The Leftovers

by Tom Perrotta

  “How’s your girlfriend?” she asked him almost every morning. “You guys getting serious?”

  For a while, Kevin just said, She’s fine, and moved on, trying to let her know that it was none of her business, but Aimee refused to take the hint. Then one morning last week, without making a conscious decision, he blurted out an honest answer.

  “Something’s wrong,” he said. “I like her a lot, but I think we’re running out of gas.”

  He told her the whole story, minus the meager sexual details—the parade, the dance, the impulsive trip to Florida, the rut they’d fallen into when they got back home, his sense that she was pushing him away, that he wasn’t really welcome in her life.

  “I try to get to know her, but she just clams up on me. It’s frustrating.”

  “But you want to stay together?”

  “Not if it’s gonna be like this.”

  “Well, what do you want it to be?”

  “A normal relationship, you know? As normal as she can handle right now. Just going out once in a while, to the movies or whatever. Maybe with friends, so it’s not just the two of us. And I’d like to be able to have a real conversation, not to have to always worry that I’m saying the wrong thing.”

  “Does she know this?”

  “I think so. I don’t see how she couldn’t.”

  Aimee studied him for a few seconds, her tongue pressing against the inside of her cheek.

  “You’re too polite,” she said. “You have to tell her what you want.”

  “I try. But when I ask her to go out, she just says no, she’d rather stay at home.”

  “Don’t give her a choice. Just say, ‘Hey, I’m taking you out to dinner. I already made the reservations.’”

  “Sounds kinda pushy.”

  “What’s the alternative?”

  Kevin shrugged, as if the answer were obvious.

  “Give it a shot,” she said. “What have you got to lose?”

  * * *

  NICK AND Zoe were going at it pretty good. They were kneeling on the rug, close enough for Jill to touch, Zoe purring happily as Nick licked and nuzzled her neck in what looked like a vampire’s idea of foreplay.

  “It’s heating up, folks.” Jason spoke into an imaginary microphone, using a sports-announcer voice that wasn’t as funny as he thought it was. “Lazarro’s totally focused, working his way methodically downfield…”

  If Aimee had been there, she would’ve made some clever, condescending remark to break Nick’s concentration and remind him not to get carried away. But Aimee wasn’t playing—she’d dropped out of the game a month ago when she started up at Applebee’s—so if anyone was going to intervene, it would have to be Jill.

  But Jill kept her mouth shut as the kissing couple toppled onto the floor, Nick on top, Zoe’s fishnet leg wrapped around the back of his knees. She was surprised by the depth of her indifference to this spectacle. If it had been Aimee beneath Nick, she would’ve been sick with jealousy. But it was just Zoe, and Zoe didn’t matter. If Nick wanted her, he was welcome to have her.

  Knock yourself out, she thought.

  It was almost embarrassing to remember how much time and emotional energy she’d squandered on Nick in the fall, pining for the one boy she couldn’t have, the prize Aimee had claimed for herself. He was still beautiful, with that square jaw and those dreamy lashes, but so what? Back in the summer, when she’d first gotten to know him, he’d also been sweet and funny, so attentive and alive—she remembered laughing with him more than she remembered the sex they’d had—but these days he was like a zombie, all grim business, just another jerk with an erection. And it wasn’t just his fault—Jill felt clumsy and tongue-tied in his presence, unable to think of anything to say that might disturb the blankness on his face, make him remember that they were friends, that she was something more than an obliging mouth, or a hand with some greasy lotion on it.

  But the real problem wasn’t Nick, and it wasn’t Jill or Zoe or any of the other players. It was Aimee. Until she stopped coming to Dmitri’s, Jill hadn’t realized how important she was, not just to the game, but to the group as a whole. She was the one essential member, the sun in their little solar system, the magnetic force that held them all together.

  She’s our Wardell Brown, Jill thought.

  Wardell Brown had been the center on her brother’s high school basketball team, a six-foot-six superstar who had regularly scored more points than the rest of his teammates combined. It was almost comical to watch them play together, four average-sized, perfectly competent white guys hustling to keep up with a graceful black giant who played the game on a whole different level. During Tom’s senior year, Wardell led the Pirates all the way to the final round of the state tournament, only to sit out the championship game with a sprained ankle. Deprived of his services, the team fell apart, losing in a humiliating blowout.

  “Wardell’s our glue,” the coach said afterward. “He’s not there and the wheels come off.”

  That was how Jill felt, playing Get a Room without Aimee nearby. Inept. Unglued. Adrift. Like a small planet wobbling through deep space, cut loose from its orbit.

  * * *

  THE ENTRÉES were taking forever. Or maybe it just felt that way. Nora wasn’t used to eating in restaurants anymore, at least not restaurants in Mapleton, where everyone did such a bad job of pretending not to stare at her, sneaking sideways glances and peering over the tops of their menus, directing sly beams of pity in her direction, though it was possible that this was just her imagination, too. Maybe she just wanted to think she was the center of attention so she’d have an excuse for how conspicuous she felt, as though she were up onstage with a white-hot spotlight shining in her face, trapped in one of those bad dreams where you had a starring role in the school play, but had somehow neglected to memorize your lines.

  “What were you like as a kid?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Like everyone else, I guess.”

  “Not everyone’s the same.”

  “They’re not as different as they think.”

  “Were you a girly girl?” he pressed on. “Did you wear pink dresses and stuff like that?”

  She could sense some scrutiny coming from a table slightly behind her and a little to the right, where a woman she recognized, but whose name was escaping her, was sitting with her husband and another couple. The woman’s daughter, Taylor, had been a student at Little Sprouts Academy during Nora’s stint as an assistant teacher. The girl had a wispy, barely audible voice—Nora was always asking her to repeat herself—and she talked obsessively about her best friend, Neil, and all the fun they had together. Nora must have known Taylor for six months before she figured out that Neil was a Boston terrier and not a boy from the neighborhood.

  “I wore dresses sometimes. But I wasn’t a little princess or anything.”

  “Were you a happy kid?”

  “Happy enough, I guess. I had a couple of bad years in middle school.”

  “Why?”

  “You know. Braces, acne. The usual.”

  “Did you have friends?”

  “Sure. I mean, I wasn’t the most popular kid in the world, but I had friends.”

  “What were their names?”

  God, Nora thought. He’s relentless. He’d been grilling her like this ever since they’d sat down, as if he were a reporter writing an article for the local paper—“My Dinner with Nora: The Heartbreaking Saga of a Pathetic Woman.” The questions were benign enough—What did you do today? Did you ever play field hockey? Have you had any broken bones?—but they annoyed her nonetheless. She could tell they were just warm-ups, stand-ins for the questions he really wanted to ask: What happened that night? How did you go on living? What’s it like to be you?

  “That was a long time ago, Kevin.”

  “Not that long.”

  She spotted the waiter moving in their direction, a short, olive-skinned man with the face of a silent movie idol and a plate in each hand. Finally, she thou
ght, but he just floated by, on his way to another table.

  “You really don’t remember their names?”

  “I remember their names,” she said, speaking more sharply than she’d meant to. “I’m not brain damaged.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I was just trying to make conversation.”

  “I know.” Nora felt like a jerk for snapping at him. “It’s not your fault.”

  He glanced worriedly toward the kitchen. “I wonder what’s taking so long.”

  “It’s a busy night,” she said. “Their names were Liz, Lizzie, and Alexa.”

  * * *

  MAX STARTED undressing as soon as Jill shut the door, as if she were a doctor who didn’t like to be kept waiting. He was wearing a wool sweater over a T-shirt, but he removed both garments in a single hurried tug, the static electricity causing his wispy hair to crackle and float up into a boyish halo. His chest was narrow compared to Nick’s, smooth and unmuscled, his belly taut and sunken, but not in a way that made you think of sexy underwear models.

  “It’s been a while,” he said, unbuckling his pants, letting them slide down his skinny thighs and pool around his ankles.

  “Not that long. Just a week or so.”

  “Way longer than that,” he said, stepping out of his jeans and kicking them against the wall, on top of his shirt and sweater. “Twelve days.”

  “But who’s counting, right?”

  “Yeah.” His voice was flat and bitter. “Who’s counting.”

  He was still mad at her, offended by the eagerness with which she’d pounced on Nick the moment he became available. But that was the game. You had to make choices, express preferences, cause and suffer pain. Every now and then, if you were lucky the way Nick and Aimee had been lucky, your first choice chose you as well. But most of the time it was messier than that.

  “Well, I’m here now,” she told him.

  “That’s right.” He sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling off his socks and tossing them onto the pile of discarded clothes. “You get the consolation prize.”

  It would have been easy enough to contradict him, to remind him of how willingly she’d just surrendered the alleged first prize—on Valentine’s Day, no less, not that any of them cared about that—but for some reason she withheld the kindness. She knew it wasn’t fair. In a more logical world, her disappointment with Nick would have made her more appreciative of Max rather than less, but it hadn’t worked out that way. All the contrast had done was highlight the shortcomings of both guys, the fact that the sexy one wasn’t nice, and the nice one wasn’t sexy.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “You’re just standing there. Why don’t you come to bed?”

  “I don’t know.” Jill tried to smile, but it didn’t really work. “I’m just feeling a little shy tonight.”

  “Shy?” He couldn’t help laughing. “It’s a little late for shy.”

  She moved her arm in a vague arc, trying to encompass the game, the room, and their lives in the gesture.

  “You ever get tired of this?”

  “Sometimes,” he said. “Not tonight.”

  She didn’t move. After a few seconds, he stretched himself out on the bed, ankles crossed, fingers interlaced beneath his head. His briefs were unfamiliar, brown tighties with orange piping, unusually stylish.

  “Nice undies,” she told him.

  “My mom got them at Costco. Eight-pack, all different colors.”

  “My mom used to buy me underwear,” she said. “But I told her it was weird, so she stopped.”

  Max rolled onto his side, propping his chin on his hand, studying her with a thoughtful expression. Now he really did look like an underwear model, if there was a world where underwear models had hairy pipe-cleaner legs and bad muscle tone.

  “I forgot to tell you,” he said. “I saw your mother the other day. She followed me home from my guitar lesson. Her and this other woman.”

  “Really?” Jill tried to sound casual. It was embarrassing, the way her heart leaped every time someone mentioned her mother. “How’s she doing?”

  “Hard to tell. They just did that thing, you know, where they stand really close and stare at you.”

  “I hate that.”

  “It’s creepy,” he agreed. “But I didn’t say anything mean. I just let them walk me home.”

  Jill felt almost sick with longing. She hadn’t caught a glimpse of her mother for months and never bumped into her on the streets of Mapleton, though she was apparently a familiar figure around town. Other people saw her all the time.

  “Was she smoking?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you see her light a cigarette?”

  “Probably. Why?”

  “I gave her a lighter for Christmas. I just wondered if she was using it.”

  “Beats me.” His face tightened with thought. “No, wait. They had matches.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.” The doubt had left his voice. “This was like last Friday. Remember how cold it was with the windchill? Her hand was shaking and she was having a really hard time striking the match. I offered to do it for her, but she wouldn’t let me. It took her like three or four tries to get the thing lit.”

  Bitch, Jill thought. Serves her right.

  “Come on.” Max patted the bed. “Relax. You don’t have to take your clothes off if you don’t want to.”

  Jill considered the offer. She used to like resting with Max in the dark, two warm bodies under the covers, talking about whatever came into their heads.

  “I won’t touch you,” he promised. “I won’t even jerk off.”

  “That’s sweet of you,” she said. “But I think I’m gonna go home.”

  * * *

  THEY WERE both relieved when the food finally arrived, partly because they were hungry, but mainly because it gave them an excuse to suspend the conversation for a little while, take a breather, and maybe start over on a lighter note. Kevin knew he’d made a mistake, peppering her with so many questions, turning the small talk into an interrogation.

  Be patient, he told himself. This is supposed to be fun.

  After a few silent bites, Nora looked up from her mushroom ravioli.

  “Delicious,” she said. “The cream sauce.”

  “Mine, too.” He held up a morsel of lamb for her perusal, showing her how perfectly grilled it was, brown at the edges, pink in the middle. “Melts in your mouth.”

  She smiled a bit queasily, and he remembered, too late, that she didn’t eat meat. Did it disgust her, he wondered, being asked to admire a piece of cooked flesh skewered on a fork? He understood all too well how you could talk yourself into vegetarianism, teach yourself to think “dead animal” rather than “tender and succulent.” He’d done it himself on numerous occasions, usually after reading articles about factory farms and slaughterhouses, but his qualms always vanished the moment he picked up a menu.

  “So how was your day?” she asked. “Anything interesting happen?”

  Kevin only hesitated for a second. He’d seen this moment coming and had been planning on playing it safe, saying something bland and innocuous—Not really, just went to work and came home—saving the truth for later, some unspecified time in the future when he knew her a little better and their relationship was a little stronger. But when would that be? How could you get to know someone a little better if you couldn’t give an honest answer to a simple question, especially about something so important?

  “My son called this afternoon,” he told her. “I hadn’t heard from him since the summer. I was really worried about him.”

  “Wow,” she said after a brief silence that didn’t quite thicken to the point of awkwardness. “Is he okay?”

  “I think so.” Kevin wanted to smile, but did his best to resist the impulse. “He sounded pretty good.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He wouldn’t say. The cell phone he used had a Vermont area co
de, but it wasn’t his. I was just so relieved to hear the sound of his voice.”

  “Good for you,” she said a bit stiffly, making an effort to sound pleased and sincere.

  “Is this okay?” he asked. “We can talk about something else if you—”

  “It’s fine,” she assured him. “I’m happy for you.”

  Kevin decided not to press his luck.

  “What about you? Do anything fun this afternoon?”

  “Not really,” she said. “Got my eyebrows waxed.”

  “They look good. Nice and neat.”

  “Thanks.” She touched her forehead, tracing her fingertip over the top of her right eyebrow, which did seem a little more sharply defined than usual. “Is your son still part of that cult? That Holy Wayne thing?”

  “He says he’s done with that.” Kevin looked down at the fat candle in its stubby glass holder, the quivering flame floating on a puddle of melted wax. He felt an urge to plunge his finger into the hot liquid, letting it harden in the air like a second skin. “Says he’s thinking about maybe coming home, going back to school.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s what he said. I hope it’s true.”

  Nora picked up her knife and fork and cut into a ravioli. It was big and pillowy, crimped along the edges.

  “Were you close?” she asked, still looking down, slicing the halves into quarters. “You and your son?”

  “I thought we were.” Kevin was surprised by the shakiness in his voice. “He was my little boy. I was always so proud of him.”

  Nora looked up with an odd expression on her face. Kevin could feel his mouth stretching, the pressure building inside his eyeballs.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, in the instant before he clapped his hand over his mouth, trying to muffle the sound of his blubbering. “Just give me a second.”

  * * *

  IT WAS maybe fifteen degrees out, but the night air felt clean and invigorating. Jill stood on the sidewalk and took a good long look at Dmitri’s house, her home away from home for the past six months. It was a shabby little place, a generic suburban box with a concrete stoop and a picture window to the left of the front door. In the daytime the exterior was a dirty shade of beige, but right now it was no color at all, just a dark shape against an even darker background. An odd sense of melancholy took hold of her—it was the same feeling she got walking past her old ballet school, or the soccer fields at Greenway Park—as if the world were a museum of memories, a collection of places she’d outgrown.