by Sandra Block
Admittedly, I hate to think the guy could be Jewish. And that would be a bit out of character for the Hawk Club. My phone rings, and I’m about to let it go to voicemail when I see it’s my sister. “Sorry. I should get this.”
“Of course.” Daisy shoos me away.
Hurrying to the vestibule, my stomach clenches. Shoshana rarely calls. I do the math quickly. Five months along. Maybe there’s something wrong. God, I hope there’s nothing wrong. “Hello?”
“Hi,” she says.
“Is…is everything okay?”
“Oh yeah.” Her voice is light. “Don’t worry. Baby’s fine. I was calling about something else.”
“Oh good,” I say, surprised by the ferocity of both my worry and resulting relief. “What’s up?”
“Just checking in about that email I sent you.”
I think back to any recent communication and vaguely remember the pre-law summer program. “The Stanford thing?”
“Yeah, what did you think?”
“What did I think? Honestly, it looks great. But…way out of my price point.” Especially since someone else has control of my accounts right now. Though, supposedly, Dennis is “on top of it.”
“Yeah,” she says. “But if you do well there, a colleague of mine said you’d have a pretty good chance of getting into the law school.”
“Which doesn’t help if you can’t afford it in the first place.”
She pauses. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Jordan and I were just chatting about it. And we were thinking we could definitely loan you the money for it.”
“No,” I shoot out. Then I soften it. “That’s okay. You already loaned me some. I still have to pay you back.”
“That was a gift.”
“No. It wasn’t.” I can’t help feeling piqued. I know she’s trying to help, but I’m not some kind of charity case. And in the ensuing silence, I recognize this, our maladaptive pattern that Rae-Ann pointed out. Shoshana pushes and I pull back. She reaches out and I rebuff. I know she feels guilty about what happened. And I know that it’s not her fault at all. But I’m not sure why I won’t accept her obvious attempts at reconciliation. Except that, childishly, I’m still angry at her. For not being there for me.
But as Rae-Ann said, you can’t blame her for being young.
“Listen,” I say. “I’m with Daisy for coffee right now.” I know telling her this is part bravado. See, I’m doing great. I’m normal. I have friends. I don’t need your pity. “But I’ll think about it, okay?”
“Okay,” she says with a tinge of disappointment.
We hang up, and I walk back over to Daisy feeling guilty as usual, after talking to my sister.
“Everything okay?” Daisy asks.
“Yeah. Baby’s fine. She wanted to talk about some work thing.” As I give my tea another try, a text comes on the screen, which is faceup on the table. Free tonight?
From James.
Chapter Forty-Eight
James
When she walks in, my breath speeds up.
It always does that. I don’t know why. It must be a physiological thing, but I never notice myself breathing until I see her. But I stop noticing that because she hugs me right away, and I hug her back, taking it all in. Her sweet scent, the light shining on her hair, her body against mine.
She lets go and sits down on the black couch. She drops her purse beside her with a crash. I don’t know what she keeps in that thing, but it’s heavy. I picked it up for her once. “So, Daisy thinks I might actually know the redhead.”
“Really?” I sit next to her.
“Henry somebody. A guy from Hillel a year below us. But I couldn’t find anything by Googling it.”
“Henry Holstein?” I ask.
She looks at me like she just got a static shock. “You know him?”
“No,” I explain. “But that’s name seven on page eight. From the list.”
She looks confused. “The list only had seven pages.”
“No,” I say. “Eight.” I open my laptop to show her, but she shakes her head.
“I only got seven pages.”
“I know I gave you eight,” I say. I don’t want to be an asshole about it, but I’m sure of it.
As sure as day, as they say.
“Well, who cares,” she says. Which is another thing I like about her. She doesn’t get hung up on little things like I do. “Let’s just see if it’s him,” she urges me.
We Google the name, and an ugly face comes up. My stomach feels sick, looking at his picture. I can’t even imagine how she feels.
“That’s definitely him,” she says, and I nod. She leans farther toward the screen, and I smell her freesia lotion. “He looks smarmy,” she says.
“Yeah. I was thinking that too.” Though I was going to say like a douchebag. With a pink-polka-dotted bow tie and a smile like all the brownnosers I knew in high school. Which is an idiom I totally get.
“Jesus. That is so fucking depressing.”
I turn away from the computer screen, because I thought we should make eye contact, and I was right. She looks right at me.
“He’s a Jew,” she says.
I pause. “Okay?”
She frowns. “I don’t know. It makes it worse somehow. You know? Like he’s one of us.”
“Oh. I see.” I don’t actually though. I don’t get how that changes anything. Jewish guys can be assholes too. Just like Japanese guys can be.
As she shifts on the couch, the leather crinkles. “I know that shouldn’t make a difference, but it’s like…” She leans back, crossing her arms and staring at the ceiling. “He could be at my temple. He could be my cousin. He’s supposed to know better. He’s supposed to be better than that.”
“Uh-huh,” I say.
Her head falls back even farther into the cushion. “Anyway. What does he do, this Henry Holstein?”
I look up the source of the photo. “Teacher,” I say. “Vermont middle school.”
“Vermont’s not far,” she says.
“No, it’s not.” My D&D group went on a ski trip there once. We all ended up playing games in the ski lodge, which my mother said was not the point.
We don’t say anything for a moment. And I’m thinking it’s the perfect time to do it. To tell her. That’s part of the reason I asked her over. Partly because I just wanted to see her. But also, because I wanted to tell her finally, about Rob and Ramona. Jamal told me that I should. That I shouldn’t keep secrets anymore. I open my mouth, but the wrong thing comes out.
“So, what should we do about Henry?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer though, just twists her amethyst pendant. “You know what?”
“What?” My breath goes fast again, as she sits up and moves closer to me. I decide to tell her about Rob and Ramona another time.
She leans in closer. “I don’t want to talk about Henry right now.”
I’m not always good at nonverbal cues, but this one is crystal clear. I lean in to her too. Her mouth is soft, her tongue sweet in my mouth. I reach under her sweater, and the skin on her back is so soft, and her hand crawls over to my thigh. It’s just resting there, but then she starts rubbing me, softly but steadily, and I’m getting hard against my jeans. She loops her arms around my neck, pulling me toward her.
I want to make love to her so badly, but I can hardly breathe, and my vision turns all red, and it’s too much. Suddenly, I’m gasping, standing up.
She looks at me from the couch, her eyes glassy and so, so beautiful. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” I say. “It’s not you. It’s me.” I sit back down, trembling and ashamed.
“It’s okay,” she says and leans against me. And we sit there a while, her head resting against my shoulder, her hand laced into mine, just being, just breathing together. “Everything is okay,” sh
e says.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Five Years Ago
I spend the next six months getting high.
I have a job, so my parents don’t say much. If they notice the tangy scent of pot that trails me every which way I go, they don’t mention it.
My job is fine. I’m a barista at a place in our little suburb that looks like Starbucks but isn’t. The pay sucks but I have no real expenses, other than my ever-expanding back tattoo.
I have one pseudo-friend from high school who’s still around. But we weren’t that close in high school, and we’re not that close now. We go to a couple artsy movies. Mostly, I get high, go to work with all the other high people, then come home and possibly get high again.
It’s a pleasant enough existence. I don’t think too much. I don’t question too much. My mother asks if I might consider going back to school, maybe just the community college here. I pick up a brochure to shut her up.
My father asks if I’m ever going to think about getting a real job. I tell him eventually.
Eli calls every night, and we cheer each other up. He tells me about his “idiotic roommates.” He wants to drop out. I tell him not to. Our conversations are meandering and pointless, full of THC-induced laughter, alternating with THC-induced paranoia.
The days spin by. The weather turns from gray and snowy to a breezy spring to bright-green summer, and Shoshana comes home from Princeton.
We hug at the airport, and it feels fake. Or maybe it doesn’t, and I’m too high to know. We dance around each other at home. My parents ooh and aah over everything she does, then seem to be struck by guilt and try to tone it down. But they can’t help it. There is the golden daughter and the moody one. The one getting straight A’s and studying for her LSATs, and the one spending hours in her room or coming home from work with a stained apron or with gauze pads on her back from the tattoo parlor. My father gazes at Shoshana and can barely look at me.
One night, she goes on a blind date. My mom’s friend’s son from our temple. A senior from Northwestern who is applying to law school too. When they come home from the late movie, she is giggling and glowing. Jordan is his name, and he seems nerdy but nice. He’s tall and skinny, and his glasses are too big. My parents ooh and aah over him like they’ve never met a Jewish boy before, and when he turns to shake my hand, he turns bright red and awkward, and I know then.
She told him. She fucking told him on her first fucking date, and I escape into my room and decide I’m done. I’m done with them all.
And I call Eli, who isn’t home, and for the first time in the whole six months, the thought creeps in again. That it would be easier to just die.
Easier for everyone.
Chapter Fifty
James
“It’s like… I just freak out or something,” I say, “when we get too close.”
Jamal nods and touches the hem of his V-neck sweater. He always wears V-neck sweaters. Just like I always wear blue button-downs because it’s easy and matches everything. Maybe that’s Asperger’s, but I think it’s just common sense. Maybe that’s how Jamal feels about V-necks.
Finally, he speaks. “How does Dahlia feel about it?”
I smooth a wrinkle on his couch. “She says it’s okay. I don’t know… I guess she probably means it.”
“Why wouldn’t she mean it?”
I shrug.
“I think that’s a good thing,” he goes on, in his low voice. Jamal has a low, calming voice. Like a classical radio announcer. “It means she respects you.”
I nod at this. I do a lot of nodding with Jamal. He doesn’t make me talk too much, which is a relief. The last psychiatrist my father dragged me to wanted me to talk about everything. He kept trying to analyze my “obsession” with Dungeons & Dragons and how the wizards symbolize this and the monsters that and how it all lined up with my relationship with my mother and father, but I told him it’s just a super-fun game and he was probably overthinking it.
“Are you still on for Christmas?” he asks.
“I think so.” I grip my knees. “But I don’t know how that will go.”
“Because of…sex?”
I’m sure I turn a stupid pink color. “No. We’ll be in a separate rooms, I’m sure.”
Jamal writes something in his notebook. “Because of Rob?”
“Yeah,” I say. “And Ramona.”
He puts the pen down. “Have you told her yet?”
The couch wrinkle pops up again, and I push it down with my finger. “No.”
He pauses to let me speak, but I have no more to say. “Do you think you should?” he asks.
I nod.
Again, he plucks at his V-neck. “Did you ever think that this could be the thing holding you back? Keeping this secret…won’t let you get close to her?”
I think about it to be polite, but I decide he’s wrong. It doesn’t really fit. “I think it’s just me,” I say. “That’s all.”
Jamal doesn’t seem offended that I disagree with him. He’s good that way. “In any case, before you go home for Christmas…you might want to—”
“Yes,” I interrupt him. “I know.” I take in a deep breath. “I’ll tell her.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Dahlia
Connor walks by and leans against the partition, creaking it. I catch a pleasant whiff of starch from his shirt. “Hi,” he says shyly. “Have you had a chance to look at the Dawson file yet?”
“Just emailed it to you,” I answer.
“Great,” he says with enthusiasm. Unlike many at the firm, Connor actually appears to like his job. He gives me a smile, then strides off.
We work in silence for a while, then Sylvia opens her compact mirror and dots on some lipstick.
“You meeting Beau for lunch?” I ask.
She snaps her mirror shut. “Yeah. How’d you know?”
“Wild guess,” I murmur.
“Huh. Well, we’re picking out the flowers.” This comes out as flah-wuz with her Maine accent.
“I’m surprised he’s interested in all that.”
“He’s not,” she returns. “But he’s still coming. Since I’ve been doing every last fucking thing. He could show some interest in the lilies.”
Clearly, I hit on a sore spot, but before I can hear any more about the lilies, I notice someone being led over to my desk. Lisa, the dowdy and unerringly efficient secretary for the floor, puts her arm out as if presenting me.
“Hi,” the man says, glancing around with uncertainty. He’s a fit, compact man, maybe five-four. He’s got lead-gray hair and crow’s-feet that sunburst around his eyes. “Dahlia?”
“Yes.” I stand up to shake his hand.
He flips out a police badge. “Detective Harrison,” he says.
About a hundred eyes turn our way. “What can I help you with?” I ask.
“A little issue came up at your apartment this morning.”
“Okay?”
“Do you know Alethia Marrins?” he asks.
“Alethia? Sure.” Alethia. The one with all the tats who’s buff as hell. The one I’d be crushing on if I were gay. Who Eli calls Wonder Woman. “I mean, we’re not friends really. But we’re acquaintances.”
“She was attacked,” he says.
Sylvia looks up from her computer, then back down.
“Do you mind?” Detective Harrison asks while grabbing a chair from Sylvia’s side. She shakes her head, and he shuffles it kitty-corner from me.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. “Is she okay?”
“She’s fine,” he says. “Her attacker didn’t fare as well. Broken nose, four busted ribs, a concussion, and some pretty significant testicular swelling.”
“Huh,” I say. This story hasn’t changed my leanings toward Alethia. “Sounds like he picked the wrong victim.”
“Yes,” he says with a nod. “In more ways than one.”
I scoot my chair out an inch. “I don’t get you there.”
“He had your name in his wallet. And your address.”
I pause to let this sink in. “But why did he go to her address?”
“He didn’t. He attacked her in the stairwell. I believe it was a case of mistaken identity.” The detective pulls out a printed photo of a man from an arrest record. “Do you know him?”
I peer at the picture, which shows a man with a pale, thin, birdlike face and a thin mustache. “Never seen him.”
“Sergei Verchenko.”
I shrug. “No clue.”
“When he attacked the victim,” the detective says, “he said he was here to send a message. Any idea what he might have meant by that?”
I shake my head.
“Well, I don’t know either.” He backs up his chair, banging against the partition and turning at the sound. “But we did some research on ole Sergei. Looks like he got a check wired to him for five thousand dollars two days ago.”
I tap my pen on the desk. “Okay?”
“From the account of…” He flips through a notebook. “Vihaan Patel,” he reads out. He waits a second. “Ring a bell?”
“No. Never heard of him.” I’m lying though. I do remember the name.
“Okay.” He crosses his arms, as if not fully convinced. “No reason he might want to hurt you?”
“I don’t think so,” I say. “How do you know it’s even related?”
“Sure seems suspicious. Guy gets a big payday, then goes and attacks some stranger?”
I look over at Sylvia, who is zipping up her purse and tidying her desk. “Could be a coincidence,” I offer.
“Maybe.” He leans toward me. “But we detectives don’t really like coincidences.” He pauses for a long time. “If you do know something, it would help us to say so.”
“Hey.” I toss my palms up. “I like Alethia. I would help if I could. But I’m as in the dark as you are.” Though I have an idea. That I’ve stirred up a nest of dude bros. And they are not pleased.