“It’s lucky you live with Michael,” was how it began. “He’s never been able to say no to a pretty girl in his life.”
“Ash!” said their father, as Jenna gave an uncomfortable chuckle, ducking her head and pushing a stray lock of her auburn hair behind her ear.
Robin went scarlet. And that was all it took for everything to unravel. Two girls who might have gone through the entire evening without so much as an indifferent glance toward one another were now adversaries. Ashley was excused from the table, her mother glaring after her.
“It’s too bad you have to work through your break,” said Robin. “That’s so sad.”
Jenna forced a smile. “I don’t mind really. Spring break’s never really been a time to party for me. My mother’s never been able to afford that luxury.”
Robin frowned and gave her a supercilious little nod. “Michael and I were supposed to join some friends in Cancun,” she said. “He says he decided against it because he has a lot of painting to catch up on. But we both know what the truth is, don’t we?”
Jenna shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”
Robin smirked. “The truth is that Michael decided against it because he has no idea how to have a good time.” Robin laughed, and then added, “At least, not like he used to.”
Michael stayed quiet, as was his wont. Speaking up wasn’t going to prove anything. And it might just make matters worse. The real truth of the matter was not that Michael didn’t know how to have a good time. The truth of the matter was that Michael’s idea of a good time and Robin’s idea of a good time were two paths slowly diverging from one another in the increasingly frosty woods of their relationship. Booze and bongs and hot bods—those were Robin’s turn-ons. There was always some new beer to try out with her, some new drug she’d gotten from a friend of a friend of a friend. And lately, there were the constant hints that another body crammed into bed might spice up their lackluster love life. But up at the college, away from Robin (she was in Boston, at Berklee), Michael had been discovering, or, rather, rediscovering, that those things weren’t his cup of tea. He’d learned that a quiet afternoon at the pond, with a couple of issues of X-Men to read, was far more enjoyable for him than a hit of X at some kegger in some Boston dorm room, obnoxious drum-n-bass blaring in the background. He’d decided that the Rent sing-a-long parties at his townhouse were a lot more fun than the stressful gigs that Gideon’s Bible had been putting on these past few months. And he knew, in his heart of hearts, that a girl like Jenna, a girl he could talk to, a girl who was as comfortable with silence as she was with a roaring stereo, was the kind of girl he should be with. He kissed Robin. He fucked Robin. He played hard-nosed, kick-ass rock and roll with Robin. But he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a conversation with her about something other than kissing, or fucking, or rock and roll.
That night, the fucking happened in the back row of theater number four at the old Route 3 Cinema across town, the dingiest, most filthy room in the place. Screwing at the cinema was something she had always wanted to try, and though they had fooled around back there before—French kissing, heavy petting, et cetera—they’d never gone all the way. To sate her, and to hopefully put an end, at least temporarily, to all her talk about threesomes, Michael had consented to give it a try. But he was still nervous about the whole thing. Yes, the construction of the new movie theater down the street had given the staff at Route 3 a kind of “Screw it. What’s the point?” mentality when it came to rules enforcement, but fucking in the back of a movie theater was still fucking in the back of a movie theater, and Michael didn’t like the idea of being caught, regardless of whether or not he was going to be punished for it.
She rode him while facing the screen, so the both of them could still watch the movie. And, as his sneakers stuck and then unstuck themselves to the floor, it occurred to him that the sticky residue there might not be entirely the fault of spilled soft drinks and discarded chewing gum. It was an unpleasant thought, but, thankfully, not one he had to focus on for long. From the time she hiked up her skirt and shimmied onto his lap until the time that she shimmied off and headed for the bathroom, no more than three minutes could have passed. The more risqué the situation, the quicker she was done. And, of course, that was part of the problem. They were running out of things to try. Doing something while driving: that was next. And maybe, he found himself thinking, they would crash and burn, and it would all be over, all of it.
While he was driving her home, Robin wound herself tight around his free arm, squeezing his hand between her thighs. She purred against him, warmer than she should have been on this cold night, in this cold car, with its busted heater. “What about Jenna?” she asked, as they turned off of the main drag and onto her road.
“What about Jenna?” Michael asked, trying, gently, to extricate his hand from the prison of her legs.
“Well,” said Robin. “You like her. That’s obvious.”
Michael shook his head and turned away from her.
“What?” said Robin, pulling herself off of him as they pulled up in front of her house. “Tell me you haven’t imagined it.”
Michael turned to face her again, rubbing the numbness from his freed hand. “I haven’t imagined it, Robin. I don’t imagine those kinds of things.”
“Sure you do,” she said, opening her door. “You just won’t admit it.”
“This is a fine way to say goodnight,” he said.
And then, Robin stepped out of the car, and slammed the door behind her. And somewhere, deep inside, he knew that, finally, this was the beginning of the end.
There was a light on in the upstairs living room when he got home, and Michael felt his shoulders loosen up at the sight of it. Just as it did up at school, the warm glow of a second story window was all it took to set him at ease. Jenna was still up, and that meant that, for once during one of these horrible sojourns back home, he was going to have someone to vent to.
He let loose a heavy sigh once he’d reached the top of the stairs. Jenna looked up from the pages of Dance Kinesiology and gave him a smile. “That bad, huh?”
Michael plopped down onto the couch next to her. She set her book down on the floor and patted two hands on her lap. Sighing again, he laid back, resting his head on her legs. She ran her fingers through his hair, rubbed at his temples. “Spill it,” she said.
“Why am I still with her, Jenna?”
Now it was Jenna who sighed. And then groaned.
“You said you wanted to hear it,” said Michael.
“I think I changed my mind,” she said. “A woman’s prerogative, you know.”
Michael chuckled.
“Okay,” she said. “Go ahead.”
He spilled the beans on the whole evening, up to and including Robin’s latest proposal for a ménage à trois. And he felt no remorse for being so open, for sharing. Because this is what they did at the college. They were honest with one another, and they leaned on each other when they needed to. Like a family. That was what was at the heart of it. Kimball College and Jenna, most of all, had reminded him what a family was supposed to be like. Up there was not like down here, in “greater” Lowell, where the lies came as fast and furious as the Merrimack came over the Pawtucket Falls, where you were on your own from start to finish.
At the end of his story, Michael felt Jenna’s taut belly ripple with laughter against the crown of his head.
“What’s so funny?”
She collected herself, then said, “That she’d want to share you with me.”
Michael gave her a smirk. “You think she wasn’t serious?”
“Oh,” said Jenna, “I’m sure she was serious. That girl feels like she’s got something to prove. But, you believe me, Michael: if I ever got ahold of you, you’d never go back. I wouldn’t let you go back, and you wouldn’t want to.”
Michael felt a rush of blood away from this face, away and down, toward a lower place. He hoped she wouldn’t notice.
“Y
ou’re a great guy, Michael, and your girlfriend’s an idiot for not knowing that. She’s always seen you as having the raw material to be a good man, as someone she would have to shape and mold, and she’s thrived on that. But now that you’re coming to the realization that you are a good man—no assembly required—she’s getting desperate.”
Michael frowned. “How desperate, do you think?”
Jenna was silent for a moment. And then she asked, “Are you sure you want my opinion on this?”
Michael nodded.
“It’s only a matter of time before she finds someone, Michael. If you won’t be shaped to her liking anymore, then she’s going to go find someone who will. That’s what girls like her, women like her… that’s what they do.” Jenna stopped rubbing his head. “That’s why my mom’s had kids with three different men, why she’s been through two divorces and is working on her third.”
Michael reached up, squeezed her hand.
“Most women I know, Michael… they want a man they can fix.” She sighed again, looked down at him. “Even me, I guess.”
Michael sat up, turned around to face her, grabbed her other hand. “Don’t,” he said. “You know that he’s a good guy, deep down.”
Jenna’s gaze remained fixed on her lap. “How deep, though?”
They looked at each other and sighed.
“Some other time,” said Michael, wistfully.
“Some other place,” she said, finishing the familiar refrain of their friendship. And then she hugged him. She hugged him closer and longer than she ever had before.
They parted, she stood, and then she ruffled his hair. “It’ll all work out in the wash, Michael.”
He nodded, and smiled at her mixed cliché. “I guess so.”
* * *
Tracy was confused. “So,” she said, “you should be with Jenna because she likes kissing less than Robin does?”
Everyone looked at Michael, who was sitting on the floor now, each of the women giving him a puzzled smirk. It was like they were wondering how he was going to answer the question, too.
Michael stared at Tracy, a warm smile on his face, but she focused on his eyes, because the eyes were where the truth was; she’d read that somewhere. His were hazel, or so he’d told her when she asked him time and time again, and though she’d never known before what hazel meant, now she had an idea. His eyes were a greenish brown, but there were flecks of blue in there too, of gold. She was sure, if you stared deep enough into Uncle Michael’s eyes, you could find any color you were looking for. But she wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad, or what it meant about him and the truth.
“No,” he said. “That’s not it. What I’m trying to say is that, we meet a lot of lovely people in our lives, Tracy. Sometimes, it’s the first person that we’re meant to be with. And sometimes it’s the last one. Does that make sense?”
“Kinda,” she said. “But,” she said, and then trailed off, thinking about something. There was this photograph of Robin and Michael, back in their high school days, singing into the same microphone, smiles cracking through the masks of their serious rock and roll faces, and Tracy, she had just seen them do the same thing up on stage. They had just looked at each other in the same way, like they loved each other, like they each knew that there was no one else in the world who could make them feel like they did in that moment.
“What about when you sing those songs to each other?” said Tracy. “The songs you wrote to each other in high school?”
“Well,” said Michael, “you’ve heard those songs. We were angry at each other, most of the time.”
Robin laughed. “That we were.”
“Most of the time,” said Tracy. “But not all of the time.”
Jenna put a hand on Tracy’s shoulder and Tracy thought to shrug it off, because she was still pretty sure Jenna was the bad guy here, and she didn’t want her ears filled with Jenna’s lies. But she stayed still, because there was something she wanted even less than that, and that was a scene. So, she let Jenna speak.
“Tracy,” said Jenna, “you’ve seen the plays they put on in the barn down the Cape, right?”
Tracy nodded.
“When we sing to each other now,” said Robin, “it’s like that. We’re pretending. We’re playing the people we were years and years ago.”
Veronica crouched down to say something to Tracy now. “And that’s what I was doing with the… with your father, Tracy. Pretending. Putting on a show. If you want to know who the Desiree is in Uncle Michael’s story…”
“I get it,” said Tracy, standing up, tired of all their words and explanations, ready for the scene now, if it was going to come. “I just want to be alone for a while.”
She picked up her Nomad and her headphones, then walked up the aisle and out of the auditorium. She cast a glance or two over her shoulder, to see if anyone was following her, but all she saw was Michael holding Veronica’s hand as she stood, maybe to move, maybe to come after Tracy, before she sat down again and let Tracy go.
* * *
Veronica could have punched her cousin right then, but maybe he had a point. Maybe the kid needed some space. The school was a safe enough place. She couldn’t get into too much trouble there. And the band had a few more songs to run through anyway, the covers in particular, and “November Rain” chief among them.
Veronica was flabbergasted when Michael mentioned the song by name, the song she’d made her one fleeting mark with, but Robin was taken aback by Veronica’s disbelief.
“That solo,” said Robin, “that solo you did, it’s legend. Better than Slash’s.”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous,” said Veronica, shooting her cousin a glance, to see if this were all for real.
“Veronica,” said Michael, “we are not going to pass up this chance for you to relive your glory days.”
“Glory day is more like it,” said Veronica. “Singular. And really,” she continued, “it’s not the same without the orchestra.”
“Which is why,” said Robin, “we’ve invited them to join us this evening.”
“Chelmsford’s finest,” said Michael.
Her cousin really was too much. This was supposed to be his moment, his last fling before settling down. That he’d taken the time to make this happen, to make this happen for her, that was… Veronica looked out into the audience, searching for Jenna, who was all smiles as usual. That was one lucky girl, Veronica thought.
Michael brought Veronica her guitar, the one she’d played on this stage, on that song, nearly nine years before. She didn’t mess with it much these days, because of its wonky pick-ups, its tendency to fall out of tune after three minutes, and the high E’s fondness for snapping mid-performance.
“This one’s temperamental,” she told him.
“But would you play it on any other axe?” said Robin.
Veronica shook her head in a silent no.
“Good,” said Michael, as Veronica slung it over her shoulder. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to leave you two to sort out who plays which solo. I’ve got a little girl to cheer up.”
“I thought you said she needed space,” said Veronica, as Michael leapt off stage, then bounded up the aisle.
* * *
When Michael found her, Tracy was sitting halfway up the lobby’s grand staircase, the monstrosity that led to the second floor. Her Nomad was blaring “A Toast to the Duplicitous” through her headphones, and it was only when he sat down beside her that she noticed he was there.
She paused the song, asked him, “Whatever happened to David?”
“David?” said Michael.
“The other founder of Gideon’s Bible,” she said, clarifying.
Michael sighed. “Love triangle,” he said, and when she just stared at him, waiting for more, he added, “It’s a long story.”
Tracy grunted. “That’s the only kind of story grown-ups ever have,” she said. “And they never tell them.”
Tracy set her gaze on
the the road just beyond the enormous two-story wall of windows that rose from the floor in front of her, that imposing tower of glass. Michael was rambling on about something that was supposed to make her feel better, but what she found herself thinking about were the friends she was making back home in Harwich—for that really was home now, she had to admit. She found herself thinking about which of the boys she would fall in love with, which of the girls would be her best friends, who she would betray first, and who would betray her.
“Tracy,” said Michael, “I didn’t mean to make you cry again.”
“Why can’t people just be nice to each other?” she said, wiping with her long sleeve at the tears she didn’t realize she’d been crying.
“I don’t know,” said Michael. “And I realize that’s a shitty answer, but…”
Tracy looked at him, wide-eyed. He didn’t seem embarrassed at all about the word he’d just used. He was just staring off through the windows now, like she had, as if searching for his next thought. Tracy thought to admonish him for his potty mouth, the way she did Veronica and Desiree, but she didn’t. Uncle Michael was supposed to be like her father now—she’d overheard her mother saying as much to Desiree—and he kind of was, the way that he tried to make her feel better, the way he felt the need to keep talking until she was distracted from her pain, or whatever she’d been complaining about. But he also kind of wasn’t. He also kind of didn’t have to be. She had two parents already, or three, depending on who you counted. Uncle Michael was free to be something else, free to be the guy who said “shitty” when that was the best word for the job.
“Are you going to break up with Jenna,” said Tracy, “because of what I said?”
Missing Mr. Wingfield Page 10