Another Life

by Robert Haller

“Dude, that is so fucking weird,” the first girl said, but the way she said it, “weird” wasn’t a bad thing. There was admiration in her eyes. She was pretty, with long blond hair and glasses. They all were pretty. And they all were looking at me with wide-eyed respect.

  “Yeah,” I said, smiling a little, “it was kinda fun, actually, even though he turned out to be a tool.” I’m a registered sex offender.

  “What if he had been, you know, dangerous?” one of the others asked me. I felt as if I were giving an interview.

  “Well, I didn’t do it alone,” I said. “My friend … Kim—we planned it together, and she would have been there if anything happened. She’s coming to pick me up now.”

  “I’m Jordan,” the first girl said.

  The three others said their names in turn, and they looked at me, expecting something. It was a second before I realized they were waiting for me to introduce myself. “Nola,” I said at last.

  “My older sister buses tables here,” Jordan said. “We’re just waiting for her to get off, then we’re driving with her to a party in Latham. You should totally tell your friend to meet you there instead.”

  I heard all her words, but it was while before I could make any sense of them. “You’re inviting me to a party?” I said at last.

  “Yeah, we’re taking my mom’s van, so there’s an extra seat. Lame, I know.”

  I pulled my phone from my pocket to check the time. I had a slew of unread texts and missed calls, but I ignored them. It was almost ten o’clock. I nodded slowly. “Sure, I’ll go to a party,” I said. I felt as though my night was finally turning around.

  PAUL

  It was inevitable, he supposed, that sooner or later he would go back to New York City. People never stayed away for good, did they, once they’d gotten a taste? The place had a sort of boomerang effect on the young and reckless—it might chew you up and spit you out, but you were only too happy to be swallowed up again.

  Driving south on Route 87, for the first time Paul realized how much he had missed the city. The scents of lilac blossoms and grilling meat riding on the warm air of a Brooklyn summer night, the Manhattan skyline across the river, almost obnoxious in its grandeur. Why had he left in the first place? Suddenly, all the reasons that had felt so convincing now seemed stupid or irrelevant.

  Before leaving the house, Paul had downloaded Mira Mira’s album from iTunes and ripped it onto a blank CD. Now he was blaring it in the car, windows rolled down, the night air whipping his hair. The album was really good. Mira’s voice was strong and soulful, the electronic production slick and immaculate, the hooks compelling. Paul was already starting to hate it. “You find an excuse to hate every young musician that isn’t Robert Pollard or you,” Sasha had once told him after he dismissed some new band as talentless and derivative. Paul decided it wouldn’t help his case to point out that Mr. Pollard had been putting out music since the eighties. But he liked to believe that his disdain for new artists wasn’t rooted entirely in jealousy and selfish bitterness, that pop music really had been reduced to one giant exercise in reusing and recycling. Mira Mira’s album might have been perfect, but it was too perfect, too clean. It didn’t say anything to him. But it didn’t really matter, did it? He couldn’t really give a shit. For him, it wasn’t about the music anymore. It was about the tour: a different city every night, a different club, a different drug, a different girl. An infinite number of bathroom stalls. In November, he’d be on the West Coast. Who cared what kind of music got him there? And then there was Mira.

  Niles had said she asked about him a lot.

  Paul remembered a night in Brooklyn, maybe two summers back, when it had almost happened between him and Mira. It was after a show, and they both had been drinking. She came on to him. At the time, Paul had been with Sasha and had been stupidly loyal. Now he had nothing to stop him. When he had downloaded Mira’s album and seen her on the cover, done up in black eyeliner and makeup like some stunning European goddess, he’d thought about fucking her. And now, listening to her sing in his car, he thought about fucking her. He would fuck her because she had a record deal. He would fuck her because of her perfect album production. He would fuck her because what kind of name was Mira Mira? He would fuck her because he knew that as soon as this song was over, it would keep playing in his head. He would fuck her because, sooner or later, Sasha would hear about it.

  But April wouldn’t hear about it. April wouldn’t know. Why would she? Even if Paul appeared on the cover of Rolling Stone, April might never notice. She was above all that. She didn’t need it, just as she hadn’t needed him. She would stay in Grover Falls, raising her kids, running the vacation Bible school, teaching high school algebra, immune to him, above him. And maybe, she’d still be teaching there years from now, when Nicki’s child entered ninth grade. Maybe the kid would be in April’s class, and April would sense something familiar about the kid, boy or girl, but never be quite sure what it was.

  Nicki wasn’t going to have an abortion, Paul knew. And not despite his having basically assaulted her in an Olive Garden, but because of it. She would have the baby just to get back at him. And in a year or so, she’d be after him for child support, just as Sallie Mae was after him for loan repayments. What a cliché he had turned out to be. For all his subversive pretension, what a goddamn cliché. And as for Mira and the tour, it could last only so long before he found a way to screw that up, too. He would start using too much, become a drugged-out wreck onstage. Or he’d piss Mira off irrevocably by sleeping with one of her friends. Or he would simply decide that his talent wasn’t being utilized to its full potential and become difficult. There were countless ways he could sabotage this opportunity and get himself dropped, though with any luck, by then he would at least be in California.

  The idea that he was a shallow person did not surprise or even bother Paul that much, since it was something he had suspected for some time now. What he hadn’t expected to discover, as the CD ended and immediately started over, was a complete lack of remorse after recognizing this shallowness. Yes, he had felt horrible for what he did to Nicki, hurting her, but part of him had also been relieved because he effectively and permanently ended the conversation. There was nothing more to say after that. If Nicki had the baby, there was no chance in hell that she’d want him around to help her take care of it. By being the absolute worst version of himself, Paul had dispelled any hope or expectation that he might improve. And this wasn’t even what surprised him—no, what he found strange, as he sped down the highway, was that he couldn’t make himself feel the least bit guilty about it.

  A big sign appeared on the right, boasting gas and coffee and McDonald’s. At the last second, Paul swerved into the exit lane, pulled into the parking lot, and shut off the engine. He sat there for a moment, breathing heavily in the silence.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried. Even when Sasha left him, he had shouted and raged and drunk himself stupid, but he never once cried. He felt that if he could just get himself to let loose now and cry for Nicki, for the baby, for April, for himself—if he could just shed a few real tears—then he could let go and keep going. He needed to prove to himself that he wasn’t completely empty, that he could still feel something, even if it was nothing more than guilt without follow-up, remorse without action. He even thought to pray to God—a God he was pretty sure he didn’t believe in—just to let him cry.

  But nothing came. His eyes remained dry. And in a sudden burst of frustration and rage, Paul brought his fist down hard on the dashboard, then again, and again, and again. After the fourth time, his hand was red and throbbing.

  Paul was holding his right hand in his left, rubbing it gently, looking out at a gas mart parking lot busy with people and cars in the falling darkness, when he became aware of the presence. At first, he wasn’t sure where the awareness had come from, but he was certain, beyond any doubt, that someone, or something, was her
e in the car with him. For one crazy moment, he thought of the lingo at New Life—the Holy Spirit washing over you. Then, after a moment of intense listening, he realized what it was: he could hear breathing—breathing that was not his own. Slowly, calmly, he opened the door and got out, loudly stretching his back and shoulders. As casually as he could, he looked in the back seat. Piled up almost to the car’s headliner was everything he owned. In the middle of the seat, flanked on either side by boxes and bags, a blanket lay over a large and shapeless bulk.

  Paul calmly opened the back seat door, then whisked the blanket out of the car. And although he had been expecting it, he still felt a jolt of surprise upon seeing DeShawn scrunched up on his side in the back seat. But before Paul could even say anything, DeShawn had slithered around a laundry bag of clothes and across the seat, opened the far door, and hopped out of the car. He streaked across the parking lot, toward a grassy hill and a dark wall of woods behind it.

  “Hey!” was all Paul could think to say before he took off running in pursuit.

  APRIL

  By the time April reached her house, it was full dark, and she was sweating and excited and determined not to identify what, exactly, she was excited about. She suspected that nailing it down might spoil the whole thing. Nothing in her immediate life had changed. She still lived in Grover Falls. She still taught the same subject at the same school she’d been teaching at for over ten years. The one romantic relationship she’d been in since her divorce had lasted barely a week, and it was a small miracle it had lasted even that long. Nothing had changed, and yet, April felt a rush of exhilaration, like a warm breeze against her back. The mysterious nature of this elation only made it more intoxicating, and she wondered, as she climbed the front steps to her porch, why she always felt compelled to give a cause for her feelings, whether good or bad. She could never simply be happy or simply be sad; there had to be a reason behind it. She decided that from now on she would let herself be however she felt, without looking for an explanation.

  April lingered on the front porch. She didn’t want to go inside just yet, even though the night had turned almost cold. Autumn was approaching. Maybe that was why memories of college kept coming back to her. Faces and scenes she hadn’t thought about in years now flared up in her mind, briefly but clearly, and while she wouldn’t linger on any single memory for too long, the thoughts added to her strange mood: excited, nostalgic, almost giddy. She wished she had a cigarette and, for a second, even considered jogging over to the store to buy a pack. But that would be silly. Cigarettes were expensive now, weren’t they? She couldn’t justify spending eight dollars on a silly whim.

  She felt like talking to someone, and, of course, the first person who came to mind was Paul. A stab of sadness. She realized that she and Paul hadn’t actually talked that much. With all the sneaking around and plans and fights, they’d barely had time for sex. If she could see him now, try to explain to him how she felt, would he listen? Would he understand? She didn’t know, but she had a feeling he would at least try. She thought of that Stevie Nicks song, the one that had been playing in the bar. She wanted to hear it again. Okay, so she wouldn’t buy a pack of cigarettes, but she would go in and download that song from iTunes.

  It felt silly to stand out on her porch shivering slightly, without a cigarette and with no one to talk to, so at last, April turned and went into the house. She couldn’t talk to Paul, and standing in her kitchen, the only other person she could think of was her sister, Sarah, in Florida. The clock on the stove told her it was a little late to be calling, but the beauty of cell phones was how easy they made rudeness. April could call her sister at almost any hour, and her sister could just ignore the call if she wanted, and neither would think less of the other for it.

  First, she went upstairs to check on Jason, and as she did, she was thinking about Sarah and that they should go down to Florida to visit soon … maybe even do more than visit. She was thinking about her sister’s long-standing job offer, but now she was getting ahead of herself. After hearing the reassuring sounds of Jason’s video games, she went back downstairs to get her phone. But it wasn’t on the kitchen table where she thought she had left it, and it wasn’t in her bedroom, either. She finally found it in the living room, wedged between the sofa cushions, where it had ended up before.

  When she pulled it out, she saw that she had three missed calls and a voice mail, all from Jon Newman. Listening to the message, April felt her chest tighten.

  LAURA

  “Who the hell is this?” Jordan’s sister pointed at me with her cigarette. I was standing with Jordan and the rest of the girls in a back lot behind the restaurant, about to get in the van.

  “This is Nola,” Jordan said to her sister, putting a hand on my shoulder. “We met her inside. She’s coming with us.”

  “How old are you, kid?” Her sister stared intently at me.

  “Seventeen,” I said. I met the older girl’s eyes, and this time I didn’t blink.

  “She’s totally cool, Jen. She hunts down creepy old men online and gets them to meet her in person.”

  Jen took a drag of her cigarette. “Then what: you wait till they fall asleep, and chop their dicks off?”

  I shrugged. “Usually, I just save time and slit their throats.”

  Everyone laughed.

  Jen nodded. “Sort of a Buffy-the-Pervert-Slayer kind of thing.” She sighed and tossed her cigarette to the pavement. “Okay, she can come, but remember, if Mom hears about this from any of you when she gets back, you’re dead. I can’t afford her taking the car away from me again.”

  The girls began piling into the van. I was about to follow them into the back when Jen called to me. “Hey, Buffy,” she said, “you ride up front with me, where I can keep an eye on you.” But she was smiling.

  The van had the familiar scent of a family vehicle: stale and heavy from much use by many people. Sitting in the front passenger seat, I felt immediately at home. Jen must have been eighteen, but even the others still looked at least a year older than I. I wondered whether any of them believed I was really seventeen.

  I watched Jen as she pulled out of the parking lot and onto the street. She had the same blond hair as her sister, but cut short. She turned on the radio, and a Top 40 pop hit blared from the speakers—a girl singing about partying in Hollywood, putting up her hands, moving her hips. It was just the sort of song Nola would have hated, the sort of song I wouldn’t be caught dead listening to in front of anyone. But these girls began to sing along unabashedly, their voices filling up the van. Even Jen, who was older and cool, was belting out the words without any hint of self-consciousness.

  She glanced at me. “Don’t act like you don’t know the words, Buffy!” she shouted over the music.

  I leaned toward her. “Do you actually like this song?”

  Jen shook her head violently. “It’s god-awful. But that’s not the fucking point!”

  So when the chorus came, I joined in. We rolled down the windows and sang out into the night. I remembered the night back in June, riding in Paul Frazier’s car, too embarrassed to ask him what he’d been listening to, because he might look down on me. Now here I was, singing a terrible pop song at the top of my lungs, and it felt good. I felt suddenly and strangely happy. How ridiculous that all the events of the day had finally brought me here, in a minivan with a bunch of girls I didn’t know, going to a party. It was almost as if nothing leading up to this had happened. The abortion protest, Martin, chasing him to his car—all that was a dream I had woken up from, and this was reality, where I was supposed to be. I felt as though I belonged with these girls. I even liked my new name.

  BEN

  I tried sitting outside on the front porch with my phone in my hands. I tried going into the living room and turning on the TV to distract myself. I tried going online. I even tried reading a book, but none of it worked. Finally, when I couldn’t stand
it any longer, I went into my mom’s office, grabbed a piece of notebook paper, and went back into the kitchen to scribble out a note on the table. DeShawn, if you come home please call me. I was about to sign my name and thought better of it and wrote Mom instead, before realizing that wasn’t right. I crumpled up the piece of paper, threw it in the trash, and wrote the note out again, this time singing my mom’s name, Deborah.

  It was only after I had rushed outside and into the garage that I realized I didn’t have a bike anymore. I looked around. My dad’s old mountain bike sat in the corner of the garage with a bunch of tools he never used. It was a little rusty and way too big for me, but I pulled it out anyway.

  I wobbled a bit at first, but soon I was speeding down the dark and empty street. As soon as I felt the wind whipping across my face and through my hair, something in my head clicked, and suddenly I knew where to look for DeShawn. It wasn’t anywhere my parents would think to look, but I felt sure it was where he had gone. I pedaled faster.

  When I got to Becca’s house, I was sweating and panting. It was farther away than I remembered. Even though it was a little late to be popping in, I rushed up to the door and knocked loud. Only after knocking did I realize that somebody besides Becca might answer, and I was suddenly scared it would be my uncle. Please be Becca, please be Becca, please be Becca, I whispered, but when the door opened it was my other cousin, Rachel.

  “Hey,” I gasped as she stared at me in surprise. “I’m looking for my foster brother, DeShawn. He’s not here, is he?”

  Rachel shook her head slowly.

  Why had I been so sure? What had made me think he would be here? If he had been, they would have called my parents by now. I felt both disappointed and stupid standing there on the porch.

  “Ben? What’s wrong?”

  Becca had come up behind her sister.

  “We can’t find DeShawn,” I said, swallowing. “I don’t know why, but I thought I’d check here.” Becca stared at me for a moment. Then she said, “Hold on, let me grab my jacket.”