by Rand, Naomi;
Lucy was stone-faced.
“Come on . . . tell me.”
“It’s not important.”
“Obviously it is. Did I say something?”
“No.” Then Lucy braved an inauthentic smile. “It’s just that one of my brothers killed himself.”
“Oh god, Lucy, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. No reason to be sorry.” Lucy started off again, but Sam held fast.
“I’m here, Luce,” Sam said softly.
Lucy nodded. “You really are. I don’t know how you can do that.”
“Do what?” Sam asked.
“Be so present. Never get rattled. Most people you tell that to, they don’t know what to say or do.”
“I’m not sure I’m so great at it either,” Sam said.
“But you wouldn’t start acting odd just because of it. You’re not like that.”
“No,” Sam conceded.
“How come it doesn’t scare you?” Lucy asked.
“Scare me? Why should it?”
“It freaks other people out.”
Sam shrugged.
“You’re so different from anyone else I’ve ever met,” Lucy said.
“I doubt it,” Sam told her.
“Yes, you are.” Lucy took her arm. They walked together. “It was last year. Donnie and this bunch of guys he was friends with went to a party on a Saturday night. Donnie was driving. He crossed the divider on the interstate and smashed into a tree. All three of them died, so I guess technically that makes it a murder-suicide.”
Sam had a stark image of Lucy’s brother’s car surfing across the divider and slamming into a giant oak. Impulsively, she turned and hugged Lucy tight.
Lucy let go first. She smiled shyly. They walked on toward Washington Square Park. “Donnie was always getting high,” Lucy said. “It’s not the way we do it. I mean, Donnie, he didn’t know how to be moderate. That was part of what was so great about him. When he got high, he wanted to get wasted. My mom knew and she begged him to stop. Each time she did, he promised he would. But that was just to make her leave him alone. He lied and she always believed him. I guess she just wanted to believe he could change, because he was so obviously out of it whenever he came home. He’d be starving because he was stoned, and his eyes were always bloodshot. Then, when we moved north, he started drinking. My dad was so relieved. He thought alcohol was better. He thought it was like what he’d done, I guess, because my dad was this big jock in high school and, of course, being in the service all the guys went to bars. My dad saw drinking as what a man did. He wanted Donnie to act like a man. That was his big disappointment, that Donnie was such a girl.”
“Your parents must be miserable.”
“They must,” Lucy agreed. “Not that you could tell.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s like I said before, everyone in my family pretends everything’s fine. Even this. If you pretend hard enough then you can make it true, right?” Lucy was angry. Her voice shook. She blinked the way a nocturnal creature would as it emerged into daylight. “You know what? We should go to Mexico. We should go there for the Day of the Dead. When is it?”
“November.”
“You’ll go with me, won’t you?”
“Yes,” Sam said, even though she knew what they both knew, that it was pure fantasy.
Lucy slipped her hand into Sam’s and squeezed hard. Letting go, she added, “Sometimes I miss Donnie, but sometimes I resent him for doing what he did. And you know what’s even worse? Most of the time I don’t think about him. I’m just like the rest of them. I can’t even remember what Donnie looked like, unless I’m dreaming. It’s terrible. You wouldn’t do that, Sam. You’d never forget him.”
“Who knows what I’d do? Who knows how I’d act?” Sam said.
“You’d be different,” Lucy insisted. “You’d always have a place for your brother. You’d do it no matter how much it hurt, just because. You’d keep him alive in your heart.”
“You give me a lot of credit,” Sam said. She didn’t want to be that good. She didn’t want to be the person who was obligated to remember; remembering meant you were forced into doing certain things you didn’t want to do, being places you didn’t want to be, making choices you really didn’t want to make. Remembering made it impossible to be selfish. Being selfish didn’t always have to be a sin, did it?
Although she had to admit, she liked being seen as perfect. It was nice to have Lucy compliment her and hold her in such high esteem. There was no way Sam was going to disappoint her by telling her how much she ached to be bad.
Lucy took a right down Waverly. Sam admired her military posture. Sam was good at guessing what people’s careers were from the way they looked. Years of living in the city had offered her plenty of research opportunities: a female dance student’s feet turned out in perfect plies and her hair was bound into a modest bun; strikingly tall, painfully thin models owned chiseled features; actresses were often unremarkable looking, yet hauntingly familiar. There was more to Sam’s gift than that. You had to make yourself available. Look interested, and people believed you were. Strangers told Sam their most intimate secrets. It happened to her repeatedly, in stores, on subway platforms, even in front of the sink in a public bathroom. People confessed and she listened, taking in everything they said and tucking it away for later consumption. Lucy was impossible to quantify though. She wasn’t just a prom queen, or a rodeo star, or an Army brat, or the sum of her looks. She wasn’t just a brainy philosophy major. She was all of that and more, a constant surprise.
The playground in Washington Square Park was packed with children. Once Sam had found interesting things under the jungle gym, crack vials, a hypodermic needle, and an ever-changing assortment of used condoms. Undoubtedly this next generation was unearthing similar buried treasure. A mom wiped the runny nose of her screaming child. The woman appeared to be much older than Brooke, but looking closer, Sam saw it was an illusion. This woman was au natural, wearing distressed jeans, a distressed t-shirt, a distressed mien, and not a smidgen of makeup. If Brooke had been sitting next to Sam, she would have smirked, saying, “God, has she let herself go.”
“I’m never having kids,” Sam declared to Lucy.
“Me neither. They ruin your life.”
Lucy pulled out a pack of Camels and lit one, the smoke trailing off.
“How about him?” Lucy said, jerking her head.
“Him?” Sam had no idea what she was referring to. Then she remembered their bogus mission. They’d come south to deflower her. Lucy had to be making a joke, right? She’d assumed as much, but it had been an excuse to get out of there and away from her troubles. The man Lucy pointed out leaned against the Washington Square arch, the breeze caressing his hair. He was terrifyingly blond, with agate blue eyes.
“Just to let you know, he’s gay,” Sam said.
“He is not.”
“He is so. Plus, he’s not my type.”
“He’s totally perfect. You’d make beautiful babies.”
“I just said I didn’t want babies. Lucy, even if he was straight, which he isn’t, I wouldn’t know what to say to a guy that pretty.”
“How do you know he’s not a Nietzsche scholar?”
“That would appeal to you,” Sam pointed out. “You’re the philosophy major.”
“He could be an artist or a musician. You’d like that.”
“He’s a male model,” Sam said with certitude.
“Or he isn’t, let’s go ask him,” Lucy suggested, trashing her cigarette and grinding it underfoot. Sam was saved by the appearance of another stunningly attractive male who sauntered up to Mr. Aryan Nation, grabbed him in his hot hands and gave him an ardent tongue kiss.
“How did you know?” Lucy asked, astonished.
Sam shrugged.
Lucy shook her head. “I need a cup of coffee,” she said, and then made for Café Figaro.
The Café was Sam’s favorite West Village
haunt. She’d spent weekends in High School sitting there nursing a cup of cappuccino. Sam liked to imagine that when she stepped out she would find herself in North Beach or Venice. It was that kind of place.
Lucy and Sam wended their way to their favorite table at the very back of the small room. It was round and too small to sit at comfortably, but discomfort was part of the tithe collected to gain entrance to this pseudo-bohemian world. The cafe doubled as a library. Patrons bent over their writing journals or the latest novel. A man with a black beret sunk into Being and Nothingness, and a lanky blond immersed herself in The World According to Garp. Sam had read both. She much preferred Garp. That John Irving was a handsome man. Maybe she could tap him for her deflowering.
Their waitress was the one who always wore a black dance skirt and leotard top. Sam had dubbed her “Miss Capezio.” She moved at a crablike crawl. Eventually, she deigned to note their existence and decided to make her way over, staring past them without even asking what they wanted.
“An espresso, please,” Lucy said.
“A cappuccino,” Sam added.
Off Miss Capezio went, but not toward the espresso machine. She paused at a nearby table to flirt with its male occupant.
“So he was gay,” Lucy said. “That doesn’t mean he’s not a candidate.”
“Yes, it does.”
“I slept with a boy who was gay.”
“You didn’t.”
“Rodney Smith. He was from Appleton. I did it as a favor, took him for a test drive. Showed him what to do. I’ll tell you what, he was a lot better at making me feel good than most of the rest of them were. Rodney had sensitive fingers.”
“Look, Luce, that’s you. I want to be in love with the first guy I sleep with.”
“In love? How are you going to manage that?”
“By waiting,” Sam said firmly. She was done with this as a topic, done with the hunt, and done with the absurdity of it. “I should never have told you,” she said, under her breath.
“I’m trying to help,” Lucy insisted.
“I don’t need help. I’m not a project.”
“Oh come on, this is fun,” Lucy said. She was smiling, knowingly. Sam flushed.
“I’m fine the way I am,” Sam said.
“It’s not about being fine, it’s about—” Lucy began.
Sam cut in, needing her to stop. “So how is having an accident the same as killing yourself?”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Sam regretted them. Lucy turned a ghastly, ghostly white. “I didn’t mean that Luce, I’m so sorry.” Sam reached for Lucy’s hand, but her friend pulled it away. An uneasy silence reigned.
Why did I have to do that? Sam wondered. She ached to roll the film back to when she was the one being picked apart. It was so much easier than this. Lucy looked stricken. Sam couldn’t blame her. My fault, she thought, wincing internally. A minute ticked by. Then two. Then five.
“You were making me feel stupid,” Sam said.
Lucy nodded. “I see.” Relenting, she asked, “Where in Mexico would be good?”
She was willing to forgive her. “Pretty much anywhere,” Sam said enthusiastically.
“It has to be really exotic,” Lucy said, mischievously.
“Isla Mujeres, then.”
“What’s that?”
“The Island of Women.” Sam had picked it on purpose, a subtle reference to that kiss. She watched Lucy closely.
“That’s a thought,” Lucy said. “Although I couldn’t live there forever. Not just with women. I mean, could you?”
“Nope,” Sam said.
“The problem is how do you find a guy who you can talk to seriously? You know, the way we talk with each other.”
“There must be one,” Sam said.
“There must be one or two,” Lucy agreed, as her smile expanded. The wattage increased exponentially, warming both of them.
And right at that moment, a boy sauntered through the door. He walked past their ever-unhelpful waitress. “Hey Mikey, how’s tricks?” Miss Capezio inquired.
“Good as good can be, Evie.”
Evie. So that was her name. Lucy nudged Sam and pointed out this Mikey. He wore threadbare blue jeans and a yellow t-shirt advertising Elvis Costello’s aim as always on target and true. In the silkscreen, Elvis looked extremely gawky and pissed off, yet he still managed to exude a sterling confidence. That man knew exactly who he was and what he deserved. He flaunted his punk roots, but most of all he wanted to be famous. And Elvis was getting there. He had his moments, but he’d done nothing irreparable, not like Sid Vicious or Lucy’s brother, turning that car wheel on purpose. Suicide was the biggest “Fuck you” there was. You left everyone else behind to deal with the misery you inflicted. You left them having to bargain with your ghost. Or run from it.
“The usual?” Evie asked.
Mikey was obviously a nickname for Michael. This Michael smiled. His smile was as inviting as Lucy’s, but more shopworn and relaxed. It was an open invitation to who so ever might be proximate. He was handsome in a funky way. His auburn hair curled to his shoulders. He had blue eyes and a Cary Grant dimple stamped into the middle of his chin. This Michael was half boy-half man. His shoulders were wide as a competitive swimmer’s. Sam saw his feet were shod in black Converse hi-tops. These marked him as both unaffectedly hip and pretty nearly perfect, if one were, say, thinking of a specific type.
Her type.
Evie, a.k.a. “the waitress from hell,” hadn’t done a thing about getting their order. But she sure got busy making his. Michael smiled a sleepy smile as she returned posthaste with his coffee.
“How’s the witch?” Evie inquired.
“Watch out, she’ll ride in on her broomstick and carry you off.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Thanks,” he said, reaching for the pitcher of milk and dismissing her. Evie pouted, but not in the bored way she exhibited with them. This pout was pathetic, peevish, and desperate. She wanted his attention. He steadfastly refused to give it and cracked open the book he’d brought with him. Evie sighed loudly. Michael didn’t look up. She wandered away heartbroken.
Any month now we’ll get our order, Sam thought.
But Lucy was up, off to protest. Wait. She was making a beeline for Michael’s table with an unlit cigarette.
“Do you have a match?” Lucy inquired.
“Don’t smoke, sorry. They have matches up at the front.”
Lucy waited just as Evie had, assuming that when he realized she was standing there, he’d do a double take. He read on, literature trumping beauty. Giving up, Lucy strode cowboy style to the counter, palmed a book of matches, crossed back to their table, and lit one with a flourish. Drawing in the smoke and exhaling, she narrowed her eyes. “He’s definitely gay.”
Sam watched Michael’s smile deepen, dimpling his cheeks. “Nope,” Sam said with conviction.
Just then, Evie dumped their order on the table and waltzed away.
Michael drank the dregs of his coffee. He dropped a bill on the table and shoved his book into his back pocket.
“See you,” Evie said to him hopefully.
“Absolutely,” he told her. He was out the door.
The man who got away, Sam thought. Handsome without being sculpted, masculine without being arrogant, perfect without wanting Lucy, the very same Lucy who was up and pulling her to her feet. Sam threw down some money.
“What now?” Sam demanded, as Lucy dragged her outside.
There went Michael, bopping down Bleecker Street listening to some internal, infernal music. He turned the corner. Lucy pursued.
“We didn’t pay,” Sam yelled after her.
Inside Dauber and Pine Used and Antique Booksellers there were stray piles of books on every flat surface, overloaded shelves, and the musty smell of mildewing paper. Michael lounged behind the cash register, chatting with an older woman whose abundant white hair perched atop her head in a lopsided bun. Her face wore that famili
ar, pissed off New York expression. Glasses hung from a librarian’s chain round her neck. She wore a man’s button-down vest over a black turtleneck. Sam estimated she was about the same age as the collector’s editions the store advertised. This had to be the aforementioned witch.
“You’re always finding things funny,” the woman said to him. “What about when they come for you, what then?”
“Who’s coming for me this time?” Michael asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Everything’s a joke to you, Michael. Some things one shouldn’t joke about.” Just then a cat jumped up on the counter and rubbed against the cash register. The old woman batted it away. “Out of here, you,” she hissed.
“You’re unfair to him,” Michael said. “It’s not right, Lydia. He kills the mice. He does what he’s supposed to do.”
“Which is more than I can say for you.” She whirled round and confronted Sam. “What do you want?”
“I’ll help her,” Mike said.
“You mean you’d actually consider working? A first.” Snorting, she lurched at Sam, who recoiled instinctually. The woman shot her the evil eye, then veered away, and grabbed onto the handrail of a spiral staircase. She ascended, grunting and groaning her way to the top. Above them floorboards creaked. Then, a door slammed.
“Don’t mind her,” Michael told them. “She’s been in a bad mood since Stalin turned out to be . . . well . . . Stalin. Are you looking for a book? I see you found some matches, do you intend to burn it?”
He was speaking to Lucy, who was pretending an interest in British Architecture. Her magnetic tractor beam had sucked him in after all. But Sam wasn’t going to cede her rights so easily this time.
“Your boss has been pissed off since the forties?” Sam asked.
He laughed, turning her way. “Actually, I think it’s a fairly recent development. Right up until 1960 she was convinced Stalin wasn’t a mass murderer at all and that it was a myth made up by the right wing American press.”
“People believe what they need to believe,” Sam agreed.
“Just like being religious.” They exchanged a knowing smile. “Are you two stalking me?”
“You don’t think we’re bibliophiles?” Sam countered.