Stewart and Jean

by J. Boyett

  Every morning she rode her bike to the bus station and chained it there to be retrieved at night. The commute to Manhattan was a drag, but it was nice to be living in a detached house with a tree in the yard. And Stroudsburg, being a new place, still seemed a touch exotic, though that would surely change.

  Stewart got some voice messages from his mom.

  When she called now—even when Maggie called—he normally let it go straight to voicemail. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to hear their voices, he always listened to the messages right away. This time, when he began to play his mother’s first message, he was especially glad he hadn’t picked up and talked to her live. If he’d been near his phone when she’d started calling, he would have eventually answered just this once, because she’d called multiple times, re-dialing each time her message went too long and cut her off, and if Stewart had seen her calling over and over like that he would have assumed someone had died.

  He was in the living room when he started to listen to the first message, sitting on the couch he rented. A few seconds into the message he hung up and went upstairs to the roof to start it over again.

  She’d left five messages. He saved each one, though to save them was like storing salt in a wound. In her voice he could hear how she was struggling not to cry. There was something heroic about her effort, about how almost completely she succeeded.

  She was trying to lay out for him the muddled complex of her feelings, as a mother, a woman, and a citizen, about what had happened to Kevin, about having a son who’d been shot by his would-be victim.

  This was the first time Stewart realized for sure that his mother had been more or less convinced by Jean’s version of things, though he’d suspected as much before, with horror.

  She told him that she knew his going to New York had something to do with Kevin. This was a testament to her motherly perception, since as far as Stewart knew she had no idea Jean was in New York, and so the link between Kevin and New York must have appeared opaque.

  Since it was hard to figure out a way to say simultaneously all the contradictory things she wanted to express, she kept calling back and starting over, trying again.

  Stewart listened to all her messages. Then he went back inside, because the open windows of his neighbors looked out onto this roof, whereas his roommates were gone. He curled up on the couch with his face against the back cushions and wept. Before long his roommates returned home. Stewart tried to hold himself still so that it would look like he was in a deep sleep, but no matter how tightly he clenched his body it still quivered and shook, and every once in a while his roommates heard him gasp out a sob, though he tried to muffle it. They pretended not to hear.

  The next morning he went dutifully to Temple. He’d thought about calling in sick, but he was broke and Peter seemed to think Dan really might fire him if he did that again anytime soon. As he was leaving to go sit out his lunch hour in Bryant Park, he met Jean on the sidewalk. She’d been about to enter the bookstore.

  They hadn’t spoken since that exchange when she’d said “Hey” to him. Stewart would have continued walking, but her face gave him pause. She was looking at him as if he’d just said something she hadn’t been able to make out.

  He looked back at her and waited.

  She stared at him a while, then said, “Hey.”

  This time, he only said, “Hey,” in response.

  She continued to study him. She said, “Are you finished with your work?”

  “No. Lunch break.”

  “Oh. Yeah, me too. I was thinking about going in and browsing through the books, but....” She let the thought trail off.

  Stewart waited for her to finish, then shrugged.

  “Are you eating in the park?” she asked him.

  “Just going over there to sit.... I don’t have money to eat till payday tomorrow.” He said this last bit accusingly, as if it were Jean’s fault, then immediately felt embarrassed.

  She was embarrassed, too. “Oh,” she said. Then: “You know, I could buy you lunch.”

  “No.”

  “Come on. You can’t go hungry.”

  “You know I can’t let you.”

  That was true.... They were just standing there. The sidewalk was busy, people bustled past them. Stewart was about to go, when Jean said, “You know, I moved. To Stroudsburg.”

  Though he’d already taken a first step away, he waited. When she didn’t say any more, he got impatient: “Okay. And?”

  “I moved because I was scared. Of you.” She said it like she regretted having to embarrass him.

  It felt to Stewart like the whole universe was an elevator plummeting out of control. Ears ringing, he said, “I never said I was going to hurt you.”

  Jean shrugged. “Yeah. Well.”

  Now his face burned red, and he dropped his eyes. “I was never going to hurt you,” he said. “It was stupid to move.”

  “How am I supposed to know?”

  Instead of responding he walked across the street to the park.

  From inside the store, from his high vantage behind the register, Charles had watched the whole exchange through the glass front doors. Once Stewart left, Jean just stood there for a moment on the sidewalk outside the doors. Then she finally walked into the store, but after hovering near the entrance a few seconds she turned and walked out, without looking at even one book. This all struck Charles as very suspicious, though he wasn’t sure how to interpret any of it.

  Once Stewart returned from his lunch break Charles waited for a chance to talk to him, but it was hard because Peter kept him on the register while he had Stewart stocking and straightening the shelves. Charles really wanted to go straight home after his shift (his roommates were both supposed to be gone, and there wasn’t much he could do outside his apartment without spending money), but if there turned out to be no other chance to talk to Stewart, he would make time for it after work. It seemed important enough, even though Charles wasn’t exactly best friends with the guy.

  Fortunately, they both got sent to the basement and assigned to peeling the price stickers off books that were being returned to the publisher. The perfect set-up: just the two of them, sitting at a table a bit outside the empty break-room, slowly going through massive piles of unwanted books.

  As usual, Stewart was distant and sullen. As an experiment, Charles waited to see if Stewart would address a word to him first. Of course he didn’t; he never opened the conversation. Charles said, “So. I noticed you talking to that girl earlier, out front.”

  Stewart continued to peel stickers with the peeling tool, a flat dull blade. He gave so convincing an impression of not having heard him that Charles nearly repeated himself, which would have been stupid since Stewart was sitting there a foot away, and obviously had heard him. Charles said, “Are you and her, like, friends, now?”

  This time Stewart did acknowledge what Charles had said, stopping his peeling and looking up at Charles like he was an idiot. “Are you kidding?”

  “I only asked because it seemed like you were on friendly terms with her, is all.”

  Stewart didn’t deign to answer. He tightened his lips and his jaw and returned to peeling.

  Even though it seemed like Stewart might really flip out if Charles kept pressing, he would have felt irresponsible if he had let it go, after what Marissa had told him. “What did she talk to you about?”

  It seemed like Stewart was going to keep peeling and not answer. At last, though, he said, “She told me she moved to Stroudsburg.”

  Charles’s hands stopped peeling. He gaped at Stewart until Stewart blinked up at him, uncertainly. “What?” demanded Stewart.

  “She told you about the Stroudsburg thing? Did she tell you exactly where?”

  “Wait. ‘The Stroudsburg thing’? How do you know she’s moving to Stroudsburg?”

  “Listen, man.” For a moment Charles wondered if the words were going to come out, or if he was going to wind up only sitting there with his mouth open. “
I know this is going to sound a little insane. But I have a friend who thinks Jean may be trying to, uh, set you up.”

  “What? What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “It’s nothing certain. It’s just, you know, worth taking into consideration.”

  “What is? What friend?”

  “She just thinks that maybe Jean is—”

  “Who? Who are we talking about? Someone who you told about my brother?”

  “No,” Charles hurriedly assured him. Realizing that Stewart wasn’t going to let him progress till he’d given some hint where he’d gotten his information, Charles gave up and said, “I’ve kind of been dating that redheaded girl who’s friends with Jean. The one who came and yelled at you that one time.”

  The look Stewart gave Charles was a once-in-a-lifetime thing.

  Charles kept going, hoping to be able to avoid having to explain in detail how that liaison had come about: “Marissa—that’s the redhead—she says that Jean’s got a gun in her new place in Stroudsburg, and she’s planning to let you know where she lives now. Sort of like she did today. That way, if you do turn out to be … you know … and you go up to Stroudsburg and sort of, uh, go after her, then she’ll be able to, uh....” Charles’s pause this time was longer, and he had to drop his eyes before he could finish. “She’ll be able to shoot you. In, like, self-defense. And because it’ll be in Stroudsburg, she won’t get in any trouble for having a gun.”

  Once done, Charles waited for what Stewart would do. He waited with both fascination and fear, though he couldn’t have said what he was scared of. Maybe of Stewart punching him, or crying.

  For now, Stewart was staring at him, his eyes so wide and the facial muscles around them so flexed it looked like it must hurt, his breathing coming in and going out like a bellows. “Jean said all that? That she was actually planning it?”

  “Well. Marissa says she did. Basically.”

  “In other words, she’s confirming everything I ever said about her. Right? About how she overreacts?”

  “Uh. Well, I don’t know, dude. What you’re doing could legitimately freak someone out....”

  “What the fuck is it I’m doing?!” said Stewart, nearly shouting. Charles drew back, wondering if that punch in the face was coming now. “I can’t fucking move to New York like everybody else?! I can’t work in a bookstore?! I can’t sit down face-to-face just one time with the woman who shot my own brother for no good reason? Who made people think he was just some piece-of-shit rapist? Who made his own mother think that? Who made even me think that, sometimes?!”

  “Hey!” Both Stewart and Charles jumped at Dan’s shout, Charles so dramatically that his stool wobbled and he nearly fell off. Dan advanced on them, hands on his hips, white T-shirt tucked into blue shorts, five and a half wiry feet of humming indignation. “What the hell is going on here?!”

  Charles gritted his teeth and fought the childish urge to object that he hadn’t done anything, furious with Stewart for having gotten him in trouble with the boss and momentarily regretful for having mentioned any of this in the first place.

  Charles decided to let Stewart field Dan’s wrath, since he was the one who’d caused it, then immediately regretted that, too, when Stewart sullenly said, “We were just talking.”

  “You were just yelling! I could hear you all the way upstairs!” This seemed directed at both of them, and again Charles had to stop himself from pointing out woundedly that it was only Stewart he’d been able to hear. “Now cut that shit out and get back to work!”

  Dan stalked back upstairs. Charles had been hoping he’d separate himself and Stewart, like a couple of quarreling kids. He didn’t relish being down here with the guy, not while he was mad and while it was only a matter of time before he started demanding to know how much Charles and Marissa had been saying behind his back, how detailed their gossip had been. Of course, Charles could always lie and deny having revealed Stewart’s version of things.

  Stewart didn’t seem interested in talking, though. He went back to peeling stickers, doing it so violently that he scratched and dented the covers.

  “Hey, man,” ventured Charles. “You’re damaging the covers.”

  Stewart ignored him.

  “Stewart, if Dan comes down here and sees that the books are all fucked up and he can’t return them anymore, he’s really going to lose his shit. At both of us.”

  Still Stewart continued to peel roughly, till he flung down his peeling tool and said, “Fuck this, I feel sick, I’m going home.” He got up from his stool and began to walk around the table towards the stairs.

  “Stewart!” said Charles, and reached out to stop him, but yanked his hand back before making contact. What did stop Stewart was affrontedness at the fact that Charles had been about to touch him, and he stared down at him with that wide-eyed glare he had. It made Charles nervous. But he forced himself to maintain eye contact. Trying for a soothing tone, he said, “Dude. You need this job, right? Because I think Dan is really going to fire you if you go home sick again. Especially right now while he’s so pissed at you for yelling.”

  Stewart continued to glare at him, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

  “Just ride it out, man,” Charles pleaded. “You know?”

  Stewart stared at him some more. Finally he muttered, “I got to take a shit,” and walked to the employees’ bathroom by the foot of the stairs.

  Charles felt his tightened muscles disengaging somewhat. For once, he didn’t mind being left alone with all the work. He went back to peeling, trying to move as fast as he could without damaging the books—the sooner this task was finished, the sooner he could escape from this underground chamber where he was shut in with this maniac.

  He peeled like the wind, amazing himself. Meanwhile Stewart stayed locked in the toilet. Three times, employees came down, tried the door, and when they found it was locked rolled their eyes and headed back upstairs to the customers’ bathroom—no one realized it was the same guy in there for an hour.

  Dan came back downstairs. “Where’s the other guy?” he demanded, hands on hips.

  Charles timidly nodded towards the toilet and said, “In there.” Dan followed his gaze with gradually relaxing suspicion, and muttered, “Well, okay.”

  Dan turned his attention to the books being prepped for return and was basically satisfied—there were only eleven left to do. So great had been Charles’s desire to get out of there, he’d done the work of two people.

  Eleven

  Jean could tell that living in Stroudsburg might eventually start sucking, but for now it had the usual charm of a big change. She really did have a little front yard, and a little back yard too. In the front yard, a little tree. She didn’t see herself here in ten years, but for now it was cute. The commute was a motherfucker, but even that had a spice of adventure to it. Actually it was just the expense that she blanched at. Riding her bike through the unbusy leafy streets to the bus station was a nice way to start the day. There was the gun, loaded, in the drawer of her bedside table. Once in a while she would remember it like an embarrassing afterthought. Sometimes it seemed to her that the gun was something which had been included with the house, that had been there when she’d arrived, and she had trouble remembering that the whole move had originally been for its sake.

  The Monday when she told Stewart she’d moved to Stroudsburg, that was her one-week anniversary of doing the new commute. She’d moved her stuff in on the Sunday before. Or, well, she’d paid movers to move it for her, obviously. She thought of Stewart, with nothing but his rented couch in an apartment of strangers and his ten-dollars-an-hour job.

  Stewart had never told her he was just renting a couch—the way she knew was through Penny. Penny had made friends with a woman named Maggie who worked in Little Rock’s very last independent bookstore. It was in Hillcrest, where Penny liked to hang out, mulling through the frou-frou shops and corny little galleries. The women had been chatting about bookstores, and Maggie had sai
d she had a friend working in a bookstore in New York, and Penny had said she had a friend up in New York, too, and within a few minutes Maggie had realized Penny was talking about Jean, and Penny had realized Maggie was talking about Stewart.

  Immediately Maggie had gotten emotional. She’d poured forth to Penny everything she knew about Stewart’s living conditions and his strange, formless quest. She was scared to think what might happen to him, going crazy all alone up there.

  Penny had immediately reported everything she’d learned over the phone to Jean. As she’d listened, Jean had wondered if Maggie had wished she could ask Jean to look after Stewart. That would have been ridiculous, of course. How much of what Maggie had told Penny had been intended to get back to Jean and evoke some sympathy? Not in a cynical way, necessarily. It did sound like the guy could use sympathy. Jean would be a bizarre candidate for giving it to him, but then again it didn’t sound like he really knew anyone else in town.