"What are you inferring?"
"It's not infer, it's imply. When you infer something you are deciding or interpreting something about what's being said. When you imply you—"
"Okay, then, what are you implying."
"I am implying that perhaps if you looked at what you already know, you might be free of it."
"How do you know I would be free? Maybe it would be much worse. Besides, there's nothing I'm unwilling to look at. No one will talk to me about the photo in the newspaper of the car being pulled from the lake."
"How so? I've been willing to talk about it."
"Yeah, but you're the only one. My mom won't talk about it, my dad, even in the angry group they didn't know what I was talking about. None of them had seen it."
"They just weren't looking for it."
"There is nothing I'm not looking at,” I said, and folded my hands, as if to say, “and I'm staying with that point of view.”
"Okay Jane. But as long as you're unwilling to talk about it or look at it, I don't really know how I can help you."
That sent a shiver down my spine. Was she threatening to leave me? Oh God, don't leave me.
"Okay, I'll talk about it. What do you want to know?” I said, and then, after a long pause, "My mom wants me to get on disability."
"Don't you think that would be a good idea?"
"Why? Do you think I'm disabled?"
"Well, how do you think you're doing?"
"Fine. Great. I don't even know what everyone's talking about when they say I should get disability. I mean, it's kind of shocking,” I said, “and insulting.”
"You think you're doing fine?"
"Yes. Why?"
Miriam gave a long sigh, looked at her watch, and said if I was fine this might as well be our last session. So I tried, just enough to satisfy her.
"Why are they digging up that car?"
"Have you contacted the police about it yet?"
"Now that's a good question,” I responded, and it had me thinking all the way home. I was thinking so much I was on autopilot, and didn’t get home till evening. The grass still had that freshly mowed smell. There were purple and violet and red and yellow flowers in Mom's garden, which was a narrow strip alongside the driveway. Actually there was another garden in the back, not quite as well tended. She had once really taken care of it. There was still this great big wire, circular cage back there where she had a compost pile. She grew rhubarb in the garden next to that, and tomatoes, and peas, and we used to eat them fresh from the garden. She didn't do that kind of thing anymore.
"Call the police department and ask,” I said out loud.
"What are you talking about?” My mom gave me that strange look again.
"Oh come on,” I continued. "My therapist told me to do it."
"Okay,” she said, in a do-it-your-way tone.
In the morning I did try to call them. I sat on hold for a long time. Then after that I was transferred and sat on hold on another line. Then I got an answering machine. Instead of leaving a message, I decided to take it upon myself to go down there. But at the last minute, I decided I better take someone with me.
I asked my dad. He said he'd go. He said he had a few things to do at the office first, so I went with him. I climbed the stairs, which were inside a hollow, echoing, cement and iron-railed staircase and walked the long, narrow, dimly lit hall to his office in the Wallace building at the University: a tiny office with one narrow window that was blocked by a large, black filing cabinet. The room had always been a mess, like his desk at home. I remembered it so well, yet I don't think I'd been down there since I was eight or nine years old. I saw the dusty, old machine where I bought French peanuts way back then and he told me how great they tasted, and I ate them, listening very carefully, and hearing that they tasted great.
"I'm glad you're going with me to ask about the car,” I said.
He didn't say anything. He was rummaging through some papers.
"This was a very good book,” he said, and handed it to me.
I looked at it. It had a picture of a street on the cover with papers and trash blowing along the sidewalks.
"It's not the Wasteland, but it reminds me of that.” He stared off toward the blocked window. He sometimes did that. He was the absent-minded professor if I ever saw one, almost comically so.
"Dad?" I said.
"Yes?"
"Are you ready to go?"
"Sure,” he said after a while.
He drove me to the station. I asked him to go in with me, and he didn't seem to want to.
"Well, will you at least wait for me here in the car?"
"It looks like it might rain," he said.
The first drops had just begun when I got out. When I looked back into the car I couldn't see him very well, because for one thing the way the clouds were reflecting in the mirror blocked him from view. He seemed to have kind of slumped down in there. He must have been very tired. He said they were making him do the work of twelve professors.
I walked slowly toward the door. I put my hand on the steel handle. I held my breath. Why was I so afraid to go in there? Look, I could just go in. I didn't have to do anything or even ask anything if I wasn't ready. Miriam would be proud of me just knowing I had gone this far, and then she wouldn't cancel my therapy.
I walked in and felt the rush of the air conditioning. Why do they always make it so cold? It's not even hot outside. It's raining for crying out loud.
I walked up to the desk. There was the officer. He looked like the one who came to my house. But he couldn't be, could he?
"Officer?"
He only raised his eyebrows in response.
"I wanted to ask about something I recently saw in the newspaper."
"Newspaper office is down that way,” he pointed.
"No, I mean, I'm sure it involves the police."
"Okay?"
"Well, they pulled a car out of the lake. A little blue Chevette? Just recently. It went in the lake twenty years ago. I wondered why they’re pulling it up now."
"Well, if such a thing were happening, I bet it would be police business, and not such a thing as I or any one of us could talk about with the public. Probably a crime scene."
"An old crime?"
"Must be, if you say it's twenty years. But I'll be honest with you, ma'am. I don’t know anything about it."
"You don't?"
"No, I don't. If I were you I'd ask the Gazette's office. Man who printed up the story ought to know. Although I don't remember seeing it."
"Why didn't I think of that?"
I smiled at him and walked out.
"Why didn't Miriam think of that?"
When I got back my dad’s car was gone. He was supposed to wait for me. He wouldn’t just leave me there. I looked all over for his car in the rain.
Where could he have gone?
I ran in circles. I ran around and around. I went back in the station and asked if they knew where he was, but they knew nothing. They said they couldn't help me. He's not a missing person, they said. Not missing. He'll turn up. He's probably out looking for you, they said.
"Yeah, that's probably it," I said.
12
"Have you seen Dad?" I asked my mom, coming into the kitchen, soaking wet, after a long, two-mile walk home in the rain. Fortunately, Oshkosh was a compact, little town.
"No, why?"
"He took me down to the police station, wouldn't go in with me, and then disappeared."
"Oh, well, I'm sure he just forgot about some work he had to do or something."
"Yeah, but why would he leave me like that … unless something happened. He wouldn't just leave me there. That's not like him."
"He'll turn up,” she said.
And sure enough, I relaxed about it and within a few days I saw him mowing the lawn again, this time in long pants because summer was nearly fall and there were cool days ahead.
Late at night, while flipping the channels with the remo
te I thought about going to the Gazette office and asking about the article. I imagined myself there doing it, standing at the desk asking questions. The desk was very tall though, or the counter was, so that just the top of my head could be seen by whoever was on the other side. They answered me with scornful reproaches. Why should I bother?
I dialed Krishna's phone number. No answer. I decided to just let it ring. I put the phone under my head like a pillow. It sounded soothing—like waves lapping against a shore, ring…ring…ring, endless ringing. If I let it ring long enough, I know she will answer.
The machine not picking up was a little strange, but I didn't think about it too much. I was watching an old rerun of Leave it to Beaver. It too was comforting. I felt myself drifting peacefully off, barely aware when she said, "Hello … hello?"
"Hi Krishna. It's me, and I am calling to tell you about the car."
"I like to live in the past," she mocked, "please join me."
"No really, I need to tell you about the car."
"Where are you now?” she asked.
"Asleep on the couch."
"Ironic."
"Yes,” I acknowledged, "it is."
"You will never stop pushing this rock up the hill. It's my dream, remember? You are Sisyphus, and the question is…"
"The question,” I continued as if I were a robot on autopilot, "is, is it worth it?"
"I'm not on the other end of this phone," she said.
"About the car, I saw something but then you said that couldn't be true."
"Wait, who are you talking to? There's no one here."
"No, just listen."
She gave that really annoyed, loud sigh that she used when she really wanted something to cease.
"Just, hear me out. The car window, was it rolled up?” I asked. "Or down?"
The room looked different than it had when I had fallen asleep here. A different show was on TV.
"What difference does it make?” she said and hung up.
I tried to call back, but this time no more answer and I went upstairs to bed.
***
I had gripped the keys so tight in my hand no one could get them, no matter how hard they tried. It was impossible to get me to unclench my fist, but they did manage to pry it open.
"Pull over, I'm going to throw up."
"Just roll down the window."
The cold blast of air in my face sobered me up a little.
"Let me fucking drive, I'm fine, I just need to go home."
"I'm getting you there, just hold on."
"Then how will you get home?"
"Don't worry about that. Jeez."
But then her face, she turned around and her face … it was under the water. She screamed, and clawed at me, pushing my face backward, and at the window. I couldn't hear anything anymore, I could only see fists and feet and wet, black pant legs floating, bubbles. I woke up and went in and sat on the foot of my mom's bed, just like when I was little. I didn't wake her up, I just sat there for a long time, wondering when all this was going to stop. When would I stop having this nightmare? What did I need to do to be free of it?
It wasn't my fault, you know.
I wasn’t doing anything to prolong this.
The dream came no matter what I did, and no force of my will could stop it.
And Miriam, even for all her blaming it on me, probably knew this deep down. When she had me talk about it, I'm sure she was really thinking, if only Jane did this, and if only Jane did that.
I didn't need disability. I just needed a job.
I went down to the kitchen. Four o'clock in the morning, perfect time to look through the classifieds. I even thought that maybe while talking to the Gazette about the article I could apply for a job.
Let's see now. Did they have any high-level newspaper jobs for high-school dropouts? They had several openings for copy editor. I circled them with yellow highlight. I loved circling ads for jobs with yellow highlight.
Experience needed? Please don't say high-school diploma, please don't say it. Is there any possible way they could hire me to do that? Must have reporting experience. Okay, so I could forget that one. Here was another one: proofreader, must pass spelling and grammar test. I think I could do that. I read a lot. And my spelling was alright. Maybe not the best, but I bet if I studied I could get that job. It didn't ask for a high-school diploma, and if they asked for one I bet I could fake that. I would say, where it says high school graduated from, that I graduated at some school in Hawaii, or better yet, in a foreign country. That way they could never check, or probably couldn't. Businesses didn't like to make long-distance phone calls.
I went to the office the next day, even though I was tired, and filled out an application before my anger-management group. I made up a whole past that I thought they might have a hard time checking. I said I was unable to graduate but had gotten an equivalency in Casablanca. I thought of this because my uncle taught there for five years in a program abroad, and two of my cousins had to get their high-school degrees there, but had to go through some kind of equivalency program. I did a little research at the library and came up with some stupid name I didn't think they could pronounce, let alone check out. Now my only problem was to bone up a bit on questions I might be asked about the area, and what I'd been doing since I hadn’t been working. I decided to lie about that too, otherwise I'd have no chance. I wondered if any of this would work, because Oshkosh was a small town, and most everyone knew me. But it was worth a shot. What did I have to lose?
I must have done a really decent job because they actually called me the next day for an interview. It was scheduled for Friday morning. Perfect. It was in the morning, and my probation appointment was in the afternoon. And there was enough of a cushion of time in between to allow for heavy traffic.
I told my mom about it.
"Well, good,” she said, nonplussed.
"No, really."
"I said that's good."
"You don't think I can get the job?"
"I didn't say that. Just don't get your hopes up."
"Well, what the hell do you mean by that?"
"Listen, I'm not going to sit here and be yelled at,” she said.
"I didn't yell,” I said, "but you are trying to sabotage my chances."
"How?"
"Now you're yelling,” I shouted.
She grabbed her book and left the room. I followed her into the living room.
"I am so sick of you sabotaging."
"I have nothing to do with this," she said.
"Oh, you don't think so?"
"No. You've made your own choices—"
"Yes, but I could have done better if I'd have had your encouragement. Especially I could have used just not having your discouragement."
"Oh Jane, shut up."
And I did, by leaving and slamming the door. Great. Now I was going to be all upset and jinxed for my interview. Well, I still had a couple of days, and a bunch of therapy before Friday, and I would just stay away from her.
I spent the next couple of days in the library, when I wasn't at therapy of some kind, working on my attitude and my knowledge, for the interview. I was also practicing spelling and trying to learn the rules of grammar, which I had never particularly enjoyed or understood. I had passed between the two lions that lay on either side of the stone steps a dozen times, between grabbing lunch, going out for a smoke, going out for coffee or junk to munch on. I read tourism books on Morocco and Casablanca. Didn't have to worry about learning the language, since I knew French already. Looked at plenty of pictures so I could describe the city in detail. I also researched the nature of the job. I really didn't think I had that good a chance of getting it, which is probably why my mom's words hurt, but at least I would be prepared.
13
"I think it's terrific that you are trying to get this job," Miriam said.
It was a bright, sunny day. I liked the way her walls looked when the sun filtered in through the blinds. The blind
s were several shades darker mauve than the walls, giving the room a beautiful aura. And she had a lot of big leafy plants in the room. Ferns, big philodendron, little dainty, leafy ones that hung from their baskets the names of which I didn't know. I could never keep plants alive—maybe the philodendra. I kept a fern alive once. I used to give it long showers. I used to keep that fern alive and dream of getting a job one day, and living on my own in an apartment. I dreamed of that clear back in high school.
"I agree, I think it’s great that I’m looking for a job. Of course, I have no chance at all of getting it," I said.
"Why do you say that?"
"I had to lie on the application. I lied and said I had a high school diploma."
"People don't care about high school when you've been out of it this long."
"Yeah, but I have no schooling, or experience," I said, looking down at my feet.
"It's just a proofreading job."
"I could also apply for a library job, maybe just to shelve books or something.” My eyes brightened up a little. "Maybe I could get one of those jobs."
"What is it that is making you want to work at that job?"
"I don't know. It makes me feel less like a…"
"Less like a…"
"Loser?"
"Why do you think you are a loser, Jane?"
"Oh God, we don't have to talk about that night again, do we? Actually, isn't the way I'm living proof enough that I am a loser?"
"I think maybe the way you are living might have something to do with that night."
There was a period of silence.
"Don't you?” she asked.
"Oh for God's sake, you are like a broken record. And please, don't threaten to stop therapy if I don't talk about it again. That was traumatic,” I said, suddenly focusing all my intensity on her.
I looked at the clock. We still had at least a half an hour more of this.
"I just want to prepare for this interview, so I can get a job," I continued.
She gave me a silent, oh-come-on-now stare.
"What?” I said. "What do you think I should look at about that night that is relevant to my job interview on Friday?"
"Did you go to the police station to ask about the article?"
The Oshkosh Trilogy 01 - The Dark Lake Page 7