After the reception we went back and watched The West Wing with my parents, and pretended like we’re fine. But we’re not.
Drew’s voice is barely more than a whisper. “If we’re going to break up over this, I think we at least ought to wait until we’re back in Minneapolis.”
“I don’t want to break up. But I can’t help it if we want different things.” I could be more specific here. I could tell him that I don’t want to stay in Minneapolis for the rest of my life and be by his side while he pursues a political career. I could say that I have plans of my own, and they require some amount of freedom. But the day has been painful enough, why add salt to an already stinging wound?
I inch closer to him, but we’re still not touching. “Let’s just go to sleep. We can talk more tomorrow.”
He silently agrees, and after a while I hear his breathing become slow and steady. Yet I remain wide-awake, unable to quiet my racing mind.
Then my phone, sitting on my nightstand, tings. I have a text message.
“Are you still up?”
The message is from Monty. He went for a walk during the reception today, and wasn’t back before Drew and I left, so I never said goodbye.
I text him back.
“Yes.”
After a moment, he texts me again.
“Can I stop over? I don’t have to come in.”
Against my better judgment, I tell him sure. Drew has always been a heavy sleeper, so it’s easy to sneak downstairs. I find a blanket to wrap around myself, and then I sit outside, on our front steps, and wait. In less than ten minutes Monty drives up and gets out of his car.
“Hi, Lucy.” He’s changed out of his dark shirt and tie. He’s wearing sweat pants and a parka, and a green stocking cap covers his head. He doesn’t look like himself at all.
“Hi.” I pat the space next to me.
He sits down. We don’t talk right away, we don’t touch; we just sit there, in the dark, winter night.
“I wasn’t at my best today,” he says. I nod my head. He argued with Jack, baited Drew, and refused the sympathy of anyone who offered it. But I can’t fault him; I don’t know what it’s like to lose a parent.
“That’s okay.”
He hunches his shoulders. “We never finished our conversation at the reception. You were talking about maybe leaving Minneapolis?”
“That’s not why you’re here, is it? To hear about that?”
Monty shakes his head. “I couldn’t sleep. And the house was so quiet I was going crazy. I’m used to the noise of the Congo.” Monty has been working for the American Bar Association, travelling through some of the rougher parts of Africa and counseling rape victims, with his girlfriend Evelyn. Evelyn is still in Brazzaville, waiting for him to get back.
“Iowa is a world away, huh?”
He nods. “I haven’t been back in over a year. It took my dad having a heart attack to get me to return.”
“I’m sure he understood.”
Monty pulls off his stocking cap, and shakes his head like a dog shrugging off water. “I doubt he did, actually. But it’s nice of you to say that.”
I run my fingers through my own short hair on my own hatless head. I’m finally allowing my curls to show their true nature, but ridiculously I feel self-conscious. He’s never seen me with short hair before today.
“I know he was proud of you, Monty. Jack told me as much.”
“Well, my dad never told me.” He bites his bottom lip, and his chin quivers a little.
“With your degree, you could have worked at some fancy private firm and made a ton of money. Instead you’re out fighting for what you believe in. What parent wouldn’t be proud?”
“He didn’t see it like that.” Monty attempts a smile, but it looks more like a grimace.
Slowly, carefully, I move close enough that my knee can rest against his. “I wish there was something I could do for you, Monty.”
He uses his cap to cover his face. His breathing becomes rough and labored. I put my hand on his back and rub it in broad strokes.
He lowers his cap from his face. “There is, actually. I probably have no right to ask you for anything, but it’s about Jack.”
“What is it?” I say softly.
“I’m worried about him.” Monty fiddles with the cap, stretching it, and keeps his focus on that rather than looking at me. “He and my dad were so close. They talked to each other all the time, saw each other at least once a week. I’m not saying I’m not sad, but it’s different for me. My life will go on pretty much as it has been, but Jack’s won’t.”
He looks up, off into the distance, and he wipes his face with the sleeve of his coat. “I feel like such a tool. Dad would be furious, if he knew I was going back. He’d want me to stay around, and be here for my mom and Jack. But I can’t. My life is over there right now…”
I place my hand on the back of his neck, cold skin against cold skin, and he drops his head down, hanging it like a child who’s been scolded.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be here. I …” His voice trails off, and is replaced by a strangled-sounding sob.
But he doesn’t break down. After a moment he straightens himself up, and says again, “I really shouldn’t be here. Your boyfriend might get the wrong idea.”
If Monty was in any way wrong about that, I’d argue the point. But I can’t. There is nothing Drew could accuse me of right now that wouldn’t be at least partially true.
“Are you going to be okay?” I ask.
Even in the dark I can see more tears brimming from his eyes. If our situations were different I’d wipe them away. As it is, all I can offer him is the edge of my blanket so he can wipe them away himself.
“I’ll survive.” He takes the blanket to wipe his face, then he pats my shoulder.
“Thanks for meeting me out here.”
“I can stay a little longer, if you want.”
He gets up. “You should go back in, before Drew misses you.”
I stand up, and capture him in a hug. At first he resists, but then I feel his body relax, and his chest heaves with a deep sigh.
I speak as I continue to hold him, and my mouth is pressed up against his neck. “I’ll check in with Jack at least once a week. I promise, okay?”
“Thank you.” Monty whispers into my ear.
“Take care of yourself, Monty. Be careful.”
He releases me. “I will.” He leans in and kisses me on the forehead, and his lips linger there. It makes me remember what it’s like to be kissed by him in a less innocent sort of way. “You take care of yourself, too. And for what it’s worth, I think you’re wasting your talents if you don’t go back to school. You were born to be a professor.”
I raise my eyebrows in question.
“Jack told me after my walk,” Monty says. “You’re applying to grad schools so you can teach. It makes sense to me.”
I hug my arms around my chest. “Drew is pretty upset. I don’t know what’s going to happen.”
“Sorry.” Monty reaches for me again, but I step back a little, and his arm falls to his side. I know how good it would feel, to embrace him again. I’m still warm and tingly from a minute ago.
I can read the understanding on his face. He nods, smiles, and walks toward his car.
Wordlessly, he gets in, and I stand there, alone, as he drives off.
Chapter 10. August 2003
Jack hands me the menu.
“Study it,” he says. “And feel free to sample stuff when you have the chance. You should be as familiar with the food as possible.”
“Does that mean I can take bites off customers’ plates?”
“Very funny.” He swats my arm. “It means I can fire you at any moment, so you’d better get used to calling me boss.”
“That will never happen,” I tease. “What if I call you ‘Sir’ instead?”
He smirks. “I suppose that could work.”
He gestures towards the bar. “Let me show you the bas
ics here, so you can do simple drinks, like wine and sodas.”
We move behind the heavy, wooden bar, and he points out where all the glasses are kept, and the different varieties of beer that are offered. I try to focus, but my mind starts to wander.
Jack snaps his fingers in my face. “You have that glazed-over look again. Am I boring you?”
“Sorry. No, of course not.” I exhale and square my shoulders. “I’m listening, really.”
Jack’s expression softens, and his voice turns sympathetic. “Have you talked to Drew lately?”
I shake my head no. “There’s nothing to say.”
He leans against the inside rim of the bar. “I thought you loved him.”
“I did. But we want different things. So it was time to end it and move on.” I scan the room, Jack’s restaurant, my new place of employment. “And I really appreciate this, Jack. Working and earning tips will help a lot with all my student loans.”
He nods. “Graduate degrees don’t come cheap.”
I reply with a sarcastic little laugh. “Tell me about it. Even when you’re living at home and going to Iowa State, with instate tuition and grant money, the degree still doesn’t come cheap.”
“I know this is a big change for you, Lucy. But I, for one, am glad you’re back.” Jack’s smile warms my heart a little, which is good, because it’s been kind of chilly in there lately.
I give his arm a friendly squeeze. “We should keep going, before the evening rush starts. I need to know all about everything.”
“Of course you do,” he says.
We continue with my orientation, and I push away all my regrets. At least, that is, I try to.
Chapter 11. 2004: George W. Bush vs. John Kerry
Thursday, October 28
The Iowa wind is cold against my face and my cheeks are stinging. Yet I still hesitate and slow my pace, although I should be walking fast. I am late for my undergrad 20th Century Politics course, where as a T.A. it’s my job to review the lecture notes from the previous session. I feel my lunch fighting its digestion in the depths of my stomach, and I slow for a minute to try and catch my breath The review session is often abused by students who did not make it to class the previous time, and they can get kind of snippy when I “rush” through things. But I have a whole hour’s worth of lecture notes to go over in the space of ten minutes, so it’s not like I have a lot of choice. Still, when I catch the eye rolls, sucked lips and belligerent exhales it’s hard not to take it personally.
I pass the Iowa State campus library, and I envy the kids entering it. They’re probably grabbing an hour to study, and I’d give anything for an extra hour a day to do just that. Lately I’ve been stretched so thin that I may as well be Mary-Kate Olsen.
I guess I’m still having trouble with the major transition my life is going through. Around sixteen months ago my life in Minneapolis contained Drew, my close-to-perfect boyfriend who wanted me by his side as he ran for Minnesota Senate, a fulltime job with the Minneapolis Neighborhood Association, and my own apartment. But I gave it all up so I could be lonely and work two supposedly part-time jobs to make ends meet while I pursue my graduate degree in political science. Did I mention that I’m also now living with my parents?
So yeah, I’d say I’m pretty balanced. That is, if you’re measuring a balance between adulthood and renewed adolescence.
I’m sprinting up the steps of the building where my class is being held, and I pass a guy who is tall like Drew, and he has the same short haircut, same clean-cut appeal. For the millionth time I wonder if I made the right decision. Why did I give up everything, including love, to go after something as unstable as an education?
“You’re actually leaving?” Drew said this to me, months ago, when our inevitable breakup finally began to sink in.
I blinked back tears and nodded my head. “I want to teach,” I told him. “I need to follow my own dreams, which means I can’t help you follow yours.”
He grimaced and his nostrils flared. “You sound like an after-school special, Lucy.”
We talked and talked, but he couldn’t understand why getting my degree in Minnesota wasn’t a possibility. Why did I have to leave town? It was like I was going backwards.
I couldn’t disagree. I also couldn’t tell him that while I loved him, I doubted I loved him enough to be a politician’s wife. They’re always so polished, and they smile and nod their heads but they never get to say what they really think. If I told him that, I’d be making him choose between politics and me. I couldn’t do that to him, and I didn’t want to know what choice he would make.
Now I concentrate on my breathing as I stride down the hall towards my classroom. I open the door and there’s a lecture hall full of undergrads waiting for me. I can feel their antagonism as I make my way to the podium, but I pretend like everything is roses and sunshine. Maybe then they won’t smell my fear.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say. “It’s been a crazy day.”
“Two more minutes and we would have left,” says a skinny girl with lots of eyeliner, sitting towards the back. “That’s the rule. If you’re ten minutes late, we get to leave.”
“Right,” I say drily. “Well I’m glad I caught you before that happened.”
There’s murmuring, shuffling, and the white noise of people sifting through their backpacks and clicking open their pens. I hear someone say, “Why couldn’t she have waited two more minutes?”
I square my shoulders and speak up. “Okay! So last time we were discussing the effects of globalization after the Second World War. Let’s review.”
“Just don’t go so fast this time, ‘k?” The eyeliner girl’s friend says this. She has on a super tight sweatshirt with the collar cut off so her cleavage can show. I never dressed like her, even when I was her age. Maybe if I had, she wouldn’t intimidate me now.
I nod my head and launch into the lesson.
Class ends up going better than usual. The professor was late too, and after reviewing the notes, one of the more engaged students asked a question.
“Do you think Truman, with his nuclear capabilities, should be considered our first modern-era president?”
I thought for a moment.
“That’s complicated. Obviously the facts about his presidency aren’t going to change, but our concept of what ‘modern’ is will. Truman wasn’t prepared to be president.” I gripped the edges of my podium and continued. “Yet he was faced with ending one war, entering another, and navigating a new age. All that, and his wife wouldn’t live with him in the White House. The guy was challenged.”
This piqued their interest: Why wouldn’t his wife live with him?
I have theories, but no real answer. Sometimes, love isn’t enough. I could give my students all sorts of real-life examples to demonstrate the point, but on that, they need to learn for themselves.
I walk back to my car, hugging my thick, green fisherman sweater around me for warmth. It has been mild all month for October, but this afternoon the weather has turned and the wind is picking up. Leaves are blowing around in circles. It’s like every movie that’s set on a college campus in the fall. Isn’t it always fall when you’re in college?
This isn’t just any fall, though. In less than a week we’ll be electing a president, and that obviously happens only once every four years. In my mind this is a unique opportunity to correct the mistake made in 2000, when Bush became president despite losing the popular vote and the questionable counting methods in Florida. I don’t care what anyone says; I still believe Gore won Florida, and if we had counted all the over and under votes, the history books would need to be rewritten. However, history is as much about peoples’ perceptions of what happened as it is about actual events. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my thirty-three years, it’s that changing public opinion is about as easy as traveling back in time to change what happened. I really wish I could do either.
It’s Thursday, which means I need to drive to Des Moines a
nd work an evening shift at Jack’s restaurant. Afterwards, I will drive to my parents’ home. I’ll stay with them for several days, working weekend waitressing shifts and studying/researching in between. On Sunday afternoon I’ll pack my clean laundry into my 1993 second-hand Saturn, and drive forty minutes back to Ames, where I share an apartment with a biology graduate student from Somalia.
It’s twenty minutes to five when I get to Jack’s, which means I’m actually a little early. He’s sitting at the bar, going over the night’s specials, his cell phone pushed to the side. I can tell instantly something is wrong. Emotions hang off Jack like soggy towels: heavy and no longer useful. Unless, of course, he’s in a good mood. That’s more often the case, and then he smiles so much you either want to punch him or give in and smile back.
I pull up a stool and sit next to him. He looks up from his menu.
“Oh, hey Lucy,” he says in a flattened voice.
“What’s up?”
He thinks for a moment and his eyes travel over his phone.
“I just tried calling Monty again. I haven’t heard from him in so long, and he hasn’t returned any of my calls or emails.” He sighs. “Mom is really worried.”
The last time I saw Monty was on the night of his dad’s funeral, when he was so sad and conflicted. Shortly after, Monty returned to Brazzaville, back to his job and his girlfriend. Since then Jack has tried to keep his family connected, and inevitably feels despondent when his efforts don’t pan out.
I shift in my chair and pick at one of my cuticles. “That’s not so unusual, is it? Haven’t you gone a long time before, not hearing from him?”
Jack shakes his head. “Not this long. And the last time we did speak he said he was feeling off. Makes me worried.”
I bite my lip. Jack still doesn’t know about what happened between Monty and me, but that’s not the only reason I don’t want my concern to show.
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