The False Friend

by Myla Goldberg

  CHAPTER 7

  The sound of the front door carried upstairs and froze Celia’s hands at the keyboard. Her mother’s arrival could only be awkward, their morning encounter tainting the space between them. Family conflicts were less often aired than suffocated, civility heaped upon civility until the trouble was smothered under the accumulated weight of so much decorum.

  “Cee Ceee-ee, I’m ho-ome!”

  The certainty of her mother’s arrival briefly made Warren a stranger. There’s a man here, Celia thought, and then realized it was her father. As a girl, she would have run to his outstretched arms shouting, “Daddy! Daddy!” Relief might have tempted her to do the same now, had she been less familiar with her father’s schedule. He should still have been on campus. From the top of the stairs she saw that his hair, unlike her mother’s, was as thick as it had ever been.

  “Aren’t you early?” she asked.

  “The registrar’s office on a Wednesday afternoon is not a very busy place.” He grinned. “Your mother’s been delayed. We can get takeout or there’s a casserole in the freezer.”

  “Won’t she be home for dinner?”

  Warren shrugged. “She said she wouldn’t be back in time to get it started. What appeals?”

  “Casserole is fine.” Celia examined her father’s face, looking for clues. “Did she sound—okay?”

  “Oh, sure,” he said. “She feels terrible about having to miss out, but I guess there was an incident with one of her students and a conference was arranged at the last minute. She sends her love.”

  He looked away, and that was how Celia knew that her mother had told him everything.

  She was losing her touch: once, she wouldn’t even have needed her father to turn. Life with Huck had impaired her family fluency, dulled her eye for the slight tightening of muscles around the mouth. The subtle cadences of uncertainty, embarrassment, and avoidance had blurred to her unpracticed ear. She and Huck had almost broken up over his obliviousness to such subtle syntax. A certain glance accompanying a “No, nothing’s wrong” meant nothing to him. He was blind to the difference between an obliging and an assenting smile. Huck raised his voice in his defense; he spoke without first weighing his words. According to him, these were perfectly acceptable ways to communicate and not, as Celia had been raised to think, the vocal equivalents of public frontal nudity.

  By the time she joined her father downstairs, he was putting away his coat. They hesitated at hugging distance.

  “So,” he said, patting her shoulder. “What have you been up to?”

  Kissing his cheek, she encountered delicate skin, soft like a dried peach. Celia felt side-swiped by a sign of aging she had not anticipated, her father’s face gone fragile.

  “Mostly searching the Internet,” she said. “Typing in names, seeing if I can find where everyone’s gone.”

  “Any luck?”

  “A little.”

  Warren nodded. “Glad to hear someone’s putting that machine to good use.”

  During a performance audit of a V.A. rehabilitation program, Celia’s team had discovered a cache of fancy new computers that had been left uninstalled, the V.A. staff still relying on ancient, slow contraptions that ran off floppy disks. The guy assigned to teach the new system had moved to California. One of Celia’s biggest challenges was to word her findings in ways that didn’t sound punitive, an exercise in euphemism for which her family life had left her uniquely prepared. New equipment is underutilized, Celia had reported. Personnel would benefit greatly from training and initiative.

  Celia trailed her father into the kitchen, their reflected profiles darkening the portraits on the photo wall like passing clouds. “Lately we’ve been talking about redecorating that room for Daniel,” he said. “A fresh coat of paint, some new curtains, toys on the shelves.”

  Since finding Josie’s mother in the local directory, Celia had been carrying her cell phone in her pocket. Each time she moved her leg she felt the phone shift and thought, Now.

  “Does Mommy stay late often?”

  Her father opened the freezer and retrieved a baking dish opaque with frost. “Not so much, but she never says no. There’s a guidance counselor award the school nominates her for every year. Some sort of national recognition. She’s never won, but just the nomination itself is something, don’t you think?”

  The casserole thudded against the counter, a frozen brick of food. Warren eyed it warily. “I think it’s great the way you and Huck trade off in the kitchen,” he said. “I mean, I’d call your mother and myself pretty modern for our generation, but it’s not like you two, or Jeremy and Pam for that matter. Your brother was so wonderful when Daniel was born—doing the laundry, cooking the meals. Made me realize how useless I’d been to your mother when you two came along.” He flashed the same grin that apologized for speeding tickets and forgotten errands, a smile somehow both contrite and proud.

  “It’s awfully nice,” Celia said, “their offering to come all this way on Saturday, especially with Pam pregnant.” Her brother lived an hour’s drive northwest on Route 79, in a house newer and uglier than their parents’, a modest Cape Cod with vinyl siding that was set back from the road. For the same money, he could have gotten something older and prettier in town but Jeremy had wanted land. Enough trees edged the property to block the sight of the neighboring houses, which were beyond shouting distance on either side. Her brother’s happiness there was the latest in a lifelong series of proofs demonstrating their differences.

  “Well, that’s Jeremy for you,” Warren said. “I sleep easier knowing he’s so close. I never would have figured him for a country mouse, but then again I thought Chicago was just a stage for you, so I guess I’m oh for two.” He shrugged. “The older I get, the less I mind being wrong. As it turns out, life gets a lot more relaxing once you decide you don’t know a damn thing about it.”

  “Daddy, what do you remember about Djuna?” Celia asked.

  Her father’s features retracted like a frightened snail’s, and he turned to busy himself with the casserole and the microwave. Considering that Warren had grown up Catholic-schooled in a family of brothers, he had done an admirable job of fathering a female firstborn, but not even in the terrible months surrounding Jeremy’s detox did he worry for his son with the same grandiloquence. No return trip from Jensenville was complete without his phone call to confirm that Celia had arrived safely in Chicago. Her freshman year had birthed her father’s first bleeding ulcer—his body’s retort to being denied the chance to drive to his daughter’s aid at any moment. Celia hadn’t been informed until his release from the hospital, where he’d gone after vomiting blood. Her will to sound the depths of his anxiety was matched by his capacity for silence.

  “Djuna was a real spitfire,” he said. “She told me once that I should go on business trips. Said you’d love me more if I went away and then came back.” He shook his head. “She was willful, that girl. Once she decided to do something, there wasn’t any stopping her.”

  He lifted his chin and cleared his throat, and Celia realized that whatever he was about to say had been practiced, perhaps even first written down. “You and me, Cee Cee, we’re numbers people. Your brother too.” He gauged Celia’s face for something he didn’t seem to see. “Heck, one of the main reasons I have a hard time thinking about retirement is that work is one of the few places I can be absolutely certain of anything. I mean, there’s always Sudoku but that’s not the same thing, is it?” His brow furrowed. “We’re people who like our lives orderly,” he asserted. “We like to know what we can rely on and what we should toss out. And when you’re told something that goes against almost everything you’ve come to believe about a certain subject, or a certain person—”

  At the sound of the front door swinging open Warren called out, “Norrie?” like a man about to burst into song.

  When Celia’s mother appeared in the kitchen doorway, relief waxed Warren’s face smooth. Differently timed traffic lights or a backup on M
ain Street, and Celia would have been subjected to her mother’s opinion all over again, dressed in her father’s voice.

  “Hello, you two,” Noreen said, as if she’d arrived at a dinner party. “It looks like I lost a bet with myself. I was sure you were going to get Chinese.” She laughed in Celia’s general direction.

  “You’re just in time to join us,” Warren said. “We’re mid-defrost.”

  “Actually,” she chirped, “I’m going to go straight to bed. I was chin-deep in student assessments for five hours and I’m just so tired.”

  “Would you like me to bring you a plate?” Warren asked.

  “No thanks,” she demurred. “I ate a little something on my way home.”

  “I’ll be up soon,” he promised.

  She shrugged. “Whatever you like, dear. I’m sure I’m going to be out the minute my head touches the pillow.” It was seven thirty.

  “Mommy?”

  Her mother had retreated halfway down the hall. “Yes?”

  “Good night,” Celia said, the word hanging between them like a limp sail.

  “Good night, Celia.” For a moment it seemed that someone might say something more, but then no one did.

  CHAPTER 8

  It was waiting for Celia the next morning, the half-familiar name sitting in her in-box in bold type:

  From: Lee Forrest

  To: Celia Durst

  Subject: Re:

  Celia—Of course I remember you. If you’d e-mailed me a few years back, I probably would have deleted your name along with the porno spam. And as much as I believe in second chances, if an envelope with your handwriting had come to me through the regular mail, I guarantee that thing wouldn’t have made it past my front door.

  I went to that people Web site and typed in a bunch of names I haven’t thought of in a while. They were all there waiting for me, which just goes to show that if someone isn’t in touch these days it’s not because they can’t find you. But it doesn’t surprise me that you couldn’t track down Becky. She traded in Rebecca Miller for Rivka Rosentraub about fifteen years back. A lot has changed since she and I were in touch, but I’ve got an old number for her in Scranton that I’m betting is still good. (570) 790-0172. If she answers, tell her I say hello.

  I’m not going to call like you asked and I don’t want you calling me. E-mail is all you’re going to get, so make the best of it.

  —Lee

  When Celia had sent her message into the void, it had felt more séance than summons, her keystrokes so many table rappings to conjure a long-lost voice from the ether. Once her pulse had returned to normal and her grip on the chair had loosened, she read and reread Leanne’s words, searching for echoes of the girl who had trailed their small group like a late-day shadow. Leanne hadn’t worn their clothes, or earned their grades. One day they had arrived to find her at their regular lunch table, already eating. On the second day she was waiting with a four-leaf clover she had sealed up in clear tape, and on the third with an old Wheatback penny. Djuna had accepted each offering as if it was her due, and on the fourth day Leanne handed each of them a perfectly smooth, tumbled stone.

  “Can I join?” she’d asked.

  “Join what?” Djuna replied for them.

  “Your club.”

  Celia was surprised by the word, but Djuna rolled her eyes as if this were a tedious question. “Give one reason we should let you,” she demanded, as if the club were not something Leanne had just called into being.

  Leanne shrugged and looked away. “Because you took my stuff?”

  “So?” Djuna made a gesture that encompassed Leanne’s lank hair, her button-down shirt with the frayed collar, the bell-bottom corduroys that should have been straight-leg, their ridges worn away at the knees. “You’re not like us.”

  “Could you teach me?” Leanne’s voice had gone small.

  With that, they ceased to be girls who happened to swap desserts from their lunch boxes, or who casually maintained tandem perches atop the parallel bars at recess. Leanne’s desire required them to determine what made them desirable. One week they wore colored shoelaces; the next, only white would do. Each day became a new opportunity to demonstrate the value of their company, to prove their facility for cool. If Leanne was tested most often, it was only because she was so willing. Leanne showed them just how far they could go.

  Celia reread the e-mail, and pictured Leanne’s solemn face. When she reached Becky’s name, she stopped. She had imagined Djuna’s disappearance as a scattering explosion. That Leanne had stayed in touch with anyone was surprising enough, but a friendship with Becky seemed as unlikely as the Scranton telephone number. Where Celia had been accustomed to A’s, Becky had expected perfect scores, the freak occurrence of a B-plus once reducing her to tears. Celia would have put Becky Miller somewhere with an identifiable skyline and an international airport. If Leanne’s information was good, Becky was only an hour away. Celia was dizzied by the prospect of two of her quarry within such close reach. She replied to Leanne first to give Becky enough time to get to work, preferring to dial when it seemed most likely she’d reach a machine. She wanted to temper the surprise of her reappearance to guard against scaring her old friend away. A woman’s voice answered on the third ring.

  “Shalom?”

  “Hi, um, I think I have the wrong number.” Celia thought of all the times she picked up the phone in Chicago to be met by a torrent of Spanish. “I’m looking for Rivka Rosentraub?” She began crossing out the number she had written down.

  “Speaking.”

  Celia dropped her pen. “Oh! I’m sorry, is this Becky? I mean are you—were you—Rebecca Miller?”

  There was a pause.

  “Who is this?”

  “Celia Durst? I knew Becky when she was a girl.”

  They had known each other since first grade, when Becky skipped kindergarten and was placed in Celia’s class, but they had not become friends right away. Becky’s friends were ones she chose for herself, their acquisition as deliberate as the cuffs on her pants and the part in her hair. She had tapped Celia in third grade.

  “Celia? Is it really you?”

  Celia heard footsteps through the receiver. Music that had been audible ceased. She remembered an afternoon spent in Becky’s living room, moving unselfconsciously to the more danceable tracks of Free to Be You and Me.

  “Is this Becky Miller?” Celia asked again.

  “Yes, of course! Hello, Celia! Forgive me if I sound startled. This is a bit unexpected.”

  “I’m sorry,” Celia said. “I got your number from Leanne.”

  There was a pause and a sharp inhalation of breath, followed by a long exhale.

  “Did you really?” The voice chuckled. “Yasher ko’ach. How is she? How is Leanne?” It was a matter-of-fact voice, good for relaying driving instructions or bad news.

  “Good!” Celia chirped. “Actually, we didn’t talk or anything. I found her online. She was kind enough to give me your number.”

  “You were looking for me in particular?”

  “No,” Celia said. “I was looking for all of us. I mean—”

  “I know what you mean.”

  Another exhale. The sound of a cigarette being smoked. “How have you been, Celia? It’s been, what—twenty years?”

  Celia detected a rasp, wondered if it came from the cigarettes. It was a sound that bore no relation to her mental image of Becky, a picture hopelessly out-of-date.

  “That’s right,” Celia said. “I live in Chicago now.”

  “So far away. Are you married?”

  “I’m not.”

  “So, no children.” It was not a question. “I have seven. Chaya, my oldest, turned eleven last summer. Seeing her at that age made me think of things I hadn’t thought of in a long time. And now the phone rings.”

  Becky was spared the sight of Celia gaping into the phone.

  “Celia? Are you still there?”

  “Yes. Sorry, Becky. Rivka—”

&nbs
p; “You can call me Becky. Rivka, Rebecca. It’s the same name.”

  “Becky.”

  Seven. Celia was consumed by mental images of The Waltons, a cigarette inserted between Olivia Walton’s fingers. “Um, I know it’s odd hearing from me like this, but I was wondering if we could meet.”

  In the pause that followed, Celia cursed her eagerness, half expected to hear a click followed by silence.

  “Is this some sort of alumni thing?” Becky said. “I’m not really the class reunion type.”

  “No, that’s not it. I’m … I happen to have business in Scranton”—it was too late for Celia to begin again—“and it’d be great … Is there any chance that we could have lunch?”

  “You’re going to be in Scranton?” Becky’s laugh—a low stutter like a child’s imitation of a car engine—was unchanged. Celia’s non-phone hand reflexively rose in greeting, as if she had just spotted her friend across the room.

  “Bashert is bashert: it must be fate. Of course we can meet,” Becky agreed. “Any time is good so long as we can meet after eleven and before one thirty.”

  Celia checked her watch. If she left immediately, she could be there by noon.

  “I can be there anytime after twelve fifteen.”

  “Then let’s meet at Blum’s at one. Do you know the area?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll give you directions.”

  Celia had a fleeting memory of a younger but equally concise voice playing at choreographer inside a living room with green shag carpeting. She remembered a gray velour armchair beside a spindly-legged side table holding a plate of carrots and American cheese singles that the two of them raided in between performances.

  She had just enough time to shower and dress. Her mind was blank as she got herself ready, quieted by the shock of her imminent meeting. As she left the house, her footsteps echoed on the front walk, the street empty, the neighborhood still. Any small delay risked annulling Becky’s substantiation. Noreen’s car had always been the only one Celia and Jeremy were permitted to drive. Warren’s was off-limits even to his wife, their sole unshared possession. During Celia’s junior year at Chicago, Jeremy had totaled the Japanese compact in which Celia had earned her license, a car the color of a ripe banana that Celia had christened the Monkeymobile. The loss of that car, Celia’s first and only stick shift, had affected her more than the death of the family cat. She had never adapted to her mother’s subsequent string of sedate sedans, still found her foot pining for a clutch that wasn’t there.