Summer Hours

by Amy Mason Doan

  He stood inside, by the sliding glass balcony door, talking to someone I couldn’t see. Laughing and gesturing with his glass. He was so intent on their conversation that he didn’t notice me, even when I weaved through the elegant crowd to the middle of the room and stood ten feet away. I anticipated his surprise, the mischievous smile he’d send my way when he glanced over.

  He was talking to someone shorter than him, just like Eric when I’d left him on the packed roof. Bending his neck to talk, just like Eric.

  But this wasn’t a stranger. And it was a man. Mole eyes, glasses, comb-over: Derrek Schwinn, the Footsy King.

  He’s basically harmless.

  I left before they noticed me.

  Hurried down the staircase, down the hill to the quay.

  So fast that the ferry I’d just disembarked from still had its ramp down.

  “Didn’t I just see you?” the ticket taker said, winking. “Forget something? I can ask them to wait a couple of minutes while you look.”

  “I didn’t forget anything.”

  But this was a lie, another lie added to the pile, because for a few minutes on the outgoing leg of my ferry ride I’d forgotten why I’d broken it off with Cal.

  I’d believed he was sad about it. But he was fine, laughing with that vile man, so useful, everything lightweight. Did he know what Schwinn had done? It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t care. Once, I’d admired how he held himself apart from the world, how he didn’t take anything too seriously.

  But I knew now that his lightness was merely a bright curtain drawn over cynicism.

  I wouldn’t be like that.

  I threw my key over the side and imagined it diving into the water in a perfect 10.0, splashless entry. So dramatic, Becc. Such vanity. He’s probably given out dozens of keys by now.

  I sat on my upstairs bench, leaning into the wind.

  Furious at myself for what I’d given up to be with him.

  * * *

  I was back at Plato by midnight, and the party was still going strong. The first thing I saw when I walked in was Eric’s waif on a front-room futon, making out with another guy.

  Eric and Serra and Maggie were on the roof. “Where’d you disappear to?” Eric asked. “I’ve been looking for you for hours.”

  “We ran out of ice.”

  * * *

  That night I couldn’t sleep.

  Serra and Maggie were dead to the world and I thought Eric was, too. He was silent, curled up on the extra mattress we’d thrown on the floor for him when Maggie and Bonnie broke up last week.

  I went downstairs for a bowl of Corn Flakes at two, hoping it would make me sleepy. I crept back into the room and tried not to make a sound as I shifted under my comforter. But Eric reached up and fumbled in the dark to tap my hand.

  “Hey, thanks for my going-away present,” he whispered.

  I’d given him an autographed copy of my final Elliot & Healey Pulse & Forecastr, formed into a scroll and tied with red ribbon.

  “Something to read on the plane,” I whispered back.

  “Why did you really leave the party?”

  “I went to get ice and got lost.”

  A silence. “I’m really glad I spent the summer here, Becc.”

  “Me, too.” I shifted onto my side to face him, my arm reaching down. His white teeth and T-shirt were bright in the patch of moonlight coming through the round window.

  I held my breath, bracing for him to touch my cheek with his free hand, to tug on my arm so I’d tumble down.

  I hooked my foot on the opposite side of mattress so I’d be ready to resist.

  Instead he gave my hand a friendly squeeze, released it, and rolled onto his side, his back to me. My arm hung out in space alone.

  How many nights had Eric slept over at my house when we were in high school? Twenty? Thirty? Serra in the bed with me, Eric on my pulled-out trundle below us. He still sleeps on his left side.

  I lay awake for a long time, watching him sink back into sleep. Studying the familiar whorl of his ear, unique as a fingerprint.

  38

  Electric

  1997

  Sunday morning before Labor Day

  After Serra and Maggie and I dropped Eric at SFO for his dawn flight to Boston, we returned to Plato hungover and a little blue. We’d made grand plans to go to the campus bookstore right when it opened, to get our fall textbooks before the crowds. But nobody made a move.

  We lifted Eric’s mattress back up onto Maggie’s stack, I inserted the mix CD he’d handed me at the gate into Serra’s boom box, and the three of us flopped on our beds.

  “You two really never got together?” Maggie said. “Not even a tiny bit?”

  I shook my head. I was reading Eric’s handmade CD liner (he’d clearly burned the disc at work, using Golden State equipment). His handwriting was so sloppy, I couldn’t make out half the song titles, but he’d named the mix after the Seal song I liked—“Crazy.” He’d remembered my description of my Elliott & Healey anthem, how it made the days bearable.

  Eric had promised not to go dark on me again, that we’d call each other at least once a week and email a ton, but I still felt like crying.

  Maggie went on. “Because there’s this...electric thing between you.”

  “They’ve always been like that,” Serra said. “Ever since ninth grade.”

  “A psychic link,” Maggie said.

  “He’s still gone over her,” Serra said. “It’s so obvious.”

  “I know,” Maggie said. “I watched him when we were at dim sum and she burned herself with the tea. The way he was dabbing her arm with his napkin was completely—”

  “Stop talking about me like I’m not here!” This came out with a violence that shocked all three of us.

  Serra and Maggie looked at each other.

  “Becc?” Serra said, hopping down, rushing over. “Hey, why are you... Are you crying?”

  I threw the CD jewel case to the floor, faced the wall. I wiped my face on my pillow, furious at myself, at everything. I’d been fine. This summer had been a gift. An unexpected, undeserved gift. And I was spoiling it.

  Hands touched my back. The heavy, occasionally sharp shoulder rub of Maggie’s, adorned with silver rings on eight fingers. Serra’s gentle, child-weight pats.

  “Hey, I’m sorry, babe,” Maggie said.

  Serra’s voice—“Becc? It’s a good feeling, being around you two. A contagious good feeling. It’s, like...what people are supposed to be like together. That’s all we meant.”

  “Sorry. I’m not mad at you guys.”

  Serra came around to face me at the head of my bed, smoothing the hair from my forehead. “Did you two finally give it a try this summer and it didn’t work out?”

  I shook my head.

  “He didn’t scam with anyone at the party, if that’s what you think,” Maggie said. “He could’ve. I saw that little rat Lily Brewer from International House try to mack on him but he blew her off.”

  “It’s not Lily Brewer.” I wiped my nose on my sleeve.

  “Then what?” Serra asked. “You two spent every second together this summer, why can’t you both just admit—?”

  “We’ll never be a couple.”

  “Why not?” Maggie asked. “He’s hot and you’re into him, I know it.”

  Because I’ve lied to him. Every second I spent with him that I didn’t tell him about Cal was a lie.

  I wanted to tell them about Derrek Schwinn and Cal’s coziness, and the churn in my stomach that night that had nothing to do with Maggie’s mouthwash cocktail.

  How anytime I pictured the two men laughing across that impeccable white room in Sausalito, I felt faintly sick again, remembering how Cal had described Schwinn.

  Basically harmless.

  Was my time with Ca
l harmless? Even if he was a good guy to me, even though I’d chosen him, it didn’t feel that way now. I wanted to tell Serra and Maggie, to have them say that it would be okay.

  Even if that, too, was a lie.

  “Why can’t you ever be a couple, Becc?” Serra prodded gently. “Becc, talk to us.”

  “Oh...I’m just being...” I sniffed hard to clear my nose, rubbed the sticky skin under my eyes with my knuckles. “We’ve been friends way too long, it’d be too weird. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I think the party did me in.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with admitting you’re sad that Eric left,” Serra said. “Right? I mean, we all are.”

  Serra and Maggie shared a not-so-secret smile above me. Mischievous, as if it was only a matter of time before Eric and I got our romantic ending.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m sad that Eric left.”

  39

  Liberty

  Summer after senior year

  Letter No. 4

  June 20, 1998

  Dear Mrs. Haggermaker,

  I know I usually write earlier, but

  * * *

  July 21, 1998

  Dear Mrs. Haggermaker,

  I’m sorry this letter is so late, but

  * * *

  August 20, 1998

  Dear Mrs. Haggermaker,

  The months since my graduation from Berkeley have been so hectic that I’m afraid this letter is a little tardy, but I’m sure you’ll understand.

  It feels so scary to be out of school. Like there’s nothing to hold on to. No books. No class schedules to tell me where to go when. Like I’m floating and there’s nothing to grab onto. Anchorless.

  Do you remember that feeling? Do you, Mrs. Haggermaker? Doyoudoyoudoyou? Were you ever afraid of anything?

  June 1998

  From: ericlogan98@brownuniversity.edu

  How’s the job search going? You find anything near the OPP?

  It sounds like your grad ceremony was amazing. The Greek Theatre, huh? Can’t wait to see the pictures your mom took. Tell her to get the pinball machine ready.

  Wish you could fly out to Providence for my ceremony. I can offer you a bed (I’ll sleep on the floor, naturally, as is our custom) and all the dorm-smuggled tater tots you can eat.

  From: rebeccareardon98@berkeley.edu

  Do you know what OPP stands for, E?

  I do. Look it up.

  Despite being totally offended by your casual use of such a misogynistic acronym, I’d still visit you if I could. I’d love to see you graduate.

  But cash is ridiculously tight for me, too. I could barely afford to pay Serra for my share of gas to go home to OP (note the one P) and buy the good paper for résumés. I’ve sent out forty-one but so far I’ve got nothing. I just applied to Cat Fancy.

  I wrote in my cover letter that I had three cats at home and my hobby is frequenting cat shows “and other local feline events.” But, not to fear, my “versatile writing and research background” is also suited to the publisher’s other “respected media properties.”

  The same company also puts out a quarterly newsletter about reptiles and a publication called Rat Rodder. I thought it was about rats until I did some digging and learned it was for hobbyists who make cars out of scavenged parts. Good thing I didn’t tell them I owned a rat.

  Anyway, I’ll update you on my dazzling journalism prospects in the next email. Any interview would feel like a lifeline at this point.

  I miss you. Enjoy the tater tots.

  Becc

  From: ericlogan98@brownuniversity.edu

  Cat Fancy would be crazy not to hire you.

  I got into UCLA film school off the wait-list. But my mom can’t help me out anymore. She can barely pay for her new apartment in San Diego. Is it nuts to go into debt?

  My other option is an actual PAID job as a production assistant on Gold Coast. Spin-off of Golden State starring Krista Gold’s cousin, filmed around Newport. Sounds life affirming, huh?

  I miss you.

  From: rebeccareardon98@berkeley.edu

  I’m in the same dilemma about journalism school. It sounds like heaven but everyone says years in a newsroom count for more, and it’s so expensive. Though it killed me to give up on the idea of Columbia. Maybe I’ll go next year.

  Maybe this will cheer you up:

  Fwd: from catfancyinc.com

  Thank you very much for your application.

  Unfortunately, you’re not right for our hiring needs at this time.

  We wish you the very best in your career search...

  June 17, 1998

  Deborah Buckley, managing editor of the OC Liberty, tossed a section of the newspaper at me.

  “What do you think of this?” She tapped a blunt-cut fingernail on a column called Paula’s Potpourri.

  Recipes featuring dried-onion soup, cleaning tips, photos readers mailed in of their grandchildren and doxies, knitting fair dates. In short, the Women’s Section. The Liberty didn’t call it that anymore, but everyone knew that’s what it was. Above the column, Paula was rendered in line drawing as a smug, bow-lipped blonde with a French twist and heart locket.

  I’d never subscribed to the Liberty, which was owned by some filthy-rich Libertarian family in Santa Ana, and hadn’t read Paula’s Potpourri. The job listing had said only:

  Assistant editor. 1–2 years of print or internet journalism experience preferred. Some writing opportunities for self-starter.

  Nothing about the goddamned Potpourri.

  But I said diplomatically, “I think Paula probably has loyal readers.”

  Deborah rolled her wide-set brown eyes. “You have no idea. Paula’s Potpourri has run since 1937. We tried killing it two years ago and you would not believe the backlash. Every blue hair in the county wrote to complain.” She ran her hands through her short, gray-black curls. “If you got the job, you’d be Paula. You’d have to run one pet photo and one kid photo a week, minimum. And test every recipe you run. Can you cook?”

  “Absolutely.” I’d attempted those multicultural meals that summer after high school. So I’d wrecked most of them. I could fake my way through some recipes. I had to get this job.

  “So I’ll level with you, the position itself is a bit of a potpourri. We need someone to monitor the comments on the internet version of the paper, as well. Personally I think it’s a waste of resources but management is actually taking this online subscriber thing seriously. So you’d delete anything that’s against policy, that kind of stuff. The reporters take it in stride but a couple of our older columnists can get...sensitive about what people post. You’re comfortable with HTML?”

  Comfortable signing up for a night class in it.

  I nodded, smiling, radiating what I hoped was the natural tech-savvy of youth.

  She scanned my résumé and flipped through my college newspaper clips.

  Uptick in Campus Graffiti. I read the headline from my sophomore article silently, upside down. Then came my respectable though short clips from the last two years, the ones I’d focused on after I stopped reporting on Serra and Yvonne’s group: Student Committee Protests Textbook Prices; Self-Defense Classes Draw Record Numbers. I’d never made the front page, but I hoped my modest articles would be enough.

  Ohplease, ohplease let me get this job.

  “You know we can only pay $13 an hour. You must be making more at the temp agency.”

  I was, but barely, and my last job had involved ten-key data entry for a mortgage firm. Eight hours of typing numbers into spreadsheets.

  “I’m fine with that.”

  “And any reporting will have to be on your own time. The other tasks come first.”

  “I understand.”

  She stood and offered her hand. “Start in two weeks.”

  I ema
iled ericlogan@goldproductions.com only three words:

  I got it!

  He didn’t email back, so I figured he was at the movies; he hated Gold Coast even more than Golden State. It never occurred to me that Eric could actually be out, you know, working.

  But the next day there was a package propped against my apartment door. A white box with a red ribbon on it. The card said:

  B,

  Sad to lose my matinee buddy. But you deserve this. I figure these’ll be useful. Congratulations.

  E

  Inside were a dozen slim reporter’s notebooks.

  40

  More Than Fine

  July 1998

  WHERE ERIC WAS SUPPOSED TO BE | Gold Coast

  WHERE I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE | Typing up a recipe for igloo meat loaf

  WHERE WE WERE | A small greenhouse

  My incoming-call light flashed at 11:30, as I was finishing next week’s Potpourri, sorting through pictures of cats, trying to find the least attractive one to feature. (I always picked the scrawniest cats, the rattiest dogs, the homeliest grandchildren. My silent rebellion.)

  Eric. “Meet me at the beach for lunch? The bonfire place?”

  Eric hadn’t once asked me to play hooky from the newspaper. He didn’t try to lure me to the movies for extended lunches because he knew I actually liked my job.

  Deb had told me she was worried about the extra hours I logged, how I worked on Saturdays and even Sundays. She said I should take a personal day, but work felt personal finally. I spent almost no time in my tiny, $700-a-month, orange-shag-carpeted Costa Mesa one-bedroom. Because if this wasn’t my dream job, at least I was inching closer.

  One of the paper’s columnists, Skip Theobald, was always on my case, blaming me for the comments people posted about him online. But I’d had three small stories in the print paper, and I was working on a long feature that I was really proud of—a profile of a seventy-year-old widow in Pasadena who’d started a kids’ music charity with a West Hollywood ska band.