I have to go.”
“Can we just talk?”
“About what? What is there to talk about, Richard?”
“I don’t know. I just want to talk with you.”
“Do you need my help again?”
“No, that’s not why I want to talk.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I just want to communicate with you.”
He wanted to do something, to hug her or otherwise to touch her, but she was already walking away. He watched her disappear into the campus.
To restrain his drifting thoughts, Richard decided to see how far he could walk. He went down Broadway and then crossed over to Central Park West. He went across the park and down Fifth Avenue and it was several hours before he gave up and got onto the subway. When he finally reached the apartment, Blake was at the kitchen table, leaning over his computer.
“There are some leftovers in the fridge,” he said. “Fish tacos. I already ate. I have to keep working.”
Richard kissed him on the top of the head and took the food into the bedroom. While he ate he tried to find something to watch online but nothing stemmed his distraction.
Troubled by a sense of distance from Blake, of hiding something, he decided to go out again. The night was pliant and hushed. He walked all the way to his own neighborhood, to the block of besieged lawns and half-benighted trees, currently bisected by a spurt of garbage. A wet, plasmic smell hung in the air.
It was an odd feeling to be living there and to miss it anyway: the nondescript building that hid a flight of stairs perfectly designed to film a blonde being chased by a serial killer; the air that bulged with multifarious air fresheners; the floor that was a puzzle of aquamarine tiles, separated by blackened grout.
Several of the familiar antique cars hid their faded vitality under stiff tarps, dusted with pollen. He went around the building and looked down the alley. The light was reassuringly off in his bedroom. Near the end of the block, candles glowed in the window of Sloppy. The houses were still, the closure of the sealed windows and doors tepidly formal through the mist and the hanging glow of the streetlights. He already felt the benevolent tug of a previous life, the calm sterility of his lonely days with Leslie, patiently tilled and infertile, before the spores of Anne and Blake floated by and took hold.
He went inside and climbed the coiling stairs, prepared for the spectacle of Courtney and Leslie cooking, watching a documentary, or otherwise blissfully conjoined in mind if not—he hoped—in body.
When he opened the door, the apartment was dark. He stepped inside and turned the light on. The drying rack was full of dishes; the dish towel hung on the oven door, and on the counter there was a half-full bottle of wine. They weren’t at home.
He considered sitting on the sofa, turning on the television. But the space hardly felt like his own after its long annexation. He didn’t want to be caught there when Courtney and Leslie returned. He went into his bedroom and closed the door. Perhaps they would somehow remain away the entire night.
He sat on his bed and looked at his phone. He decided to text Blake.
I NEEDED SOMETHING AT MY PLACE. THERE NOW. I’M PRETTY TIRED. THINK I’M GOING TO STAY HERE TONIGHT.
Blake responded almost immediately.
IS EVERYTHING ALL RIGHT?
Richard inhaled. Even the rapid response felt oppressive.
EVERYTHING IS FINE!
Blake responded with a frowning emoticon.
I’LL SEE YOU TOMORROW, Richard wrote, along with a heart emoticon.
* * *
BLAKE’S FRIENDS, WHOM BLAKE knew from law school, came over the next night. Richard was sent out for another bottle of wine before they arrived. When he returned they were all seated around the coffee table.
Upon entering Richard waved, and the two men waved back. They were both wearing jeans and oxford shirts, one red and one blue, over broad, trim bodies. He had to admit that they were quite handsome, intimidatingly so. Just as he’d feared. Between them, a toddler in a red cardigan struggled to its feet, locked eyes with Richard, and burst into tears.
“Say hi,” one of the men said. The toddler’s crying turned into a scream. “Hey, what’s wrong with that guy? Look, he brought wine.”
“Tell us what’s wrong,” the second man said, catching a tear on the tip of his finger and displaying it to the toddler. The toddler tried to swat it away.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Richard.”
“He doesn’t like strangers.”
“Ah.”
“I’m Ramon and this is Jeff,” Ramon said.
Richard leaned forward and they shook hands. There was a heavy but expectant silence.
“How old is . . . ?”
It was the only question Richard could think to ask.
“Tarquin is two.”
“But he tests at a three-year-old level.”
“Almost four, if we’re being honest.”
“He’s probably the smartest person in the room,” Blake said, winking.
He can’t even feed himself though, Richard thought. Then again, neither can I.
“We do yoga together now,” Ramon said, looking at Tarquin, who had climbed down from the sofa. “He loves it.”
Tarquin glared up at him as if he were talking gibberish.
“And classical music, Kindermusik. Tarquin follows along like he’s conducting. Put something on.”
Jeff fiddled with his phone.
“What should I play?”
“Just pick something. Bu
t not Mahler. Mahler sends him into a rage.”
“No American composers either, remember.”
“Except Charles Ives,” Ramon corrected him. “Or Philip Glass.”
“That’s true.”
The Well-Tempered Clavier started from the speakers.
“A child prodigy, appropriate choice.”
“Come on, Tarquin!”
They swung their arms above their heads. Tarquin looked back and forth between them, squinting angrily.
Another couple who dress alike, Richard thought. With the same haircut even. They were probably wearing each other’s clothes—they definitely could, they were about the same size. They might work at the same law firm, he thought. They probably had the same fitness regimen, did CrossFit together. They probably met at CrossFit.
“So how did you two meet again?” Ramon asked, his eyes still on the child.
“I told you,” Blake said, with comic exasperation. “Online.”
“Which site?”
“OkCupid.”
“I know a few people who’ve had luck on that one,” Ramon remarked.
“Dating in New York is tough.”
“Yeah, we’re both kind of like phew,” Jeff said, looking at Ramon, who nodded.
“We met here,” Ramon said to Richard, who came over from the kitchen counter with long-stemmed glasses. “And then we moved out to Portland together.”
Richard nodded and started pouring the wine.
“Look at him go,” Blake said.
Tarquin was waddling down the hall. They all followed him with their eyes. Richard had no desire to discuss where he and Blake had met, or anything else about their relationship. It suddenly seemed utterly juvenile in comparison to what Jeff and Ramon had. They had made a move together; they had a family together. They probably owned a house. These were real adults.
Richard felt like a child, like a fraud. It was a relief that Tarquin was there to divert their attention.
“What do you think he’s going to do in there?” Richard asked, as Tarquin stopped in front of the bedroom, grasped the doorknob with a pudgy hand, and proceeded inside.
“Take everything in.”
Richard waited for someone to get up and retrieve him, but no one moved.
A moment later, Tarquin emerged with Richard’s iPad in hand. He put a corner into his mouth.
“It’s Steve Jobs!” Jeff said.
“Don’t call him that,” Ramon said.
When Tarquin saw that he had everyone’s attention, he squealed and ran back toward them, dragging the edge of the iPad against the floor.
Richard tensed. He could not afford to have it repaired, let alone replaced, and he certainly did not want to get stuck with the awkward task of pursuing Blake’s friends over it.
“Okay, you’ve had your fun,” Jeff said. “Now give it back.”
Tarquin took a step forward and placed the iPad on the floor, keeping his eyes on Richard, as though feeding a dangerous animal. Richard took the iPad, wiped down the corner with the hem of his shirt, and inspected it for damages. Ramon leaned toward him.
“Could you say thank you?” he said. “We’re trying to teach him manners.”
* * *
LATER, AFTER THEY’D GONE, Blake was cleaning the dishes.
“Wasn’t Tarquin cute?”
“Sure,” Richard said.
“Sure?”
“Yup, just sure.”
“So I guess my strategy to make you like kids isn’t working so far?”
“Not really.”
“Are you in a bad mood or something?”
Richard tingled with resentment at this comment. There was an inherent reduction implied by it, as if everything that this night pointed to was a mere mood. It was a petty and legalistic view on Blake’s part. But that legalistic view of things was petty. Did Blake actually know him at all?
“I don’t think they liked me, and honestly I didn’t like them either.”
“Sure they liked you.”
“I thought they were really rude. And their kid was weird.”
“Now you’re just being a jerk.”
“He was a monster. Admit it.”
Richard was joking, but only half joking.
“He’s just a kid,” Blake said, turning off the faucet. “His behavior wasn’t out of the ordinary.”
“That whole experience was kind of painful, honestly. They were snobs.”
“You’re not even trying, you know that?”
“I feel like you want the entire world from me,” Richard said. He was sitting on the sofa, staring at the floor.
Blake sighed.
“I ask so little from you,” he said. “You don’t see that? I really ask so little.”
What did it mean that Blake thought the pinching off of his life, the closing down of his freedom, the sapping of his will, could equate to so little?
“It’s my life, Blake.”
“Richard, I let you move back in. What about our life?”
It seemed a myth, the sacrifices and compromises everyone spoke of as if they were sacred totems. But it was infinitely more than that—it was imprisonment and effacement. If you made a wrong step, you could find yourself locked in for years. What was all this effort for? Washing the dishes and watching Netflix and pretending to share, which you could never do enough of, that never amounted to what it was supposed to be, that never fulfilled the arbitrary requirement, that as often as not left you empty?
“I’m exhausted,” Blake said, standing at the sink, staring down into the sudsy water. “I’m going to bed.”
TWENTY-THREE
The Clio deadline was a day away, and even though it seemed too far-fetched even for her to accept, Richard considered claiming sickness or otherwise inventing another excuse to avoid seeing Antonella. But then, as the meeting approached, he had a moment of aberrant courage and resolved to send her the wreck of what he had written. An hour later, however, in yet a further instance of raw and pinched clarity, he changed his mind again and instead decided to be forthright.
“I don’t have anything for you.”
They were sitting in her office. Orientation games were going on outside, the new freshman class cheerfully corralled and directed.
“Is it the same problem as before?”
Richard nodded.
“But you’ve been doing remarkable work. You’ve been on track. What happened?”
“The pressure of the submission, maybe. It just came back all of a sudden.”
“I don’t know what I can do, Richard. I might be able to get you another few days. The real deadline is coming again soon though, the foundation deadline, and I have no control over that.”
“I know.”
She tore the seal on a granola bar and nibbled at the tip, staring at him with her abyss-like brown eyes.
“There must be therapy for this,” she said.
He didn’t say anything.
“Have you spoken to Anne?” she asked. She bit off a chunk of the granola bar and chewed.
“I saw her a few days ago.”
“Her Clio submission was very impressive. She may be able to help.”
Richard nodded.
“She submitted already?”
“Yes, and I think you should talk to her. She knows this material better than anyone. And she has a fine mind for composition.”
Richard tried not to smile. There was something pleasing—pleasingly tidy, pleasingly ironic—about being sent back to Anne. It made him feel as if he were sitting at a control panel somewhere, pressing buttons. It had the deep precision of physics, like the beautiful curve of a wave that travels across a pool, hits a wall, and starts back the way it has come.
“That is a good idea,” he said, nodding seriously so as to temper his smile. “I’ll get in touch.”
“Let me know how it goes,” she said. “We’ll figure this out.”
Dazed by the meeting with Antonella, Richard walked outside. The street air h
ad the frenzied slackening and expectation of after-work. As he went down the slope of Broadway, he felt a sense of total defeat, which was almost a relief. Pedestrians moved around him, coding plans into their phones, sloshing coffee onto their fingers, and contentiously discussing public figures, or openmouthed and nodding with impatient agreement. He felt that he belonged to a world completely separate from the one they belonged to, that he was visiting from somewhere else entirely.
There was a young man limping in his direction, exasperatedly negotiating the uneven pavement with crutches and making hissing comments to himself. It was Barrett. His slanted carriage added a startled vulnerability to his handsome face.
“I can’t fucking deal with this anymore,” he said as they hugged. “At first it was kind of fun, now . . .” He lifted a crutch forlornly. “Want to get drunk with me?”
Richard looked at the time on his phone. He would be late getting home if he had a drink with Barrett. Blake would wonder where he was. It would add to the already palpable strain in the apartment. But at this thought, he felt a lurch of resentment toward the responsibility to which he now felt hostage, and the decision was made.
“I’ll have a drink with you,” Richard said, nodding.
They started walking at a slow pace.
“What happened?”
“I slipped going down into the subway,” Barrett said.
“I’m sorry.”
At a nearby bar that smelled stale but had a run-down charm, an almost comically attractive man in a black polo shirt, his rampant yet controlled hair curled over in a wave, came to the table and took their order. He smiled knowingly at Barrett.
“I think we met online,” Barrett said when the waiter walked away.
“Nice muscles.”
“That’s an understatement.”
A pitcher of beer was soon brought to the table.
“Should we cheers?”
“To what?” Richard said.
Barrett’s eyes made a contemplative arc in the air.
“Getting to know each other better.”
He fixed Richard with a serious expression and then burst into laughter.
“I hate that the summer is basically over. I hate the darkness. You can already tell it’s coming. Last winter I almost killed myself without a broken leg, but then I was lucky enough to find a stash of Xanax.” He took a large sip of beer. “So what’s up with you?”