He paused only a moment before marching straight over to the booth. He cleared his throat. Nicki turned from the couple, her smile disappearing. “Excuse me a second,” she said without looking at them, and then grabbed him by his arm and yanked him roughly away.
“What are you doing?” she hissed, marching him across the room.
“We need to talk about this more. You didn’t give me enough time to—”
Nicki stopped and let go of him just in front of the entrance. “Are you kidding me? I’m working, Paul. I told you to call me later.”
“You don’t understand what it is you’re considering. You’re not thinking straight. It’s not like you can have the baby and then we just go back to our lives. It’s not like that.”
Nicki shook her head. “Paul, listen to my words. You … need … to … leave.”
He knew he was babbling. He was aware that he was now hurting his cause, not helping it. But he couldn’t stop himself. “Once you have a kid, that’s it—your life’s over. There’s nothing else after that. And what are we supposed to do? We’re not even dating. Why the fuck would we have a kid together? Why the fuck would you want to do that to yourself, to me? Is this just some sick, twisted way of getting back at me? Because it’s not worth it, Nicki. I’m a bad person, I know I am, but that’s all the more reason not to have my kid. Trust me, you don’t want my kid, Nicki. You don’t.”
He heard Kevin’s voice near his ear: “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Right now.”
“I’m not finished,” Paul snapped. He saw Nicki turning away and took a step toward her. And when he felt Kevin’s hand gingerly touch his shoulder, Paul would have liked to say that instinct kicked in, that it all happened so fast, he didn’t know what he was doing. He would have liked to say that, but in reality, he was aware of everything he did. When he shoved Kevin roughly away, he knew what he was doing. And when Nicki shouted his name and grabbed him by the arm to stop him, and he spun around and pushed her with a swift and startling violence, in that instant he knew what he was doing.
It was only after he’d done it and she was sitting on the floor of the Olive Garden, holding her arm and looking up at him with eyes wide from astonishment more than pain—this pretty, frightened girl who was carrying their child—that he felt the shame and regret rising in him.
He left the restaurant without another word.
By the end of August, deep into Paul’s withdrawal from the world of the living, it occurred to him, almost accidentally, that eight weeks had now passed since Nicki became pregnant. If she hadn’t already made her decision, she would be making it soon. But of course, he hadn’t heard from her, and of course, he hadn’t dared to call.
So on the first Saturday of September, when his mother called up the stairs in the evening to tell him he had a phone call, Paul felt a little quiver in his chest. It had to be Nicki. But what would she say to him? And what could he possibly say to her? He knew that “sorry” wouldn’t be enough this time—not that it ever had been. But he had nothing else to give.
When he came downstairs, his mom was sitting out on the front porch. Any opportunity she could find to get him out of the house, she seized. Paul stepped outside, blinking in the sunlight, and took the phone from his mom. Feeling suddenly queasy, he said, “Hello?”
It wasn’t Nicki.
“Paul Frazier. Jesus Christ, you’re a hard person to get hold of, you know that?”
It took Paul a few seconds to place the guy’s voice. “Niles?” he asked hesitantly.
“Guilty as charged.”
Niles, his old bandmate. Niles, who Paul had lived with in Brooklyn. Niles, who Paul had punched in the face once after he told a bartender to cut Paul off. Niles, who, very soon after that incident, had left the band, though he cited other reasons—namely that all of them were broke, the band was going nowhere, and, since Sasha had left Paul, Paul seemed to be going crazy. They hadn’t parted on the best of terms.
“How’d you get this number?” Paul heard himself asking, glancing over at his mom, who was pretending to be absorbed in a book.
“It wasn’t easy, man. If that’s what you were going for, well done.”
It had really been only a few months since Paul last saw Niles, but hearing his voice on the phone was still disconcerting. He felt as though Niles, Sasha, and all the other people he’d known in New York should have disappeared, existed in a parallel universe. Paul, who had deactivated his Facebook account months ago, who had gotten rid of his phone and never checked his email, found it strange that someone could still find him if they really wanted to.
Things only got stranger. Paul listened to Niles chatter away, surprised by his friendly, not-at-all-begrudging tone, and slowly he began to comprehend what Niles was telling him.
Paul remembered Mira Borsa, right? That Slavic chick who lived in Greenpoint and looked a lot like Nico? The Seizures had opened for her a couple of times, and she’d had that one song where she played nothing but a xylophone for fifteen minutes. Well, it turned out one of Mira’s garage music videos had gone viral on YouTube a while back. While the Seizures were falling apart last winter, she had been signed by Rough Trade Records and went to London to cut an album. “Mira Mira” was her stage name. She’d been on tour all summer in Europe and had really blown up over there. They were extending her tour into the States this fall. A major cell phone service provider was using her single for its new commercial. Niles was surprised Paul hadn’t heard about this.
Paul was beginning to wonder why Niles felt the need to keep him informed of another musician’s good fortune, when Niles finally got around to the point. A few days ago, Mira had contacted Niles online, out of the blue, and asked him to get lunch with her in Manhattan. Over Thai food on the Upper East Side, Niles, surprised that she had even thought to look him up, was even more surprised when she began to ask him about the Seizures. He’d told her they were taking a temporary hiatus. Then she had gone off on how much she loved the band, how much energy they had on stage, and how she had always admired their raw power.
“She asked about you a lot,” Niles told him.
“Me?”
“Yeah. I covered for you, said you were visiting family upstate at the moment.”
Mira had recorded her debut largely by herself, on her computer, and had found it difficult to translate to a live experience. Even though things were going really well for Mira Mira, she was dissatisfied with the tour. She wanted something heavier, more muscular and intense. She started talking about the confines of big record labels and how her art was suffering from it—she needed to do something brash and exciting to reignite the creative flame. And before Niles knew what was happening, she was offering the Seizures a gig as Mira Mira’s band for the American leg of the tour, which kicked off in less than two weeks and wrapped up by Thanksgiving. Afterward, if things went well, she wanted to explore cutting an album with them—something raw and rough. She wanted to do it live in the studio.
“So, man,” Niles said, “I’ve already talked to the other guys. I’ve spent over a day tracking you down. She needed a definite answer yesterday, but I’m willing to forgive you, provided you get your ass down here as fast as you can. I’ve got a couch you can crash on till the tour starts.” Paul cleared his throat. “Wow, that’s …” He paused. “You think I could call you back tomorrow, take a night to think about it?”
“Think about it? What the hell is there to think about? What are you doing up there? Flipping burgers? Bagging groceries?”
“I’m unemployed, actually.”
“Not anymore. You’re going on a cross-country tour: Chicago, Seattle, Los Angeles, San Francisco. California, compadre! Are you listening? There’s nothing to think about. This is our big break, the one we kept waiting for that never came. Here it is.”
“Have you heard from Sasha at all?”
“Jesus Ch
rist, Paul.”
“I was just curious.”
“Look, man, I need an answer. I mean, she wants our band, but not bad enough to delay her tour for you.”
Paul let out a breath. “All right. Okay. Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you be down here by tomorrow?”
“I’m leaving now.”
Packing up his car took longer than he expected. His mother didn’t offer to help; she just sat at the kitchen table, drinking seltzer and watching him as he traveled back and forth between his room upstairs and his car parked out front, quickly emptying the house of his belongings.
After a while, he didn’t even bother trying to pack anything away in an orderly fashion—just grabbed armfuls of clothing or stacks of records and tossed them into the car. His guitars took up almost all the trunk, so most of the rest he piled haphazardly in the back seat. Soon, it was a jumble of boxes, records, loose clothing, and blankets. By the time he finished, it was dark. He shut the trunk and turned to go inside.
“You leaving?”
Paul turned back around to find DeShawn standing in the middle of the empty street, astride his bike.
There were a lot of things Paul could feel guilty about at this point, concerning his time in this town, quite a few people he would just as soon never see again. And DeShawn was right there at the top of the list. “Yeah,” he said. “Going back to New York City … I do believe I’ve had enough,” he added in a bad Bob Dylan impression, and gave a weak smile.
DeShawn stared at him blankly.
Paul moved to go back into the house, then stopped and turned to look at DeShawn. “Not that you should listen to me, or anything,” he said, “but here’s a piece of advice: get out of this town as soon as you possibly can, DeShawn. Get out and don’t come back.”
DeShawn gave a snort—Paul couldn’t tell whether it indicated agreement or contempt—then he put his feet on the bike pedals and rode away.
“So I’m heading out,” Paul said, standing in the kitchen and facing his mother, who was still sitting at the table.
Sharon nodded without looking at him. “Uh-huh.”
“If I go now, I’ll get into the city late, avoid any traffic.”
“Sure.”
He looked around the room, scratched at the back of his neck. “Look … thanks a lot, Mom, for everything.”
“Anytime.”
Paul flinched. Had she meant for that to sound as mean as it did? “You know, it’s going to be different this time. This is something real. I have actual work.”
Sharon nodded and finally looked at him with sad eyes. “So you told me.”
“Okay, well, I guess I’m off.”
His mom stood up and approached. When she hugged him, Paul was startled. She had never hugged him that way before, so tight, as if this were the last time they would ever see each other. “Take care of yourself,” she said as she let go.
He nodded and turned to leave.
“Paul,” she said, and he stopped. “What happened at the VBS? Why did you quit like that?”
She had asked him this question before, more than once, but the way she said it now was different, as though she already knew the answer. He opened his mouth but couldn’t drag up his usual lies or excuses. He kept his face away from her so she couldn’t see.
“Was there a girl, Paul?” he heard her ask. “Somebody at church?”
He forced himself to laugh. “No, Mom, there wasn’t a girl. I just couldn’t deal with it anymore.”
“It’s just … there were a few days near the end where you were different. For a second there, I thought you were actually happy.”
Paul looked at his mother and smiled. “Yeah, for a second there, I thought I was, too.”
Paul went out to his car. It was dark and there was a soft, cool breeze. Somewhere, a dog barked. He stood in the driveway for a moment, then got into his car, turned the key, backed out onto the street, and drove away.
LAURA
The hostess had long, shimmering dark hair and a perfect hourglass body, shown off in a black top and tight black jeans. She was beautiful. When she greeted me at the door, I wanted to strangle her.
“I’m meeting someone here,” I said, surprised that my voice still worked. “Banner? Martin Banner?” It came out like a question—was I really meeting Martin here, beautiful hostess, the man I had stayed up so many nights talking to without ever actually hearing his voice? You tell me.
She smiled. “Right this way.”
I followed her into the dimly lit restaurant, past an older woman drinking a latte alone, bent over a thick book; past a middle-aged couple, busy devouring their food so they wouldn’t have to talk to each other. Looking at the hostess’ butt made me much less confident in my own. I no longer wanted to strangle her. Now I just wanted to crawl inside her, keep my brain but inhabit her body, see how it felt to be treated when you looked like that. Why wasn’t this scientifically and medically possible yet?
These were the crazy thoughts running through my mind as she brought me into the back room, which was larger than I expected, and gestured to a small table in the corner.
I saw him. He was sitting at the table, head down, scrolling through his phone. It was him. All those countless words I’d read on my laptop, this man had written. All those nights I had gone to bed and couldn’t sleep, he’d been at the center of my restless dreams. I suddenly wanted to grab the hostess’ hand and not let go, have her lead me to the table and make the introductions. But she had already disappeared, off to help the next online couple meet in person. I swallowed, touched my face randomly, then walked up to the table.
“Martin?” I said, and again my voice came out strong and clear. “Hello.”
And I would remember for a long, long time the expression that spread across his face when he looked up at me. It came in a swift and violent evolution, like a sped-up blossoming of a flower on one of those TV nature programs. But later I would slow it down in my mind and parse it out, analyze what was going through his head with each change in his face.
First, simple confusion. When he looked up and saw me, his initial reaction was to wonder innocently what this teenage girl was doing standing in front of him. But a moment later, he realized I had just said his name, and the confusion deepened, and the creases in his forehead grew harder and seemed to freeze there. Then I saw him searching frantically though his mind for an explanation, cocking his head to the side just a bit, and when he couldn’t come up with anything, that was when the horror came. The implications began to rise up out of the haze. Still, he didn’t seem completely convinced that this was happening. He stared at me as if I were a ghost.
All this occurred in less than five seconds, and before he could do anything, I sat down across from him at the table. He actually flinched, as if surprised that I could move.
“Martin,” I said, and smiled, “it’s me, Kim.”
His voice was a hoarse whisper. “What is this? What are you doing?”
“I’m here to meet you for dinner,” I said, making my voice loud, as though he really didn’t understand, as if I were talking to a small child or someone with a mental disability.
He shook himself. “I have to go,” he said, and stood up.
And for a moment, I pictured him leaving me here alone. All those late-night chats, all that planning and conniving for nothing, just so I could sit here in a trendy restaurant in Albany, alone. I was so seized by horror at this prospect that my voice came to me unsummoned. “Wait!” I cried loud enough that everyone around us could hear. “Dad, you can’t leave me here! I have no way to get home!”
The tables around us fell silent. The middle-aged couple in the front room craned their necks back to see what was going on behind them. A group of teenage girls around my age, at a table at the other end of
the room, looked up from their phones and iced coffees to stare. Martin was halfway out of his seat when he saw the attention we were getting. He paused for a moment, then sat back down. “I’m not leaving,” he said, and laughed nervously. “No, I’m not leaving.”
“Oh, good,” I said, and smiled, shifting myself more comfortably in my seat.
I felt the eyes that had been on us go back to their own tables. Martin was about to say something when our waitress arrived. She wasn’t nearly as attractive as the hostess, and I was grateful for that, at least. I didn’t want Martin to be forced to compare. While she introduced herself as Mindy, I stared at Martin, who was looking intently at her so he didn’t have to look at me.
As if to underscore the wrongness of what I had done, Martin was exactly as he’d presented himself in the few online photos I’d seen: a little scruffy but undeniably attractive for a middle-aged man. His hair was brown with gray streaks, and he had a small pair of glasses perched on the end of his nose. I liked the fact that he hadn’t given in to contacts. I wanted to think that he looked smart and in control, but at the moment, he really didn’t. Staring at the waitress and trying to ignore me, he looked terrified.
“Can I start you off with drinks?” Mindy asked.
It was a second before I realized she was looking at me. Surprised, I ordered coffee, though I didn’t drink coffee. Martin muttered that he would stick with water.
When Mindy left, I cleared my throat to speak, but I had no words. Of course I had expected Martin to be surprised. I had expected him to be shocked and angry. But the way he looked at me, as if I were the grim reaper, as if I had ripped his heart out of his chest and were devouring it in front of him, made thinking difficult. I had expected to be the one nervous and a little frightened. Instead, I found that I was the one with all the power. I was the one who had to keep him calm. Still, there was something I liked about the power I seemed to have over him. He was legitimately terrified of me. When I kept him here just by raising my voice, I had felt dangerous and powerful.
Another Life Page 32