Stories We Never Told

by Sonja Yoerg

  Her throat is still choked, so she nods. Miles orders for both of them, and Jackie excuses herself and heads to the bathroom to regroup. She blots her forehead and cheeks with a paper towel, arranges her hair, applies lipstick. Maybe it’s the fluorescent lighting, but she looks terrible—sallow and tired. Too much time indoors. She vows to go rowing at least once this weekend, maybe sail on Sunday with Miles. Ah, but on Sunday he’ll be at the game. She won’t. She wishes she hadn’t made Miles insecure, but nothing he said has caused her to rethink her take on Harlan, or even Nasira.

  Jackie adjusts the waistband of her skirt, returns her bag to her shoulder, and takes one last look in the mirror. She thinks again of what Harlan said to her after his mother’s funeral.

  Open your eyes.

  Sunday morning on the Potomac. Rising sun lighting up the water, deepening the shadows along the banks. Between the boathouse and the bridge, in the center of the river, a puddle of mercury gives way to striations of silver and black. She climbs into the shell, stores her shoes, straps her feet into the boat shoes attached to the footboard, and gently pushes off the dock.

  Another rower is upriver from her, a quarter mile away. She is otherwise alone. She reaches forward, knees to her chest, oars behind her, catches the water, and pushes her feet against the board. The seat slides back. As the shell slides in front of the oars, she leans back to complete the stroke, right hand over left against her stomach. Her back complains, and she ignores it. A small twist of her wrists and the blades are free of the water; Jackie reaches forward for the return, the blades skimming over the surface of the water, a breath of cold air on her face from her movement. The seat comes forward; her knees meet her chest. Her hip joints loosen a little, improving her reach. She dips the oars, catching the water. Push with the legs. Pull with the arms. Lean back. Return. Reach. Dip, push, pull, lean, return, reach. Again. Again. Again.

  Jackie joined the crew team her freshman year at Bates. She’d never rowed before, in fact had never participated in school sports, preferring solo runs or long swims in the city pool. She wasn’t a joiner. Her roommate, Camille, was a rower and convinced Jackie to try it out. The first two weeks were excruciating. She was so sore she could barely walk, and the early-morning workouts turned her into a zombie. But something stopped her from quitting, and as her body adapted, so did she. She began to love the dawn, the cool (sometimes frigid) air, the quiet water, the hushed, sacred tones of the other women. She had been rowing for nearly two months before she understood her subconscious had pointed her toward the sport because of her father and his canoe.

  During summers when she was in grade school, her father would take her out on the Middle River north of Staunton, Virginia, their hometown. A modest, lazy body of water, it was rarely clear but easily navigable. Jackie’s mother wouldn’t dream of coming along; she didn’t like boats, bugs, or, as it turned out, Jackie’s father. Jackie’s sister, Grace, four years younger, was too small. Samuel Strelitz worked long hours, but made time for the outings, packing Jackie into his Jeep a couple of mornings a month if the weather held. They brought sandwiches from home (strawberry jam for her, ham for him) and picked up lemonade at a tiny general store they passed on the drive. He let her pick out candy there, too, always saying it wasn’t an every-time thing, but it was.

  On their first trips, her father would lift her into the seat at the front of the canoe, the life preserver pushing up under her chin. The life preserver had a smell all its own, like rubber and moss and flies, and she remembered the first time she put it on herself and did up the straps, the satisfying sound of the buckles snapping in place. Once underway, her father would hover along the banks, whistling to himself, never catching much. Jackie peered into the water, hoping for a turtle or a fish to reveal itself like a magic trick, and she’d ask him questions about the houses they passed or the flowers or the sky.

  “Why, I don’t know,” he’d always start out. But he did know, at least more than a small girl, and it made her feel the world could be understood, and she could learn to navigate it, the same way her father twisted his paddle and the bow pointed where he wanted them to go.

  When Jackie was seven, her father left the family for the first time. Jackie and Grace had gone to bed listening to their mother slicing at him with words. She could be abrupt with her daughters, but there was a special edge and weight to how she fought with their father that made Jackie want to creep downstairs and take a look, make sure that it really was her mother, hard, angry, spitting. But fear froze Jackie in place at the top of the stairs, fear that it was her mother and fear that it might not be. As Jackie grew older, her mother told her that Samuel Strelitz made her crazy, and Jackie came to believe her father had the power to create monsters out of mothers. He seemed too quiet and ordinary for that, but the belief held.

  The first night he left the house and didn’t come back, she and Grace had already given in to sleep. He showed up two days later, and left again, coming and going for reasons Jackie never understood. When Jackie asked him why, he changed the subject, and, when she pressed, he said it was for the best. “How is it best?” she asked. He shook his head.

  Her mother said Samuel Strelitz was lazy, and, later, a lazy, good-for-nothing drunk. The summer Jackie was nine he left for good. She woke up on a Saturday, light streaming through her window like it was a living thing, a perfect day for canoeing, only to find out he had gone. At the time she had no way of knowing it was final. She didn’t know where he had gone, only that the canoe stayed behind. On perfect days for canoeing, or just okay ones, Jackie would venture out to the garage, where the canoe hung upside down from the rafters like the dried-out carcass of a giant fish. She’d imagine herself perched on the seat, her bare feet on the ribs, her father behind her, guiding them.

  Sam Strelitz died soon after Jackie finished college. Rowing was the only thing she had left of him. That and her sister, Grace.

  As the sun climbed up behind the sycamores lining the bank of the Potomac, Jackie touched upon the feeling of being with him in the canoe, of being safe in the bow, encased in a life preserver. She had been free to lean over the side to satisfy her curiosity then; as long as she did it slowly, he would balance her out. He powered them and steered, but now she moves across the plane of water under her own power and rows a straight line. Her questions today are as numerous as they had been as a child, but now she is the only one who can provide the answers.

  Jackie is curled up on the couch, a book in her lap, an empty wineglass on the side table. She rowed farther than usual, striving to make herself too tired to give a damn about Harlan, Nasira, or anyone else in the universe, and she succeeded. In what was left of the morning she managed to plow through her errands, and, with the help of high-octane coffee, finish the edits of her paper for the Journal of Child Development. Miles left for the game at three to beat traffic, picking up Antonio at his apartment in Foggy Bottom on the way. Now it is ten, and if Miles doesn’t come home in the next half hour, she’ll drag herself to bed. She hates falling asleep on the couch but doesn’t want to pass up a chance to catch up with Miles before he departs for the airport at zero dark thirty in the morning.

  She rereads the last page of her book—a memoir about a single mother raising a severely autistic child—and hears voices on the landing. Not expecting anyone other than Miles, she puts the book aside and untangles herself from the throw. The door opens, and Miles spills in, practically carrying Antonio.

  Jackie is on her feet. “What happened?” She scans the boy: no blood, no torn clothing.

  Miles deposits his son on the couch with a grunt. Antonio’s head lolls to one side, his long legs splayed. His eyes are closed.

  Miles pulls off his beanie, unzips his jacket. “He’s drunk.”

  “But—”

  He puts a hand up to stop her. “I know. He’s twenty.”

  Both of them know it’s more than that. Antonio has ADHD, and when his prescribed medication isn’t enough, he turns to al
cohol and drugs. Beatrice (his mother), Miles, and, recently, Jackie have done everything they can to help him, but if he has made progress, it’s never been a straight line. This summer Antonio spent a month in rehab in Alexandria and has been on a fairly even keel since. They all hoped he’d get through this semester without a relapse. Yet here he is.

  Miles removes Antonio’s baseball cap, and the boy’s dark hair falls across his face. “Can you help me with his coat, Jackie? I don’t want him to cook.”

  “Sure.” She grasps Antonio’s upper arm and moves him forward. Miles drags one sleeve off. “Did he take anything else?”

  “I hope not.”

  “But you’re not sure?”

  Miles looks at her over the top of Antonio’s head. “I wasn’t watching him every second.”

  “I didn’t—”

  Antonio pitches toward Jackie, retches once, and, before she can react, vomits into her lap.

  “Shit!” Her pants, the couch, and the rug are covered. She releases Antonio’s arm, and he slips back against the couch, his eyes slits. “Well, if he did take something else, that helped.”

  “I’m really sorry, darling.” Miles finishes removing his son’s jacket and goes to the kitchen for paper towels.

  Antonio revives a little, muttering, and lies down, his eyes closed. Jackie accepts a handful of towels from Miles and mops the worst off herself. Miles swabs the furnishings. They both sink into chairs and stare at the passed-out boy.

  Jackie wishes she could rewind the evening to the point where she decided to stay up to talk with Miles instead of going to bed. Antonio would still be drunk, but at least she wouldn’t be resenting him so much. It feels terrible to admit, but she is too tired to censure herself. She turns to Miles. “You’ve got no idea what happened?”

  Miles sighs. “Harlan brought him his first beer while I was in the bathroom. By the time I got back, he’d drained it.”

  “How do you know Harlan only gave him one?”

  “I wasn’t gone very long.”

  Jackie shakes her head. Everyone, including Harlan, knows it takes no time at all to drain a beer.

  Reading her thoughts, Miles says, “I told Harlan it wasn’t right. He apologized. Then at halftime, Antonio disappeared. When he came back, he was out of his head.”

  “Harlan knows better. What was he thinking?”

  “That one wouldn’t matter. He didn’t know Antonio would go off and get more.”

  Jackie shakes her head at Harlan’s naivete. One does matter because it leads to this. And when Antonio wakes up with a hangover tomorrow morning, he’ll be desperate for a quick fix for that. They’ve been through this before with him.

  Jackie gets up, discards the paper towels in the kitchen trash, and retrieves the cleaning supplies from under the sink.

  Miles calls to her. “I’ll do that. You look beat.”

  She nods, places the cleaner on the counter, and heads for the stairs. “I’m going to shower and go to bed. Antonio can stay right there, can’t he?”

  “Sure.” He hesitates before speaking again. “I have to leave at four.”

  She pauses with her foot on the tread.

  “If I really have to, Jackie, I can reschedule the meetings.”

  A heaviness descends on her, a lead cloak. She does not want to deal with figuring out who is going to babysit Antonio tomorrow. She doesn’t blame the kid, but she can’t help but resent that because her schedule has more give, she is usually the one to deal with the fallout. If the world were just, Harlan would have to look after Antonio.

  “I have to teach in the morning. Maybe he’ll still be sleeping? I can’t cancel my lectures. What about his roommate?”

  “I can text him.” Miles appears doubtful.

  “I don’t want Antonio to get hurt, either, Miles. It’s just hard.”

  “It is. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. If he’s up when I leave, I’ll pour coffee into him and drag him with me.”

  Miles grins. “I’ll leave him a note. Or text him. Or both.”

  “Both would be best.”

  Upstairs, she runs the shower and rinses out her yoga pants in the sink while she waits for the water to warm. Antonio is a good kid, through and through, and amiable like his father. His personality is difficult to reconcile with the damage he inflicts upon himself, as if he doesn’t believe, on some level, that he is worth preserving. Antonio struggles and suffers, Miles endures and copes, and all of them feel powerless. In some ways, the upswings are the worst. When Antonio stays steady, out of trouble for weeks, a month, they warm themselves on the flame of hope that the worst is behind them. They hold their breath, knowing the absence of a crisis is as normal as it gets.

  I’ll take it, Jackie thinks, as she wrings out her pants and hangs them up. I’ll take false, temporary hope. Because if we don’t have hope for Antonio, for each other, then why are we here together?

  The risk is, of course, that Antonio’s history will repeat itself and vanquish hope.

  Jackie bundles her hair in a knot on top of her head and catches her reflection in the mirror. The light is dim, her image blurred by the accumulating steam. She sees past the familiarity of her own features to what constitutes them: flesh, blood, sinew. Vulnerable, physical reality.

  Her eyes fill.

  We are frail, propped up by hope, leaning against each other like reeds.

  The next morning, Jackie returns home from the university, shakes out her umbrella on the front porch, and unlocks the front door. It’s tight, but if she stays no more than ten minutes, she should be on time to her next class. She slips off her boots but leaves her coat on.

  Antonio is at the kitchen counter, hunched over a bagel and coffee. He swivels on his stool and gives her a wan smile. He favors his mother most ways, but his smile, hungover or not, is exactly Miles’s.

  Jackie’s relieved to see that he’s showered and changed his clothes; he’s taking care of himself. “You found the coffee.”

  “The coffee found me. It lured me out.” He gestures at the empty pot. “Want me to make more?”

  She shakes her head. “I have to head back soon.”

  He nods. “Checking in.”

  “Checking in.”

  He wriggles his torso and shakes out his legs, the right, then the left, like his skin doesn’t fit him correctly and he’s trying to get comfortable inside it. He does it more frequently when he’s stressed. Jackie wants to hold him, soothe him, but he’s not keen on physical affection. She places a hand on the back of his stool instead.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, head down.

  “I know.”

  He looks at her. “Erik—you know, one of my roommates? He’s coming soon.”

  Jackie met Erik briefly when she and Miles moved Antonio in. He’d offered a timid handshake and returned to his room to study. “Sounds good.” She lifts her phone from her pocket. “Call me anytime. It’s not an issue.” A notification pops up on her screen reminding her that HomeSafe is arriving at eleven to install a door camera. After three packages went missing in a single week, she and Miles decided it was prudent. She tells Antonio about the appointment. “If they come before you leave, you don’t need to do anything.”

  “They know the system. Got it.” He bites his lip, blinks. “Thanks, Jackie.”

  “As long as you’re safe, Antonio.” She lingers a moment, then goes to the door, starts putting on her boots. If she didn’t have a job, she could stay with him, talk it through, or just pass the time, put hours between a fall from grace and a possible disaster. She turns to him. “Call me, okay? Keep me posted?”

  “You bet.” He waves to her and picks up his bagel.

  She leaves, closing the door behind her, with equal measures of reluctance and relief.

  CHAPTER 8

  HARLAN

  What a game. With seconds left, the Cowboys’ kicker sends the ball through the uprights, snatching victory from the grasp of my beloved Redskins. But the play is
called back for a snap violation; the guy holding the ball moved when he should have been frozen, drawing the Redskins defense over the neutral territory. That’s what the referee saw, anyway, and a five-yard penalty brought the next field goal attempt to fifty-two yards. The ball bounced off the left upright. Victory was ours, snatched from the jaws of defeat—the best sort.

  A pity, then, that Miles and Antonio missed most of the last quarter. I wonder how they were received at home, and whether, in the aftermath, Miles neglected to mention Nasira was at the game. Why should the ticket I’d reserved for Jackie go to waste when it could be used to entertain my new lover? No surprise that Nasira was initially reluctant to attend, but of course I convinced her. Miles, ever the gentleman, had the pleasure of explaining the game to her—in French, no less. She appeared to enjoy herself, at least until Antonio reappeared, having left most of his brain elsewhere. Miles was duly embarrassed by his son, and they were soon gone, leaving Nasira and me to the game. She cheered when the field goal was missed and kissed me. She’s not demonstrative as a rule, which matches my own reserve, but also makes me long for Jackie and her bright flame. Who needs glowing embers when you can have fire?

  On our way out of the stadium, I bought Nasira a Redskins jacket, the same style as Jackie’s. Maybe she’ll wear it to the lab one day soon.

  As I said, what a game.

  People are often surprised to learn of my interest in football. I am, after all, an erudite psychology professor, a recipient of a MacArthur Genius Grant. Shame on them for their elitism! I’m joking, but only a little. How can someone who studies the brain find pleasure in watching men smash their heads together? As with most choices, this one is the legacy of a screwed-up parent.

  My father, Thomas Crispin, was a physics professor at Princeton. He couldn’t distance himself far enough, socially speaking, from the church supper/linoleum flooring/ambrosia salad upbringing of his small Kansas hometown. He married Lucy Appleton, the spawn of Boston Brahmins, for her pedigree and unfathomable wealth. When I was a boy, my father was keen for me to take up golf, tennis, and, if I were to insist on a team sport, lacrosse. With his brains and ambition and her money and connections, the new Crispins (not the Chevy-driving Kansans) could choose from an array of highbrow delights. But my father never got it right. The Appletons boarded their private jet in Brooks Brothers button-downs with frayed collars, sleeves rolled up, the backs of their boat shoes crushed under bare heels. Thomas tried to ape their cool but couldn’t pull it off.