Drift (Lengths)

by Steph Campbell

  Why?

  Why am I not telling her that my singular goal is making it so that she never wants to leave my side?

  Because I’m scared.

  I love the fact that she has a thousand goals, and I’m scared that it’s very possible none of them have to do with keeping me around in the long run.

  She pulls over, her car parked crookedly on the shoulder of the busy road, her face turned my way. I watch her eyes blaze, her dry lips fall open. “I want to know about Mr. Cumberland.”

  This is the day of atonement. Of letting go.

  I refuse to lie to her today.

  “He wanted the paintings of you. I didn’t offer them. He took advantage of the fact that they were out. But I covered them up. I told him it wasn’t a possibility.” I hold my hands in front of me, like I’m asking for her to listen to my complete surrender. “I would never—never—make things difficult for you so I could have some kind of gain. Please believe me.”

  “I do,” she says, taking my hands in hers and holding tight. “Isaac, it’s not that. It’s the opposite, actually. I know you’d always protect me. Who’s protecting you?” she asks.

  “Me?” I laugh around the word. “I’m fine, Lydia. This isn’t some one time only offer. I’ll be in the art world for many years to come. This, my career, is like a marathon, not a sprint. So Cumberland doesn’t get this round of paintings. Fine. I try to do something else and see how that goes. And if it doesn’t work? I do something else again. As long as I’m painting, I’ll be perfectly happy.”

  Her smile is relieved. “Are you sure? You’re positive you’ll be happy?”

  She’s double checking what I just asked her. This isn’t a woman fishing for more.

  Funny.

  Fishing, groping women were such a huge turn-off before Lydia. Now I wish she was one of them.

  “Actually? I kind of lied to you just now.” She tries to pull her hands back. Her face falls and she nods, tightly.

  Why does she nod? She’s been taken advantage of before, by her asshole boyfriend in particular, but I know she learned from that. Learned to value herself, learned to fight for what she wanted. Why is she backing away from me now? Why is she just agreeing?

  “I’m glad to hear it,” she says, her words spoken to the floorboards. “See, I’ve been thinking. Hard. About you and me. About your passion. And mine.”

  I wait for her to go on, but she stalls.

  “I’ve been thinking too,” I admit. Her gaze finds mine, and she tilts her head to one side, curious to hear what I’m about to say. “I said I’d be happy if I could paint. And that was true. Before I met you.”

  Her nod is quick, subdued. “Right. But now you’ve painted me, so it’s this whole new direction and I just need to—”

  “Be quiet. You just need to be quiet and listen,” I interrupt, laughing at the shocked look on her face. “Because I need to say this before you go any further, okay? I know I’m younger—”

  “I’ve never made than an issue, Isaac. I just—”

  I press my index finger to her lips.

  “You make me happy. Period. I’d change tires or bag groceries for a living if it meant I could come home to you every night. I’ll burn those paintings if that will help prove to you how serious I am. As long as you promise I get to see your gorgeous body in my bed. Do I have…do I have a chance?”

  “Isaac,” she breathes. “I…what?” She clutches the Star of David she’s wearing around her neck like she’s saying a silent prayer. “Burn them! Never! You have to promise me you’d never do that.” She puts her hands up to my face and turns my jaw so I’m looking in her panicked eyes.

  “I felt like getting out the lighter fluid when Cumberland was looking. I don’t know if I’m mature enough to handle all those eyes ogling you.” I say it as a joke, but I’m not sure if I’ve ever been more serious about anything in my life.

  She turns in her seat and puts her hand on my cheek. “Isaac. Cumberland told you that you need to think about why you’re painting. And I think he was trying to say that you can’t hide your true passion. Not to save my feelings, not to keep yourself from feeling jealous.”

  I press my hand over hers, take it from my cheek, and press my lips to her palm. “Lydia, my father poured himself into his art to the exception of everything else. And he’s a fat, pompous, sad old man now. I have no desire to end up going down his path. I want to be with you.”

  “And I want you to be with me and happy with your career.” She takes a deep breath. “I want you to show those paintings.”

  “No.” It’s not even a temptation at this point. “You need happiness too. Your life is unsettled right now. Committing to having those paintings displayed feels right in this moment. But you may regret it, and once they’re in the world, it will be nearly impossible to erase their impression.” I rub my thumb over her delicate knuckles. “There will be more to this, to us, than this moment. We’ll put them away. Maybe one day when we’re saggy geezers, I’ll put them out there.” I smile.

  She does and doesn’t. Or, she smiles out of obligation only, which barely counts.

  Her eyes flutter half shut and she lets her head hang. “I feel like a coward.”

  I snort at that. “I’ve never met a braver person in my entire life.” I want to continue talking. I do. But my stomach makes such a loud rumble, Lydia pulls back onto the road without another word. “We can keep talking about this. Ignore my hunger pains.”

  She shakes her head glumly. “You need to eat.” She sighs. “Yom Kippur is over soon, and I plan to give you a healthy meal, and then work you all night long.”

  I know I should argue in favor of talking this over more, but why bother trying to argue with a lawyer? Especially one so damn sexy.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, sitting back with the smile that never seems to leave my face when I’m around Lydia.

  ***

  Her parents’ house is full of noise and life.

  It’s not something that takes me completely by surprise. My parents had large parties constantly when I was growing up. But they were never like this.

  People are weaving in and out between the kitchen and the dining room, and there’s an extreme amount of pinching, hugging, kissing, laughing, and loud, multilingual yelling. Again, on one level, not so different from what I grew up with at all; on another, this scenario might as well be happening on another planet for all the core similarities it has to one of my parents’ gatherings. There’s nothing furtive here. No ego-laden boasting—or at least none of that without a healthy amount of eye-rolling and head-shaking. Pomposity doesn’t stand a chance and love is thick and almost oppressive in the air. Oppressive in the best way.

  Lydia cringes. “We could totally just pick up Thai. Seriously. I’ve had you trapped with these crazies all day long.”

  I pull her close and kiss her on the lips. “I’m happy to be here.”

  A series of cat calls from Whit and Cece make me reconsider for a flash. But then they run to us, pulling Lydia, who sighs and shrugs, and me, only too happy to follow, into the kitchen to help.

  “Mami, this is Isaac Ortiz, my boyfriend.” Lydia says the words easily, but the room falls into a hush.

  A gorgeous woman who could be Lydia’s older sister wipes her hands on her apron and looks me up and down. A little smile tugs on the side of her face. “Muy guapo, Lydia. Muy, muy guapo.”

  “The ‘Ortiz’ isn’t just a decorative last name, Mamá. He’s actually from Spain. Also, I think Dora the Explorer taught everyone enough basic Spanish to know what guapo means.” Lydia drops a quick kiss on her mother’s beet red cheek. “And, better than handsome, he’s brilliant.”

  “Your daughter exaggerates, Mrs. Rodriguez. She’s the brilliant one. And the beautiful one. I’m just hanging around hoping she won’t wise up to those facts and leave me. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I’m not sure the etiquette on this one, but I give her a quick hug. It seems to be what everyone here is doing.r />
  She looks up at me, eyes glimmering with unshed tears, and says, “Better than brilliant, you’re very kind. Call me Dinah.” Louder she says, “I like this one. You need to keep him around, Lydia” as she pokes me in the chest and laughs.

  The kitchen smells warm and inviting. Mrs. Rodriguez wastes no time having me stir the blueberries for her cottage cheese noodle kugel. Lydia comes behind me, tying a plain white apron around my waist. “What’s with you charming my mom like that?” she asks in my ear, pinching my ass.

  “That’s just my natural charm, baby. I can’t turn it off.” I turn my head to kiss her on the mouth, almost tipping the blueberries over.

  A giggle makes us break apart quickly. “Don’t stop on my account,” Maren says, pulling her dark hair into a bun before she pulls a quiche out of the oven. “It’s just Lydia always ragged on me and Cohen for contaminating the kitchen with our make out sessions.” She winks and walks to the dining room, calling, “No worries! I’m not a germaphobe!”

  Lydia grimaces. “She’s right you know.” She dips her finger in the blueberries, sucks the syrupy juice off, and grabs a container of amber honey, scooping some in. “I was such an asshole. I have no idea why they hang out with me.”

  I put my spoon down and take the honey out of her hands, tilting her face up so she’s looking me in the eye. “You are too damn hard on yourself. Maren loves you. This family loves you.” I know I said it once before and got zero response from her, but I don’t care. I’ll say it every day for the rest of my life, even if she never says it back. Because it’s true. Because she needs to know. Because I can’t hold it inside. “I love you. I do. With everything in me, I love you, Lydia.”

  Her face goes a deep, sweet rose, then a blood-drained white. She begins to stutter, and I press a finger to her lips.

  “It’s not something you need to say back to me.” I pull my fingers away and kiss her softly. “I just want you to know.”

  Whatever she may have said next she doesn’t get to. Deo sticks his head in and yells, “Bring it to the table. Let’s break this fast Rodriguez style.”

  Lydia tears her apron off, grabs the blintzes that are warming in the stove, and leaves me to pour the blueberries over the kugel. I expect…something other than what I see.

  Mr. Rodriguez, his thick moustache seeming to hold his mouth down in a solemn line, pours liquor into small glasses placed neatly around the table. He looks around at us all with a stern expression, and beads of sweat gather on my forehead. I know from talking to Lydia how important this man is to her, how much he influenced her decision to practice law. His word has influence with the woman I love, and I’m at his table on a day that’s holy to him, intruding on his family.

  Intruding in the hopes of becoming part of, but still intruding.

  “L’chaim,” he says, lifting his glass.

  Everyone in the family picks up a glass, and we all toast and throw back the liquor.

  A full day of fasting makes it burn hot and fast down my throat and into my stomach. My head feels woozy and my heart thumps. I sit back at the table and watch all the happiness as food is heaped onto trays and passed around.

  “What’s wrong?” Lydia asks, her eyes on her fork, tapping against a near-empty plate.

  “Nothing. At all. I’m just happy to be in this moment, part of this time with all of you.” I clear my throat. “You should eat a little more.”

  She shakes her head. “You should be careful not to eat too much. If you’ve never fasted, even a short fast like this one, it can be too much too quickly.”

  We talk to one another like concerned acquaintances, not lovers. It doesn’t make me regret what I said to her in the kitchen. But it does make me wish it hadn’t been me pushing her too hard. It makes me wish it had been what we say to each other as a matter of course. Not something that would spook her or make her upset. I want our love to be an open part of our everyday.

  “Isaac.” Mr. Rodriguez says my name and every person at the table turns to look at me. “My wife tells me you make art.”

  I don’t know how to read him. Mr. Rodriguez owns a furniture store. That could mean he’s a very grounded man who appreciates tangible things like end tables and armchairs. But he also loves Salinas. A man who can appreciate great art must have a soft spot for artists.

  “I am a painter. I also lecture at the university.” I don’t mention this guest lecture position is my first and possibly only foray into teaching. I want to sound like a man who can care for the woman he loves.

  “I’d love to see your works. I hear you’ve done paintings of cathedrals?” He narrows his eyes at me, and I’ve never felt more anxious to admit to every wrong in my heart. Not since I was a boy going to first confession.

  “I’m a Roman Catholic,” I say into the awkward silence. Strangely, it’s Deo who looks most shocked that I’d admit that here. “I’ve grown up attending mass at some truly amazing cathedrals. I’ve worshipped in the Basilica of Our Lady of the Pillar and Las Lajas. They were very awe inspiring to me, and my memories of them stayed with me through my childhood and until I was a grown man.” I stop and swallow hard. Am I bragging? Am I throwing my religion in his face? “I was overwhelmed by the way the spirituality came through in the architecture.” His face looks exactly as it did when I first sat down. “It’s actually very similar to the feeling I got when I was inside your beautiful temple today.”

  His smile is alarmingly wide and white under that inky moustache. He takes the bottle of harsh, hot liquor, gesturing to me with his hand. “Maybe one day, you could paint our temple. I dabble in painting now and then myself. You could give me a few tips. Come, let’s drink another round.” Mr. Rodriguez refills all the glasses and holds his glass up. “To conversations about art and the spirit. I love surfing dearly, but if I had to sit through one more dinner of Deo and Cohen yapping about money trees, I may have gone crazy. L’chaim!”

  Lydia laughs, and is joined in by the other girls. Cohen and Deo scowl. “Isaac loves to surf, too,” Deo points out.

  Mr. Rodriguez gives Deo a good-natured wink. “Now, now, there’s no reason to get testy, Deo. I love you like a son. But one day you may want to move onto more mature topics. That’s all.” He shrugs.

  Cohen scoffs. “More mature topics? Deo has been running his own business for two years. Aren’t you, like, twenty?” he asks me.

  The table goes quiet. Maren yanks Cohen by the arm and whispers something furious in his ear. Mr. Rodriguez looks at me with that same blank face. Lydia’s hand moves to my knee under the table, grabs tight, and squeezes.

  “Not twenty,” I say. Cece winks at me and smiles. Mrs. Rodriguez looks over to Lydia, who doesn’t look back. My throat is dry. I’ll fight for Lydia whether her family thinks I’m a good match or not. But, damn, their support would have made things so much easier. “I’m nineteen.”

  Mr. Rodriguez squints at me. “Nineteen?”

  “Yes, sir. Nineteen.”

  He shakes his head back and forth. “I was married and running my own store at eighteen. I had Lydia at nineteen and got the down payment for this house two months after she was born. But we can’t all be on such a fast track.”

  “What?” Deo sits back hard in his chair, mouth hanging open, and points his forkful of quiche between Lydia’s parents. “You two got married right out of high school?”

  “No, no. Dinah was twenty and working as a hostess at her father’s diner. I went to eat there while I was finishing my senior year on a reduced schedule so I could take over their store. She served me homemade anise churros, and I fell head over heels in love. I wooed her for weeks, refusing to take ‘no’ for an answer. She was a little leery about going with a younger guy, you know. But I finally got her to go on a date with me, and it was all moonlight and stars and romance. Little by little, she came around. She married me two months before I graduated.” He pulls his wife close, kisses her as she laughs and clucks her tongue, and grabs the bottle of mezcal, beckoning for my
glass. “To older women!”

  “L’chaim,” I say as Mr. Rodriguez and I throw back our drinks and celebrate our good taste and better luck.

  23 LYDIA

  I turn Cumberland’s card in my hands over and over again, wondering what I should do. And then, like a miracle, my phone rings.

  I jump to answer it, sure it’s going to be some kind of divine intervention. But the voice is familiar.

  Familiar and so irritating, I have to resist the urge to end the call before I know why she’s contacting me.

  “Hello, Lydia,” Tanya says. It’s purposeful, her not referring to me as Ms. Rodriguez. It’s a spiteful, childish power play, and I realize that immediately.

  It doesn’t stop my blood from boiling.

  “What is it, Tanya?” I ask, eager to get back to dissecting my problem with Isaac.

  I’ve been sending faxes and references over for weeks, leaping to get whatever they need done the exact moment they need it. I feel burned out already, and I have this strange sense that my case will never be resolved anyway. So why am I bothering to chase after them like a stupid dog waiting with her tongue wagging for her master to give her another kick in the ribs?

  “Mr. Sandberg will see you at two.” Her voice is smug and condescending; like she knows something I don’t and can’t wait to see my face when I get smacked upside the head with it.

  But that’s just me being a paranoid idiot. No matter how much Tanya has always irritated me, and no matter how much it irks that she and Richard joined idiotic forces, she doesn’t have privy information. Mr. Sandberg is the ultimate professional. He doesn’t share details of cases with secretaries. Ever.

  “Thank you,” I say in a clipped voice, and then hang up before she can utter another syllable.

  Cumberland’s card, now stained from the oils of my fingers and the weeks it’s spent bumping around my purse, falls from my hand, and I stand on shaky knees in the middle of my bedroom.

  I look around, unsure I know the place. It’s not pin-straight anymore. I realized keeping a place clinically pin-straight is easy if you’re a consummate organizer and cleaner—or if you’re such an intense workaholic, you’re simply never home to make a mess.