November Surprise

by Laurel Osterkamp

  “I didn’t think it was relevant.” He sits on the edge of my couch, and places his beer bottle on my coffee table. I should sit too, so that we’re on the same level, but I can’t. I have to pace.

  “It wasn’t relevant?” I yell. “You were going to have a family, with her. Now you’re going to have a family with me. But it’s not relevant?”

  He raises his arms up in exasperation. “Evelyn and I had been together for years. We were deliberately making a choice, but it never happened. It’s completely different from my situation with you.”

  “Really? How so?”

  “I think you already know the answer to that.”

  “Explain it to me anyway, Monty. Pretend that I’m really dim.”

  He exhales through his nose and his nostrils flare. “You and I have been dating a short amount of time, and we don’t even tell people that we’re together. You insist on taking things slow. Then you get pregnant, which wasn’t what we planned, and it wasn’t my choice. And every time I try to have a serious talk with you about where we’re headed, you deflect. But…” he pauses and he looks like he wants to say more. Is he afraid? What is he thinking that he shouldn’t say? Monty shrugs his shoulders like he’s given in. “But now we’re dealing with it,” he declares, the same way he would if we were “dealing” with a serious illness or the aftermath of a natural disaster.

  I feel like I’ve been smacked. I turn away from him so he can’t see my reaction, but he gets up and walks toward me. He puts his arm on my shoulder. I flinch underneath his touch and swat him away.

  “’Dealing with it’ was a poor choice of words,” he says. “I just meant that we haven’t had a lot of time.”

  I turn around to face him. “I was afraid I was your second choice. Turns out I’m not even your choice at all.”

  “Lucy, I didn’t mean it that way.”

  I wipe my face with my sleeve and try to hold myself together. “I think you should go.”

  “Come on. We should talk this through.”

  I say nothing in response. Instead I grab his rain jacket, hand it to him, and walk over to the door. I hold it open and wait for him to leave.

  He stands in his spot. “We’re obviously both upset. Let’s just discuss it and try to find some common ground, okay?”

  “Don’t talk to me like I’m a client you’re mediating with.”

  He taps his fingers against his leg and looks off into the distance. For a moment I think he’s going to burst out with some emotion he hasn’t allowed himself yet, but he retracts instead. With careful control he says, “Fine. Have it your way then.” He walks toward my door. Before he exits he pauses one more time, and says to me, “But this is exactly what I meant. You refuse to really talk about anything.” He blinks a couple of times, and then he puts on his jacket, pulling the sleeves down slowly, with precision. “Call me when you’re ready to discuss this.” Then he leaves, walking through my door without looking back.

  Entrances are important. They dictate how people think and feel about you. If your entrance is strong, your exit may be a long-time coming. Sarah Palin’s entrance was nothing if not noticeable. At first nobody knew who she was, but once she exceeded expectations with her convention speech, that most definitely changed.

  I was worried when she caused McCain’s poll numbers to shoot up. But last week she had this disastrous interview with Charles Gibson, where she claimed that living in close proximity to Russia makes her an expert on foreign policy. Now, even as Republicans are crying foul at any sort of attack made towards her, some are actually calling for her to be dropped from the ticket. They say McCain chose her on gut instinct, and that his gut was wrong.

  I’m happy about this, but on another level, it makes me sick to my stomach. This partnership was an important decision for McCain. He went with his instincts, and initially he really thought he had got it right. How can something that seems so good at first, be so easily broken?

  Several days go by and I don’t call Monty and he doesn’t call me. I guess no matter what my instincts were telling me, on him they were wrong. I refuse to back down or fall apart. I just carry on with my week, starting a new semester and doing all my normal errands. If an emotion threatens to sneak its way inside and overwhelm me, I quickly push it away. After all, I tell myself, it’s better this way. It’s better to know now that we were never going to last. Having a child together will be hard, but there are still several months before we really need to worry about it. We’ll figure something out. In the meantime, I’ll plan my seminar on the power of social protest from the 1960s to present time. It will be the second time I’m teaching it, and I have a lot of ideas for new material.

  On Thursday evening I’m wading through articles about Martin Luther King when there’s a knock on my door. I try to calm my racing pulse. It’s not him, I tell myself. He’d call first. Don’t get too excited.

  I open the door and discover I’m right. It’s not Monty. It’s Jack.

  “You ruined my surprise.”

  “Sorry,” I say with a deflated sigh.

  “You ought to be.” He comes inside and plops down on my couch like he’s been here dozens of times before. “There are so many things you should be apologizing for right now, it’s hard to know where to begin.”

  I sit across from him and nod my head. “I really am sorry,” I whisper.

  “For what, exactly? Lying to me for years? Breaking your promise? Devastating my brother?”

  I sniff and look at him. His face is a little more lined than it was the last time I saw it, and his hair is combed forward, like he’s hiding a receding hairline. But he’s still Jack; he’s still the guy who saw me for the person I am when nobody else did.

  I can’t answer. All the emotion I’ve kept repressed for the last few days builds, and it erupts in a burst of tears. “Please don’t hate me.”

  “Lucy. Of course I don’t hate you. But I don’t understand why you kept dating him a secret, especially since it was, like, the Mesozoic era when we were together.”

  I wish I could answer, but I just sit there and cry uncontrollably. After a moment Jack gets up, and pulls me gently over to the couch, so we’re sitting side by side.

  “I’m in love with him,” I tell Jack. “And it’s so much worse than it ever was with Drew.”

  “Why does being in love have to be bad?”

  “You tell me.” I wipe my wet face with both hands. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I know I’m being pathetic. Just give me a minute, and I’ll calm down.”

  “I don’t want you to calm down.”

  I sniff loudly and grab a Kleenex from the box on my side table. “Well, I want to calm down. I hate being like this.”

  Jack shakes his head. “Poor Lucy. Always needs to be in control.”

  I do a double take. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that in all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never let yourself get hurt.” He softly rubs my shoulder as he speaks. “You just don’t take risks that way.”

  I open my mouth to defend myself, but no words come to mind. All I can come up with is, “I don’t like taking risks.”

  “And that’s your choice,” Jack says. “So I never said anything. But now I have to, because Monty’s involved.”

  Just hearing his name makes my heart do a cartwheel. I drop my chin and bat away a stray tear. “Monty’s fine. He said himself that being with me wasn’t his choice.”

  Jack shakes his head. “No he didn’t.”

  “You weren’t there. I know what he said. He’s still in love with Evelyn. He was only with me because he felt obligated.” The tears start streaming out again. Damn it. I grab another tissue and then a couple more. “It’s like putting lipstick on a pig. Monty can pretend I’m more than a casual fling that got way out of control, but it doesn’t change his feelings about me.”

  “Lucy, that’s just not true. I may not have been there, but you misinterpreted his words. I’m sure of it.”
/>   I ball my tissues into my fist and take deep breaths. I have to force myself back into control. Nonetheless, I need to ask. “How do you know?”

  “Because,” Jack sighs deeply, “Monty told me.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That this has been going for years. That he always liked you, even when you and I were dating. Years ago, you came for dinner and lectured my parents about the evils of Reagan’s trickle-down economics, and he thought you were really cute and interesting. That was when his feelings for you began. But he wasn’t going to do anything about it because we were together.”

  I swallow back my disbelief. How can this be? “What else did he say?” I ask.

  Jack shakes his head. “I’m not here to speak for him. You’ll have to ask him if you want to know.”

  “I can’t.”

  Jack stares at his hands, which are now placed quietly in his lap. “You can. You just don’t want to.”

  Suddenly my defenses go up. It’s easy for Jack to sit here and think he knows everything, but he’s only heard one side of the story. “Did Monty tell you that he was planning to marry Evelyn!? And have kids with her!?”

  “That was years ago now.”

  “But he’s still not over it. He’s been carrying it around like old baggage that he can’t even talk about. And I’m supposed to reach out to him?”

  With an even breath, Jack responds. “You both have baggage that you’re not talking about. Can’t you be the bigger person?”

  “I don’t have baggage.”

  “Of course you do! Everybody does!”

  I say nothing. It doesn’t even merit a reaction.

  “I know you as well as anyone, Lucy. So I think I’m allowed to say this. You’re scared to death when you’re not in control. But love can’t work that way. I may not be super-experienced, but I know that much.”

  How dare he assume things about me, or think he knows more about my situation than I do? I’m so angry I can’t find words. What I finally come up with doesn’t do my emotions justice. “I don’t always have to be in control,” I spit out.

  “Fine.” Jack crosses his arms over his chest and glares at me.

  “I don’t.”

  “Fine!” Jack raises his voice, which is very out-of-character for him, and gets up. He rests against the same window I was looking out of several days ago, during my fight with Monty. “But tell me that I’m wrong. I think there’s a part of you that still thinks you’re in high school, and Monty’s this god, and you’re an outcast, and you can’t accept how much you both have changed.”

  As Jack says this I study my feet, in their old sneakers with their fraying laces. I look up when he’s done, and I meet his eyes. “I’m not as insecure as you think.”

  “Well, good. Because Monty’s less secure than you think, and I’m telling you right now, it’s got to be you who contacts him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s his birthday,” Jack says. “And you reach out to people on their birthday.” He stands up and prepares to leave. “We’re going out to dinner to celebrate.”

  The lump that was in my throat instantly reforms. For a moment I desperately want to come with him. Then I remember. Monty didn’t tell me about his engagement. He said none of this was his choice. I heave a sigh. “Tell him I said happy birthday.”

  “Tell him yourself. You’re coming with me.”

  “No.”

  Jack places his hands on his hips in defiance. “Have you forgotten all the reasons I have to be mad at you? You owe me, Lucy.”

  I run my hand through my tangled, dirty hair. I look down at my stomach. I’m at that stage where I don’t look pregnant, but I do look fat. There’s no way I can go.

  Jack gazes at me and reads my insecurities. “Trust me. It will be fine. Just wish him happy birthday, then if you want to leave, leave.”

  He makes it sound like the simplest thing in the world. Maybe if I pretend he’s right, it will be. “And if I do that, you and I are good?”

  “Yeah.”

  How can I say no when I want so badly to say yes? “Okay. Let me just comb my hair, and we’ll go.”

  After I’ve combed my hair, brushed my teeth, changed my shirt, washed my face, and applied a light coat of mascara and lipstick, Jack finally shoves me through the door. They planned on meeting at a restaurant not far from my house, so we walk.

  “I’m not sure about this,” I say on our trek over.

  “I told him I’d try and get you to come, so he’s sort of expecting you. It’s why we’re meeting so close to your place.”

  As we walk up to the restaurant I see Monty, standing outside among the other people waiting for a table. My heart jumps and swells inside my chest and I have to remember how to breathe. He’s leaning against the outside wall, texting. He looks good, not at all a mess like I am. He’s wearing his work clothes and he must have gotten a haircut.

  A haircut, seriously? How dare he do something so indulgent, when for the past few days I’ve been miserable. Who was he trying to look good for? And who is texting? Probably some tall, large-breasted, twenty-five year-old who works in his office. I bet she doesn’t get tired and crabby by 8:00 p.m., and she probably hangs on every word he says.

  I realize this is a big mistake, and my impulse is to turn tail and run.

  Then he looks up from his phone, and our gazes lock. I feel like a deer in the headlights, and my throat grips up tight.

  He walks toward me. “So Jack convinced you to eat dinner with us?”

  Jack is standing off to my side, and I’m only sort of aware of him and the other people who are around us. It’s like Monty is 99% of the people in the world, and everyone else makes up the difference.

  “I just came to wish you happy birthday.”

  He taps his fingers against his arm. “That’s all?”

  No. There’s a whole lot more that I came for, but I don’t know how to say it. I’m weighing whether or not I should try, when he steps in close to me, and caresses my cheek. Looking into his eyes, I can see now that he’s on the verge of crying. So maybe he’s more of a mess than I thought. But I’m already crying, so he can’t be as big of a mess as me.

  I’m breathing hard, and so is he, and for a moment that’s enough. Nothing else needs to be said.

  He breaks the silence. “I’m sorry about what I said. I do choose you, Lucy.” He kisses the space right below my left ear. “I just think we should talk more.”

  I nod as my chin rests in his hand. “You might not like everything I have to say.”

  He leans down closer and touches his forehead to mine. “I can handle it, as long as you stay. Stay for dinner?”

  I’m shaking as I put my arms around his shoulders. He puts his hands on my waist, and pulls me in for a kiss. His mouth is warm and achingly familiar, like oxygen. I’m certain that the world could explode right now, and I’d stay grounded as long as he doesn’t let go of me.

  After a couple of moments we pull away, aware that we’re standing outside a busy restaurant, but he keeps his arms around me and buries his head in the nook of my shoulder. He inhales like his life depends on it, breathing in the smell of my hair and skin.

  “I’ll stay for dinner,” I whisper.

  Monty raises his head and loosens his grip around my waist, but as he does so his fingers lightly brush my protruding belly. “Good. Thank you.”

  Jack approaches, and puts his arms around us both. “Group hug!”

  Monty shrugs off his embrace. “Do you want to get hit?” He says this, but he’s smiling.

  “Hey, be nice. I brought you what you really wanted, so you can lighten up a little.” Jack addresses me. “Monty can be a real asshole when he's heartbroken.”

  Monty keeps an arm around me and shakes his head. “Jack, you’d better not bring up that stupid saxophone story again…”

  Jack ignores him and speaks to me. “I was in the eighth grade, and Monty was in tenth. Danielle Holly said she’d go to
the Snowball dance with him, but she dumped him for an eleventh grader.”

  “Oh God,” Monty sighs. “Get over your stupid sax.”

  I look back and forth between them, trying to follow their fraternal dialogue. “You destroyed it!” Jack waves an accusatory finger at him. “I couldn’t do my solo in the concert!”

  Monty grips my arm, urgently defending himself. “He played that goddamned solo over and over and over for three weeks, practicing. It was 'Joy to the World.' I couldn’t take it any more, and I had warned him…”

  Jack grabs my other arm, making me the center of their tug of war. “After Danielle broke up with him, Monty seized my saxophone, took it down to the basement, and pounded it with Dad’s sledge hammer...”

  “And I apologized repeatedly. And I bought you a new saxophone.”

  “Only because Mom made you.”

  “Yeah, well, she always liked you best.”

  The hostess stands in the doorway and calls out, “Bricker! Party of three?”

  “That’s us.” Monty smiles and squeezes my shoulder. “Let’s go eat.”

  By the end of the month it’s clear that Sarah Palin will survive as McCain’s VP. There may be tons of people who hate her inability to form a coherent sentence, but there are tons more who love her vivaciousness and the energy she brings to the campaign. I guess for McCain, the pros outweigh the cons, so he’s holding on. But I’m not convinced. Monty and I are giddy when we watch Katie Couric interview Palin and we shake our heads at her vacant, rambling answers.

  Later, we relax on the couch, and interview each other about the demons we’ve been too frightened to bring up until now.

  “All my life I’ve worked so hard at trying to make everything look easy,” he says. “Good grades, finishing college in three years, getting ahead—I never wanted anyone to know how much it cost me.”

  “What did it cost you?” I ask.

  “Several relationships. Each time, they’d tell me they felt neglected. Then I met Evelyn, and she understood.” Monty’s head is resting in my lap. I stroke his forehead. “So when she suggested we drop everything and move to Africa, I said sure. But have you ever held onto something really tight, simply because you’re afraid of letting go?”