‘Were we?’ She stared at me until I turned away. ‘I remember differently.’
‘I should have stopped you from going. I thought I was doing the right thing, letting you go back to that life.’
‘So I was more than a summer fling?’ She closed her eyes for a second. ‘You never said.’
‘Neither did you.’
She bit her lip. ‘A girl wants to be told.’
‘So much for feminism.’
‘Don’t do that,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘What?’
‘Expect us to be one way. You don’t realise it’s not clear-cut – that we’re human beings just like you, with shades of grey, with differences.’ She sat up and hugged her legs. ‘Three months before my wedding, I sat in our new car outside our new house and told him I didn’t want to work any more. I wanted to be a housewife and have children, be a wife and mother, just like all the women around me growing up.’
‘Did you really want that?’
‘Course not. But if I was going to surrender myself to that life, it felt like I should do it completely.’ She paused. ‘It’s impossible for you as a man to understand how it was, growing up in my religion. Women are meant to be meek and submissive, qualities that don’t come naturally to me. I’ve spent my life battling that thinking, and also desperately wishing I could fall in line.’
‘Why did you marry him?’ I love what wine can do.
She rested her chin on her knees, her arms still hugging her legs. ‘I was in love with the idea of him. All those wild years were spent kicking at everything I’d been taught. Looking, testing, feeling. But all along, I knew I’d go back. The choice was presented to me as life or death, and who wouldn’t choose life? There was a moment when I wondered …’ She looked up. ‘I don’t expect you to understand. He was my way back into the fold, and it felt like the only thing to do.’
‘What would he think about you being here with me right now?’
She glanced down at her hands. ‘Is it wrong then, seeing an old friend? I suppose maybe it depends on the friend.’
We listened to the noise of other people’s conversations. The sun beat down, bathing our skin in warmth, as it has done every summer of our lives. As it always will. The way it feels never changes.
‘That time I came to your assembly at that hall,’ I said. ‘Remember?’
Her cheeks grew pink. ‘Of course I remember.’
‘When I came outside at lunch, you were surrounded by all your friends and looked so embarrassed when you saw me. Like you wished I wasn’t there.’
She blinked. ‘Yeah, I was embarrassed,’ she said, frowning, ‘of how I must look to you, pretending to be this good Christian girl when you’d known me in a way they hadn’t. I was afraid you’d see right through me.’
My stomach turned. ‘Oh.’
It wasn’t me she’d been embarrassed about. It was herself. It was about her, of what I would think of her. Not me. Not me. Not fucking me.
‘But it went deeper than that,’ she continued. ‘I learned to split myself in two back then. It was a way of avoiding the guilt over my friendship with Lisa, and the huge love I felt for certain people who came into my life. Worldly people. I wasn’t meant to get close, remember? But I loved how I could let my guard down around you, be someone who just felt things instead of analysing every urge for its sinfulness. Then on Sundays I’d put on my best dress and go to the Kingdom Hall and be who they wanted me to be. That day you came to the assembly was the first time my two worlds collided. I didn’t know which Anna was the real one.’
To hear that she had felt a safety in my presence that summer confirmed a knowledge that I couldn’t explain. The words could not travel past the tightness of my throat, so I reached out and touched her wrist. I had to.
She let me hold her for a moment, then carefully pulled her arm away.
‘The older I get …’ she said. ‘Shouldn’t I know the answers by now?’
‘Meaning of life? I thought you had that.’
She made a strange sound in her throat, half laugh and half sob. ‘So did I.’
Then she said: ‘It’s like being in a room where everyone’s dancing. They sway and clap and stamp their feet, but you can’t hear the music. You want to, my God, you want to. They’re smiling and having the time of their lives, and they slap your back like you feel it too. And in that moment, you have a choice. You can start to dance and hope you’ll hear it, because maybe the music really is playing and it’s you that’s the problem. Or you refuse to pretend and you shake your head and say I don’t hear it.’ Her eyes glazed over as she looked ahead. ‘I’ve always danced along …’
‘Maybe you need to sing your own song.’
She shook her head and held her cheeks. ‘Blaze my own trail and forge my own path? I’m done with riddles. I want to live.’
Later, when I’m in bed and thinking through the day, I remember how she looked in her white summer dress, with her legs tucked underneath and her hair slightly frizzy from the rain. I wanted to kiss her and know her and feel her skin.
But there are rules about married people, and I try to obey those rules. Even so, when I’m lying in bed, I scan my mind for clues and sense that she felt it too. The strange and heavy weight of the air between us, thick with danger and something unknown. A ring is no match for that.
When I met Sal at the pub the following week, he bought the first round and went, ‘So what happened the next day with Anna?’
‘We talked, then said goodbye.’
‘Same as what always happens then.’
‘What can I do?’ I said. ‘She’s married. I’m not the one who can say anything.’
Sal shook his head. ‘Do you ever think about how it must be for her? Growing up in some weird religion where she’s not an equal or allowed a point of view? Where she’s ordered to obey something other than her own feelings? Maybe she’s waiting for you to speak. And what’s the worst that can happen? You put your hand out and she turns away. Who cares? Isn’t it worth the risk?’
I sipped my pint. ‘I nearly did.’
Sal groaned into his hands. ‘Fucking hell,’ he said. ‘That’s a life, is it? You know, one day, we’ll all be standing round at your funeral with you laid out in a box. Here lies Nicolas Mendoza, the priest will say. He nearly did.’
Lemon meringue pie / by Anna
I am eight years old at my mother’s table
I take a fork and push it
down the middle
Through the white yellow brown of home-made delight
Look how it wobbles
They say the way to a heart is through the stomach
I love my mother
But she does not know this
We do not talk of such things
The baked puff of cloud is sweet on my tongue
Like the one when I was fourteen
When all I wanted were kisses and letters
Or the one who said he loved me before I’d even looked in the mirror
There you are
The tartness of your skin
you, the one who fucked me ’til my heart bled
Or the one I liked when we spun the bottle
Who pulled me by the hair and spat on
Hot tarmac
Your bitter tangs I took as tokens
You were all yellow
Thinking you were looking at the stars
Being men
And now we come to the good one
Safe as the colour of biscuit in tea
Encasing the rest and holding it together
Look how solid it is, secure.
I have to push a little harder here
But my fork still cuts through
See how the watchtower crumbles
The fluted edges fall
Then there is the one who is a mouthful of everything together
The one my buds can’t easily discern
I close my eyes and hold him a moment
On my tongue
As he slides down my body into my stomach
Glorious
Why did my mother not teach me to eat a pie nicely?
How to not leave a trail of crumbs on my lips
On the floor for others to clean
Or how one should always end on something sweet
I know
She was too busy making one for herself
Eat it all up like a good little girl
Don’t make a fuss
Don’t make a fuss
They say the way to a heart is through the stomach
I cannot cook
but perhaps there’s still time
The Wedding, Continued
‘Why don’t you go for it?’ said a voice to my left, and I recognised it as belonging to the blonde I’d sat next to at dinner.
‘Sorry?’ I drew my eyes away from the dance floor and turned to look. Laura, her name was. She had a nice face. Sensible-looking. We’d made pleasant enough chit-chat throughout the meal and I remembered she did something in admin at a university.
‘The woman you’ve been staring at. In the red dress.’
I gave an uneasy laugh. ‘Have I? I don’t know about that.’ Like a reflex, I looked at the dance floor, then away again. ‘She’s an old friend,’ I said, picking up my beer. ‘Haven’t seen her in a while, that’s all.’
‘She’s pretty,’ she said, nodding. ‘What’s stopping you?’
I shook my head as if to suggest she’d got it completely wrong. ‘She’s married.’
Laura raised an eyebrow. ‘Didn’t get in there fast enough, then.’
I took a mouthful of warm beer. ‘Something like that.’
We said nothing for a moment. The music went on around us, and those dancing stamped their feet on the floorboards and threw their arms out in a type of Highland fling. I stood there, next to her, this woman who was half stranger and half acquaintance, and despite the noise, I had a sudden urge to fill the silence.
‘It’s been a nice wedding,’ I said, raising my voice so it could be heard.
She had her arms folded in an awkward pose. I noticed little black blobs in the inner corners of her eyes and looked away so she wouldn’t know I’d seen them. I didn’t want her to feel embarrassed later when she glanced at herself in a mirror and saw they were there.
‘Yes,’ she said, and I knew she was watching Anna. ‘I love weddings.’
I didn’t reply. I looked everywhere except the dance floor.
Sal came in from outside and waved as he walked towards the bar. He made a drinking motion and I put my finger up to say wait. ‘Would you like a drink?’ I asked Laura.
She smiled and raised her empty glass. ‘White wine would be nice, thanks.’
I indicated to Sal and pointed to Laura’s wine glass. White, I mouthed, and he gave a thumbs-up.
I nodded along in time to the music as I waited for our drinks. She kept her arms folded and tapped her finger on her elbow, and every now and again she’d look down at her feet.
‘Whereabouts do you work in London?’ she said after a minute, cupping her mouth with a hand to make herself heard.
I did a mental scan of our conversation at dinner, when we’d swapped basic rundowns of our lives. ‘Near St Pancras,’ I shouted back.
‘Remind me what you do?’
‘I calculate pensions for local government,’ I said. ‘And it’s as boring as it sounds.’
Laura shook her head. ‘Good, solid job. That’s important in times like these.’
‘Actually, I’ve just been promoted. I manage the department now.’
She looked at me, impressed. Those I’d told hadn’t shown much interest beyond a faint lifting of the eyebrows. Dad had sniffed, and when I’d mentioned it to Anna on the bus from the ceremony, she gave a slight frown and asked how long I’d wanted to work in management.
Sal arrived with the drinks and handed Laura a glass of red wine.
I looked at him. ‘I said white.’
He looked confused. ‘I thought you said wine.’ He shrugged as he gave me my pint. ‘I’ve never been able to lip-read.’
‘Is red okay?’ I said to Laura, unsure. ‘Here, let me change it.’
‘No,’ she said, moving the glass out of my reach. ‘It’s fine, honestly. Thank you,’ she said to Sal.
He gave a brief smile then turned to watch the dance floor. ‘Anna’s going for it,’ he said, nudging me.
I didn’t know where to look. ‘Yeah.’
‘I’m going to keep her company,’ said Sal, and he patted the back of my head. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t fall in love with her too.’ He took his pint with him and tapped Anna on the shoulder. She turned and hugged him and they danced Pulp Fiction-style to the music.
Laura’s eyes were on me. After a moment, she turned her attention back to the dancing and took a sip of her drink, then gave it a stare before setting it down on the nearest table.
Anna looked up and our eyes met. She glanced at Laura, then me, then back at Laura.
‘So do you enjoy working at a university?’ I said, turning to Laura.
She unfolded her arms and smoothed the back of her hair. ‘Yes, it’s hilarious,’ she said, then put her hand to her mouth.
‘Really?’
She blushed and covered her face with her hands. ‘Sorry,’ she said, laughing. ‘I don’t know why I just said that. It’s not hilarious at all. I think I’ve had too much wine.’
I smiled at her. She was nervous. For some reason, this made me feel better and I necked a long gulp of beer. I could sense Anna throwing us looks, and I turned instinctively to Laura. ‘Nice dress,’ I said. This was a half-truth. It was nice, nothing about it offensive, but then nothing particularly special either. I just wanted to say something to make her feel good.
She tugged at the hem. The dress was covered in tiny yellow flowers. ‘Do you think?’ she said. ‘I ordered loads and didn’t really like any of them. This was the best of a bad bunch.’
I didn’t know what to say to this, so I nodded and downed the rest of my beer.
The song ended and the dancers clapped themselves and leant on each other for a breather. Attention was again turned our way.
‘Listen,’ I said into her ear. ‘I don’t normally do this, but can I take your number? You know, in case I’m ever in Canterbury and need to visit a uni.’
She looked down at her hands and smiled. ‘That would be nice,’ she said, and I took out my phone to add a new contact.
1991
Sal and I began sharing a bed not long after France.
The bad dreams came thick and fast, and I’d wake in the night to see him sitting up outside the covers, thrashing his arms and screaming. I didn’t know what to do at first. He wouldn’t stop so I crept along to Dad’s room and tapped on the door, but there was no answer. When I looked in, I saw his bed was empty and assumed he was downstairs in front of the telly. I went back to bed and Sal eventually calmed down, but Dad still didn’t come.
The next time, I woke to find Sal standing on the windowsill, his face and hands pressed against the glass. The moon cast a shadow on the wall of a caged boy fighting to get out. He wouldn’t respond when I tried to talk him down, and I knew you should never wake a sleepwalker. Again, Dad’s bed was untouched, and when I went downstairs, the TV and lights were off too.
But Dad was there the next morning at breakfast. Sitting at the table, his head in his hands, staring at a cup of black coffee. We poured our own cereal and I got the milk from the fridge, and when he stood and gave a long sigh, I smelt the whisky on his breath.
It was easier to push our beds together. That way, I could stop him lashing out, put my arms around him and hold tight. On good nights when nothing happened, I imagined it was my presence that calmed him, that the warm lump of my body kept the nightmares at bay.
Stella was impressed when she discovered I knew how to use the washing machine. ‘Stone the crows,’ she said, a
nd gave me a long look, as if trying to figure me out. ‘Not your father’s son, then.’
I just shrugged. I didn’t tell her about Sal’s new thing of wetting the bed. She couldn’t have done anything about it so there didn’t seem much point.
2018
Dad came to New York to visit Sal about a month after it happened.
‘There’s no point me coming out yet,’ he said on the phone a few days into my stay. ‘You’re there, and he’s being cared for by doctors. Much better if I come when he’s discharged. I can only afford to fly out once, anyway.’
I hadn’t argued. I knew Sal would rather he kept to his side of the Atlantic.
He arrived a few days after we’d left hospital. He took a bus from the airport to Penn Station – the cheapest way – and then walked the dozen or so blocks to the apartment. I left Gloria with Sal while I went down to help carry his case up.
‘What’s wrong with the lift?’ was the first thing he said.
‘Broken. They’re getting someone in.’
He rolled his eyes and walked ahead up the stairs, stopping at each floor to wait for me to signal if we’d arrived.
When I opened the door, he strode in and wrinkled his nose at the stale air. He began a tour of the rooms, looking them over without saying a word. I introduced him to Gloria, who was just leaving, and he shouted to her slowly, as if she was the tourist. In the living room, Sal was lying on the trolley bed, his head towards the window. A talk show was on the TV, but nobody was watching.
Dad went over to Sal. ‘Hello, son,’ he said, and gave Sal’s leg a light pat.
Sal slowly turned his head to look at Dad, then down at the hand on his dead leg that had no feeling. ‘Hi,’ he said finally.
Dad put his hands behind his back. ‘And how are you?’ he asked, in that grave, attentive voice he used sometimes.
‘Paralysed.’
Dad coughed. ‘Well, yes, I know that. But how are you in yourself?’
‘I don’t know, Dad. I’ll probably need help every time I go for a shit for the rest of my life. How would you be?’
Dad pursed his lips.
Another Life Page 17