by Michael Kun
Saw a great movie the other night. I don’t remember the name of it. Or who was in it. Or what it was about. But you really should see it if you have a chance. (Joking, Mackie, joking. I haven’t lost my mind or anything.)
The odor of this bus is amazing, the same, unmistakable aroma found in most alleyways, and, to make matters worse, THERE IS A VERY HEAVY MAN SITTING NEXT TO ME READING OVER MY SHOULDER.
And he could be nasty when he didn’t need to be. Never to her, but to others, and that had bothered her just the same.
In the reflection of the bus window, Jules watched as the man’s mouth flew open, presumably to take exception to either the accusation or his harsh description, then slap shut when he must have realized that to say anything would have been an admission that he had, in fact, been reading the letter. The man turned the page of his newspaper noisily instead, and Jules could picture him behind the counter of a candy store, bellowing, “This isn’t a library,” to the boys reading at the comic book rack.
Beyond the reflection, Jules followed a group of young girls, most dressed in down-filled jackets, two or three in thick sweaters, as they dashed from awning to awning along the same route as the bus, shielding their heads from the snow with their purses or their hands. It wasn’t long before they filed into a pizza parlor, shaking themselves dry in the doorway, and, as the bus left them behind, Jules tried to decide how old they were. He could only place them between fifteen and twenty-two. He thought he should sigh, but didn’t, and the man in the navy trench coat snapped his newspaper again.
Jules flipped the page up, folded it behind the pad, and began a new one. Though the tickle hadn’t returned to his throat, he made himself cough again as if to ward off the next.
Anyway, there was a message that said he needs to see me tonight, though I can’t imagine why. I’m sure a doctor would’ve called if it was something urgent, and Dad was sleeping when I tried to reach him to see what this is all about. Trace is going to pick me up, so I figure we’ll probably go see Dad for a while, go out to grab something to eat, talk a bit. Who knows? Maybe we’ll straighten things out. I wouldn’t mind a bit. In fact, I’m not ashamed to say that I still have Trace Sain on the brain.
Enough of that. Do you remember Artie? My old roommate down at school? Well, he stopped by for a weekend in November and dragged me out to see a Brazilian band in Jersey City. Strange experience. First of all, there was a woman dancing onstage with fruit on her head, which is something I didn’t think people did in real life, but obviously they do. Secondly, my Portuguese may be a bit weak, but I could swear that in one of their songs the lead singer was saying, “Your mother smells real bad, and her cooking tastes like trash.” Okay, I made that part up, but I’m dead serious about the fruit. Really.
The big news is that he (Artie, that is, not the Brazilian singer) is going to ask Shell to marry him. I think you met her at graduation. The blond, remember? Now, everyone knows that this is a mistake of Hindenburg-ish proportions, but, of course, I said otherwise when he asked what I thought. The way I figure it, if you can’t lie to keep a friend happy, what good are you? And, besides, I’m a regular whiz at lying these days, so it’s no skin off of my nose.
That was something Trace could never put her finger on, but she’d suspected that he was jealous of his friends, that he didn’t want them to be happy, that he was afraid they wouldn’t need him anymore if they were. Jules had said that was absurd, that she was overanalyzing everything again.
I’m thinking about going back to law school. I’ll let you know what I decide.
Law school was another matter. He’d talk about going back, but he could never decide, asking all the time, “Trace, do you think I should go back to school?” It didn’t matter if she said yes or no. He still couldn’t decide. It had been driving her crazy. It would drive any woman crazy. He was like a ten-year-old that way. She’d tell him that it was his decision to make, that she’d be happy no matter what he’d decide, and Jules would nod then hug her, but she could tell it hadn’t taken.
As the bus passed through the tollbooth and moved into the tunnel, Jules bent forward and put the pad and pen in his gym bag. When he did, he found the laundry ticket he’d been using as a bookmark lying among his underwear. He picked a hardcover copy of The Search for Bridey Murphy out of the bag. It was about reincarnation, and it was already a week overdue at the library. Jules worked his way backward until he found a familiar passage on page ninety-six, then tucked the ticket in. Stuffing the book back into the bag, beneath his boxer shorts, he tugged the zipper closed and lifted the bag to his lap.
Jules maneuvered in his seat until he had a Winston in his mouth again and waited until the bus had pulled into the Port Authority building before lighting it. He rose from his seat, returning his lighter, buttoned his coat as best as it would allow, and all the while tried to keep from looking at the man who’d been seated beside him.
“Jackass,” the man finally said as he stepped into the aisle, leaving the Daily News, opened to the television listings, on his seat.
Jules waited, letting the woman with the scarves into the aisle. “Parents couldn’t afford charm school, could they?” he said, and he grabbed the newspaper and looked through it to make some distance between himself and the man. He pushed up his coat sleeve to take a look at his watch: 7:55.
When the man had left the bus and started down the escalator, Jules got off. He dropped the newspaper into the trash can, pausing first to examine the front page, DID SHE JUMP OR WAS SHE PUSHED, a head-and-torso photograph of a light-haired woman, face down, her neck twisted in a shiny gray ocean of her blood.
Jules shook his head in the same exaggerated way that he had when he’d thought of Trace at the bus stop. He stepped onto the escalator, empty now, and played with the buttons in his pocket, clicking them together like castanets. Halfway down, he balanced his gym bag on his head and pretended it was fruit.
There hadn’t been time to eat when he’d returned from work. He’d taken off his suit jacket and overcoat and tossed them on the bed, then pushed the playback button on his answering machine. Hearing his father’s message, Jules had made an unsuccessful attempt to talk to him, speaking with the floor nurse instead, and then he’d called Trace. Her work number was on a slip in his wallet. He’d dug a sweater vest out of his dresser drawer and pulled it over his work shirt, thrown some things into the gym bag, pulled the Burberry off its hanger, and headed out to the bus stop down the block. It wasn’t until he’d left the apartment building that he’d thought about making a sandwich, and then he hadn’t felt like turning back.
The apartment. The apartment was a disaster, his things everywhere. She’d had to cook and clean for the both of them, and, if she was late getting back from work, he wouldn’t know enough to put a pot on the stove. He’d just make a sandwich for himself. It was frustrating. “So I can’t cook,” he’d said when she’d mentioned it. “Big deal.” She’d admitted that it was a petty one, but it was just one of her reasons, one of a million.
Jules was hungry now, so hungry that he ordered a hamburger and grape soda from a shop on the second floor of the Port Authority building. He knew that he shouldn’t, that he’d wind up with an upset stomach from the grease, that he’d be eating later, but he did, and he soaked the hamburger in catsup and ate it standing, then hurried to wash the taste from his mouth with the soda.
He took another escalator down to the building’s main level and headed toward the doors that open onto Eighth Avenue. There were people everywhere, too many to count, too many to try to figure out. He tried not to notice anyone, to block them out. Passing the newsstand in the foyer, he looked over at the collection of papers beneath the magazine racks. The New York Times. The New York Post. The Wall Street Journal. Newsday. At the end, spread out like playing cards, The New York Daily News. DID. DID SHE. DID SHE JUMP. DID SHE JUMP OR. DID SHE JUMP OR WAS. DID SHE JUMP OR WAS SHE. DID SHE JUMP OR WAS SHE PUSHED. DID SHE JUMP OR WAS SHE PUSHED. DID SHE JUMP OR
WAS SHE PUSHED.
On the sidewalk outside, Jules stood in the damp air for a moment to get his bearings, looking left then right down the avenue. He checked his watch—8:20 and no trace of Trace.
Jules waited in the cold for five minutes, smoking, a hand at his neck, searching for Trace’s Pontiac, before he went back into the building and took a seat in the Greyhound terminal. The seat looked out into the foyer, and he hoped that, being late, Trace would have the good sense to park and come in to look for him.
He took the pad and pen from his bag and reread what he had written on the bus, nearly two pages.
The problem with being a lawyer is that it seems like it can get pretty goddamn gloomy at times. People going to jail and killing each other and everything. Jesus, if I want to be depressed, I can do it all by myself pretty much whenever I want. You know, I can’t tell you how many times I tried to talk to Trace about this, and she was absolutely no help at all.
He folded the page back and checked his Winstons. Three left. He shook one out of the pack, put it in his mouth, and lit it. He looked at his watch: 8:35.
She’s late picking me up, a good twenty minutes already. Some things never change. I figure I’ll give her about another ten minutes and then I’ll grab a cab. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never been especially fond of spending my Friday nights in the Port Authority. It’s like I’m waiting to get mugged.
She’d hated the way he expected so much of everybody. He’d never consider that there might be reasons why she did certain things.
She was always late, Jules thought, lifting his head to check the foyer. Picking up the dry-cleaning, meeting him for dinner, paying the bills. It was maddening, but, because it was Trace, it was still endearing. He suspected that he forgave her for everything because she was so pretty. Maybe she’d had an affair. And he’d have forgiven her if she had. And he’d forgive her now, for moving out, if that was what she wanted. If she ever showed up.
He stubbed out his cigarette on the sole of one of his loafers and looked out into the foyer. There she was, all black hair and cornflower blue eyes, walking right past the doorway of the Greyhound terminal, not looking in. Jules let her pass no more than ten yards from him. He was thinking of Duke again. Her, driving through campus in her sports car, the top down, her hair pulled back taut by the wind. Then the cheerleader uniform. Then her on- stage, her hair dusted gray, the heavy makeup, Lady Macbeth. There was the time Jules had found her outside the student union, when she’d just broken up with the football player she’d been dating, the crazy look on her face as she tried to laugh through tears. That’s how it had started, as friends. Jules was someone she could talk to, someone she didn’t have to be afraid of.
Then the apartment. He thought of her in the kitchen, baking cookies and tossing salads. At the kitchen table, late at night, her work spread in front of her, tapping at the keys of her calculator. On the floor, in front of the television, stretching. In the bedroom. He’d loved sleeping with her. He’d loved putting her hair in his mouth, his tongue in her ear.
“Jules,” she said, approaching him, smiling thinly.
He stood and slipped an arm around her, and he kissed her on the neck. “It’s good to see you.”
She nodded. “How’s your father?”
“Fine. At least I think so. It’s his gallbladder again.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” She gestured toward the pad. “What are you working on?”
“Letter to Mackie,” Jules answered, raising his eyebrows, and he pushed it into the bag.
“Well, be sure to say hi to him for me. Kate too, okay?”
“Sure.” He lifted the bag, and she led him out to the street, jingling her car keys, her car parked in the tow-away zone in front of the building. Jules walked a step behind her, off her left shoulder, and he watched her hips as they walked. They used to be mine, he thought, and he hoped that Trace wouldn’t catch him looking.
If there were a million reasons, that was one of the greatest. Jules lived for it. Anywhere, anytime. She’d complain about it, but he’d always act as if she were joking, as if a girl who looked like she did must have wanted it all the time. She’d have to lock the doors when she’d take a shower, wait until he’d left to do her exercises, lie about when she was having her period. A woman can’t live like that. Trace started the car, the engine turning over immediately, still warm from the drive over. “How have you been?” she asked him.
“Same as always,” he said, sneaking a look at her as she focused on the traffic. “Same lousy job. Still working for the witch, still writing trash, still being paid next-to-nothing.”
Trace didn’t say anything.
“How have you been?”
“Nothing new. Just been working on the apartment.”
Jules turned the vents up so the hot air would blow on his face, and Trace turned onto Thirtieth Street.
“Have any plans for tonight?”
“I was meaning to talk to you about that.” She looked at him briefly, then back at the road. “You know, you called me so late, and I’d already made plans.”
“I understand. I wouldn’t want you to change your plans. I just appreciate you putting me up for the night.” He tried not to sound disappointed, and, since she hadn’t looked back over, he guessed that he’d succeeded.
“Good, good. The keys to the apartment are in my purse. You know where I am now, don’t you?”
Jules opened the purse and found the keys at the bottom, beneath the assortment of cosmetics. He slid them into the pocket of his overcoat. “Seventy-third and Broadway,” he said.
Trace made a left onto First Avenue and pulled the car in front of NYU Hospital. Looking up at the building, pretending to be taking note of its size, Jules tried to think of something to say. “Look,” he said, “I really do appreciate this, and I’m glad we’ll have a chance to talk.” He hoped it didn’t sound phony, too much like a come-on.
“Listen,” she said, embarrassed, apologizing, “I might not be in tonight, so if you could just leave the keys with the super.”
“Of course.”
“And make yourself at home, okay?”
Jules waved a hand toward the building. “You’re not going to come up?”
“I really don’t have time to, Jules, but please give my best to your father. And don’t forget to say hi to Mackie and Kate.”
“I will.” Jules stepped out of the car, holding the bag in one hand, pinching his collar with the other.
“It was good to see you,” he said plainly, and she gave him a half smile.
Jules closed the door with a swing of his hip, then walked into the hospital. He stepped up to the reception desk and said, “Henry Matthewman?”
He didn’t notice who answered him and handed him the pass that read “Room 213.” It may have been a man, and there was just as great a chance that it wasn’t. He went to the elevator, got on, pressed a button, then stepped off on the next floor.
Room 213 was the seventh one down on the left side. Jules pushed the door open and poked his head into the room. “Dad?”
There was no answer. His father was sleeping, all of the lights on, the Rangers game on the television, the sound off. Jules switched off the lights and kissed his father on the forehead, then took a seat beside his father’s bed, folding his overcoat over the back of the chair first.
The Daily News was on the windowsill, folded in half, twisted neck facing down. Jules reached for it, and, by the light of the television, he read the article, DID SHE JUMP OR WAS SHE PUSHED. A woman, in her early thirties, found dead at four in the morning by a neighbor walking his dog. An open window on the eighteenth floor. No note. Her apartment door locked, the furniture in place, seemingly nothing missing. No scream. No witnesses. The police were looking for her boyfriend, though he should not be considered a suspect. At least not at this time.
Jules folded the paper again and slid it into the crack of the chair, where the back met the seat. He watched the
Rangers skate back and forth, back and forth, across the screen. He wasn’t sure who they were playing, but, despite the chill of the rink, they all looked warm in their sweaters. And his father, his blankets pulled tight to his armpits, looked warm. Very warm. And Trace had looked warm, hadn’t she, though already he couldn’t remember what she was wearing.
Jules took the pad from his bag, trying to think of something to write, but, other than to say hello from Trace, there was nothing more he wanted to tell Mackie. Maybe he’d toss the letter in the wastebasket and call him instead.
Soon, sleepy, he turned sideways, drawing his knees up close, and he slept that way through the night, the Burberry draped over him, the letter on his chest, DID SHE JUMP OR WAS SHE PUSHED tucked behind him.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
Okay, there we go. Back on track. That was a nice, long story. You can certainly understand why we’d pay $25,000 for that one. Or why the Bloobedy-Bloobedy Society would award Michael the Blah-Blah-Blabbedy-Blah Prize for it.
Congratulations, Michael, on an excellent story and a well-deserved award!
HER NIGHT CLASSES
I’m in the bedroom.
Jane’s in the kitchen. One of her new friends is in there with her. She’s short and pale, Jane’s friend, like a smart child. Brown hair. Very plain looking, in my opinion. I don’t remember her name, although Jane just introduced us no more than five minutes ago. It could be Barbara. It could be something else.
I didn’t stay in the kitchen with them for long. I never do when Jane has her friends over. I usually just slip out when they’re right in the middle of something important, and no one seems to notice. This time I shook Barbara’s hand—only because she stuck it out (I don’t normally shake a woman’s hand)—and then I went back to the bedroom. First I said, “Excuse me, ladies, but I have some work to attend to,” very politely. They both nodded. They didn’t want me in there in the first place. There’s not much I can talk about.
