Losing Julia

by Hull, Jonathan

  Before returning home I stopped at a liquor store and bought a bottle of Grgich Chardonnay—the merchant’s recommendation—which I hid in the back of my closet next to Jim Beam. I thought of getting a gift too, something for the house perhaps, but decided not to overdo it.

  The thing was not to act desperate.

  ON FRIDAY morning I awoke extra early, and before my shower I carefully clipped the nose hairs that began growing like ivy once I hit seventy. (That the last healthy cells of my body should be devoted to the manufacture of nose hairs is a fact I find almost unspeakably perverse.) I was dressed and ready by eight and sat in my corner chair with the bottle of wine in a bag next to me. (I’d purloined a strip of red ribbon from the crafts shop and tied it around the neck of the bottle, though my efforts to make it curl at the ends using scissors had left it frayed and limp.)

  As I waited I tried to remind myself that Sarah hadn’t invited me to her house but rather an elderly man she perhaps felt sorry for. Nonetheless I felt extremely nervous and kept checking myself in the mirror to be sure everything was where it was supposed to be. I couldn’t bear to make a fool of myself. Not today.

  I was out front by twelve-thirty, sitting on a bench near the taxi stand searching the street for Sarah’s yellow VW Beetle convertible. She pulled up five minutes late and jumped out to open the door for me.

  “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” she said, guiding me into my seat.

  “Great day for a barbecue.” I tried to strike a casual balance between enthusiasm and rapture.

  “I hope you don’t mind having the top down. Is it too windy for you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I’ll put the top up.”

  “No, please. I haven’t been in a convertible for years. It’s wonderful.” I leaned my face out the window like a curious dog just sprung from the kennel.

  Sarah was wearing a light blue summer dress cut low in the back and just barely reaching midthigh. Her legs looked tan and I wondered what she’d do if I put my hand on her thigh, which suddenly seemed profoundly accessible. Scream? Call the police? Medicate me? Smile? Of course she wouldn’t smile, but it was a pleasant thought. Very pleasant. I held my hands together in my lap.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked, pulling off her sunglasses with one hand and placing them on the top of her head, the ends tucked into her hair.

  “Not bad, thanks.” I was sorry she was so familiar with my medical chart.

  “You look good today.”

  Did I? But of course she was just saying it. Yet I did feel good.

  “Me? Why you look just beautiful.”

  “Oh aren’t you a sweetheart.” She spun her head and flung me a smile.

  Ten minutes later she pulled into the driveway of a white, ranch-style house with a single maple tree on the left and a small patch of overgrown grass on the right. A few scrappy-looking rosebushes ran along the front beneath a bay window that looked into her living room. At the door two boys appeared, the smaller one tucked safely behind the larger one.

  “Jeffrey, this is Mr. Delaney. Can you say hello to Mr. Delaney? Jeffrey’s in fifth grade now and doing a great job, aren’t you, Jeffrey?” He smiled shyly as we shook hands. “And this here is my baby boy Kevin, he just turned five. Kevin, can you say hello?” I caught sight of his big brown eyes and dark lashes before he slid around behind his mother.

  “I’ll save a handshake for you, Kevin,” I said.

  Sarah motioned toward the living room. “Well it’s not much, but then they don’t pay a lot at Great Oaks.”

  “Why should they? All you do all day is alleviate human suffering, it’s not like you’re trading futures.”

  “I guess I’m lucky they pay me at all.” Her voice trailed off into the kitchen.

  I walked slowly through the living room, examining the plates hung on the walls and the framed photos that covered nearly every available inch of table space. The room looked freshly painted and the white carpet and yellow-flowered sofa made it seem almost unnaturally bright. I imagined lying on the sofa with her after the boys were in bed and talking about whether the rosebushes were getting enough water and should we take the children to Disneyland this year. But enough talk for one night…

  “It’s charming, very warm,” I said.

  “The air-conditioning’s out.”

  “No, I meant… ”

  “Come on. We’ll sit out back in the shade.” I followed her out through a screen door that slammed shut behind us. Jeffrey opened a lawn chair and motioned for me to sit down. He opened another one and sat next to me. “I’ll get some iced tea,” Sarah said, heading back inside. The door slammed again. I turned toward Jeffrey, who was sitting with his hands tucked under his thighs.

  “Your mother said you were in sixth grade?”

  “Fifth.”

  “Yes, fifth. I hated fifth grade. How about you?”

  He looked at me sideways. “It’s all right, I guess.”

  “What sort of things are you studying?”

  “Math, English, Spanish.”

  “Play a sport?”

  “Soccer.”

  “Any good?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “You don’t mind being interrogated, do you?”

  He laughed. “Mom says you’re cool.”

  “Extremely cool.”

  “Are you sick or something?”

  “Do I look sick?”

  “No, not really, but you are a lot older than me.”

  “You’re pretty blunt for a fifth grader.”

  He locked his ankles together under his chair.

  “Since you’re not beating around the bush, I won’t either. How are the girls in your class?”

  He smiled, then leaned forward. “There are some real choice ones,” he said.

  “Choice? You mean like, worth choosing, if you had the chance to choose?”

  “Choice means pretty.”

  “Ah. Well I like choice women myself. Anyone special? I won’t tell your mom.”

  “No, not really. I’m not what you’d call one of the most popular guys.”

  “I see. And why is that? You look kind of choice to me, in a man’s kind of way, and your mother said your grades are good, so it’s not like you don’t have something to bring to the table.”

  “I don’t know, I guess it’s because I’m shy.”

  “All the wrong kinds of people are shy, don’t you think? I always figured it would make much more sense if the assholes were shy and the nice guys were all outgoing, but damned if it’s not the jerks who do all the talking.”

  He laughed, then turned serious again. “I got in a fight last week—but you can’t tell Mom.”

  “Oh no, I won’t. Want to tell me about it?”

  “There’s this guy at school, his name is Richard, and for some reason he doesn’t like me. So one day after school he and a couple of his friends—real jerks—jumped me near the bike racks. I wasn’t hurt too bad but it was kind of embarrassing.”

  “Kind of? It doesn’t get any worse than that, and I’m a war veteran.” I thought about buying him a can of pepper spray. Would he be expelled? Probably. Ah, but to be a shy fifth grader with a can of pepper spray in your pocket when the bully comes at you; most men go a lifetime without such pure satisfaction.

  “What’s it like being a veteran?”

  “Piece of cake. Being a soldier was the hard part, at least when it wasn’t boring.”

  “You did real fighting?”

  “Real fighting.”

  “Wow.” He smacked a mosquito on his forearm, and then flicked it off. “My grandfather was in the navy but I’d rather be a fighter pilot.”

  “Is your grandfather still alive?”

  “No, he died two years ago.”

  “See much of your dad?”

  “Naw. He’s remarried, and he and Jean—she’s my step- mom—have a baby.”

  “I meant what I said about how tough it is, being a kid. First off, you live
under martial law, no two ways about it. You’re practically a prisoner until you reach sixteen. And the thing about prison is, the other prisoners are much more dangerous than the guards. To tell you the truth, I think adulthood is a cinch in comparison.”

  “Really?”

  “Damn straight. Even being really old is easier than being a kid, and that’s saying something. The curse about being young is that you are much more dependent on what others think about you, and those others tend to be,” I lowered my voice, “pricks.”

  He laughed.

  “But when you get older, you see that the world is a much bigger place and you can do without those people. What I’m saying is it doesn’t get any worse, what you’re going though, but it gets a lot better. Only I didn’t know that when I was a kid and the cool guys excluded me. I figured it was just the beginning of a lifelong siege and I thought to myself I thought, holy shit, this sucks.”

  He slapped his hands on his thighs and smiled a great big smile. Then Sarah appeared with iced tea and lemonade, which immediately attracted more mosquitoes.

  “A good time for the fireworks,” I said.

  Jeffrey was just opening the first box of snakes when a man appeared at the back door holding a small blue and white cooler.

  “Oh Peter, you made it,” said Sarah, jumping up and walking quickly toward him. She kissed him on the cheek and led him back to the chairs. “Peter, I’d like you to met Patrick Delaney. Remember I told you about him?”

  I rose and shook his hand. The new boyfriend. Of course. Silly me. I sat back down and looked at him, at his sleek, implausible smile, his strong hairy forearms and thick curly black hair and his thin leather shoes and the mirrored sunglasses suspended from his top shirt button. And worst of all his smug, self-absorbed expression, the kind worn by people who drive across the country with their turn signal on, and not one of those quiet ones but the kind that go DING DING DING DING! with a great big green arrow flashing on the dashboard.

  Peter sat down and opened his cooler and pulled out a dark green bottle of foreign beer, flipped off the top, took a big dramatic swig and wiped his mouth with a loud “ahh.” Then he turned to Sarah and started to talk about his efforts to close a real estate deal with a wealthy Korean who preferred to talk business at bars with table dancers. She folded her hands gently in her lap and listened with nods and uh-huhs that seemed unnecessarily attentive.

  After Peter and the boys lit all the fireworks he stood by the barbecue flipping burgers and swigging and ahhing. Then we sat at a small picnic table in the corner to eat but I wasn’t hungry so I just sat and listened to Peter eat and talk and ahh his way through two burgers and three scoops of potato salad that Sarah dished out from a large yellow and white bowl. When Sarah noticed me nodding off she went to get her car keys to drive me home but Peter insisted on taking me himself, which delivered him from doing the dishes and, I presumed, scored him some brownie points that he would cash in later in the evening. Sarah kissed me on the cheek as she leaned through the car window and I saw Jeffrey wave from the front door.

  I fell asleep on the way home and don’t remember how I got into bed.

  JULIA SAID that when the man you love dies young, a part of you never ages. But what if you are old and unable to find the woman you have loved almost every day of your life? Then what, Julia?

  I need to know quickly.

  WHAT HAS slipped by? A week? A month? The foliage looks different and I don’t remember it changing. I looked in the mirror this morning and saw that my beard had two days’ growth. Yet I shave every day. How horrifying this is.

  EMERSON WROTE that “a man is a god in ruins.” That certainly covers a lot of ground, but now I must ask, what is a man in ruins? That’s what I want to know.

  JULIA WAS already standing at her easel when I parked and walked over along the gravel path, careful not to step in the puddles swelled by the early morning rain that stopped just as I left the hotel. She turned and watched me as I approached.

  “You must have gotten up awfully early,” I said, feeling nervous to see her.

  “The light was perfect. I wanted to see what it looked like at sunrise.” Her hair was tucked behind her ears and she was dressed in a khaki-colored chemise, knee-length and belted at the waist.

  I stepped forward, wanting to hold her, but she averted her eyes. Should I kiss her?

  She kept painting for a minute, then put her brush down. “Patrick, I just want to… I want you to know that I didn’t mean to, that I’m sorry. No, not sorry, just… ”

  “Please don’t feel bad. I—”

  “Don’t say anything.” She put her fingers on my lips. “Please.”

  “Julia… ”

  “Please.”

  We stood looking at each other and I could hear the birds again, several of them up in a tree behind the monument, loud and unanimous. Then she picked up her brush and turned toward the canvas.

  I walked partway out to the meadow and stood still for a minute, eyes closed. When I walked back toward her she was staring at me.

  “May I look?”

  “Oh, I’ve only just started. You’ll have to come visit me someday if you want to see it.” She looked away.

  I sat along the edge of the monument, which hadn’t yet been warmed by the sun, and I ran my fingers along the names, murmuring each one aloud.

  “You won’t be in Paris in the next week or so?” I asked.

  “I’m going to Florence, just for a few days before sailing home. I’m afraid I’ve spent everything my mother left me on this trip. It wasn’t much, from waitressing. But at least I’ve made it to Europe. I’ll never forget any of this.”

  She turned back to her canvas but I noticed that she looked up at me frequently. I lit a cigarette and tried to think of something to say. Couldn’t I just hold her?

  A bird landed on the monument, took a few steps and then flew away. I stood and slowly walked around, trying to remember everything so I could describe it at the next reunion. The effort made everything seem unusually vivid.

  “You have my address,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll send me yours when you settle down again?”

  She nodded, then wiped her hands on a rag tucked into her belt, took a few hesitant steps toward me and stopped. “You’ll miss your train.” Her lower lip quivered.

  “Julia, I don’t know if I can—”

  “Patrick.” Her eyes offered me strength, just as Daniel’s had done. She stepped closer and held out her hand.

  “How—”

  “Good-bye, Patrick,” she whispered.

  I took her hand in both of mine and then she came closer and buried her face in my neck and we held each other, arms wrapped tight and our bodies swaying slowly back and forth. I waited until she loosened her grip and finally dropped her arms and then I pulled back and kissed her desperately; her face, her neck, her lips. I couldn’t let go. She finally drew back, her eyes filled with tears. Her hand went up to her mouth and she turned away. I began slowly walking toward my car. After a few steps I stopped and turned back to her.

  “Come to Paris!” I shouted. “I’ll be there for two weeks.”

  With her back to me she shook her head.

  “Please! I’ll look for you at the Arc de Triomphe. At noon. I’ll check every day at noon. Please!“

  She raised her hand, then said, “Please go.” Her voice was breaking. My chest ached and I longed desperately to turn back and grab hold of her.

  “Please, Patrick.”

  I turned and walked quickly to my car and drove off down the blurry, trembling road.

  The picture I have of you has a hole in it from a piece of shell. I have four bullet holes in my overcoat, and my trousers were torn to pieces by a grenade, but I only had my knees cut besides the bullet in my shoulder. The strap to my field glasses was cut by a bullet, my gas mask was cut in half by shrapnel, and my helmet has a dent from a bullet. But they did not get me.

  —Mauri
ce V. Griffin, United States Army, in a letter to his wife.

  “MARTIN?” He had just begun to stir and I heard him fumbling for his glasses on his bedside table. Inevitably he knocked over a bottle or two of pills during his search, which helped explain his ruinously high pharmaceutical bills.

  “Huh? What?” He pushed his glasses on and began fiddling with his hearing aids.

  “I’ve been thinking about Lara.”

  “Huh?”

  Each morning Martin and I spend several minutes just sitting on the edge of our beds, making sure our rusty gyroscopes are right side up before we stand. At a certain age system checks must be performed before any significant move, while the movement itself must be methodically plotted out in advance. Whoever slips up, dies.

  “Lara. Your old flame. How old would she be now?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m just curious.”

  “Seventy-six,” he said quickly. He sat in his light blue boxers, white T-shirt and black knee-high socks, his hands braced along the sides of the bed, palms down. “But why do you ask?”

  Well, you figure she married, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So chances are, she is still alive and her husband, whether he was husband number one or two or three, is dead.”

  He winced.

  “So why don’t we find out where she lives?”

  “Patrick, that was almost sixty years ago.”

  “Not to you.” He said nothing. “Why not call her, say hello?”

  “Jesus, Patrick, are you crazy?”

  “More so by the minute.”

  She wasn’t hard to find. Martin was sure she’d still be in the Northeast—if she was alive—and he knew she was closely connected to her church. I talked to the minister who said that Mrs. Lara Tennant Hutchinson lived alone in a large house just five blocks from St. Marks. Mr. Hutchinson had died three years ago. Massive heart attack. Collapsed in his golf cart, which rolled into a pond.