“I’m fine,” he says and lights a cigarette. “I’m just not that hungry.”
“And you should stop smoking, too,” she says, frowning. “I thought you were going to quit.”
He looks at her, shrugs. “Dad smokes.”
“Yeah,” she says. “Well, your father does a lot of things that aren’t good for him.”
He smiles at her. “And didn’t you used to smoke?”
“Sure,” she says, “when I was young.”
“Well,” he says, “I’m young. When I’m older, I’ll quit.”
“Right,” she says. “That’s what your father used to say.” Then she looks at him. “And besides,” she says, “you’re not that young anymore.”
Their salads arrive, and they talk for a while about Richard’s poetry. He tells her that he has an opportunity to go to graduate school at the University of Michigan in the fall. It’s a good program, he tells her, a good opportunity, but he isn’t sure. This is the first time she’s heard of it, and she feels momentarily confused, alarmed, taken aback, frightened by the idea of Richard leaving Houston. She’s already lost one child, it seems, and now Richard is thinking about leaving, too? It seems absurd. Still, she can see from the expression on his face just how desperately he wants her approval. It is the same way he used to look back in high school whenever he’d come home from school with a bad grade on a test. It was strange, but Richard had always seemed to need her approval more than Chloe, had always seemed to seek it out, whereas Chloe had always been content to go her own way, to do her own thing. For years, Chloe had accused her of favoring Richard over her, of doting over him, of nurturing him, and she wonders now if this is true. He had been her firstborn child, after all, her eldest, and they had always shared a special bond because of this, but still, she wonders now, where has that closeness gone? What has happened to that bond? For months, he has seemed like a stranger to her, a boy who drifted in and out of the house without talking, dropping off laundry, picking up books, leaving cryptic messages full of vague insinuations taped along the kitchen counter. And now, as he sits here before her, talking about graduate school, she wonders if this is it, the last act, his final departure.
“So,” she says after a moment, staring at him. “The University of Michigan, huh?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Well, you’d be closer to your grandparents,” she says, smiling, thinking about her own parents back in Illinois and how happy they’d be to have Richard nearby. “That’s for sure.”
“Yeah,” he says and nods.
“And if it’s something you want to do—”
“I’m not sure if it’s something I want to do,” he says, “that’s the thing.”
“Well, why aren’t you sure?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “It just seems like a big step, you know.”
He looks at her and she can see how distressed he is. He reaches for another cigarette and lights it.
“I mean, what do you think Dad would say?”
“Don’t worry about your father,” she says. “I’ll take care of him.” She reaches across the table and touches his hand. “If it’s something you want to do, then I think you should do it.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
He nods.
“Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”
“No, no,” he says. “Not exactly.” Then he looks down.
“What is it?”
He draws slowly on his cigarette. “I actually wanted to ask you if I could borrow some money.”
“Money? For what?”
He pauses. “I can’t really tell you.”
She looks at him evenly. “How much do you need?”
“Two thousand.”
“Richard.”
“I know it’s a lot.”
“Richard, I can’t just give you two thousand dollars without knowing why you need it.”
“Forget it,” he says and looks away.
She stares at him. “Are you in some type of trouble?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I can’t see why you’d suddenly need two thousand dollars. I mean—” Then a thought occurs to her, a thought that sends her mind racing. “Is this about your sister?”
“No.”
“Did she contact you?”
“No.”
“Honey, I love you, but if she contacted you, if you know anything about where she might be and you’re not telling me—”
“She didn’t contact me, Mom,” he says, his voice angry now. “Jesus Christ, not everything’s about Chloe.”
She looks at him, his words stinging her, but he’s looking away now. After a moment, he stands up.
“I knew this was a mistake,” he says, sliding his cigarettes into his pocket.
“Richard, please sit down.”
“I have to go to work.”
“Richard.”
But he’s already turning away, walking toward the front of the restaurant.
“Richard!” she calls after him, but he doesn’t hear her, or if he does, he pretends not to. He keeps walking and a moment later is gone.
On the drive home, she considers stopping by Richard’s apartment to apologize, but decides against it. She knows her son, knows when he needs some time to cool off, knows when he needs some time to process what has happened. In so many ways, he is so much like his father. A sweet boy, a responsible boy, but still a hothead. Even as a child, he could fly into a rage without the slightest provocation. A highly sensitive boy is what his seventh-grade art teacher had told her. Much more sensitive than most boys his age. Back then, he used to waste away his evenings, lying around his room, reading comic books, afraid to interact with other kids. She used to worry back then that she had babied him too much, indulged his tantrums and his moods, turned him into the type of boy who would have difficulty making friends. Chloe, on the other hand, was much more like her: a sensitive girl, but in a guarded way. She’d sooner lock herself in her room for half the night than tell you what was wrong with her. And yet, the two of them had always seemed so bonded, so connected, almost like twins. They had always seemed so attuned to each other’s body rhythms, so cognizant of what the other was thinking at all times. When they were young, it had seemed endearing to her, even sweet, but later it had bothered her. They seemed to exist in their own private world, a world that did not seem to involve her or Elson, a world that they were not permitted to enter. And so she knew that if Chloe had ever told him anything, if she had ever confided in him, he would have never told her. And yet, he had reacted so violently to her suggestion that she might have that she didn’t know what to think. What was one to make of any of it? What did any of it mean?
As she passes into her neighborhood, she considers her next step, the options that lie before her. She thinks about meeting Elson for dinner, of making a definite plan. She thinks about what they might do the next day, or the day after, if Chloe still hasn’t contacted them. In front of her, the street is lined with towering live oaks and cypress trees, casting long, irregular shadows across the neighboring lawns. She watches a boy on a bicycle, weaving aimlessly in the middle of the street. Everything else is quiet. Quiet and still. Everybody hiding inside from the heat. She watches the boy for a moment longer, then turns around the corner onto her own street, and it is then, as she’s pulling up around the corner and nearing her house, that all of the options she’d been considering before seem to vanish.
Parked at the front of her driveway is a dark blue Corolla, and sitting on the front steps of her house are two men in blue suits. Not the same men who had stopped by before, when Chloe was there, but different men, older men. She feels her mind racing, thinks for a moment about turning around and taking off, but instead pulls up slowly into the driveway and parks.
By the time she turns off the engine, the men are at her window, motioning for her to roll it down. When she does,
they speak calmly, explaining that they are detectives from the Stratham Police Department. They tell her their names, but she’s so panicked she doesn’t even process them.
“Mrs. Harding,” one of the men finally says, “if you could just give us a few minutes of your time, we’d like to ask you a few questions about your daughter.”
She looks at them, suddenly wishing Elson were there, suddenly wishing she had some counsel.
“What’s this about?” she says finally.
“Why don’t we just go inside, ma’am?” says the other man.
She looks at him, says nothing.
“Mrs. Harding?”
She looks down.
“Mrs. Harding,” the man says again, touching her hand this time. “Why don’t we just go inside, all right?”
7
TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS. That’s all he needed. And now Brandon is telling him that it wouldn’t be that hard to get it, or at least half of it, if he was willing. They are standing behind the counter at Café Brasil, both of them working the late-afternoon shift, the sunlight from the cloudless Houston sky forming patterns along the walls, the sounds of Belle & Sebastian filling the room. The café is empty, or nearly empty, just a few out-of-work slackers scribbling feverishly in their notebooks, smoking cigarettes.
He’d just have to meet the guy, Brandon tells him, at his hotel downtown, have a few drinks, maybe dinner, and then spend the night with him. He wouldn’t have to do anything that made him feel uncomfortable, he says. He could set the parameters from the start. Make the rules. The next day he’d wake up, and he’d have half the money he needed in his pocket, all for a night’s work.
“And what about the other half?” Richard says.
“This guy isn’t the only guy I know in Houston.” Brandon winks.
“But I need the money by tomorrow night.”
Brandon nods. “I could lend you the rest. You know, you could pay me back over time, in installments.”
“What are you my pimp now?”
“You don’t have to make it sound so crude,” Brandon says. “Really, it’s just business. You’d actually be surprised by how businesslike it is.”
Richard looks at him, nods. It seems crazy to him that he’s even considering it. If Chloe hadn’t seemed so desperate, so afraid, if she hadn’t held him so tightly when she’d asked, if she hadn’t cried, he wouldn’t even be considering any of this. But what else could he do? What other options did he have? If his mother hadn’t lent him the money, his father sure as hell wouldn’t. And what did he have in his own bank account? Maybe a thousand at the most, which he’d already promised her and which she’d already told him wasn’t nearly enough. He wishes she’d told him why she needed it. All she’d said was that this was more important to her than anything else she’d ever asked him for, and he could see in her face when she said this that she meant it. He’d told her not to worry, that he would take care of it, but he wonders now why he said this. What made him think that he could raise two thousand dollars in a day and a half?
“Let me ask you a question,” Richard says after a moment as Brandon stands in the corner, refilling one of the stainless-steel containers with cream. “Why do you work here?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I mean, if you can earn that type of money in a single night, and you don’t care about it, why do you work here for minimum wage?”
“Tax purposes.” Brandon smiles.
“Right. Tax purposes.” Richard laughs. “Seriously.”
“Seriously?” Brandon says. “Seriously, it’s not like I do it all the time, you know. I mean, maybe once a month, sometimes twice, if I really need a little extra. It’s not like this is my long-term career goal or anything.” He winks at him.
At Rice, Brandon had majored in women’s studies, a major that had seemed even less practical than Richard’s, though it occurs to Richard now that Brandon has never actually told him what his long-term career goal is. He thinks of asking him now but decides against it.
“So what do you say?” Brandon says finally. “Should I call him?”
“No,” Richard says. “I don’t think I can do it.”
“Really?”
“Really,” he says, shrugging. “It’s just not me.”
“Okay,” Brandon says. “It’s your choice.” Then he opens up his cell phone and starts to write something down on a scrap of paper. “Here’s his number, though,” he says, handing Richard the paper, “in case you change your mind.”
Richard takes the paper, thinks of crumpling it up, but instead slides it into his pocket. He doesn’t even look at the name.
“So what are you going to do now?” Brandon asks.
Richard looks at him, thinks for a moment, then shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “There’s really only one other person I could ask.” He looks at his watch. “You think you can cover the rest of my shift?”
Brandon looks around the empty café, laughing. “I don’t know, man. I mean, it’s pretty much a mob scene in here.”
Richard smiles. “Thanks, Bran,” he says, patting his hand, taking off his apron. “I owe you.”
A half hour later, however, as he sits outside the large Tudor house where he has come twice a month for poetry workshops this past year, he wonders if this possibility is really a possibility at all. For months he had believed that Michelson would give him just about anything he asked for, but would he now? Had he burned a bridge with Michelson? Had he wounded him too severely with his outburst? And which was worse in the end? Was it more humiliating to come back to Michelson with his tail between his legs or to whore himself out to a man he’d never met?
One thing is for sure. He’ll have to give Michelson something. An apology, for one, but also something else. He’ll have to tell him that he’s reconsidered his application to Michigan. He’d acted rashly, he’ll have to say. He hadn’t thought it through. He hadn’t considered the true enormity of the opportunity. In some ways, of course, it pains him to even consider this, to consider what he’ll be giving up, what he’ll be relinquishing by doing this, but on the other hand he understands now that he has a bargaining chip, something that Michelson wants, even if he isn’t sure if he wants it himself. Sometimes he wonders if Michelson is simply living his life vicariously through him, if he represents in Michelson’s mind some sort of incarnation of Michelson himself as a young man, the youthful promise and potential he’d never actually had. Or maybe it is, as he’d always assumed, a form of seduction, a way of getting close to him. There is, of course, the fact of Michelson’s betrayal, something he’ll probably never forgive, but there is also now the strange new possibility that Michelson might have actually been telling him the truth all along, that his work might actually show more promise than he’d originally thought, that he might actually belong at a place like Michigan after all. Aside from talking to his mother about this, he hasn’t mentioned it to anyone, not to Brandon, and certainly not to Chloe, but a part of him has to acknowledge that on some level he’d been flattered by what Michelson had told him. Once he’d gotten past what Michelson had done, once he’d settled down and considered it, he’d realized that Michelson had been right, that this wasn’t an opportunity to be taken lightly, that this might in fact be the only opportunity he’d ever have to go to a place like Michigan.
Ever since he’d returned from the café that night, he’d been turning it over in his head, vacillating between excitement and fear. One moment he’d be picturing himself sitting over drinks with a group of fellow poets, talking about Wordsworth and Keats; and the next, he’d have an image of himself sitting in a darkened classroom, biting the inside of his cheek as his professor made it clear to the room that he didn’t belong there. And of course he’d thought a lot about what he’d be giving up by leaving: Brandon and his other friends, the comfortable little life he’d created for himself here in Houston, the prospect of making a more responsible career choice, of pleasing his parents, of doing what oth
er people considered the right thing. There didn’t seem to be an easy solution here, an easy answer, and compared with what his sister was going through, it seemed silly to even think about, but as he sits here now, staring at Michelson’s house, he has to wonder what it is that’s really stopping him. What, in the end, is the worst thing that could happen?
As it turns out, Mrs. Michelson isn’t home. This is among the first things Michelson tells him as he walks through the door, this and the fact that he’s happy to see him again, though he says this last part with a slight trace of guardedness, as if he’s still afraid that Richard might suddenly start yelling at him again.
Michelson shepherds him into the kitchen, offers him a glass of wine, which Richard accepts, then lays out some crackers and cheese. This is the first time that he and Michelson have actually been alone together in his house, and he can tell that Michelson is nervous. Maybe it’s the sudden reality of it all, the fantasy he’d rehearsed so many times in his mind finally coming true. The spider caught in his web. Or maybe his motives are much more sincere than Richard thinks. Maybe he’s got him all wrong. Maybe Michelson is simply trying to help him out, a concerned teacher trying to help out his star student. A man with a little too much time on his hands.
As they sip their wine, he explains to Michelson that he’s sorry, that he was out of line, that what he’d said to him at the café had been wrong. Michelson listens to him patiently, nods, and then finally accepts his apology. There’s something oddly formal about it all, the whole thing, something that reeks of the principal’s office. Michelson is sitting far away from him, almost three feet, his arms crossed, his lips pursed, and he can tell that he’s still afraid, or maybe just nervous. Eventually, he decides to throw him a bone, tells him in a quiet voice that he’s actually reconsidering his application to Michigan, and at this, Michelson’s face suddenly brightens.
“You’re kidding,” he says.
“No.”
“Well, this is wonderful news, Richard,” he says, raising his glass and coaxing him into a toast. “I can’t tell you how happy this makes me.”
In Between Days Page 18