Two of a Kind

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  “In the essay about Liam, you went into all that,” she said eagerly. “I thought you handled it quite well.”

  “He told me that his school is so crowded that he has to carry his coat with him everywhere he goes because he doesn’t have a locker. Lunch is at nine thirty in the morning. His Spanish teacher didn’t remember his name; his trig teacher didn’t even know he was in her class. And here I went to this school where, like, so much was done for me. But I blew it off. I just blew it off.”

  “Are you sorry?”

  “Not exactly . . . Well, maybe, like, a little.” He tried the chai again. Better now. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

  She grinned as if he’d given her the answer she’d been waiting for. “That’s what I thought. So that’s why I took the liberty of showing your essays to Mr. Cunningham.”

  “You did?” Oliver was surprised. “What did he say?”

  “He was . . . impressed. So when I urged him to give you another chance, he said yes. With certain conditions, of course.”

  “Another chance? What do you mean?”

  She leaned across the table. “A chance to come back to school in September,” she said gently. “But no more cutting classes, failing tests, or even thinking about getting high. It wasn’t easy to persuade Mr. Cunningham; don’t blow it again.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say yes, Oliver,” she told him. “Just say yes.”

  He leaned back in his chair. Had this been what he was angling for when he’d sent her his writing? Secretly and deep down? He wasn’t sure. But he was flooded with an incredible sense of accomplishment. Andy hadn’t pulled any strings or used his position to impress, cajole, or intimidate anyone. He’d done this, for himself and by himself. His big-shot dad had nothing to do with it. “All right,” he said. “I’m saying yes.” He grinned at her, but really, in his mind, he saw his father’s astonished, delighted expression when he told him the news.

  Oliver just about floated up the street to the subway. Never mind that he’d hated Morningside when he had been a student there before. And never mind about what Konkel had said about basically being put on probation; he knew Cunningham would be, like, watching him, but he didn’t care. He’d changed in these past months. Changed for the better. He wished he could tell his mom about it; he was sure that, like Ms. Konkel, she would understand. Well, he couldn’t tell her; he didn’t believe she was up in heaven or anywhere else watching him. That was a stupid-ass story for little kids. And morons.

  Right now, he had no time to tell anyone, though. He had to head uptown to see his grandmother. When he got there, she wasn’t home, so he parked himself on a bench near her apartment building and waited. It was a nice day—blue sky, hardly any clouds, plenty of sun. He saw three people walk by with dogs and thought, hey, he’d like to have dog too—a big dog he could take to Central Park and let run off the leash. He didn’t know how his dad would feel about this but sensed that when he told him about Cunningham’s offer, he’d have a bit of leverage. He’d go to, like, an animal shelter and—

  “Oliver!”

  He looked up. There was his grandmother in this wacky straw hat and big black sunglasses. He realized he was still wearing his dad’s Ray-Bans and wondered whether Andy had missed them by now. “Hey, Grandma.”

  “I wish I’d known you were coming. Have you been waiting long? At least it’s a nice day; I’d hate to think of you sitting out here in the rain. Did you have lunch? Let’s go upstairs and I’ll make you lunch.” She delivered all this without waiting for him to reply. But he followed her up to her apartment, where she parked him at the kitchen table while she busied herself with making the grilled cheese. Then she set his sandwich—a celery stalk and pickle slices arranged neatly on the side—on the place mat. Oliver picked up one of the triangular halves. “Like last time,” he said. He hadn’t realized just how hungry he’d been until he took a bite.

  “Last time?” She bit into a celery stick with a crunch.

  “The last time I came up here by myself. Remember?”

  “Oh yes,” she said. “I remember.” She chewed her celery thoughtfully. “You were in trouble back then. Are you in trouble now?”

  “No,” he said, thinking of Ms. Konkel, of Cunningham, and how the news would go down with his father. “I’m actually not. But my dad is. Only he doesn’t know it yet.”

  “What,” she said, putting down the celery stick, “are you talking about?”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Andy gazed out over the azure water, squinting against the glare. Before he’d left, he’d searched all over the apartment for his favorite Ray-Bans. They failed to turn up and even though he’d been to three stores since arriving here in Miami, he hadn’t found a pair he liked as much. Well, he’d just have to settle for some other style; he didn’t want to spend a day on the boat without sunglasses.

  “Hey, buddy.” Andy turned, and there was Joey holding an outsized mug. “How did you sleep?”

  “Like the dead,” Andy answered. “Any more of that coffee?”

  “Plenty,” Joey said. “Come inside and I’ll fix you a cup.”

  Andy followed Joey inside the condo. There were no signs of their other two college pals, Mark and Gavin; they must have still been asleep. The four of them had been getting together annually—just the guys, no girlfriends or wives—since their graduation, and though Andy had missed a couple of years during Rachel’s illness and after, he was glad to be back in the fold again. He loved these guys, he really did; they went way back.

  Joey handed him the steaming mug. “Any milk or sugar in that?” He still had the thick, dark hair Andy remembered, only now he kept it more closely cropped and little strands of gray had begun to show at the temples.

  “Black’s just fine.” Andy sipped. Not as strong as he liked.

  “So it’s fishing out on the boat today?”

  “Fishing sounds great,” Andy said. “As long as there’s no cell phone or Internet reception.”

  Joey shot him a look. “Got it.” He pulled a banana from a bunch on the counter. “You must have been . . . deluged.”

  “One hundred and twelve e-mails, almost as many texts, phone messages . . . It was insane.” It was that god-awful tabloid cover showing Xiomara pressed up against him in a kiss. How the hell had the photographer even gotten into the building? Distracted or bribed the doorman? Posed as a UPS delivery guy? Whatever the method, the resulting avalanche of attention had been immediate. He’d spent a crazy day attempting triage, and then gave up. Instead, he concocted a formal statement, instructed Joanne to disseminate it, and packed his bag for Miami.

  In years past, the guys had met in a lodge in upstate New York, a cabin on a lake in Michigan, rented houses in Montauk, Cape May, and Vermont. They’d been so tight in college that even though they’d veered off in wholly different directions—Joey in real estate, Mark a patents lawyer, Gavin a wine importer—he still felt they were like family.

  “So was she as hot as she looks?” Joey asked, sipping his coffee.

  Andy wanted to tell Joey that it wasn’t like that, not at all. That the moment she’d stopped being a fantasy, everything had felt off-kilter, and wrong. But just then Mark walked into the room, followed by Gavin, and Joey, the self-designated chef, decided to make banana pancakes and the conversation moved on. Mark, who had definitely put on weight, ate three helpings of the pancakes; Gavin and Joey ribbed him about that. Mark wadded up a napkin and would have pitched it at Joey, but Andy caught it before it reached its destination and said, “Hey guys, we’re not in college anymore.”

  After breakfast, they slathered on sunscreen and added hats. Then they piled into the rental car and drove over the causeway to the marina, where they had rented a fishing boat—and its captain, John Barker—for the day. Boarding the boat, Andy turned off his phone’s ringer. He wouldn’t get reception out here anyw
ay, but it felt good to actively disengage; disengaging did not come easily to him. He’d left ample backup—and backup for that backup—for his patients, and he knew of no imminent crises on the horizon. They’d be okay for a couple of days without him. And he figured he’d even be okay without them. He had not had a vacation since Rachel died and he was seriously overdue.

  If the glare had been bright from the condo’s balcony, it was all the more intense out on the glittering expanse of open water, but fortunately Gavin had come up with an extra pair of sunglasses. Gavin had always been like that: the caretaker, Mr. Fix-It; he just knew what you needed and managed to get it for you.

  There was a breeze out here, brisk and bracing, and the wavelets that lapped at the prow of the boat seemed jittery in their motion. Mark had told him that down below there was an air-conditioned stateroom with a color television, a stereo, and couches. But Andy had no interest in any of that. He wanted to be here, in the open air and overlooking the wide stretch of water.

  Joey came up beside him as he leaned over the boat’s railing. He was a big guy, but solid. In college he’d lifted weights and it looked like he still did. “She’d still like to meet you,” he said. When Andy looked blank, he added, “Julia. I told you about her—she works in my office. Super-nice woman—you’d like her.”

  “I’ve been busy . . . ,” Andy said.

  “Busy, my ass,” Joey said. “You’re just stalling. What gives?”

  “I don’t know,” Andy said. “There was this woman I was seeing for a while. . . .”

  “That sexy blonde—Jen?”

  “No, that fell apart. This was someone different. And I really thought it was going to work out. But I was wrong.”

  “That’s why you have to get out there again, Andy, man. You can’t sit around moping.”

  “I’m not moping—”

  “Hey, I think I’ve got a bite,” called Mark. Andy was grateful for the diversion; they all turned to watch Mark struggle in the fighting chair as he attempted to reel in the fish.

  “Looks like a big son of a bitch,” Gavin said.

  “It sure does,” said Joey.

  “Easy, now,” said the captain. “Easy does it.” He walked over to Mark. “You want to tire him out first,” John said. “He’s not going to give up without a fight.” Mark tightened his grip on the rod; Gavin and Joey gathered around. But Andy turned away and walked to the prow.

  The breeze had picked up and seemed to be tossing the clouds around the sky; the water shimmered up at him, a deep, inviting blue. Gulls flew overhead, squawking and flapping their wings. Andy heard the shouts of his friends coming from the stern—You’ve got it, you’ve got it. Don’t let go. He’s a feisty bastard—and John’s calmer, authoritative voice cutting through it all.

  Talking to Joey about Christina brought her back. He thought of that night in East Hampton: the walk down to the shore with the bag of squirming lobsters, the thrill of their release, and then the kiss as the waves eddied around their bare feet. He was filled with a rush of longing. Had he made the right choice? He remembered that day in the hospital—how he’d felt perpetually judged and wanted to hit back. And she had said she was sorry—

  A roar from the stern made him turn around just in time to see Mark reeling it in: a silver, shimmering tuna, flopping in the sun.

  “Way to go!” said Joey.

  “Not bad,” added Gavin. He turned to the captain. “Can we measure him?”

  “Photo op,” said Mark, standing proudly with his catch. “Can you guys stop talking and take some pictures already?” The fish was measured, photographed, exclaimed over, gutted, cleaned, and packed in the cooler.

  “Here’s your dinner, guys,” said Joey, patting the cooler, “and maybe even your breakfast too.”

  They ate the lunch they had brought, drank beer, and caught up on one another’s lives. Mark’s oldest kid was going to be a senior at Princeton; Gavin’s wine business was expanding; Joey had just closed a major, multimillion-dollar deal on a commercial property. “Can you believe that it’s been twenty-six years since we graduated?” said Joey. “It’s gone by in a blink.”

  “I hate to break it to you guys,” said the captain, who looked to be about seventy, “but the next twenty-six are going to go by even faster.”

  “That calls for a drink,” said Gavin, opening another beer. He reached into the cooler and started passing out the bottles. Soon the sun began to sink on the water, and the sky streaked pink, orange, and an intense, slatelike blue. Andy glanced down at his arms, which, despite the sunscreen, had gotten some color. He was still nursing his first and only beer of the day. He hadn’t caught anything, but he didn’t care. The camaraderie of his old friends had been a balm and he’d felt his equilibrium had been restored. No matter what that headline said, he hadn’t succumbed to Xiomara, hadn’t compromised himself, or her faith in him. The picture caught a moment taken out of context and the words were all just a pack of lies.

  Driving back to the condo, Joey put the radio on, very loud. Mick Jagger’s rendition of “Just My Imagination” filled the car and though Andy wasn’t really a Rolling Stones fan, he let the music wash over him. Gavin started singing along and then Mark joined in; it was hard to tell who was more off-key. Andy did not sing but thought of Christina, and how they had sung their way through the downpour. Should he call her when he got back? Just to see how she was doing? Or should he move ahead and agree to meet this Julia that Joey was campaigning for?

  Back in his room at the condo, Andy switched on his phone. There were sixteen messages. Sixteen. Jesus Christ. More fallout from that damn picture? His mood soured. But then he saw that they were all from a single caller: his mother. Fear was like a kick in the chest. He called her immediately. “Ma?” he said when she answered. “Ma, are you okay?”

  “Oh, Andy! Finally! I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”

  “I was out fishing with the guys. No reception.” He didn’t want to tell her that he’d turned the ringer off.

  “Well, I’m so glad I got you. You have to come home now. Immediately. Or else she’s going to have the procedure.”

  “Procedure? What are you talking about?”

  “That woman you were dating. Christina.”

  “Christina! What does this have to do with her?”

  “She’s pregnant, don’t you see? Only she’s thinking of having an abortion and if you don’t come home immediately, you may be too late and oh, Andy, that would be terrible, wouldn’t it? I mean if she had the abortion?”

  “Would you please slow down?” His own heart was galloping. “How do you know she’s pregnant and considering an abortion? And why didn’t she tell me herself?”

  “That picture, you know, that nasty picture? She thought you had taken up with that singer and didn’t want her anymore.”

  “She knows me better than that,” he said. But then he thought, Does she? And if she didn’t, whose fault was it? He was the one who had said they were through. His mother was still talking, explaining what Jordan had heard and then told Oliver, who’d told her—

  “I’ve got to think about this,” he interrupted. “I’ll call you back when I’ve figured out what I’m going to do.” He clicked off and went into the kitchen. Gavin was tearing lettuce for a salad and Joey was outside on the balcony grilling the fish. He felt dazed and disoriented. Pregnant, she was pregnant. The formerly neat pieces of his life were now scattered, helter-skelter, all around him. “We’re out of beer,” said Gavin, looking over at Andy. “Go get a six-pack? And while you’re out, you could get some ice cream too.”

  “Beer and ice cream,” said Andy. “Sure.”

  He left the condo and went in search of a convenience store. The streets of South Beach had a festive, Mardi Gras quality. Hordes of young people, many in couples, swirled past the low, pastel-colored buildings and the palm trees swayed in
the mild breeze. He passed cafés, bars, restaurants, but no place to buy beer, so he kept walking. Just a little while ago, on the boat, he’d been thinking about Christina, missing her—and now the news of the pregnancy. Could it be a sign, a marker that would point his life in a new direction? He told his mother he would get in touch with her. But what the hell would he say? And would she even listen? He continued along, no longer paying attention to the people around him. “Watch out, dude,” said a very tanned young guy with an equally tanned girl on his arm. “You hit me.”

  “Sorry,” Andy muttered. Until the breakup, he had fantasized about marrying Christina; he loved her, he wanted her, and he knew she loved and wanted him. Oliver loved her too. Yeah, Jordan was a pain, but he could win her over—look, she’d even shown up at his office to apologize. Andy had actually gone as far as thinking about how they might blend their lives—a new apartment big enough for all of them, maybe even a weekend house in the Hamptons, so Christina could have a real garden. But having a baby had never been a part of that vision. Diapers, sleepless nights—could he do all that again?

  “Hey man!” said a tall Latino guy. “You just plowed right into me.” Andy offered an apology and skulked off. Finally he spied a place to buy the beer and he went in. Back outside, he turned and retraced his steps, trying not to slam into anyone. When he walked in, the grilled fish was laid out on a platter. There was a salad in a glass bowl and another bowl of saffron rice. “Finally!” said Mark. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  “Yeah, the food’s getting cold,” said Joey.

  “Here’s the beer.” Andy began putting the bottles on the table.

  “What about the ice cream?” Gavin asked.

  “Damn—I forgot.”

  “No ice cream?” asked Mark. He looked disappointed.

  “Sorry,” Andy said, sinking into his seat.

  “You don’t need ice cream anyway,” Joey said, poking his midsection. “You’re getting soft, Mark. Soft and fat.”