“Let’s—” She looked around uncertainly. “We can’t stand here. Do you want a drink?”
“Sure. I wouldn’t say no.”
“Okay.” She smiled again. “C’mon.” To my surprise she took my hand, exactly as she used to all those years ago, and led me to the lounge. When we stepped into the cool semi-darkness she glanced down at our entwined hands and suddenly dropped mine.
“Sorry,” she said. She didn’t have to say: Force of habit.
We found a booth near the back. Our faces were illuminated flickeringly by the burning candle in its little red globe on the table. A young man wearing a bowtie came and took our order. Sherry ordered Diet Coke. I had a beer.
“So,” she said finally.
“So.”
We were quiet for a time. The drinks came.
“What are you doing here, Sherry?” I asked. “In D.C., I mean. You said work...”
“Yeah, it’s a conference,” she said. “I work for IBM now, did you know? I’m a marketing consultant. Once a year they have this conference, usually in D.C. or New York. This year it was D.C.” She smiled, sipped at her drink. “Obviously.”
“Marketing consultant. Wow.”
“Well, it sounds—grander than it is.”
“Marketing—computers? That kind of stuff?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow.” I thought for a moment. “There hardly were computers, back when—you know. Back then.”
“Yeah.”
“So have you been in D.C. before?”
She nodded. “I was here two years ago for the conference. But I didn’t know you were here.”
“How’d you find out?”
“Google. You know it?”
“That search engine thing? I’ve used it, I think, yeah.”
“I searched your name. Found a couple of interviews with you. And some stuff on your school’s website. That was where I found the e-mail link.”
“Wow. You’re a regular Philip Marlowe.”
She scoffed. “It took ten minutes. Anybody can do it.”
“Where do you live now, Sherry?”
“San Francisco. Well, actually Oakland. But ‘San Francisco’ sounds cooler.”
“Yeah. Visions of Steve McQueen in Bullitt.”
She smiled. “What about you?”
I shrugged. “What about me? You know where I teach.”
“And you’re a writer. You made it as a writer.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“It was about five years ago,” she said, “that I was in this bookstore near where I live, not searching for anything in particular, you know. Just looking around. And in the mystery section—oh my gosh, I see the name ‘Benjamin Fall.’ I about fell down! I yanked it off the shelf and bought it right then and there.”
“Well, thanks.”
“Is that your only book? I mean, so far?”
“So far.”
“Wow, that’s—that’s wonderful, Ben. Really. I’m so happy for you. That you made it.”
“Thanks.”
A contemplative silence fell between us.
“Sherry,” I said at last, “do you mind if I slip out to make a very fast phone call? I’m sorry, I promised I’d call someone. I won’t be a minute.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Do you know where there’s a pay phone?”
“I think there’s one in the lobby.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“It’s okay.”
I didn’t mean to say it, but I couldn’t mistake the unhappiness on her face. “It’s—my daughter,” I said finally. “She worries.”
She cocked her head curiously. “You have a daughter?”
“Yes.” How odd it felt to say it. “It’s—I have to promise to call her when I’m out in the evening like this. She’s as bad as a parent.”
She smiled, warming to the idea. “How old is she?”
“She’s—a teenager,” I said.
“Nice to have a teenager who worries like that,” she said. “Not like most teenagers.”
“No, definitely not. She’s a smart kid. Likes to read.”
“Like father, like daughter.”
I smiled. “Yeah.”
“Here,” she said, opening her bag. “Use my cell.” She brought a bulky phone out, pulled its antenna up, pressed a button. She handed it to me. “I’ll go to the ladies’ room,” she said, taking up the bag. “Okay?”
“Well, okay,” I said, looking at the phone. I’d never used a cellular phone before. “Thanks.”
She stepped away and I punched in the numbers.
She picked up on the first ring. “Dad?”
“It’s me, hon.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m at the hotel. With my friend.”
“Are you okay?”
“Of course I’m okay. I’ll be home soon.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. Everything okay there.”
“I guess.”
“What are you doing?”
“Watching TV. I don’t feel so good.”
“Well...I’m sorry, honey. I’ll be home soon. We’ll see what’s wrong. Okay?”
“Please come home soon.”
“I told you, kiddo. Two hours.”
“Okay.”
“Just take it easy, okay?”
“I’ll try.”
“Back soon. Bye-bye for now.”
“Bye.”
It took me a moment to realize how to turn off the phone. Then I pushed the antenna back into the thing carefully. Sherry reappeared and sat down again.
“Everything okay?” she asked, as I handed the phone back to her.
“Yeah, fine,” I said. “Thanks. That’s the first time I’ve ever used a cellular phone.”
“Really?” she said, putting it in the bag again. “I swear, I couldn’t live without mine these days.” She looked at me. “A daughter. That’s wonderful, Ben. What’s her name?”
“Rae.”
She smiled. “Does she—get along with both of you?”
“Both? No, I’m not married. I was, for a while.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. Do you share custody?”
“No, she’s...her mother’s dead.”
She looked at me sympathetically. “I’m sorry, Ben. That’s terrible. I’m really sorry.”
“Well. What about you? Married?”
“Never married. No kids.”
“Really? I would have thought you’d have made a great mother.”
She smiled sadly. “Still could, maybe. I’m not that old.”
“No. Not at all. Definitely not.”
Silence again. Under the table, I checked my watch. Five minutes to nine.
“How’s your dad?” she asked. “And Alice?”
“Alice is fine,” I said. “Married an architect. They live in Arlington. Beautiful house. Kids. As for Dad...” I shrugged. “He’s declined a lot. He’s pretty old now. He stays with Alice and her family, but I don’t know how long that will last. He may have to be put in a rest home.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“What about your folks?”
“They’re both gone, Ben. Mom died ten years ago. Breast cancer. Dad passed away a year later.”
“What happened? He couldn’t have been that old.”
“He shot himself.”
I looked at the table. I wished I hadn’t asked it.
“I’m sorry, Sherry.”
After a moment she chuckled grimly. “I wonder how many times we’ve said ‘I’m sorry’ to each other in the past twenty minutes?”
I smiled. “Well, it’s—awkward.”
“Yeah. I’d hoped it wouldn’t be. But I guess it’s inevitable.”
“Yeah.”
“Beer okay?”
“It’s fine,” I said, suddenly realizing I’d not touched it. I took a swallow.
Silence again.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten in touch, Ben,” she said fi
nally.
“No,” I said. “No, no, it’s fine. It’s just—it’s hard.”
“Yeah.”
“To know what to say.”
“Yeah.”
“You look good, though. I mean that, Sherry. You look great.”
“Thank you. I’ve gotten fat, though.”
“You’re not fat. Anyway, you’re not the only one who’s gained weight, as you probably noticed.”
She looked embarrassed. “Well...”
“Tell the truth. You didn’t just come into that lobby. You’d been there for a while. You simply didn’t recognize me. Right?”
She smiled into her Diet Coke. “Guilty. But I’ll bet the same was true for you.”
I chuckled. “Guilty!”
We both laughed then—the first natural, relaxed moment of the evening. It felt good. Acknowledging how we’d changed somehow cleared some of the air between us.
“Oh God, Ben, it’s been so long. It’s so good to see you. I mean that.”
“Well, it’s great to see you. I mean that too.”
“It’s just weird.”
“I know. It is.”
“It’s just—I look at you and twenty, twenty-five years just melt away. You know?”
“We’re back at Stone’s End Middle School,” I said.
“Yeah.” She grinned. “You know, I always liked you. All the way back to when we were little kids playing Yahtzee together and going to your dad’s barbeques. But you weren’t that friendly to me then.”
“I wasn’t used to girls. I didn’t quite know what they were.”
“You had a sister.”
I shook my head. “Not the same thing. A sister’s not, you know, a girl.”
“I guess not.”
“Anyway, I made up for lost time later.”
“You sure did.”
“I still remember,” I said, “the fourth of July picnic. The fireworks show. When we were, what? Twelve?”
“Oh my God. I remember that. Wow.” She looked at me. “I didn’t know what to make of you after that.”
“I didn’t know what to make of me, either. Or you.”
She laughed. “It wasn’t too long after that that we became ‘George and Mary’ to everybody. Remember that?”
“It’s a Wonderful Life. Sure I remember. God, you know, I haven’t seen that movie in twenty years.”
“I have. It’s corny. But I love it.”
Quiet descended again, but this time it felt friendlier, more companionable. I sipped at my beer.
“So you went to San Francisco State?” I asked.
“Yeah. Got my marketing degree. What about you?”
“A.U., right by here. Got a Master’s, eventually. American Literature. Got a teaching certificate, and what do you know? Ended up in the D.C. Public Schools.”
“What a hard job that must be.”
“Yeah. It is. But we get great holidays.”
A pause.
“Remember Mr. Reeves?” she asked. “From middle school?”
“Sure. The first black person I ever knew.”
“Did you know that he...” And we were off, or rather she was, on a string of reminiscences about our old teachers, old classmates (John Hubbard, Melody Wannamaker, Enid Forth, and more and more), people in the town we once knew, things we’d done together—mostly the less intimate ones, like the time she helped me cheat on a science test or when we tried to cook hot dogs using the broiler in her parents’ house and ended up with a burning, smoking mess. I tossed in a few of my own memories from time to time, but Sherry did most of the talking. She was animated, charming, funny as she ran over the old times, the old stories. I felt very relaxed with her. But finally I looked at my watch.
9:15.
“Oh, jeez,” I said abruptly, rudely. “Sherry, I have to go. I have to—” But how was I to explain it? How could I say that I had to be home by 9:42 or my daughter would be upset? That I couldn’t be even slightly tardy or she might think I’d betrayed her? That I couldn’t call and tell her I’d be a few minutes late or she’d think I didn’t love her? No, I had to be back on time.
And yet as I looked at Sherry, this long-lost ghost of my past, I could see from her expression I was hurting her feelings. She’d thought we were having such a good time, and now here I was rushing off. What did she want of me? I wondered. Friendship? A long, luxurious evening? Dinner, dessert? Did she think I would spend the night with her? Or was I totally off-base?
“Sherry, I’ve got to get home,” I said, standing, “but—look, I want you to come to the apartment, okay? It’s just a short Metro ride away. It’s at Dupont Circle. Tomorrow, maybe? Or the day after?”
“Yeah,” she said. “If you’re sure, Ben. You don’t have to invite me.”
“No, I...” Goddamn it, the clock was ticking! “I’m sorry, it’s hard to explain, but I want you to come. Really. I’d like you to meet my daughter. We’ll have dinner. Okay?”
“Okay.” But I could tell she thought I was blowing her off.
“Sherry, really...look...do you have a pen and paper?”
“Sure.” She rustled in her bag.
“Look, here...” I scribbled furiously. “Here’s my address. Here’s my phone number. Will you call me? Tomorrow? When you get a break from your conference?”
“Sure. If you want me to.” She stood as well.
“I...I’m sorry, Sherry. I have to run. Please call me. Okay? I’ll call you if you don’t call.”
“I’ll call,” she said, a curious expression on her face. “I will.”
“Okay, I...” I had to get out. I took her quickly by the shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. “It was fantastic seeing you. It—call me tomorrow, okay?” I rushed from the lounge, leaving her standing there looking confused. I charged through the lobby and onto the street, ran pell-mell up Connecticut Avenue to the Metro station. I had my card ready and almost leaped through the turnstile, ran down the escalator, waited anxiously for the train, hopping from foot to foot. It seemed to take an eternity, but at least I saw the headlights approaching through the tunnel. I checked my watch: 9:29. Once on the train I swore that it must be running at half its normal speed; I paced up and down the length of the mostly-empty car. I felt terrible, leaving Sherry like that. But I felt I had no choice. I didn’t know if Rae would forgive me for breaking my promise. Rae, my unreal child who was too, too real...
At last, after several eternities, the train pulled into the Dupont Circle station. I charged out, stuck the card in the turnstile—and was stopped.
INSUFFICIENT FUNDS.
Jesus Christ! I turned, taking the card and fumbling for change, stumbled to the ticket machine, stuck a quarter into it, pushed the button, grabbed the new card. This time I made it through the turnstile. I ran breathlessly up the escalator—the Dupont Circle station is very deep, the escalator is very long—and hit the street at full stride, a stitch already growing in my side. I ran all the way across the Circle, checking my watch once without slowing: 9:40. I made it to the building, rushed in. When I got to the elevator I pushed the button for the top floor and nearly collapsed. My heart, my heart—this was surely not the kind of exercise Dr. Nguyen had recommended. Yet I had no choice. The elevator, like the Metro, seemed to be running at half speed. Again and again it stopped to pick up others. At last the ding sounded for my floor. I rushed forward, got to the door, fumbled with my keys, dropped them, then managed to insert the right key into the lock and open the door.
“I’m home!” I managed to gasp. I looked at my watch.
9:42.
“I’m home, honey,” I said, panting heavily, kneading my pained side with my fingertips. “I’m here. I made it. I’m on time.”
The apartment, I noticed, was almost dark. Only the glow from the silent television illuminated anything in the room. I had to take a minute to catch my breath, though. I moved to the kitchen, took a drink of water, tried to slow my breathing and my heart. What a way to go, I pondered. Dropp
ing dead of a second heart attack because I was rushing home to not disappoint my daughter, the daughter I couldn’t really have anyway, but somehow had.
At last my breath calmed. My throat hurt. I was trembling with exhaustion. I walked to the living room.
“Honey?”
She was lying on the sofa, staring at the TV.
“Why are you watching TV with the sound off?” I asked.
She didn’t respond.
“Honey?” I sat down beside her. “I’m here. On time. Just like I said. Two hours.”
“I don’t feel good,” she said finally, in little more than a whisper.
“What’s wrong?”
“I just don’t feel good.”
Something she ate? I wondered. Or psychosomatic—a punishment of sorts for me? Or entirely untrue?
“Would you like something to eat? Or drink?”
“No.”
I touched her hair gently. “I told you I’d be back in two hours. And I am.”
“Okay.”
“See, I keep my promises.”
“Okay.”
I looked at her. “Honey, what’s wrong? Your stomach? Do you have a headache?”
“I just don’t feel good.”
She seemed to be sweating; I placed my palm on her forehead to try to detect a fever, but the plain fact is that I’ve never been able to do that. I have no idea how hot or cool a forehead should feel. But maybe the gesture would look properly parental to Rae, at least.
“Are you hot? Cold? Do you want a blanket?”
I suddenly realized that she was crying. Quiet, quiet sobs in the flickering dark.
“Oh, honey...” I said, bundling her into my arms. “Honey, don’t. I’m here. Everything’s okay. I’m here. Dad’s here now. Shh. Don’t cry.”
“Love me,” she whispered. “Love me, love me, love me...”
“I do love you, sweetheart. I love you more than anything in the world. I do.”
“Love me. Love me.” Her arms wrapped around my back. Again I was startled at her strength, the astonishingly steel-like grip in which she held me.
But even as we embraced and cried in the dark, I couldn’t help but notice that she didn’t feel like the hale and hearty girl I’d hugged before. Now she felt thinner, bonier, as if in the past few hours she’d undergone some insanely rapid process of starvation.
“Love me,” she whispered.
“I do, Rae. I swear, I do.”
Lullaby for the Rain Girl Page 32