The City of Your Final Destination

by Peter Cameron

  “But you said it was. You said it was everything I did.”

  “I was exaggerating, all right? I was exaggerating for effect. It’s something I do. You know that.”

  “I know. But sometimes, when you say things like that, I wonder …”

  “What?”

  “I wonder if you really love me. I think, how can she say something like that to me, like You fuck up everything you do, how could she say that to me if she loved me? Or not how but why? How and why.”

  “Listen,” said Deirdre, “I love you. You know I love you. This isn’t about that. In fact, I say things like that to you because I love you.”

  “It doesn’t sound like love. It sounds like anger.”

  “Of course it sounds like anger! It is anger! I’m angry, Omar, but that doesn’t preclude love. They can coexist, you know. I am capable of feeling several emotions simultaneously. I’m a complex person. Life is complex. Love is complex. It isn’t simple. It isn’t about just one thing at a time.”

  “Why are you so angry?”

  “I’m angry because you fucked up the fellowship! I mean, how could you fuck up a simple application? Why didn’t you get authorization? Why did you lie?”

  Omar was silent a moment. It looked as if he might cry. But then he spoke. “You know,” he said, “you’re an extremely capable person. You’re hardworking and organized and you’ve always gotten everything you wanted. That’s you. That’s who you are. I’m not like that.”

  “But Omar, you make it sound as if being capable is some intrinsic talent. It’s not. Being capable is about wanting to be capable. It’s about making an effort to be capable. It’s about following through. We’re not talking about painting the Sistine Chapel. We’re talking about using FedEx when it’s necessary.”

  “Well, the fact is that I’ve fucked up,” said Omar. “As apparently I always do.”

  “And now you feel sorry for yourself and you want me to feel sorry for you too. But I won’t. I can’t. If you really wanted to get this fellowship, and write this book, if you really wanted everything that is predicated on your doing those things—and I don’t want to be brutal, but a lot of important shit is predicated on your doing those things—if you really wanted to do it, you would do it. You wouldn’t let this stop you. You’d get authorization. You’d go down to Uruguay and not come back until you got authorization. You’re so ready to give it all up.”

  “I’m not,” said Omar. “I just don’t know what to do.”

  “Go to Uruguay! You have the fellowship money, don’t you?”

  “Yes. But I should give the money back.”

  “No! Use the money. If you give it back, it’s all over. Get authorization : go down and meet with the brother and sister and wife.”

  “It’s the brother and wife and mistress.”

  “Whoever. Whomever? Whatever: charm them. Change their minds. You could go down over break. By next semester everything could be fine.”

  “Or I could be arrested for spending the fellowship money under false pretenses.”

  “They’re not going to arrest you, Omar. They’ll just fire you. But if you don’t do it, they’ll fire you too. I really don’t think you’ve got any choice.”

  “I wonder how much it costs to fly to Uruguay? And where would I stay?”

  “Well, there are answers to these questions. Call the airlines. Buy a guidebook.”

  “If I did go down there, I could start my local research.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Deirdre. “Look, I’m going in. I’ve got twenty-five so-called essays to read for tomorrow. Go home and think about this. Call me in the morning.” She opened the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk, then leaned back into the car through the open window. “And I’m this way because I love you, Omar. If I didn’t love you I wouldn’t be like this. I wouldn’t care about you. I care about you and I love you and I want you to write this book. I know you can. I want you to be successful. I don’t want you to be one of those professors who are always wandering around the halls searching for their office with egg salad spilled down their front. Okay? Is that clear?”

  “Yes,” said Omar.

  “Then kiss me,” said Deirdre, leaning farther into the car.

  Omar had been evicted from his last apartment after a fire had gutted the kitchen. Fortunately, Yvonne Mailer, a history professor, was spending her sabbatical year in Turkey and was looking for someone to house- and dog-sit and as she was a woman who did not listen to local gossip she knew nothing of Omar’s incendiary past and was more than happy to leave her keys with him and fly to Istanbul. Her house was about ten miles outside of town in what once had been a lakeside community of summer homes called Hiawatha Woods, but the dam that contained the lake had been sundered by a tornado in 1982 and so now the lake was replaced by a marshland through which meandered a torpid stream. Yvonne’s home was the only one that had been winterized and was inhabited year-round, and so living there, among the empty dwellings, made Omar feel like a caretaker at some out-of-season summer camp.

  The house was cold when he returned to it. There was a wood-burning stove in the living room, and Yvonne had assured Omar that if properly maintained and securely shut, the stove could be left running all night long or in one’s absence, but after his recent experience with fire Omar was afraid to leave it burning out of his sight. And so he wasted a lot of time, and was often cold, as he was constantly extinguishing flames only to rekindle them hours later.

  When he got the fire burning he went into the kitchen and fed Mitzie, giving her more than usual to make up for the delay. The dried food cascaded into the bowl, making a tintinnabulation that usually prompted Mitzie to come scurrying from wherever it was she snoozed. But when the bowl was full and the silence had returned the dog had not appeared. Omar called her name. He walked through the small rooms of the little house, looking for her in the places where she usually slept, but she was nowhere, and then he thought: Could I have not let her in when I left? Did I leave her outside? He could not remember letting her in the house but that did not mean he had not. But she was not in the house. He opened the kitchen door and turned on the spotlight that illuminated the weed-choked clearing. Mitzie was not there. The picnic table on which she liked to stand was an empty stage. He called her name and then listened, but heard nothing that sounded comfortingly canine : no bark, no jiggling of dog tags, no quadrupedal pitter-patter. He went back inside and put on his coat and grabbed the flashlight and then walked out into the dark woods. There were rumors that lapdog-eating coyotes roamed the woods. He called the dog’s name again and again, walking forward in the illuminated nimbus the flashlight cast at his feet. He looked back to make sure he could still see the lights of the house behind him and realized he had left the fire burning. Should he go back and extinguish it? Had he closed and latched the little metal oven door? Of course he had. But he could not remember doing it. Why didn’t he remember more of what he did? Surely the fire was safe and contained. He turned away from the house and walked farther into the woods.

  Suddenly his feet descended into the soft, wet earth and he could not lift them. He must have been walking toward the drained lake bed instead of around it. Quicksand, he thought. He had sunk up to his knees. My new shoes! He tried to lift just one foot out of the muck and succeeded, but he could not find solid ground to rest it on while he extracted the other. His foot resettled itself in the unfirm earth. He could no longer see the lights of the house and had lost his sense of direction. Don’t panic, he thought. He stood still for a moment. At least he was not sinking further. And then he realized that he was, slowly, sinking. He saw a little sapling growing within arm’s reach and grabbed hold of its thin, adolescent trunk and tried to use it as leverage to extract his feet. He succeeded only in pulling the tree from the earth. He stood still for a moment, guiltily clutching the little tree, as if he might be apprehended, and then he tossed it into the darkness. He tried then to move his feet subterraneanly,
shuffling toward more solid ground. But the ground in which his feet were ensconced clutched them possessively. And then he tried again to lift one foot out of the muck and lunge forward and lift the other before the first had a chance to resettle itself and in this way he finally regained terra firma. He sat down to catch his breath and realized he had dropped the flashlight. He could see it shining in the muck a few feet away, taunting him. When he had regained his breath he set off through the woods. As the road circled the lake, he knew he would come out on it eventually, and could find his way home from there.

  He approached the house from the front. It had not burned down. It looked a little like a house in a fairy tale: the windows shone with light and smoke cutely wafted up from the chimney. Mitzie sat on the porch and watched him approach, patiently, as if they had been out for a walk together and she had raced ahead and returned first. Omar stood for a moment. It was not that he was afraid to enter the little house, it was more that he felt he had somehow forfeited the right. It’s not my house, he thought. It’s not my dog. He wished that something was his, unequivocally and irrevocably his, but he knew that nothing was. It had never occurred to him, or troubled him, before, but here he was, twenty-eight years old, standing in front of a house that wasn’t his in a deserted community surrounding a nonexistent lake watched by a dog he neglected. Mitzie looked at him curiously and then padded down the front steps and walked toward him as if she knew it was her place to welcome him. She sniffed at his muddy pants and then sat down and gazed up at him. He reached down and palmed the warm, furred dome of her skull. She whined. And then they entered the house together. It was now warm: the fire sang from inside the stove. Mitzie found her dinner. Omar took off his pants and shoes and sat down in the living room and listened to her eat. When she was through she came out of the kitchen and laid her head on his lap. For a dog who communicated in odd ways, her message was clear: he was forgiven. Dinner had been eaten and they were both home and it was warm, and everything, as far as it concerned Mitzie, was all right.

  “Maybe I should call him,” Deirdre said. And then, because Marc Antony did not look up, she said it again.

  Marc Antony’s real name was Michael Anthony but Deirdre called him Marc Antony. He was her roommate. She really didn’t need a roommate—at least not financially—but she liked having someone around she could talk to, and since she didn’t want Omar to live with her until he had responsibly lived on his own—and who knew when that would be—she got a roommate. Marc Antony. Marc Antony was a very good roommate. He was quiet and clean. He liked to bake, and dust bothered him, so he actually dusted. He was going to law school. He was cute, too, but gay.

  Marc Antony was sitting at the kitchen table reading one of his big, boring law books. I could never go to law school, Deirdre thought. I’d die of boredom. At least I get to read novels. Although mainly what she read was students’ essays. She was drinking some coffee, trying to wake up a little before she started grading her 101 essays. Although there was really no need to be awake to grade them.

  “Marc Antony, I said maybe I’ll call him,” she said again, loudly.

  “Who?” he said. He did not look up. He did this: tried to stay disengaged. It was the only bad roommatey thing about him.

  “Just talk to me for five minutes,” Deirdre said. “Five minutes. Then I’ll leave you alone.”

  “Three minutes,” he said. He closed his book and looked at his watch. “Go,” he said.

  “Omar,” she said. “I’m talking about Omar, of course. Who else would I call? He’s the only man I would call at”—she looked at the clock on the kitchen wall—“oh my God it’s eleven-thirty already. At eleven-thirty. I was mean to Omar,” she said.

  “You’re always mean to Omar,” said Marc Antony.

  “That’s not true,” said Deirdre. “I’m not always mean to Omar. I love him.”

  “I didn’t say you didn’t. I just said you’re always mean to him. Whenever I see you together you’re always at him about something. Always hectoring him.”

  “I don’t like that word, hectoring. Besides, I don’t hector him. I nudge him.”

  “Well, you just admitted you were mean to him.”

  “I know. I was. And that’s why I’m upset. I don’t like it when I’m mean to him.”

  “Then don’t be.”

  “I tried, really I tried. But you see, it’s impossible to be with him and not be a little mean. Sometimes. He’s so exasperating. He fucked up his fellowship and now he might lose it.”

  “So. You have to realize that what happens to him happens to him. That he’ll learn from his mistakes or he won’t and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “You don’t think I can hurry him along that learning curve a little?”

  “No. You have to accept his pace. As a teacher you should know that.”

  “But he’s not my student.”

  “Then don’t treat him like your student.”

  “You think I treat him like a student?”

  “Yes. Like a student. Or dog. Like a dog student. A dog student in obedience school.”

  “But when he does something, well, something stupid like this, like fucking up his fellowship, how should I respond? I mean, assuming you know everything?”

  “Be understanding and encouraging. Be sympathetic. Be helpful.”

  “Wow. Understanding, encouraging, sympathetic, and helpful. Simultaneously? I think that’s a little beyond my ken.”

  Marc Antony was glancing at his book.

  “So do you think I should call him?” Deirdre asked.

  “Yes,” said Marc Antony. “And your three minutes are up.”

  Deirdre went into her bedroom and called Omar. His line was busy. She waited about five minutes and then called again. This time he answered.

  “It’s me,” she said. “Who were you talking to?”

  “When?” he asked.

  “When? Now. Five minutes ago. I called you and it was busy.”

  “Oh,” he said. “I was talking to the airline. I called to get information about flights to Uruguay. It’s not that expensive. I mean, it’s expensive, but not as bad as I thought.”

  “Are you going to go?”

  “Yes. I think so. I reserved the ticket. I have twenty-four hours to decide. I’ll go right after New Year’s.”

  “Listen, Omar. I called you because I feel bad about the way I was tonight. I’m sorry if I was mean to you.”

  “No,” said Omar. “I don’t blame you. If I were you, I would be disgusted with me too.”

  “I’m not disgusted with you! Omar! I could never be disgusted with you. You can never be disgusted with someone you love. You can be annoyed. I was annoyed, I admit it, and I’m sorry that sometimes when I’m annoyed with you it triggers these other, negative emotions, but I want to stop that, really I do. I want to help you. I want to be understanding. I want to be understanding and helpful and a few other things I can’t remember at the moment.”

  Omar said nothing.

  “Listen, maybe I should come with you. I think I could help you. I’ve had more experience than you with stuff like this, and—”

  “No,” said Omar. “I think I should do this myself. In fact, I think it is very important that I do this myself.”

  “Why?”

  “Because. It’s important for me. I got myself into this situation and I should get myself out.”

  “But if somebody else can help you—If you need help from somebody, it’s okay to take it. It’s stupid not to.”

  “Do you think I’m stupid?”

  “No,” said Deirdre. “Of course not! That’s not what I meant. I meant letting pride stop you from accepting help, when you need help, is stup——isn’t wise. There’s nothing wrong with letting people help you.”

  “I appreciate your offer,” said Omar. “But I don’t want help with this.”

  “You appreciate my offer?” said Deirdre. “What does that mean? You appreciate my offer? Omar, it’s
me, Deirdre. You don’t appreciate my offer. Don’t ever say that to me again.”

  “All right,” said Omar. “I won’t.”

  “Omar, don’t get all weird and distant. I said I was sorry. I want to help. I think you need my help. I think it would be good for us if we do this together. It could be very good for us. It could be fun, and exciting. To go to Uruguay, and solve this problem, and be together and in some place that isn’t Kansas. I don’t think you should risk going by yourself.”

  “You don’t think I can do this by myself?”

  “Of course I do! I have complete confidence in you. Of course you can! I just think it would be better, safer, and more fun if we go together. Better for both of us. Individually and as a couple.”

  “That’s funny,” said Omar. “I think it would be better for both of us, individually and as a couple, if I go by myself. I really do.”

  “You sound uncharacteristically certain about this. What’s happened since I left you? Since you left me?”

  “I almost drowned in quicksand,” said Omar. “I saw my life pass before my eyes and I did not like what I saw. I have resolved to change my life.”

  “What were you doing in quicksand?”

  “Looking for Mitzie.”

  “Mitzie was in quicksand?”

  “No. I was. Mitzie was home waiting for me. Mitzie is much smarter than me.”

  “Than I. But no, Omar! You’re much smarter than Mitzie.”

  “Thank you,” said Omar.

  “Listen. It’s been quite an evening. What with the Crimea and Constance Garnett and quicksand and all. Let’s go to bed. Well, let’s you go to bed, I still have to read my 101 essays, but you go to bed and we’ll talk about this tomorrow. Let’s not resolve all this tonight. Let’s talk again in the morning. Okay?”

  “All right,” said Omar. “I am tired. Exhausted, in fact.”

  “It amazes me that you can sleep at a time like this,” said Deirdre. “If I were in your position, I’d be up all night. Of course, I’ll be up all night anyway.”