“You think they make anti-shuffle shoes?” I said.
“What?” Nate said.
“You know, for people who shuffle?”
“Where did that come from?”
“I was trying to make a connection. You ever do that?”
“Between what?”
“Two things.”
_________
AFTER BRUNCH, as we stood in the foyer to say our goodbyes, it started pouring. Nate and Sabine grabbed newspapers as rain shields and ran off, leaving us standing on the welcome mat staring into the storm.
“Here,” Frank said, handing me a compact umbrella wrapped inside the sweatshirt he’d brought.
“How did you know?”
“I always check the weather before I leave home,” he said. “Take it.”
When he suggested he could come over to our apartment for a while after the meal, I thought of the day-old coffee sitting in the pot, my clothes hanging over the arms of each chair, the litter box, Nate’s disappointment.
“He’s going to kill me if I don’t straighten up before he gets back.”
“I don’t care if it’s messy,” Frank said.
Anyone else, that guy standing by the bathroom, or Sabine or Nate, would have cared, a lot probably. Still, I told him no thanks because I didn’t want him to see it.
We said goodbye as I held up Frank’s umbrella and watched his glasses fog. I supposed I was starting to get used to it, the image of him listening to me ramble, his forehead crinkling to absorb whatever confusion I unloaded, the look of enchantment that sometimes crossed his face. Yet I wondered if I’d
ever register a look for him like the one Nate had given Sabine that day.
22
FRANK DECIDED THAT OUR NEXT OFFICIAL MEETING SHOULD be a real date, just the two of us. We chose a movie: shared fodder for conversation, and a shared armrest in the dark. Since the best theaters were within a ten-block radius of his place, it made the most sense to meet outside of his lobby.
I made sure I had clean clothes ahead of time, and my hat, and despite Enid’s urging, I didn’t bother with any eye makeup. Though I did use lipstick, red, which I figured was better than nothing. I asked Nate to write out how to get to Frank’s place exactly—one train, and three blocks—and I packed my purse ahead of time with my wallet and a full MetroCard. Still, I was fifteen minutes behind schedule. I knew we’d have to rush to make it to a movie on time.
He wasn’t standing outside his building when I got there, and when I peeked through the door, I saw he wasn’t inside the foyer either. Had he left without me? That didn’t seem like him. I found his name on the directory on the wall, and he buzzed me in.
When I got to his apartment, I found that it was open.
“Did I get the time wrong?” I called out.
He was sitting at his computer in a white T-shirt.
“Or the day?”
“No, I’ll be ready in a minute.”
As I made my way toward the couch, I noticed a pile of neatly folded laundry in his open closet tagged with a Post-it. Love you , it said. I assumed that came from his mother, who was featured in the only picture he had on his desk—a snapshot of his parents at some buttoned-up event—he in a gray suit to match his gray hair, and she in a blue dress with pearls and permed hair.
Everywhere things were neat and ordered—a single bookshelf lined with classics that appeared as though they had never been opened. Bare, white walls.
He was focused on his computer screen.
“Just finishing up.”
I moved to see what he was seeing. It was some kind of video game. It didn’t seem like a sufficient excuse for missing the movie.
I waited for his character to die or for his fuel to run out, but he kept going. It had to be at least five to ten minutes. It felt like longer.
“We won’t get seats if we don’t get there soon. Do you know what time it is? I think it’s late.”
He was concentrating his cursor on a robot in the center of the screen.
“Frank?”
I would’ve rather seen a movie by myself than stand there any longer.
“I guess I can try to save you a seat or something,” I said.
I walked toward the door. He didn’t seem to see me until I was at the threshold.
“Wait! I’m not good at multitasking. That’s what Mom says. Hyperfocus. I get too preoccupied. We can go now.”
“It’s too late for our movie.”
He mumbled something. “What?”
“Sorry,” he said.
I looked at the computer. “Can we turn this off now?”
He did, and then he excused himself. I heard the water running, and when he came back, his hair was slick, and he was wearing a plaid shirt.
“I don’t know what to do now,” he said. “I understand if you want to go home.”
“It’s okay.”
“I ruined our plan,” he said. “The movie already started.”
“I guess we can pick something to watch here.”
“That’s a good idea.” His face lit up. “You always have really good ideas.”
But it wasn’t easy to pick something. He wanted action movies, slapstick humor, manipulative characters, storylines that catered to the masses. He was the masses. He enjoyed simple plots and spectacles; I appreciated nuance—in my films anyway.
“I’ve never heard of those movies,” he said of the few selections I’d suggested.
“That’s because you have bad taste,” I said.
He didn’t respond, but I knew it was mean, so I reached for his hand across the couch.
At first he pulled back—startled, it seemed—but then he let me take it. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with it, really, so I just held it for a minute, limply, and then let it go.
He didn’t know how to select a movie either, because he hardly ever used his TV. It took us a long time to figure out how to make it work. He sat there while I fiddled with the controls.
“You don’t have any idea?”
“No,” he said. “But you can pick whatever you want.”
In the end, I made an awkward choice, The Decalogue; it was overly serious, and long, and full of symbolism and opaque language. Plus, it had ten parts.
“Aren’t movies supposed to be fun?” he said after we watched the first section.
“Thinking is fun for me. Art. Beauty. Did you not get those things?”
“Did you follow what was happening? I can’t follow that closely.”
“Well, were you paying attention?”
“I was trying, but I don’t think it’s fun to think so hard while you’re watching a movie.”
I got what he was saying, but I didn’t like it, so I told him that I would finish watching the other parts on my own.
THE NEXT NIGHT when Frank called, I told him I wanted to watch part two (although I hadn’t yet found a way to get it), and he offered to come over and sit with me; he didn’t have to watch, he said. He could do something else.
“Like what?”
He said he didn’t know, but he wanted to spend time with me. That was his main priority. He’d even bring popcorn. The popcorn was tempting, but the idea was ridiculous. I didn’t want to watch a movie with someone who wasn’t watching, I said.
I needed my space, and my time alone, and I would’ve been happy not to have seen him for a few days. But he called me the next night and said he really needed to talk.
“About what?” I said.
“Can I come over?”
I didn’t want him to. It was late. I was in my pajamas, ready for bed.
“Please,” he said.
When he arrived, he looked slighter than usual, worn down and hunched over in his extra-small hoodie.
He said he’d gotten in trouble at work. One of the distributors had yelled at him for some kind of miscalculation and had told him he would have been fired by now, many times over, if not for his father. Instead of standing up for himself, he s
aid, thinking of a strong comeback or even walking out, he had panicked and crumbled.
It was hard to think of the right response. I was supposed to comfort him; I got that, but I wasn’t sure how. I would have made an ugly scene of it, called the distributor profanities and spilled some coffee on him. But I had hoped that somehow Frank wasn’t as vulnerable to ridicule, or that if he was, that he would be able to handle it in a more manly way. It was difficult to see him this small. And to see me in him.
“Did you tell your dad about it?”
“I don’t want him to know what happened, and I don’t want anyone to get in trouble.”
When I noticed his tears resurfacing, I had to turn away.
“Tea?” I said.
“What?”
“We have some. Nate bought it because Sabine said it was healthy. I can make hot water.”
When I brought him a mug of chamomile, I noticed he was looking at me in his strange way: half daze, half grin.
“What is that look?” I said.
“I was just wondering what your dream for the future is. What do you see?”
“I don’t know.” I didn’t see anything. That was the problem. “Gus maybe? The zoo? What do you see?”
“I see a wedding,” he said. “A soul mate.”
“Huh,” I said. “Interesting.”
“Do you—or have you—ever thought about marriage?”
I was fixated on the skin peeling off his lips.
“I found this cocoa-flavored lip balm the other day,” I said. “It tastes like candy. Try it.”
“Did you hear what I asked?”
“Marriage?” I handed him the stick. “Why? Do you know someone getting married?”
He put too much on his lips.
“A little goes a long way,” I said.
“I love you,” he said.
“What?”
“I said—”
“Why?”
When I thought of love, I thought of camping by a fire, warm flannel, wintergreen Life Savers in the dark—biting into sparks, crackly and raw. But maybe that was just something I’d seen in a commercial.
“What do you mean?” he said.
“Why do you love me?”
“I don’t know.”
“You probably just love the idea of me, of having someone to be with you. I’ve heard about that kind of thing.”
“No, that’s not it,” he said. “I don’t take away your feelings and correct them.”
“That’s stupid. I’m not—” I stopped when I noticed he was frowning. “You’re not stupid. I didn’t mean that.”
“I know I don’t have your education, and I don’t read like you. But I like that you do. You make me want to know more things. I like being with you. You give me something to look forward to every day, so for me—I think that means I love you.”
For the first time in a long time, I had nothing to say.
After a minute, he asked me if I needed him to go.
“No.” I wanted him to stay. I knew Nate was at Sabine’s that night.
I had previously explained to him that I couldn’t imagine sleeping with another body stifling my movement, affecting my temperature, restricting my freedom. But also, I hadn’t been ready to do anything more than kiss him. I didn’t have any experience. I wondered if he did.
That night we did more than kiss.
His toes were like ice cubes, so I asked him to wear his socks and then asked him to move them away from me because they were scratchy.
I let him warm me in his grip. And for a little while, neither of us was wearing anything besides our skin, and I wasn’t thinking about whether I was putting my hands where they were supposed to go, or about the fact that I couldn’t see what I was kissing because it was dark, or about whether it was going to feel okay, or whether what we were about to do would constitute sex. Whatever it was, it was something I needed to try. It was what ninety percent of the world’s jokes and stories and songs were about. I let him take the lead. It wasn’t comfortable, really, and it wasn’t fun or even pleasurable. But for a little while, I let go of my thoughts, and of myself. And for a little while, everything felt okay.
After, as I lay there listening to him sleep, feeling the heat from his chamomile breath and soft, clammy hands, I thought it was kind of nice to have him there.
But after another little while, I moved to the far side of the sofa and put on my clothes.
I couldn’t sleep. I tried willing my eyes closed, and when that didn’t work, I tried focusing my attention on the ceiling cracks until it was too dark to make them out.
I took a shower, and as I was getting out, I heard Nate turn the lock on the front door.
I’d seen him leaving earlier and earlier in the mornings, coming back later and later.
“You’re home?” I said. “I thought you went to Sabine’s on Wednesdays.”
“She had an event. I went for a run.”
“It’s really late, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Is it?”
He extended his knee and winced, and I noticed that one leg was a lot bigger than the other.
“What happened?”
“Nothing. Not enough stretching. Old sneakers.”
“Maybe you should see a doctor.”
“No point in that.” He limped to the kitchen. “I know what I need.”
He grabbed a beer from the fridge first, and then he rifled through the freezer until he found an old bag of peas to squeeze into a wrap around his knee.
“Do you think you should rest more?”
“Probably,” he said.
I followed him into his alcove; we walked past Frank, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“Frank’s here, by the way. He’s asleep. I thought you should know that in case you see him in the morning, not that he has to stay.”
He looked at me and then looked at Frank, who was in his boxer shorts and undershirt.
“Uch, are you kidding me?” he said. “Fine. Whatever, I guess. As long as he stays clothed.”
“Very funny,” I said.
“I’m not kidding, Luce. Remember I’m right here.”
He popped a pill and lay down on his bed, making a show of putting in his earplugs.
“Are you sure you don’t need anything?” I said.
He turned away and folded the pillow over his head.
I returned to Frank and watched him sleep. I wished in a way that he would leave so I could have the bed to myself, but I didn’t have the energy to worry about it.
I lay next to him and let my head rest on his shoulder. It didn’t sit well on the bone. But he shifted enough to allow my hair to ease over him without pulling, for my ear to find the soft spot between his collar and the crook beside his neck. I rested inside that spot until I could sleep, and I didn’t move again until morning.
23
WHEN THE WEEKEND ARRIVED, NATE PACKED A BAG AND SAID he and Sabine were going to the Catskills to the wedding she had mentioned. I assumed he would spend a couple of days away; he had said as much before he left, so I invited Frank over to stay.
But Nate came back the night he left, charging in as Frank and I were watching cartoons.
“I thought you were getting a hotel,” I said.
“Me too,” he said.
“How was it?”
“Miserable.” I could smell alcohol, whiskey maybe. “What are you watching?”
When Nate cut off the cable, we lost Animal Planet and the National Geographic Channel, any chance for watching a decent movie, and pretty much all signs of reception. But Frank had done his research and figured out how to access just about anything online, cartoons included.
“Fantastic Four? I was just telling Frank how much you used to like it.”
He stuck his head in the refrigerator. “Wasn’t there beer in here?”
“There was only one left,” I said.
“And you drank it?”
“It’s my fault,” Fra
nk said.
“No,” I said. “We didn’t think you’d be home, so we split it, for a change of pace, but we were planning to replace it. We only drank it because we didn’t think you’d need it.”
“I don’t need it,” he said.
What had Sabine done to him? I pictured her throwing drinks in his face, or slipping him something that caused him to lose more strength and power with each sip.
“I can go out and get more,” Frank said.
“Forget it,” Nate said, a little loudly. “Which one is this?”
“Something about Super-Skrull?” Frank said.
“No way,” Nate said. “Top ten cartoon episodes of all time.”
He loosened his tie, but when he looked for space to sit, he couldn’t find any.
“We’ll move over,” I said, though there was nowhere to move.
He stood for a minute watching over us, swaying a little, before slipping away and collapsing in his corner.
NATE STAYED IN BED for most of Sunday, and on Monday morning when I didn’t see him, I guessed it was because he had left early.
But when I came home from the coffee shop later that afternoon, I found him splayed out on the cushions, cartoons bouncing off of his undershirt, a beer bottle on the floor, and an ashtray packed with butts. He looked off.
“You went to work this morning, didn’t you? Do I have the time wrong?”
He didn’t answer. He just sat there looking bleary-eyed and messy.
I checked his watch. It was only four. I checked again and noticed there was dried blood along his fingernails, tiny wounds from biting his nails.
“Are you sick?”
“Yep.”
“Did you call in today?”
He closed his eyes.
“Did you break up with Sabine?” I said.
He surveyed his hands and began chewing at the cuticles again.
“Because if you did, maybe it’s for the best? She didn’t seem that great. You can do better. Unless you didn’t break up.”
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