Jessica Z

by Shawn Klomparens

  “But they were strange, Josh. They just stood there.”

  “Probably some stupid OSHA guys,” Amy chimes in. “Government regulation, paperwork, forms, whatever. In the event of a minor cut or abrasion.” She doesn’t seem to notice the sour look Josh is giving her.

  “Whoever they were, they were weird.”

  “Sure,” Josh says. “Forms. Useless forms. Sure.”

  Our meals come, and the wine, and Josh is silent while we eat. He does drink, though, and our very attentive waiter makes sure his glass stays filled. We’re all a little drunk, and I don’t pay much attention to his consumption as Amy and I talk, mostly about her work and recent breakup (it’s a good thing, by the way; the guy was terrible, and she ended it).

  “He sort of thought he was an activist,” Amy says, stifling a laugh. “He was really just a dork. He was always trying to drag me to town council meetings and things like that. Like he could turn me, or something.”

  Josh sits up a bit as Amy says this. “Oh, so you aren’t into participating, then,” he says.

  “In politics?” Amy asks. I’m throwing her a look to try to keep her from engaging him in this sort of discussion, but she misses it entirely. “I love politics, actually. But I don’t participate by shouting at public meetings. I vote. That’s the most effective thing. For me, anyway.”

  Josh nods. “I see,” he says. “The ones you vote for, do they usually win?”

  By this point, I’m shaking my head no, and trying to reach with my foot under the table to kick her. But she just laughs. “I’m pretty good at picking the winners,” she says.

  “So, these winners, are they doing a good job?”

  “I think they are. Most of them.”

  “Sure they are,” Josh says. “They sure are doing a—”

  “They have an incredible flourless chocolate cake here,” I say.

  “—A great job,” Amy says. She’s not giving in. “The ones I voted for are doing a great job.”

  Josh straightens up and lifts his eyebrows. “Oh! Oh, yes, out there”—he gestures toward the lobby—“things are going great, aren’t they? Things…things blowing up? Buses?”

  “Josh,” she says softly, leaning toward him and touching the back of his hand, “this is the way things are now. We just have to deal with it, right?” She straightens up and smiles, and puts her napkin next to her plate. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”

  Amy leaves the table and Josh, slouching a little bit in his spiffy borrowed jacket, watches her with a sneer as she walks off past the bar toward the ladies’ room.

  “I cannot believe you spend time with that woman,” he says.

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “She’s a Republican.”

  “I don’t know if she is or not, and honestly, I don’t care, Josh. She’s one of my closest friends.”

  “She’s a fucking Republican, isn’t she?”

  “Don’t you even. Are you kidding me? Are you kidding me?”

  “She is. I can tell. How can you be friends with that?”

  My mouth has dropped open. “How can you sit there and suggest I should or shouldn’t be friends with someone? Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “I know who I am.” His words are thick in his mouth. “And I know I don’t need people like that in my life.”

  “Okay. Okay. I am leaving. Now. Not with you.”

  “Wait, wait.” Josh puts his hands to his face. “Jess, God, I’m sorry.” He takes his hands away and looks at me. “This is, I’m sorry. I did not mean that. Honestly.”

  “You’re really drunk, Josh.”

  “I’m, yeah, I think I am.” Now he looks sad and small.

  “Okay. Just wait here, okay? Can you wait here a sec? I’m going to the bathroom. Will you be okay?”

  “I’m fine.” He straightens up.

  I get up and head toward the restrooms, and I see Amy at the far end of the bar talking to the bartender, whom she seems to know.

  “Amy, come with me a second. Sorry.” I take her hand and pull her to the alcove outside the ladies’ room.

  “What’s up?”

  “Josh is drunk.”

  “So what? Aren’t you?”

  “Not like he is. He’s surly. He’s saying stupid stuff.”

  “God, Jessie babe, you know that’s no biggie.” I do have a little karmic room here: Amy had a date at one of our Thanksgiving dinners a few years ago who got very, very drunk and threw up. On my bathroom floor. So she owes me one, I guess, but I don’t want things to get ugly.

  “Why don’t you just stay at the bar,” I say. “We’ll get the bill, and I’ll get him out of here.”

  “No, come on, that’s silly talk. I can deal with a surly drunk guy. Let’s get some dessert, we’ll get him some coffee, and it’ll all be okay. I’m having fun.”

  “Okay,” I say, and I go back to the table. Josh looks fine. He’s sitting up straight and he smiles at me.

  “That was fast,” he says.

  “Yeah. Are you alright?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Amy is back in another moment, smiling.

  “That bartender,” she says. “Did you see him?”

  “I feel like I know him from somewhere,” I say. “Didn’t he use to work at—”

  Josh leans over toward Amy and interrupts me. “Are you a Republican?” he asks.

  “Jesus Christ, Josh, don’t,” I say.

  Amy looks surprised for a second, but she gives it right back to him. “So what if I am?”

  “I fucking knew it!” he says, loudly enough that a couple people in the dining room turn their heads. “How do you look at yourself in the mirror? How do you live with yourself?”

  “Josh, stop it,” I hiss.

  Amy leans in, and she’s stabbing her finger in the air at him. “You know what? I’m not some stupid sheep. I can think for myself. I do think for myself.”

  “Please,” I say.

  The waiter is back at the table. “You ready to see the dessert tray?”

  “Sure, yeah,” Josh says. “Let’s do a couple rich, fattening desserts.”

  “We’ll take our check, please,” Amy says.

  “Here,” I say, pawing through my bag like an imbecile until I can find my wallet. “Just take my card.”

  “So, who do you think is responsible,” Josh continues once the waiter leaves, “for everything that’s going on right now?”

  “Josh, leave it, please?”

  “No, no, I’m not going to leave it. I think it’s the guys she put in office. It’s the guys she voted for! Your participation.”

  “You don’t know who I voted for. You don’t have a clue.”

  “I know what you’ve done,” Josh says, his eyes narrowing. “And people like you are going to get a big wake-up surprise someday—”

  “You don’t know the first thing about me,” Amy says as she stands up. “And you’re pathetic for thinking you do. You don’t know anything about me. I’m sorry, Jessica. I’m sorry you have to deal with an asshole like this. I won’t judge you for it, though.”

  Josh apologizes, again, and again, and again, on our walk back. He should be apologizing; I am furious. Sometimes he almost hangs on me for support, and other times he jams his hands into his pockets and walks ahead of me. When he isn’t apologizing, he’s talking what seems like nonsense.

  “The terrain modeling, it can be shaded, but if you shade it, how do you, what makes the vegetation?” he says. “What pigmentation? How do I do that, Jess? God, Jess, I am sorry, I am sorry, I am an asshole, I am such an asshole, I am sorry.”

  I don’t even bother trying to shut him up back at my apartment. Pat’s lights are on too. My plan is to just let him pass out, and deal with how I feel about everything in the morning.

  Once we’re in my place, I point to the couch. “You’re sleeping there,” I say. He sits down and holds his head in his hands while I get him my thick fleece blanket from the chest in th
e corner.

  “I know. I deserve it.”

  I go in the bathroom and brush my teeth, and I jump when I look up and see his red-eyed reflection in the mirror over my shoulder.

  “What?” I say.

  “Can I use your phone?”

  “You aren’t going to call anybody like this.”

  “No, really. I need it.”

  “What are you going to do? Call an old girlfriend?”

  “No, Jess, I’m serious. I need to call Emily.”

  “Your sister?”

  “Yes, my sister.”

  “Josh, I don’t know. Why don’t you get some sleep and call her tomorrow?”

  His eyes are begging me. “Please. I need to.”

  “Hold on,” I say, and I rinse out my mouth and turn out the light and he follows me back to the living room. I take the phone out of the cradle and hand it to him in the bare light from the street.

  “It’s long distance,” he says. “Is that okay?”

  “Josh, there’s no—”

  “I won’t talk long, I’ll keep it short.”

  “It’s free long distance, I don’t care.” Does anybody charge for long distance anymore?

  I go to my room and get into my bed, and it seems like a long time before I finally hear him start to dial.

  “Hello, Tim. It’s Josh. Yes, Josh, your brother-in-law. Damn it, yes, Tim, I know, I know it’s late there. I’m sorry. Can I talk to Emily? What? Well wake her up, just wake her up!

  “Emily, Em, hi, hi. I know, I know. Yes, it’s late, yes. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. No, come on, you know I don’t get drunk. I’m talking loud? Sorry. Better? Happy, what? Happy birthday. I’m sorry, I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier. It’s so hard, Emily. I’ve been thinking about you all day. Yes. Happy birthday.

  “Did the boys do anything fun for, no, Em, come on, we need to talk right now. Don’t go. Don’t go. Yes, I’m going to talk about that. Speak up. Speak up. Why do you even care? He doesn’t listen to you anyway. Yes, I am going to talk like that. I’m not afraid to say it. I’m not like Mom, at least I say what I’m, what? Yes, I’m going to bring her into it! Why don’t you just get out, Emmy? Mom and Dad want to help you, just, wait, wait, okay?

  “No, Emily, no. You keep, you keep, we need to talk about this. Mom is. I’m not going to stop! Okay, okay, okay, don’t hang up, Em. I just. Okay, are you there? Okay. I just wanted to say happy birthday. Really. But talk to Mom. You need to talk to Mom, she’d help you with the kids. Goddammit, Em, yes, I’m going to talk like that. Emily? Emily? Fuck! Fuck!”

  My pulse pounds in my ears in the sudden quiet, and I’ve pulled my comforter tight up under my chin. I couldn’t help listening, couldn’t get away from it, but I wish I hadn’t heard any of it. Josh is breathing funny in the other room, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s crying.

  I wish I couldn’t hear it. Slowly, it fades, replaced by his heavy, openmouthed breathing. But there’s something else, something above; footsteps and doors and faucets turning on and off. The grind of a chair across the floor. I’m thinking about him up there. Picturing him. He’s plucking the strings of his cello. Tuning it. He’s quiet about it, but I hear it. And in my head, I can see it.

  What I do next seems not like myself. I swing my feet off my bed, and I feel around on the floor with my hands for my sweatpants and pull them on. I stand, and wait, and Josh’s breathing doesn’t change. I wait again at my door, and then I pull it open—slowly so there’s no creak in the hinges—and I slide out into the hall. With my bare feet, I pad up the stairs.

  Patrick is still plucking away at his cello. My hands are pressed to the outside of his door, and my right ear is too. He picks out a soft tune, quiet, but fast, and he pauses and I hear him pluck pluck pluck and change the sound of the note with his tuning key. Then he sighs, and I hear the knock of the cello’s body as he places it back into the stand.

  My full weight is pressed against his door.

  His chair moves again, and now I hear him typing on his laptop. He pauses, and types, and pauses again and laughs and says something that sounds like, “Danny, you dumbass.” Then the chair moves and I hear the little shutting-down song of his computer. I hear his footsteps, and when I sense that he’s coming close to the door, my throat feels tight and I hold my breath; I stand there and wait, and wait—he’s just two feet away from me—and then he walks away and I breathe again. His teeth are brushed, and his toilet is flushed, and I hear bedclothes rustled and lights switched off.

  My hand moves toward the doorknob, and stops. It’s probably locked. Probably. I could check; it might be unlocked, and I could go in. I could check. But I take my hand away, and softly step backward, and go back down the stairs.

  When I slip back into my apartment and into my bed, all that seems left is the sound of Josh’s breathing. It goes on, and on, and that’s the sound I fall asleep to. And when I wake up in the morning I find him with me—at my side with his arm around my waist—I hate myself a little bit because I know I’ve already forgiven him, and I miss him when he leaves to go home.

  17

  Gert is back in the studio on Monday, and, for better or worse, so am I. Josh seems to be hiding from me behind the scanner console, and I haven’t bothered to say anything to him other than hello.

  “Check it out,” Gert says, holding his cast-encased forearm out to me. “You want to write something on it?” The cast is blue, and there’s puffy batting sticking out of the end of it along with his purple fingertips.

  “Oh, Gert, I’m sorry,” I say, and I hold the cast between my hands. “You have to have surgery? Are you right-handed?”

  “It’s no big trouble, Jess. All I do with this scanner is press the buttons, yeah? And surgery on Friday. I said do it Friday so we could get the scanning done. The doc pays for this thing by the day.”

  “You’re dedicated. Does it hurt?”

  “Sure it hurts. But I got pain pills. The good stuff.” He glances at Josh and leans close to me. “You want a couple? I’m serious.”

  “I’m fine, Gert. But thank you.”

  “You just tell me when you do. It’s the best for a hangover.”

  We’re going to start on my left hand and arm today, Gert says, and he seems to think he can position his sheet closely enough to my shoulder and head that they can scan without me needing to wear those terrible eyeshades. I take my place on the table and Gert moves around like usual to set things up, except he’s holding his cast up in the air so it doesn’t bang into anything.

  The scanning seems to go very smoothly today. Josh and Gert have their routine; they call things out to each other, Gert positions the scanner arm, Josh types and the machine hums and beeps. Then the whole process repeats.

  I’m wearing shorts and a plain old blue bra as they scan me. I almost make a joke about how my bra matches Gert’s cast, but I don’t: it’s stupid, for starters, and Gert has been regarding my body with such detachment as he works that I may as well be inanimate. I’d like to not change that.

  At least, I think he’s been detached. “You look like a Dutch girl, Jess,” he says as he helps me roll over. “All skinny. And the freckles.”

  “Skinny, what?”

  He taps the small of my back with his fingertip. “I can see your bones.”

  “You should see my sister.”

  “They’re like twins,” Josh says out of nowhere. “I’ve seen pictures.”

  “Keep the back of your hand flat on the table, Jess.” Back to business. “Stretch out your fingers. Straight like, yeah, just like that. I’m going to tape your wrist down to keep you still. Will that bother you?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “You want a blanket?”

  “I’m fine.”

  I can’t lift my shoulder up now, so reading or writing is out of the question. I almost do ask Gert for one of his pills, but I do need to try to get some work done later, so I don’t. The fog we had outside this morning has gone and I lie with my hea
d turned to the side and watch the dust floating in the shafts of light coming into the room now.

  By noon, my arms and hands have been completely scanned. Josh thought we’d be doing the hands in the afternoon, but Gert—even disabled—has kept things moving along. Gretchen and I had tentatively planned to have lunch, so once I have my shirt back on I go out to the hall and call her to let her know I’m free. We make plans to meet up at the Gram. I head off down the hall, and I’m just about to the door when I hear Josh calling my name.

  “Hey,” he says, coming up to me in a half run. “Hey.” He’s holding an envelope.

  “What’s up?”

  He hands me the envelope, and I can tell there’s a card inside. “Would you give this to Amy the next time you see her?”

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing. Just a card.”

  “Are you asking her for a date or something?”

  “You’re not very funny. Will you give it to her?”

  “I will give it to her,” I say. I slip the card into my bag, and he looks relieved.

  “Hey, can I talk to you?”

  The position I’m in here, the position of power, the moral superior, gives me a high school sophomore sort of thrill. “I have to make a bus, Josh. Can we talk tonight?”

  “Do you want to have dinner?”

  “I might consider dinner.”

  “I could make something.”

  “Ah,” I say, and I can’t help smiling. “I might consider dinner as long as it doesn’t involve pasta with a red sauce.”

  “Oh. Well, we could get carryout, then.”

  “For someone so creative, your kitchen habits surprise me.”

  “We all have our zones of comfort.”

  “We do. I’ll see you in about an hour.”

  On the bus, my curiosity is too much, and I take the envelope from my bag. The flap isn’t sealed, just tucked in, and I can’t stop myself from working it up and sliding the card out. There’s a picture, like a watercolor, of a loose bouquet of flowers on the front. The card is plain inside except for Josh’s precise cursive handwriting:

  Dear Amy—I doubt that an apology will ever be sufficient, but my behavior the other night was inexcusable. I am very, very sorry for acting as I did, and for saying the things I did. Jessica is truly lucky to have you as a friend. Most sincerely, Josh Hadden