*
I WALKED HOME THAT evening after promising my father to visit again on Christmas Day. The sky had turned dusky, and I could smell the smoky, sweet smell of a wood-burning fireplace. As I turned down my cul-de-sac and walked up to my apartment, I saw an explosion of leaves and then a flurry of barking coming from the front yard of a nearby house. A couple of squirrels darted up a tree, chased by a black-and-white dog with a speckled snout and light-colored eyes. The squirrels chattered excitedly above, sending down a shower of leaves, while the dog circled below, paws scrambling against the trunk.
Is that Charlie? I wondered, making my way over. The dog ran over to me, snuffling around my ankles and leaping up for kisses. I leaned over and managed to get ahold of his collar. On the small blue tag, I read:
CHARLIE
ADAM MARTINEZ
76 WELLESLEY ROAD
FAIRFAX, CA
I looked around, but the street was deserted. Charlie must have slipped out of his house and gotten lost.
“Come on, Charlie,” I said. “Let me take you home.”
Charlie followed me without much coaxing, pausing now and again to sniff at someone’s lawn or perk up his ears when a bird flew by. As we approached the president’s mansion, he broke into a run, leaping up the steps and to the front door, where he started barking to be let in.
I ran up the stairs after him, noticing how the porch had been decorated for the season, with large pots filled with red and white poinsettias and a lush holly wreath on the door. A white porch swing hung to my right, covered in dark green cushions, along with some matching rattan furniture.
Before I could ring the doorbell, Adam had opened the door.
“There you are, you rascal!” he said as Charlie jumped up to greet him. “You nearly gave me a heart attack!”
“Hi,” I said. “I saw him running around my neighborhood just now and figured he’d gotten lost.”
“Thanks so much for bringing him home,” Adam said, shaking his head with relief. “I’m so glad he didn’t get hit by a car. We were just about to head to LA.”
“Luckily he ran away from the main thoroughfare instead of toward it,” I said. “When I found him, he was in the middle of terrorizing some squirrels.”
“Of course,” Adam laughed. “He’s absolutely convinced that one day he’s going to catch one.”
“Did you find Charlie?” someone asked, coming up behind Adam. Bex.
“Oh, hi!” I said, startled. “I didn’t realize you were still in town.”
“I’m just here for the day looking at some real estate,” Bex said, smiling. “Fairfax is just so charming—I’m thinking of maybe buying a place. Do you live around here?”
“Yes—just around the corner, in one of those old Victorians.”
“Oh, I love those! Which one?”
“The yellow one with peeling paint and green shutters. I live at the top.”
“How darling! My dream is to buy one of those houses and fix it up. Could you imagine? Let me know if your landlord is ever interested in selling.”
“Sure. Well, happy holidays to both of you,” I said, heading back down the steps. “Have a safe drive.”
“Are you going anywhere for the holidays?” Adam called out.
“No—just staying in town with my dad.”
“Well, happy holidays,” Adam said, waving. “And thanks again.”
*
WITHOUT CLASSES TO TEACH, I found myself reverting to a nocturnal schedule, waking up at noon, visiting my father for a couple hours, then heading home to write late into the evening and night. I subsisted on a typical grad school diet of ramen and countless cups of coffee, sometimes not bothering to get out of my pajamas or even take a shower. Rick sent me photos of dazzling Costa Rican sunsets and a shot of him resting on a surfboard. Larry sent me photos of macarons at Ladurée.
The days blurred together. I felt like I was in a submarine, isolated from the rest of the world. I knew the process of revision was slow and painful, but this was slower and more painful than anything I’d ever worked on before. Every time I took a break to eat or make another cup of coffee, I felt myself flooded with self-doubt. This was it, I thought. I was going to fail. The contract was a fluke. I was an imposter. The only reason I’d even gotten the contract was because of Rick. Who did I think I was anyway?
I’d choke back the doubts and force myself underwater again, back into the bubble of writing and revising. The sun set, my coffee got cold, and Jellyby kept trying to sit on my keyboard. I wrote into the night, and when I was finally too tired to keep my eyes open, I dropped onto the couch and slept, but even then I dreamed about what I had to fix still and how much more I had to do. I woke up troubled and anxious, made myself another pot of coffee, toasted some bread that I immediately forgot about, and sat down again at my computer.
On New Year’s Eve, I sat down at my desk around three p.m. and had been working, uninterrupted, for a couple hours or so when I heard a volley of barking outside. I walked over to my window and peeked out, blinking into the setting sun. It was Charlie, pulling Adam up the steps of my porch.
“Adam!” I said, opening the front door, frantically trying to smooth my hair and look somewhat presentable. “What are you doing here?”
“Sorry to barge in on you like this,” he apologized. “I was taking Charlie on a walk and saw the light on. I wasn’t sure if it was your place, but Charlie seemed convinced. Yellow Victorian with green shutters, right?”
“That’s right.” Charlie wiggled past me and into my apartment.
“Charlie!” Adam yelled. “Get back here! I’m so sorry—he’s got terrible manners.”
“It’s fine—come in. Um, sorry about the mess. I’ve been working.” I’d been deep into my chapter on Brontë and now felt disoriented seeing Adam walk into my living room. He looked out of place in my small apartment, too tall and too pulled together. I wondered if my place smelled. I wondered if my breath smelled. I wondered if I could surreptitiously change out of my pajamas and put on a bra. Behind me, I could hear Jellyby hissing. Charlie had cornered her under the bed and was barking at her excitedly.
“You have a cat?” Adam asked.
“Yes, named Jellyby.”
“That’s Dickens, right?”
“Yes! You know me too well.”
As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I wished I hadn’t said them, but Adam was grinning at me affectionately. I felt myself getting flustered, listening to the cacophony of Charlie’s barking and Jellyby’s retaliatory yowls.
I finally managed to lure Charlie from my bedroom with a scoop of Jellyby’s kibble and quickly shut the bedroom door behind me, hoping Adam hadn’t seen my unmade bed and the pile of unfolded laundry I’d dumped onto a chair. Years of being a grad student meant most of my furniture was still secondhand or from IKEA. Nothing—from my towels to my bedsheets to my dishes—matched. While I liked to think my place looked boho chic in an Anthropologie sort of way, I now suspected it looked more like a grown-up dorm room, haphazard and cluttered.
“Please sit!” I told Adam, trying to tidy up the living room a little. During the break, my apartment had fallen into a state of squalor—my sink was full of dirty dishes, the coffee table covered in empty mugs, the couch blanketed in Jellyby’s fur. I found a lint brush and tried to clear a spot for Adam to sit on.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “I swear, I’m not usually such a slob.” I felt strangely vulnerable having Adam in my private space. We’d practically lived together in college, but now he was a stranger and I wondered what he was thinking. That he couldn’t imagine having to live in such filth? That I could still barely take care of myself?
“What are you working on?” Adam asked, looking curiously at the pile of books and papers on my desk.
“I’m finishing up my book,” I said. “I just landed a book contract and need to finish up some revisions.”
“Wow!” Adam exclaimed, practically bounding from his seat in exciteme
nt. “Why didn’t you tell me? That’s a huge accomplishment! Congratulations!”
“Thanks,” I said, blushing. “Though I’ve still got a lot of work to do.”
“This is huge! We need to celebrate.” Adam paused. “I know—what are you doing tonight? Do you already have plans?”
“I was just planning to write,” I stammered. “I’m kind of in the zone. Besides, everyone’s out of town.”
“It’s New Year’s Eve. You deserve a break. I have an idea—why don’t you come over and we’ll toast your book? I have some champagne left over from a reception. And my mom sent me home with about ten pounds of tamales.”
“Oh, you really don’t have to do that,” I said. “I’m sure you’ve got other plans—”
“Nope—no plans. I just got back into town an hour ago and was planning to watch a movie and go to bed. Very exciting stuff.”
I hesitated. Adam leaned toward me, his elbows resting on his knees. “Please let me do this—it’s the very least I can do after you brought Charlie home safely. Deal?” Hearing his name, Charlie trotted up and nosed his way between us, demanding pets.
“I guess so,” I finally said. Charlie rewarded me with a sloppy kiss.
Before I could change my mind, Adam had whistled for Charlie and was heading for the door.
“I’ll see you around eight or so,” he said. “No excuses.”
*
AT 8:12 P.M., I walked up the porch to Adam’s house and knocked, feeling slightly tipsy. Just before leaving my apartment, I’d impulsively knocked back a double shot of tequila, something I hadn’t done since college. It had burned a trail into my stomach, where it sat like a lump of coal, radiating heat and self-confidence.
Liquid courage! I said to myself as I did one last mirror check before leaving the house. You can do this.
“Perfect timing,” Adam said when he opened the door, a bottle of champagne in his hand. “I was just about to open this!”
I smiled a little too widely at Adam and then leaned over to pet Charlie, noticing he was wearing a silver bow tie.
“What’s this?” I laughed.
“He got all dressed up for you,” Adam said, leading me into the house. He’d changed into a fresh T-shirt and jeans and was barefoot. I’d changed into what I thought was a casual but festive top but now wondered if I looked like Charlie—silly and overdressed. I followed Adam through the public rooms, now dimly lit and deserted, and into the main kitchen. It was a cavernous space, more like a professional catering kitchen than anything else. Adam didn’t stop there, though, but made a slight turn into an adjoining room.
“Where are we going?” I asked, as we entered a breakfast nook with a view of the backyard and then a second, more traditional home kitchen.
“These are the private living quarters. Most of the rooms in the front are for public events, but this is where I really, actually live. It’s weird, huh? Two kitchens in the same house and this whole other section that no one really sees.”
Adam popped the champagne and poured me a glass while I looked around. It was our first time really alone together, and I tried to mask my nerves with a steady patter of superficial questions and observations. I tried not to appear too nosy or stare at anything for too long, but I felt Adam watching me and tried to act casual and nonchalant.
The kitchen and dining area were comfortable and minimally adorned, a bowl of oranges on the breakfast table and a small stack of books piled neatly beside it. To the right was a writing alcove covered with Fairfax memorabilia—name badges, pennants, a stuffed wolverine with a red ribbon around its neck. The bulletin board was thick with invitations, programs, and business cards, interspersed with photographs from official campus functions. I peered more closely. There was a photo of Adam posing with the board of trustees, another from convocation, a third from some kind of alumni function, with Bex smiling beside him.
“Nice pictures,” I said lamely.
We moved into the adjoining living room, where a small fire was burning in the fireplace. Adam held the door open for me and switched on a lamp, which bathed the room in a low, golden light. Through a side door, I caught a glimpse into Adam’s library, the bookshelves wreathed in shadows.
“Please sit,” Adam said, handing me the glass of champagne. I sat on one end of the couch, and Adam took a seat across from me, our knees almost touching. Charlie settled, with a dramatic sigh, into a heap at my feet.
“Cheers!” he said. “To your book!”
We clinked glasses and sipped. Adam found some mixed nuts and chocolates in a holiday gift basket and set them out on the coffee table.
“It must be strange living here,” I said, surveying the carved mantelpiece and the tasteful neutral-colored furniture. “It’s so . . . grown-up.” I thought of Adam’s college dorm room, with its shelves made of plywood and Yaffa blocks and its battered, faded futon. I thought of my own apartment, with its mismatched furnishings and chipped dishes and tumbleweeds of cat hair.
“It is weird,” Adam said. “It’s just me and Charlie rattling around in this huge space. Sometimes I talk to myself just to hear someone’s voice.”
The house was awfully quiet. The sound of the fire crackling in its grate seemed magnified by the silence.
I took a chocolate and bit into it. It was filled with cherry liqueur and I tried not to gag, taking a big swig of champagne to wash it down. “How was your Christmas?” I asked, coughing as the bubbles went up my nose.
“It was relaxing—I went to LA to see my mother. I try to get down to see her at least once a week.”
“Is she doing OK?”
“Yes, she’s doing great. I’ve been trying to get her to stop working so hard, but she won’t listen to me. She retired a few years ago, but you’d never know from looking at her—she barely sat down the whole time I was there.”
“Has she been up here to visit you yet?”
“Just once, for the inauguration. I’d like her to come more often, but she says she doesn’t want to bother me. These official college functions—they can be overwhelming for her. All these strangers, this big old house . . . and, well, she’s still self-conscious about her accent.”
I nodded. The whole time we’d been in college, Adam’s mother had never visited. Partly it was because plane tickets were expensive and she couldn’t take the time off work, but partly, Adam explained, it was because she was intimidated by the campus. During one of our first dates, Adam had told me his mother had been nineteen when she fled Guatemala, taking an infant Adam with her. About his father, Adam said he knew little—his mother refused to talk about him, but Adam suspected he’d been a member of the local militia. Mother and son were understandably close, and they were drawn even closer when Adam was fourteen and his mother informed him that college was out of the question, not because of tuition but because they were undocumented. What followed was a harrowing year of visits to law offices, his mother crying beside him, Adam aware that at any moment they could be deported to a country he did not remember. After nearly two years of desperate prayers, along with letters of support from his school principal, his mother’s employers, and even the archbishop of Los Angeles, Adam and his mother were granted asylum, with a path to a green card and, eventually, citizenship.
“She must be so proud of you,” I said.
“She is—though honestly, at this point all she wants are grandkids.” He laughed ruefully.
“Is that her in the photo?” I asked, getting up to look at a small framed picture on the mantel. It showed Adam beaming beside a slightly built, dark-haired woman in front of a pretty Craftsman house covered in bougainvillea.
“Yes, that’s her. We took that picture a few years ago.”
“Where were you? It looks just like Fairfax!”
“It’s actually in Altadena. I bought her a house there a few years ago.”
“You bought her a house?” I gulped.
“I saved up for a long time,” Adam said, looking embarrassed. “It’
s something I’d always wanted to do for her.”
“Wow. You’re like the greatest son ever. All I got my dad for Christmas was a ten-pack of Costco socks.”
Adam laughed. “I’m sure he appreciated them. Very practical, just like him.” Before I could protest, he’d reached over and refilled my glass of champagne.
“How about you? How was your Christmas?” he asked.
“Oh, it was low-key,” I said, taking another sip. “I just spent it with my dad at the retirement home. Luckily, he seems to be adapting better to the environment. He even has a couple of girlfriends.”
“No kidding,” Adam said.
“Yeah, it’s crazy,” I said. The mixture of champagne and tequila was making me feel witty and expansive. “The ratio there is like ten women to each man, so my dad kind of has his pick. Lauren’s freaking out—she thinks it’s weird.”
“Is she up here often?”
“Every once in while. She’s busy with the kids, though, so she kind of depends on me to keep an eye on him during the week. It’s the least I can do—I mean, she’s paying for everything else and all.” I thought again about the Costco socks and cringed.
“Your dad is lucky to have you so close by,” Adam said. “Just being able to see you regularly—that’s a huge gift.”
Adam left to heat up some of his mother’s tamales, switching on the television for me to watch while he was gone. I helped myself to a third glass of champagne, tossed it back, and immediately regretted it. What had I eaten for dinner again? I couldn’t remember, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t much more than a piece of toast or can of soup. The room had started to swirl a little, and I settled back farther into the couch, trying to focus on what was going on on the television. Ryan Seacrest was interviewing people in Times Square, and I suddenly realized it was almost midnight in New York. The camera zoomed in on the ball, and I felt my eyes cross.
Adam returned, and I tried to eat some tamales as daintily as I could, hoping to soak up some of the alcohol.
“These are really good,” I heard myself say. “Tell your mom I said so.” I dropped some food on the carpet and tried, surreptitiously, to wipe it up while Charlie waited at my elbow, eager to help.
By the Book Page 16