Living Proof

by Kira Peikoff

  A woman’s shrill voice from a table nearby distracted her from her longing.

  “No, Harry,” the woman was shrieking, “I will not allow our daughter to go on a field trip to a creationist museum!” She slapped the table, making their glasses quiver. “Does anyone even hear the illogic of those words together anymore?”

  The man across from her looked mortified as diners at several other tables, including Trent and Jed, glanced over to them.

  “Deb,” he coaxed, “it’s just a stupid field trip. Kids don’t pay attention to museums anyway.”

  “But it’s a fucking public school!”

  “Can’t you just relax—?”

  “You want me to relax while Elizabeth buys straight into their goddamn propaganda?”

  The man’s embarrassment flushed his face. “Okay, okay, we’ll pull her out of school that day, all right?”

  The woman looked appeased and lowered her voice, blending back into the din of the restaurant. But her indignation was contagious; Arianna turned to Trent and Jed, eyes flashing.

  “She’s right. That museum is crap, people are totally apathetic, and that’s why it’s gotten so bad.”

  Trent and Jed said nothing, so she went on.

  “I really think we are at a crucial fork in our history. The separation of church and state is breaking down all the time. First the line was blurring, and now it’s all but indistinct.”

  She swallowed the words that dangled from her tongue, threatening to expose her fury toward the DEFP and the DEP. Don’t even go there, she steered herself. You barely know them.

  “Remember when we were in college,” she said instead, “they called it the Information Age? Well, now we’re in another era altogether. I’d call it the Contemporary-Medieval Period, and who the hell knows how long it will last.” She laughed ruefully, feeling her blood pressure rise. “You’d think it would be a contradiction in terms.”

  There was a silence, and her breath caught; had she gone too far?

  “Don’t even get me started,” she said, flicking her wrist.

  “No, it’s good to be passionate,” Jed said.

  Trent seemed contemplative, rubbing the stem of his glass between his thumb and forefinger. Then he looked at her. “I wish I saw more people care, too.”

  “Thank you, guys,” she replied, settling back into the leather booth. She didn’t realize she had been leaning forward, pressing her palms to the table.

  Trent scooted out and stood up. “You scared me off,” he joked. “Restroom, be right back.”

  As he walked away, Arianna took a deep breath and cast her full attention on Jed. She wondered if he would later offer an appraisal of her to Trent, even though that didn’t matter.

  “So,” Jed said, “Trent tells me you are quite the cyclist.”

  “Oh, really?” She chuckled, wondering what else he had said about her. “He’s faster than I am.”

  “Sounds like you’re getting him into shape, then.”

  “More the other way around.” She paused. “And it’s nice to have the company.”

  “Sure. He’s a great guy.” Jed paused to sip his gin and tonic. “He’s been an incredible friend to me.”

  He looked eager, almost proud, so she prompted him to go on. “How so?”

  He proceeded to tell her about a time in college that Trent refused the advances of Jed’s then-girlfriend, whom Trent had long desired. But their friendship—and his integrity—came first.

  “I’m sorry,” Arianna said. “That must have been so painful.”

  “Yeah, it was,” Jed replied, nodding across the room at Trent, who was returning to their table.

  “You guys look sad,” Trent said, sitting down. “Don’t tell me you missed me that much.”

  “I was just telling her about Ashley,” Jed said.

  Trent frowned. “That’s ancient history.”

  “So what happened to her?” Arianna asked.

  Trent and Jed exchanged a look that she could not read: Had she stumbled on forbidden territory?

  “Well, I obviously broke up with her,” Jed said, clutching his glass. There was a silence, pregnant with tension, and Arianna wished she had not probed further.

  “Thank God for this guy,” Jed said, nudging Trent. “I don’t know how I would have gotten through it otherwise.”

  She smiled. “Sounds like you’re pretty solid.” She looked at Trent and felt some sort of tacit understanding pass in his glance, like acknowledgment of her compliment and perhaps something more. He looked away first, at that old-fashioned watch on his wrist. “What do you guys say we call it a night?”

  Outside, they waved good night to Jed as he walked away. Arianna tightened her coat and took a deep breath, inhaling the cold night. The breeze was like an atmospheric cocktail shaker, mixing the scents of alcohol, cigarettes, and pizza. MacDougal Street was in its prime, with drunken revelers laughing loudly and crossing the street from one bar to the next. Ahead in the park, several shadowy figures moved close to one another, and then scattered.

  “Let me walk you home,” Trent said. Vodka floated on his breath, the culprit of his slightly messy enunciation. “Please.”

  It’s only three blocks, she thought, but did not protest.

  “It’s only three blocks,” he said. “It’s no problem.”

  “All right, thanks.”

  They fell into step along the edge of the park. She walked quickly, out of habit, but soon realized she was in no rush.

  “So when can I read your novel?” she asked, moving closer to him in the darkness. The hair on her arms prickled, sensing his body heat.

  He was a beat slow in responding—the alcohol, she thought. “It’s not gonna be done for a while.” Then he blurted: “But you know what I really wanna do sometimes? It may be silly, but I wanna travel the world and write about it. That’d be so cool. Have you been to Italy? I wanna go there first.”

  She chuckled at his drunken ramble, recognizing an unguarded confession of his dreams. “That’s not silly. It’s beautiful there. Why don’t you go? You can write your novel anywhere. You work for yourself. Take advantage of that freedom!”

  “Nah.” He inhaled sharply, and when he let out the sobering breath, he seemed steadier. They rounded the park’s corner, and her apartment building came into view. “Maybe later.”

  “You should,” she said. “It sounds like something you really want to do.”

  He nodded as they crossed the street. Her building’s bright lobby spilled a moat of light onto the sidewalk.

  She stopped at the edge of the darkness, intoxicated by a desire that made more sense than her will to ignore it. He stopped next to her. But before he could say good night, she lifted a hand to his cheek, satisfying a curiosity she had felt all night about the texture of his stubble. The rough bristles prickled her fingertips. Her hand cupped his chin, pulling his unresisting face down to hers. Their lips met, surprising her with the tenderness of a kiss she had not expected.

  The scent of vodka on his breath, sour and intrusive, prompted her to pull away. She watched him open his eyes. For a second, they stared at each other. Shit.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.” She bit her lip, tasting the wetness stamped there.

  “It’s okay,” he said, smiling cautiously. “Don’t apologize.”

  “No, you don’t understand.…”

  “Understand what?” His words seemed sharp. But what could she say? If she explained, he would never tease her again; their rapport would be lost, and she would inevitably become the grudging recipient of his pity.

  “I can’t date you,” she said. “Well, I guess I could see you, but I can’t commit. It’s not anything about you. I just can’t be in a relationship.”

  “Hey, that’s fine. You’re getting ahead of yourself.”

  “The thing is, Trent, I really do want to keep seeing you, but I need you to know it’s not serious. Is that
okay?”

  He smiled. “I think that would make most guys’ night.”

  “Including yours?”

  “Sure. And I want to keep seeing you, too.”

  She sighed with relief, pleased that he did not press her for a reason.

  “How about tomorrow after you get off work?” he asked. It would be Friday.

  “I can’t,” she said. “How about Saturday, we’ll bike that path on the West Side we were talking about? And then grab lunch?”

  “Sold. I think we can get away with a few more days before the first snow.”

  “Let’s hope.” She stepped back from him into the moat of light. On her cheeks, two red orbs smeared outward to her hairline, worry tinged with desire. Then Trent’s lean figure in the shadows seemed to move back and forth before her eyes, disorienting her by turn—until she realized it was she who was swaying. She took a careful step backwards, but tripped over her foot and grasped the lobby door with a flailing hand.

  “Whoa, there, drunky,” he said, stepping into the light. “You got that?”

  She flashed him a smile, as carefree as she could manage. “See you later,” she said. Then she swung open the door and hurried inside before he could respond.

  * * *

  The next afternoon at 5 P.M., Trent returned to his discreetly positioned bench in Washington Square Park. As he waited, the weak sun shone down. No umbrella would shield him today. He would have to be extra cautious. As he watched the clinic’s brown door, his mind drifted back to their parting last night. Arianna’s hand on his cheek—and the kiss that so naturally followed—had caught him off guard, as did her cryptic reaction. Guilty warmth seared his face as he thought that the kiss had not been entirely unpleasant—in fact, it had thrilled him (though that was just the alcohol talking). Of course, he omitted that part when he told Dopp about it. His boss was ecstatic, hailing his “clear progress” as a sign that God was helping their mission.

  “We must be on our way to a confession,” Dopp had said. “You’re doing great. Oh, and Jed told me about her little outburst at dinner. I’m surprised you forgot to mention it—that was pretty fantastic news.”

  Trent froze for a moment, and then deduced what he meant. “The creationist museum. Yeah, she got all worked up about it.”

  Dopp looked pretty excited himself. “Jed said she called it ‘crap.’ It just confirms what we’ve thought all along: She still has an evil agenda.”

  Trent nodded slowly. He remembered her lecture about the separation of church and state, but out of some strange reluctance, had decided not to discuss this tidbit with Dopp.

  Dopp wagged a spindly finger. Trent almost apologized before realizing the gesture was not meant for him. “That woman is up to no good. Write up the transcript. And keep following her every chance you get.”

  “Today,” Trent said. “She said she was busy today after work.”

  “Keep on her this time.”

  “I will.” Trent paused, hating to diffuse Dopp’s hope. “But she could be going anywhere.… I don’t know where.…”

  “Exactly,” Dopp had responded, emphasizing each syllable.

  * * *

  The pulse of the park was dying with the afternoon light: Children dismounted from swings, guitarists packed up, students hurried past the fountain as they wrapped cheap scarves around their necks. A few like Trent sat on benches, clutching plastic coffee cups. Near him was a small-dog run, a fenced-off spread of dirt the size of a subway car. He pretended to watch the critters scamper around, trembling in glove-sized jackets, while he kept his peripheral gaze on the clinic’s door, yards away.

  A visibly pregnant woman hurried past him just as her yellow MetroCard slipped out of her pocket and landed near Trent’s bench. He jumped up to grab it and ran after her, shouting, “Ma’am!” She turned around and smiled as he held it up, then froze as she caught sight of the DEP identification card still clipped to his belt; he had forgotten to take it off. Her hands flew to her stomach, and she grinned widely, nearly grimacing.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I was actually just on my way to meet with my caseworker. I—I’m so sorry for missing the last appointment, but I just got caught up with work, and I—”

  Trent held up a hand, feeling his pulse quicken for some reason. “It’s fine. I don’t work for the DEFP. That’s a different department.”

  “Oh.” The woman looked down as her brow relaxed. “Sorry. Bye, then.” She turned and rushed away.

  Trent returned to the bench, again focusing his gaze on the clinic’s door. But a part of him was horrified. The fear in that woman’s face was disturbing: fear of him. He felt like a criminal or a dictator, someone with a deficit of compassion and a surplus of power. But that was absurd; there was nothing wrong with him. Or the department. Just the opposite.

  The door opened then, and Trent forgot his discomfort because the first emotion he felt when he saw Arianna wheeling her bike through the doorway was betrayal. She lied, he thought. She said she couldn’t go biking today. When she mounted the bike and began cycling east, traveling a seemingly familiar route, his hurt morphed into intrigue. He rose from the bench, half-jogging to keep up with her, while maintaining a fixed distance; although to his relief, he realized it would be more unlikely for her to turn around and spot him now.

  At Broadway, she stopped at the curb to wait for the light, planting one foot on the sidewalk. He lingered a block behind. When the cars stopped at the crosswalk, she charged across the street with her black hair rippling in the wind, beckoning him. He followed, crossing the street in the same light. Up ahead of him, at the first corner, Arianna turned a familiar right. His heart thudded, propelling his legs to match her speed. You won’t lose me now, he vowed. He rounded the corner and saw her pedaling two blocks ahead. Where before he had been thwarted, now he was going to see—

  No one was near her when it happened. Trent watched in disbelief as Arianna stuck her right foot in the spokes of her front wheel, missing the pedal by inches. He could see her body tighten, as if clenching her muscles would forestall the blow, as her front tire stopped short and the momentum hurled her over the handlebars. Even from his distance, he heard her shriek—a useless cry wrenched out of a voice he had never heard lose control. She flew forward, arms stretched out, clawing at the air in vain, as the bike collapsed underneath her. Onto the unforgiving pavement she crashed, skidding on her forearms, bouncing on her chin. With a smack, her knees followed. The momentum dragged her a foot until friction interceded. Then, facedown, she was still.

  “Jesus Christ,” he breathed. She could be dead. Panic and restraint wrestled within him, keeping him in limbo at the edge of the sidewalk. His urge to run over to her was growing dangerously compelling—but then she let out a moan and turned onto her side, bringing her knees up to her chest. Several passersby rushed toward her, yelling to one another to call an ambulance. A motherly-looking woman crouched and held her hand, while a man collected her bicycle from the middle of the sidewalk. The last thing Trent saw before more people gathered around her was the blood streaming from her kneecaps, scarlet rivulets of pain.

  He waited on that corner, an inconspicuous onlooker, until an ambulance arrived four minutes later. Even after she was placed on a stretcher and loaded into the back, and the siren wailed on, Trent remained standing. He watched the ambulance squirm and twist through the traffic until he could no longer see or hear it. He thought of calling the hospital to ask about her condition, but then he realized he didn’t know where she was going. Instead, he grabbed his cell phone from his pocket and dialed Dopp’s office. No answer. He dialed Dopp’s home. No answer.

  By default, Trent started to walk north, as if a magnetic pull was dragging him to the one place he had no interest in going: home. It was more than sixty blocks away, but he passed the subway in Union Square that would have accelerated his trip, unable to bear standing still on a packed rush hour train. Moving his legs provided a release of his escalating energy and gave h
im a sensation of purpose. As the sky deepened to indigo dusk, he walked on, passing store owners pulling down metal fronts, closing their clothing boutiques, pet shops, used bookstores. Trent took no notice, insulated in a mental world by thick walls of concern, coated with dread. His body reacted appropriately to stoplights and traffic, although later he would have little memory of the journey home. After twenty blocks, he began to tire, but pushed on, ignoring his chilled bones, blistering heels, and grumbling stomach. He had not eaten for six hours. As he walked, he recalled his boss’s words: Don’t hesitate to call me at home if you get anywhere significant this time.

  Trent snorted as he considered the last few words. What if they were forced to close the case because of significant injuries to the targeted party? That was certainly not the outcome his boss was expecting. And how would he explain the accident to Dopp? He imagined how their exchange might go:

  “She fell off her bike.”

  “How come?”

  “Missed the pedal.”

  “Was she going very fast?”

  “No.”

  It doesn’t make sense, Trent thought. Nothing was in her way to distract her. Suddenly he remembered that she had been limping several days before, but it had not been severe enough to hamper her speed, and he hadn’t noticed it when they walked home last night. Though he hadn’t been too steady himself. Then he remembered their plans for tomorrow morning and cringed: They were supposed to bike the path on the West Side.… He was supposed to call her tonight to confirm.… So that’s exactly what he would do. It gave him a perfectly innocent reason to call her.

  The starless sky was now navy blue—as dark as the city of infinite night-lights would allow. Soon Trent noticed that the blur of stores around him was beginning to assume a familiar pattern, and he saw he was only four blocks from home. He stopped by a corner pizza place, then went up to his apartment with one goal flashing in his mind: Talk to her.

  His studio apartment on the seventh floor looked like the physical form of an afterthought: it was halfheartedly decorated with a tan sofa, a futon with a black bedspread, a small wooden table with two chairs, and a bookshelf. Across from the sofa was a Yamaha keyboard waiting for its daily dose of attention. A nineteen-inch flat-screen television hung on the wall. Near the head of his futon, overlooking Seventy-third Street, there was one window. Maroon curtains hung from either side, the one touch of color in the room. He liked the fiery glow they emitted in the mornings, making it seem as if he were tucked into a cozy den lush with color, rather than a sparse room, alone.