Richard smiles at him, nods. “Well, it’s not like I’ve gotten in yet.”
“No, but I have a good feeling about this. I really do.” Then he stands up and puts down his glass. “Hold on a second, okay? I’ll be right back.”
A moment later he disappears down the hallway into the other part of the house, leaving Richard alone in the kitchen. As he sits there, he wonders what will happen now, what he’ll say to him, how he’ll bring up the issue of money. As soon as he mentioned his application, he’d regretted it, felt those old reservations coming back. What if he is making a mistake? he wonders. What if this is all wrong? One thing is for sure. He can’t go back now. Not at this point. Not after Michelson’s reaction. He sips his wine, looks around the kitchen, braces himself for what will happen next.
“I wanted to give you this,” Michelson says, returning to the kitchen, nearly out of breath. “This is my friend’s address and the address of the graduate office. You can send your statement to him and the rest of your materials—your transcripts and so forth—to the graduate office.”
He lays the paper down on the table in front of Richard, then picks up his wine again and sips it.
“I should do that this week?”
“Tomorrow, if you can. The sooner, the better.”
Richard looks at him and nods, though the thought of doing this tomorrow, of not having time to reconsider, is terrifying. He tries to hide his concern from Michelson, but Michelson notices.
“Are you sure you’re certain about this, Richard,” he says. “About your decision?”
“I’m positive.”
“You’re positive?”
“Yes.”
Michelson nods. “Well, okay then,” he says, and sips his wine. “Can I ask you what changed your mind?”
“I don’t know.”
“It must have been something.”
Richard shakes his head. “I don’t know. I guess maybe talking to my mother about it. I thought she was going to be against it, you know, but she was actually really supportive.”
“Parents can surprise you sometimes,” Michelson says.
Richard nods.
“And your father?”
“My father.” Richard smiles. “My father’s not going to be too happy about it, but I’ll deal with that later.”
“I take it the two of you don’t get along.”
“No, no.” He shrugs. “It’s not that. I mean, he’s fine. I mean, our relationship is fine, more or less. It’s just that something like this, you know, it’s just beyond his comprehension.”
Michelson nods and sips his wine.
The truth is, he hasn’t had a normal conversation with his father in over a year, but he doesn’t want to get into this with Michelson, sensing that Michelson’s interest is not entirely sincere. Is this his mode of seduction? he wonders. To form a bond with him, then to reel him in? Suddenly he feels the conversation getting away from him, moving in a direction he doesn’t want. Michelson pours himself another glass of wine, then reaches for Richard’s glass, and as he does this, Richard braces himself, prepares himself.
“There’s actually something else I wanted to ask you,” he says finally, trying not to look as transparent as he feels, trying to hide his unease. “I feel a little awkward asking you this, actually, and I’ll totally understand if you say no, but I was wondering if it might be possible for me to borrow a little money from you. Just a sort of short-term loan.”
Michelson looks at him, surprised. “Is this for your application fees?”
“No, no,” Richard says. “Something else.”
“Something else?”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t want to tell me what it is.”
“No. I can’t, really.”
Michelson pauses, and he can see that he’s soured the mood. “How much do you need?”
“Two thousand.”
“Two thousand dollars?”
“Yes.”
Michelson shakes his head. “That’s a lot of money, Richard.”
“I know.”
“Have you asked your parents?”
“Yes.”
“And they’ve said no.”
“They have.”
Michelson rubs his head. “Are you in some type of trouble, Richard?”
“No, no,” he says, and then pauses. “But my sister is.”
He hadn’t meant to say this, but now that he has, he realizes he needed to, that he needed to give Michelson something.
Michelson considers this. “Can I ask what type of trouble your sister’s in?”
“To be honest,” Richard says, “I don’t really know myself. I don’t even really know why she needs the money. I just know she needs it.”
Michelson narrows his eyes again. “Richard, if you’ll forgive me, this all sounds a little vague.”
“I know it does,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
“I’d love to help you out, of course, but I’m your teacher, Richard. I’m not a bank.”
Richard nods and realizes then that the matter is settled, at least in Michelson’s mind. He’s given his answer. He considers pursuing it further, taking another angle, but something in Michelson’s expression tells him it wouldn’t be worth it. It wouldn’t matter. He feels suddenly deflated.
“I’m sorry, Richard,” Michelson says, touching his hand.
“No, it’s fine,” Richard says. “It’s totally cool. I figured it was a long shot anyway.” He looks at his watch. “I should probably be getting back to work now actually.”
“You sure you don’t want to stick around? Maybe take a little swim?”
“No, no,” Richard says, standing up. “Maybe another time. Thanks, though.”
Michelson stands up then, too, and walks him to the door.
“Don’t forget about tomorrow,” he says, as they stand in the doorway. “You’ll want to get those materials off as soon as you can.” He pats Richard’s shoulder.
“I won’t,” Richard says, trying to smile, trying to hide his disappointment. “Thanks again,” he manages. “You know, for everything.”
“Richard,” Michelson says, grabbing his arm now, smiling. “I hope you understand, you never have to thank me for anything.”
Technically, he should be getting back to work now, finishing his shift, but instead he finds himself driving to a small used bookstore near his apartment and browsing the aisles. This is a place that he used to come to a lot when he’d first graduated from college, when he’d first started writing poetry, and later, in those days after he and Marcos broke up. There was something oddly comforting about this place, something oddly soothing about it, about being here, standing among so many books.
He’d often fantasized about what it might feel like to see his own book on one of these shelves, sandwiched somewhere between Donald Hall and Oliver Wendell Holmes, to pick it up and read from it, to study the tiny markings that another reader might have made in the margins, to wonder who that reader was. It seemed like such a remote possibility that anyone might actually want to purchase a book he had written, and yet it had still been fun to think about. He imagined giving readings, signing copies for his friends, giving a copy to his mother. He would get carried away sometimes, ignoring the absurdity of it, wanting to believe it could work.
Today, however, he is thinking only about Chloe and how disappointed she’s going to be when he finally talks to her, when he finally tells her the bad news, when he finally tells her that he’s failed to deliver on his promise. He’d never seen her as panicked as she’d been that morning when she stopped by his apartment. I’ve never asked you for very much, Richard, have I? But I’m asking you for this. If there’s any way you can get me that money, you’d be saving my life. Truly. You’d be saving my life. Saving her life? What had she meant by this? The words had haunted him. He trusted his sister, of course, trusted her more than anyone else, and knew that she wouldn’t be saying any of these things if she weren’t deadly
serious, but still, what did they mean? He’d tried to get her to explain, but she wouldn’t. Just do this for me, Richard, she’d said, drying her eyes. Please. If you do this for me, I’ll never ask you for anything else. Honestly. And Richard, being the person that he was, being the brother that he was, had held her, had told her not to worry, had told her that he’d do whatever he had to do to get her that money.
But now what had he done? He’d failed on all counts. There was Brandon, of course, but Brandon could only get him so much. He’d thought about selling his iPod, or maybe even his computer, but it seemed unlikely that he’d be able to get the type of money he needed for either under such short notice. So where did that leave him? What other choices did he have?
Sitting down next to one of the bookshelves, he pulls out the tiny piece of paper in his pocket, studies the number, the name. Then he pulls out his phone, but stops himself before he actually dials the number. He wonders how he’d feel the next day if he actually went through with it, if he actually spent the evening with this man, whether he’d feel as dirty if he knew that he was doing it for a noble cause, for his sister. He wouldn’t have to sleep with him, Brandon had told him earlier. He wouldn’t have to do anything he didn’t want to do. He could set the parameters from the start. He could back out anytime. And besides, maybe it wouldn’t even come to that. Maybe this guy would simply want to talk to him. Maybe he’d simply want his company. Brandon had told him how this happened all the time, how guys would take him out to dinner, maybe a movie, then just send him home. And maybe that’s all this was. Maybe it was as simple as that. And he could handle that, couldn’t he? Dinner. A little conversation. It wasn’t going to kill him. It wasn’t going to be the end of the world.
It’s depressing for him to even think about such things, but even more depressing to think about the alternative, to think about going back to Chloe with empty hands. It’s only one night, he tells himself. What can possibly happen in one night?
He stares at the bookshelves in front of him, wondering what the poets he admires would do, what anyone in his position would do. A moment later, he dials the number and, in a moment of haste, pushes SEND. A voice comes on a few seconds later, a friendly voice, and within a matter of minutes arrangements are made. A time is set. But it all happens so quickly, so abruptly, that he barely has time to process it. Already, it seems, his mind has gone numb.
8
LYING NEXT TO RAJA in the dim light of Brandon’s tiny study, Chloe feels momentarily at peace. She feels a sense of resignation, an acceptance of what will happen now. If Richard comes through for her, which she knows he will, then they’ll be gone from here tomorrow night. Their lives will change in ways she can’t possibly imagine, but they’ll be together. That’s the most important thing. No matter what happens to them, they’ll be together.
For weeks, she’s been living like this, living only in the moment, not knowing what might happen from one minute to the next, not knowing what might happen in the next couple of hours, or days, to change her life completely. As much as she’s been concerned, as much as she’s feared for her future, there is another part of her that has found it strangely liberating. If you could shut out everything else, she thinks, if you could concentrate only on your current dilemma, your immediate circumstance, if you could concentrate only on the present, you could simplify your life completely. Suddenly all of the questions about your future would disappear. Where you would live after college, what type of job you would have, whether you’d marry. These things would all go away. They’d disappear. They’d be replaced by other things, by questions relating only to the here and now. Questions relating only to your immediate circumstance. You couldn’t live that way forever, of course, but you could live this way for a while, and if they actually made it down to Mexico, if they were able to make a life for themselves down there, then they’d have to live this way for the next couple of weeks, maybe months.
As for other issues, issues relating to family and friends, she has decided to put those out of her mind. There is no point in dwelling on things you can’t control. And besides, it’s painful. To think about a life without Richard, to think about a life in which she can no longer talk to him, or to her parents, it’s almost too much to process. Instead, she has chosen to focus on the alternative, a life without Raja, which at the moment seems even harder to fathom. If she had to choose, she’d realized earlier that night, if she had to choose between her family and Raja, she’d choose Raja. It wasn’t even a question. As hard as it would be, as hard as it would be to give up everything else—her family, her friends, her lifestyle in America—she would sacrifice it all in a heartbeat to be with him, to be able to stay with him. And she knew that he would do the same. That was what love was, wasn’t it? That was what love in its most absolute form was. If it was anything less, then it wasn’t love. It wasn’t absolute. And if this was a test, some type of divine test of her love for him, then she was determined not to fail.
Raja, on the other hand, seemed much more troubled by the uncertainty of their future, by what would happen next. For the past half hour he has been lying next to her on the mattress, shaking his head, talking about his parents and how he has shamed them or, alternatively, about Mexico and how they will fend for themselves down there. How will they get food? he wonders. Where will they stay? And what will happen when their money runs out?
We’ll figure that out when we get there, she tells him. It will all work out. It will all be fine. She can tell he doesn’t believe her, of course, but he’s stopped trying to resist her, too, just as he’s stopped trying to resist the notion that she will be accompanying him down there. They’d argued about it for most of the day, had argued about it to the point of tears, but finally he’d given up. It’s your life, he’d finally said. If you want to do this, then I can’t stop you. There’s nothing I can do. But I want you to know that it’s not what I want for you, and it’s not what I expect.
I know that, she’d said, and then she’d held him, not wanting to say anything else, not wanting to give him any reason to suddenly change his mind.
In general, it seems, a part of him has given up. He has given up on fighting, given up on arguing with her, given up on any hope for a decent future. In all of the time she’d known him at Stratham, she’d never seen him like this. It had always been she who was having these little crises, she who was worrying about her parents or about some paper she hadn’t turned in or about who had said what to whom. He had always been the voice of reason, the eternal optimist. But now she can tell that something has changed. He has fallen out of himself. He has dissolved. A part of him, a very fundamental part of him, has disappeared.
In the other room, she can hear Brandon, just back from his job, putting on music, pulling plates and glasses out of the cabinets. A moment later, there’s a knock at the door, and he sticks his head in.
“You guys hungry?” he asks.
Chloe props herself on an elbow, smiles at him. “We actually already ate,” she says, motioning toward the empty Chinese food containers on the floor. “But thanks.”
Brandon nods, then stands there for a moment. “I actually wanted to give you something,” he says, pulling a thick white envelope out of his back pocket and tossing it to her.
Opening the envelope, she sees a wad of cash inside, easily a thousand.
“What’s this?” she says.
“My contribution,” he says. “Richard should be getting you the other half tomorrow.”
At this, Raja sits up and stares at the money, but says nothing.
“You didn’t have to do this,” she says.
“It’s not really from me,” he says. “It’s more like a loan I’m giving Richard. He’s gonna pay me back and stuff, you know, later.”
She looks at him uncertainly, then back at the money. “Thanks, Brandon,” she says finally. “But like I said, you really didn’t have to do this.”
He shrugs. “It’s not a problem,” he says. “And
besides, it’s your brother you should be thanking.”
She nods and sits up on the bed, places the envelope down beside her, thinking about Richard, wondering where he is, realizing that now they’re only a thousand short.
“Where is he tonight anyway?” she asks.
“Who? Richard?” Brandon shrugs. “Can’t say.” But he looks away when he says this, and she can sense that he’s hiding something.
“He’s not at Beto’s?”
“Uh, he might be,” he says, then he turns around and looks back at the kitchen. “Shit, I got water boiling. You guys wanna join me, you’re welcome to.” Then he turns around again and returns to the kitchen, closing the door behind him.
After he’s gone, Raja looks at her and sighs. “We can’t take this money,” he says.
“Why not?”
“We barely know him.”
“He’s a friend of Richard’s. And besides, Richard’s gonna pay him back.”
Raja shakes his head. “It doesn’t seem right,” he says.
And she realizes then that he’s disappointed, that a part of him had probably been holding out hope that Richard wouldn’t be able to raise the money.
“You’re mad because now I’m gonna be able to come down there with you.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, but I can tell.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
He looks down at his hands, shrugs, then finally stands up. “I’m gonna go out for a bit,” he says, “to get some cigarettes.”
“I’ll come with you,” she says.
“No,” he says. “Stay here.”
“Why?”
“I just want to be by myself for a while.”
She looks at him, and she can see that something in his face is cracking, giving way. She walks over and holds him.
“What’s the matter?” she says, rubbing his back, but he doesn’t answer. “Honey,” she says again, pulling him closer. “What’s the matter with you tonight?”
“It’s nothing,” he says finally, then hugs her back. “I’m fine.”
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