Where You Are

by J. H. Trumble

  “Hey, Doug is out of town. How about I rent a movie from Redbox and we have a pajama party tonight?”

  “Wow. Sounds like fun, but I’m going out tonight. In fact, I’m leaving about five.”

  “A date?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What time are you going to be home?”

  I’m folding a towel. I make a trifold the way Maya likes it and set it on the back of the couch. “I’m not going to be home tonight, Maya.”

  I pick up another towel and focus on making neat, tight folds.

  “Are you staying at his place?”

  I don’t particularly like her tone. I am not a child. I do not need her permission or approval. I don’t answer. Maybe that’s what sets her off.

  She snaps the vacuum handle in the upright position and storms out of the room, but just as she reaches the hallway, she turns back. “Why is he texting your phone?”

  Goddamnshitmotherfucker. She was in my room. She looked at my phone. Hell, for all I know, she took my phone. I am livid. No, I am beyond livid, but I force my face to remain neutral, or if not neutral, at least confused and maybe a little indignant. I’m not sure how well I’m accomplishing any of those.

  “What are you talking about, Maya? And what’s with all the questions? Weren’t you the one who insisted we were still going to have our own lives? I think your actual words were, ‘You can still date. Go dancing. Bring a guy over for dinner.’ So what was that? Just some kind of bullshit to get me back in the house again?” I pick up another towel and wad it up. “Well, I’m back, but I’m not too damn happy about it right now.”

  I get to my feet and fling the towel at the couch. “I’ll be back tomorrow, early afternoon. I’ll take Kiki to the lake to feed the ducks, and you can have the afternoon to yourself. Okay?”

  She says, “Okay,” but she doesn’t mean okay. She makes me feel like I’m committing adultery. Like I’m committing statutory rape.

  We avoid each other for the next few hours. It’s a relief to zip up my small duffel bag and kiss my daughter good-bye at five.

  “I hope you have a good time,” Maya says, but her tone sounds more like she hopes I get a disease and die. As I pick up my duffel bag, I make a decision. On Monday, I’m going to look for an apartment. We’re better friends when we’re apart. When we’re together, it’s just toxic. And I don’t want to have to drive an hour to spend a night with my boyfriend again.

  She recognized his number. Fuck.

  Robert

  I tell Mom I’m spending the night at Luke’s. She just tells me to keep my cell phone on and have a good time.

  Chapter 40

  Andrew

  It’s hard to stay in a bad mood when Robert’s dancing dirty hip-hop on the bed in my striped dress shirt and nothing else, and singing, “Shawty had them Apple Bottom jeans, jeans . . .” It’s cute and damn sexy.

  It’s his way of making me forget about my fight with Maya.

  It’s working pretty well.

  There’ll be time to deal with Maya tomorrow.

  The bed is not nearly firm enough, but he manages the ball changes and turns easily enough. The spins and the slides are a little tricky, though. So when he attempts a three-sixty spin, his feet get tangled in the bedspread and it’s more of a stumble, but he catches himself. I pull him down to me before he can do it again.

  “I think you forgot your pants,” I say, running my hand up his thigh and over his ass.

  He looks down like this is news and gasps. “I’m naked,” he mouths, pointing down.

  “I know,” I mouth back. “You know,” I say, taking full advantage of said nakedness, “the next time you dance on a bed, it’ll be mine.”

  He flicks his eyebrows at me. His smile lingers a moment longer, then morphs into something more serious. “I brought condoms.”

  “You did?” His comment has taken me by surprise, and I don’t know how to respond. I knew this would come up one day; I just didn’t think it would come up this day.

  My hesitation plays out on Robert’s face. I move my hand to his sideburns and play with the short hairs there. “We don’t have to,” he says after a moment.

  I take a deep breath, and when I let it out, I fix my eyes on his. “I haven’t had good experiences with that.”

  “The guy you never kissed?”

  I pause a moment before answering. “Yeah.”

  “Will you tell me about it someday?”

  “Someday.” I hate disappointing him. I hate giving Kevin that power. He took so much from me, and now I’m letting him limit my intimacy with Robert. I don’t want that, but I’m afraid, and I’m not even sure of what. “Is that kind of sex important to you?” I ask.

  He hesitates before answering, as if he’s examining the question and his feelings in order to respond honestly. I love that about him. Finally he presses his forehead to mine. “No, it’s not important to me, but you are.”

  O’Donnell Street Pub is not far from the hotel. It’s an Irish pub and a small live-music venue located on a dimly lit side street near downtown, but very popular with those who’ve been lucky enough to discover it. The crowd is mostly young, professional urbanites. I’ve been here twice with Maya, and I’ve never seen anyone I know. I have tickets for the nine o’clock show.

  This is the first time I’ve taken Robert out on a real date, and I want it to be something special.

  A waitress greets us as we settle in at a small round table for two along a wall adjacent to the stage. “What can I get you gentlemen to drink?”

  “I’ll have a beer,” Robert says with an admirably straight face.

  My eyes widen but I don’t mention that he is not old enough to order beer. “Make that two. Guinness Stout.”

  “Two beers, you got it. I’ll need to see some ID, please.”

  Robert pats his pocket. “Oh, gosh. I left my wallet in the car,” he says sheepishly. “I’ll just have a Coke.”

  I produce my ID and she gives it a quick look without skipping a beat. “One Coke and one Guinness Stout coming up.” She flashes Robert a smile that seems to suggest I’m not the only one who wants in his pants. My heart swells with pride.

  “What?” Robert says when she leaves.

  “A beer?”

  I think that’s the end of it, but when the waitress sets our drinks on the table, then returns to the kitchen with our dinner order, Robert switches the mugs. “You’re driving.”

  I sigh. “My list of crimes is getting long and longer.”

  “Ah. You worry too much,” he says, laughing. “Let’s just have a good time.”

  In truth, I’m not that worried. Robert was right—there’ve been no lightning strikes, no cops banging on my door. And even if Maya thinks she knows something, she’d never betray me. I’m sitting here with a guy I love more and more every day, and I couldn’t feel more carefree, more fulfilled if I tried.

  “I like this place,” Robert says, looking around. “Who are we seeing again?”

  “Idgy Vaughn. She’s from Austin. I think her music has been described as country confessional.”

  “You’re kidding, right? I mean, you—me—country music?”

  “Come on. Be a little open-minded. You’ll like her.”

  Boy, that turns out to be an understatement.

  Our steak and mashed potatoes come just as the band begins their first set. We move our chairs so we’re both facing the stage. I order another beer, which Robert promptly confiscates.

  I’m not sure at just what point I realize he’s a little tipsy. Maybe it’s the first time he touches his middle finger to his thumb, places them in his mouth, and lets loose an ear-splitting whistle at the end of a song. Or maybe it’s when he starts singing the chorus. Or maybe it’s when he jumps up at a break between sets, staggers a little, and says, “Let’s get a CD,” then drapes himself over me and howls like a hound dog. To be fair, the last song was “Redbone Hound” in which Idgy and most of the audience howled like a hound dog. Only
, when the song was done, they stopped.

  I put my finger to my lips as we make our way to the side room where Idgy is signing her CDs. “Shhhh.”

  Robert drops his voice and howls more quietly.

  “Who shall I make this out to?” Idgy asks, smiling up at us.

  “To Robert,” I say, to which he says, “That’s me.” He says it to Idgy, and then he says it again to me.

  “I know that’s you,” I say.

  And then he starts gushing. “I love you, Idgy Vaughn. This is the best concert ever. Ever.” And then he howls—Ah-Rooo!

  She smiles at him, then raises her eyebrows at me, and pushes the CD back across the table.

  He would like another beer. I don’t think so. I ask for two Cokes.

  “Are you having fun?” I ask him.

  He looks at me and grows absurdly serious. “You have the most beautiful eyes.”

  I roll them at him.

  The band starts their next set on a somber note. Idgy tells about a small graveyard that she could see from her bedroom window growing up. The graves hold the bodies of twelve little girls who died a horrible death when their angel costumes caught fire during a Christmas play and they all burned to death. It happened so quickly that neither the nuns nor the mothers could get to them in time. The song is based on that tragedy. And it’s sad. I even tear up a little when I hear it.

  But for Robert, it’s a two-beer-dead-dog sad song. Halfway through, I glance at him and see that his chin is twitching and tears are spilling down his face. I move my chair closer to his and put my arm around his shoulders. He folds himself into me and sobs for those little girls and those moms with empty arms and those dads who weep and the nun who lost her hands. I don’t quite know what to do but hold on to him.

  A couple at the table next to us look over with concern. “Is he okay?” the woman asks quietly.

  “He’s fine,” I say assuredly, although I’m not so sure I believe this.

  When he doesn’t settle down by the end of the next song, I decide the best thing to do is just take him back to the hotel. He’s still clinging to me as we make our way through the tightly packed tables. Idgy calls out, “We’ve lost one. I hope he feels better.”

  At the door, Robert suddenly stops and diverts unsteadily to the men’s room with a rather loud, “I have to take a piss.”

  Thankfully, the men’s room is empty. He braces his forehead against the tile wall. I wait close by just in case he tanks.

  “You okay?”

  He sniffles, then buries his eyes against his arm. I’m glad that he’s centered himself in front of the urinal because he is not watching where he’s peeing.

  A bearded older man with a graying ponytail enters. He eyes us then goes about his business.

  When Robert finishes, I coax him off the wall, and he drapes himself over me again.

  “You need to put your dick away and zip up your pants,” I tell him quietly.

  He looks down and studies himself through blurry eyes and says, “What are you doing out?”

  I stifle a laugh and do it for him. I can feel the older gentleman’s scrutiny, but I don’t dare look up. I clear my throat. “Come on. Let’s get you back to the hotel.”

  We barely make it halfway down the narrow, broken sidewalk to the parking lot before he says, “I don’t feel so good,” then pukes in the weeds along a chain-link fence. I rub his back while he spits and cries. “Those poor little angels.”

  I look at his pinched face and think that every single thing he does just etches him a little more deeply on my heart. Of one thing I’m fairly certain: He’s been badly wounded, and every now and then something—an empty notebook, a dead dog, a song—rips open the scab and he bleeds. I want to just hold him and make all the bad things go away.

  I brush a damp washcloth over his forehead.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

  “You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”

  “I ruined the night and now I can’t even get it up.”

  This makes me smile because in truth, I’m a little worn out, and I like lying here next to him, quiet and sleepy. The heat is off and the room is getting chilly. I reach behind me and set the washcloth on the bedside table and turn out the light. Then I tuck the covers around us, press my cheek to his shoulder, and allow myself to drift off.

  Chapter 41

  Robert

  “How did it go?” I ask.

  “Well, the locks weren’t changed, and she’s still allowing me to be alone with my daughter.”

  Andrew’s at the lake with Kiki right now, feeding ducks. I wish I could be there too. I feel cheated. I passed out and slept away our entire night together. I didn’t even get to wake up with him. When I woke, feeling like I’d been dividing by zero, it was already ten o’clock in the morning, and Andrew was in the shower.

  “Look who’s up,” he’d said when I pulled the shower curtain aside and stepped into the spray with him. I can still see the little soap bubbles clinging to him in all the right places and his smile when I wiped them away. And then he howled.

  He calls out to Kiki to be careful with the big duck.

  “I have one group session to go. Maybe I should just not show up.”

  “Oh, that won’t confirm her suspicions.” He laughs into the phone. “Nope, you gotta show. Act totally normal. If we just keep it up and don’t give her any other reason to think otherwise, she’ll start doubting what she saw or what it means. I’m done worrying about it.

  “Hold on. That big mallard is about to trample my daughter for that bread.”

  I listen while he takes on the duck. I’m pacing on my driveway, but I should be there with them. Movement down the street catches my eye. A dog. As he gets closer, I notice he’s limping. A little closer and I realize it’s the little Boston terrier that had been sniffing around Nic that day I installed my stereo.

  I quietly head out to meet him. His eyes are focused on the road, so he doesn’t see me until I’ve closed the distance between us. Then he looks up and falls over himself in his rush to get away from me.

  I try to calm him with my voice. “It’s okay, boy,” I say gently. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “Who are you talking to?”

  “It’s a stray dog. He’s hurt, but he’s skittish. I’ll call you back, okay?”

  I end the call and slip my phone in my pocket. The dog is back on his feet and hopping madly away. I grab him and he reaches back and nips at me. But it’s just a nip. His bulging eyes make him look even more terrified than he already is.

  I run my hand over his trembling hips and legs. They feel okay. I have to pick him up to check his feet and this sets off a new panic. He squirms, and it’s like trying to hold on to one of those liquid-filled rubber squishy toys.

  “Take it easy.” I can see right away that the pads of his feet are all chewed up. The back right is the worst. The entire pad is hanging by a narrow piece of skin and bleeding. “Where you been, little fellow? Have you had a long walk?”

  His skin is stretched tightly over his prominent ribs, and now that I’ve got him tipped back I can see the rash on his belly and on the insides of his back legs too. It looks raw and painful. I turn him right side up again and tuck him securely under my arm, then take out my phone and snap our photo.

  My new dog.

  Aaah. What a cutie. You’ll make a great doggy daddy.

  What shall I name him?

  Kiki says Spot.

  Chapter 42

  Andrew

  Screw it. I’m keeping that photo on my phone. And third period, I’m going to start apartment hunting. A few more months and this nonsense is O-V-E-R.

  I look at the ugly little black-and-white face with the bush-baby eyes. You may be terrified now, I think, but you are one lucky pooch. I think about the angels that burned and how Robert cried over them. He may have a weak stomach, but he has a compassionate heart.

  And once again my own heart swells with pride.


  I feel like this is one of those days where everything is new again, like it’s truly the first day of the rest of my life. And it feels good.

  I greet my students with a cheeriness I haven’t felt in quite a few months. There is nothing they can do to kill my mood today. I feel empowered, in control, and ready to engage them with the beauty of math.

  And it goes pretty well. I still have some damage control to do; I accept that.

  Then, a few minutes into first period, a student steps into my classroom with an office request for Stephen Newman. He’s instructed to bring his things.

  Stephen goes and he doesn’t return, and I’m thinking the day is getting better and better, and then I chastise myself for that thought. I am above that. Still, I make a mental note to check his behavior record later in the day to see what he’s being disciplined for. In my experience, when a kid is misbehaving in one class, he’s misbehaving in others. Best to get it all out on the table and get as much mileage out of it as we can.

  By third period I’m in my head, picturing Robert sleeping over in my new apartment, waking up in my apartment, dancing on my bed with his pants off. It’s a pleasant thought, and I’m smiling to myself as I Google apartments in our area and jot down addresses and phone numbers.

  “Mr. McNelis.”

  It’s Lauren Crew, a first-year AP responsible for eleventh graders. She’s standing in my doorway. I find her formal address funny since we were on the same math team last year.

  “Hey, Lauren. What can I do for you?”

  “I need you to come with me, please.”

  Mr. McNelis and a please. That’s when I take a good look at her. She’s gripping her walkie-talkie in her hand and her face is grim. I know that face.

  “Okay,” I say. Fear floods through me.

  Logan Hough, the twelfth grade AP, is waiting in the hallway. He’s looking at his feet, then at Lauren. He doesn’t look at me until I speak to him.