The Map That Leads to You

by J. P. Monninger

  “Do you miss Vermont?” I asked him.

  He nodded. He squeezed my hand. The other riders studied racing forms. Jack kept his eyes on the wooded border to the road.

  “I love Vermont,” he said after a little while. “It may not even be love. It’s just inside me—the seasons, the open meadows, and the damn cold winters. You don’t take anything for granted in the winter in Vermont. Everything rests on the edge of freezing and busting, and as brutal as it is, it’s also fragile. Very fragile. If you look carefully, you can see that fragility everywhere. I remember seeing the edge of a stream one time, and the ice had trapped a frog. I don’t know if the frog was living or dead when the ice surrounded it, but you could see the body clearly beneath the ice. It was entombed, but it was beautiful, too. I don’t even know how to say what it made me feel. I still wonder if something had stunned it, or if it had failed to get out of the weather, or if it thought it had one more good day and then the weather turned. Isn’t that a metaphor for life? We all think we have one more good day, but maybe we don’t. Anyway, the ice looked blue except where it covered the frog, and then it was green blue. That’s what you see in Vermont if you pay attention. It exists everywhere, of course, but I am attuned to it in Vermont. So when I say these woods remind me of Vermont, I mean it.”

  “Could you buy a farm like your grandfather’s? Are those kinds of things still available?”

  He stuck out his lower lip.

  “Hard to say. Some, I guess. Usually the house would be in horrible repair, the chimney falling down. All that. The land would be overgrown. Everything tries to break down a farm. That’s just the way it is.”

  The bus took a turn onto what looked to be the final run-up to the racecourse. Hundreds of cars parked in an open meadow. I had only been to a track once, at Monmouth Park in New Jersey, but this looked nothing like that. Longchamps looked as if a fair had decided to pitch a tent for the night and that it might travel tomorrow. It made Jack smile to see it. His grandfather had gone to a day of racing in Longchamps.

  The bus dropped us at the front entrance, and it took a few minutes to make our way inside. We bought a racing form and found some seats back under the grandstand. I had no point of comparison, but the crowd seemed sparse. It gave us room—easy to get a drink, easy to get to the ladies’ room—and that made the proceedings more festive. The melancholy that could sometimes accompany people losing more money than they should did not seem as prevalent as it might have been at some racecourses. It seemed like a holiday instead, a day out on a fabulous fall noon.

  We bet the 5 horse on the first race, and it won going away.

  “What do you think of that?” Jack shouted, pounding the racing form against his leg as the horse won easily. “We’re a pair of handicappers! How do you like that?”

  Oh, Jack. So young and handsome. So happy. So much mine.

  We did not have a winner the rest of the day. We drank sidecars and got drunk and rode the bus back through the Bois de Boulogne, back into the city, back to the eternal Seine and the hiss of coffeemakers and the brush brooms on cobblestone. I clung to Jack’s arm and put my head on his shoulder. Silence covered us, and he was in his world and I was in mine, and Paris accepted us once more.

  “Want to go see the tree?” he asked when the bus dropped us off in the Centre de Ville.

  “Sure.”

  “We may have to climb the fence.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “We can bring it some water.”

  “Or we can go back to the room and make love and fall asleep, and in the morning we can have coffee in the park and say good-bye to the tree and to Pan and to everything else. How does that sound?”

  He kissed me. He lifted me off my feet and kissed me.

  * * *

  After we had made love, we stood naked in the Paris night and watched the light move over the rooftops. We held hands and looked out, unembarrassed, body beside body, the cool air passing over our privates, over our hair and faces and everything else, summer ending ending ending.

  37

  We danced at the Club Marvelous on our last night in Paris. It was an old-style nightclub that Raef had recommended. It could have come directly out of a vintage 1930s Busby Berkeley movie, with cigarette girls roaming—selling chocolates instead of cigarettes—and some men sporting tails. It felt like a masquerade party, with everyone dressed to play at her or his favorite movie period, except that it truly existed in modern-day Paris. A ten-piece orchestra played dance music, and the arrangements were heavy on muted horns and whispery snare drums. We were colossally underdressed, but it didn’t matter. Jack was so powerfully handsome that it sometimes surprised me to turn to him and discover him at my side. He was a Vermont boy, sweet and gentle, his shoulders square, his demeanor open and welcoming. When he danced with me, he held me securely, his right hand flat on my lower back, his left hand holding my hand. He smelled like Old Spice.

  I wore a wrinkled travel dress that I had tried to steam out in the shower. It hadn’t worked. But we made a good-looking couple. We did. I could catch it in the glances we received, in the smiles we captured as we walked back and forth to our tiny table by the left-hand side of the orchestra riser.

  “We’re only drinking martinis,” Jack said after we had danced to a tune I faintly recognized. He held my chair for me and tucked me into the table. “And two exactly. More than two, and we will regret it. Less than two, and we will also regret it.”

  “When did you become such an expert on martinis?”

  “It’s a family curse. We are good at martinis and pepper jack cheese.”

  “Vodka martinis?”

  “No, no, not proper, I’m afraid. You need gin. It’s a dangerous business to drink a gin martini, because gin turns people into savages. Everyone knows that. A vodka martini has no danger. Gin is the way to go.”

  “Olives or onions?”

  “I’ll pretend you didn’t ask that,” he said as the waiter appeared.

  Jack ordered two martins with olives. Then he reached across and held my hand.

  “Last night in Paris,” he said.

  “For now.”

  “Yes, for now. We’ll always have Paris. Shouldn’t one of us say that?”

  “You just did. You should pay a penalty of some sort.”

  “Tomorrow we leave for New York.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think your parents will try to poison me?”

  “They might.”

  “Do you think they will let us sleep in the same bed?”

  I looked at him.

  “Hard to say,” I said. “But it should be interesting.”

  “Do you still have stuffed animals on your bed?”

  “Two. Hopsy and Potato-Joe.”

  “I’d like to meet them.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  The music picked up and played something with more speed. Sitting at an angle, I could sometimes watch the horn players’ spit spray when they hit a hard note. I had never noticed that before.

  The waiter came back with our martinis.

  “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” I asked as he served them. “Stunning and lethal.”

  “Sip them. Don’t drink them too quickly. Now what should we toast to?”

  “I hate toasting.”

  “You do?” he asked. “I would have thought you were a fan.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You’re a sentimental mush.”

  “You should talk.”

  “What do you do, then, if you don’t toast?”

  “We tell each other’s fortunes. You first.”

  He looked at me. He picked up his martini and waited until I had mine in my hand.

  “You will meet a tall, dark stranger,” he said.

  “No, a real prediction. That’s the rule.”

  He smiled.

  “You will be a great, smashing success in New York. You will visit Paris often over the years. And you will own
goats at least twice in your life.”

  We sipped. It tasted like glass if glass melted and surged onto your tongue.

  “Now your turn,” he said.

  “You will also be a great, smashing success in New York, and you will travel to Vermont whenever you have free weekends. And a puppy you dream about will turn into a footstool that will comfort you in your old age.”

  We sipped again.

  “Lean forward,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to look down a woman’s dress as I sipped a martini.”

  “You never have?”

  “Not once.”

  “Why do boys look down girls’ dresses?”

  “Why wouldn’t they? Because it’s fun.”

  “Do you actually want to see nipples, or is that not the object?”

  I felt the martini in just a few sips.

  “Not really the object.”

  “What is the object, then?”

  “To see lingerie, I think. And to peek when you’re not sure she knows it, but she kind of knows it, but she would never admit that she knows it. She has to kind of want to be seen, but not really, but definitely wants to.”

  “Makes perfect sense. The she in that construction meaning just any woman?”

  “The décolletage-er. She has to be in on it for it to be alluring.”

  “I’m learning a great deal tonight,” I said.

  “Lean forward a little more.”

  “Should I look away? How does that work?”

  “You’re letting me look, but not letting me look. That’s the trick.”

  “I think I kind of knew that.”

  I sat straighter and raised my glass. He mirrored me.

  “You will have pinkeye twice in your life,” I said, “and a hamster you own will escape and die underneath your refrigerator.”

  “That’s horrible,” he said and sipped. “And you will develop a love of root beer in later life and take to wearing kilts and matching berets.”

  “I like that look.”

  “Sip,” he said, and I did.

  “Should we dance again?” he asked.

  “Yes, we should.”

  “Do you recognize this song?”

  “No, do you?”

  “No. That’s good. I don’t want us to have some sappy song we always associate with our last night in Paris.”

  “Good point.”

  He came around and held my chair while I stood.

  “I saw down your dress,” he said. “It was very satisfactory.”

  “I’m happy for you.”

  Then we moved onto the dance floor.

  * * *

  It was late, very late, and we were still on the dance floor. I had my head on his shoulder. I felt tired and melted into him. We did not want to go to bed. It was the trick for trans-Atlantic flights. Stay up all night and then drip onto the plane.

  “We’ve been to Paris now,” Jack said. “Some couples, they wait their entire lives and they never get to Paris.”

  “We’ve been to Paris.”

  “We’ve had martinis in Paris.”

  “Two precisely. You were right about that.”

  “Martinis are a science-based drink.”

  “Is it always bad form to have a vodka martini?”

  He nodded.

  “You could have one in Sheboygan, maybe.”

  “Where is Sheboygan? I like saying Sheboygan.”

  “Is it in New York State? No, I think it’s in Wisconsin.”

  “Sheboygan. She-boy-gan. It’s an Indian word, I bet.”

  The music stopped. We didn’t break apart right away.

  “We can’t be the absurd couple that keeps dancing even when the music stops,” Jack said. “It would make me rethink our entire relationship.”

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  He kissed my neck. Then he kissed the top of my head. Then he stopped moving, and we slowly split apart.

  “There,” he said.

  It felt cold without his arms around me. I leaned back into him.

  “If we stay up all night, we’ll sleep on the plane, right?” I said.

  “That’s the plan.”

  “I want to walk and see the city. I want to say good-bye to it.”

  “It’s late,” Jack said. “Maybe a little dangerous.”

  “Find a bar, then. Find a place that’s warm.”

  “Let me ask,” he said.

  He walked over and asked one of the band members where we should go. That band member didn’t seem to know, but another band member, a guitarist, said something, and Jack nodded. When he came back, he put his arm around me and walked me to the table.

  “Not far from here,” he said.

  “Remember when we slept in the stable in Amsterdam?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “I thought you were going to try to seduce me. A roll in the hay, I guess.”

  “I knew just how to play you.”

  “You did, did you?”

  I grabbed my purse and checked the table to make sure I didn’t leave anything. Jack pushed in the chairs. He came and put his arm around me again and started walking me toward the door.

  “That was the first night we slept together. In a haystack in Amsterdam. That’s a good story to tell. We can dine out on that story for quite a while.”

  “That’s an old expression,” Jack said. “Dining out on a story.”

  “What do you think the puppy I included in your toast really means?”

  “I think the puppy symbolizes innocence.”

  “So do I,” I conceded. “And the hope of something pure.”

  “Puppies symbolize sexual perversion,” Jack said. “Freud said as much.”

  “He did not.”

  “Sure he did. You can say that about anything, and no one will know. Freud said as much. Try it.”

  “Men who play clarinets have a phallic obsession. Freud said as much.”

  “See? It works.”

  “Better than it should.”

  We reached the door and pushed through. It was not sunrise, but the sun was in the neighborhood. You could feel it as much as see it. The city felt like a flying carpet, a carpet that possessed magic but lacked the will to get up and move. A few pigeons stepped sideways on their perches on the building window ledges. Jack pulled me closer.

  “You frozen?” he asked.

  “A little.”

  “Why are women always cold?”

  “Because we wear things that boys can look down.”

  “True. And we are grateful.”

  “I always thought you were after nipples. Now it’s not as disturbing.”

  “Freud said as much.”

  “Of course he did. Do you know where you’re going?”

  “Just up here, I think.”

  “My father is going to be a bit standoffish at first. I have to warn you. Then he will lighten up. I promise.”

  “At some point, you have to meet my parents, too, you know?”

  “I know. I want to meet them.”

  “So you say. Wait until you do.”

  “Are they horrible?”

  “Not horrible. Just self-involved, I suppose. I paint them to be worse than they are. It’s part of my self-mythos.”

  “Freud said as much.”

  “It didn’t work just then. I can’t give you that tool if you misuse it.”

  Then he stopped and kissed me. We kissed a long time. It was not chaste, and it was not fully passionate. It was a companionable kiss, as if we had entered a different level, a more comfortable level, in what we meant to each other.

  “Sun’s going to be up soon,” Jack said when we broke apart.

  “I liked dancing with you. I liked the martinis. I liked everything.”

  “We could fall in love this way, you know?” Jack asked.

  “Freud said as much.”

  Jack smiled. Then it was morning.

  38

  “You don’t believe in Bigfoot?” Jack asked on the bus
to the airport, his eyes inspecting me as if I had said something preposterous. “How can you deny science? Bigfoot is pure scientific fact. Haven’t you followed the expeditions that have proven, beyond doubt, that Bigfoot exists and is hanging around the rain forest of Washington State?”

  “Freud said as much.”

  “See? You are using that way too much. That’s an improper use of the Freud card.”

  “I thought you said it always worked.”

  “Not always, Heather. Nothing is always. Nothing in the universe is always. ‘Freud said as much’ is a line that fits in some places but not others. The trick is to know when.”

  “Freud said as much.”

  “See? Again, penalty flag. You’re like a parrot that has learned to say, ‘Polly want a cracker.’ You keep repeating it without any understanding.”

  “Why would a parrot want a cracker, anyway?”

  “You really don’t get this stuff, do you? Sorry, but you’re a little joke deaf. I didn’t know the extent of your disability until now. I apologize if I have been insensitive.”

  He looked at me and put his finger to his lips.

  “Don’t say it,” he warned.

  “Freud said as much.”

  He sighed.

  “Maybe we could get you into a program. Maybe we can get you some kind of joke help. You’re a deserving minority. You are humor impaired.”

  I put my head on his shoulder. I felt sleepy. I felt calm and happy. I didn’t like flying especially, but I liked where flights brought me. It was time to go home. I wanted to see my parents and Mr. Periwinkle, and I wanted to be in one place for more than a night or two. Travel sheds skin, and it takes time at home to grow it back.

  “I have to ask you something else,” he said, sounding more serious. “Are you in the mood to take on something kind of important? It could change our relationship.”

  “What?”

  “Are you?”

  “I guess. Is this a joke?”

  “It’s not a joke, Heather. I need to know your attitude toward air guitar. I need to know if you think playing air guitar is acceptable.”