I'll Stay Page 12

  “Are you going to have time to get it before you leave?” he asked.

  I’d planned to go straight to the airport after tutoring this afternoon. But I could stop at home, if I hurried. I nodded.

  “Oh, and as I was leaving the house this morning, you got a call from Joel.”

  Joel was the director of the writing center and had hired me a few months ago to work as a tutor. It was a good deal. I received a small stipend and could take graduate classes for free. But Joel’s perpetually bloodshot eyes (broken blood vessels, someone told me) and grouchy personality made me so on edge that I avoided him as much as possible. “What did he say?”

  “Something about some woman you worked with yesterday. He wanted to talk to you about her. He sounded concerned. Did something happen?”

  My last appointment of the day. The woman was older than me, heavy with shoulder-length, curly black hair and a nasty scowl. She walked in, threw herself into the chair, and told me that if she failed her next paper she’d fail the class. She wouldn’t get her degree. You have to help me, she’d demanded.

  “This woman was so angry,” I said. “And her paper was a mess.”

  Ben dipped his eyebrows into a slight frown. “Were you able to help her?”

  “Yes.” I shifted my feet. Actually, no. She was supposed to compare a novel and film and yet she’d come in with only a weak, scattered analysis of To Kill a Mockingbird. Her sentences were long and incomprehensible and at the end, when our time was up, she burst into a tirade of obscenities at the school, her professor, and me. Then she stormed out of my cubicle. “I’ll see him this afternoon.”

  Ben shook his head. “He said he’ll only be in this morning.”

  “I’ll call him on Monday.”

  “Maybe you should call him now?”

  “But—”

  “Clare, you said yourself that only a few grad students get tapped for these positions. You don’t want to mess it up. It’ll help with PhD applications. Right?”

  I glanced at the window. Yes, PhD applications. I should tell Ben that the only reason I got the tutoring job was because Joel realized I was Eleanor Michaels’s daughter. He was so dismissive when I interviewed (you went to college where?). When he called later to offer me the job, he was much nicer as he added, “Maybe you could ask your mom to speak to our undergraduates?”

  Why had I ever decided to get a master’s degree in English literature?

  I should also tell Ben that I was a terrible tutor and wasn’t sure I should go for my PhD. But that was what I’d said (I’d make a terrible nurse!) when I’d finished my science courses two years ago and decided against pursuing nursing or counseling. I needed a career where I could work without disappointing anyone.

  Ben lifted his hand and touched my cheek. It both surprised me, he wasn’t much for affection in public, and made me soften. I felt, suddenly, overwhelmed. Maybe it was the trip ahead. Or the woman and the call from Joel. Or D. H. Lawrence and his thematic penetration. It most definitely had to do with getting that window clean before I left. I bit my lower lip, trying to hold back tears.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked. I glanced at the woman, ignoring her daughter, and the blueberry streaks on the window. “You okay going without me?”

  I nodded. He leaned over and kissed me, lightly, quickly, on the cheek. I had a sudden urge to grab him in a bear hug and plant a wet, passionate kiss on his lips, one that would cause the women to stop talking and gape at us. He glanced at his watch and turned to go. I reached for his hand and squeezed.

  He grinned. “Call me when you get to Lee’s. Okay?”

  I nodded again and watched him leave. Ben wasn’t sentimental or overly romantic. He didn’t talk subjects to death or play manipulative games. I was happy we were back together and I loved him even if sometimes I wished for something. But I didn’t know what that was, and I certainly didn’t think it was very nice to wish or yearn for someone or something when Ben and I were living together this summer. This feeling reminded me of how out of control I felt senior year of college.

  I’d tried not to think about that crazy time and what had happened to Lee. When I caught her zoning out, which she still did, or when she called, crying over something innocuous (the homeless woman on the corner is blind!), I wondered if she was remembering, somehow, what had happened. But she rarely talked about it nor had she ever told me what happened that night.

  Sometimes I had nightmares about it although I never told Lee. They were always the same. I was trying to run from Charlie’s house but my legs wouldn’t move. I never saw the men but felt them behind me. I’d wake—heart pounding—and go over that night as I stared at the ceiling. I was always angry with myself and imagined behaving differently. I would have stood up to Owen and the other two; I wouldn’t have left Lee. I would have been the hero.

  “Excuse me!” the mother yelled at me from her chair next to the window.

  I gave them the bill. When they left, I took out the Windex and paper towels and cleaned the streaks. Then I looked up and down the street. It was quiet, only a woman walking with her head down. I tried to remember why I’d been excited about baking scones. Maybe I was trying to remember the feeling of being excited.

  Excited. Excitement. Exhilaration. Joy. These were words Lee always used to describe her passion back in college. I just want to make films. That’s all I want to do. I can’t imagine any greater joy! She must’ve said that to me a million times. This often led to a conversation about the origins of passion. Was it something you were born with or could you learn it? Who had it and who didn’t?

  The sunlight shifted and now I saw a big smudge on the glass that I hadn’t seen before. I took my paper towel over it, scrubbing until it was gone.

  Lately Lee hadn’t talked much about filmmaking. This was what happened. The college years were for dreams and idealism but the world made demands. Rent, food, clothing. Look at my brother. All those years of studying to be an economist and what did he do? Went to work at a London hedge fund, whatever that was.

  Lee had changed although I didn’t think it had anything to do with idealism or demands. Ever since that night in Florida, she was different. Less sure of herself. Slow to make decisions. Easily intimidated. Take, for example, the time she house-sat in Scarsdale last year. It was a beautiful house and she planned to spend her time writing a screenplay. But at the end of two months, when the couple who’d hired her returned, they reneged on their offer to pay. They said the house stay was “payment enough.” The old Lee would have never put up with this. The new Lee cowered and walked away without a fight.

  When I pushed her on this, she said, “But they were so nice to let me stay. And I wasn’t very productive. I couldn’t even finish the first act.”

  As if that were some kind of justification for not paying her.

  I stepped back from the glass. There, now it was clean. A couple, arms linked, walked into the coffeehouse.

  “Someone’ll be right with you,” I said. In the back room Diana, who was working the next shift, was tying on her apron while Lorenzo filled his briefcase. The back door to the alley was propped open and warm air wafted into the room.

  “Clarraaa is leaving us,” he said. “But she says we will survive without her.”

  Diana laughed and rolled her eyes. She liked working here, too. I motioned toward the front room, we have customers, and she nodded and hurried by me.

  Lorenzo stopped shoving papers into his briefcase and looked at me. “You seem a little tense, my friend. Pretravel anxiety, perhaps?”

  “Just a little nervous.” Last week I’d told him about Amy’s wedding and that I hadn’t seen my college friends in a long time but I didn’t go into detail.

  “Ah, yes, it could be wonderful. Or a disaster! May I give you some advice?”

  “Because you are so much older and wiser than I am?” I grinned.

  “Yes, yes! Old enough to be your older brother.” He tilted his head back and laughed. Then he
swept his hair off his forehead, folded his arms, and I knew he was going to be serious. “If I were you, I’d spend my travel time remembering who these people were when you knew them. Because now everyone will try to impress each other with their jobs and lives. Do not be fooled. It is very difficult to change.”

  “Thanks for the advice.” I shook my head. “But that’s really cynical.”

  “It is human nature.” He shook his finger at me.

  “So, you really don’t think people are capable of changing?” I asked.

  “That is not what I said.” He reached for his sunglasses. “It is easy to change apartments. It is not so easy to change the inside. I should know. I spend hundreds of dollars every month trying to do that. Now I am off to see her to try yet again.”

  He nodded at his therapist’s card on the wall. We smiled at each other and then he was gone. I sat in his chair, still warm, and thought that college seemed, suddenly, so far away. I wasn’t like Ducky who dressed in our school colors for her annual Christmas card or Susie who once told me that she rarely missed a home football game. I never ran into people from school—Boston wasn’t a popular post-graduation destination—and most people here knew nothing about it.

  I put the phone on the cradle—it had been off the hook—and twirled the cord between my fingers. Lorenzo was wrong. Like Lee, I’d changed over the last three years, too. I was more patient with my mother and Lee, happy to be back with Ben, and I always tried to be a good person. But were these changes natural or because of what happened in Florida?

  I jumped when the phone rang and then picked it up.

  “What the hell, Clare? I’ve been trying to reach you for days. Doesn’t anyone answer the phone at your house? Why don’t you have an answering machine yet?”

  Sarah. I sat back in the chair. “Well, nice to talk to you, too, Sarah.”

  She laughed. “Okay, sorry. It’s just that you’re impossible to get ahold of. I’ve been calling this number for the last three hours! Just tell me that you’re still coming and bringing Lee. Tell me that you two aren’t bagging out.”

  “Of course we’re not bagging out,” I said. “Why would we do that?”

  “You know why. You never come back. And it’s not the same without you guys.” She sighed. “Okay, listen, so you know that Ducky got us a block of rooms at the hotel? You, me, Lee, and Lisa are sharing one. You okay with that?”

  “Of course. Thank you.”

  “And you’ll both be there tomorrow night?”

  “Yes.”

  She sighed again. “Oh, God, we’re going to have a blast. Everyone’s gonna be there! Even Lynn. She’s flying in from Dallas.”

  In my mind I saw Lynn’s freckles, Sarah’s frizzy red hair, and Ducky’s pearls. Sarah was right. These were old friends and we always had fun together. No one would care that I was living at home and working in a coffeehouse. Right?

  “How’s Lee? I heard she has another job, like at CBS or something?”

  “ABC.” My dad, who knew a programming director, got her the job six months ago. It was a relief because now, at least, she had a real job with health insurance.

  “Well, does she like it? I mean, anything’s better than that stupid internship, right? Didn’t she hate that?”

  “Yeah, it didn’t work out,” I said. And neither had the other jobs. The NYU library. The wedding photographer’s assistant.

  “But is she, like, okay?” Sarah asked. “You know, about everything?”

  I felt the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. Sarah always brought up Florida, even in roundabout ways, whenever we talked. “Yeah, she’s all right.”

  “Okay, good,” she said. “Listen, Clare? The real reason I called is because . . .”

  I heard a familiar hesitation in her voice and sat up. “What?”

  “Well, Amy told Lisa, who called me. Not that it’ll matter because I know you and Ben are back together, but we thought you should know so you’ll be, you know, prepared. Christopher Mansfield will be at the wedding. Apparently he and Dougy were friends through intramural basketball or something. Who knew?”

  “Oh.” I felt goose bumps race up and down my arms. I’d had no contact, nor had I heard anything about him, since we graduated. He seemed to have disappeared much like I had. “Oh.”

  “Yup, that’s all there is to say about this, huh?” She laughed slightly.

  In my mind I saw Christopher’s big eyes and those huge hands. I put my head on Lorenzo’s desk, the wood cool against my forehead. I couldn’t decide if I was happy or afraid, excited or worried.

  “Clare? Hello?”

  “I’m here. Wow. Thanks for telling me. Do you know what he’s been doing?”

  “Politics or something. He lives in Washington, D.C. Anyway, I have to go. See you tomorrow night!”

  After we hung up, I pushed out of the chair and went to the open door. In front of me, I saw the dark alley with the garbage barrels and trash bins against the redbrick wall, and yet my mind was flooded with other images. The scrubby yard behind Christopher’s house, the tables in our sorority’s dining room, and the beautiful, tree-lined walk through campus to classes.

  I thought about Christopher’s breath on my neck and how he traced my collarbone with his finger. But I had no time to dwell on this now. I had to be at the writing center in a half hour. I reached for my bags and hurried into the alley.

  CHAPTER 8

  Ben was right. Joel’s office was dark as I passed by on my way to my cubicle. Grateful that I didn’t have to talk to him today, I pushed my duffle bag and backpack under my table, sat, and looked at my schedule. I was booked for the next two hours with four half-hour appointments. But thank goodness the angry woman who called Joel to complain wasn’t one of them. I sighed and looked out the window. Maybe someone wouldn’t show and then I’d have time to read or think about what I should write for next week’s paper in my D. H. Lawrence class. At the moment, I had no idea.

  I reached up and took my fingers along my collarbone. Did Christopher still smoke? Would the chemistry still be there between us?

  The tutor in the next cubicle sneezed.

  “Bless you,” I said.

  “Thanks,” he mumbled. I thought about asking him how long he’d been here and if he’d had any no-shows. But I didn’t know him well. I didn’t know most of the tutors. We had biweekly meetings where we gathered to talk about clients, problems, and strategies but for the most part we were on our own, stuck in these cubicles with our heads down while students brought in a myriad of problems that we tried to help them fix. We hadn’t had any formal training. Simply being an English major and interviewing had been enough.

  “Excuse me, are you Clare Michaels?”

  A woman stood in the doorway of my cubicle, a notebook clutched to her chest and a giant, scuffed-up black pocketbook hanging from her shoulder. She was older than me, maybe in her thirties, with short, curly blond hair (she reminded me of a sunflower) and dark eyes so wide, maybe frightened, that I wondered if she’d seen something horrific, a car accident or assault, on the sidewalk outside.

  “Yes, I am, come in.” I motioned to the other chair. “Are you okay?”

  She didn’t move from the doorway but stared at me with a look that suddenly morphed into something else. Anger or disappointment. I tried to remember if I’d seen her before, if I’d messed up a paper and she was coming back to complain, but she didn’t look familiar. I glanced at her name on my signup sheet, Lucy Weslawski, but didn’t recognize that, either.

  She slowly walked into the cubicle and sank into the chair, the notebook still pressed to her chest. She wore a blue and white striped sundress, faded from so many washes and with a slight tear along the right shoulder. She had long fingers with perfectly painted red nails that didn’t match the shabbiness of her dress. Was she a full-time student? Part time?

  She lowered her notebook to her lap and placed her hands on top and now I saw that they were shaking slightly. And her eyes, which
had seemed so big, were smaller under hooded eyelids. Maybe she did see something awful. Or maybe she was just a nervous person. I felt uncomfortable in a way that was becoming all too familiar in here. What if I couldn’t help her with her paper, either?

  “So, what can I help you with today?” I glanced at her notebook.

  “Your mother is Eleanor Michaels.” This wasn’t a question. I nodded. I wasn’t sure how many people here knew this. I’d only talked about my mother with Joel. “When I saw your name on the tutor list, I thought of an article I’d read in which your mother said she had a daughter named Clare who liked to read. I took a guess that you were her daughter and asked someone and she confirmed it was you.”

  Who confirmed this? I shifted in my chair. She kept batting her eyes every few seconds in a way that was making me nervous, too.

  “My name is Lucy Weslawski. I know your mother. Or at least I used to know her. Years ago when I was an undergrad, I took her Milton class. She was quite a teacher. Everyone was terrified of her. But not me. Because I realized early on that she wasn’t interested in nonsense and mediocrity. She respected hard work. I liked that. And I respected her. She was so strong and capable.”

  Well, yes, some of the time. But what about when I was expected to be the strong and capable one? I cleared my throat. “What did you bring to work on today?”

  Lucy pulled her shoulders back and laughed. “I’m quite able to write an argument or analytical paper. I could do what you do with my eyes closed.”

  Something was wrong. I gripped the sides of my chair and sat up.

  “Look.” She licked her lips and sighed. “I’m not here to argue with you. You seem like a nice enough person. I’m here because I want you to give this to Eleanor.” She reached into her bag, pulled out a white envelope, and pushed it across the desk toward me. Eleanor Michaels was written in black cursive letters across the front.

  I frowned. This had happened to me many times before. Most things I passed along were simple fan letters. But a few were something else: a high school teacher who wanted my mother to read her five-hundred-page novel. People who asked for signed books or her time or presence at fundraising events. One who threatened to “track you down” if she didn’t write back. I always felt responsible for these letters I gave to my mother, especially when she chose not to answer. Which was most of the time.