Parts Unknown

by Davidson, S. P.

  I was going to talk with the kid, I decided. He was my brother, after all. I needed to get to know him.

  Somehow, though, the days went by, and I was always meaning to sit down with him the next day. Read him a book. Play blocks with him. Pretend we were superheroes.

  But before I knew it, it was July 31, and it was too late.

  ~ ~ ~

  Josh went off to work. I returned to the flat and knocked on Dov’s door. As he pulled it open, I saw that his walls were lined with wrinkled, recycled travel posters from Council Travel. A complicated hookah was set up near the window, and several Cadbury’s Milk Trays were stacked on his night table. He rubbed his eyes; he must have been napping. He was shirtless, his chest bristling with a quantity of black curly fuzz. “Hey, nice to see you,” he smiled. “You want to come in?”

  I recoiled a bit. “No thanks. But I wanted to ask you—if you have some time, I’m ready to learn how to juggle.”

  “Oh, sure.” He swiped his hands through his hair, reddening a little. “Just give me a minute.” He turned and rummaged through the pile of laundry on the floor near his window, and extracted a T-shirt I’d seen him wear several days previously. He sniffed the armholes, tossed the shirt back in the pile, and finally found one that passed muster. “I’ve got to do my laundry one of these days,” he said, linking his arm through mine and escorting me down the stairs.

  “So it’s like this,” Dov instructed in the backyard, clutching three balls to his “I Heart Cheese” t-shirt, overgrown grass reaching to his calves. “You start with two, okay? And you toss them from hand to hand, just like I’m doing.” He threw two hacky sacks to me, and I followed along.

  “I can do that,” I nodded.

  “Alright, so then you add the third one. You’re always throwing. You’re never thinking about catching. Your hands will know what to do.”

  I tried and tried. It was maddening. I could never hold on to the third ball. It took ages to find the dropped balls too, in the high grass.

  “You have to trust your hands,” Dov repeated. “They know. If you think about it too much, you’re screwed. Just be throwing. Not catching. It’s like riding a bike. Your body just figures out what to do.”

  A cool breeze swirled around us; old nicotine smells wafted from the outdoor table. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Boris furtively scurry into the kitchen, grab a can of soup and a can opener, and retreat to his room. I dropped another ball.

  “This reminds me of that game where you pat your head and rub your stomach at the same time,” I groaned, exasperated. “I could never manage that either.”

  I dropped another ball. Watching Dov keep aloft four balls, grasping lightly, tossing lightly, making it look so easy.

  ~ ~ ~

  After two weeks, I had lived in London forever. I had a student bank account at Barclay’s Bank, and a monthly London Transport Travelcard for the tube, with an accompanying London Transport Photocard. I had a National Insurance Numbercard, serious and official-looking in blue and red. Meanwhile, still acting the tourist despite my trappings of residency, I took photos of everything I could with my little point-and-shoot Minolta, trying to capture every last moment.

  I was already down to 700 pounds in the bank; the exchange rate had clobbered my summer savings. But it was easy to live cheaply if a person mostly dined on frozen steak-and-kidney pies and leftover pizza. And loooooove, as I smooched Josh elaborately, celebrating our two-and-a-half-week anniversary. “Can’t buy me luh-ove,” he sang to me as we got on the tube at Camden Town station to go to the Theatre Royal Haymarket to see the play Richard III to celebrate.

  “So when are you going to show me your story?” I asked him. Josh had been working for hours every day on a short story, and although I’d sneaked a few looks, he’d been holding it back from me. “It’s almost done,” he promised, “and you’ll be the first one to see it.”

  I felt a surprising flare of anger. “I hope so! You get to see what I do, when I paint, at any moment. But you make it out like your writing is so personal . . . so private . . . I thought we shared everything.”

  “Of course we do!” he exclaimed. “You know me better than anyone does. But I don’t want you to see it till it’s perfect.”

  “I wouldn’t think anything less of you if it was less than perfect!” I snapped. “We’re both artists—we’re supposed to support each other through everything—good and bad.” My voice was rising; quiet commuters were looking at us askance, pulled out of their avid perusal of the day’s variety of tabloids. I caught a glimpse of a Page Three girl flashing from one of the papers, just as quickly concealed by the sober-looking banker type across from me.

  The train screeched to a stop in the tunnel, somewhere a long way before the Goodge Street station. There was no sound from the passengers, just a collective outbreath of resignation. The train lights flickered and went out, then on again.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, there is a delay,” came the voice of the conductor. “There has been a bomb report at the Goodge Street station, so expect a wait until we are cleared to depart.”

  Tabloid pages flipped. Passengers sat quietly, or stood easily, holding on to an overhead bar with one hand while reading with another.

  Josh kept his voice low; without the roar of the engine the train was so silent. “You’re so talented, everything you do is great. And you should do more—there’s so much you have to explore. These portraits you’re painting—they’re awesome. Maybe you should try abstract next.”

  I blinked. “Why are you telling me what I should paint?” I asked slowly, the beginnings of tears pricking behind my eyelids.

  He threw up his hands. “That’s not the point. Paint whatever you like. But don’t waste your talent, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “Don’t turn the fact that you’re hiding your writing into some rant about my art. That’s not fair.” I clutched the overhead bar so hard my knuckles turned white.

  The train jerked to a start. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are all clear. We’re free to proceed to Goodge Street.”

  “I’m going to show it to you,” Josh said. “As soon as we get home, okay? And you’re amazing, an amazing artist.” His arm uncomfortably tight around my waist.

  I blinked into his hazel eyes uneasily. “I’m glad.”

  We got home late, elated from the performance, our disagreement almost forgotten. Josh immediately went to his dresser and pulled out the lined yellow pad he’d been writing on. “Here,” he thrust it at me, “I should have shown it to you before. But it’s complicated. You being here inspired me to write it—but I don’t know how the story can end differently,” he said sadly.

  It was a story of a religious Jewish boy who went away to a yeshiva in a big city, and befriended another boy, of a different religion. The boys played, shared adventures together, told each other secrets. In boyish enthusiasm, they pricked their fingers and made blood oaths to be brothers in spirit forever.

  Eventually their families found out, and tolerated the friendship with suspicion—how could such different people find a common ground?—until finally the boy’s father decided it was time to transfer the boy to another yeshiva. He never saw his friend again.

  It was a simple, poignant story. Entire crossed-out paragraphs kept the text minutely focused; each word mattered. “Maybe they could write to each other?” I suggested. “Of course they could write,” said Josh emptily.

  “It’s really good,” I said.

  “Thanks.” He picked at his cuticles, an annoying habit—they were often red and raw, directly correlating to how stressed he felt on a given day. “You know, I feel like a fraud half the time,” he half-whispered. “I love to write, and it’s all I want to do. But I’m never sure that I’m good enough to even try to make a go of it.”

  “You’re amazing,” I reassured him. “The way you write—it makes me, just, feel. Your words can draw pictures in my head, like what you write is real. That’s a great talent.”

&
nbsp; “You always make me feel so strong,” he said, running his fingers up backwards from my neck, like stroking a cat. “I never talk about my writing with anyone. You’re the only person I’ve let in. The only person who sees who I really am.”

  “The same for me,” I said softly. “It’s scary. It’s the scariest thing I’ve ever done.”

  “We’ll keep each other safe,” he promised.

  Ten more days, I thought blankly, shivering against him. Ten whole days. The rest of my life yawned before me. An abyss.

  Late that night, still awake, tossing and turning, I realized: He was right. He shouldn’t have shown me that story, after all.

  ~ ~ ~

  On August 20, I eventually made it to the hostel and picked up my mail. Instructions from Butler College, forwarded from home—my dormitory room assignment, orientation meetings, a welcome tea. It was so confusing, allying the future—in less than a week now—with the present. I had worked so hard convincing myself that my life in Camden Town could continue forever, I had intentionally ignored the real future just ahead.

  I slumped on Josh’s bed. “You’ll have to take the rubber plant with you; she’ll need a home when I go,” he instructed. “And I’ll help you pack up and go with you to the college and everything. It’s a bank holiday on the 25th, and my last day. We’ll go then.”

  I was crying in earnest now.

  “It’s perfect that I’m leaving Monday anyhow. Your school starts on Tuesday, and you’ll be busy.”

  He pushed his fingers through his hair, agitated; my crying was making him nervous. “So we’ll make that last Monday together really special, okay? Then you’ll go off to Butler College, and you’ll have a great year. And we’ll email, all the time. I promise.”

  I sobbed; I just couldn’t stop.

  “Listen, really, just stop crying, okay? We can email, and Los Angeles and San Jose—they’re not far away. We’ll see each other, over Christmas break, even.”

  “I don’t have any money to go home over Christmas break,” I honked forlornly. “I’ve got barely 700 pounds to cover my expenses for the whole year—I have dip into my college fund as it is. I have to stay here.” Bright light slanted through Josh’s window, as if mocking my despair.

  “Well then spring break, or summer then. I’ll wait for you; you know I will. I love you more than anything, Vivian.”

  I loved the way he spoke my name, slowly. Like my name was special. The way his mouth lingered on the sounds.

  I squeezed his hands tightly. “What am I going to do without you?”

  “What you’ve always done. But I’ll wait. We’ll talk on the phone too. And we’ll email all the time.” He didn’t know that I really meant it—I had no idea what I was going to do without him. He was the center of my universe, the planet I orbited around.

  But Josh’s voice was soothing, comforting, smooth as caramel sauce. I let myself believe him.

  ~ ~ ~

  It was supposed to be a festive evening—all of us together celebrating Josh’s last night. Instead it felt like a funeral.

  Funny, it was the first time Dov, Trevor, Josh, and I had all gone out together to the Lamb and Castle. We sat in the same booth I always hung in with Dov and Trevor, but it was a tight fit now that Josh was here too. We all squeezed together, me at the end, Josh’s arm pressed around me, Dov and Trevor rounding out the corner booth. I trailed my finger through the condensation on my glass, making swirly patterns. Here I was with my three favorite people in the world. How crazy was that—they were the people I loved the most, and I’d known them less than a month. I felt more at home here at this table with them than I ever had during awkward meals with my own family.

  I could tell Dov didn’t like being squinched next to Josh. I might love all of them dearly, but the way they felt toward each other was a different matter entirely. At breakfast a few days ago, Josh had been talking enthusiastically about the novel he’d been thinking about writing. While he explained, “It’ll be like the stream-of-consciousness in Finnegan’s Wake meets The Iliad,” I could swear I heard Dov mutter “poser” under his breath as he grabbed a handful of Weetabix for breakfast in the kitchen before making for the front door.

  Still, Dov was cordial tonight, doubtless counting the minutes till Josh’s flight left tomorrow evening. His t-shirt read “I’m with stupid,” with a downward-facing arrow. “How was your last day at work?” he asked, gulping his pint of bitter.

  “Ah, nothing to talk about really. The wait staff gave me a nice card they all signed. Nigel—he’s the manager—he shook my hand after I seated my last table and said, ‘Cheers, mate,’ in this obnoxious voice. Which I guess means whatever you want it to mean—goodbye, get the fuck out of here, whatever. So I just left. That was it. It’s not like I’ll ever see any of those people again.”

  “I imagine ‘Cheers, mate’ would not be a good toast for me to make tonight,” Trevor joked.

  “By all means . . .” Josh smiled.

  I raised my glass, taking belated responsibility for Josh’s farewell toast. “To friends,” I said tentatively. “To being together. May you have all the success in the world --” I inclined my head toward Josh. “--and may we all end up where we want to be.”

  We clinked glasses, Dov’s half-empty already, everyone awkwardly stretching to touch each other’s glass so that the toast would be complete. I clinked Josh’s twice accidentally, forgot Trevor, clinked his belatedly. Dov pushed past us to get another beer.

  “Well, Josh,” Trevor began. “Where will we be finding you then, in a year’s time?”

  “I’ll have graduated by then,” Josh sipped his Guinness thoughtfully. “It could go either way, I guess. I’ll probably be getting ready for law school in the fall. Or else I’ll still be working nights as a host at some pizza chain in So. Cal. while I write the Great American Novel.”

  Josh turned to me and blinked a little. “Of course, if you’re talking next summer, Vivian will be there too. She’ll either be spending my future legal earnings on fancy clothes and chocolate truffles, or she’ll be working two jobs to help me pay the bills while I write that novel.”

  “I’ll work days as an office temp and nights as a stripper,” I teased. “I hear they get really good tips. And I could have a double identity, like Superman. Cubicle slave by day . . . temptress by night,” I intoned.

  We were all loosening up, our pints almost gone. Trevor bought everyone another round. The pale liquid of my hard cider smelled and looked rather like pee, but it slid pleasantly down my throat.

  “So where will you all be next year, then?” Josh asked the table.

  “I hope to be working as a bank teller,” Trevor confided. “My dream is to work at Barclay’s Bank. Every day I go for job search, and every day I look for posts at banks. They have all been filled so far before I have had a chance to interview, but I am not concerned. There will be the job for me one day.”

  “You bet, Trevor,” I encouraged him. “You’ll get that job.”

  Dov slurped his bitter, talking out of the side of the glass. “I better the hell not be here, that’s for sure,” he slurred.

  “If you hate it so much,” countered Josh, “Why are you here in the first place?”

  “Oh, like you’d have any idea, rich boy,” sneered Dov. “We don’t all get to choose exactly where we want to be, and we don’t all have the money to even joke about writing our poncy fancy-ass novel. I’ve got a British passport, alright? And I’ve chosen to take my chances getting blown up in an IRA subway bomb instead of getting blown up on a bus in Tel Aviv, or having rocks and hand grenades thrown at me because I’m a soldier patrolling the Gaza strip.”

  “Don’t pull that crap on me,” said Josh coldly. “You’re the biggest slacker I know. Don’t act all noble and self-sacrificing and shit, when you chose to bail out of your army service and smoke pot all day in London instead.”

  Dov pounded his fist on the table. “You American Jews know nothing! You’re all smug
in your little capitalist bubbles. Like sending money to Israel really makes up for what we have to live with every . . . single . . . frigging . . . day. You don’t wake up every morning wondering if you’ll survive the day. You don’t think twice about going inside a supermarket or getting on a bus. Well, listen, you little cocksucking --”

  At this point Trevor forcibly intervened, putting his hands on Dov’s shoulders and forcing him to sit down again. He whispered audibly in Dov’s ear, “It’s Josh’s last night. Try to be polite, for heaven’s sake.”

  I squirmed uncomfortably. I was so out of the loop, I couldn’t even begin to parse this animosity between these two Jews, thrown together in a foreign country and hating what the other represented. At least I knew now why those two had never gotten along. And I knew I had little hope of understanding Josh’s world, or Josh’s family—the family that knew nothing about me.

  Dov was seething, at the bottom of his third pint already. Josh looked ready to bolt.

  “So,” I interposed with forced cheer, attempting to recapture some shreds of conviviality. “We’ve figured out where we’ll be next summer, then. But what about five years from now? What’s everyone going to be doing then?”

  Trevor said gamely, “I will be by then working in the back office at Barclay’s Bank. I have always wanted to do the behind-the scenes transactions. Tabulating the foreign exchange totals. Calculating the day’s trades.”

  “You just want to wear a suit,” Dov teased him. “And you’d have a perfectly folded white handkerchief in your breast pocket.”

  “You’ll look smashing,” I smiled, and Trevor flashed his even white teeth at us.

  “I’m going to still be traveling,” Dov said. “Once I have enough money saved—I’m going to do what the Aussies and Kiwis do. They leave home and travel for, like, five years. They just keep going. And when they run out of money they pick up odd jobs here and there. So that’s what I’ll do. I figure in five years, I’ll be in Japan or Hong Kong. Maybe picking up work at a travel agency there or something. So what about you, nosy girl?”