“Wild bee pollination. Boring stuff but it could save the world.” She smiled. “Are you grilling me, Mr. Knobel?”
“I like to call it the Spanish Inquisition. How’m I doing?”
“Not bad. But you forgot to tie me up naked and lash me with leather,” she said.
Suddenly she was bright red, from her neck up through her cheeks. He tried not to laugh, a picture of her wrists tied to bedposts flashing through his mind. He loved girls who blushed. There was entirely too little blushing in the world. More embarrassment would make the world a better place. Just think what would happen if some of our leaders could blush about their misdeeds.
Isabel’s eyes darted around the kitchen. It occurred to him she had, well, feelings beyond drunken kisses in the dead of night at funerals. That triple-whammy was too loaded to be real. People did irrational, out-of-character things at family funerals, especially when drinking. When she hadn’t replied to his note, it was clear that night had meant nothing.
Maybe she was just the blushing sort. He smiled and said, “I’ll be gallant and let you tie me up first.”
She stood up abruptly, banging the table with her knee, rattling the tea cups. He caught his before it went over the edge. “Easy. We’ve done the broken dish thing. Say, how’s your foot? You want me to take a look at it?”
“It’s almost healed.”
He took his cup to the sink and faced her. “What should we do this evening? Or do you need to get back to studying?”
She shook her head. “That’s all right. I’ll just—“
“Really.” He reached for her arm, took her hand. “You’ve done so much for me, and for Wendy who doesn’t deserve it.”
“Don’t say that.”
“You’re right. Okay, you’ve done so much for our family. Can I take you out somewhere, to a movie, a club, a bar? What do people do around here for fun?”
She was blushing again, looking at her hand in his. He smiled at her. “You are old enough to go to bars, aren’t you?”
“You mean like the Owl?” Her voice was getting weak. He pulled her toward him.
“Something a little more fun than the Owl, please. You like to dance as I recall.”
Suddenly he twirled her, catching her as she stumbled, laughing. “I’ll give you more notice next time. Now, where does a man find a band in this burg?”
They found a reggae band, white dudes in shades, at the oldest college bar in Urbana, an under-the-sidewalk place. But the place was quiet, and tiny, with no room for dancing so they drove across to Champaign and the Highdive, a sprawling nightclub. Inside the music was being played by a DJ on one side, a black woman who was grooving in her headphones, playing house and techno, with some worked-over vintage rock thrown in.
Blue lights flashed across the gyrating crowd. Jonny felt out of place, old. His enthusiasm for the evening, such as it was, was evaporating. But he put on a smile and went to the bar for martinis. Isabel had shrugged at the suggestion of a cocktail, slumping into a velveteen booth meant for eight. They’d paid their cover. They could at least dance a little, drink a little.
Conversation was out of the question. The music was way too loud. When he returned from the bar with two strange-colored martinis, neon green apple or kiwi or lime, the bass was thumping through the table. He tried to remember when he’d been to a club like this. Not exactly Cuppie’s thing. Married before he could legally drink, he hadn’t even been in a bar in college. His friends had taken him to a strip club after he split up with Cuppie, but compared to this, it seemed almost tame.
He sipped the martini and almost choked on the sweetness. He made himself take another sip. Then he felt the vodka warm his veins and began to nod along to the beat.
He let Isabel drink a little. She looked as uptight as he felt. With half their martinis on board he got her out on the dance floor. The room was nearly pitch black, all the better for the strobe lights and piercing spots to cause epileptic seizures. He had to close his eyes periodically to rest them, and still saw flashes on his retinas. He worked them over to the DJ. She was bent over the laptops, energetically dancing, shimmying her hips. Wait, she was a he. In long dreadlocks and a tight purple shirt.
Not exactly the Rose Rave in Mom’s garden. All electronica here, all synthesized and homogenized. Just thinking about polka was probably against club policy. He caught Isabel’s eye and she made a face. He grabbed her hand, spinning her again. This time she stayed on her feet, then danced off.
Midway through the next song Jonny saw blond hair across the floor. Long blond hair, swinging with the music. Wendy? He craned his neck to see the rest of the woman. How could a seventeen-year-old get in here? Who was he kidding? She ran away from home and hid herself successfully for over a week. Of course she could get into a nightclub. From the back he could see the hair, a similar height. He took Isabel’s hand and pushed through the crowd.
His little sister, dancing and drinking while her family put her on prayer lists. Out having a good time, miles from those who sat up all night worrying about her. When he found her he was going to strangle her.
He plunged through the dancers. He grabbed her arm, spun her toward him. The girl stumbled, startled. She pulled away her arm angrily. Her partner, a barrel-chested frat-boy type, shoved Jonny. In the flashing light he had to blink, to focus. The girl wasn’t Wendy. She was older, not as pretty, with large glasses. What was he thinking? She looked nothing like his sister.
Jonny put up his palms toward the advancing boyfriend. “Sorry,” he hollered over the music. “I’m sorry,” he told the girl, backing away.
Isabel was beside him. He said, “I thought—”
“Let’s get out of here,” she shouted back.
They sat on the round fenders of the Volkswagen. Isabel plunged a finger into her ear. “That was fun. If I could get the ringing to stop.”
“What?!” Jonny half-yelled, then smiled at her. His ears were ringing too. The dense quiet of the parking lot felt like static, or the buzzing of bees.
“It did look like her, you know,” Isabel said.
“Right.” She was a good sport. He stood up and stretched, shaking his head to get rid of the echoes. “You okay to drive?”
“That martini tasted like mouthwash.” She twirled her car keys around her finger. “Did I tell you somebody stole my distributor cap? That’s why the old Beetle wouldn’t start.”
“Must have been somebody who wanted you to stay in Red Vine.”
“Uh-huh. And who would that be?”
“Ozzie? No, wait. Walter. He was very depressed when the students left town.”
“We must have dropped a fortune in the Owl. Not Lenny?”
“Sure. He needed the votes.”
A couple walked toward them through the cars. The man’s arm wrapped around the woman’s waist as they weaved through, talking. In the dark there was little else to see about them, until they stopped abruptly in front of Isabel. The man stared at her with rounded eyes.
“Isabel? Is that you? My God, this is the last place I thought I’d see you.”
The man was short and paunchy with greasy brown hair and a wide shiny forehead above a small beard. His brown t-shirt sported a mathematical equation and barely contained his man-boobs. His date squealed like a pig. She leaned against him in a short black skirt and red midriff top. Pink streaks highlighted her teased platinum hair. The smell of liquor and sweat rose from them.
Isabel stood frozen, clutching her keys. “Alec.”
“This is her, that chick? She sure knows how to party-dress,” the woman said loudly. “Where’d you get that shirt, off a railroad bum?” The woman pulled on Alec’s arm. “Come on, Al-pal. You promised me ice cream.”
“How’ve you been?” Alec said, disengaging himself from the woman’s grasp. “I heard you fled to the continent.”
“Fine,” Isabel said coldly. “Is this your wife?”
Alec and the woman looked at each other and burst out laughing. Alec s
neered as he said, “Didn’t you hear? Of course not. You’ve been prancing around Europe, doing the grand tour in that devil-may-care Yancey style.” He stepped closer to Isabel and she backed up. “It didn’t last, honey bunch. Didn’t go six months with the bitch. She hightailed it out of here in January.”
“What a cunt!” the woman cackled.
“Renee.” Alec frowned, turning back to Isabel. “My friend Renee. Drunk as a skunk and about as appealing.”
Isabel looked at Jonny. “And this— this is Jonathan Knobel.”
Jonny stuck out a hand. “Not drunk. Pleased to meet you.”
“Aaaal,” Renee whined. “You’re such an asshole.”
Alec shook Jonny’s hand. The short man’s hand was clammy. He pulled it away quickly and turned back to Isabel.
“So you’re back in town. That’s great.” He grinned at her with uneven, yellow teeth. “You look fantastic. I love the haircut. Let’s get together, okay? I’ve got so much to tell you about my wolves. It was amazing in the UP this winter.”
Something about this guy made Jonny’s stomach turn. The word slimy came to mind. The way he talked about Renee, the way he was sizing up Isabel while talking all big about himself when he was fat and soft and smelly. Her old boyfriend who had married somebody else. Lucky break for Isabel.
Jonny cleared his throat. “Ready to go, Iz?” He took her arm and put it through his. “Great to meet you, Alec. Renee.”
He steered her around the Bug and put her inside. As he rounded the car he heard Renee’s whine and Alec’s sharp reply as they stumbled off into the shadows.
Isabel gave him directions to get back to Urbana. She seemed stunned into silence by her boyfriend’s sudden appearance. Jonny frowned as he drove back along University Avenue. What a creep. What did she see in him? Well, as he knew to his dismay, you often fell in love with people nobody else would choose for you.
And if you had half a brain, people you wouldn’t choose for yourself.
Dr. Mendel’s house was dark, nestled among the junipers and oaks of the quiet street. The living room smelled slightly chemical, like the professor was doing lab work on the coffee table. Isabel searched for a pillow and blanket in the linen closet. She set them on the sofa.
“You can make yourself something to eat if you want. And there’s a TV in that cabinet. It’s from the seventies but it still works.”
Jonny stepped closer to her, trying to read her face. “So that’s the guy. The one who broke your heart?”
She bit her lip. “That’s Alec.”
“You still care about him.”
She still loved him. Nobody could mistake her fierce reaction, seeing him again. The way he rendered her mute, just by his presence. Jonny thought about when he saw Cuppie again, in Red Vine, and how angry he had been that she’d tracked him down, how over her he was. Isabel was obviously not over Alec.
“No. Oh, no.” She shook her head vehemently. Another sign she was just trying to convince herself. “It was just a surprise. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since he got married.”
“And that didn’t go well, I take it.”
“He married a friend of my sister’s. A couple years older and completely out of his league. She probably figured out he only married her for her money.”
“Well, he’s free again. Maybe you two will have another chance.”
Her eyes flashed. “No. It’s over.”
In the yellow lamplight she seemed vulnerable, almost fragile, her pale skin like porcelain. So different from the Queen Bee of Red Vine, unpleasant and angry most of the time. This guy must be why. Her boyfriend had really done a number on her. He knew what that was like. Cuppie had brainwashed him, run roughshod over him, for years. So long he didn’t know what was what anymore. Would he have imagined this weekend a year ago, even six months ago, out dancing with a smart, cool grad student, five-hundred miles from home?
Jonny reached up and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. She blinked, like she had something in her eye.
“Never say never,” he said.
Chapter 20
Isabel bolted upright. Outside the sun was high, over the roof of the house next door. What time was it? Shit.
She ran downstairs in her t-shirt and panties, pulling on her robe. She slid to a stop in the front hall, sticking her head into the living room. The sofa was empty, the blanket carefully folded, pillow on top. Only dust motes in the morning sunshine.
“Jonny? Jon!” Where was he? It was only nine-thirty.
In the kitchen the coffee pot was half full and still hot. She’d had trouble getting to sleep again. Seeing Alec was bad enough, although in a way it was a relief to be done with that. She wouldn’t have to worry about seeing him on campus now. What a weird night. Having Jonny downstairs made her miserable. She could feel him in the house, breathing, sleeping. She felt fevered and itchy, like she had a communicable disease. It would have been better, she decided around three, if he’d stayed in a motel.
She poured herself a cup of coffee and called his name again.
No sign of him. His overnight bag was gone. She twirled in the front hall. “Where are you?”
Outside? She opened the front door. Just the morning paper on the stoop. Back in the living room she looked closer at his pillow. Lying on top, a piece of notebook paper, folded once, with her name written on it in inch-high letters, underlined.
Iz – I took a shuttle to the airport. You’ve done enough hauling me around. Sorry we didn’t find Wendy. Thanks for your concern, and for last night. It was fun. I’ll let you know when my hearing comes back. Jon.
She stared out the window into the overgrown backyard, the tall grass yellow in the August heat, then read the note again. He had interesting handwriting, that blocky lettering that architects used. He called her ‘Iz’ like her sister did.
He had gone home. He hadn’t said goodbye. Again.
“And that,” she said to the dust motes, “is that.”
In the late afternoon Isabel took the professor her mail. Sunday night was the time to get organized, and she had every intention of doing so, to curb the nerves that were creeping higher. Two days of advising remained, then classes started. She shuddered, thinking about her first lecture.
Lillian Mendel had a private room, with dull blue drapes and a comfortable chair, even though her leg was still in an elaborate cast and elevated, dangling from pulleys. Her wavy gray hair lay in a halo against the pillow. Her pink bed jacket was buttoned to her neck, half moon glasses perched on her nose. She was propped up, reading a scientific journal when Isabel knocked. She smiled, tossing the magazine aside. “Come in, come in. So nice to see somebody not in uniform.”
Isabel piled the mail on the edge of the bed so she could reach it. “This is your office mail. I opened it like you said and dealt with anything I could. I made notes on the memos. This pile is your home mail. And here’s today’s paper, if you haven’t read it already.”
“I have.” The professor tossed the paper on the floor as she glanced at the top of her office stack. “And how are you? You look tired.”
“Just busy. I had a visitor yesterday.”
“Ah.” Lillian smiled. “A male visitor?”
“A friend. From Minnesota. He came to look for his sister. You talked to him on the phone. Jonathan Knobel.”
Her face pinched. “Did he find her?”
“No.” Isabel hesitated then decided to confess. “The sister was the valuable thing left in the van. We thought she might have stowed away. But we couldn’t find Curtis, the driver, or get into the bus barn.”
Dr. Mendel crossed her arms, glaring at Isabel. “Best to stay out of this now. It’s done. If Curtis had something to do with this girl running off, if he helped her— my God, I don’t want to know about it. That’s Curtis’s problem, not ours. Unless we make it our responsibility. And I don’t think that is in our best interest. I know it isn’t.”
This was exactly what she expected the professo
r to say. The company line: Not Our Responsibility. She’d had such a close relationship with Dr. Mendel these three years that she’d forgotten how closely tied the professor was to the university and its values, to her department, its grants and procedures, to her tenured but still-not-full professorship above all. There had been more rumors this week she might be up for Department Chairman if she played her cards right. She was ambitious, always reminding you of her grants and publications, making sure she got her due mention.
“Is that understood?”
“Yes.” Isabel tried to smile. “Of course.”
“If this girl is a runaway, then so be it. She’s not connected to the department or the University.” Lillian squinted at her, waiting for another sign of acceptance. Isabel nodded. “Now. I have something to discuss with you. They say they’re springing me on Wednesday. Obviously I won’t be walking out, and I’ll be very limited in my activities.”
“But you’ll be teaching again,” Isabel said, immensely relieved.
“In time. Don’t worry, you’ve got the reins for at least two more weeks. No, this is more of a domestic proposition.” Lillian reached out and patted Isabel’s shoulder. “Don’t feel any personal obligation though, my dear. Honestly. I will have plenty of help coming in, for bathing and therapy and all that. But here it is.”
She sighed dramatically. “If I paid you a small wage in addition to your rent and meals of course, would you stay on at the house to do errands for me, that’s what I’m asking. Maybe run the dishwasher or the vacuum now, run out for groceries, that sort of thing. Nothing taxing, obviously you’re going to be teaching my classes and that has priority. Just little things, and in the night when the nurses go home, if I need something. That doesn’t happen now but you never know.”
Isabel’s mind was racing. How long would this arrangement last? What sort of midnight duties and how nasty might they be? How demanding would Lillian be? How impatient? But the money. No rent, plus making a little extra, beyond the teaching assistantship. She calculated her savings. That would be nice.
All Your Pretty Dreams Page 19