“Wouldn’t Evelyn let you know if something was wrong?”
Jack shrugs his shoulders, grabs his cell phone, and hops off the bar stool. “I doubt it. She always struck me as pretty selfish.”
With that Jack walks off toward the kitchen. Can a woman who is helping African rape victims actually be selfish? I hope so. It may be petty of me, but I’d rather the woman Monty’s with be beneath him. If she’s perfect, then there’s no chance he’ll ever leave her.
I shake my head and force myself out of my reverie. Come on, Lucy. Get real. Move on.
It’s been years, and we both did move on to other relationships. And my relationship with Drew is over. Now, as my peers are getting married, having kids, and settling into careers, I’m living the life of a teenager. Lately for fun I read and reread all five of the Harry Potter books. I even have a great idea for a bonus lecture to give at the end of the semester, about the connections between Osama Bin Laden and Voldemort, Al Qaeda and the Death Eaters, and the destructiveness of denial in a post 9/11 world.
If I’m lonely, I have only myself to blame.
I sigh and look around the room. A distraction right about now would be welcome. I turn my attention towards the television above the bar. It is turned on, and John Kerry is speaking to a crowd. Even in shirtsleeves he looks wooden and stiff. If I had to pick between John Kerry and Harry Potter, I’d pick Harry Potter every time.
John Kerry was not my first choice for the Democratic nominee. I actually volunteered for the Howard Dean campaign. I made phone calls and organized meetings. It was all going fairly well until he made some gaffes, had a contentious interview on Meet the Press, and the Republicans started insisting he was their choice to go against Bush in the general election, because they were sure he’d lose. So John Kerry became our nominee, and that has presented its own set of challenges.
And I’m tired of feeling challenged.
I grab my purse off the top of the bar. Jack lets me keep it in his office while I work, but before I bring it back I take out my cell phone, just to make sure I have no messages.
Of course, I don’t. The only messages I ever get are from telemarketers. Feeling defeated, I drop off my purse, grab my waitress apron, and start working. The signs of an evening rush are apparent, and soon I have a handful of tables. I smile, hand out menus, and take orders.
My evening goes by in fits and starts. We’re slow, then we’re busy. Jack is smiling and joking with the wait staff, and then he’s scowling in a corner, talking on his cell phone. I recite the specials to my customers, move in a way that tries to be both efficient and invisible, and count my tips as guests at each table finish their meal and exit into the night.
Sometime after 8:30 a couple comes in and sits in my section. The guy has dark hair with hints of grey. I fetch two glasses of water and head over to their table.
“Good evening,” I say. “How are you tonight?”
They mumble they’re okay, and I ask them if they’re interested in hearing the specials. The woman says yes, so I launch into my description of baked red trout with parsley pesto, but I’m interrupted.
“Lucy?”
I look into his eyes. My knees feel weak and my throat goes dry. My eyes pan down, and I notice for the first time that he is sitting in a wheel chair. The visceral response I had when he said my name and met his eyes wasn’t unfounded. It’s him.
“Reggie,” I say, in little more than a whisper.
“Wow, I didn’t know you were still in town.” He turns to his date, who must also be his wife, because they’re both wearing rings. “Babe, this is Lucy. We went to high school together.”
She smiles, and there are crinkles around her eyes that make her seem genuine and friendly. “You and Reggie were friends?”
I open my mouth to answer, but no words come out.
“We used to argue all the time in civics class, didn’t we, Lucy?”
I bite my lip. How can he sound so casual and easy? Does he not remember spitting in my face, while some anonymous friend of his held me captive? I can still hear the ugly words he said to me; they ring in my ears when I’m feeling particularly bad about myself or the world, and every so often he torments me in my dreams.
Reggie continues on as if I’d answered him. “Are you still attached to losing candidates, Lucy? I suppose you like Kerry.”
I find my voice. “I actually wanted Howard Dean.”
“Howard Dean? The screamer?”
Reggie is referring to what happened on the night of the Iowa primary.
Dean, who had been the front-runner for months, came in third. He was trying to raise the spirits of his supporters and give a rousing speech. Unfortunately he had a cold, so his voice was horse and his face was red. There was also a problem with his microphone, and he had to yell really loud.
“I was there for his speech,” I tell Reggie. “I was actually in the audience, and there was nothing weird about it.”
Reggie laughs like I’ve said something hilarious. “The guy went crazy on national television. It was classic.” Then Reggie tries to imitate the scream, which borders on a yelp. “Yehawwworrr!” His wife laughs, but the volume in the restaurant is loud enough that people barely pause and look over at us.
I push down my indignation and speak rationally. “If CNN hadn’t run and rerun that moment over 400 times in the hours after it happened…”
“So the liberal media had it out for Howard Dean? Come on, Lucy. It was a story. They were doing their job.” Reggie leans back in his wheel chair, satisfied.
“They labeled it the ‘I have a scream’ speech. It’s all anyone will ever remember about him. Later on, CNN even admitted they overdid the coverage.”
“Whatever. Now you have Kerry, which is better for you. Dean never would have won. At least Kerry has a chance.”
I wonder if that’s true. Ever since Kerry was “swift-boated” and his service in the Vietnam War was tarnished as a result, things have been shaky. But I feign confidence.
“He’ll do,” I say. “I’m sure he’ll be a much better president than Bush was.”
Reggie laughs again and gives me this fakey finger-point gesture, like I’m on fire or something. “It’s nice to see you. Funny, I never would have pegged you to be a waitress fifteen years after graduation, but if you’re happy, then good for you.”
I bite my tongue to keep from saying something snarky. I can’t let myself get emotional while working at Jack’s restaurant. So I swallow the bile that rises in my throat, and ask them if they’re ready to order.
Afterwards I make my exit to the kitchen, where I lean against a wall to catch my breath. I’ll admit, there have been times when I’ve fantasized about telling Reggie off and putting him in his place, even after so long, even after the bad hand life has dealt him.
But is it so bad? Maybe he’s fine, better off then me. At least he’s married, and maybe they have kids. Who knows what he does for a living, but it’s probably better than waitressing.
How must I look to him – no ring on my finger, working here, and still unable to stand up for myself? I’m sure he thinks I’m as pathetic as I was back in high school. It’s like I’ve made no progress at all.
The kitchen door opens, and Petra walks through it. “Hey, Lucy,” she says. “Have you seen Jack?”
“Not for twenty minutes or so,” I tell her. She doesn’t come by the restaurant too often. Over the years Petra and Jack have had their ups and downs, but they always manage to scrape by. Lately though, Jack has told me it can be a strain on their marriage that he’s always gone at night. Maybe she’s come by to spend more time with him. “Do you want me to check his office in the back?”
“That’s okay,” she says. “I’ll check.”
She walks back to Jack’s office, and I leave the kitchen and enter the bathroom. I don’t have to pee or anything, I just need to splash some water on my face. The cold feels like relief against my flushed cheeks, and for a moment I’m suspended,
eyes closed, feeling and hearing the sound of that splash. Splashes have always been one of my favorite sounds; I can’t think of anything more pure than the chime of water moving against itself.
Then I hear a toilet flush, and my moment is over. I stand up straight and look in the mirror, smooth my hair, dry my face, and attempt to make myself presentable. Of course, of course it’s Reggie’s wife who exits through the stall.
She stands at the sink next to me, washing her hands. “Reggie is so pleased to see you. He always gets such a kick out of running into people from high school."
“Really?” I don’t attempt to keep the shock and doubt out of my voice.
“Sure. He had a great time in high school; at least that’s what he always told me. We’ve only been together for a year and a couple of months. It was sort of whirl-wind romance, you know?” She giggles, and I can’t hate her. It would make it easier if I could. But there’s nothing in her face that reads as cynicism, she just hasn’t noticed the reality of whom she’s married to.
“Did he ever mention me to you?”
She shakes her head and grins conspiratorially. “No. Why? Did you used to date?”
“Uhm, no.”
She smiles at herself in the mirror and primps her hair. It’s blonde and straight, cut in a pixie cut, which compliments her face with its teeny little nose. Maybe I do hate her. “I wouldn’t be bothered if you had. I know he was with a lot of women, especially before the wheel chair, but then after too.” She looks away from her reflection, steps towards me, and lowers her voice to a near whisper, even though we’re the only two people in the bathroom. “The important parts still function down there, you know.” She raises her voice back to its original tone, and stands up a little straighter. “It’s amazing really. Like he just decided that being handicapped wasn’t going to define him, or get him down.” She grabs a paper towel and wipes her hands. “He’s really extraordinary. The best thing that ever happened to me.” She throws her paper towel away and exits the bathroom.
Reggie Hanson is extraordinary? I refuse to accept it, because if he is, what does that make me? I look in the mirror and I see a thirty-three-year-old with frizzy hair, a splotchy face, and no sense of direction. Maybe I’ve been living in denial for the last fifteen years. And for the second time today, I know I have a job to do, but I have to force myself to go do it.
Minutes later I bring Reggie and his wife their meals. “Can I get you anything else?” I ask.
“I think we’re good,” Reggie says. He looks up at me and he winks.
As I walk away from him, I contemplate the amount of time I’ll likely be analyzing this wink. Is it for real? Does he actually like me now? Does he not remember the hell he put me through? Is he a changed man, or is this an act, an attempt in keeping his wife committed to the belief that he’s a good guy?
I could say something. I could accuse him, right here, right now, of all the awful things he did to me. I could throw his plate of food in his face, cause a scene, and give him everything he deserves, but I don’t. I’m better than that; I’ve moved on and it would serve no purpose. Yet part of me knows that I just don’t want to be the lady who attacks a guy in a wheel chair.
I’m also incapable of playing dirty. Why can’t I be less than what I am?
Suddenly I feel the tears build up behind my eyes, and I know the floodgates are dangerously close to opening. Not here. Not now. No, instead I rush to the office. I’m going to grab my purse. I’m going to find my cell phone, and I’m going to call Drew and tell him I was wrong. I’ll say: Take me back. I’m tired of trying too hard. Let’s attempt this again, and now I promise to want you enough.
But when I enter the office I don’t grab my purse because before I can, I see Jack and Petra, locked in an embrace. She has her hands on his head, stroking his hair. He is wrapped around her middle, one hand resting on her belly. Then he kisses her there. Like he’s kissing their future.
Huh. So Petra’s pregnant. They’ve been trying for a while. Jack has wanted kids so much, and Petra finally decided she was ready.
To interrupt this private moment between them would be criminal. I back away, and I go finish my evening of waiting tables.
Later, Reggie and his wife are by the exit. I pretend not to see them wave at me, but they’re not picking up on my social cues.
“Lucy, hey, Lucy!” It’s cleared out and quieted down in the restaurant, and everyone can hear Reggie call my name. I have no choice but to go over.
“Did you need something?” I’m standing over him, but he’s not at a table now, and the chair seems like a bigger deal, as if one of us should be apologizing for it.
“No,” he says. Then he pauses, and for a moment I’m worried he is going to launch into an apology, only it will be for all the dark, ugly moments that have passed between us, ones that were surely all his fault yet still I feel responsible for them, too. And I know that the last thing I want to give him is a chance to say he’s sorry.
“Well, it was great seeing you Reggie. Try not to be too disappointed when Bush is sent packing next week.”
“Yeah, I don’t think that will be a problem.” Reggie gives me a false little smile, and holds out his hand, like he wants to shake.
Maybe I can’t be less than I am, but I also have no desire, in this moment, to be anything more. I hold up my hands as if I’m being arrested. “Company policy,” I say. “No shaking hands with customers. It’s about hygiene.”
Without a smile, wink, or a nod, I turn on my heel and walk away from Reggie. This time I’m ready to move on.
Thursday, November 4th
Back in Ames, and my lecture today isn’t even related to the class notes I was supposed to present. Before I can start, some kid with a loud voice and thick glasses demands we talk about voter fraud in Ohio. I try to steer clear, but to no avail.
She’s practically shouting. “Are you even aware of the voter suppression and the screwed up punch-card ballots? It’s like Florida all over again! Why doesn’t anyone seem to care?”
I look at her and see myself. So really, the only answer I can give is an honest one. “We’re just too beaten down from losing.”
Not surprisingly, my response doesn’t satisfy her. In fact, it only incites her and her friends. They yell at me as if I’m somehow responsible for Bush’s win. Maybe I am. Maybe we all are. After what happened four years ago, how could we not see this coming?
“Consider all the ways that we as humans divide ourselves,” I tell them. “One significant way is in how we fight. There are the people who will win at any cost, there are those who would rather lose than get their hands dirty, and then there are the people who refuse to fight at all.”
It’s like talking to deaf ears. I guess that like love, lessons about fighting must be self-taught.
After class I’m walking towards my car, kicking soggy leaves with the toe of my Ugg Boots. Soggy leaves don’t travel very far, no matter how hard you kick them. I sigh in defeat. Perhaps I share a problem with many of the candidates I support, because I still don’t know where I fit in. I hate fighting but I love winning; I’ll get my hands dirty, but only if the other guy does so first. But now that all the options have been sucked away, what’s left? How do you move on when you’re wedged in place?
I ask myself this every time I reach for the phone to call Drew but push it away instead. I don’t know if I’m being more than what I am, or less, but I’m desperate to feel like “me” again.
I reach my car, drive to Jack’s restaurant, and prepare for another evening of waiting tables. More than once this week I’ve wanted to talk to Monty. He’d have something to say about the recent election, and no matter what the circumstances, he would want to stay in the fight.
I push through the heavy doors and step inside the dark restaurant that always smells of garlic and beer. Jack isn’t up front, so I look for him back in the office. He’s sitting at his desk, but when I approach I see that instead of working, he’s goof
ing around on MySpace. When he looks up at me with a smile, I skip saying hello.
“Have you heard from Monty?”
His face falls. “He has malaria.”
My stomach drops at least a foot. “What?”
“Evelyn finally called me. She said they’ve got him in a hospital, and not to come. With Petra pregnant, I don’t think I should. Who knows what I’d expose her to, once I’m back. So I guess I’ll just have to trust Evelyn to handle it.”
I scuff my toe against the floor and struggle for a response. What can I say? It’s hard to stay in the fight when the wind has been knocked out of you. “Keep me posted, okay? And let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
Jack gets up and grips my shoulder. “Thanks, Lucy. You’re such a good friend.”
He walks off, and I’m left where I was a week ago, desperate for another distraction. But with the promise of status quo for several more years, I feel like nothing will ever change. At least, not the way I want it to.
Chapter 12. November 2007
I settle into my office chair and turn my computer on. It’s Monday morning, and I’m sure I’ll be greeted with a ton of student emails, all asking for extensions. It’s always like this when an assignment is due. I call up my email and brace myself for the onslaught of begging.
I’m not wrong; there are a lot of emails from students. But one email stands out, and I read it first. It’s from [email protected], and the subject line is “Do You Still Hate Cokie Roberts?”
I click it open and read.
Lucy, it’s been a long time. I’m back in the U.S. for good, and I thought of you this morning when Cokie Roberts was doing commentary on “This Week.” I never set it up so you could punch her in the face. Probably that opportunity has passed, but I still just wanted to say hi. Hope you’re well.
-Monty
I laugh, and decide not to over-think my response. I type it out quickly, so I won’t change my mind and not send anything at all.
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